#breathing in all that gnawing swelling aloneness and breathing out.......

[bi-writes]

what you want you cannot find. so you let someone else find it for you. (18+, dark!simon x curvy!fem!reader, arranged marriage)

you don't really know what you were thinking when you answered the ad. it is many things, maybe, why you chose to apply. why you were grateful to be chosen.

the loneliness, it aches. you cannot find yourself in anyone else, you cannot find the thing that should move you and hold you. you cannot find what it is that should ignite what is asleep, the thing nestled between your ribs that feels like it beats to a rhythm that you cannot hear.

the bitterness, too. there is something sour that you taste. there is acid under your tongue, something rotten between your teeth, and you wish for anything that you would stop tasting it because it reminds you of how alone you are, how alone you'll remain, the inevitable thing that you wish you weren't but that you unfortunately are.

it is the thing you cannot die for because there isn't anything to die for. you live, and you breathe, and you exist, but there isn't anything there. this is nothing that makes you want to gnaw on your own flesh, there is no life you would take in sake of another, there is no purpose to your existence except the hope that perhaps there is still time to have what you want more than anything.

but you don't know what you want. you don't know because everything that you thought you wanted, you do not want any longer. you never feel anything with other men. they are beneath you. they maim what they shouldn't. they complain about things that they can fix. they stare at a problem head-on, with the solution at their back, and they chase their tails. they do not know their right from their left. you hate them. but you want it. you want something. you want one of them, but you don't know which, so maybe if you don't choose, you will find what it is that you don't know you're looking for.

you're alone in the room. they gave you a bouquet of white roses. you hold them nervously between clammy palms. you wear a silk white dress that skims the floor, fabric falling soft over the curve of your waist and gentle along the swell of your cleavage. your hair is loose, and there is a short veil over your head, covering your face.

you stare at your handler. he's dressed in his military fatigues, tactical vest still strapped with the Union Jack across his chest. he has introduced himself as captain john price, and he is the one who arranged for your arrival. he is the one who told you to wear white, and he is the one who gave you the roses.

captain john price is rugged. captain john price is kind. and captain john price is not what you want. you are grateful that you are not yet disappointed with your match.

the door opens behind you. you straighten your posture that extra inch when you hear his heavy gait. there is a pause as the door shuts behind him, and you see his captain nod to a figure that you cannot see. his boots hit the floor low, and you swallow when the sunlight that comes through the window is blocked entirely by the size of him as he stands at your side.

the vows are short. you say your i do first, soft voice that hits his ears in a way that makes him nearly purr. when it is his turn to say i do, your eyes sparkle. he speaks in such a low voice, a Manchester accent that makes your toes curl in the white kitten heels that you wear. a drawl that you can feel in your chest, an accent that ticks a corner of your brain you did not know was there.

"you may kiss your bride."

you turn away from the captain. you tilt your head to look up at him, and you let out a soft breath when you realize the sheer breadth of this man.

he is barely a man. he must be something else. he is dressed all in black, and he wears all of his gear. his tactical vest is stocked well, magazines tucked into their pockets, a grenade dangling from one strap, a handgun tucked into its holster on his chest and around his thick thigh. his belt is heavy with more, knives in sheathes, devices in their places. even without all of the weight, you know the size of him won't shrink.

you cannot see his face. he covers it with a mask, one that resembles the front face of a skull. it is dirty. you aren't certain if it is blood or soot or dirt. maybe it is all of that and more. you cannot see his eyes through the veil either, but they are dark, and they are intense.

you keep your eyes fixed on his as he lifts your veil. the delicate fabric settles over your head, and you see him without obstruction.

there he is.

it is like seeing a man for the first time. it is like being in the presence of the dream you've always had and could never remember.

he tilts his head to the side, curious. he is seeing your face for the first time, too. soft eyes. glossy lips. the curve of your mouth. the untouched skin of your cheeks, the unmarred flesh that you wear. he follows the line of your throat to the peek of your tits dressed in silk. you are a present wrapped in luxury. hand delivered goods, of the finest quality.

his bride. his wife. something he will have forever. he does not know if he has ever been able to say that about anything else. he's never had anything except for his life. nothing except for himself has ever belonged to him, but even now, not even his life is his own, it belongs to someone far away, someone in an office somewhere, who moves the chess pieces of his world around, where he cannot do anything but follow.

you stand on your toes to get closer to him. he thinks for just a second you will ask him to remove his mask, but you don't. you cant your head, and you kiss him over the mask, sticky gloss leaving a light imprint on the fabric. you settle back onto your heels, and your breath hitches when one of his gloved hands comes to settle at the dip of your waist.

"she's all mine now, eh, cap'n?"

you blink, your eyes still on his. you don't move, and you don't say anything. you wonder, if you could see his face, if he would smile.

"all yours, simon."

you let him drag you closer, shuffling on your feet until your hips press against his. your back arches gently as he uses both hands, gripping you around the middle and feeling the soft flesh underneath your silk dress. he is a rabid dog, his next meal at his fingertips. she is his, and he wants to take her home. if his captain was not standing at his back, he knows he would take you on this very floor.

she is mine. she is mine. she is mine.

he has studied your picture. he has memorized your name. he has been waiting for you. he is too awkward to leave base. he is too quiet to attract birds, birds that matter, birds that sing. he is too ravenous to be anything but permanent, he isn't capable of the mundane, of casual. it is everything or nothing at all, and at the sound of permanence, he foamed at the mouth.

at the thought of something to keep, he was blinded. when beasts lose control, they call their keeper, and he had none. this change could be good. this change would do him well. when he ignores the order of a commanding officer, he will bend to yours, because he is bound, wrapped, tied to you with something invisible that weaves between his bones.

you do not know what you were before, but you know what you are now.

you follow after him. he turns to leave, and you let him lead. your heels click as you walk, and when it is hard for you to keep up, you reach for his hand. he grunts when you do, but he doesn't push you away. you hold wilting roses in one hand, and you clutch him in the other. recruits and privates stop to salute or step out of your way, and they stare when they see a trailing angel behind their lieutenant, a pretty girl in a pretty white dress with a veil fluttering against the breeze as you try and keep up with your husband's long strides.

the door he stops in front of is plain and unmarked. he fits a key into the lock, turning it and opening it, and he invites you over a threshold that no one else has ever stepped over. you stand on the other side, holding the roses to your chest. he turns when you don't follow him inside. you get a glimpse of him as a whole, the man that he is, big and menacing and taken. you wonder if he will wear his ring under his glove or if he will put it on the chain that holds his dog tags.

"is this where you live?" you ask. you stay on the other side, looking in, a little timid as you stand there.

he nods, silent. he crosses his arms over his chest, and you admire the bulge of them, the paint of skeleton bones along the fingers of his gloves. you look him up and down before smiling a little.

"is this where i will live, too?"

he shakes his head, a no.

"can't have a thing like y'here," he murmurs. "boys'll eat y'up."

you tilt your head to the side.

"i find that hard to believe," you quip. "do people often eat what's yours, lieutenant?"

he snarls, narrowing his eyes. "no one takes wot's mine."

"then what are you so afraid of?"

"that 'f y'r 'ere, i won't get any fuckin' work done."

you break out into a big smile, pearly white teeth flashing, and he clicks his tongue at your reaction. he reaches up and lifts his mask, pushing it up until it rests over his nose. his nose is crooked from being broken so many times. his face is scarred, as if someone took a blade and carved out the skin and muscle. a deep one stretches from somewhere under the mask to his lip, where it looks as if the skin was haphazardly stitched back together. another long jagged grey streak comes over the line of his cheek down his jaw, as if someone tried to peel his face off.

he grins. it's ugly and unsettling, as if he sees prey that he knows he will catch. your own smile does not fade. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you want to taste him. beast, bear, killing machine, the boogeyman, a ghost that haunts, you do not know exactly what he is, but you know, immediately, that he is what you have been searching for.

you do not know him. you do not love him yet, but you will. you are sure of this. you are sure that he is missing piece. he will fill the spaces that you have always felt hollow. he will scratch a place in your head that has always itched. there is something in his eyes, you're not exactly sure what it is, but you can't wait to discover it. you can't wait to explore, to indulge, to lick the salt of his skin and know that everything he is has been waiting for something like you.

you did not choose him, but he chose you, and now you see it clearly. you see this thing, and you know the truth of what's been hiding from you all your life. the curtain has been taken down. the veil is off. the walls are invisible.

"come 'ere," he says lowly. "won't ask so nicely next time."

you drop the flowers onto the floor, crossing the doorway. you kick the door shut, hearing it click, and he comes closer, until you can feel his breath fanning your nose.

"will you love me?" you ask, wringing your hands together nervously. "do you think maybe...do you think maybe that's possible?"

he licks over his teeth, humming. he leans down, knocking your chin up, and your breath hitches when he licks up the side of your jaw, taking in a whiff of your perfume and the sweetness of his bride.

"what a stupid word," he mutters, biting at the curve of your bottom lip. "meaningless. love. bloody hell."

"w-what...what?"

"a meaningless fuckin' word for the things i would do for ya," he continues. "the things i would kill. the heads i would step on. the sorry fucks i would get rid of...just to see y'smile."

your eyes flutter. yes, yes, yes--the unconditional devotion. the terrifyingly beautiful reality of through sickness and in health, until death do us part.

"is it really that easy, simon?" you ask. his gloved hands slip over your throat, sliding low and skimming the silk of your dress before he cups both sides of your ass and squeezes, drawing you closer until you are uncomfortably pressed up against him. his gear digs into your softness, sharp edges cutting into you, but you ignore it as he begins to draw up the skirt of your dress. "is it really that easy to say you'll do all of that for me? isn't it...it's wrong, isn't it? to do those things for me?"

he laughs. humorless, condescending. as if that is the stupidest thing you could have ever said.

"'s olright, swee'eart. gonna take all those ideas outta y'r pretty lil' head."

you relax when you feel his gloved hand under the hem of your white lace panties. your eyes shut, and you reach forward and grip his vest for stability.

"christ..." he hisses. "y'r soaked..."

you are. you have been since you first laid eyes on him, on everything he is. you know why you are here, and he knows why he is here, and that is because there were two people so desperate to find one another, that they let someone else choose. the gods, fate, whatever they want to be called.

matched by design, together by choice.

you lean forward and kiss beside his lips, and you whine when his big fingers slide between your folds, soft on your clit before he fits two fingers inside of you. his gloves are warm, and you wet them easily.

"wot a good girl," he breathes. "knew y'were the right one."

"y-you did?"

"could see it in y'r eyes, dove. could see wot y'needed. could see it plain as fuckin' day. dyin' inside, just like me, aye?"

you shake your head.

"n-not anymore...not anymore..." you gasp, and he tsks as he steps backward, the weight of him heavy as he takes a seat on his perfectly made bed, bringing you with him. you fall into his lap, unafraid to because you know someone of his size can carry you easily, and he hums as you spread your thighs apart. you straddle him, pressed up against the gun holstered to his chest, and you moan softly against his scarred face as he fucks you open with three unforgiving fingers.

"not anymore," he echos, baring his teeth as he pumps his hand. the squelch of it is filthy, but it isn't enough. he wants you to soak his arm, his thighs, his bed, let the slick of you stain him from the outside in. "not anymore. not as my wife."

you scramble. you rip the veil out of your hair, untie the corset of your dress. there's a naked angel in his lap, perky tits and soft figure, giving way to the gorgeous place you keep hidden by white, wet lace. the place that is his, the place that belongs to him, a pretty pussy that will keep him satiated until he breathes no longer.

after he tears apart his enemy, he will have you. after he tastes the blood he desires to see run, he will have you. the adrenaline, the fire, the shout of every order and the sound of their cries, it won't exist anymore in this place, he knows it.

"y'll never want for anythin'," he mutters. "y'll never be lonely. always get wot y'want...wot y'need...wot y'deserve..."

you reach up and cup his cheeks gently, pressing your mouth to his as you ride his fingers eagerly. you want him, you want this, you want all of it, even if it isn't what's right. but something brought you here, right into his arms, and this is what you deserve.

he's not even human, you don't think. he must be something else. with how good he makes you feel, with the sheer precision that he rocks his fingers into you, the way he smiles, he must be made of only something synthetic, something not organic.

you feel so small underneath him. he tosses you onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow gently. you giggle, and his grin widens. he has a warm pink tongue, and it's between his teeth, and you giggle again when he moves his head from side to side, staring down at you. he's studying you. you assume he has seen photos of you, but this is his first time seeing his bride for all that she is. soft, pretty, unscathed by war. at least on the outside--but on the inside, you are not as you seem.

there's a parasite in you. something that slithers behind your eyes and settles in that corner of your brain that only he can touch. he knows that feeling well. he feels it every time he is in the field, and he feels it now, with you. he chases this tick when he works. it knocks his senses just right, makes him feel good and big, like the reaper that he really is. he can be this with a rifle in his hand, and he can be this without it, with the weight of his wife in his hands.

you smile, biting your lip, and you spread your legs for him. his eyes fall between your thighs, and he chuckles. he brings his gloved hand up to his mouth, the one that smells like you, and you watch as he slips it inside, sucking on it for a moment before he uses his teeth to take both gloves off.

he bends, still in all his military glory, and he sticks his tongue out, licking a fat stripe up the seam of your cunt, using one thumb to pull the puffy lip apart and suckle on your clit for just a moment.

you gasp, arching your back, and he stands to his full height again, laughing.

"oh, y'taste sweet," he purrs. "y'taste good. hard t'believe i'll have this cunny for m'whole fuckin' life."

"believe it, baby," you coo, and he sighs. he nods his head, reaching low, gripping himself through his cargo pants and squeezing his cock. you follow his movements, watching him pay special attention to the tip of him, running his finger over where you guess the slit is as he watches you squirm. "why are you so far away, simon? don't you want me?"

he laughs again, smiling wide, and he nods.

"course i want ya, swee'eart. who wouldn't want ya, huh? who wouldn't want this?"

you meet his eyes. the question is a sound one, but it never mattered that you were wanted, what mattered is that you never wanted. not really. not until now.

you watch him as he reaches for his zipper. he undoes it easily, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them low. they won't go very low, thanks to the holsters around his thighs, but it's enough that you watch his cock stand at attention, the red tip of him leaking down the sides, making the bulging vein on the underside of him shine.

you whine a little, and he growls happily, watching as you cup the swell of your tits and squeeze them in anticipation. perfect, perfect, perfect girl, practically a mail-order bride that checks every single fucking box.

he grips you by the thighs, yanking you to the edge of the bed. you whimper when he slides the tip through your folds, letting it catch at the entrance before smirking down at you.

"'s big," you hiccup, and he tsks, shaking his head.

"y'can take it, swee'eart," he murmurs. "y'r a riley now, luvvie. y'know what tha' means?" you shake your head, your eyes a little watery, and he smooths a hand up your sternum, gripping you around the throat gently. "gonna find out...gonna find out how well a riley takes wot they're given."

"simon--"

"'s alright, luv, we'll start nice, yeah?" he breathes. you grip onto his forearms when he feeds you his cock, slowly, and your back bows at a sharp angle as you squeeze him for everything he is. "fuckin' hell...yeah, just the tip, yeah? oh, good girl..."

good girl, yeah...i'm a good girl--

you cry out, digging your nails into him when he mutters fuck it and bottoms out. his palm flattens just under your belly button, a choked groan leaving him as he presses down, a rush of something fucking glorious running down his spine. it's a high--he's so fucking high, as if he is popping fucking pills.

"feel me here, yeah?" he drags his hips back, smoothing a hand further up your stomach until he paws one of your tits, squeezing it firmly. you nod, sliding your hands up his arms, fisting the fabric of his mask at the base of his neck. you feel him everywhere, you feel him in your chest, running down your spine, you feel him in your mouth and in your head, and it feels so good, it feels so so so so good.

"yes--yes!" you gasp. fuck, he's huge, he's putting a shadow over you. you're naked, bare underneath him, and his gear rocks with every thrust, and it's filthy because you wonder if he worked, you wonder if he didn't even change before he went to marry his perfectly-picked bride, you wonder if he got off the tarmac not even an hour after killing his target to go and take what is his.

how long ago was it that he last fired his weapon? the gun on his chest, did he use it before he saw you?

i bet he did. i bet he used it. i bet he smoked the cigarette that i smell on him, and i bet he came here, and then he married me, and now he's all mine, and he's fucking me six ways to fucking sunday--

you think you're drooling. your lips are wet, and with every smack of his hips against yours, you feel a little more trickle down the side of your face. you're moaning, gripping his neck, pulling him further down on top of you. you want him all around you, you want him inside, you want him to come every day wearing this terrifying fucking uniform and to fuck you so stupid, you forget everything except for the name he has given you.

you want to know nothing except for his name. simon. riley. simon. riley.

you want to know nothing except for what you are. his wife. his wife. his wife.

it's so hard to remember to breathe. his hands grip you tight around the hips, and he's losing momentum, hissing, letting out choked groans as he brands the shape of his cock into you. he never wants you to forget what he feels like--he never wants you to know anything except for him, for the rest of your life.

"simon--" you whine, and he smirks, reaching up to hold your face in one big hand, keeping you still as you chase the grind of his pelvis against your puffy clit. "simon--!"

"tha'sit, luvvie...yeah..." he nods, "look at me--look at me," he leans down, a big weight over you, suffocating you, "good girl, yeah..." he clicks his tongue, "cum f'me, swee'eart. cum f'y'r husband, yeah?"

you lean up, chasing after him, gripping onto the sides of his face as you kiss him hard. it is the first time you really kiss him. slotting your mouth over his, slipping your tongue into his mouth, the sting of your wedding ring cooling his warm face as you taste him for the very first time.

it is gone. the bitterness that you always taste, the acid and the sourness and everything that always is so unpleasant under your tongue, it is gone when you have him. he takes it out of your mouth completely, and you chase after this just as you chase after the harsh grind of your clit against his pelvis.

he is carrying you. you're lifting, coming over some kind of sweet, exhilarating euphoria, and you're blinded by it, by the feeling, by him. you want more, more, you want it all, and he said you could have anything you want, that you'll never need anything ever again, he said, he said, he said--!

he laughs when you come. he swallows your moans, hisses when you soak his pants. you are the prettiest thing he could ever hope for, the personification of the things he does not deserve and could never have, and it is selfish that he has taken you this way, but he does not fucking care.

the things we cannot have are the sweetest, the most desirable. and simon is nothing if he isn't a thief.

he is nothing if he doesn't just take what he wants. he likes to think that perhaps he adopts the "ask for forgiveness, and not for permission" philosophy, but he does not ask for forgiveness. and he has never asked for permission.

"please--simon--" you gasp, looking up at him. your eyes are wet, and a few tears wet his hand around your face. "please--inside me, please..."

"'s olright, luv--" he grunts, pumping faster, his pretty little wife just begging for him, for more, and how could he say no to that? "easy, baby...i'll give it t'ya, don't worry, fuck--" he hisses, "lieutenant's wife gets woteva she wants..."

"please--inside--" you choke. "simon, inside, i-i want it inside--"

fuck, that is all he needed. he nestles deep, pressing his hips to yours, and you kiss him once more when you go blind again. a second high, when he stuffs you full. just as you should be. just as you always should be.

"yeah, fuck--" he breathes. "tha' wot y'wanted, yeah? nice and full, good girl..." he licks his lips, standing up straight, and just when you think he is pulling out, he yanks you back towards him, cum leaking down your thighs as you cry out from being so sensitive.

"simon!" you gasp, giggling, and he grins, patting your ass gently before pulling out. you let your knees fall onto the cot, swallowing hard as you watch him tuck himself back into his pants and zip them up. he brings the mask back down, and you watch as he slips his gloves back on. "hmm..."

he tilts his head to the side, sighing as he watches you settle there. something warm settles in his stomach, something satisfied.

"like havin' y'in my bed," he says lowly. "look nice there."

you smile, and he holds out one hand, beckoning you to sit up. you do, slowly, a little shaky as you try and compose yourself, and he leans down and kisses you through the mask. you close your eyes, humming, leaning into his touch.

"so i can stay?" you ask, and he chuckles.

"mmm...y'r so cute, luvvie..." he rumbles. "a doll, yeah? can't say no to ya."

you look down at the ring on your finger, a solid gold band complete with a precious diamond. you will have to get used to this--you are his wife, you can ask things of him, and you don't think he'll say no.

you look up at him when he tosses something at you. an army green shirt of his, and you slip it on, letting the fabric fall, and you lay back down in his cot as he moves around his room. you lay in comfortable silence, watching as the thing that calls himself your husband looks for files on his desk, adjusts the gun strapped to his thigh, shuffles his boots across the linoleum. you are mesmerized by what he is, and you haven't known him even a day.

you don't believe this is your vision askew. the honeymoon phase. the sugary sweet moments in time at the beginning where nothing is wrong, where all is well. simon riley is a practical man. he does not lie. he does not do things he does not want to do, and he does not say things he does not want to say. he is not in the business of comfort and ease, that much is clear to you.

simon riley is practical and resourceful. you think maybe he counts his words. that he doesn't say more than he has to. waste his energy on things that don't require it.

his wife. i'm his wife. his wife.

"why..." you swallow. "why...why did you pick me?"

he pauses as he stands in front of a locker. when he opens it, you see shelves of personal weapons stashed away, handguns of different sizes and shapes, knives of differing steel, toys that with a small push of a finger could destroy whatever building they went off inside. you don't flinch, don't blink, don't feel fear. you don't know why, but you just don't. you don't think it's possible.

he doesn't look at you as he surveys what lines the walls of it.

"just knew y'were the one f'me, swee'eart," he mutters. he shuts the locker, and the lock clicks. he comes closer, twirling a small blade between his fingers, and you don't cower away when he flicks it towards you, holding your chin up with the sharp tip of it. he hums appreciatively at this. "in all honesty, had no idea really until i saw ya, 'f you'd be mine."

he bends down, leans close, and you follow the curve of the blade with your head, keeping your eyes on his. there is no timidness in your gaze, and for that, he beams under the mask. perfection in one woman.

"and what would you have done if i wasn't the one?"

he shrugs.

"would've killed ya, luv."

"just like that?"

"just like tha'."

the tip of his blade drags, sliding up the length of your throat, along the line of your jaw. your lips part as he traces your mouth with it, and you tilt your head to the side as you trace the edge of it with your tongue. he leans forward more, pressing his forehead to yours, and you can see where the eye-black around his eyes fades into his pale skin under the balaclava. you see yourself in those eyes. the you that you have been waiting for. the you that you have missed for your entire life. the you that has been hiding, too scared to come out, too afraid of what might be said if someone saw the real you.

she had not been hiding. just lying dormant, in someone else, waiting for you to come home.

you smile, big, and simon presses his mouth to yours again through the mask, kissing you there, growling from deep in his chest, a purr that only emanates the contentment and the relief he feels because he has found that thing to live for. it is so easy to die. it is so easy to give oneself for what they believe. it is not hard to give the best of yourself away, he knows that.

what he has never been able to do is find something that will keep him alive. he has only ever lived because he found dying pathetic. he found it cowardly. but the alternative had been just as unforgiving, just as unfulfilling. but not this. not you.

you will make it difficult to die. you will make death a challenge. and when he eyes that smile, this one that you give only to him, he is happy to be given this new objective.

"but don't worry y'r pretty head about all tha', luv."

you give him those eyes, and he drinks it all in, all that you are. finally, finally, finally--

"until death do we part, yeah?"

#this got AWAY FROM ME #pleaseeeeeeeeee i swear idk where this CAME FROM #take away the computer #TAKE IT #take it FROM ME #what is wrong with me #seriously lmao #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #dark!simon #simon thoughts

[chococolte]

☼ — pietas maris

♱ : my take on sagau childe

including ☆! — him as a worshiper, and his reaction to being your lover ⛧

word count. 5.6k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl. ୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. now time for me to disappear back into the aether for another 6 months

The abyss is cold.

It is unfeeling, lacking warmth and passion. It is relentless, cruel, and unkind. It corrupts, ruins, and does so freely, without remorse or thought. It leaves you clinging to the hot blood in your veins, curled up and hidden in the dark reaches of its void.

Childe had always been versatile; quick to adapt, even at such a young age. He grew used to the emptiness, the swelling numbness, and the eventual gnawing loneliness left in his abdomen. They became a part of him as his lungs, as integral as air; to be without felt odd, foreign.

The glimmer of your existence kept Childe company. He did not know who you were, or how lucky he was— only that you brought him comfort, like an old lullaby, or a blanket worn from overuse. He reached for you when the darkness grew too much, too heavy a burden on his small shoulders.

He came to you with little offerings; small trinkets, tomes of unreadable text. Useless to him, but perhaps you would take pity on him in exchange, and let him take comfort in your presence for another day. Childe came to you with rubble shaped in hearts, the gentle breath of his voice as he spoke of his anxieties. He did not think of them as offerings then, merely gifts— pleadings for you to stay a little longer.

His hands, then unruined and soft, made you a makeshift altar crafted out of whatever he could find. He made sure to build it where he felt your whispers were strongest, where your light entirely overwhelmed the darkness overhead. Childe didn't think of it as an altar then, just a place to settle his findings, where he could pretend his sad, little effigy made of you was actually you.

The idol didn't look much like a person at all, and at the time, he didn't think of his behavior as odd. He desperately clung to you for survival, and with no other warm body besides his own, you were the only one he could talk too.

At times, he thought he was going insane. There was a pleasant buzzing in his ears whenever he neared your doll, as if it were calling him. Despite the fact that he had made it, proven by the tiny scars on his palms, he still felt as if it was yours.

In the darkness, Childe whispered to you. He said everything his mind could think, childishly exaggerated tales in hopes of impressing you. A foolish endeavor, considering you were a God— but he still hoped that maybe you'd think of him kindly, and let him bask in your protective glow for just one more moment.

He couldn't hear your words, but he could feel them. The twinkle of your laughter was like a soft whistle in his ears. When you were pleased, the air would lightly ruffle his hair. Despite how agonizing his loneliness was, at least he had you by his side.

Childe's innocence, as all things do, eventually withered away in that malevolent black.

He thought of you as his teacher; a guiding hand that trained him, molded him to fit against your palm. When he struggled against the abyssal beasts, he could feel you— a soft brush against his hand, a firm hold on his back, keeping him focused. You taught him when to still his blade and when to strike.

In the arches of his sword and polearm, in the taut and tense pull of his bow, in the whirlwind of his catalyst— you were there, shining from beyond the thin veil separating you.

When Childe was ripped out of the abyss, so was his connection to you. Like a thread snapping, he could no longer feel you; not in the darkness overhead, not in the grip of his blade, of the depths of his soul. You were gone, and he was once again nothing but a boy, lost and alone. Friends and family surround him, thankful for his return, but his mind is still reeling, still stuck in the abyss and the sudden emptiness left in your wake.

Despite himself, Childe had hoped you would have stayed, even once he was out. He thought he was done with being naïve, but that clearly wasn't the case.

He can’t feel you anymore. Where did you go? Why did you leave? What did he do wrong? Questions swirl in his head like whirlpools of thought. Childe feels like he's drowning, suffocating in the mess of his mind. His breaths come out short, quick and sharp. His throat squeezes, constricting his airways, as he realizes what's unfolded.

You left him.

He should've known better. On that first day, all you had done was take pity on him by letting him linger in your light. It was his fault for ever believing that he would never have to be alone again. That even if he had no one else, at least he had you.

This was the result of his own failure. If only he had proven himself worthy.

When his family found him, they found him gripping a small, rudimentary doll. Even when they reached their home, Childe was still clutching the thing as if possessed. When they tried tugging it out of his hands, saying it would help him eat better, he ripped it from their grasp, holding it to his chest.

Childe couldn't accept that you had left him so easily. At night, back in his warm bed, Childe tries to whisper to you again. The familiar warmth sinks into his pores, but it's nothing like yours. He nuzzles closer to the doll, ignoring how it tears into his skin.

"I'm here," he whispers.

Maybe you got confused. He knows you're a God, but even the Seven are not omniscient. When he was torn from the abyss, it was possible you hadn't meant to so cruelly cut the connection between you. Maybe you couldn't find him, and so he just has to tell you where he is.

So he whispers to you in the dark, just as he has so many times before.

Only this time, he's met with silence.

In the years that pass, you linger at the forefront of his mind, haunting him like a wraith. Childe can't bring himself to be rid of you, despite how it hurts every time he thinks about you for a little too long. He's still stuck, perpetually waiting for your return, despite how he knows you've long given him up.

Childe becomes Tartaglia, the 11th Harbinger under the Tsaritsa. He takes a new name, a new mask— he executes her orders dutifully, and he does his role perfectly. He acts as if she's you, despite how desperately he wants to believe otherwise. If he closes his eyes for long enough, he can pretend that the cold that seeps into his bones in her presence is yours.

But no matter how many names and identities he takes, he'll always just be your Ajax; the boy who still misses you, despite how short your time together was. And that fact is what burns him the most.

Maybe he should be angry. He knows he has every right to be. Angry that you left him, that you discarded him as if he was nothing. Maybe he should hate you— hate you for leaving him alone, as if you weren't the only thing keeping him sane. Hate you for leaving as if his love didn't matter to you.

He comforts himself by thinking of the time dilation he experienced in the abyss. You cared for him so much that you spun three days into three months. He likes to believe he meant something to you; he must've, because why else would you lengthen your time spent together?

Childe knows it isn't true. He didn't matter enough for you to stay, after all.

At night, Childe finds himself listlessly thinking of you. It's a silent mourning. Quiet tears fall down his cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath his head. He chokes down every heaving sob that threatens to break from his throat; clenches his jaw when they claw too close to his lips. He slaps a hand over his mouth when he's too loud, biting his fingers until they're bloody and marred by his teeth. What would you think if you saw him this weak? Saw the boy you built up crumble, all because he can't feel even the softest traces of your presence anymore?

You would find him pathetic. All he's done is prove that you were right in abandoning him.

When the memory of you is too much to bear, he clutches the effigy in his arms, squeezing it against his chest until it's sharp edges dig into his skin. Even after all these years, he's still kept it close. He tries to feel the visage of you that was once attached to its bearings, whispering for you under the night sky, hoping it'll remind you of your time in the abyss— hoping that tonight he will feel you again, ruffling his hair with tendrils of wind.

He never does.

Childe barely sleeps, but when he does, he dreams of you. You have no body, no face— he can't even begin to imagine what you look like, and he doesn't dare too, even when he knows he has nothing to lose.

He's back in the dark, but you're still there with him, providing him light and comfort. If he knew that leaving would entail being without you, he never would have left at all. Better to be with you than to die without.

Sometimes, he dreams of you staying with him even after he escapes. Your warmth is ever-present. He gifts you riches, now. You have a voice in his dreams, and he can hear you speaking to him. You're kind, and gentle, and he wants for nothing. He has you, and there is nothing more to want.

He dreams he never lost you at all. It makes reality all the more painful.

In a way he knows is pathetic, Childe hopes you at least found him fun. He hopes you found him entertaining, despite how the thought twists his heart and guts into little knots, until he feels vaguely nauseous at the notion. At least then you would have reason to remember him. At least he could say he meant something to you.

In a hidden corner of his room, there sits an altar for you. His wealth as a Harbinger means he has no lack of resources, and so he bejewels the altar until it glimmers even without light. It's obnoxious and opulent to the point of vanity, but he figures that if you like it, he'll earn another whisper of warmth from you— in the vain hope that you hear him at all anymore.

With his hands, now calloused and worn, he carves sigils into whalebone. He doesn't know what they mean, but they were numerous in the abyss; and so he etches them into bone, hoping that whatever they mean, it reaches you.

Childe pushes himself more than he should. His back aches from all the weight he carries on his shoulders, but he trudges forward despite how it hurts. He is more fervent in conflicts, and spectacular scenes of blood and viscera follow him every time he walks onto a battlefield.

His tongue forms words of devotion for the Tsaritsa as he slays another enemy, blood staining his fingers, but in his heart, he only ever speaks of you.

When he fights, Childe can lose himself. He can focus entirely on the movement of his feet, the precision of his blade. He can ignore how badly he misses you, and how in the back of his mind, he desperately hopes that the more blood he sheds with your teachings, you'll find him satisfactory.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and once again he lets himself be drowned by the rush, letting himself forget all of his pain.

Childe is proud of the way that no one can recognize his style of fighting. It is exact and sharp— every strike hitting its target with ease, filled with vigor and intensity. He enjoys the gazes of jealousy, but remains silent when asked. My teacher taught me, he says. He sheds no further light on the matter, and any instance someone shows interest in learning from him, he instantly refuses. Childe wishes to keep you close to his chest, a guarded secret known only to him.

Childish, perhaps. He knows it is. But if he can't have you, then he will have the knowledge of you. He will keep it to himself, and there it will stay, safe in his tight grip. 

It drives him insane, the way sees you in everything. When night falls, covering the sky in a blanket of stars, he wonders if you're staring at him from above. When the tides of the sea brush against the shore, he finds himself thinking of you as the moon— you are what anchors him, despite the fact that he hasn't felt you in so long. In his eyes, there is nothing you could not be, and with every breath, he only ever misses you more.

It's during his mission in Liyue that he feels you again. Childe is unable to breathe when he meets the Traveler, sensing you watching from their eyes. His heart thunders in his chest, tempestuous as a storm over the sea.

For a moment, he's happy. You're finally back. He wants nothing more than to run to you, to ask you why you left for so long, to ask how he can make you stay, but then he feels you— a familiar pressure bearing down on him, forcing him to say anything but what he wants to.

Childe watches the Traveler's back fade as it finally clicks for him.

You abandoned him for someone else. You left him... for this. The thought sends him reeling. You left him, just to go spend time with someone else— to give them the same company you gave him, to give them the same guidance you gave him— was he merely replaceable to you?

Was he just a test for you?

He should be angry. And he is, but the heartbreak overwhelms him. He's left choking, battling for air. The agony of having been tossed to the side, of having it be affirmed in front of his eyes. He wants to scream and cry, beg for you to return; but his throat squeezes every time he meets the Traveler, and the words die on his tongue.

You don't want him to speak. He's meant to play along.

Childe had waited for you for so long. Even after all this time, he couldn't get rid of the painful hope that you'd return. He had done his best to bottle his emotions, to keep them shut and locked inside, so that you wouldn't be disappointed in him upon your arrival. Proud that he never doubted you for a moment.

But he had. He had doubted you, cried at the lack of your comfort. Afraid of what it meant to be without you. Fearful of living, never getting to gleam your existence for a second time— and now you want him to pretend as if he never knew you.

As if he can't see the slight smugness in the Traveler's eyes.

His fight with the Traveler is personal. He bares his teeth, snarling like a rabid dog. His every strike is fast, precise with the intent to kill and maim. Childe hopes his emotions reach you, that you know of his bitterness and acrimony. That you know of how long he wished for you, how long he yearned for you to come back— how his frustration has twisted into pure rage, turned into a fine point. 

He just has to simply show you how he's better. He has to show you that he's superior in every way to your choice. That you should've chosen him over them. 

They are undeserving; watch how he rips through them like they are nothing, slicing through them like they are mist over sea. They are unworthy; see how easily he beats them into submission, how easily they crumble at his feet. The matter of the Gnosis is nothing to him, now— only whether you see how he should be the one you prefer. 

It's then that he feels it. Your rage. Your anger at having been battered and bruised. The Traveler stands back up, but something is different now. Their strikes are fluid, prowess and skill increased by an outside force. 

You. 

Do you hate him that badly? Detest him so much, to go so far as to bless another with your strength so they can prove themselves to be his better? Even in his Foul Legacy form, Childe is forced to retreat; forced to bow his head in defeat, weakened by the burden of his transformation.

The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He's done the exact opposite of what he set out to do. All he's proven is that your right.

Childe feels your crushing weight bearing down on him. He spits the words out, calls them 'friend' through clenched teeth. He dances to your whims, just as he had previously. Unnatural, stiff movements and words that speak the opposite of what he means. 

And then you're gone, left along with them. He stares at their fading back. He can almost imagine you beside them, walking by their side just as you once did his. 

It hurts.

The next time he feels you, there is no sign of the Traveler. Only a tight pulling in his chest. 

He doesn't know what it means, or what it entails. But he follows, sensing you at the end, waiting for him. Childe doesn't allow himself to hope; that maybe, you have come around. That maybe you do care. That maybe, you never hated him— not truly. That you missed him just as he missed you. 

Maybe he meant something, after all.

When he reaches you, he feels it. You're happy. You're happy with him. He feels you reaching out, tickling him with strands of your will. You brush against his skin, burrow deep inside. Childe lets you, still unable to breathe.

He wonders if this is really happening. Have you come back to him, truly? Have you finally realized how much better he is? He feels you graze his soul, reaching deep within. Childe feels you envelop him, swathing him in warmth and comfort. 

You're home, you whisper. 

He only hears the ghost of your voice, a chime in the wind; but he hears the intent, the meaning behind your unintelligible words, even though he can't understand them. 

Childe breaks. 

SANGUINE NATUS ; first meeting/as a worshiper

If even just your breath could leave him weak, then seeing you for the first time makes his knees give out underneath him.

It's a foolishly embarrassing display, but Childe can't find it in himself to care. He falls to his knees quicker than his mind can catch up, unconsciously posturing himself to make himself seem as small and harmless as possible— anything to make you stay, even if it means sabotaging his image.

He tucks his shoulders inward, struggling between looking at you until his eyes burn and your image is seared into the back of his eyelids, or averting his gaze because just touching you with them feels like he's sullying you somehow.

His breath comes out short and sharp, his entire chest heaving with each shuddering, raspy exhale. Before he can even manage a sound, he's sobbing, crumpling to the floor— there's no care taken to your perception of him now, only the wailful cries of one lost in the weight of your eyes. Childe knows he's being pathetic, a mess of airy desperation and red eyes; everything he was when he felt the ghost of you leave him, and everything he wished you'd never see. But it's you, and for the first time, he can truly feel your eyes on him.

It's all too much to bear.

"I-It's you, it's you—!" Childe manages to choke, wet tears caking the apples of his face. His eyes strain, burning to see the visage of you through the blur of his vision. Nausea bites at him, his abdomen a sudden storm from the tears that lick at his cheeks.

Childe has always been austere in his worship; strict, solemn in how he acts out every religious rite. There is an icy silence unlike him as he moves, particularly whenever your sanctity is involved. His fingers still tremble despite his stiffness, the desperation loud in every twitch of his limbs. The desire to see you, after all is said and done.

Seeing you for the first time feels as though a wave has overtaken him, drowning him in brine and the cerulean of muddy waters. There is no hiding what he could barely contain before— jerky movements filled with need and the dolor of one disappointed before.

Childe no longer finds himself able to veil it by lies and rushing fights of adrenaline; now, it lies bare, and there's no burning ache to keep it hidden.

His fervor is relentless; a feverish desire to please you coalescing until it's unbearable for his skin. Your reaction to his cries could have been cruel or kind, and it wouldn't have bothered him; all that matters is whether he has finally proven himself worthy of standing by your side.

His worship is eager words spilling from his lips at night, the echo of your name a murmur from his mouth like the sigh of the ocean's waves-- his blades stained red, limp at his sides-- the burning in the back of his throat that comes from years of pleading.

You're here now, even if he can't be with you at all times; and that knowledge leaves him whispering to you, uttering every thought without a moment of reconsideration. It is a ceaseless endeavor, as every word is listless praise and endless adoration. There isn't a moment where he isn't thinking of you in some way, and the mere thought of the opposite leaves him feeling vaguely sick.

He wants to think of you all the time. Though it's such a small thing, in his mind, he has you all to himself— in the sense that there is no one else to take your eyes off of him— there, he can make you happy; there, he can make you proud of him. In that world, you have no reason to be rid of him.

Childe's always kept his habit of crafting you makeshift gifts. They're rugged, imperfect things, but laden with his fingerprints and the palms of his hands. Before, he could only set them still on his altar for you, and hope that it pleased you somehow. He was only ever met with silence, but he could pretend you were happy with him, and the idea alone was enough.

When he catches sight of a sea conch, its pale marks swirled across its smooth surface, he can only think of handing it to you. It's a beautiful thing, and so simple and crude a gift; but maybe you will find worth in such a thing, the simplicity of its nature, and praise him for it.

He gives them to you physically now, unable to shake the urge to do so. His hands always tremble when he hands them over, his knees threatening to buckle underneath him whenever your fingers brush against his. He will never fail to drown in the sensation, allowing everything that he is to become thoughts of you.

Childe has always worshiped you in bloodshed. In the past, he hoped it would leave you satisfied enough to come back; now, it's to prove how much better he is than everyone else. His fear runs deep, like cracks in the earth far below the water's surface, and the sickening feeling of dread whenever you praise someone else suffocates him.

It's unreasonable, he knows, and he has no reason to fear, not anymore— but his heart still quickens at the thought, and his stomach still twists.

It's an all too familiar feeling. When he was first torn from you, he felt as though his heart had been ripped right out of him; and the panic he feels only reminds him of it.

When he's inevitably forced away from you on another mission, he deals with it as quickly as possible, no matter how bloodied or bruised he leaves it. He is brutally unkind in his workings, his words always terse and clipped; a slight edge that never really seems to go away until he knows you're somewhere nearby.

It's when he's forced to stay away from you for a longer period of time that he breaks completely. Upon his return, he is instantly back at your side, heaving sobs and ugly tears running down his face. He can barely think, and a flurry of slurred words leaves his lips— begging to never leave your side again.

Childe knows better than to think he is deserving of your kindness, but he’s desperate to at least stay in your shadow. There, he could stay near you, even if he was swathed in black— even if his only glimpse of you was your back, he would be in bliss. To be near you in some form is all he could ever ask of you.

For all of the power you have granted him, it's only right that he use it for you. A mere word from anyone that isn't pure praise has his grip on his weapon tightening, the tendons on his hand taut and his knuckles pale. He remains entirely oblivious to any moral ambiguity in your actions— whatever you do is right and just; as you are the only one worthy of judging yourself, he does not dare too.

Instead, Childe draws his blade in judgement of others— he will act as your hand and executioner, the arbiter of your faith; it's with only vigor that he hands out punishment, a ferocity bold and true.

AMANS IN SPINIS IACET ; as your lover

Childe's dreams have begun to take a sudden turn.

It's not anything he can control, despite how hard he tries too. They pleased him at first, even though he still couldn't help the way his heart tightened at the idea of you somehow knowing. At that time, they weren't occurring enough for him to be worried, and the content themselves were innocent enough for him to think nothing of it.

You held him close to you, pressing benign kisses across his freckled cheeks, playing with his hair with soft fingers; little things that he could believe meant nothing at all, just a desire to feel your affection in the only way his mortal heart knew how.

The dreams turn nightly, and Childe finally realizes it's much more than that.

It begins at signs of your favoritism. Glances that last more than they should, summoning him to your chambers more frequently; Childe does not deny you, and he can't help the faint giddiness that clouds his mind every time he feels your gaze linger on him. It's a euphoric sensation to know that he is the one you are looking at; no one else. Only barely does he manage to rein in his emotions every time.

You speak much softer to him, and your touch is more affectionate. He turns drunk on your approval, willingly dancing to your whims if it meant having your fingers coiled in his hair for another moment. Before he can stop himself for even daring to think it, Childe lets himself believe he's special to you— and that is where the problem arises.

The thoughts don't stop. Even if he screams to drown out the noise, they still manage to be so loud. The dreams are relentless, more loving, more vivid. He can feel the warmth of your palms as you caress his cheeks, the weight of your breath when you draw your head near; they feel so real, that for a moment, he thinks you're the one sending them to him.

He feels as though he's dirtying you in some form, as if he is the one committing an unforgivable sin against you; somehow managing to desecrate you with just his thoughts alone. The idea sends him into a panic-induced frenzy, kneeling before his altar with rushed, unintelligible apologies on his lips.

Despite his self-hatred, whenever he wakes from one, Childe is left blissfully dazed, nuzzling into his pillow with hazy clarity— pretending that it's you, instead. He wonders what it would be like if his dreams were real, if he could really be so special to you in such a way; entirely irreplaceable, entirely yours.

It doesn't take long for his will to be eroded by his desperation. His desire to resist was already hanging by a thread, and as the dreams persist, any resistance on his end is lost. He falls ever deeper into an abyss of his own making, allowing himself to be undone by his own creation.

Childe has always been needy, but as his feelings rear their ugly head, it only grows worse. He has always loved you— and he had been struggling to choke his own feelings down for as long as he could, fooling himself into believing that they didn't exist in the first place. In his eyes, it's only right that you be the one to shake the foundation he lay; making him crumble until every dark part of himself is laid bare in front of you, only for your eyes.

There's a drastic increase in his desperation to be near you, and any lack of refusal on your part only exacerbates it. He neglects his duties entirely in favor of staying by you in some way or another, be it either by your side, or following you from a distance like a lost puppy.

Your admittance of feelings only makes Childe more fervent. He can barely hear himself speak, his heart fluttering against his ribcage like a caged canary. He can barely believe anything you're saying, and for a moment, he wonders if he's lost in another dream of his.

At your assurance, Childe doesn't dare to doubt you any longer. He falls entirely into you, allowing you to consume his every thought. He doesn't think to fight back, letting you envelop him until his every breath is coated in your name. He is yours, and he has no desire for anything more.

His desire for your approval now emboldens him. Childe's always acted out of an interest in garnering your attention, and though he now knows of your feelings, it does nothing to satiate him; instead, it leaves him hungrier, greedy with an eagerness to please.

He doesn't take from you without asking, but he asks enough for it to be a nuisance. Your affection is everything to him, and he can't bear to go a moment without it. He asks to lay his head in your lap, for you to play with his hair— the loss of your touch is the loss of himself, and sends him reeling back to memories of when he was without you.

The first time you kiss him, his legs instantly give out underneath him, a small groan leaving his lips. Childe doesn't bother to dull his reactions; you deserve to know how easily weakened he is by your touch, with even a brush of your fingers enough to leave him breathless and wanting.

As your favorite, Childe is quick to be rid of any competition. Whether or not you see them as possible suitors doesn't even cross his mind— the fear that snakes around his heart is ever-present, and if they're better than him in some form, it only grows in persistence. He doesn't hurt them, because surely that would upset you, and any devotee of you is worthy of respect— but he is quick to showcase his superiority, and to do so broadly without shame.

Childe grows used to his new status, and uses it to stay by your side constantly. Any attention you give to others is met with instant jealousy, seething glares sent to whoever stole your gaze, even if they only preoccupied a second of your mind.

He could never be mad at you, as clearly the fault lies within himself.

Any signs of your likes and dislikes are instantly noted. If you compliment someone for their behavior, he begins to emulate it, or at least he tries too. If you like Zhongli for how well he executes your orders, then Childe will be the same; only he will do it better, quicker, and prove himself still deserving of your love.

If he were perfect, then you would have no need for anyone else. If he were perfect, he would never have to worry about whether you'll grow bored of him the moment he stops being entertaining enough.

The thought of you with another leaves Childe sick without fail. He knows he has no control over you, and that if you wished to be rid of him, he would willingly walk into whatever punishment awaited him— but now that he has tasted what it feels like to be so utterly yours, he can't bear to imagine another sharing the same treatment.

You kissing another, holding another, letting someone else lay against you; all of it only serves to further blur his vision. Even if it is sinful of him to feel, he can't stop the emotions from swirling in his chest.

You are everything; the earth laid beneath his feet, the foundation of which he relies on. To be without you is to fall, to be without you means death; and if he must carve his skin and bone to fit the picture you want him to be, then he shall.

#[🦇] — my writing #genshin impact #yandere genshin #sagau #yandere male #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin x reader #self aware genshin #yandere childe #sagau childe #self aware childe #genshin cult au #cult au childe

[youaintnothinbuta]

“Did you cum without me?” — feyd rautha x reader

Summary: Feyd Rautha, your husband, knows you very very well. He knows what your sex smells like, and he’s not pleased when he can sense it on you despite not having seen you at all that day. He reminds you that you aren’t to touch yourself, and that making you cum is his job

Pairing: feyd rautha x fem!reader

Word count: 1K

Warnings: SMUT, 18+, mature language, unprotected sex, p in v, masturbation insinuated, squirting depicted, probably typos sorrryyyy

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Feyd stirred from slumber before you as always, a habitual gesture that allowed you the luxury of lingering in bed as long as you pleased. However, you didn’t see him at breakfast either, hinting at his preoccupation with Na-Baron duties.

All day you found yourself restless and bored, ennui gnawing at you, more than ever typical. You even spent almost two hours in the bath, just trying to make time pass. Spending hours and hours alone, your mind started to wander. Your hands followed suit. You found yourself lying in your’s and Feyd’s shared bed, writhing beneath your own touch. You laid on his side of the bed, his smell helping feed your fantasies as you succumbed to orgasm by your self indulgence. And, once not being enough, for a second time.

Only minutes later you peeled yourself up off the bed, washed your hands, and were once again making your way aimlessly through the Harkonnen residence. To your delight, you heard your husband’s voice resonating through a nearby hallway, and quickly made that your destination. He smiled as he saw you, reaching out for your hand briefly, to acknowledge that he hadn’t seen you all day. As you passed him, he turned his head, inhaling deeply. You continued walking, but he quickly grabbed your arm, stopping you in your tracks.

He pulled you closer, his face just inches from yours. You could feel his warm breath against your skin as he sniffed your skin. Suddenly, he pulled back, his eyes narrowing.

“Did you cum without me?” he asked, his voice low and menacing.

“No,” you lied, trying to pull away from his grasp. But he was too strong. A growl rumbled from deep within him, a reaction to your lie. He could smell you. Harkonnen men were surprisingly gentlemanly and yet so, so primal in nature. The scent of your orgasm on your skin was certainly not one unfamiliar to him.

“Then you won't be too sensitive to cum right now,” he growled, his hand already making its way between your thighs. The men he was talking to quickly took their cue to leave, leaving you alone in the hallway.

You tried to protest, but it was too late. He had already pushed your skirt up and was fingering you roughly. You could feel your clit swelling and becoming sensitive, but he didn't seem to care.

“Push through it,” he commanded, his voice laced with possessiveness, his fingers moving faster and faster. You did as you were told, biting your lip to keep from crying out. But it hurt, and you couldn't help but squirm under his touch.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

With his right hand still playing with your pussy, he used his left to flick his belt undone. One handedly, he freed his already hard cock from his pants, lining himself up at your entrance.

His arms snaked around your waist, holding your body flush against his as he slowly pressed himself inside of you. Your eyes rolled back in your head at the feeling of him finally filling you up, like that itch was finally being scratched. He gripped you by the jaw, pulling out of you softly before slamming back into you.

“I make you cum,” he growled, “Me. Not you.”

“Understand?” He barked, pounding another hard thrust into you.

“Y-yes.” You stuttered, watching as he clenched his jaw in pleasure.

“Say my name,” he demanded.

“Yes, Feyd. You make me cum. Only you.”

“Good, darling, good,” he purred, lightly circling your clit with his thumb as he continued to fuck you, there, standing in the corridor.

His grip on your jaw eased, you took the opportunity to press your lips to his, in a burning kiss. You descended into a mess of moans and whimpers as he softly pressed his tongue into your mouth. His hips started to lose rhythm, your noises helping draw him closer to orgasm. He focused his attention on his thumb, rubbing your clit with the perfect pressure and pattern he'd come to learn so well for you.

“That's it,” he whispered to you. “Come for me.” And you did. With a scream he loved so very much, a gush of liquid spilled out of you. Marvelling at the sight in front of him, he continued to work your clit, watching as your squirt continued to stream from between your legs, his pants and boots sprayed with it, a puddle around both of your feet. Never having felt an orgasm so strong, your body threatened to give out as you shook and moaned, letting the last lingering bits of your orgasm out.

His strong arms held you up, as he continued thrusting. You felt his cock twitching inside of you, and with a low, strung out grunt, he spilled his black seed into you, fucking it as far into your pussy as he could. You clenched your walls around him the way he liked, milking him for all he was worth.

He pressed his forehead to yours, catching his breath. “Mine, darling,” he mumbled, slowly pulling himself out of you.

“Yours, Feyd.” You whispered, also still panting. Feyd looked at you, his eyes filled with love and satisfaction, an expression he had reserved for you alone.

“It is my job to make you cum. You do not take that away from me, do you understand?” He reminded you.

“Yes.” You nodded as he cupped your face in his hands.

“Good,” he kissed your cheek, “look at the mess you've made.” Your eyes fell to the floor, you blushed as you noticed the puddle you stood in.

“Go, get dressed for supper.” Even when he spoke softly there was still that harsh rumble in his voice. You obliged, heading back to your chambers.

At the dinner table, you walked up to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I love you,” you whispered in his ear, feeling his muscles flex in reaction to your voice.

He turned to face you, his eyes dark with desire. “I love you too,” he said, before standing up to pull your chair out for you to sit beside him.

A/N it’s currently 1am I got home from seeing dune part 2 about an hour ago but I absolutely couldn’t go to sleep without giving y’all something ;))

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd fanfiction #feyd oneshot #feyd x you #feyd imagine #feyd x reader #feyd smut #feyd rautha #feydbaron #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha x y/n #feyd rautha x oc #reader x feyd #reader x feyd rautha #feydrautha #dune part two #dune part 2 #austin butler x you #austin butler #austin butler x yn #austin butler feyd rautha #austin butler smut #feydarling #you x feyd #you x feyd rautha #yn x feyd #feydrautha smut #dune smut #dune part 2 smut #austin butler x y/n

[flowercrowngods]

this wouldn't leave me alone, so have my thoughts on a steve-centric "who did this to you?" steddie concept inspired by @imfinereallyy (i hope this is okay, even though it's uhhh nothing like what you mentioned)

When Eddie gets to the boathouse, he immediately notices that something is off. The door is cracked open but he can’t hear anyone talking or moving stuff around. No one ever comes here — it’s been his hideout spot since the ripe age of thirteen when he’d had hist first real fight with Wayne. 

No one comes here. But now the door is cracked open and Eddie stares at it for a good minute as though that would make it come to life and tell him who’s inside so he won’t have to look and deal with whoever decided to steal his spot. He’s really not in the mood to start any shit today, or to be called all sorts of names — most of which aren’t even half as true as people fear. 

His first instinct is to leave, find somewhere else to hide from this miserable world today, when he hears it. The sound of sniffling, followed by wet, heavy breaths. 

Oh. It sounds like someone’s crying. In his spot.

Maybe it’s some girl who got her heart broken, some dude who lost the last bit of faith in his family, or some kid who— 

Ah, fuck it, he’ll just come back later. Not his problem. Definitely not his problem. And it’s definitely not guilt or worry that gnaw at him as he turns on his heel to leave. 

But then there’s a groan. A pained groan. Someone’s in pain, and crying in his spot, and Eddie really shouldn’t make that his problem. He shouldn't. Nopbody cares when he's crying and in pain either! But fuck if he won’t be thinking about it for the rest of his life if he turns his back on whoever it is. Maybe they need help. 

They most certainly sound like they do.

With a heavy sigh, Eddie is already at the door before he can think about it too much. 

“Hello?” he asks the darkness, and immediately the sniffling stops. 

Silence falls, but only for a moment before whoever it is has to draw shaky, wheezing breaths that make Eddie swear under his breath. 

“Listen, I know you’re here.” He’s taking slow, deliberate steps, his eyes roaming he mess of boats, tools and tarp he knows so well.  “And I’m not trying to start anything. Tell me to go away and I will. But I have a first aid kit in my car and, uh, you sound like maybe you need it.” 

There’s no response, but the wheezing breaths turn into whimpers with every second that whoever it is tries very hard not to make any noise, and Eddie’s heart starts to race in his chest. He can feel worry and panic starting to rise. And overshadowing it is an overwhelming sense of dread.

What the fuck is happening? 

He tries to be careful but his mind is racing and his limbs are starting to feel like lead. His wary steps become heavy and clumsy, and then he accidentally boots something that makes a terrible, horrible noise, breaking the eerie silence. Eddie cringes and is about to apologise, when finally there is movement in his peripheral vision. 

And then he sees him. There, hidden in the shadows between a boat and the far wall, his face breaten and bloodied, his eye swelling around a nasty bruise. Wait, do bruises bleed? Should they look black like that? Is it a cut? Something worse?

Even after years of constant bullying and goading in middle school and high school, he has never actually seen someone look like this. With their face completely smashed in. It makes him freeze for a horrible, horrible moment before he saps out of it.

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, hurrying over as fast as he can, stumbling over tools and tarp as he does. Something falls to the floor with a loud clunk and it makes the boy flinch again. Eddie curses. “Sorry, shit, sorry!” 

He makes it to the boat rather quickly, crouching down in front of the boy a few feet away so as not to spook him, not to crowd him. And then his heart only plummets further, because he knows this one. 

Steve Harrington. The boy who’s come to school with many a black eye over the past two years — but never this bad. The boy who’s been looking like the world might be about to end each time he rounded a corner in school; ever since things started happening around Hawkins. Since the Holland girl died and the Byers boy disappeared. 

It fascinated Eddie, the way Steve fell from grace. The way he turned quiet, and showed up with healing bruises. There are stories woven around it, because teenagers like to gossip and word spreads fast, and Eddie always listened with rapt attention as Harrington turned into a bit of a myth. A legend. A ghost story.

But fascination is not what he feels right now, seeing Steve like this.

His eyes are unfocused and Eddie knows about the danger of head injuries. He knows about the consequences of blood loss, he knows that Steve will be warm to the touch even though he’s shivering already, and… Fuck!

“Shit, Steve,” he rasps, not daring to speak louder lest he spooks the boy. Of all the reasons he’s had to be afraid of talking to Steve Harrington, this one might be the cruellest. "I..."

He takes in his wounds, his bruised and scraped knuckles where his hands are wrapped around the knees he’s pulled to his chest, and his split lip that he keeps biting. 

Eddie swallows before he asks, “Who did this to you?” 

But Steve just shakes his head clumsily. Sniffles again, and then his breath comes in wet heaves, and Eddie worries for a moment that he’s going to throw up now. 

He doesn’t. 

Steve’s just staring. Eddie isn’t even entirely sure he can see him, or maybe he did and then forgot, or maybe he’s fading. Eddie should do something, he should get help, he should— 

“Steve,” he says, and dares to touch him when he doesn’t react. 

A light touch to the knee shouldn’t make anyone flinch like that, but Steve’s whole body jumps, and then the shivers and the wheezing get worse. It almost sounds like a whimper, and Eddie curses again. Feels like crying now, scared and helpless as he is.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay, I— Jesus, okay.” He swallows hard, trying to think, willing for the panic to subside and a plan to form. “You’re okay. I... I’m gonna, I’m gonna grab the first aid kit. I have it in my car. It’s not, it’s not far. And a blanket. So you'll be warm again. I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t move, don’t…" He gestures wildly, caught between reaching out and pulling away. "Don’t move.” 

Eddie takes a wavering breath and moves to stand on numb, tingly legs, nearly missing Steve’s, “Can’t.” It’s barely more than a whisper, hardly even a wheeze. It’s like he’s just breathing out words because everything else is too much effort. 

Right. Right. This is messed up and Eddie’s panicking, but Steve will be okay. Because things like that don’t happen, not here, not today, and not to Steve Harrington. 

Except this is Hawkins. Where Will Byers disappeared and Barb Holland died and many people are missing and weird shit just ends up happening everywhere even though they’re all just kids. They’re just kids. And Steve’s not even conscious enough to realise that right now. 

Eddie all but runs outside, sprinting to his van with a speed that would make the coach swallow his stupid whistle if gym class only mattered right now. It doesn't. Nothing matters, because Steve is... He's hurt. And there's no one else around to help.

Grabbing the first aid kit, a bottle of water and a thick blanket he always keeps spread out in the back of his van, he makes it back to the boathouse in no time. 

He wasn’t even gone for three minutes, but still he sighs in relief when Steve is still awake. He even looks up. Blinks. Frowns in what can only be confusion and makes Eddie's heart fall.

“Munson?” 

Fuck, that’s not a good sign. That’s messed up, it’s fucked up, it’s— Focus, Eddie! 

“The one and only,” he says, voice shaky and his smile not fooling anyone. He wraps the blanket around Steve, whose eyes are unfocused again, though he tries so hard to blink it away. 

Brave boy, stupid boy. Head trauma isn’t blinked away. Though Eddie is inclined to let him try. Maybe he’ll find a way. 

“Here.” He hands the bottle over to Steve, who grabs it with clumsy hands. He can hold it, but he can’t get it open — again, not a good sign. 

Eddie opens it for him, then turns to his first aid kit. It seemed like a great idea five minutes ago, but he’s petrified now. It’s too dark in here and he can’t really see the wounds, he doesn’t know what to use, what’s in there, he doesn’t, he can’t, he— 

The bottle, empty now, is handed back to him, bumping into his hand, tearing him away from his spiralling thoughts. 

“Thanks,” Harrington breathes, and there’s a small smile visible in the darkness. Eddie just nods and takes it with hands that are still shaking.

“I wanna help you,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “But I don’t know how. You gotta tell me where it hurts, Steve.” 

A beat. “Everywhere.” 

Eddie sags, falling back to sit opposite Steve, frantically rubbing at his face. “Shit.” 

“Yeah.” Steve chuckles, but it sounds so wet with tears and pain, Eddie never wants to hear it again. “Thought I could do it.” 

He’s talking. That’s a good thing, right? He can’t pass out as long as he’s talking. That’s how that works, isn’t it? So, Eddie asks, “Do what?” 

“Doctors told me,” Steve sighs, his voice slow and slurring. “Told me to... to stay out of fights. Stay out of them. Said I had to make sure my head won’t—“ 

He makes a motion with his fist, and Eddie thinks he’s simulating a punch, disoriented as it is. It makes his heart fall. Is that what happened? Someone beat Steve to a pulp? Again? Just like that?

Eddie is so stuck on that thought, trying to piece together the puzzle, that he almost misses Steve’s mumbled speech. 

“Y’know, th— Said I’ll go blind. Or deaf. Or just… die.” He says it to matter-of-factly that Eddie’s heart stops for a second.

What the fuck happened to Steve Harrington? Not just today, no. What happened to him?

What happend to make him look up at Eddie Munson, out of all people, with glistening eyes so endlessly scared, and say, “I don’t wanna die, Munson. I never… I didn’t. With the monsters or the torture. I can't—” A wheeze, a keen, a whimper, and Harringtin pulls at his hair, uncaring that he's making things worse.

Meanwhile, Eddie is stuck on his words. Because what. 

“Can’t, can't die now ‘cause Tommy thinks he’s so… He’s… He’s just sad, man. Griev'n' and confused. But Billy’s gone, an'— And now I’ll…”

Steve looks at him now, his eyes shining with tears and something that Eddie’s written poems about and created characters around. This expression, like the world will end. And inspiring as it is, it fucking breaks his heart now. 

“They said my brain is hurt, Eddie.”

Eddie swallows the hurt and the fear and the complete overwhelm he's feeling. Steve is telling him things that Eddie doesn't know how to handle.

“You won’t die, Steve,” he says in as gentle a voice as he can muster right now, because that's the only thing he knows.

And he won’t, right? People don’t just die. Not from taking a punch, not when they just graduated high school, not when they’re Steve Harrington. Right? 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay,” Steve breathes. “That’s good.” 

Eddie wants to hug him in that moment. He never knew that this was possible, wanting to hug Steve Harrington, wanting to wrap the blanket around him even tighter and keep him safe and convince him that he won’t die. 

And then the rest of what he said catches up with Eddie and leaves anger in its wake. 

“Hagan did that to you?” 

Steve nods. “Started going off about Billy.”

Eddie’s blood freezes at that name. "Hargrove?” 

Another nod, though Steve doesn’t look too happy about moving his head, and he groans quietly. “They were friends. Tommy is angry. Grieving. Con— Confused. He was just saying shit, like it’s my fault. And it is. Kinda. But Tommy’s, he, he’s... Just saying shit. And then he punched me. A lot. And he didn’t stop. And now… is now.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes dumbly, carefully bandaging the glaring wound at his temple, needing to start somewhere. “Now is now.” His blood is still frozen as he tries very hard not to listen to Steve. Nothing that Harrington says has any right to matter anything to him; they live in two different worlds. If Harrington confesses to murder while severely concussed under Eddie’s watch, then there are no witnesses to drag either of them through the mud for it. Eddie is just gonna forget about it. Or try, anyway. “But you’re… Shit , Steve, you’re really hurt.” 

Steve blinks. Pauses. And Eddie thinks he’s lost him. But then, “Yeah. I’m always hurt.” 

And that, in this little voice, is like a gut punch. Because Eddie knows something about always hurt. “What?” 

“What?” 

There is ice in his veins as he asks, “Who’s hurting you, Steve?” 

Steve looks at him, opening his mouth once, twice, like he’s about to say something and Eddie holds his breath. But then Steve’s eyes droop and he shrinks in on himself a bit more. 

“Jus’ everyone, sometimes. God you don’t… You don’t even know.” 

Know what, Harrington? Eddie can barely breathe anymore.

“’M tired, Eddie,” Steve mumbles, closing his eyes. “Don’t wanna hurt anymore.” 

“Hey, hey, no!” Eddie reaches out, catching Steve’s head and preventing it from colliding with the floor as he’s slumping and falling over. 

And just like that, the panic is back, frantic but determined this time. He’s going to get help; there’s nothing he can do with his lousy first aid kit, not when Steve keeps going in and out of consciousness like that. Not when he can barely see anything or clean the wounds properly.

He’s going to get Steve to a hospital and allow them both to forget this ever happened. Because Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson don’t breathe the same air or share traumatic stories in a boathouse like this. 

He’ll get out of Steve’s hair the second the hospital doors close behind him, and get out of whatever trouble someone like Harrington could be in. Eddie doesn’t even want to know. He doesn't want to be part of his ghost story.

But as he’s scooping him up and helping him out of the damned boathouse, clumsily preventing him from stumbling over his own feet or tools or tarp or planks or whatever fucking shit is littering the floor of this godforsaken place, he can hear Steve speaking quietly. 

"Where‘re we going?"

And even though a second ago he was determined to take Steve to a hospital, there is only one place on Eddie's mind right now. Only one place he knows where he won't be scared anymore.

"Somewhere safe," he says, tightening his hold on the boy even though his hands are shaking now, too. He looks over his shoulders the moment they're out of the boathouse, stupidly worried that whoever did this to Steve – Hagan, apparently – would still be around, would follow them and do the same shit to Eddie.

"Safe?"

"Safe."

"Okay," Steve sighs, like he believes him. Like he trusts him. Hell, they've never even spoken before, but something inside Eddie breaks at the little sigh, at the way Steve goes slack in his arms. And even more at the little, "Thanks."

If Eddie's eyes are filled with tears and the hands around the wheel are clenched so tight to hide the way they're shaking, then Steve is not conscious enough to comment on it.

(addendum 7 december) onwards to part 2

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie munson #this is somewhere between s3 and s4 obviously #but also i just re-read the op post and realised that this is nothing like what they wished for so uh. sorry? never trust me with prompts y #who did this to you #hurt steve #steve harrington whump #pre-steddie #sorry op maybe i'll try again and get it right this time but uh. yeah #dio words

[thegnomelord]

the 141 would stand no chance with werewolf!reader and werewolf!soap. both of you scenting them and each other.

they come back from a mission you and soap weren’t on to find you both stinking of each other and lying in a heap.

god forbid you’re mated to each other, the displays you do borderline inappropriate as you shamelessly rub against each other, covering each other in marks

Oh yeah, you two have gotten SOOO much chastising from Price about your and his inappropriate touching of each other :D. And god help the rest of the team when the full moon draws near, you two just become cuddle bugs with each other and the team lol

CW:NSFW SubBot Soap, DomTop MReader

Before you came into the picture, it would take the entire team to wear Johnny out on a full moon, from wrestling to fucking to playing fetch, doing anything they could to keep Soap from gnawing on the walls of the base like some puppy just growing his permanent teeth.

Now it's simultaneously better and worse with you. You and Soap get on like a house on fire, touching and scenting each other on a regular day, but increasing it exponentially as the full moon draws near. It's the time of the month when the pack is supposed to come together so the rest of the lads find themselves with twice as many wagging tails and needy whines as you and Soap work to scent them all; Gaz laughing as he's trapped between you and Soap, your fur tickling his skin. Ghost grumbling under his breath as he scratches your neck while Soap nuzzles his entire body against him, Price purring deep and calming in his sleep while you two are curled around him.

They leave you alone when you chase Soap into the woods, your wolves fully taking over as you run and howl and snarl into the night. Growing tired of running you pin him down, your teeth clamping onto the scruff of his neck as you two tumble to the ground.

Soap snarls and thrashes like an eel, attempting to throw you off but you hold firm, claws scraping against his sides until the scent of blood enters your senses, your cock already slipping from it's sheath to rub against the swell of his ass.

You feel him shiver, a low pitched whine leaving his jaws as his body goes limp, large claws tearing into the dirt as he spreads his legs, tail curling up and slick already pearling the rim of his hole, wet and willing for you.

Your feral mind doesn't even think about prepping him, your hips humping against his ass until the tip of your cock catches on his hole and you're shoving your cock inside him in one rough move, a desperate yelp pushing out of Soap's lungs, his hole clenching down on you.

But he's not in pain, fully shifted he's more than able to take you, only needing a few seconds to get adjusted before he's pushing his hips back, a demanding snarl bubbling in his throat. You snarl in response, setting a brutal pace that has him growling and whining, his cock hard and leaking between his furry thighs.

You don't last long, your hips snapping against his ass, balls slapping his own, your teeth still holding him by the scruff as you cum inside him. But you don't stop.

Soap whines and whimpers when your hips continue to move, his hole wet with cum and slick as your hard cock, not even having softened, continues to saw into him. You go the entire night like that, cumming inside him again and again until the morning sun rises and the rest of the boys find you two back in your human forms, your body curled around his and your knot firmly lodged in his ass, the ground itself wet with your cum.

#cod mw2 #gnome correspondence #trinkets from the hoard #x reader #male reader #top male reader #john soap mactavish #sub john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x male reader #john soap mactavish x reader #monster 141 au #monster cod au

[macfrog]

wish you were here | one shot

thank you lovely anon for this gorgeous request which felt like a huge mug of hot chocolate and a pair of socks fresh from the dryer to write. i hope you enjoy.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you and joel skip jackson’s annual holiday party in favor of some alone time. (not that kind you filthy animals it’s the HOLIDAYS)

warnings: fluff lmao, thirty-year age gap and u can stay mad, set around the holidays but no mention of christmas etc, nothing but love and two hints of sex. that's all. oh and no guitars were harmed in the making of this - joel canonically goes and gets the guitar after the fic ends. dw.

word count: 1.9k 

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🤎

Jackson is alive with a thrumming heartbeat. Pulsing through the air, bumping gently against the quick-lying snow and filling the otherwise silent night. A steady, rhythmic heartbeat.  

A heartbeat which sounds a lot like Blue Monday, but a heartbeat nonetheless.

The holiday party is in full swing down in the Tipsy Bison. Seven o’clock ‘til late! on flyers plastered all over the commune for the last month. Tommy had tried relentlessly to convince Joel this morning on patrol – It’ll be a good night; You oughta come along, show face at least. At the same time, Maria was on your back about it in the stables.

Y’all hardly come to anything fun, she’d argued.

We come to stuff.

When’s the last time you came to anythin’?

We were – we were at Mike’s birthday dinner.

What – five months ago?

We like alone time.

Alone time? You’re never apart from one another.

Alone time – together.

Neither attempt had been successful. Tommy and Maria had exchanged a disheartened glance as the two brothers passed their horses to you on their return. Joel clipped your cheek, took his gloves off and fixed them onto your frozen hands before making off for home, a proud grin on his face. You’d held your own as well as he had: you two had a clear evening ahead.

He had lit and nurtured a fire, had made himself a coffee and heaped half a damn bag of tiny marshmallows into a hot chocolate for you, but when he’d come through to take his place on the couch, you were already stood out front.

It’s bitter out – a soft breeze, but a thick chill on its wings. The sky a washed gray, heavy clouds overhead. He slips outside, setting the mugs down on the table, and slings a blanket over your shoulders. Kisses the curve of your neck, scruff of his beard tickling your skin.

‘s freezing, pretty bird.

Then keep me warm, you whisper, turning into his arms. He steps back, settling into his chair, flicking his fingers for you to fall down into his wide lap.

You curl up against his torso, your head hooked beneath his jaw. Wonder how drunk Tommy is by now. What is it – nine?

His wrist lifts, moonlight gleaming in the reflection of his broken watch face. Just gone ten. I bet he’s on his ass already.

You giggle into his shirt, breathing in the scent of the pine trees, the smoke from stoking the fire inside, the bite of hot coffee. The echo of voices swelling in merry song turns your attention down the street – two figures hooked onto one another, stumbling through the powdered snow. Some slurred rendition of September melting into All Night Long before the smaller of the two tugs their partner off into a darkened house.

Joel laughs to himself, the bristle of his beard catching on your hair as he shakes his head.

You ask him softly, Will you play me something?

His breath soars, a cloud hot and pale white, past your temple and up into the pastel sky. Gets swallowed somewhere overhead by the wash of warmth from the porch light. He turns his mug until the owl faces the street, the bottom gnawing against the wooden armrest of his chair.

I’m serious.

What do you wanna hear?

That one you’re always practicin’. The plucking one.

Another rumble between your shoulder blades. His chest jolts with a solid laugh. The pluckin’ one.

You know the one.

I know the one.

Will you play it, if I go get the guitar?

Baby, his lungs nudge on your back as they fill, it’s late. We’ll wake the neighbors.

Everyone’s at the dance. C’mon.

And he can’t argue with that. The entire street lies dark, vacant. Yours is the only house with soft-glowing eyes, the muted orange of the fire flickering behind closed blinds. Two figures, tangled in a chair on the dim front porch; a hunting jacket around his shoulders, and his body around yours.

You tug on the blanket, wrapping it around your elbows as you stand. Just once. Play me it once.

Joel’s looking up at you, setting his mug down on the table. Play you it as many times as you want, pretty bird. Just – quietly.

There’s a spring in your step that drags another chuckle from Joel’s lips: the kind that drips like honey down your throat and warms the pit of your stomach – a sweet, comforting thing, a sound you swear was made purposefully for you. Divine and deliberate.

Like – all of him. Like the shape of your name in his mouth, the curl of his tongue as the sound surfs over it. Like the curve of his hand and the way yours so neatly molds into it.

The way it did the day he found you, crouched in the gray backroom of some butchers deep in the city, and took you all the way back to Jackson. Let you cling to him on the back of his horse; your weak arms around his waist, anchored by the heavy jacket he’d thrown over your back. Your ear between his shoulder blades. And that was that.

Fifty-six. One brown-turned-silver hair away from thirty years your senior. He still remembers before. Talks about movies, talks about computers. Talks about Sarah, when the sun hits the wall at a certain angle and he reckons he could see her standing right there, the soft shadow of her hair dark against the golden wall. When you make a joke and he laughs a ghostly sort of laugh, like he’s hearing the echo of her voice make the same quip three decades ago. He always says she would’ve loved you; you like to think he’s right.

He found you: a lonely little broken heart, and he pulled you to your feet with a rough palm against your own. Hands calloused only from years spent carving wood and pressing the hard strings of his guitar into the fretboard, and nothing else. No violence and no bloodshed; no survival or threat. Music, and patience, and kindness.

And maybe you found him, too, in the same sort of way: roughened up, awkward and messy stitches holding him together. Maybe the two of you nursed one another back to life; each brush of your hands in the dining hall and each meaningful glance while out on patrol sewing those wounds up a little tighter, a little safer.

He sits forward when you hold the instrument out, sweeping a broad palm down the slope of the body. Pinches the pegs one by one, twisting them while his thumb taps on each string.

Come here, he says, beckoning you forward with a flick of his chin. He taps on the seam of his jeans, widens his legs for you to curl up between them at his feet – the way you always do.

Your elbows hook over his thigh, ear pressed against the inside of his knee. Staring up, blinking slowly, eyes glazed with the cold and with the light and with love.

He plucks gently, slow at first. Letting the strings snap with a twang, vibrating enough that you feel the small rattle in your jaw. Your eyes fall closed, head rocking with the light tap of his heel on the porch. When you peer at him through your lashes, he’s watching the skilled movements of his fingers intently; as if he’s as much a spectator as you are – his body doing all of the thinking and working for him.

 So, he sings, and your stomach melts to a puddle, so you think you can tell –

Your eyes close again, the low rumble of his voice crisp in your ears. Like thunder, like the promise of something great and mighty. Something moving, something rolling and changing the landscape of your body, your mind and your soul. The lines between living and dying begin to blur, the seam tearing between this plain and the next.

Did they get you to trade – your lips parting to whisper the words with him – your heroes for ghosts?

His thumbnail dragging down the strings, his strong fingers flitting between chords. Like he was made to sit here, in the dead of night, and carve a space in the world for himself and his voice and for you – lain in the safe scope of his body, protected by his breadth and brawn and lulled by his sweet song.

His breadth and brawn – the parts of him which have kept him standing here. His skeleton, his muscle. But the thing that keeps you warm at night, buried side by side under a threadbare woolen sheet together, the thing that you link your arms around as he leads you home from the nights you dare to visit the Tipsy Bison: are his heart, his flesh, the gray-singed hair which falls in a featherlight wave over his forehead. The hair you sweep from his eyes when he’s on top of you, his hips cradled in yours, that all-encompassing feeling of every part of him filling every part of you.

It all feels that way. The warmth of him, the feeling of being wrapped around him. Hooked around his body, bones intertwined. Absorbing one another, his words breathing life into yours, slowly growing louder and braver with each pluck and strum of music.

We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.

Your makeups entangling, ribcages locking together, flesh meeting flesh and hair twisting until one day, Tommy will come looking for his brother and find the two of you here on your porch, your arms still draped over Joel’s thigh and his fingers still mid-song. Stuck, alone, together.

What have we found? Joel looks down to you as though asking the question – his eyebrows raised – and you reply, a dumb smile across your lips, The same old fears, and then, together –

Wish you were here.

He plays until his fingers must start to hurt, the way he clenches and loosens his fist. Setting the guitar against your chair, hands hooking under your arms to pull you back up to him.

That one your favorite? he asks, the cold tip of his nose circling yours.

You nod. Only when you sing it.

I like the way we sound together.

You smile, shrinking into his chest again, your fingers surfing back and forth on the worn shirt. I like the way we do a lot of things together.

His hands slip beneath the fabric of your shirt, massaging your waist. He dots a trail of light, damp kisses along your forehead, dipping to your temple, the angle of your cheek until your jaw lifts and his lips are against yours, his tongue parting to lick purposefully at yours.

I love you, pretty bird, he whispers, the words falling sweet and fair on your tongue.

You take a moment to let them seep into your skin. ‘s the first time you’ve ever said that, you tell him.

Joel smiles. He knows. But you knew it already, he counters.

You know, too. Mhm.

Alright, he groans, slipping his hands under your thighs and hoisting you up to his height, bedtime.

It’s only ten, you complain, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as he carries you inside. It’s too early to sleep – Joel.

Didn’t say we were goin’ to sleep, he mumbles, kicking the door shut.

#happy max monday is this becoming a thing? can i claim mondays? boomtown rats move the fuck over #i just wanted to sit between joel miller's legs and look up at him all dumb and in love ok? #joel miller #joel miller fic #the last of us #tlou fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #jackson!joel #joel miller fluff

[anantaru]

icanf stop thinking abt dainsleif and choking T_T his pretty hands around your throat while he fucks u… rough actions but words filled with praise and as sweet as honey!!! telling u he loves you and how pretty you look like thattt 💕

cw. rough, choking, fem! reader

a/n. currently very busy travelling to different countries due to my work, so enjoy this little drabble i wrote on my notes app while flying 🩷

dainsleif loves how you feel under his roughened palm— how he can recognize your hard gulps and swallows while he‘s pressing his digits into your neck just a little bit more, not too much but also not too faint, so he could notice and experience each flex and hiccup you’d do— in a certain manner, you could state that it‘s the perfect amount of pressure as he saw it.

"fuck— i love you." he pants and fully jerks himself into you, hips spent but determined to push you towards a curling climax— until you feel all bubbly and warm while blissfully crowded with his erect cock. it's almost shameful, how the pearly drops of pebbles threatened to slip from under your sticky lashes at the stimulating stir on your lower region, "you’re so- so pretty." he whimpers above your lips, exhaling the swelling air from his lungs when he feels you more.

"so pretty like this."

dainsleif angles his head towards your direction, winding over your jaw and lips to muffle your like saccharine tasting sobs as the nauseating air surrounding you was beginning to pitch heavier and thicker— cloying, the lack of breathing control teleported you towards bottomless bliss and spirals as your nostrils nose over the penetrating smell of filth and sex, mind overcasted with clouded pleasure.

his hips were relentlessly brushing past the tight ring of your hole and limitless of stamina— slapping erratically into your softness over and over while leaving it to your pretty perfect cunt to gnaw and clench down on his girth to keep him in, languidly stroking him with your spongy insides.

"i love— love you too." you somehow manage to choke out, by how drunk on his cock you appeared to be it was a clear miracle that you were able to squeeze something out at all. your eyes were turning glassy at the stern grip on your neck as his fingers still served as your most dearest necklace— you flutter your lashes open to peevishly admire your lover; how his biceps were wholly tensed and his wet lips widened, his brows eagerly scrunched together as his hips worked in keeping with your own small needy ruts up into his length.

while this alone was almost too much for dainsleif to properly function anymore— he's so terribly addicted and in love with you, it's comical, almost. how you cannot stop drifting your eyes off him, petulantly blinking and pouting at him from under your splashed lashes, all pseudo shy and stimulated, pleased by him and him alone.

even for a man with his level of self restraint, he needed to cum now, all over you— and mark you from the inside out, until you‘re gushing and guzzling up all he gives you, until his heavy cum webs further into your skin and fills your womb with nothing but his whites.

your cunt helplessly pulses around his girth and he nudges his cock closer to you, most prominently deeper until ghosting on to the deepest pleasuring spots in your puffy pussy, settling all the sloppy mess of his seed and your liquids inside of you while the overflow coated him up entirely, leaving nothing untouched.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

#dainsleif x reader #dainsleif smut #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact dainsleif x reader #genshin impact dainsleif smut #genshin impact imagines #genshin drabbles #genshin impact drabbles #𖤣𖤥𖠿𖤣𖤥 thirsts' #tw choking #cw choking #fem! reader

[queenshelby]

An Illicit Affair

Part 29: The Truth

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (46) x Reader (23)

Warning: Age-Gap, Taboo Relationship, Infidelity

Cillian froze, feeling his heart race as he turned back to look at you. Your eyes were still closed, your fingers twitching only lightly and your chest rose with more effort than before. 

"Y/N?" your mother 's voice was laced with urgency as she stepped towards you, not taking her eyes off you.

Cillian watched as your mother took your hand in hers, her eyes searching your face, desperate for any sign of consciousness.

"Y/N, can you hear me?" she asked again, her voice stronger this time.

"Hmm," you barely murmured , your eyes remaining closed as you struggled to wake up, to make sense of what was happening while your father snarled at Cillian again. 

"Please leave us alone now," your father demanded, his voice firm and unwavering and Cillian took a deep breath, nodding slowly as he met your father's gaze. For your sake, he chose not to protest even though he desperately wanted to stay by your side. 

"Alright," he said quietly but as soon as you heard Cillian's voice again, you gasped again, fighting to open your eyes. "I will leave," he then confirmed once more, the weight of the moment pressing down heavily on him.

Your parents looked at you, their faces reflecting concern and fear, and Cillian slinked out of the room, the tension between them swelling into a thick fog that carried the heavy scent of disdain. As he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was abandoning you, but his rationality won over, the haunting sound of your voice lingering in his ears like a ghostly melody.

Once in the hallway, he sighed heavily, tears threatening to spill over, and leaned against the cold, sterile wall as, suddenly, an alarm was set off, coming directly from your room.

Two nurses rushed past him, quickly entering the room, leaving Cillian momentarily forgotten in the turmoil.

He stared after them, worry gnawing at his insides, his heart pounding in his chest.

He couldn't help but follow into the room , watching as the nurses quickly went to work, checking your vitals, adjusting the machines.

"It's alright Miss. You are in hospital," the nurse reassured you, her voice soothing and calm as she went about her task, but you were too disoriented to register her words.

You were hyperventilating all so suddenly as you felt trapped, unable to move and unsure about what happened to you. It was as if you were woken up from a bad dream, your eyes panicking as you tried to get a grasp on your reality.

"Ssh , it's alright. You are safe," the nurse continued to reassure you, her voice soothing, as she tried to get you to calm down but you wouldn't listen.

You struggled to break free, your muscles tensing as you tried to sit up, your head spinning from the sudden movement, causing you to become nauseous. 

Your parents, who had been standing near the window, rushed to your side, their expressions laced with fear and worry.

"What's happening? Is she alright?" your father demanded, his voice hoarse with emotion while your mother looked away, her head nestled against your father's chest.  "She's having a panic attack," the nurse explained to your parents, her voice gentle as she worked to calm you down while the other nurse prepared a sedative. 

Your parents looked at each other anxiously, their eyes filled with pain as they saw their daughter struggling, their minds racing with questions, their thoughts consumed by worry.

Cillian, too, felt the weight of your suffering and, despite your parents' wishes and the nurses' instruction to give them space, he couldn't resist the urge to move closer, to reassure you, to offer you the comfort you so desperately needed.

"It's okay Y/N, you are safe," Cillian whispered, his voice barely audible as he leaned towards you, his eyes filled with genuine concern.

Your breathing was heavy, but as you locked eyes with him, you felt a sense of calm wash over you, causing your rapid heartbeat to slow.

"You are safe," he repeated , reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair away from your face. His touch was comforting, and you found yourself leaning into it, needing the human connection in a moment of panic.

"Cillian," you breathed out, his name on your lips like a prayer, a plea for salvation as tears shot into your eyes. 

Hearing your voice, Cillian's heart raced and for a moment, he forgot where he was, who he was, everything but the overwhelming need to take care of you, to make sure you were alright.

"I'm here," he whispered, his voice steady and calm, despite the turmoil of emotions that swirled within him.

"I'm so scared," you murmured, fear and pain evident in your voice.

"I know," Cillian replied, his voice soothing as he gently squeezed your hand in reassurance while the nurses worked quickly, efficiently, as they attended to you, monitoring your vital signs, ensuring that you were stabilized. 

"Sir, we need to administer the sedative. It will calm her down," one of the nurses said, breaking Cillian's trance.

Cillian nodded reluctantly, knowing that the nurse was right but it didn't mean that he had to like it.

"No, no sedation," you protested weakly, your voice still weak and raspy as you struggled to focus, to comprehend the situation around you.

You tightened your grip on Cillian's hand, your eyes pleading with him, silently begging him not to leave your side, not to let go.

Cillian looked at you, his heart swelled with the raw intensity of your gaze, and he made a silent promise to you; he would not leave your side, not as long as you needed him.

"Please no," you murmured again , swallowing the lump of fear in your throat.

"You need to relax, Y/N," Cillian soothed, his voice gentle, almost hypnotic. you clung to him, terrified by the unknown, the nurses blocked out the world around you and brought the medicine closer to your arm and in your bewildered state, your consent was impossible to give, however, your overbearing fear prevented you from protesting.

"Is this really necessary?" Cillian asked the nurse, noticing your obvious discomfort at the prospect of being sedated.

The nurse looked at you sympathetically, "She needs to relax and the sedative will certainly help. Her brain and body needs to rest," she replied patiently, as your grip on Cillian's hand tightened, your face scrunching up in fear.

Cillian turned back to you, his eyes softening with concern as he felt your fear and anxiety radiating off you in waves.

He leaned down to whisper into your ear, "It's okay, I won't leave you. Just close your eyes and trust me."

As you hesitantly released your breath, you allowed yourself to relax, melting into the comfort of Cillian's embrace as you surrendered to the sedative's effects. With a gentle kiss against your forehead, he watched as your eyes fluttered closed, your worries slowly dissipating until your breathing settled into a soothing, steady rhythm.

Cillian stood up, reluctant to let go of your hand, his gaze caressing your peaceful face while your parents looked on with confusion written all over their faces. This kind of interaction between Cillian and you was not something they had anticipated to witness. Until now, they were unaware of the relationship with each other and Cillian looked at your mother for a long moment, trying to gauge whether it was safe to share this information with her. However, the determination in her eyes to keep him as far away from you as possible held him back. 

So, he stood there in silence, taking in your peaceful face, memorizing the way your chest gently rose and fell, the way your eyelashes left shadows on your cheeks, the way your lips had the faintest hint of pink.

His heart was heavy, carrying a burden of guilt and fear, uncertain about how to proceed, afraid of jeopardizing the fragile connection you shared.

He had fallen for you, young and fierce, and unable to resist the pull towards you, your raw intensity, your incredible strength, your courage, your passion, the way you looked at him.

And in return, you had also fallen for him, his charm, his wit, his gentle nature, the way he understood you, the way he listened to you, the way he supported you, the way he saw you, the way he loved you.

"I don't what is going on here, but I don't like it," your father finally broke the silence,  bringing Cillian's attention back to the present moment.

Cillian looked at your father, his eyes filled with regret, with sorrow, his throat tightening as he tried to find words, tried to explain, tried to justify but there was no defense for what had happened.

"We should talk about this later," Cillian said at last, his voice low and heavy with emotion.

"Like I said before, I want you to stay away from my daughter ," your father repeated, his voice unyielding.

"I am sorry, but I can't do that now," Cillian replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

"What do you mean you can't do that now? You have no say in the matter," your mother retorted, her voice filled with disdain.

Cillian took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, trying to explain in a way that they would understand.

"I know I don't have a say in this, but I just promised Y/N that I would stay until she wakes up, so this is what I am going to do," Cillian said, admitting his feelings with a surprising courage he never knew he possessed.

Your mother's gaze narrowed, and she opened her mouth to argue but Cillian raised a hand to stop her.

"I know you don't like it, and I can understand why, but I won't leave her" he continued, his voice steady and unwavering. 

"Is this some kind of sick game to you?" your father demanded to know, his voice heavy with anger, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but Cillian shook his head just as, finally, Lucy stepped into the room as well after having overheard some of the conversation.

"They have been seeing each other for a while now," your friend bluntly put out there, relieving Cillian from having to explain the situation while, simultaneously, surprising your mother and father with this revelation. 

They both knew that Cillian was married and twice your age, putting him into a completely different category and dimension from everyone you had ever dated.

With Lucy entering the room, everyone grew quiet, anticipating an explanation and they all turned to Lucy as she meticulously picked out her words, trying not to upset neither your parents nor Cillian.

"They have been keeping it secret, for obvious reasons but none of this should matter now. What matters is that Y/N needs him here ," Lucy said, her gaze unwavering as she met your father's accusing stare. He was fuming with anger, his face turning a shade of red with hardly contained rage, while your mother seemed to enter a state of shock, unspeaking and voiceless as she was staring blankly, distorting the atmosphere surrounding them. 

"But he is married. Y/N used to date his son," your mother stammered, fighting to make sense of this new information.

"I am getting a divorce," Cillian admitted honestly as both of your parents stared at him in disbelief. It was a lot to take in, especially considering the current circumstances, and their minds were racing with a whirlwind of questions and fears.

"I don't even know what to say," your mother murmured, shaking her head in a mixture of astonishment and disappointment while your father's gaze was penetrating, assessing the situation before him, yet unwilling to believe the gravity of his actions and what was transpiring in front of them.  The shocked silence stretched on, an unspoken accusation hanging in the air between them, so heavy that it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on all of them.

Cillian swallowed, preparing himself for the impact of his words. "I love her," he said simply, confidence and conviction permeating his voice.

Your mother gasped and looked away, tears brimming in her eyes, while your father's face twisted in disgust.

"I am not going to approve of this," your father said, his voice low and filled with anger. "You are a man twice her age who isn't even divorced yet. So, shame on you," your father snapped, causing Cillian to sigh. 

"Well, I am not asking for your approval," Cillian replied, holding his ground while your father reached for his coat. "Y/N is capable of making her own decisions," he told your father who became more and more irritated by the second. 

"I need some fresh air," your father muttered, placing his hand on your mother's elbow, guiding her towards the door.

"We will be back later, to check up on Y/N," he added, his voice tense and tight.

Your mother nodded weakly, still in a state of shock, and allowed herself to be led out of the room, her mind swirling with a whirlwind of fear, confusion and disbelief.

Cillian watched them leave, feeling a pang of sympathy and guilt in his chest, but also a sense of determination. He knew that he had crossed a line, stepping into forbidden territory, but he couldn't help the way he felt and now you needed him, more than ever. 

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@heidimoreton @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter @smailaway @sophiaaguirred

#cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy fic

[yuquinzel]

MIDNIGHT HAZE — rin itoshi.

— notes ⨾ ive been shying away from posting this for too long now. [ sensual/making out ] and heavy on the details hahahs

Rin takes note of the way you're shrinking in your seat beside him, how your arms are protectively tucked in your sides and the subtle but sharp inhales.

from his peripheral vision, he can see that you're gnawing on your bottom lip, gulping hard to swallow your sniffles because he knows you don't like to be seen crying. which is why he's not sure why he's in his living room with you beside him at 2 am watching some sappy sad movie you picked. it's been an hour already since you started your movie marathon and he could've suggested you watch a horror movie instead— but he didn't, and he thinks he regrets it now.

He sighs, pausing the movie and reaching for the box of tissues he's glad he set on the table just in case. he offers it to you, smiling a little to himself when you hesitantly take it, as if you're still not ready to accept you're crying.

“you're such a crybaby” he says. by now a few tears are falling down your cheeks, leaving a damp trail behind in their wake.

“shut up, I'm not. i don't cry often, i swear”, you whimper with the wobble of your lip, and rin laughs. it's the irony of this scenario that swells his heart. you're looking at him with narrow, glassy eyes and warm hues setting on your skin. your words are meant to be firm and legitimate, but you're voice is hushed and low.

“okay, crybaby” he teases, and you pout.

his room glows in a faded shade of honey with the paper lamp you bought him as a housewarming gift. there's nothing but the sound of his steady breathing, and your quivering one. a touch of the scent of lemongrass from the air freshener lingers in the air and rin realises he's been staring at you.

there's still a dampness sticking to your cheeks and rin wants —such a treacherous thing to do— to trace his finger along the trails. feel the smoothness and warmth of your skin. when you realise he's looking at you, embarassment blooms in shades of fuchsia, “stop staring at me like that.”

rin hums. he heard you, doesn't think much about it. and before he realises what he's doing, he's caressing the side of your face. it's a ghost of a touch at first, “staring like what?”

“like you're doing right now” you breath hitches in your throat at the tenderness of rin's caress. momentarily closing your eyes, you lean into his touch. his gaze devours you whole, it makes you want to shrink further into the couch, but at the same time— daring you to wait and see where it takes you.

when all you can hear is the loud thumps of your own heart, watching the steady rise and fall of rin's shoulders as he's gazing through the soul window of your eyes, you're painfully aware that the two of you are alone.

“can't help it,” he mumbles. “god, you're beautiful” he says.

the faint glow of moonlight strips lines of silver across the room, and rin's bathed in luminescence. you can't help but trace the sharp white cut of his collarbone and the flutter of his eyelashes, over the broad expanse of his chest and the slopes of shoulders down to the ridges of hard muscle roping the length of his forearm. you take in his light. he takes in yours.

there are too many details. too much to breathe in yet not enough at the same time. a drug-like midnight haze encompasses the room, the air in the room is electrified and frozen still. rin's fingers travel down from your cheekbones to the corner of your mouth, then brush lightly against your chin.

you can't think. can't say anything. it's like your voice is caught in your own throat. all you feel is the heaviness of the air and the brushes of rin's fingers across your skin. mind blurring with the lines of a countless ‘what ifs’ and moments you've felt the same heaviness in the air, times when the glances you steal from each other lasted longer than they should've.

you swipe your tongue across your bottom lip, and rin's eyes follow the action. his gaze rests there and your falls to his.

there's a momentary pause, as if you're caught in a trance. as if there's hesitation and doubts filling the spaces left behind your words. rin's eyes are still set on your slightly parted lips.

and then it breaks.

you feel it in the form of a shiver running down your spine when the lightning in the room reaches a breaking point, you think rin feels it too. there's a shift in his shoulders when he leans forward at the very second time melts into infinity— a magnetic pull drawing you both in.

rin's other hand supports his weight when he practically crawls on all fours and rolls forward on the leg tucked beneath him.

his lips surround yours— desperate, heated, almost obscene. it's nowhere near the gentle caress from before. teeth nipping and tugging at your bottom lip, long and languid glides of tongue against tongue. he breathes in all of your gasps and mewls, chasing after your breaths to consume you whole like he's waited forever for this very moment. breaths tangle in heated knots of passion, you're holding onto rin's arms, aware that your hands are almost shaking. this is not your first kiss. you've kissed people before. but it's your first kiss with rin and he's made you forget there was anyone ever before him.

you pull away first, breathless and hot. it's addictive— the way rin's lips chase after yours, eyes fluttering open when he can't find them. but he's still close. so, so close. forehead resting on yours and hot breaths fanning against your mouth.

his eyes are brimming with awe and glimmer, but lips swollen and sinful. the contrast is striking— awestruck eyes and moon-bruised lips.

rin falls back into the couch, calming his staggered breaths and throbbing heart.

it takes a long minute before either of you speak again.

“do you regret it?” it's a whisper that's almost raw with desperation and fear. rin's eyes are glued to you again, waiting for an answer.

“i don't. i'd never regret it. do you?” though still breathless, your voice is bold.

“regret?—” he chuckles, as if you asked a dumb question, “—you have no idea, how long I've wanted this. wanted you.” it's a declaration— of all his unconfessed feelings, all the times he'd stopped himself just short of the breaking point. “i feel like i'm about to lose my mind.”

“me too”, is all you can say. it's all you can think.

and if rin senses that, then he smiles, “why don't we try that again?”

© yuquinzel2023 [ plagiarism is a violation of moral rights ! ]

i hope this is what you wanted m'lady @rinnahhhh

#❛ ‧˚🪐 — the dusk renditions. #rin itoshi #itoshi rin #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi x you #rin itoshi x y/n #itoshi rin x you #blue lock #blue lock x reader #blue lock x you #blue lock x y/n #itoshi rin x y/n #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk x you #rin x reader #rin x you #blue lock itoshi rin #itoshi rin drabble

[ffion451]

Love Me Again | a kth oneshot (m)

Summary: Should a promise get in the way of the only love you’ve ever truly known?

Pairing: Taehyung x fem!reader | Also featuring: PJM, KNJ, JHS, MYG | Genre: non idol au, angst, smut (see warnings below)

Warnings: 🔞 SMUT (m/f inc.unprotected sex) lots of swearing/cursing, minor reference to serious illness |Rating: M ⚠️🔞 Adults only - minors should steer clear of the whole thing🔞⚠️ (all mature content under the cut)

Word count: 14.5K

Note: 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐-𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚁𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝙳𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝙼𝚎 𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗! 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 ʟᴀʏᴏ(ꪜ)ᴇʀ 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚜, 𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 💛

Unlike the balmy heat of high summer nights, the dying days of summer carry cool breezes through the darkness. The chill that snakes through Taehyung’s room kisses the sweat on his skin, causing him to shudder.

You laugh, a low chuckle, as the sensation moves through your body, your hair brushing his face as he kisses your throat. 

“Taehyung,” you moan, throwing back your head as you sit in his lap, riding him with agonising slowness as he clings to you desperately, his teeth teasing your nipple. He tries to buck up into you, needing to come.

“Behave,” you warn, pushing him onto his back so you can ride him faster, clenching around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he moans, his heart swelling at your broad smile of satisfaction, “I love you so fucking much…”

⊛ ⊛ ⊛

The next morning, his alarm wakes him insistently. He stretches his arm out, but he doesn’t need the coolness of the sheets to tell him he’s alone. He drags his sleep-heavy body from his empty bed, stumbling to his shower in the suffocating silence of his apartment.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

Mist rises in hazy, shimmering layers, diffusing into the early morning blue. The dew lifted gently from the manicured and too-green fairway by the insistent morning sun. Hyejin shields her eyes from the glare as she looks across the green. Her boyfriend’s friends are scattered about, swinging their clubs absent-mindedly as they chat enthusiastically in the early morning light.

“Why are we playing golf if nearly everyone is terrible at it?” she asks her boyfriend under her breath.

Smiling, Namjoon leans in, “Because we promised Taehyung we would,” he whispers, “And we’re hoping it might lift him out of the rut he’s been in.”

As he speaks, Hyejin looks over at Taehyung, he’s gnawing at his bottom lip as watches Yoongi gamely trying to correct your terrible swing.

“He doesn’t look like he’s enjoying himself,” she says, thinking aloud. Namjoon only grunts in agreement and so she continues in a quiet, confidential tone, “Y’know, this is the first time I’ve seen those two together,” she says, gesturing between you and Taehyung.

“That’s a conversation for later,” Namjoon whispers urgently as Jimin approaches, suspicion written over his face.

Hyejin nods, changing the subject in time for Jimin’s arrival, knowing how protective he is of Taehyung. Nonetheless, as the group work their way around the golf course, the gulf between you and Taehyung becomes more and more clear to her.

That evening, curled into Namjoon on Hobi’s couch, Hyejin takes the opportunity to return to the subject just as Jimin leaves to grab snacks from the nearby convenience store.

Namjoon and Hobi both listen carefully as she asks her questions: why is it that you and Taehyung are so rarely at the same events? Why is it, when you’re both so seemingly well-suited that you’re not friends? Did you used to date? Is your history the reason for the weird energy between you? Will you not be coming to Joon’s dinner party together as she’d assumed?

Namjoon and Hobi share a look of understanding, before Hobi responds, “It’s a strange situation. They used to be really close, but no they’ve never dated. It’s hard to go into the details, but it’s all to do with Taehyung’s ex -“

Jimin, with stealthy grace, reentered the apartment some time ago and chose to listen in instead of interrupting. He likes Hyejin but the way she looked between you and Taehyung on the golf course made him worry about her possible interference in the fraught situation between the two of you. Now he can stand by no longer, entering the room, “They would never work. They’re not meant to be, and pushing that agenda would be a massive mistake. Everyone involved would get hurt,” he says firmly, glaring at all three.

Hyejin flushes with embarrassment; Hobi notices, and seeks to ease the tension, “Don’t worry, it’s already been decided that Taehyung will come to the party with my sister, her husband has a conference that takes him overseas then.”

Hyejin is silenced as the conversation moves on; she doesn’t know why but it feels like somehow the scales of sympathy in this situation are tipped in Taehyung’s favour and she doesn’t understand why. Yes, she likes Taehyung, but she likes you too and cannot understand how you could ever have done anything to annoy Taehyung or to make him not like you. She thinks of you, alone at the party, and her heart goes out to you. 

Matchmaking you and Taehyung may be a bad idea, but Hyejin is a resourceful woman and her mind is already moving onto Plan B.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

Hyejin smiles graciously around her guests as she returns from the kitchen with another two bottles of champagne; everyone has been well fed and Namjoon’s friends sit about the apartment in comfortable groups laughing and chatting. She catches Namjoon’s eye, he’s deep in conversation with Jimin and Hobi and he throws her a glowing smile. They’ve only even together a few months but it’s quickly grown serious, the two of them looking for the same commitment and she’s feels accepted by this group of his friends, as he is by hers. That thought in mind, her eyes seek out her friend Hyungsik, but his attention is occupied. She’s pleased to see Hyungsik sitting so closely to you, in chairs opposite each other, your knee resting against his as he leans towards you to be closer, his gaze and attention rapt. She had been confident that setting the two of you up would be a success and she’s thrilled that she was right to be.

Noticing your empty glasses she approaches, “More champagne?” she asks.

Hyungsik nods but you cover the mouth of your glass, “No more for me, thanks. I have a early start on things tomorrow and I’m feeling a little bit lightheaded.”

“Are you sure that’s not just Hyungsik?” she teases.

Both of you blush sweetly. Making insincere apologies, she moves on toward a group standing at the wall. They’re all laughing about something, except Taehyung, who seems to be trying to burn a hole through the back of Hyungsik’s head.

Blocking his laser-gaze, Hyejin offers him a top up and is surprised to see him accept it and down it in one gulp. Filling his glass again, she asks him if he’s ok, and only receives a gruff reply as he excuses himself to the kitchen.

The tone of their conversation clearly caught your attention, and with a smile you excuse yourself from Hyungsik, following Taehyung to the kitchen. All eyes turn to the scene and Hyejin notices Namjoon lay a hand on Jimin’s arm to stop him following. Spying Hyungsik’s look of confusion, Hyejin takes your seat and quickly distracts him explaining the apparent bad blood between you and Taehyung as she understands it..

You enter the kitchen to be greeted by Taehyung’s back as he stares out the window pointlessly; all there is to be scene against the darkness of the night is the reflection of the room behind him. You hear him audibly sigh as he watches your reflection enter.

“Taehyung…” you begin, unsure of what to say now that your here. You followed him on instinct, years of friendship and being attuned to his feelings and moods compelling you to follow him.

He doesn’t turn, “Yeah?” he replies, the one syllable coloured with boredom.

“What’s going on?” you ask bluntly, “You and I used to be so close. I know you’ve made it clear that you don’t want that anymore… I’m really am trying to respect your feelings, but I don’t understand what I’ve done and I want to.”

He turns to face you, “We just don’t hang out as much,” he says flatly, “There’s nothing more to it than that.”

You take in his heavy-lidded disinterested gaze and downturned mouth, “Taehyung, it’s more than that. We used to do everything together and now you barely speak to me. When you look at me, like now, it’s like you can’t wait to get away from me. Did I do something wrong? If I did, please tell me. I just want to fix it - I want to be friends again.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong. We’re still friends,” is all the reply he makes, rolling his eyes slightly.

You grit your teeth as annoyance begins to build in you, and you gesture from you to him, “This here is not what I’d call friendship, Taehyung. This has been going on for nearly a year now. Ever since you broke up with Hana you’ve been like this - things have been weird since she left. You never even told me what happened with you two… If I haven’t done anything wrong then why won’t you open up to me? Please let me in, maybe I can help? I can see you’re not happy, Tae.”

He rolls his eyes more obviously this time, “I’m not unhappy,” he lies, “Look, when Hana and I broke up I had to reevaluate a lot of things and I realised I wasn’t very happy about our friendship, I was too dependent on you and so I decided to give us more space. It’s that simple.”

You frown a little and can’t help but cock your head in confusion, “I wish you’d spoken to me first - I’ve never thought that. It meant a lot to me that you trusted me and my opinion- “

“It wasn’t just that,” Taehyung interrupts, “You were too dependent on me too. Sometimes I just found it a bit suffocating. Like I said, I need space. I need to be able to breathe.”

You can’t control the tremble of your lower lip as his words hit home.  Your eyes fill as Taehyung makes an awkward face and he seems to have a funny sort of spasm, like he intends to comfort you but decides that it’s better not to.

“I understand,” you say, you voice small, any irritation in you diminished, “I didn’t realise that was how things were. I wish you’d said something sooner. I’m sorry that I made you feel like that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says more kindly, “I think it’s better like it is now.”

Your eyes meet, his are uncomfortable, yours are pained. You make an odd kind of gesture behind you as though you’re gesturing to an invisible force beckoning you from the room; your body feels strange, and slightly out of your control, “Well, yeah,” you stutter awkwardly as the need to cry begins to overwhelm you. You feel horribly embarrassed and barely recognise the man in front of you as the Taehyung you’ve known for years, “Sorry to have bothered you - I best get back…” you say, as though speaking to a stranger. Your voice catches slightly on the last syllable as you turn from the room on numb legs, heading away from your friends and to the solitude of the bathroom instead.

Moments later, Jimin joins him in the kitchen, his face tight, as Hobi moves through the hallway in pursuit of you, concern etched over his kind face.

Hyejin watches Taehyung return to the main room long after Hobi brought you back in, he looks pale, his jaw tense. He’s quick to look away from Hobi who glares across the room at him like he could skin him alive, though Taehyung doesn’t miss the damp patch on Hobi’s shoulder and the slight smudge of mascara against the grey fabric. 

Taehyung’s eyes seek you out; and he finds you chatting with with Hyungsik, the taller man towering over you. He’s unnecessarily tall, Taehyung thinks spitefully, Too tall for you. Though you’re smiling, he knows it’s false, he knows you too well not to recognise it: your weak smile doesn’t reach your noticeably puffy eyes. You seem to be agreeing to something Hyungsik’s suggesting before you and he separate; you head towards Namjoon, while Hyungsik approaches Hyejin, who is close enough to Taehyung for him to be able to hear every word.

“Hey, thanks for a lovely evening,” Hyungsik smiles, reminding her of your early start in the morning, “So we’re going to head off. I’ll take her home and make sure she’s ok, don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” Hyejin smiles, touching his arm, “I hope you two had a nice evening together?”

He beams in response, “We’ve only known each other a little while,” he smiles, “But I am definitely glad you introduced us. You were right, we really do get along -“

So, Hyejin set you two up, Taehyung realises, How patronising of her, you don’t need her help to find someone, especially this lanky, too-smiley guy. It’s the first time he’s felt or thought anything negative towards Hyejin, and he feels momentarily embarrassed. Both his thoughts and Hyungsik’s explanation are interrupted by your approach. You thank Hyejin, are generous in your praise for her cooking and the evening. Then, taking Hyungsik’s arm, you offer a quick goodbye to those around, skimming over Taehyung with the smallest of nods, and you leave with your new friend.

Hyejin can’t help but look at Taehyung, his face stoney and impassive, giving away no emotion. He’s a good actor, she admits, But his performance isn’t perfect… noticing his white knuckles as he strangles the stem of his glass.

Later, when everyone has left, Hobi, who has stayed to help clear up, spills everything to Hyejin. He’s seen her concern for you, her well-intentioned interference between you and Taehyung. He judges it wisest to tell her the truth that Taehyung won’t even tell you before her well-meaning but ultimately disastrous interventions make everything worse.

He explains that, as Namjoon earlier confirmed, it all began with Taehyung’s ex, Hana. Their relationship had always been volatile and before they broke up they had been having serious problems for a while, largely focused around his friendship with you and her suspicion of it. They were on the verge of breaking up when she fell ill, seriously ill. 

Hobi explains the whole situation, “So you see, when she realised that she wouldn’t get better she didn’t want to stay here, but wanted to return to her family. She wanted Taehyung’s last memories of her not to be so sad, so they called it a day.”

Hyejin nods, “That’s awful, poor girl. Poor Tae….” she sympathises, “But how has that ruined his friendship?”

Hobi purses his lips, unsure if he should go on, “Well, you see, she knew that Taehyung would be her last relationship and even though it was ending, she said she wanted it to have meaning. She asked him to make her a promise, not to let the person who came between them be the ending to their story.”

Hyejin nods, “She asked him to end his friendship?”

Hobi squints a little, “Not exactly, she asked him not to get together with her.”

Hyejin frowns, “So why has he cut her out completely?”

Hobi thinks for a moment, “Taehyung and I have never had an honest conversation about this so I can only speculate, but I think Hana was on to something. Their friendship was close and even though nothing was going on, anyone with eyes could tell there were feelings there on both sides. I think when Hana asked that, Taehyung realised what his feelings were. I’m not sure if it was the promise, or guilt, or confusion, but when Hana left that’s when he started to freeze her out until they got to where they’re at now.”

“That’s so sad,” Hyejin says, shaking her head, “So that’s it? There’s no hope for them? How is Hana now?”

Hobi scratches his neck, “Nobody knows, she blocked and ghosted him when she left. The rest of us barely knew her, she never really hung out with us. I think what she asked of him was wrong, but given her situation I don’t want to judge her.”

Hyejin nods, “No, me either,” she admits, chewing her lip, “Jeez, what a mess.”

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

An ocean of clouds, stretching to the horizon, drifts beneath Taehyung; the plastic that was so soothingly cool minutes ago, now presses, painful and warm, against his head. Reluctantly he tears his eyes from the small frame of the world below and leans his head back into the soft cushion of his head rest, closing his eyes with a heavy breath.

“Are you ok?” Jimin asks softly beside him.

“Hmm,” Taehyung hums, “Just thinking.”

“About Hana?” Jimin prompts. Yes, thinks Taehyung, He was thinking of Hana for a moment, but then of you. When isn’t he thinking of you nowadays? When Taehyung doesn’t reply, Jimin presses him, “Will you look her up?”

Taehyung opens his eyes and rolls his head to meet Jimin’s concerned face, “No, I don’t think so. I don’t know yet. I don’t even know where on Jeju she lives. I don’t think she’d want to see me, especially if she’s really ill. I wouldn’t want to upset her.”

Across the aisle and down a row or two, Hyungsik’s gentle laugh drifts back, “How do you feel about him being here this weekend?”

Taehyung shrugs, “It is what it is. Keeps her busy, I suppose.”

Jimin nods, “Makes things easier.”

Taehyung nods while his heart seems to constrict: It doesn’t make anything easier, not really, he thinks, all it is is another blow to his already bruised heart.

When the plane has landed, he’s glad to find that he doesn’t need to share a taxi to the villa that has been booked out for Hobi’s birthday with you. When the fleet of taxis arrive to nobody’s real surprise, workaholic Yoongi has already arrived and brought his dedicated assistant with him, which throws the rooming plans into disarray. Taehyung is relieved to find he keeps his single room, whilst you, ever magnanimous, agree to share the double with Yoongi’s assistant whilst Hyungsik shares the twin with Yoongi. The poor girl initially protests that she doesn’t mind sharing the twin with her boss, but you know her boyfriend won’t appreciate it, and it’s likely that Yoongi will wake her in the small hours of the morning with work ideas. Taehyung’s careful to keep his expression neutral, disguising the momentary happiness he feels at you and Hyungsik being separated.

After unpacking, you all settle into the villa. It’s been weeks since Taehyung’s seen you and he wonders how you’ll respond to him. It doesn’t take him long to find out. In the kitchen he finds you stacking the fridge, trying to be helpful he picks up the last few items on the counter top to pass to you. Sensing someone behind you, you turn and face him; he finds that the chill from the open fridge has nothing on that emanating from you.

“Thanks,” you offer tersely, taking the items from him and turning your back on him. He hovers for a moment, and without turning again you dismiss him, “I’ve got this, you can get on with whatever you were doing.”

Taehyung is surprised, you’ve never been like this with him. In fact, he’s never seen you like this with anyone, you’re always so polite, even to people you can’t stand, but now your tone of voice cuts like jagged glass. He says your name gently, persuasively, “Can’t we be civil? For Hobi’s sake?”

Finished with the fridge and out of excuses, you turn to look at him, “This is me being civil, Taehyung,” you say levelly, “We’re not friends, why should I be friendly with you?”

“Maybe I went too far that night,” he admits, “I get that you’re pissed at me, but this is for Hobi, can’t we get along?”

“Apologise.”

“Sorry?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“That’s a question, not an apology,” you state patiently, “If you want to play nicely this week then you should apologise for how rude you were to me. I’m sorry that my friendship was so hard to bear, but I know I was a good friend to you for fucking years Taehyung, despite what you might think now. And how did you repay the years where you actually valued my friendship before it became a burden to you? Did you have an honest conversation with me? No! Instead, you ghosted me like some kind of sad, clingy girlfriend and then tried to gaslight me about it. I deserved, I deserve , more respect than that.”

Taehyung watches as you take a deep breath, clearly relieved at having unburdened yourself. He knows what you’re like, knows you must have rehearsed this moment nervously, preparing to confront him. He can see the nervous energy pumping through you. He wants to tell you that he’s proud of you for standing up for yourself, but he knows you don’t want to hear that from him of all people so he’s silent for a moment, while you relax after the surge of adrenaline.

“I’m sorry,” he affirms honestly, “I behaved badly and -”

“Thank you,” you interrupt, “Let’s be civil then,” you leave without looking at him again and his heart aches. Outside the kitchen, you pass Hyungsik, who turns to follow you, winking his approval to you after being the audience for the rehearsals of your speech.

Later in the evening, Taehyung is clearing the dishes after dinner with Yoongi, and he can’t stop himself bringing you up. You and Hyungsik missed dinner, maybe Yoongi, sharing a room with your boyfriend, will have answers. Taehyung burns to know; somehow your absence is more painful than your presence.

“I dunno,” Yoongi shrugs, “They were going for a walk, maybe they decided to eat out? Maybe they just want some private time together because they can’t share a room? You know the early stages of relationships…” he suggests sensibly.

The turmoil within Taehyung is anything but sensible, “I guess,” he mutters though it feels like the words choke him.

“Hmm,” nods Yoongi. For long moments, nothing is said as they wash, dry and sort dishes. Eventually, as they finish up, Yoongi lowers his voice, “Look, Tae, if you ever want to talk about whatever has happened, you can talk to me.”

Taehyung is confused, “What do you mean?” he asks, laughing to dispel his unease.

Yoongi’s face is poker straight, “I’m not an idiot, Tae. I can tell how jealous you are of Hyungsik and I’ve suspected for a long time how you feel about her. I’m not going to say anything to anyone, but if you want to talk, you know where to find me,” with a firm clap to Taehyung’s shoulder, he leaves a stricken Taehyung in his wake.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

Hyejin directs her face to the cloudless sky, bathing in the warmth of the sun. Beside her, you stretch your cramped legs, “It’s taking him a long time - do you think I should help him?” you offer.

“I’ll go,” Hyungsik and Namjoon offer simultaneously, but Hyungsik is already climbing out of the back of the Jeep, “Oh wait, here he comes,” he says, sounding confused.

An ashen Hobi clambers behind the steering wheel, saying nothing.

“Where are the ice creams?” Namjoon asks, “Is everything ok?”

“We have to go back to the villa, I need to talk to Taehyung,” is all he can offer. He glances at you as he looks back over his shoulder to reverse out, offering an explanation that silences everyone, “Hana’s here.”

You feel instantly sick.

When you arrive back, Hobi disappears with Jimin into Tae’s room and a hushed, uncomfortable quiet descends over the villa until Taehyung emerges, the keys to the jeep clutched in his fist before he hares off in the direction of the town.

After long hours, when everyone else is in bed, Jimin heads out with Hobi to look for Taehyung. They’ve not been gone long when he returns, and stalks past you and Hyungsik, the two of you cuddled under a blanket on the veranda.

“Go and talk to him,” Hyungsik encourages, “I know you’re worried about him and I think he might need a friend.”

“We’re not friends,” you argue, “I doubt he wants to see me.”

“I think he needs you,” Hyungsik insists, “We wouldn’t still be on this veranda in the cold waiting for him to get back if you didn’t care,” he reasons sensibly. You take  a moment to think; ever since you arrived you’ve felt on edge. It’s not just your crossed words with Taehyung previously, it’s that, after all this time, you’re still weak for him. Seeing him at the airport in his loose sleeveless tee and ripped jeans, all insouciant cool with his tousled blond hair, you found it hard to keep your eyes off him; you hate that he has that effect on you. Nonetheless, your crush to one side, and your argument, you cannot deny the years of friendship that all to you. Your love for Taehyung is settled deep within your bones, an undeniable part of yourself written into your very marrow. You can’t let him suffer alone. With a huff, you reluctantly trail Taehyung to his room.

His bedroom door is ajar, and his face is drawn and agonised as he paces aimlessly. You hover in the doorway for a moment, unsure of what to say, “Taehyung, is there anything I can do?”

He looks at you for a long moment, his eyes a tempest of warring emotions. Then, without a word he reaches for the door, catching the edge in his fingertips, and slams it in your face, the wood missing your face by mere centimetres. You yelp in shock and begin to cry instinctively, staggering backwards. Hyungsik is quick to rush to you, guiding you away and back to the veranda.

“Let’s take a walk,” he suggests gently, “Don’t cry, it’s ok… Let’s go to the beach, yeah?”

Behind his shut door, Taehyung listens as silent tears track down his cheeks.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

The next day, Taehyung’s door remains locked. When lunchtime comes and goes, Jimin decides he’s had enough, grabbing the keys and heading to the ice cream parlour for himself. 

He strides into the parlour, prepared for anything and there she is: Kwon Hana, the architect of Taehyung’s unhappiness. She is smiling brightly behind the counter in her neat pink uniform, her cheeks rosy, the picture of good health.

Her bright smile only falls when she recognises Jimin, “Great, now you too,” she complains, “Meet me outside, I’m on my break in 15.”

When she emerges, he’s tempted to squash the ice cream she brings him all across her white apron, but he restrains himself. He doesn’t thank her, instead intoning sarcastically, “I see you’ve had a miraculous recovery, Hana…”

With a roll of her eyes she admits everything. She’s petulant and largely unapologetic, “I’ve already had this conversation with Taehyung, Jimin,” she complains, “Yeah, it was wrong to lie, blah blah blah, but it’s done now.”

He pushes her and she capitulates, telling the whole story of her break up with Taehyung: she had known that her and Taehyung were on the rocks, she just wanted to get away, to return home to her family and so, upset and jealous, she lied. She couldn’t bear the thought that with her out of the picture, Taehyung would obviously find his way to the arms of his friend, the one he was so clearly hung up on. Spitefully, she blames you and Taehyung, arguing that you two were so obvious and made her feel terrible and jealous - was it so bad to want revenge?

Disgusted, Jimin discards his melting ice cream, shaking the drips from his hand, “You are an awful person,” he states, shocked that she could be so cruel. Shaking his head despairingly, he heads back to the villa to talk to Taehyung.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

The villa is empty, a peaceful silence laying over it: everyone is at the beach or out somewhere doing something else. Taehyung doesn’t care, he’s grateful to be left alone. He lies in bed, the sheet pulled over his head as he mulls over everything that happened yesterday.

He ignores the soft knocks at his door, even when the door opens and closes gently before someone slips inside. He says nothing as the sheet is lifted and a warm body slides into the bed, spooning against his back, a hand creeping across the bare skin of his chest to rest on his heart.

Warm lips press into his shoulder, “Taehyung, everything is going to be ok,” you whisper.

He turns then, pulling you closer to him, his hungry mouth finding yours. He groans when he finds you responsive, pulling him closer. His hands yank at your clothes, desperate to feel your bare skin against his. He thrusts his thigh between yours and you grind on it, gasping with pleasure into his mouth. Smiling, he bites at your lip before a harder knock at the door pulls his attention.

“Shhh,” you whisper, giggling into his mouth, “Just ignore it, I need you, Tae…” Taehyung smiles back at you, closing his eyes and kissing you deeply.

Another insistent knock comes, then the door opens. Taehyung’s eyes fly open as the sheet is pulled from over his head, “Taehyung, wake up!” Jimin almost shouts.

Taehyung groans and rolls onto his back, careful to pull the sheet into a protective ball over his crotch, concealing his throbbing erection.

Jimin, who wasn’t born yesterday, smirks, “Oh, did I interrupt a good dream? Sorry…”

Taehyung flushes, “Don’t worry,” he mutters. He means it; the dream is not a rare one. Over the years of your friendship, he’s lost count of all the different ways you and he have fucked in his sleeping mind. The wet dreams he can handle, what destroys him though is the grief of waking: in all his dreams the two of you aren’t just fucking, you are in love, and the absence of that when he joins the conscious world is a heavy blow to his heart.

“Time to get up,” Jimin insists, “We need to talk about Hana, I’ve just come from seeing her. She told me what she told you, or so she says. Are you ok?”

“Everything’s fucked,” Taehyung sighs, sitting up and burying his head in his hands, as he recounts pretty much the same conversation Jimin had with her. Stretching uncomfortably, Taehyung admits he really needs to talk to you, but doesn’t know what to say.

“After you slammed a door in her face?” Jimin asks. When Taehyung looks confused, Jimin shrugs, “Hyungsik told me last night.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung admits, “I have to apologise for that, but that’s easier than the rest of what I have to say. Y’know, when I’d spoken to Hana, I sat in the car park processing it and couldn’t stop staring at this little furniture store down the road. Then I started crying and I couldn’t stop.”

Jimin sits on the edge of the bed and smiles sympathetically, “Was it the furniture or Hana that upset you more?”

Taehyung laughs, “Neither,” he explains before elaborating. He tells Jimin about a time that you, Yoongi and he went to a furniture store with Namjoon to help him find a new desk. Taehyung explains that it was years ago, when he was really poor and hungry in search of a job. You must have noticed his sad gaze as he watched Yoongi finish snacks in the car, or his rumbling stomach. Either way, when you all arrived, you made a big fuss about needing to use a bathroom, explaining that you were getting your period. Taehyung knew it was a lie, because you’d had it the week before, you’d watched movies all weekend together with a hot water bottle… 

He goes on to explain that you insisted the convenience store opposite the furniture store didn’t look safe and asked Taehyung to come with you. Uncomfortable with the period talk, Yoongi and Namjoon decided to start browsing without you whilst Taehyung followed you. When he got into the store, you made up some excuse about needing to spend a certain amount before they’d let you use the toilet, so you’d bought him his favourite ramyeon and snacks.

“The thing was,” Taehyung says, his voice catching a little, “There were so many ways to feed me, but she chose the one that made it seem like she owed me something, as though she was repaying me for a favour. She knew I’d be embarrassed and concocted this clever plan. She always did things like that, always looked out for me…” he trails off.

Jimin smiles gently, “You guys were really good friends, I know. Maybe now that the Hana curse is lifted you can be her friend again without feeling guilty?” 

Taehyung shakes his head sadly, “That’s not it,” he explains, his lower lip trembling slightly, “I was single back then, she’d just started dating some guy she worked with, but even then I knew . She did that for me, and I made sure she knew that I was grateful but I was still a coward - I should have just told her then.”

“Told her what?” Jimin asks, nonplussed.

Taehyung, fraught with emotion, doesn’t really process Jimin’s words, instead his thoughts continue to spill freely from his lips, “How do I explain myself now, though? What do I say? ‘Hey, I know you’ve got Hyungsik who you obviously are really happy with, but I love you more than life itself and thought maybe you’d chuck it all in for me even though I couldn’t ever sacrifice anything for you?’ Yeah…” he scoffs, “Can’t see her buying that…”

Jimin stares at him, mouth open.

“What?” Taehyung asks, confused.

“ What?! ” Jimin shrieks, repeating Taehyung’s question in a strangled, squeaky voice, causing Taehyung to flinch. Clearing his throat, Jimin continues, “You love her? What? I thought Hana was upset with you because you had a bit of a crush on her, I know there was always a tension between you two, but I didn’t know that you’d been pining over her for years! You were really in love with her? All that time? You still are?”

Taehyung is the opposite of the unsettled Jimin. With the truth exposed, he feels calm and rational, “Of course I did and I still do,” he says calmly, “And now there are no more promises to keep, but how can I tell her? Hyungsik isn’t going anywhere, the lanky smug bastard.”

Jimin gapes at him, “Get dressed, we need to assemble and get this all out in the open.”

⊛ ⊛ ⊛

On the beach, Namjoon, Hyejin, Hobi, Yoongi and Jimin sit in a circle, waiting for Taehyung. When he arrives, exhausted and tense, Jimin unfolds the whole sorry tale from start to finish, ending with Taehyung’s dilemma.

Hyejin interrupts, “I think you have the wrong dilemma,” she explains, “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but can I be frank with you?”

Taehyung nods, “Go ahead.”

“The real dilemma should be how you come back from how you’ve treated her, not whether she is with someone else or not, which she isn’t anyway.”

Taehyung nods, “I know, I know I’ve got loads to make up for, wait -“ he pauses, eyes-widening, “What do you mean she’s not with anyone?”

Hyejin smiles, “She’s not with Hyungsik, never has been - they’re just friends. Can I be honest again?” Taehyung nods again, waving a hand permissively, “They never clicked romantically but they became friends really quickly, almost like there was this void in her life where a best friend had been…” she intones a little sarcastically.

“Ok, ok, ok,” Taehyung nods, “I get it…” 

Satisfied, Hyejin continues, “I’m not sure if they’re as close as you two once were, but they are really good friends. He’s good for her; she’s good for him. I was rooting for them. I hoped that their friendship might turn into something more.”

Taehyung groans, “I don’t know what to do,” he says, panicking, “I want her to be happy but I want to be the man who makes that happen, not him, no matter how nice he is…”

Hobi smiles gently, “Well, let’s take some time to figure it out. There’s lots of time.”

Taehyung is jittery in response, “I need to see her though. I have to apologise for last night. I need to see her! Where is she?”

Furtive looks pass around his friends, but it’s Namjoon who breaks the news, “She’s gone, Tae,” Taehyung sits stock still as he looks to him for further explanation. Namjoon elaborates, “After last night she realised something big had gone down between you and Hana and decided that it would be better if she wasn’t around. She might not know the truth, but she knew she was an issue for Hana, so she thought it best to go.”

“Where?” is all Taehyung can utter.

“They’ve gone to Busan - Hyungsik has family there and they wanted to continue their holiday so they’re going there instead,” Hyejin explains.

“On holiday with his family?” Taehyung asks, his voice unnaturally high, “Are you sure there’s nothing between them because it feels like visiting the family is a couple thing. A holiday with the family is the kind of time when people fall for each other - you see it all the time in stupid romantic movies!”

“Calm down, Taehyung,” Yoongi says calmly, “You’re spiralling.”

Hyejin speaks kindly, “Is that how you fell for her? On a holiday?”

Taehyung smiles despite himself, “No, that wasn’t it,” he admits.

“When was it then, Tae?” Yoongi prompts, “How long have you known?”

“I’ve always loved her,” he confesses, “I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love her, it’s been so long. It was never our time though, she was dating or I was, or we both were. Our timelines have never aligned.”

“Until now,” Yoongi suggests, “They do now .”

Taehyung grins, smiling beatifically and crying floods of tears at the same time, in an outpouring of years of repressed feeling. Beside him, Jimin pulls him into a hug, letting Taehyung cry it out as his friends encircle and support him.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

Taehyung’s phone feels heavy in his hand as he waits for you to reply to his apology and request to talk. When his phone eventually buzzes, he can barely bring himself to read it, raising his phone to unlock with trembling hands: 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 - 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘰𝘬. 𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵. 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬, 𝘐’𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘏𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘪𝘬’𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘥𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘞𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘩? 𝘈𝘭𝘴𝘰, 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘢, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘑𝘦𝘫𝘶!

He passes the phone silently to Jimin, who shows it to Hyejin, “Are you sure she’s just friends with Hyungsik?” Jimin asks nervously.

Taehyung is paying no attention, all he can think of is your devastated face that night in Namjoon’s kitchen when he told you that you suffocated him and his gut twists in shame. He fears that Hyejin was right earlier: his real dilemma is finding a way back after how he’s treated you.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

A woman with thin eyebrows and a line for a mouth flares her nostrils, a warning prequel to the snort of disapproval that follows. Taehyung doesn’t care, her judgement means nothing to him and it does nothing to stop the nervous tattoo that his long fingers beat against the Formica table.

Behind the counter, the elderly couple that run the little canteen (calling it a restaurant would be generous) shuffle about, clearly watching him and speculating about what would make such a fine young man so terribly nervous.

It’s taken weeks to get to this moment; ever since you all returned from holiday you’ve solidly avoided him, coming up with excuse after excuse why you can’t. Eventually, through the interference of your mutual friends, you have been cajoled into meeting him briefly at this little canteen. 

Suddenly, the old woman nudges her husband in the ribs as the young man suddenly stops, frozen in mid movement. It’s a strange thing, in his frozen state that he looks more alive than he did when he was thrumming with movement: his eyes sparkle as a wide, square smile lights up his face and squeezes his eyes closed in an expression of pure joy. They both turn their attention to the door where a woman, visibly nervous, moves towards him.The  elderly couple share a knowing look that simply says ‘young love.’

At Taehyung’s table, the conversation is stiff and awkward, he asks you about Hyungsik, baiting questions designed to make you confess that the two of you aren’t together, but they all fail, leaving him only a direct path.

“It’s a big stage meeting the boyfriend’s family,” he says gently, “I hope they treated you well.”

“It’s not like that between us,” you admit quietly, “His family were lovely though. They’re all like him - generous, kind, thoughtful people.”

Taehyung nods, “Oh, well as long as you’re happy. I thought that he seemed very interested in you.”

You hum thoughtfully, evading his prying questions. How do you tell Taehyung that Hyungsik quickly dismissed the idea of anything romantic happening between you two? That he told you early on that he had too much self-respect to be the back-up option to an unavailable man? You can’t say that, so you say nothing.

“May I ask about Hana?” you say tentatively and he flinches to hear the trepidation in your voice, your words edged with the memories of how he’s spoken to you each time she’s come up.

He frowns, “Hana never made me happy. I don’t want to go into why our ending was so complicated, but it was and it never should have been. I’ve wasted so much time because of her. She is a terrible person.”

You look at him in confusion, wondering where all this could be coming from. You’re surprised by how much he seems to dislike her until you remember how he’s spoken to you in the past. Is this how he’s spoken about you to others? Have he and Jimin sat together while he explains how needy and irritating he finds you? You feel sick at the thought. Collecting yourself, you swallow and force yourself to speak, “Well, I’m glad you’re able to move on now.”

Taehyung smiles, “I am,” he reaches for your hand, “I have a lot of things to put right too. You and I have a lot of things to talk about.”

Cold panic curls in your gut. There’s something in his eyes and the touch of his hand that suggests there’s more to his words. Hyungsik’s words drift through your mind and you realise you feel the same: you don’t want to be Taehyung’s second best, his leftover option.

“Well,” you say gently, sliding your hand from under his, “We don’t need to rush anything, our friendship will regrow naturally. I’m happy for you though, that you can start having fun again and dating. I hope you meet someone that makes you happier than she did.”

Waves of nausea roll over Taehyung as he realises what you’re saying. You are rejecting him, you may be doing so gently, but the meaning couldn’t be clearer. You don’t want him and you don’t want his friendship. His eyes fill as you make excuses about why you need to go, shrug on your coat as you say you’ll catch up soon. You wish him well and leave, in a hurried dervish of action. 

Heart throbbing in pain, he calls Jimin and recounts the disaster that has been his botched confession and your rejection, “You should have heard her breezing out of here cheerfully, like she didn’t just break my fuck-, break my heart,” he hisses, remembering where he is. When he hangs up, promising Jimin he’ll head straight over, his attention is called by the old woman, who tells him that you paid for his snacks and drink when you left, but maybe too much.

“My eyes aren’t what they used to be,” she says kindly, “Could you check these numbers?” Oddly, instead of passing him the receipt, she leads him around the counter and he does as she asks.

Confirming all is in order, he begins to move away but she holds his sleeve, her eyes flickering to the monitor beside the till several times, “Sometimes things are not what they seem,” she whispers.

Taehyung looks at the screen, his pulse racing as he turns to the old woman, “Where’s that alley?”

“Directly behind us, she didn’t make it far,” she replies, indicating at the CCTV of the rear alley where you lean against the wall, hand clutching your heart as you cry your eyes out, “Go on then, get after her!”

Taehyung nods, gathering his things and rushing out. Yet, as he turns the corner, he watches you emerge from the alley, slipping into a car that’s just pulled up. The door closes with a dull thunk before he can even say your name.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

Hobi, Namjoon and Yoongi meet at the entrance to Taehyung’s apartment, wondering together why they have been summoned with such desperation by Jimin, fearing Taehyung may have done something stupid.

Jimin answers the door with a grateful smile, “Thank God you’re here. He’s driving me absolutely crazy. Prepare yourselves.”

Over the next few hours they pour over the situation with you from every angle, each of them concluding something different. Namjoon thinks Taehyung should listen to you and let things grow naturally, letting love blossom again; Hobi thinks Taehyung should try again and confess everything, especially about Hana, certain that love will find a way; Jimin thinks Taehyung should let you go. It’s Yoongi who speaks last.

“I think there are two questions you need an answer to first before you can even choose the best thing to do,” he explains, whilst Taehyung listens, rapt, “Did she love you before and, if she did, does she still love you now?”

Taehyung swallows, “I don’t know the answer to either of those things.”

With the smallest clear of his throat, Hobi shuffles his feet awkwardly, “I know the answer to the first one,” he admits.

Taehyung looks at him with desperate eyes and Hobi recounts a moment with you.

“Ok, so one night we’d been out, all of us. You and Hana had been arguing in the club and we could all guess who it was about you know who… So she just wanted to get out of there, to stop things escalating and to remove the problem, I guess. She only ever thought of you, Tae, what you needed, what would make things easier for you…”

Tae’s eyes well up as he nods his understanding, pleading for Hobi to go on.

“So we decided to go eat noodles and then I’d walk her home. We didn’t talk about you very much, we drank a lot more outside the convenience store and we’re both quite drunk by the time we were getting to her house. Anyway, as she was unlocking her door she said that she felt bad for you and Hana and wished you two would be happier. I guess I must have looked a little surprised because she laughed and said, ‘I know you know, Hobi!’ I played dumb, but then she said it straight out, what was it she said? I think it was, ‘I know everyone probably knows how I feel about him. You don’t have to feel sorry for me, I realised years ago that it was never going to happen. It’s fine, I still want him to be happy though.’ It was something like that. I tried to talk to her about it, but she said that it had to remain an unspoken thing or your friendship would fall apart, so we agreed never to speak of it again, and we never have.”

A moment of silence falls over them before Jimin speaks, “I’d like to change my position - I agree with Namjoon now.”

Yoongi looks at Taehyung and sees the hope kindled in his eyes, ‘Actually, I’m with Hobi,” he asserts, “Talk to her, both of you should be totally honest with each other and take it from there.”

“I don’t think I can persuade her into meeting me again,” Taehyung admits.

Hobi smiles, “Don’t worry. I can set something up.”

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

“Ok, ok,” Hobi begins over the phone, “I called her and I know where she is right now.”

A short conversation follows, where Taehyung mostly reassures Hobi he’s doing the right thing by deceiving you and that it’s for the best. Taehyung thanks him and as soon as he hangs up he looks up the café where Hobi has said you are, having never heard of it. Despite his best intentions, since your disastrous meeting, you’ve been hard to find; the listing for the bookshop with a tiny café explains why; you’ve obviously taken to hanging out on the other side of the city. Taehyung wonders if maybe he should take a hint from that… Does it mean that you want to be far away from him? He concludes that, ultimately, it doesn’t matter. He can’t let go of you; if you want rid of him you’re going to have to tell him that to his face.

When he’s finally crossed the city, he follows the map on his phone with single-minded determination; he’s worried you won’t still be there by the time he arrives. How much time can anyone while away in such a place? Yet, as he climbs the rickety spiral staircase edged with books that the heavily burdened shelves can’t accommodate, he realises that you could easily spend hours here. Following the gentle aroma of sweet, spiced tea, he finds the small café at the back of the second floor; it looks over a park where the fanned leaves of ginkgo are now edged in gold.

You don’t notice his arrival, your head is pressed to the glass as you stare outside; your headphones are in and you are lost in thought. He crosses to you quietly and takes a seat, which you finally take notice of out of the corner of your eye. As you turn, he watches the emotions play out across your face; surprise, worry, panic.

With fumbling fingers you remove your headphones as he smiles, “Sorry for startling you,” he apologises as you drop your headphones, “I didn’t mean to make you flustered.”

You blush then, “I didn’t expect to see you-, see anyone, here,” you mumble, correcting yourself.

“Have I invaded your sanctuary?” he asks, half-teasingly, half-genuinely.

You smile weakly, “A little, but it’s ok. What are you doing here?” you ask, still too puzzled and flustered to notice how blunt you’re being.

He presses his lips together, “Ah, yes… I’m sorry, but I think I might fluster you again,” he apologises, noticing the look of panic flash across your eyes again, “I came here to find you because we have more to talk about and I want to know why, when I suggested that you and I needed to talk about us, that you shot me down without any hesitation.”

You stare at him, open-mouthed at his bold statement. You have no idea how to deal with his frankness without being honest yourself, so you try to take a gamble, “I didn’t understand where it could be leading, the words you were using sounded…” you trail off as your courage fails you, trying to avoid saying what you mean.

“Where I was leading?” he repeats, “Ah, saying we need to talk about ‘us’ sounded like I meant something more than friends? Like I meant something romantic?” he prompts, wanting to help you out and desperate to lead the conversation to where he wants it to go.

“Well, yes,” you say awkwardly, looking into your lap, “And I know that’s not what you meant at all.”

He waits for you to stop twisting your hands and look at him, “It’s exactly what I meant,” he says, his eyes staring into yours, “I want to talk about giving us a chance.”

You tremble slightly as you pull your cardigan from the back of your chair and put it on to distract from your nerves, “Us?” you repeat dumbly.

“Let’s be honest with each other,” Taehyung insists, “When we met in that canteen you knew what I was trying to suggest and you ran a mile. I know you’re shy but don’t pretend now that you don’t know what I mean.”

You swallow, your voice a little bit stronger when you reply, “There isn’t an ‘us’ though is there? Not even as friends anymore - I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for,” you begin, avoiding his gaze, “I don’t know what it is you think I can offer you, but you’re wrong. I know you must be hurting from whatever happened with Hana, but looking backwards to the past for comfort isn’t the solution. You should move forward - I’m not sure what it is you’re hoping for, but it’s not me.”

Again he waits in silence for you to look at him before he responds. So, you did know what he meant in the canteen…He wants to chuckle slightly at what he knows to be another one of your obviously rehearsed responses; after your last meeting you clearly have prepared for any possible follow-up conversation. 

Taehyung is unperturbed, in fact, he’s relieved; everything you’ve said so far has been about disbelieving that he is genuine, nothing you’ve said has been about your own feelings. If you don’t have feelings for him, surely you would just say that? he reasons; the very fact that you’re being evasive makes him hope that you do have feelings for him. He’s certain he can coax the truth out of you if he presses on.

When you finally raise your eyes to his, he smiles gently, “What I’m hoping for is you,” he emphasises, “I want you. More than anything, I wish that you would love me again.”

You say nothing for a moment, dumbstruck. Then he watches the cogs spinning in your mind as you try to work out how to reply. When you do, your voice is soft, “I will always love you, Taehyung,” you admit, “Just because we’re not as close as we once were doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

You’re not going to admit it, he realises, Not yet. You’re going to continue evading and misinterpreting his words and if he pushes you too hard, you might just run again. 

He takes another approach, “Good! I’m glad you still love me because I love you too,” he smiles, hoping you listen to the truth of that, not just your chosen interpretation of friendship, “So let’s rebuild our friendship, then. Come home with me, let’s watch a movie at mine, like we used to, I’ll order us dinner.”

Thrown off balance by the change in direction and the whole conversation, you blindly submit. Taehyung is quick to gather your things and bundle you out of the shop before you can change your mind. On the train journey back across the city to his apartment, you accept his offer of his shoulder and rest your head; as you relax against him you can’t help but admit to yourself that you’re not simply following along. Your heart is beating rapidly because you hope, beyond all reason, that he does actually want to be with you and all of this isn’t as mad as it seems.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

You awaken to the sense of being lowered into the clouds; your tired eyes open to find Taehyung above you, his arms slipping from under you as you sink into the softness of his bed.

“Ah, you woke up!” he smiles, “Go back to sleep baby, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

True to his word, the evening had been just like one from the past, you’d watched a film, slowly relaxing, then talked about nonsense and nothing of importance. You ate and laughed together until your heavy lids and exhaustion from so many different feelings had got the better of you.

“You hate sleeping on the couch,” you mumble sleepily, “It’s not comfortable.”

He sits on the bed beside you, stroking your hair from your eyes with long fingers, “Well then I can’t let you sleep there then, can I?”

Your eyes flutter open a little wider, “Just stay here then, we’ve shared before.”

“That wouldn’t be more uncomfortable for you?” he asks, his eyes searching yours.

You swallow, trying to be brave, “No, I want you to stay.”

He nods, smiling, before he gets up and pulls some clothes for you and him from a drawer, “Ok, I’ll change outside. There’s a spare toothbrush in the vanity if you want to wash up,” he says, indicating the en-suite.

When he re-enters, you’re already cuddled up in bed in one of his large tees, making him smile. When he gets out of the bathroom, he climbs in beside you, pulling your sleepy body into his embrace.

You’ve missed this, you realise, the closeness with him. Never, in all the time that he’s distanced himself from you have you been able to stop loving him. Yes, you’re nervous that whatever happened with Hana has affected him and that this desire to be with you is just a moment of madness, a weird sort of rebound and that he’ll come to regret it. Yet a voice nags at you, What if he doesn’t regret it? What if one thing leads to another and he falls for you like you fell for him all those years ago? 

Taehyung can tell you’re thinking furiously, your mind disturbed and so he places a gentle kiss on your forehead, drawing a happy little hum of contentment from you, “I’ve missed you,” he breathes quietly.

Your mind roars at you, Why do you always give up what you want, staying silent through years of Taehyung dating other women? Why did you force yourself to give him space when it was obvious Hana hated you instead of telling him she wasn’t good enough for him? Why should you deny yourself this moment with him when he’s all that you want? When he’s all that you’ve ever wanted? Fuck it… you resolve.

“I’ve missed you too,” you breathe back.

“Can I spoon you?” he asks, boldly kissing the tip of your nose in a gentle peck.

Your eyes open as you nod. Your heart flutters as you build the courage to kiss the tip of his nose, right on his little mole, in return.

Taehyung’s eyes widen before he leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth tenderly, hoping against hope that he’s not going too far.

This time you don’t pause: you swipe your mouth over his and kiss him softly, capturing the full pout of his lower lip between yours. He kisses you back and soon one kiss melts into another; his minty tongue flicking against your lips to plead entry. Soon you are making out, slowly and full of gentle hesitation. Moments stretch into minutes as you hold each other, your hands wandering over each other’s hair, arms and back. The kisses don’t heat up: nothing that’s happening now is about lust or desire, this is you telling Taehyung you love him and him telling you he loves you in return.

When you break apart, lips puffy, both blushing, all idea of spooning is abandoned, your limbs entangling as you pull each other closer, too shy to speak of what’s happened, melting into each other as sleep claims you.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

Taehyung wakes to feel you gently hovering over his body as you try to climb from the bed, he seizes your waist in his firm hold, “Where are you going?” he grumbles, not yet opening his eyes.

“To the bathroom,” you reply dryly. He doesn’t care, please that you didn’t flinch from his touch.

“Then come back immediately,” he commands, his eyes opening and you nod, blushing.

When you come back, he stands to greet you, kissing the top of your head and making room for you to get back into bed. His heart beats a little faster, realising you’ve brushed your teeth again and he hopes it’s in readiness for more kissing, not you washing away those from the night before in regret.

When he returns and climbs in beside you, you look nervous. He strokes your face with the back of his fingers, “I need to tell you what happened with Hana,” he begins, “It’s important.”

You nod and he does: he begins with admitting he has been in love with you for longer than he can remember and everything follows from there, all the mess with Hana; the promise he made; what he found out on Jeju; finding out from Hobi that you once had loved him too; all of it.

As he talks he sits up in bed, finding a comfortable position and you cuddle into his side, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart as he tells you everything.  Over the course of his retelling, the tattoo of his heart gives way to the soft growling of his stomach.

When he finishes, you sit up and look at him as he awaits your response, “Let’s get breakfast,” is all you can say, temporarily overwhelmed by all he has told you, “There’s a lot to process and a lot to talk about.”

Taehyung looks crestfallen, and your heart, so in tune with his now, throbs in sympathy. Without thinking you straddle him, cupping his face and kissing his nose, “Thank you for being honest with me.”

He tilts his head, “Will you be honest with me too?” he asks, taking your hands in his and swinging them side to side.

“I have been,” you protest as he frowns.

”Can you love me again?” he asks. 

“I told you yesterday that I’d always love you Tae, that was the truth,” you admit, looking away shyly, “I’ve never stopped.”

Before he can speak, you kiss him again. He’s quick to release your hands, wrapping them around you so he can guide you onto your back as he deepens the kiss.

“What about breakfast?” you ask as his hungry mouth finds your neck.

“Fuck breakfast,“ is the muffled reply you receive as his mouth finds yours again.

Like the night before, each kiss melts into the next. Unlike last night though, with love admitted and freely spoken, desire edges into your embrace, gilding your edges with a simmering heat that builds in warmth and intensity drawing your bodies ever closer together.

After so long of dreaming of each other, of years of longing and unanswered need, what follows isn’t the choreographed routine of two lovers who know each other’s bodies. Instead, as you kiss and grind against each other, your clothes seem to slowly fall away, either shrugged off by or pulled away by the other: Taehyung sucks a bruise into your neck as you shimmy his boxers down before he kicks them off, you giggle into the sharp bone of his clavicle as his fingers hook into the elastic of your underwear.

You gasp into his mouth when he guides his cock into you, and tremble beneath him as he fucks into you, your bodies melded together with each deep, slow thrust. Your hands grip at his back and hair as your legs wrap around his waist. His slow grind ensures you come before he does, gasping his name as he sloppily kisses your cheek; he raises himself then, grinning down at you, glowing with sweat and breathless as he chases his high, you cling to his arms, smiling and gasping as, with a groan, the tendons of his neck tense. He thrusts your bodies as close as he can, driving deep into you, his balls pressed close as his cock pulses inside you. When the world resolves itself from pure ecstasy, he looks down at you in wonder as you look up at him with the same look: both of you silently saying the same thing.

When he slips from you and fetches a damp cloth to clean you up, you smile shyly at each other. He eases sweaty tendrils of hair from your flushed face, “I feel like a teenager,” he laughs.

You purse your lips and nod, “That was…” you don’t know how to finish the sentence, you want to say ‘sweet’ but it feels wrong.

Taehyung fills in for you, “Perfect and,” he pauses, “very overdue.”

“I love you,” you reply without missing a beat.

Taehyung grins in satisfaction, “I love you too,” the last syllable obscured by his rumbling stomach, causing you both to laugh again.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

“Why can’t we tell our friends yet?” Taehyung asks, fluffing his hair out of his eyes with the back of his fingers as he checks himself out in your bedroom mirror.

“Because I just have the sense from Namjoon that the mystery weekend that he swept Hyejin off to was a ruse for a proposal,” you explain as you shimmy your dress over your hips, ready to meet your friends at the fancy restaurant that Namjoon has booked.

“Ah…” Taehyung smiles, “You think we’d steal their thunder?”

“I don’t think it’s a risk worth taking,” you admit.

Wordlessly, Taehyung appears behind you, helping you with the zip you’re struggling with, delivering a kiss to your shoulder, “You’re right,” he agrees.

“I wish we could though,” you admit, turning into his arms, “It’ll be hard to pretend we’re indifferent to each other.”

“Babe, that’s all that we were doing before,” he laughs, kissing you.

“True,” you admit, “But I don’t want to do that anymore, I want to hang out with you.”

“We should say we’ve resolved all the issues between us, and that we’re friends again,” he suggests, “Given that it was Hyejin who wanted to bring us together in the first place, it’ll be nice for her to know she helped.”

“That’s sweet,” you smile, flicking your nose against his chin; he takes the hint and kisses you again with a rumbling, low laugh. 

When you break apart, he looks at you uncomfortably, “There is someone that I’d like you to tell though.”

“Hyungsik,” you supply and he nods awkwardly, “I understand, I’ll tell him tonight. You have to believe me that you two would really get along. Could you just hang out a bit with him tonight?”

Taehyung inclines his head graciously, “For you, I’ll try,” he submits, “But you have to remember that for months I’ve hated him on principle, it’s weird to let that go.”

“We never even kissed,” you say, rolling your eyes, “Your imagination did the rest.”

He laughs at that, “So you didn’t let me believe you two were dating in Jeju?”

You squirm, “Maybe a little bit…”

He laughs at your discomfort, before catching sight of the clock behind you, “C’mon babe, we’re going to be late.”

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

You were right, the dinner was a celebration of Namjoon and Hyejin’s engagement. Despite the happiness you feel for them, the dinner is a torturous affair. You sit with Hyungsik, away from Taehyung. After months of finding it too painful to look at him, now you ache trying not to. Being with him and not with him simultaneously is agony. 

The opposite side of the room from you, Taehyung avoids looking at you at all costs. Though he is secure in the knowledge that there’s nothing between you and Hyungsik, he is nonetheless jealous that the other man gets to sit through three courses of your company before Taehyung is able to move around the table and get to you. 

If not for his respect for Namjoon, he’d be declaring his love for you to anyone who asked and he would be sitting with you now, hand in hand beneath the table. Instead, he is lying through his teeth, batting away his friends’ questions about you, pretending that he is following Namjoon’s advice and slowly building your friendship back to where it should be. Largely their curiosity seems satisfied, except for Hobi, who scrutinises Taehyung carefully as he spins his fictions. Hobi can’t help but feel suspicious, especially when he sees you explaining something to Hyungsik that has him gasping into his hands before he beams at you. That in itself alerts Hobi that something is up, but it’s compounded by the way Hyungsik can’t seem to stop glancing over at Taehyung after it.

Later in the evening, Hobi shares his suspicions with Jimin as they sit, chairs pressed close beside each other. They watch carefully as Taehyung makes awkward and stilted conversation with the accommodating and smiley Hyungsik whilst you look nervously on.

“See?” Hobi indicates to Jimin, speaking out of the side of his mouth, “I think she knows how he feels, look at her - her attention is totally on Taehyung and how he’s reacting to Hyungsik…”

Jimin nods, “I see it. Do you think he’s confessed? How do you think she took it?”

“Oh boys,” Hyejin sighs, placing her hands on the backs of their chairs before leaning between them, “Would you like my take?”

Sliding across a chair, Jimin makes room and she joins their little observation panel between them. After a few moments, watching Taehyung’s spasming arm reach and withdraw from you repeatedly, she smirks, “Well, well…” she laughs, only explaining herself when Jimin implores her, “I’d say our Taehyungie has been telling fibs. I don’t think he’s followed Joon’s advice at all. I think he’s followed yours, Hobi,” she says, looking at the man beside her.

“Really? You think he has confessed?” Hobi smiles.

“I’m pretty sure,” she asserts, “I think he’s confessed and so has she. She’s told Hyungsik and now the boys are learning to play nicely.”

“Makes sense,” Hobi concurs, thinking of the earlier scene he witnessed, “But why not tell us?”

Jimin scoffs, “And steal all of our attention away from Namjoon and Hyejin? When the announcement was made Taehyung must have decided to lie.”

Hyejin’s brow furrows, “No, I don’t think so,” she muses, “She already had suspicions that Joonie was likely to propose - we’ve talked about it. I think she predicted what tonight was really about and they planned this in advance. That’s typical of her.”

They sit for a moment, smiling together before Hyejin giggles, “You know how we are all going to have brunch tomorrow?” she asks.

“We’re meeting at the café, yeah? The one by Taehyung’s place? At 11?” Jimin supplies.

“Let’s meet earlier… Let’s meet at 10, and at Taehyung’s place. Let’s have some fun with them.”

Jimin grins wickedly, “Hyejin, I like the way you think…” 

Across the room, you, Taehyung and Hyungsik turn to follow the sound of laughter, watching as Hyejin, Hobi and Jimin cackle gleefully together.

“They’re plotting something,” Taehyung notices astutely.

“Hmm, they’re just missing a cauldron,” you offer.

“Something wicked this way comes…” suggests Hyungsik ominously.

The three of you turn to each other and laugh. Your heart lifts as Taehyung and Hyungsik smile, hoping this is the start of their friendship.

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

Soft music curls around you as you push up the overlong sleeves of one of Taehyung’s hoodies, before you turn the volume down a little more. He’s still fast asleep down the hall after last night’s dinner and you want to make breakfast without waking him. 

You gingerly tread towards the fridge to gather the ingredients you need; your waddle is nothing to do with staying quiet, your bare feet make no noise against the cold tiles of the floor; no, your slow walk is far more to do with your bruised thighs and tender vagina. Pre-Taehyung it’d been a while since you last had sex and last night was a revelation: the gentle shyness of your first time together was a distant memory as soon as the door closed behind you.

⊛ ⊛ ⊛

As soon as your feet slipped from your heels, Taehyung pressed you against the door. His hot mouth on your neck and his hardening crotch grinding against you as your fingers tangle in his hair. His hands were quick to pull your dress up around your waist, his knee pressing against yours to guide your legs further apart.

He kissed you as he stroked you through the dampening silk of your underwear. You moaned into his mouth, and lust ran through his blood in hot waves, filling his cock as molten heat pooled in your core. His long fingers pushed your underwear to one side before he slid one, then two fingers into you, quickly working out how to curl them to draw the prettiest, most needy whines from you.

Quickly you were a trembling mess as neither his fingers nor his tongue relented. Feeling merciful, Taehyung broke from your mouth to attack your neck, letting free your chorus of moans and praise for him, “Feels so good, Tae, please don’t stop…”

He plunged his fingers a little faster into you as your hips began to grind against his hand, knowing he was getting you close, “Are you gonna come for me, baby?” he grinned, nipping your neck and maintaining his rhythm.

You nodded, begging for him, incoherent broken syllables of need and desire. He thought of stopping, wanting to insist that you came around his cock but he couldn’t bring himself to, too desperate to see you come undone for him. He carried on, fingering you to your shuddering orgasm and grinning as you whimpered and writhed against him.

He slid his fingers from you as you gasped and smiled at him, your eyes glazed as you came down from your high, “You good, babe?” he grinned as you hummed in contentment, reaching for his belt buckle. 

As you sank to your knees, freeing his throbbing cock from its confines, he smiled down at you, shuddering with anticipation for what was to come as you breathed gently over the head of his cock, before your tongue gently teased the tip. The moan of pleasure he offered made you determined to draw more from him.

⊛ ⊛ ⊛

This morning, you smile at the memory of how he’d crumbled under the touch of your hands and mouth; his delighted surprise as you’d deep-throated him, his cockhead pressing against your throat; his delicious frustration as you’d teased him… It was glorious, but he paid you back tenfold for your fun. After coming down your throat, he practically dragged you to the bedroom where he ate you out until you screamed and then fucked you with your legs over your shoulders until all you could do was weakly babble his name.

As you prepare breakfast, sore as you are, you feel arousal begin to soak through your fresh underwear at the memory. You want him again. You can’t be close enough to Taehyung; no kiss is enough; no embrace enough. You’ve waited so long for him that now he’s yours you don’t want to let him go. Your need for him is only temporarily sated by the sensation of being filled by his cock. The tense, wonderful feeling of how hard he is, how tightly you fit around him, making you see stars and driving you to orgasm in a way you’ve never experienced before. 

Distracting yourself with cooking, you don’t notice when Taehyung appears behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing your neck while you’re at the stove.

“Smells delicious,” he praises, as you jump at the contact.

“It’s nearly ready,” you smile, turning your head to kiss him, “Go sit and I’ll bring it over,” you can’t help but grin as he ambles from the kitchen with heavy footed, sleepy steps, his eyes puffy as he yawns loudly.

⊛ ⊛ ⊛

After breakfast, dishes cleared and everything put away, any trace of tiredness Taehyung may have felt is long gone.

“You like that? Yeah?” he pants, “Can you feel how fucking hard you make me?”

Pinned beneath him on his couch, you moan out in pleasure as he drives into you, “Fuck, Taehyung, you feel so fucking good…”

He’s already fucked you once since breakfast, your underwear and his large tee discarded with his pyjamas across the dining table which he’d bent you over as you finished cleaning up. Afterwards, gentle cuddles on the couch had heated up until you’d straddled him, riding him to your orgasm. Impatient, after you’d come he was quick to throw you on your back so he could take you with the full force of his lust. 

You can hear the slickness of his withdrawal before he thrusts inside you again; no matter how many times he fucks you, the stretch of him parting your walls is a heady mix of pain and pleasure that you’re already addicted to. In all your years of dreaming about him, you could never imagine it would feel like this. A new vocabulary needs to be invented for the things Taehyung does to you, fucking and coming are not enough to explain the pure euphoria and heights he can drive you to.

“You’re so fucking tight, babe… You’re driving me crazy,” he huffs out, confirming he feels it just as much as you do, “You were fucking made to take me… Fucking perfect...”

The pounding is relentless, he rocks back to sit up, without breaking rhythm, raising your hips so he can thrust deeper. You cry out at the new angle, it hurts but feels so, so good. In this position you can do nothing but take his relentless thrusts. 

His thumb works your clit and you cry out, “I can’t,” you squirm pointlessly in your sensitivity, “Tae, I can’t… I can’t come again.”

“You can and you will, need you to come for me,” he pleads, before a wicked grin creeps across his face, “Wanna fill you up while you squeeze me…”

Arching your back, you squeeze around him, clenching your walls, “Ahhh,” he groans, “Nice try babe, but you’re gonna come for me…” he insists, working your clit more rapidly as his pace picks up, his high approaching.

It doesn’t take long for you to come undone, you cry out pitifully as you spasm around his length, “Fuck, that’s it, grip it just like that, fuckkkkkk,” Taehyung groans, slamming into you, his ball pressing against you as he comes, his cock throbbing and twitching inside you as he reaches his high.

A panting mess, he collapses onto you, chuckling into your neck, “You make me come so hard.” 

Your sweat-slicked bodies stick together, yet you still wrap your arms around him, drawing him closer, hands tangling in his hair as he kisses you sloppily.

“What time is it?” You pant as he withdraws from you with a soft hiss.

“It’s just gone 10,” he checks, pulling tissues from the coffee table to clean you up, “Don’t worry we haven’t got to be there ’til 11,” he offers a hand to help ease your aching body up as a loud knock comes at the door.

You look at each other in panic as Taehyung puts his fingers to his lips.

Outside his door, Jimin, Hobi, Namjoon and Hyejin press their hands over their mouths not to laugh.

Nodding at them, Jimin raises his voice unnecessarily loudly, “Taehyung? You there, man?” When he receives no response, he lowers his volume, but makes sure he can definitely be heard from the other side of the door, “He must be out. I’m just gonna let myself in and grab my hoodie…”

They all suppress laughter as Jimin, with teasing slowness, enters the key code.

They step inside the apartment to the sound of Taehyung’s bedroom door slamming shut. The windows have been flung wide open, but the smell of sex lingers. Kicking their shoes off beside your heels from the night before their eyes land on Taehyung, bare chested in pyjama pants, clothes bundled in his arm. Eyes wide, he flings his hand, which so obviously has lacy women’s underwear in it, behind his back.

“Hi guys,” he offers gamely, trying to style it out, “What brings you here?”

“Needed my hoodie,” Jimin states bluntly, “You didn’t answer - I hope we haven’t interrupted something?” he asks, suppressing a smile.

“Just cleaning up,” Taehyung says, trying to shake his hair from his eyes.

“Are you ok?” Namjoon asks, in mock concern, “You look hot? It’s too cold to have the windows open, Tae - do you have a fever?” he steps forward with the back of his hand outstretched to feel Taehyung’s forehead.

In panic, Taehyung steps away, moving his hair out of his eyes without thought, using the hand in which your underwear hangs, “Fuck!” he yells, throwing them behind him as his friends burst into laughter, Jimin grabbing his hoodie from the hook beside the door.

“If you’re not sick I guess we’ll just see you at the café?” Hobi laughs. 

As they file out leaving Taehyung dumbstruck and frozen, Hyejin, unable to contain herself, turns back as she pulls the door closed behind her calling your name out loudly, “We’ll see you there too! Take your time guys!” 

Your friends cackle in unison as the door softly clicks shut behind them. Taehyung turns as his bedroom door opens and you, holding a blanket in front of your body, look at him in horror.

“At least we don’t need to worry about when to tell them now, I guess?” he offers, trying to put a positive spin on it.

You grimace, “Did they hear…” you choke out, unable to finish the phrase.

“Us fucking?” he supplies, not altogether helpfully, “I think it’s a safe bet they caught the, uh, climax?” Together, you burst into embarrassed laughter.

“I’m going to shower,” you groan, “Then we better go face them.”

“Want me to join you?” he asks, raising a brow.

“Absolutely fucking not,” you deadpan, shutting the door nod whining in embarrassment as you pad to the shower. 

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

“We figured it out last night,” Hyejin admits at the café, “Though we appreciate you guys keeping it quiet for our sakes,” she smiles, laying her hand over her fiancé’s.

“I’m so embarrassed,” you say, hiding your face in your hands, while Taehyung rubs your back comfortingly.

“Don’t be!” Hobi insists, “We really didn't hear anything at all!”

“Honestly,” Namjoon adds, “It was your shoes being there and Taehyung flinging your underwear around that gave it away.”

You groan again as Hyejin cuffs his shoulder, “Not helpful, Joonie!”

It’s that moment that Yoongi rolls in, “Sorry I’m late, had a work thing to sort,” he apologises, taking a seat opposite you as you uncover your face, “What did I miss?”

You frown slightly, trying to work out what to say. Taehyung squeezes your shoulder, “Nothing much -” he begins.

Gesturing for the waitress to come over, Yoongi looks back at the two of you, “Other than these guys hearing you two going at it this morning, you mean?” he teases, “Yeah, Jimin called and told me all about that… Good for you, it’s about time.”

With a muffled wail you bury your face in Taehyung’s shoulder as he glares daggers at Jimin. Namjoon groans, cuffing Yoongi gently, careful to avoid his shoulder, “Not helpful, man!” 

⊛ ⊛ ⊛

Hours later, you head back to Taehyung’s hand in hand, waving goodbye to your friends with a warm contentment that you have never felt before.

Taehyung’s hand tightens around yours, “Will you stay tonight?” 

You nod, smiling, “Yeah, I just need to go home and get some stuff.”

“I’ll come with you,” he says quickly. 

“You know, I won’t run away,” you tease.

He stops walking and pulls you to him, enclosing you in his arms, “I’m not letting you go for one minute. You’re mine now and I’d be lost without you, baby.”

⍟ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⊛ ⍟

Bright sunlight cuts a sharp line across Taehyung’s eyes as he blinks slowly awake the next morning. Laying on his stomach, he buries his face into his pillow for a moment, grumbling to himself as he stretches his arm out, his fingers caressing the warmth of your skin. He turns his head, grinning as he strokes your back where you lie peacefully beside him, where you’ve always belonged.

Your eyes flicker open to meet his, reflecting his smile. Turning on your side, you move closer to him until you can kiss the tip of his nose.

It’s not long before you’re pinned beneath him, as he nuzzles into you, “Love me, love me, love me,” he insists, his kisses turning into a bruise as he sucks on your neck.

“Love you, love you, love you,” you chorus, your hands running down his hips to slide his boxers off before you wrap your hand around his thick length, gently teasing his head with the precum collecting there, drawing a gasp from him.

“What’s this?” you tease, “Having naughty dreams about someone?”

“You, always you…” he confesses as your hand begins to slide along his length, “Want…” he stutters with a shudder.

“Want what?” you ask, nipping his ear lobe as you grip firmly, your other hand reaching around to tug gently at his balls.

Breathless, his fingers explore your wet folds before he pushes your hands from him, wrapping his hand around his length. His eyes stare into yours, “I want you,” he affirms, “Only you, always you, nobody else.”

Your contented hum turns into a drawn out moan as he drives into you in one powerful thrust. Gripping his back as he fucks you hard and slow, you mouth every expression of love you can think of into the heat of each other’s skin, more in love than either of you have ever known possible.

<<< BACK TO MAIN MASTERLIST

#taehyung x reader #taehyung x you #taehyung fanfic #taehyung imagine #taehyung scenarios #taehyung smut #v smut #bts fanfic #bts smut #taehyung angst

[honeydazai]

Il Dottore -> aphrodisiacs

content: nsfw, drugging, power imbalance, riding, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, degradation, you're his lab rat <3 reblogs & comments appreciated!

~0,7k words | kinktober masterlist

Life as a fairly new Fatui recruit wasn't easy.

Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't the ridiculously difficult training or the harsh Snezhnayan temperatures that gnawed at your resolve most, but the attention of one particular Harbinger that was on you almost constantly.

Dottore, it seemed, had taken a liking to you, and there was absolutely nothing you were able to do about it.

His sheer presence made you feel on edge, his deep voice causing a shiver to shoot up your spine whenever his warm breath grazed your ear — though you would have been a liar had you said you didn't enjoy it to a certain extent.

That, however, was your biggest mistake; you had gotten too used to him and his shenanigans, had let your guard down with the thought that you knew him well by now.

It was why you hadn't even thought to protest when a syringe, filled with some glowing liquid, had been pushed into one of your veins, though you now knew better.

It had been a mistake, a situation in which you had failed to be cautious.

Now you were suffering the consequences of your naivety.

“You're panting quite a bit”, Dottore commented, his tone entirely even as if you weren't currently bouncing up and down on his dick. “How are you feeling? Talk to me, darling.” A chuckle. “There's hardly any need to be shy right now.”

Your shyness was not the issue right now; the aphrodisiac coursing through your body was making it hard to form a coherent thought, yet alone to word an explanation about what you were feeling.

You had no idea, honestly; everything was terribly overwhelming, and even though you had already cum twice, you were still riding Dottore with sheer endless desperation, your need for more pleasure never quelling.

Sweat dripped down your neck, down the swell of your tits and, Archons, had it always been this hot in his lab?

Suddenly, a sharp pain caused you to flinch as Dottore meanly pinched one of your nipples between his fingers; you clenched around his dick on instinct, the action accompanied by a lewd squelching noise.

“When I ask you a question, sweetheart, I expect a response.” Smooth leather dragged over your skin as his thumb circled around your pebbled nipple, making you mewl. “How are you feeling?”

Your mind felt hazy; your thoughts entirely muddled. You were barely able to focus on anything but the way your thighs trembled in exhaustion as you continued to lift yourself up before dropping back down onto his dick, the fat tip nudging against what you swore was your cervix as you did so.

“Hot”, you eventually choked out, your voice shaking just as badly as your body did. “So hot—, wanna cum, sir, please.”

Dottore merely hummed in response. He tilted his head to the side, strands of blue hair spilling over his cheeks while he wrote your, arguably lackluster, description down on a notepad. Then, his lips curled into a smirk. “You want to cum? Again? You're quite selfish, love.”

“Sir, please—” Your sight blurred with tears, though you didn't even dare hope for any pity.

If you had learned one thing in the meantime of working underneath him, then that Dottore enjoyed seeing you cry.

“Seriously, didn't you already cum twice? Why don't you focus on pleasuring me first? You don't want me to think of you as greedy, or do you?” Dottore snickered as he reached down, his gloved finger only so much as feathering over your aching clit, and yet you came almost immediately with a high-pitched keen.

Your back arched as tears spilled over your tears, your cunt clenching down hard around his dick and, Archons, you really weren't sure just how much more of this you were able to take. You already felt like you were close to passing out; you all but collapsed against his chest a moment later, your muscles having turned into jelly.

“Heightened sensitivity”, he observed, a teasing lilt to his voice. “As well as enhanced stamina, or so I'd believe. Perhaps you're just a slut, hm? A whore who likes to fuck herself stupid on my cock. That's adorably pathetic.”

“Sir”, you whined in response, though, before you were able to continue, Dottore clicked his tongue at you.

“Did I say you were allowed to stop? Come on, now. I still haven't finished.” The corners of his mouth twitched into a grin. His next words made pure dread spread through you; “Though, if you're not motivated anymore, I guess I still have some more doses of that aphrodisiac left.”

➛ join my kinktober tag list! link in my kinktober masterlist!

➛ tags: @thescrunkly @iamyoureuphoria @what-the-stories-have-foretold @lafxox @alpaca-lad @elizaboba @miemieko @empresspug @lwqfhp @leon-to-sayaka @astelioio @slvdsjjk @norispills @hugs-for-drugs-bro @elebeleb @lauritt @akxtagawaxryxn0sxke @user12792046 @beebopsalad @ratcheeseandcrackers @silverquackson @beesbeesbees @fiveangrybees @saltylovetale @angelsrunes @strawberrynamedtobi @cl-0-vr @reihimbo @gnfwol @froggiethewoggie @mikayylw @tsunderecamour @raineandcl0uds @nikolaisgoofyahhhat @dazaisdicksleeve @dainsleif-when-playable @raybedo @chaotic-maki @mewoeee @iycsano @a-hoe-for-chuuya @kazuxe @misskkiwi @jolly04 @maddenleftchat @rodoyf @laesxlas @shokeiri @mythicalshanako @the-psyco-simp

@shinwifexx @rhaeena @uwu-dreams @moonchild5938 @black-rose-29 @ibby-miyoshi-nerd @kaz-zuha @serenareiss @meena-in-a-nutshell @dilucshandholder @alice0blog @radfarmneckshoe @ladyblaire @reiikonee @1-800-mocha @xvocadooo @httptanjiroluvr @hexiisexii @cupxfcxffee @jodidann @roxsubject @marina-and-the-memes @patchi-chi

#genshin impact smut #Genshin smut #Genshin Impact #Genshin x reader #Genshin x you #Genshin x y/n #Genshin fanfic #Genshin imagines #Genshin headcanons #Genshin fanfiction #Genshin Impact fanfic #Il Dottore #Dottore genshin #Dottore smut #Dottore headcanons #Dottore imagines #Dottore x reader #Dottore x you #Dottore x y/n #Dottore fanfic #Genshin Impact x reader #Genshin Impact x you #Genshin Impact headcanons #Genshin Impact imagines #Genshin nsft #Dottore nsft #Genshin Impact fanfiction #Genshin Impact x y/n #fatui smut #fatui reader

[delusionalfanficwriter]

illness pt. 3

The night had grown bitterly cold, and Jessie, Kristie, and Sam were huddled together in their living room, anxiety gnawing at their hearts. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence, each passing minute intensifying their worry for Y/N.

When Jessie's phone finally rang, it felt like a lifeline. She scrambled to answer it, her fingers trembling with anticipation. Y/N's voice came through the line, small and tired, sending a shiver of fear down Jessie's spine.

"Jessie, can you come get me?" Y/N's voice quivered. "It's so cold, and I'm... I'm tired."

Fear gripped Jessie's heart as she responded urgently, "Of course, Y/N. I'm on my way." She ended the call and turned to Kristie and Sam. "Y/N's out in the cold. I need to go get her."

Kristie and Sam immediately jumped to their feet, their expressions filled with concern. "We're coming with you," Kristie insisted.

Within minutes, they were bundled up in warm coats, braving the freezing temperatures as they headed out to find Y/N. Jessie used the "Find My Friends" app to track her girlfriend's location, and they followed the GPS coordinates.

When they finally arrived at the park, they found Y/N huddled on a park bench, her body trembling from the cold. Jessie rushed to her side and wrapped her in a warm embrace, trying to provide comfort and warmth. She took off her jacket and covered Y/N. 

Y/N's voice was barely more than a whisper as she spoke, exhaustion and vulnerability clear in every word. "You guys forced me to go. I told you I didn't want to. I told you."

Jessie's heart ached as she held Y/N close, her own guilt and regret weighing heavily on her. "I know, Y/N," she admitted, her voice filled with remorse. "We messed up, and we should have listened to you. Let's get you home and warm."

Kristie and Jessie helped guide her to the car and put her in the backseat as Jessie climbed in next to her. As they drove back to the warmth and safety of their home, Y/N continued to shiver, her body wracked with both cold and fear. Jessie, rubbing her back, did her best to provide comfort and reassurance.

"Will you let me hold you?" Jessie asked gently, aware of Y/N's vulnerability but also wanting to offer her as much warmth as possible.

Y/N didn't respond with words but scooted closer to Jessie and rested her head on her girlfriend's chest. Jessie's heart swelled with love and concern as she wrapped her arms around Y/N, enveloping her in a cocoon of warmth and security.

Kristie, sitting in the front seat, reached into the back and handed a blanket to Jessie, who carefully covered Y/N with it. They were determined to make her as comfortable as possible, knowing that their actions earlier had only added to her distress.

As they continued their journey, Y/N finally broke the silence, her voice quivering with anxiety. “I don’t know what to do. I’m scared… The doctor wants me to go back tomorrow for more tests before referring me to a specialist. What about the Olympics? Should I get a second opinion? I think I need to head back to the States. I don’t know. There’s so much to do. I might be dying. I don’t know what to do. What should I do?”

Jessie listened attentively, her heart aching for Y/N's uncertainty and distress. She knew they needed to take things one step at a time, but she also wanted to offer her girlfriend some reassurance.

"Y/N, breathe," Jessie whispered soothingly, her fingers gently stroking Y/N's back. "Don't think about the worst-case scenario right now. We don't have all the answers, but we'll figure things out together. You're not alone in this, and we'll support you every step of the way."

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes again, but this time, they were tears of gratitude for the love and support of her friends and her girlfriend. She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regain control of her emotions.

"And I'm sorry for the stunt we pulled," Jessie added, her voice filled with regret. "I know it only added to your emotions and feelings of betrayal. We'll talk things through when we're rested and in a better place emotionally."

The car journey continued in silence, except for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional reassurances from Jessie. Y/N's head rested on Jessie's chest, and she clung to her girlfriend as if she were a lifeline in the storm of uncertainty.

As Sam pulled into their driveway, she turned off the engine, and the car fell into stillness. It was late, and the exhaustion from the emotionally charged evening was taking its toll on all of them.

Jessie gently roused Y/N from her half-asleep state. "We're home, bubba," she whispered, pressing a loving kiss to Y/N's forehead.

Y/N stirred and slowly sat up, her eyes heavy with fatigue. The realization that she was back in familiar surroundings provided a small measure of comfort.

Saying goodbye to Kristie and Sam, Jessie guided Y/N inside the house. The living room was softly lit, casting a welcoming glow, and the couch seemed inviting. Jessie settled Y/N on the couch before disappearing into the kitchen and returned with a tray of hot tea and some light snacks. "You should try to eat something, Y/N," she suggested gently.

Y/N nodded, her appetite returning as she sipped on the hot tea. The warmth spread through her body, chasing away the lingering cold. The comforting presence of her friends and girlfriend was beginning to soothe her frazzled nerves.

The night was late, and the weight of the day's events had taken its toll on all of them. They decided to get some rest and face the challenges of tomorrow with renewed strength.

Jessie guided Y/N to their bedroom, where they crawled under the covers together. As they held each other in the darkness, Y/N finally let her tears flow freely. She cried softly, the tears a release of the fear and uncertainty that had been building up inside her.

Jessie kissed away her tears, murmuring words of love and comfort. "We're in this together, Y/N. No matter what happens, we face it as a team."

#uswnt x reader #uswnt imagine #uswnt fanfic #jessie fleming imagine #jessie fleming x reader #jessie fleming #woso x reader #woso fanfics

[thefallennightmare]

Moment of Weakness-twenty eight

*credit to whoever created the gif. found on google/Pinterest *

Pairings: Mob!Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: language, smut, angst, fluff, affair, cheating, violence.

Summary: Reader is the assistant to New York's most feared mob boss, James Buchanan Barnes. He had the picture-perfect life: status in the mob, friends, and beautiful wife. So why can't he keep his mind and eyes off of reader?

Author's Note: Get ready, everyone. We've reached the big part of this story. Also, ONLY THREE CHAPTERS LEFT!

Tags(closed): @splendidreads @sebsgirl71479 @mdpplgtz03 @pattiemac1 @unaxv @alana4610 @broadwaybabe18 @themayzittcha @playboystark @raajali3 @ozwriterchick @ragamuffin285 @screamingdying @themorningsunshine @kenziekugler22 @calwitch @sebastianstansqueen @stanaddict @stucky-simp03 @sleyeveryday @loustan90 @lyra-black13 @valsworldofcreativity @cjand10 @tesseract69 @batprincess1013 @subwaysurf45 @arsonfrogger @yoruse @5moremin @lipstickandtanqueray @mandijo17 @joannaromanoff @justsebstan @winters1917 @elizacusi-blog @football1921 @elxvrr

The rays of the sun broke through the small opening of the curtains, blanketing warmness over Bucky and I as we laid in bed. I had been awake for a while now, simply staring at him, heart swelling in adoration and love. We’d been sharing a bed the last couple of nights, both needing the sense of security from one another. All we would do was lay in each other's arms, that’s it. Even though we were getting close again, I didn’t want to jump right back into everything until I felt I was ready too. 

Bucky’s hair was falling into his eyes so I gently brushed it away, the urge to kiss his plump lips was unbearable. I leaned on my elbow to stare down at him, a soft snore sounding from his mouth. 

As if he felt me staring, Bucky’s eyes slowly opened with a very large smile appearing on his face when we noticed me staring. 

He snuggled closer to his pillow. “Hm, good morning, doll.” 

“Morning,” I smiled back. 

His vibranium arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer into him. I rested my head against his chest and hooked my leg around his waist, locking him into place. This is what our mornings had been spent the last couple of days before Bucky locked himself in his office at home for the day, trying to find more leads on Clint or Natasha. 

Absolutely nothing. It was as if they dusted away, their lives almost forgotten. 

“Are you busy tonight?” Bucky asked while rubbing my back. 

I couldn't help but snicker at his question. He knew that with the hit on me, I refused to leave the house alone. To be honest, I rarely left his house this past week, not wanting to risk anything. There was no way Bucky would let me leave by myself anyway.

“I think my schedule is open,” I joked with a smile while looking up at him. “Why?” 

“Would you like to go out to dinner with me?” 

My breath caught in my throat. “Like a date?” 

Bucky could feel the way my body tensed in his embrace so he gave my hip a soft squeeze. “Whatever you want to call it; a date or two friends getting dinner.” 

I gnawed on the inside of my cheek, debating the offer around in my mind for a few minutes. 

“How about we start it off as friends and see where it goes?” I suggested. 

He smiled, brushing his lips across the top of my head. “As long as you're comfortable, Y/N.” 

My laughter bounced off the small confines of Bucky’s car as he drove us back home, our dinner replaying in my mind over and over. It had been so long since I had someone do everything Bucky did tonight and my heart was swimming. 

It started with him renting a small section of the restaurant for us, him pulling out my chair for me, and the table had a very large bouquet of black roses, my favorite. He already had a set menu for tonight, knowing what I liked, and when we talked he let me talk endlessly as I told him about me; things he didn't know. Not once did he interrupt, only kept his bright eyes on me the entire time. 

Bucky then divulged into his own life growing up and I learned so many things about him that surprised me. Our hands were linked on his lap under the table the entire time, his vibranium thumb pressing light circles on my skin. 

He pulled the car to a stop at a red light then looked over at me. “Have I told you how breathtaking you look tonight?” 

I smiled, my hand resting behind his neck, fingers playing with the end of his hair. 

“Once or twice.”

The car started to move again but I could tell that Bucky was still upset with what happened tonight so I placed my other hand on his knee. 

“You know you could have asked Steve or Sam to hang around. That way you wouldn't be so on edge at some points, "I said. 

“I didn’t like the way the waiter kept staring at you. I couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t try something,” Bucky said while gripping the wheel a bit too hard. “I can take care of you, Y/N.” 

I bit back a laugh. “It could be the fact that the dress I chose was a bit too short.” 

His eyes were laced with darkness as they quickly grazed over my form, slowly licking his lips. I felt my body ignite under his gaze so I shifted in my seat, the air shifted around us and I suddenly wanted to feel him all over me again.  

We arrived back at his house before I knew it and neither of us made an effort to leave the car, only staring deeply at each other. Our breathing synced as Bucky lifted my chin up towards him. 

“So was this a date?” Bucky’s voice was gentle, quiet. 

I nodded without hesitation. “This was the best date I had been on in a very long time. Thank you, Bucky.” 

“Anything for you, doll,” he breathed over my lips. 

The Bucky that I had been around the last few days was different from the one from months ago. He was more attentive towards me, sweet, and willing to take everything slow. All the anger I felt for him had vanished long ago, my love for him outweighing all the bad. 

I was done taking it slow. 

“Bucky?” My voice husked. 

His shoulders shivered. “Yea?” 

My tongue rolled over my bottom lip, it got caught between my teeth. 

“Did you want-.” 

I was cut off by his phone ringing but Bucky ignored it. “Not important.” 

“Are you sure?” I asked. 

“Doll,” he leaned closer to me. “You’re the only thing that matters to me right now.” 

Without a second thought, I crashed my lips to his and he wasted no time either by lifting me into his lap, the steering wheel digging into my back. I scratched and pulled at his hair, doing whatever I could to deepen the kiss. His tongue tangled with mine and I moaned into his mouth when his vibranium hand squeezed my ass to bring our hips closer together. 

I leaned my head back when Bucky began biting and sucking at the sweet spot of my neck, our movements becoming familiar with each other all over again. He remembered exactly where to touch or kiss that would set me off, in the most euphoric way. 

My name fell from Bucky’s lip when I started to rut my hips into his, trying to scratch that itch I felt almost everyday since we came back into each other's lives. 

“Should we take this inside?” I asked breathlessly from our kiss. 

Bucky didn't answer, only kicked open the car door and carried me inside the house. We were so engrossed with each other that the text message from Baron Zemo, that interrupted us before, went unread. 

“Oh, Bucky,” I moaned, nails scratching and pulling at his hair. 

His moans were swallowed by the lips between my legs, his tongue pressing circles on my sweetest spot. I hooked both of my legs around his neck, almost smothering him. Bucky didn’t complain once, only kept his actions up, moving even faster. 

I lifted my hips up from the bed as my orgasm washed over me without warning and cried out his name over and over again in praise. 

Bucky didn’t bother waiting for the white haze to pass from my eyes before he hooked my leg over his hip and buried his dick between my folds. I clenched around him and he let out the most guttural moan which made my eyes flutter shut. 

“I missed this so,” he slid his dick out but left the tip in.

“Fucking much.” 

With a hard snap of his hips, he began to move them erratically, his pace unforgiving and unruly. It was what exactly I needed, my nails grasping at anything I could reach. The sheets of the bed, the skin of his back. Anything. 

“Bucky,” I breathed. 

He buried his face in my neck. “I miss the way you say my name. The way you touch.” 

I whined at the sudden emptiness as Bucky dragged his soaked cock from me to roll me onto my knees. My ass was raised up towards him, ready for whatever he was about to do. 

A hard smack of skin against skin bounced off the walls in tangent my screams when Bucky smacked my ass. 

He leaned behind me, his warm beath cascading over my ear. “I miss the way you fuck. The way you taste.” 

I pressed back into dick, the precum and my own sweet juices dragging all over the back of my thigh. 

“Please,” I begged. “I need you, Bucky. I need to feel you again.” 

“Doll, you never have to beg me for it. Never again.” 

We shared a moan as he slipped between my folds again. 

Snores filled the room as our sweaty bodies were tangled together, not bothering to cover ourselves with any covers. We had come down from our high a while ago, both of us collapsing to the bed short of breath. Bucky had me locked against his chest, vibranium arm over my stomach. 

Tonight had felt like we never missed a beat, everything between us becoming second nature. The only difference was that Bucky didn’t have to leave; we could stay as long as we wanted together. There wasn’t the lingering regret or shame that we would feel after a night spent together. We didn’t get the chance to talk about us, exhaustion taking over us almost immediately. But there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that things would be different between us. 

For the better. 

That was until the sudden thirst woke me and I let out a small yawn while doing my best to untangle myself from him. 

Bucky whined while gripping me tighter.  “Where are you going?” 

“I’m thirsty,” I giggled. 

He left a kiss on my bare shoulder. “Hurry back. I’ll miss you.” 

I laughed at the tone of his voice and gave him a quick kiss before slipping on one of his shirts and a pair of shorts. 

Not bothering to turn on any lights in the kitchen, I rummaged through the fridge in search of something to drink. That was until I felt a strong arm around my throat, yanking me away and tossing me onto the hard, cold ground. My head smacked against the floor as I let out a strangled scream, feeling hands around my throat now. Fear filled my eyes as I looked up and saw a vicious smile looking down at me. 

“Cl-clint?” I choked out. 

“Miss me?” 

Before I could fight against him, he knocked me unconscious with a swift punch to the side of my head.

#mob!bucky barnes #mob!bucky barnes x reader #mob!bucky barnes and reader #mob!bucky barnes x yn #mob!bucky barnes and yn #mob!bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes and reader #sebastian stan #moment of weakness-mob!bucky barnes

[dndfantasygirl]

Little Red Rogue (Chapter 13: Where You Are)

Rating: Mature Word count: 2.3k Pairing: Astarion x Female Tav (named)/OC Warnings: violence, strong language, innuendo, mentions of past-abuse

Summary: Ruby tries to prevent Astarion from striking a deal with Raphael.

*Link to AO3 Post

*Link to Previous Chapter

I know you're bruised by the world Trying to clean your wounds Wearing a mask with a smile I see you

If you want you can go through this life alone Let me know how it goes without a hand to hold

All the while, heart is torn I just wanna be where you are Through the fire, through the storm I just wanna be where you are

~Where You Are, Tommee Profitt (feat. Mike Mains)

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

As they observed Raphael's nefarious dealings with Mol, the young tiefling, Ruby felt a surge of anger and disgust. The sight of Raphael preying on someone so young and vulnerable ignited a fierce sense of protectiveness within her. She was ready to confront him, to unleash her fury upon the fiend who dared to exploit innocence.

But before Ruby could act on her impulse, Astarion intervened with a gesture, halting her in her tracks. His hand extended in a calm yet authoritative manner, signaling for her to hold back. Confusion etched across Ruby's features as she glanced at her companion, seeking an explanation for his unexpected restraint.

"Astarion, what are you doing?" she whispered urgently.

Astarion's gaze remained fixed on Raphael, his expression unreadable as he leaned in closer to Ruby, his voice a mere whisper tinged with a hint of urgency. "He can read those runes on my back, I'm sure of it."

"This is a bad idea," Ruby pleaded. "What if he tries to take your soul?"

She knew all too well the dangers that lurked in dealing with creatures like Raphael, and the thought of Astarion falling victim to his machinations sent a shiver down her spine.

Astarion's response was swift and matter-of-fact, his tone devoid of the usual charm or humor that often colored his words. "I'm a vampire spawn, Ruby," he stated flatly. "I don't have a soul."

"Exactly," Ruby pressed on, her concern deepening as she sought to reason with him. "You're a spawn. You're not a fully-fledged vampire."

The realization struck her like a bolt of lightning as she saw the flash of irritation in Astarion's eyes. Her heart sank as she realized her words had struck a nerve, stirring up emotions that lay just beneath the surface.

"Oh, really?" Astarion retorted, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he delivered his reply. "I had no idea."

Ruby reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she sought to offer him solace in the face of his inner turmoil.

"That's just a tall tale anyways. You have a soul, Astarion," she insisted, her voice soft but resolute, refusing to let him succumb to the darkness that threatened to consume him.

Astarion's gaze remained fixed on some distant point, his features a mask of conflicting emotions as he wrestled with the demons that haunted him. For a moment, it seemed as though he would reject her words, retreat into the shadows of his own doubt and despair. But then, almost imperceptibly, he relented, allowing himself to be drawn back into the present by the touch of her hand.

As Ruby's fingers intertwined with his own, a flicker of vulnerability flashed across Astarion's face, a silent admission of the fear and uncertainty that gnawed at his very being. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

"Please, just listen to me," the dhampir implored, her voice barely above a whisper. "Someone else might be able to read them, like Karlach."

Astarion's crimson eyes bore into hers. "Do you trust me, Ruby?"

Ruby's heart swelled with emotion as she returned his gaze, her eyes reflecting the depth of her devotion. "Of course, I do," she replied without hesitation.

"Then let me do this," the vampire spawn declared, his voice firm and unwavering as he made his final plea.

As Ruby lowered her head, a sense of reluctance weighed heavy upon her shoulders. Her fingers slowly released their grip on Astarion's hand, the warmth of their connection fading into the chill of the night air. With a hesitant nod, she silently acknowledged his decision, though her heart still fluttered with apprehension.

Astarion, now unencumbered by Ruby's touch, straightened his posture and stepped forward with a determined stride. His movements were fluid yet purposeful, betraying the resolve that burned within him.

With a steady voice that betrayed none of his inner turmoil, he spoke, his words echoing through the dimly lit hallway with a clarity that demanded attention. He laid out his proposition, his tone measured yet assertive, as he sought to navigate the treacherous waters of their impending negotiation.

In that fleeting moment, as Astarion stood face to face with the devil himself, the dhampir watched from a distance, her heart heavy with uncertainty yet filled with unwavering support. She knew that whatever transpired between them, she would stand by Astarion's side.

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

The tension in the air was palpable as Raphael vanished into the shadows, leaving the vampiric elves to grapple with the uncertainty of their situation. Despite the temporary reprieve, Ruby could sense the storm brewing within Astarion.

As they stood in the aftermath of their encounter, Ruby's gaze lingered on Astarion, noting the furrow of his brow and the restless energy that pulsed beneath his skin. She could see the torment etched upon his features, the fear that gnawed at his soul with each passing moment.

The meeting could have gone worse, she mused silently to herself, but for Astarion, it was a torment of its own kind. His relentless pursuit of answers had brought him to this precipice, where every delay felt like an eternity stretching out before him.

But Raphael, that wily devil, had vanished into thin air, leaving behind nothing but uncertainty and unanswered questions. He insisted he needed time to come up with a price for Astarion's request, a vague promise that offered little solace in the face of their mounting anxieties.

The good thing, if there was any solace to be found in such chaos, was that Raphael hadn't expressed any interest in Astarion's soul. But Ruby knew better than to let her guard down, for Raphael was a master of deception, his motives as murky as the depths of the Abyss itself.

And so, as they navigated their way upstairs, Ruby couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease that settled over them like a shroud. It could be tendays before they encountered Raphael again, and the uncertainty weighed heavily on Astarion's shoulders.

Ruby could see it in the way he carried himself, in the haunted look that clouded his crimson eyes. She could sense his desperation, his relentless pursuit of answers that always seemed just out of reach.

As they settled into the familiar warmth of the bed Ruby claimed, the two vampiric elves sought solace in the comfort of each other's presence. Cocooned in the soft embrace of the covers, Ruby nestled herself against Astarion's side, her head finding its rightful place upon his bare chest.

After Ruby's harrowing episode a few nights ago, they had come to a silent agreement that their nights were best spent intertwined in each other's arms. In the sanctuary of their shared bed, the haunting voices that plagued Ruby's mind seemed to fade into the background.

For once in the past decade, Ruby felt a sense of grounding, a tangible connection to the one person who understood her in a way that no one else could. Their fingers laced together, resting upon Astarion's sternum as if to anchor them both in the present moment.

Together, they lay in quiet contemplation, their gaze fixed upon the expanse of the ceiling above them. After a few moments, the dhampir found the courage to finally gaze up at him. At her gentle movement, Astarion glanced down to meet her eyes.

"Yes, my love?"

Ruby's heart fluttered at Astarion's endearing words, his tender acknowledgment of their bond sending a thrill of warmth coursing through her veins.

"I'm here," she blurted out, her words spilling forth in a rush of honesty and vulnerability, "for you. You don't have to face this alone."

"As you've told me so many times before, darling," he replied, his tone laced with a hint of playful sarcasm. Despite his attempt at levity, Ruby could see through the facade, recognizing the vulnerability hidden beneath his carefully crafted exterior. "And I really appreciate it."

"Then, humor me," she implored, her eyes lighting up with hope. "Just let Karlach take a peek."

Astarion's response was immediate, his eyes closing in embarrassment as he turned away from her. The vulnerability he displayed struck a chord within Ruby, igniting a fierce determination to ease his burden, to offer him the solace he so desperately sought.

"I-I can't."

As Ruby's mind pieced together the puzzle of Astarion's hidden insecurities, a wave of empathy washed over her. Just like his fangs and the scars that marred his neck, Astarion carried another burden hidden beneath his leather armor – the grotesque scars etched into his back, a painful reminder of the torment he had endured. It was a vulnerability he guarded fiercely, a part of himself he had tried to bury deep beneath layers of secrecy and shame.

Ruby's heart ached at the realization. She understood now why he was so guarded, so hesitant to let anyone glimpse the scars that marred his flesh. It wasn't just about physical appearance; it was about the memories they held, the wounds they represented – both literal and figurative.

With a tender gesture, Ruby rubbed the back of Astarion's neck. She felt him tense beneath her fingers, his breath catching in his throat before he finally eased at her touch.

"That's okay," the dhampir whispered softly, her voice a tender caress as she leaned into Astarion. With a gentle touch, she planted a kiss on his cheek, the warmth of her lips a fleeting yet comforting gesture of affection.

Before she could fully withdraw, the vampire spawn closed the distance between them, his lips meeting hers in a soft, tender kiss. With a gentle touch, Ruby released Astarion's hand and cupped his cheek, her fingers tracing the contours of his jaw with a tenderness that spoke volumes.

As Ruby's fingers halted their gentle caress on the back of Astarion's neck, she instead reached for the small curls at the nape, feeling the soft texture of his hair beneath her touch. With a tender gesture, she pulled him closer, her lips meeting his once again.

The kisses they exchanged were unlike any they had shared before. There was a depth to them, a tenderness that transcended mere physical desire. In that fleeting moment of intimacy, they bared their souls to each other, revealing the raw emotions that simmered beneath the surface.

Gone was the urgency of passion that had ignited their previous encounters. Instead, their kisses were imbued with a sense of reverence, a quiet acknowledgment of the profound connection that bound them together.

As Ruby's violet eyes fluttered open, she was met with the sight of a single tear trickling down Astarion's cheek, glistening like a diamond in the soft glow of the protective Selunite energy that filtered through the window. Her heart clenched at the sight, a surge of tenderness washing over her as she realized the depth of vulnerability he was displaying in that moment.

Gently, she brushed away the tear that had escaped his eye. And then, without hesitation, she leaned in to kiss him once more.

Feeling the strength of his arms enveloping her, Ruby allowed herself to be pulled closer, her body melting against his as he drew her onto his chest. In that moment, she felt a sense of safety and security unlike anything she had ever experienced before, as if she had finally found her true place in the world – cradled in the arms of the man she loved.

As Ruby lay in Astarion's embrace, her mind raced with a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The realization that she loved him took her by surprise, a revelation that left her grappling with a myriad of uncertainties. Love was a concept she had never truly understood, a feeling she had never experienced firsthand. How could she be certain that what she felt was indeed love?

Questions swirled in her mind like a tempest, each one casting doubt upon the authenticity of her emotions. Was this truly what love felt like? And if so, how could she find the courage to admit it to Astarion? He was just beginning to open up to her, to share the depths of his own vulnerabilities, and she feared that revealing the extent of her feelings would only drive him away.

She knew him well enough to recognize his hesitance when it came to matters of the heart. He was timid, guarded, his true feelings buried beneath layers of self-preservation. If she confessed her love for him, would he run? Would he retreat back into the shadows, leaving her alone once more?

But as she lay in his arms, feeling the odd warmth of his cold embrace enveloping her, Ruby knew that she would give anything to hold onto this moment. The thought of losing him was too much to bear, and so she made a silent vow to keep her feelings hidden, locked away in the depths of her heart.

For now, she would cherish their time together, relishing the simple pleasure of being close to him. And perhaps, one day, when the time was right and their bond had grown even stronger, she would find the courage to confess her love. But until then, she would keep her feelings a secret, knowing that she held his undead heart in her hands.

#astarion x tav #astarion angst #astarion fanfic #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion and tav #astarion fluff #astarion x oc #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #baldurs gate #bg3 #named tav #bg3 tav #oc

[hendolish]

can u do jude comforting trent when he finds him upset +maybe crying and jude just holds him

jude bellingham/trent alexander-arnold - horizons

The training ground is quiet, the only sound the soft thud of his football boots against the grass as Jude makes his way through the maze of corridors, a sense of unease gnawing at his gut. He knows something's not right, can feel it in the heavy atmosphere that hangs over the place like a dark cloud.

As he rounds the corner, he spots Trent sitting alone on the dressing room bench, head bowed and shoulders slumped. Jude's heart clenches at the sight, concern flooding through him as he quickens his pace.

"Trent?" Jude's voice is soft, tentative, as he approaches his teammate.

Trent looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy, tears glistening in the corners. He tries to offer a weak smile, but it falters, crumbling under the weight of his emotions.

Jude doesn't hesitate. Without a word, he sits down beside Trent, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. Trent doesn't resist, instead leaning into the embrace, seeking solace in Jude's comforting presence.

They sit in silence for a while, the only sound their steady breathing and the occasional sniffle from Trent. Jude doesn't press him to talk, knowing that sometimes, all you need is someone to be there for you, to offer a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold.

Slowly, Trent's breathing begins to even out, his tears subsiding as he finds comfort in Jude's embrace. Jude tightens his grip, offering silent reassurance that he's not alone, that they're in this together. He, more than anyone, understands the pressures of greatness.

Eventually, Trent lifts his head, his eyes meeting Jude's with a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability. "Thanks.” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

Jude smiles softly, his heart swelling with affection for his teammate and friend. "Anytime." he replies sincerely, squeezing Trent's shoulder gently.

They stay like that for a while longer, lost in their own thoughts but connected by the unspoken bond that binds them together. And as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the training ground, Jude knows that no matter what challenges they face, they'll always have each other to lean on.

♡

#awh cute prompt thank uuu💗 #england nt #england #england national team #england football #football #football rpf #fics #jude bellingham #bellingham #trent alexander arnold #alexander arnold #jude x trent #trent x jude #judetrent #liverpool #liverpool fc #liverpool football club #real madrid

[south-of-heaven]

The BRE x reader

There’s a really bad storm going on and the reader hates storms so the BRE comfort her

When it rains, it pours || The BRE x Reader

Summary: You don't like storms, neither does puppy. You two end up home alone in the middle of one.

You're used to the sunny days and warm weather of Florida, but when storms hit, your anxiety flares up. The booming thunder and fierce lightning make you uneasy. Today is one of those stormy days, and you find yourself alone at home, with Puppy, during the worst part of it.

As the rain pelts against the windows and the wind howls outside, you clutch Isys close to you, feeling her trembling against your chest. It breaks your heart to see her so scared. You're scared too, and you wish your partners were here with you.

Unfortunately, they're stuck in the heavy traffic caused by the storm. You try to keep yourself distracted, turning on some calming music and attempting to comfort Puppy, but it's hard to shake the fear gnawing at you.

Finally, you hear the sound of the front door opening, and relief floods your body. You peek out from under the duvet to see Shayna, Charlie, Jess, and Mia walking in, soaked from the rain. Your heart swells at the sight of them.

They immediately sense your distress and rush over to you. Shayna and Charlie crawl under the covers with you, wrapping their arms around you protectively. Jessamyn and Mia join in, forming a comforting circle.

"You're safe, babe," Shayna murmurs, her soothing voice like a balm to your nerves.

"We're here now, you're alright" Charlie adds, her fingers gently stroking your arm. It sounds like the words are directed at both you and the dog.

Mia's soothing words mix with the sounds of the storm outside, creating a cocoon of reassurance. "We won't let anything happen to you."

Jessamyn leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "You're not alone, hon. We're all here for you."

Feeling their warmth and love surrounding you, you start to relax. You jerk a little when Stannis hops op on the bed but let out a breath of relief when you see his little face bumping against Mia's arm.

The storm may still be raging outside, but inside this cozy haven with your partners and your dogs, you feel safe. The comfort of their presence helps to ease your fears, and you know that together, you can weather any storm that comes your way.

#wwe fanfiction #wwe x reader #pro wrestling #wwe #wrestling #jessamyn duke x reader #jessamyn duke #mia yim x reader #mia yim #michin #shayna baszler x reader #shayna baszler #charlie x reader #charlie girl #dakota kai x reader #dakota kai #the bre x reader #the bre #best roommates ever #bre4l