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cherryjuiceblues · 7 months

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𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟒

➯ HARRY SPECIFIES A FEW THINGS ABOUT THEIR RELATIONSHIP, Y/N ENTERS A NEW HEADSPACE, AND A FEW TEARS START TO FALL. ✰ dom!harry accidental plate smash. a few emotional breakdowns. sexual content. dominant and submissive dynamics. bondage. cum play. subspace. daddy kink. tickling kink. lots of praise. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 16.6k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

Harry hasn’t had someone visit him at work in a very long time.

In fact, Harry can’t even recall the last occasion in which he’d been granted that luxury at all.

So to have Mitch step inside his office (whilst Harry was on the phone and proceed to speak over the man on the other line) to let him know Miss L/N is downstairs, nearly had Harry struggling to remember how to behave. He’d felt special, thought about, cared for—to know Y/N had disregarded her fears and visited him anyway. He’d felt proud of her.

Until the distasteful conversation of his least favoured employees had seeped through his walls and the quieter, less pointed replies of his darling girl made his eyebrows furrow. Knowing that she was being subjected to their entitled prying was enough to squash his initial excitement, but all elation just withered away when Harry heard Y/N minimise their relationship to that of friends.

He can’t say he was expecting to hear that. Not from her pretty mouth. He couldn’t even attempt to school his reaction as he stepped outside of his office, his feet clicking on the ground at exactly the same time the rancid word left Y/N’s lips. I’m his friend. Harry wondered what kind of friends she’d had in her lifetime to warrant that sort of response.

The feeling is new—being irritated and having Y/N be somewhat at the root of his displeasure. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like himself for even letting his brain linger in such a murky area. She’d done nothing wrong. What else was she to say? Oh, he’s actually my dominant. I’m his submissive. We practise BDSM ideals. Factually correct but perhaps inappropriate for casual conversation. And Harry isn’t unaware that they’ve never referred to themselves as dating. Despite feeling in every way Y/N’s boyfriend, her partner, her lover (if he was talking to someone he felt more than comfortable with), he knew she was not the type to assume even the smallest of things. Calling Harry her boyfriend without his ‘permission’ would weigh on Y/N’s mind for days—no matter how unbothered he would be by it.

And yet, he’s still infuriated. Couldn’t she see they were far more than friends? Didn’t she want to tell people that? He’s never been an insecure man but suddenly it sits on his chest like a brick. Maybe she doesn’t want the commitment of a label. Maybe this was just a fun fling; something to look back on in her senior years as an exciting rendezvous. Telling tales to her grandchildren—Your grandma used to get up to all sorts of escapades, you know. Harry didn’t want to be some offhanded story; he didn’t want to be just a memory of hers.

So he behaves inappropriately. He behaves like that of a jealous, unassured brute of a man that has no regard for the communication Harry insists is so important all the time. He becomes a hypocrite. He becomes a man who punishes unworthy actions and plays into power dynamics to make himself feel better.

“Sweet girl,” he traces her upper lip with the pad of his thumb, sliding past to brush the round of her cheek. His voice lacks his usual soft inflection and his face stays hard. “Came to bring me my lunch like a good friend.” She frowns, pulling her head back with sad eyes. Harry’s presence looms over her as she perches on his desk. What is usually a comforting and safe crowding of space now feels distressing to Y/N. She doesn’t want him so near if he’s upset with her. If he’s upset with her she wants to run away—move countries in fact.

He closes his eyes, brows relaxing, and then he leans forward to rest his forehead against hers in a short window of reprieve. “It’s okay. Let me be spiteful. Let me, love.” It’s confusing—of course it is. What he’s asking of her is completely unreasonable! But she’s… she’s perfect, she’s a wonder; an angel reincarnated. Because she nods slowly, unsure and hesitant, and then he kisses her gently. An only slightly lingering enmeshment of lips. Then he steps back.

“Lock my door,” Y/N lags a little but she listens. Harry hadn’t even taken note of her dress; pretty in silky pink—a portrait from a wedding. But he likes that she kept it on to come here, no matter the formality in which she suggests. He can’t deny he admires too, the speed in which the fabric can be loosened from her shoulders. Two dainty straps to push aside and pool the silk at her middle. “Good girl, sit back down.”

“I’m very busy today, Y/N,” he spans his hands over her knees, “I don’t have the time to be dealing with you professing our friendship all over my workplace. Because now—” Harry steps impossibly closer and edges the hem of her dress a few centimetres up her thighs, “now, I need to alter your definition of the word.”

Y/N doesn’t quite know how much Harry is playing. If a part of him is upset but he’s channelling it into sexual energy, if he’s punishing her for coming to see him—clearly something about the way she’d described their relationship has riled him up—Y/N’s not that oblivious. But she’s not a mind reader… and Harry has never been stern with her like this.

It feels fitting to use his preferred honorific. “Sir…” she whispers, unsure of what exactly to say to him. “Have I done something wrong?” It’s a reasonable question.

Harry drags his blunt nails across the tops of her knees. “No,” flattening his palms to slip under the silk until his fingertips tease the satiny skin above the hem of her panties. Y/N grips the edge of the desk with clammy hands. She’s not convinced… but she’s also not inclined to ask anymore questions—she finds that she trusts him regardless—a new discovery considering they’ve never had a conversation so tense before. But it relaxes Y/N a little to realise she still feels safe.

But she isn’t so wrong to wonder if this is a punishment.

With his soft fingertips trailing underneath her dress, his thighs pressing into her knees and his face looking down at her, shadowed by the harsh line of his brows, Y/N feels small. She feels as though he could squeeze into her skin and shrink her down into the palm of his hand, push her back with his strong legs and pin her to his desk, and burn her with the stoniness of his glower.

Those things do happen, in minimised ways, but in order for Harry to reach her neck—as he heavily leans forward for—it’s sort of unavoidable that Y/N’s body makes room. That her head tilts back, and her thighs widen, and her lips part in a silent gasp when he kisses underneath her ear. It’s deceivingly sweet—the sound his mouth makes when it parts from her skin. A quiet smacking and gentle breaths hitting her neck. Y/N’s eyes flutter shut and she just feels as Harry kisses her. Parted lips paying attention to the spot that he knows makes her melt and hands—that manage to balance being soft and rough at the same time—scratching against the tops of her thighs.

Y/N moans quietly into the air, knuckles tightening against the desk when she feels Harry’s teeth tease the underneath of her jaw. Then he takes her skin between them and nibbles—rolling, teasing, harassing the sensitive flesh in a way that makes Y/N squirm. She can almost feel her blood rushing to the surface, hooting and hollering to make an appearance on her neck. Look at us! We’re desired! She hopes and prays her red blood cells choose to calm down. Because Harry certainly isn’t going to… and Y/N finds that she doesn’t want him to either.

His hands push upwards underneath her dress to the bottom of her stomach, and then back to her thighs, and then to her hips. Almost frustrated in the restriction of his movement. And then he lifts her just slightly, enough to pull her dress from underneath her bum and pool on top of her thighs. The cool wood makes Y/N jump a little, straight into Harry as he crowds even closer to her mollifying body. Now much more satisfied with the easier access to the state of her undress, he squeezes her waist with bruising fingertips and tugs her quickly wettening front to his own hardening one.

“Do you do this with your friends, Y/N?” He bites down particularly hard and she gasps.

“No,” her voice barely carries as she tries to shake her head. She doesn’t find it necessary to specify that Niall is her only friend.

“No?” Harry pulls back, lips wet and pupils large, feigning shock, “So, are we not friends?”

“We are!” She pleads, trembling fingers tangling in the front of his shirt.

But Harry disagrees. “No. I am not your friend.”

Y/N’s head scrambles, the high of his lips on her neck providing it difficult to maintain conversation. “Wh—I don’t—” She didn’t want to ask ‘what are we?’. It felt so juvenile.

Harry takes her earlobe into his mouth before trailing back down, across her jaw and all the way to her chin. Down the column of her throat and back up to the underneath of her ear. He kisses, and licks, and sucks. And marks. Then he loosens his tie and removes her hands from his shirt. “Hold your wrists together,” he demands, voice deep and commanding. Y/N’s heart beats like it’s warning her—unable to identify that she’s as safe as she can be—and her mouth dries out completely when she realises what he’s about to do. His tie around her wrists, looping through and underneath her hands to incarcerate them entirely. “Is that okay?” Harry’s eyes meet hers, softening around the edges in a genuine ask of approval; a break of character.

“Yes, Sir,” Y/N nods, twisting her wrists a little to test Harry’s tying ability. It’s perfected. She’s completely and utterly at his disposal—and it’s oddly calming. He smiles, encouraging her tied wrists to rest in her lap as he cradles her cheek with a palm, nurturing thumb painting goosebumps across the rounded flesh.

Then he kisses her. And it’s not gentle, despite the soft lingering of his hand on her face. His mouth captures hers, breaths shared as Y/N is consumed by him, and he takes whatever he pleases. They kiss and they kiss, as though they have all the time in the world. As though they’re floating down a river covered in cherry blossoms and not in the middle of his office during work hours.

But Harry keeps her safe. It’s what he does. Whether they were treading water deep enough for Y/N to drown in, or she was perched upon a desk that was teetering over the side of a volcano—Harry wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

He doesn’t let anything happen to her when Mitch’s telling knock sounds at the door. Y/N tenses up and her eyes widen. She knows she locked it but… Oh God. She’s tied up… on Harry’s desk… with her dress up around her middle.

“Not now, Mitch!” Harry leans back, projecting his voice away from Y/N’s ears.

That’s seemingly all that needs to be said, despite the way Y/N worries about the sure fact that Mitch must understand something unsavoury is happening on the other side of the door. But he doesn’t knock again and Harry secures Y/N with a hand around the back of her neck. If he were feeling more playful, he might take her incarceration as an opportunity to torture her with tickles—to squeeze, and prod, and wiggle as much as he pleased until she was begging with tears in her eyes for him to stop. To want to force eustress laughs and squirms out of her… it makes him feel sadistic. But he can’t stop thinking about it. He’s certain Y/N would bask in the powerlessness it grants her.

Harry pushes the desire down for now. Later… he would, he’d do it. “You told me I could keep you, yeah?” He says millimetres from her mouth. Y/N had told him that. And she’d meant it. She still does. She yearns to be kept—to be cherished, desired, and looked after. Their noses brush when she nods. “You’re mine and I’m yours. Okay?”

That was more than okay. They were each other’s; something Y/N could easily understand. “Okay,” her breath mingles with Harry’s, nudging forwards ever so slightly to press her lips against his in a soft puckering. The sound it makes is equally as delicate—almost enough to make Harry want to pull back and start all over again; untie her hands and materialise the softest of beds to lay her down upon.

But he needs to exercise this control just as much as Y/N needs it demonstrated to her. “Okay,” he repeats, kissing her once, twice, three times. “Let’s make sure it really sinks in then,” and Y/N is reassured enough now to allow a slight smile to upturn her nurtured lips and the excitement to buzz through her veins once more.

It still feels like punishment though. When Harry nudges her tied wrists up enough from her lap that he can smooth his thumb over the front of her underwear. Over the wetness. It makes Y/N shudder, the light weight of his digit brushing over her pulsing bundle of nerves. And when he lifts her feet up to rest on the wood, plucks the sodden material aside and spits down directly onto her cunt… it’s disgusting. Disgusting and disgraceful to be doing this on his desk, for Christ’s sake. But it makes her pussy flutter… pulsate and clench and send swarms of butterflies to her tummy.

He rubs it over with his now shining thumb, dips down to her hole and back up again, in motions too delicate to take Y/N far enough… but just seeing him tower over her—wearing the power of his suit so well—and claim her with his saliva is enough to ignite every nerve in her body.

That’s when she’s sure he’s being mean. When he stops touching her and unzips his slacks to pull himself out. Doesn’t even pop the button. It’s cruel enough that she can’t touch him. That she can’t thumb over his pearling precome and slick it down his thick shaft. But what is infinitely the nastiest thing Harry has ever done, is swipe the flushed tip through her lips—sure to spread her wetness around thoroughly—and start fisting his cock in filthy motions. It’s too fast to be deemed as foreplay, or working himself up enough to fuck her. It’s with purpose as he slides his hand up and down, spitting once again—a hypnotic string falling to his cock—as Y/N is forced to watch Harry build himself up to the brink.

Y/N’s feelings coalesce—sadness and arousal confusing her infinitely. As if the two combine to create something even more overwhelming. To watch such an erotic sight, the sexiest man (who she can now confidently call hers) as he loses himself in pleasure is enough to make her heart beat erratically… and yet it pushes her brows to the centre and makes her restrained wrists itch with the knowledge that she is unable to get him there herself.

Her throat is dry. “But—why are you punishing me if I didn’t— if I didn’t know?” She daren’t say the F word. If I didn’t know not to call us friends.

Harry’s eyes flick up from the spots between their legs to meet Y/N’s conflicted expression. He says, through shallow breaths, “Who said anything about punishment? I’m not punishing you, darlin’, I’m—teaching you, yeah? Helping you learn,” he pauses when he gives himself a particularly good squeeze, swallowing around a groan. “What have I taught you today?”

Y/N fights the urge to stare at his dripping cock, hovering above the perfect hole. He’d feel much better inside her, why won’t he just— She exhales, “We’re not just friends. You’re… you’re keeping me. I’m yours.”

He hums, deep within his throat, fist still moving in dizzying tugs. “Such a fast learner, my clever girl.”

The low cadence of his voice makes her squirm, hips lifting to get just that bit closer to him. She’s balancing uncomfortably on the tips of her elbows, thighs aching with the width in which they are spread. But in this moment it all fades into the background of her thoughts—especially when Harry starts letting out grunts that have arousal immediately pooling at her entrance.

“Oh, fuck,” he leans over, planting his hand next to her folding waist as their bodies dare to meet. Harry keeps them separated though, cruelly; his eyes trained to the distance between her cunt and his cock. He won’t give it to her, she knows that. Understands in the back of her mind that this is supposed to be quick, and somewhat agonising for her, no matter what he’d said about helping her learn. That Harry is in Boss mode and it’s only making her wetter and she can’t do anything about it.

He spits again, lifting himself out of the way so it falls down and onto her pussy. Y/N’s entire body shivers, chest heaving as his saliva drips from her clit to mix with her arousal. And he doesn’t even touch it—doesn’t swirl his fingers or mix their fluids. He just watches as he speeds up the flicks of his wrist and then tears his eyes away to admire the devastation on Y/N’s face.

“I’m g’na—fuck—g’na come all over this pretty pussy,” a squeeze and a groan, “and then tug your panties back over to keep it all nice and safe. And then you’re g’na go home and stay wet for me, aren’t you, darlin’?” She can’t do anything but whimper, face scrunched up as her core throbs and she nods pitifully. “Wish I could come inside of it instead. Stuff just the tip in and tug myself off until I drip out.”

“Oh,” Y/N whines, the noise pitiful and weak. She wishes that too. She wishes he’d come deep inside her and stay there forever.

“But we can build up to that, yeah?” He’s groaning at the very thought.

“Mhm,” her head goes up and down without any contemplation at all.

“Oh, I’m gonna fucking come, baby,” Harry moans and Y/N’s face urges towards his, wide eyes looking up at his glowing skin and dilated pupils. Their noses knock, and then their lips meet in a frenzied clash as they smother one another’s sounds. His fist slicks up and down, up and down—wet, heady skin thumping at the base with each pass of his hand. Precome and dribble coats his fingers, his knuckles, and Y/N is half inclined to open her mouth expectantly until he has no choice other than to stuff it full.

Harry pulls away from her mouth, spit following him as he holds the weight of his head on heavy shoulders. His hand has migrated to the small of Y/N’s back, pulling her as close as possible without letting their middles meet and his hair tickles her face. He’s conservative with the volume of his groans but liberal with the way they topple past his lips—hushed, panted expletives.

“Fuck, y’little pussy’s dripping. Is this what gets you off? Silly little girl likes being treated like a silly little object.”

She nods fervently, “Yes, please, Sir.” Y/N’s pelvis aches, her back is unsupported, and her elbows are digging into hard wood. But it doesn’t matter because she’s Harry’s. His girl, his object—whatever he desires. And the thought of leaving the evidence of their rendezvous in her underwear for the rest of the day, unable to relieve the throbbing between her thighs; it excites her in the most masochistic way.

And when Harry comes, the warmth of his release drips onto Y/N’s neglected pussy and sears through her skin and down to her bones. His quiet moans—reserved but still erotic—fizzle along the surface of her skin and embed themselves in her mind to be replayed over, and over. White dribbles decorate his large hand and paint Y/N’s spread centre, coalescing with the thick, glassy slick of her own arousal—and she only just catches his hypnotised whispers.

Mumbles of a half-conscious man, “That’s it, fuck. So pretty.”

But then he suggests complete clarity—the ability to stay cruel, as he fixes the gusset of Y/N’s underwear back over her sticky, come-painted pussy and smacks down with four fingers over the swollen sensitivity. She gasps and bucks, head throwing back before snapping forward to catch his gaze. Then he does it again, hard enough to jolt her entire body but not enough to hurt. It tingles, and warms, and spreads through her entire being.

And Y/N thinks that’s it. Harry has come and she’s going to keep it in her underwear just like he’d told her to. But then he expertly takes his forefinger and traces a circle around where he knows her clit lies underneath. He teases the nerves and utters something… something he’s said before.

“Let Daddy’s come soak in, that's a good girl.”

The blood rushes through her ears deafeningly.

Let Daddy’s come soak in. It bounces around inside her skull. Let. Daddy. She shivers. He gives her another hard pat and her legs collapse from their propped up position, thighs landing heavily against his desk. Harry’s smile is one of a blissful man. Blissful yet perhaps sadistic. He tucks himself back into his trousers before starting to gently untie Y/N’s wrists. They fall like dead weights into her lap but Harry picks them both up to dot soft kisses around the tender of their pulses. Then he grants her a moment of stillness as his encapsulating palms glide along exposed skin. Up her thighs and to her middle where he adjusts her dress to fall over her lap. From palm to shoulder, blunt nails leaving trails of goosebumps as they scratch soothingly. Along her neck and up to her face, thumbs applying salve as they fix unruly eyebrows and trace imaginary lines.

She’s still undoubtedly buzzing, but Harry’s touch tells her it’s okay. He’s proud of her. She’s good. She’s his and she’s good.

“Thank you, love.” Y/N opens her heavy eyelids. “For letting me be a bit mean. I needed it.”

“It’s okay,” she smiles, “...liked it.”

Harry exhales a laugh, “I know y’did. But regardless,” he rests his hands on her waist and squeezes gently, “we’ll have a chat when I get home. About this, about specification and making sure we’re on the same page. And about certain types of… play. Yeah?”

Y/N sighs, something dreamy that trails off into something whiny. The centre of her legs is begging. She nods.

He knows. “I’ll take care of you, promise. But you’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Lovely girl,” he kisses her—soft and saccharine. The type of kiss a husband gives to his wife.

Harry thinks he needn’t have asked. He certainly needn’t have ordered. Y/N would’ve waited for him no matter what. If not because she can’t make herself feel the way he does then because she just knows. Purposely or not, she just gets it. And he thinks he loves her for it.

Y/N might as well be on another planet.

She is uncomfortable to her own detriment—her thoughts are helpful to no one and she thinks if she were to hold her hands out in front of her they would shake. Her underwear is surely the consistency of paper mache and just placing one foot in front of the other has her feeling akin to a penguin; the waddle, in which she is paranoid she’s exhibiting, enough to make her rush home in a hypnotised funk.

But aside from the stickiness between her thighs and the distracting pulsating calling her like a siren, Y/N feels good. Much better than a few hours prior when she’d worried she’d been the cause of greatly upsetting Harry. That she’d ruined their relationship before it had even really begun.

Her mind can focus on only one thing… Daddy. It felt wrong to like the way it sounded coming from Harry’s mouth—the implications of playing with such a word—but Y/N couldn’t deny the way it made sense for her. His capability, his dominance, his ability to have Y/N’s overworking brain suddenly be granted tunnel vision for him and him only. His control, his power; it all clicks into place.

For a handful of absent minutes, Y/N sits and stares at the wall. Processing. But it’s hard—almost like her brain has been cloaked in a thick covering of fog—which Y/N is familiar with in other contexts. Of anxiety, and low mood, and exhaustion. Never has this fog been so direct in its assailing of her senses—she feels light and heavy, at the same time—is half inclined to just sit and wait at the door for Harry to come home like a dog. Her thoughts can only surround him; the way he spoke, the way he touched her, the way he controlled her. All of it replays over, and over, and over—keeping the torturous throbbing in between her legs alive and well. Until she sees the time and realises the thirty minutes she’s convinced herself have passed, has actually only been five.

So she does the only thing she can think of. She cleans.

Y/N finds cleaning therapeutic; the motion of washing away grime, of making things shiny and smell nice. It feels like renewal and it makes her feel competent. It’s something she struggles to do in her own home—finding the motivation can appear impossible at times. But for her to do it for Harry… it feels like something that will make him happy, something that will make her good, something that will make up, even the tiniest bit, for just how much he’s done for her.

It’s exciting.

Her body whisks her around the house, almost as if on autopilot, as she hoovers, and dusts, and disinfects, and washes. Time moves so much faster now that she’s busy, that when Harry walks through the front door she’s sure he’s left work early. She hardly sees him until she’s right in front of his tall body. Then her heart melts.

“Harry,” her tone is soft, somewhat unshackled by the hesitancy she regularly possesses. Her lips curl into an easy smile and her muscles relax.

“What have you been up to, my fair maiden?” He teases, glancing at the pink rubber gloves decorating her fingers, delicate feathers tickling her forearms, and then to the little bucket hanging off her arm, filled with sprays and cans—cloths and wipes.

“Made it all clean for you…” She feels as though something is missing when she speaks… like it would be appropriate to call him Sir right now.

“What’s ‘it’, lovely? The house? You cleaned the whole house?”

Y/N’s grin widens and her head bobs up and down in an excitable nod. Harry’s chest tightens. Never has he come home to something like this before. A cooked meal, yes. A kiss and a promise of more later, yes. A girl bubbling with giddiness at the anticipation of his reaction to his home that she’s made spotless… never. It overwhelms him a little—the encapsulating desperation to smother her all of a sudden. To just hold her until their bodies fuse together.

Harry steps forward, taking her supplies and setting them down before gently unrolling the gloves from her hands. Then he’s snaking his arms around her waist and hoisting her up with ease, relishing in the squeal he gets from Y/N when he gives them both a little spin. He buries his face into her neck, pretending to bite her like he loves to do so often (it’s hardly pretending when he does actually do it). Her laughter bounces around them and blooms in his chest, echoing like the perfect birdsong.

“What made you do all this?” He asks, pulling his face back to look into her eyes.

She goes shy, eyes avoiding his face as her lip catches between her teeth. “I missed you… wanted to do something nice. For… for…”

“For…” Harry prompts, capable hands stroking along her back.

Her eyes squeeze shut and her forehead falls forward, knocking against his own gently. It’s on the tip of her tongue and yet it feels impossible to get out. “For… Daddy,” she finally whispers. And it’s embarrassing. Heat spreads throughout her body—the humiliating kind but… but it feels good too. It feels submissive. Harry’s fingers dig into her back for a moment. Almost as though he can’t believe she actually said it. But she did, and she’s less nervous than usual, so she’s surely slipping through space.

“Well, he’s certainly very pleased with you, baby. Thank you.” He kisses her forehead. And he really concludes she’s feeling floaty when he tries to place her down, only to be met with grappling fingers knotting into the back of his shirt and strained whines of complaint.

He does what she needs him to do. “Go and sit down in the living room. I’ll be in.” Y/N looks at him for a second, eyes darting back and forth between green. And when the sincerity of his gaze shines through, she relaxes and turns away, doing as Harry says.

He doesn’t need to make her wait. It’s not necessary. So he’s quick to hang his jacket up and loosen his tie, before retrieving a glass of water from the kitchen and taking it to Y/N.

When she sees him again, the creases in her mind smooth themselves out. The sound of his dress shoes tapping along the hard floor is cushioned by the rug, and then he stands before her, silenting ordering she have a drink. There is no hesitation to comply.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks, crouching down in front of where she sits. His trousers tighten around his thighs.

“Good,” she nods her head.

“Yeah?” He reaches for her legs, smoothing his palms up her knees to splay on top of her thighs. Warm. Secure. “Is your brain nice and quiet?” She nods again. “How long have you felt like this, darling?”

Y/N’s smaller hands rest atop Harry’s, fingers curling around his own for stability. “Since I left your office.”

He hums like he knows… which he does. Of course he knows. It couldn’t be more obvious that the centre of her thighs is sticky and hot. With his come, with her arousal. Harry’s blood pumps faster at the thought of the image—one he’s already seen but not for long enough. So he asks with complete understanding, “What did you like the most about that?”

Y/N’s eyes drop to the collar of Harry’s shirt. “Your tie… and your control… and you—you said… y’know...”

He tries not to laugh. “You’ve already said it once, sweetheart, surely it’s not so hard. Did you like it when Daddy came in your pretty panties? And all over your pretty pussy? Did you like it when he slapped your little cunt? I could feel it throbbing, baby. So desperate to come but Daddy didn’t let you, did he?”

Y/N mewls, head shaking and knees starting to bob up and down nervously. Harry keeps them still.

“You’re slipping into a subspace, my love.” Harry grips her face gently, forcing eye contact. “I need you to really listen to me right now. What are your safewords? Tell me.”

“Red and Yellow.”

“Good girl. Never forget them, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiles, pulling her towards him to sponge a soft kiss to her lips. “I want you to start using Green, as well. Green means you’re good, you’re enjoying yourself and you don’t want to stop. I’m going to ask you for your colour more than usual today, darlin’. You understand?”

“Yes, Sir. Green is good.”

“Lean into how you’re feeling. I’m more than capable of taking care of you, okay? I want you to feel safe. But if you want to stop, you’ll tell me. You’ll say that tiny, little word. Just one Red, or one Yellow, and I’ll stop everything immediately.”

“Okay. Okay, Sir. I understand.” Her fists reach out, landing on his chest in soft frustration. She’s waited long enough. She understands—she understands very well, in fact. And whilst her head might be free from the usual weight of anxiety, it’s since been replaced with the deafening resounding of Harry’s name, Harry’s voice, Harry.

“Do you want me to take care of you, Y/N?” He asks it but it’s a command for her. To look him in the eye and communicate.

“Yes,” she nods. “Please, Harry, I—need you.”

It settles thick and buzzing in his stomach. I need you. He needs her just as much, he’s certain.

“Darling, tell me your colour.”

Green. So fucking green. Bright, luminescent green—Great Gatsby light-at-the-end-of-the-dock green.

Y/N had done so well to ask to be tied up again. Pulling her hands up above her and to the headboard; so much more intense, so much more vulnerable. Harry had made her ask, mind you, (goaded and teased until she was fervent with need) but he is still so proud. Her body is stretched out for him, ankles too shackled in soft ribbons and tied to either side of the end of his bed frame.

This was different territory, and that’s why Harry has to keep asking. He leans over her, looking for her gaze. “Darlin’,” Y/N blinks up at him with a coy smile, “colour.”

“Green.” She pouts her lips expectantly, head lifting up from the pillows to reach him. His mouth is right there… right there. He drops slightly and kisses her chastely. Unsatisfyingly for Y/N who wants more—who wants everything—but Harry pulls away, content that she’s happy.

“Good.” He stands back up at the foot of the bed, admiring the naked girl below him. Completely nude except for her underwear, where underneath she is still very much unsatiated and painted in Harry. It’s impossible to resist smoothing his fingers over her mound; fabric long from being dry. Just the pressure of his digits makes her skin scatter with goosebumps. “Pretty thing. Is this what you were thinking about all afternoon? Waiting for me to come home and spread you out... and take care of your little ache?”

Y/N feels drunk. Her body is hot and cold, light and heavy. She’s embarrassed to be so open for him but it feels squashed somehow—like shame and shyness couldn’t stand a chance in getting in her way. It’s why she feels confident enough to push her hips up into his hand, and stare directly into his eyes without giving a verbal answer.

But Harry knows, so perfectly, how to respond to her. Harry knows what Y/N wants before she does. “Have we forgotten how to speak?” He looks down to her jutted hips pointedly, pushing them firmly back to the mattress and taking his hand away. A minor punishment for demanding his touch.

“No, Sir.”

This is new. She’s… cheeky. She’s begging for help—she’s swimming through waves of fog and clarity, desperation and discipline.

Harry has to bite back a smile; refusing to give her a small victory. It seems the descent into subspace has given her confidence—an unconscious urge to push his buttons. He could push her deeper with ease, mould her into the malleable state he knows well… or he could see what else she has to say for herself.

“No. Sir.” Harry repeats her words slowly, bluntly, almost as though he’s feeling them out. “I thought…” his fingertips dance up her left calf. “I thought…” up to the inside of her thigh where the skin is oh, so sensitive—silky and delicate—“that we established an affinity for the other word, hm?” He takes the backs of his nails and drags them down her right leg, provokingly slowly, and watching as it twitches into his touch.

Whether it’s the excitement of finding out what Harry will do next if she doesn’t comply, or the genuine mortification of saying it—Y/N can’t do it. She can’t force the word out of her mouth; it swims around in her brain but refuses to meet her tongue. “Ha—Harry.”

“Oh,” he laughs humourlessly, “Harry, she says. Harry. Okay, love, and what about the other one?”

Her face breaks a little, scrunching up as she shakes her head. “Can’t.”

Harry smacks his fingers on her right breast, pulling downward as he assaults her peaking skin. It’s not so hard, but the sound and the shock of the sudden strike has Y/N gasping out, her back arching. “Yes. You can. Managed just fine earlier.”

“No,” she whines, sounds getting caught in the back of her throat as she pulls against the headboard slightly.

Harry demands in earnest, “Colour.”

Y/N huffs, “Green,” her tone petulant and sulky. It was really hard to admit liking something when she was fighting it at the same time.

“Oh dear,” Harry frowns, “she’s having a little strop.” Y/N only pulls harder, unable to hide her face in any way with her limbs so restricted. She tries her legs too, knees able to bend ever so slightly before Harry flattens them to the bed. “That’s okay, I can wait.” Then he pulls his hand back, watching for Y/N’s body to tense up as he feigns bringing his harsh fingers down again. Instead, when her back arches as he holds his hand in the air, he puts it to her left breast in a hard squeeze. The air is forced out of Y/N’s lungs; surprise, relief, disappointment all coalescing. “I can wait or I can force it out of you. One word—it’s all I want. Admit you like it.”

She looks at him—embarrassment, pleasure, vulnerability all clear as day on her face. He can see the thoughts as they pass behind her eyes. She yearns to obey but she’s still clinging onto the mortification. Saying that word once had felt like climbing a mountain and—she’s doubting herself—it hadn’t sounded right from her lips. She’d been too coy, too ashamed. It’s too much, she’s panicking, she wants Harry to push her deeper.

“Hm? What’s the word, baby, are you g’na tell me?” Harry’s hands flatten against her sternum, dragging down to rest on her stomach. He’s got one knee propped up against the outside of her thigh, like he’s preparing to join her on the bed.

Y/N frowns and shakes her head like she’s sad to admit it. Like she’s apologising for not being able to, remorseful to let him down. Her eyes are glassy, and her face is warm. She’s so close to letting go; to sinking deep into the mattress like it’s made of marshmallow. She assumed she was already there whilst she was pottering about, waiting for Harry to get home, but her thoughts were still very much buzzing at the forefront of her mind—no matter how thick or concentrated they may have been. She wants to think nothing. She just wants to feel.

“No. Okay,” Harry sighs. He sounds frustrated but he’s not really. He’s excited. But his stoic demeanour remains. “That’s okay, I’ll take care of it. I’ll get you so dumb that that pretty mouth responds no matter what I ask of it.”

Y/N nods. Yes, yes, that’s exactly what she wants. “Please.” Her hips push up again instinctively. Harry finally climbs up to hover over her, thighs bracketing one of her own. His knee threatens to push into her centre.

A hum sounds from the back of his throat as he leans down to kiss Y/N’s cheek with soft lips. “Still Green?”

She exhales dreamily, head tilting a fraction to encourage his mouth to meet hers. “Yes.”

Harry gives her what she silently asks for. His lips over hers, his hands smoothing across the sides of her face and into her hair, shared breaths, and gentle strokes of tongue. Palms trail down her body, landing on her waist. They squeeze enough to make Y/N jolt and Harry smile against her mouth. Then he hoists her body up so she’s bearing her weight on her upper back and the hot middle of her legs meets Harry’s thigh.

Her breath catches. Thick, warm muscle cloaked in tight black material pressing against damp, slick underwear. She feels full without actually being so—the presence of him there making her clit throb and her panties rub tantalisingly over her arousal. Harry controls her movements with the fingers digging into her waist—his thumbs brush featherlight over her stomach and it makes Y/N shiver; the softness.

But, rather contrastingly, the softness between her own thighs and the hardness that presses into her core is far from chaste. He moves her up and down over his meaty flesh, “Still… Green?” he asks, knowing damn well Y/N is silent with pleasure and nothing else. Her mouth is agape—the first sign of finally appeasing the lasting thrumming shocking her into speechlessness.

The inside of her panties is cold against her… and feels full, and sticky, and nasty. She’s sure were Harry to peel them away that they’d stick, and take strands with them as they went. Y/N finds she’s dreading that moment significantly… or is it precisely the opposite? Is she despairingly desperate for him to see her all messy? Is she hoping he’ll have no other choice than to mock and ridicule her? She whines loudly and the sound drags on as she points her chin to the ceiling and pushes her cunt further onto Harry’s thigh.

Her breast stings, and Y/N looks up to find one of Harry’s hands squeezing it tightly. He’d smacked her again but she can’t possibly think why. Until he says, “I asked you a question, silly girl. Still Green?”

It takes her a few seconds to process his words—warmth spreading underneath his hand and the feel of her nipple grazing his palm adequately slowing her brain function—but when she does, her head moves up and down fervently. Harry can’t help but slip his hand up from her tit to slink around her throat, squeezing the sides and deliciously restricting her blood flow. “I don’t understand dopey nodding, baby. Tell me,” which is cruel because there’s a rather large, compressing element against her voicebox.

“Gr—een,” Y/N exhales.

“Good girl,” he releases the pressure of his fingers, hand still holding as Y/N’s throat contracts underneath. “Does that feel nice? Against Daddy’s thigh, hm?” Harry pulls her onto him harder, flexing his muscle as he starts grinding her hips for her. Y/N mewls and moans, nodding despite Harry’s previous aversion to it. Her wetness is starting to seep through to his slacks, warm and sticky. “I know you love it, Y/N. Why won’t you just say it?” His hands move down to clutch onto her hips, speeding up the way her centre rubs against his thigh. “Just one… tiny… word. That’s all I want.”

Y/N’s abdomen tightens. Her orgasm has been dormant all day, and even the most pathetic of touching is awakening it. She shakes her head before she realises she’s even doing it; too focused on the feeling between her thighs to appropriately respond.

And that’s when Harry really starts to fray around the edges. There’s a certain thing that’s been floating around in his head. For weeks, and weeks, and weeks. Ever since he met Y/N. The idea of tickling her at her most vulnerable, as a pleasurable torture device. Her hands and ankles are tied—there’s no getting away from it, no escaping Harry’s cruel, slender fingers as they start to wiggle and dig into Y/N’s sides. Harry watches her squirm and relishes in her immediate shriek. Her back arches as she tries fruitlessly to get out of his grasp and her bound limbs tug and twist against the silky ribbons. He could do this forever; literally and figuratively. She’s at his complete and utter disposal. He pulls her against his thigh again, and in a frenzied motion, tugs her panties aside hard enough to hear rips and see elastic snap.

Her pussy is swollen—unsurprisingly so but Harry still groans. Copious amounts of slick, turned creamy with drops of his come still nestled between her, immediately staining his trousers. She cries out, sucking in desperate breaths when Harry stops tickling her for a moment. Too transfixed to multitask. He runs a thumb through her and near shivers at the sound of her gasp, putting his shiny digit to her lips to paint them salaciously. He hums, “Dirty girl, leaving this filth in your panties all day.”

And Y/N can’t even respond. Not because she’s at a loss for words (although that remains true) but because Harry starts to speed up. Everything. He attacks her in motions so fast that Y/N cannot process them—she can only take it.

Harry spits down onto her—so much like the way he did in his office—watching it land on her clit before rubbing it in with his thumb. It’s so unnecessary; to make her wetter. Y/N has literally never been this wet in her entire life, but she supposes it’s addictive—to make things all messy. He circles her quickly with such perfect pressure that Y/N could come if he just kept going. But he doesn’t. He stops to grab her waist again, forcing her hips to roll over, and over, and over until Y/N is right on the edge—back arching and cute, erotic sounds flowing from her lips—and then he digs his fingers into her flesh, cruel and calculated.

Y/N stutters, and the desperation to escape only has her cunt pushing harder into Harry’s thigh. He’s relishing in her squirms, evil to his core. “Please!” She begs but it’s not clear.

Harry coos, “Oh, I don’t know what you want. You’ll have to tell Daddy, sweetheart.”

“Please, please, please,” Y/N cries, jolting body bending all out of shape as Harry burrows into the sensitive skin of her waist.

“You wanna come? Is that it?”

“Yes!” No. Not right now. Right now she wants Harry to stop. fucking. tickling. her. “Harry…” she drags the sound of the ‘Y’ out, whingy and pathetic. But then he does stop. He stops and he pulls his thigh away and Y/N panics. “No! Please, Sir.” She wants to reach for him but her wrists remain.

“Dumb, whiny girl. You don’t know what you want, either.” Harry leans over her sensitive body, lips trailing up the centre of her chest and up to her ear. “I’m half inclined to just stick my dick in you and go to sleep. I’ve had a long day, you know? I’d quite like some rest… with a warm, tight cunt to soothe me.” Y/N clenches around nothing. She can feel a thick trail of arousal dripping down to her bum. It makes her wriggle. “I know what I want,” he says, breath delicate against the shell of Y/N’s ear. “I want you to admit you like calling me Daddy. It’s not a hard ask, sweetheart. Just say it.”

Harry kisses down her neck, sucking her skin into his mouth; pressing his lips to every available inch of flesh. Y/N’s heart pounds, heavy and loud beneath her ribs. Harry might even be able to feel it as he passes over with his mouth. “If you say it…” his face is hovering over her tummy—down, further, until his soft exhalations are hitting Y/N’s clit, “I’ll let you come. If you don’t… well… I happen to be very content staying right here.” And then he flattens his tongue against her, finally cleaning her up.

Harry moans just to watch Y/N’s mouth fall open—nose nudging her clit tantalisingly. He licks her so slowly but so intensely, sighing happily as his stubble saturates. Y/N can feel her orgasm building already. He knows, of course—doesn’t let her tip over the edge. Especially not when she doesn’t even try to beg. His palm comes down against the inside of her thigh, stealing a cry from her as she writhes around.

Big hands snake underneath to hold Y/N’s ass, pulling her into his face. She doesn’t take long to get there again, noises increasing in both frequency and volume. “Har… Oh, please. Please.” Her clit is so sensitive. It was before it had even really been touched but now it’s just bullied. Harry pushes his face in deeper as his response, tongue stroking her walls and nose bumping her with each curl.

But then he pulls away again, inhaling deeply and dropping Y/N’s hips to the mattress. “We taste good together, y’know,” straddling her waist with his thighs—one still considerably stained by her slick—and capturing her lips in a proper kiss. A kiss that makes Y/N whimper into his mouth, a kiss that makes her head clear, a kiss that tells her she’s hopelessly in love. He holds her face, lips parting just enough for him to mutter, “What’s your colour, darling?”

“Green. But—Please, can I come?”

He pulls back to look at her. “I don’t know, sweetheart, have you called me Daddy yet?”

Y/N pauses… and then she nods, “When you got home.”

Harry’s fingers quickly reach down and squeeze her waist, smiling when she yelps. He laughs, “That doesn’t count.”

“Please?”

“You’re being so coy. We both know you want to say it.”

“It’s embarrassing!”

“You’ve already done it once!”

“That was different, Sir.”

Harry strokes his palms along her ribs and over her breasts. “Why’s that?”

“I was… I don’t know.” She inhales. “I do like it, I really like it, Harry please.” Y/N tries to twitch her hips; impossible underneath the vast weight of Harry’s sturdy body.

He hums, pleased to hear her admit something. “What are you missing?” He thumbs over her nipples. Her breath catches.

She could do it. She wanted to do it. “D—Daddy.”

Harry kisses her again—surges forward bruisingly to sponge their lips together. “Good girl,” he whispers into her mouth. “Good girl, say it again.”

She huffs, frustrated, aroused, and desperate simultaneously. “Please, Daddy.”

“Fuck, there you go,” he grunts, shuffling his thighs down her body to bracket her knees. He wastes no time smearing four digits over her clit in rapid swipes. Y/N throws her head back, mewling and gasping. “Does my pretty girl w’na come? All over Daddy’s fingers? Yeah?”

“Yuh-huh, yeah, yeah, please, oh—” Harry presses his hand into her abdomen, refusing to let her hips undulate, as he finally lets Y/N come, sending her over the edge with a swat to her cunt. Her moans crescendo—cute, uh’s and other choked sounds—wrists pulling at the headboard as soon as the overstimulation kicks in. “Oh—oh, God, yes,” she breathes as she comes down, Harry’s thumb now swiping gently through the thick arousal that has pooled out of her.

He brings it to his mouth, “Mm, well done, baby.” Overwhelmed tears pool in her eyes, the pleasure buzzing through her veins. Now, she’s floating. Harry frowns, smoothing a palm over her head. “Col—”

“Green!” Y/N exclaims quickly. Her bottom lip wobbles. “Felt really, really good.”

Harry reaches behind him, blindly but gently, untying her ankles from the bedposts. Y/N doesn’t move them. “Would you still be Green if I fucked you, darlin’?”

She nods instantly, “Yes, yes, Green,” pushing her hips up.

He rubs his thumbs over her ankles—a soft moment—before he’s flipping her body over. Her bound wrists cross and her face pushes into the pillow. It smells like Harry; Y/N breathes in deeply.

Harry looks over the woman lying face down on his bed. Her pretty bum, her soft miles of skin begging to hold the indentations of his fingers, the ribbon adorning her wrists—he breathes out. Then he loosens his tie and starts to unbutton his shirt. He kicks his shoes off and unzips his slacks. Y/N turns her head to the side, seeing Harry’s clothes fall to the floor out of the corner of her eye. She wriggles in excitement and Harry gives her ass an affectionate tap.

“Hips up,” he says, reaching over her to grab a pillow and stuff it underneath her body. Harry is sure he’s never seen a more beautiful view. “I’m so lucky to have you,” he kisses the bottom of her spine. Y/N exhales a shaky breath, feeling as though she’s drifting peacefully in a vast ocean—as Harry caresses her skin slowly, surely, taking her all in.

She could so easily profess something silly in this moment.

“Harry,” she says instead.

“Yes, darling?”

“Will you untie me, please?”

He reaches up for her hands immediately, pulling the ends of the ribbon and letting it fall up her arms and flutter to the sheets. “Are y’hurting?”

Y/N shakes her head, letting her limbs fall heavy beside her head, “Want you to hold them,” she whispers.

Harry kisses her cheek, “Let me get a condom. What do you say if you want me to stop?”

“Yellow or Red,” she replies, eyes closing delicately. She could probably fall asleep and dream of that everlasting ocean. But then the mattress shifts, and safe, warm hands glide up her back.

“You’re so lovely,” he murmurs. Y/N hears the ripping of a wrapper, and the silence of Harry rolling on the condom. She feels his hands adjusting her hips, pulling at her bum. “Such pretty holes,” he mutters to himself. Y/N whines and buries her head into the pillow, humiliated and overwhelmed with anticipation. But then Harry runs a thumb over her untouched entrance and her head comes shooting back up. “Shh, shh, I’m just feeling you. I can’t wait to play with you here.”

“Harry,” Y/N complains, butterflies going rampant in her tummy. She can’t wait either, it seems.

His hands drop to the backs of her thighs, thumbs brushing the outside of her lips. Then they leave her skin and a familiar thickness swipes through her, tapping against her clit momentarily. Instinctively, Y/N wants to push up on her knees, but Harry keeps her flat with a palm to the bottom of her spine. “You g’na take Daddy like a good girl?”

A shiver runs through her, “Yes—yes, yes.” She takes a deep breath.

“That’s it,” his voice is tight as he watches himself get swallowed around her. He wants to be cruel—wants to keep just the head snug inside of her, pull out, push back in, pull out, nudge it around her clit… He thinks about it—he does. But he just can’t bear the thought. She’s so warm and squeezes him with every breath; pulling out would be sacrilege. “This little pussy loves me, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir,” Y/N whines, every inch forcing the breath from her lungs.

Harry smacks her ass, holding firmly onto her hip when she jolts, “Yes, who?” pushing in deeper as she struggles to process his question. His palm comes down on the other side. “Yes, who?”

Y/N wants to push her body back, feel the weight of Harry’s balls snug against her clit, prod the space inside of her that he is so familiar with. But she takes too long to answer. She must do—because Harry starts to pull out and Y/N’s heart plummets. No, no, no.

“Daddy! Yes, Daddy.” Her face burns. “Please—please don’t leave me.”

His hips stutter. He knows what she means. Literally—she doesn’t want him to leave her, literally. To pull out entirely. But the way it sounds… It sounds like…

Harry pushes back in. All the way. He leans his immense body over Y/N’s pretty back and entwines his fingers with hers that lie beside her head—just as she’d asked. His big palms holding and protecting. She all but disintegrates into the bed, a relieved sob leaving her lips as Harry’s weight presses her down and he kisses her cheek. Her eyes struggle to stay open; the overwhelming fullness inside of her and the compression of Harry’s body, it’s peace incarnated.

“Does that feel good, baby? Daddy’s thick cock filling you up.”

“Mhm. S—so, so…” She weakly squeezes Harry’s fingers, blissful sigh falling from her lips. But when Harry starts to pull his hips back—having let Y/N adjust—her grip tightens. “Please. Stay.”

Harry is only surprised for a moment, and then he says, “Stay? How am I supposed to fuck you if I don’t move, darlin’?” Y/N pushes her bum back into him, silently begging. “You jus’ want me nice and deep in you, yeah? Is that right?”

“Yes, please.”

“Does this make you happy?” His voice softens and he unlinks one of their hands so he can trace Y/N’s hairline, behind her ear, across her cheek, down the bridge of her nose. He’s never seen her so content. He’d thought he had before, when she was with him, specifically. But this moment, right here—this is the most tranquil he’s ever seen anyone. “Yeah? Are you happy, baby?”

“Yes, Daddy, ‘m so happy—thank you.”

Harry nudges her chin and captures her lips. It’s awkward from the position she’s in, neck stretching to reach him, but it’s perfect. It’s intimate, and trusting, and says so much with no words. They look like the perfect depiction of raw, human connection.

They kiss and Harry stays atop Y/N in mind-numbing serenity. He’ll shift his hips inside of her and her mouth will stop responding to his, slack against his lips as he licks into and against her tongue. Everything is slow. And maybe Harry hadn’t necessarily planned this pace but he likes it—it makes sense.

He starts to grind his hips into her bum and Y/N tightens up. “Relax, sweet girl, know it feels good but relax.” Harry thinks if his dick wasn’t screaming at him to chase pleasure, that he’d be happy to stay like this forever. In the most intimate and warm of embraces. He retracts ever so slightly, not enough for Y/N to complain about, and then sinks back in. Flush against her body. She squeezes around him and Harry can feel how wet her walls are. A part of him wants to fuck her hard enough to hear it too.

They fall into a rhythm. A slow, intense rhythm. One that builds up to the type of orgasm that overwhelms a person so much, they can never forget it. Almost a core memory. One they think about; the way it consumed their entire being—for vivid minutes—and left their body weak and pliant. Y/N’s muscles give in completely, allowing Harry to nudge all the right places with every single twitch of his hips.

She’s mewling—a constant stream of pathetic noises—and Harry’s finding it hard not to do the same. He can feel the increase of the pulsating around him. “You’re close, baby.” He doesn’t need to inquire—he knows. “Hold it. Can you do that f’me?” Y/N moans, the side of her face smushed against the pillow. She hasn’t had one coherent thought for the last ten minutes, so she surely can’t start now. She can’t hold it, not really; she’s never had to before. But Harry doesn’t need her to, as such. He’s sure his orgasm is just as close as hers. “Darlin’, tell Daddy you’ll hold it.” It’s still fun though.

“I—I’ll ho—hold it, Daddy,” she slurs, crushing Harry’s fingers. His chest is flush to her back and his hips to her bum. He unlinks one of their hands to curl a bulging bicep around her throat, dewy face pressing into her cheek as he whispers expletives to her. Murmurs of how good she is for him, his good fucking girl. Daddy’s so proud and he loves you so much—

Except—No. He can’t say that. It lingers on the tip of his tongue but he pushes it back down and swallows uncomfortably around it. Daddy’s so proud and he wants you to come for him. Yeah. That’s right.

Y/N nestles her mouth around the skin of his arm—the inside of his elbow—attempting to burrow her nose into his flesh and muscle as she whimpers and whines. Her tummy is swirling and her heart is racing and it feels so good her eyes are watering. “Pleathe,” she muffles around his skin. And Harry can feel it too, the way it builds for them both. A fusion of throbbing, and ecstasy, and something so monumental they feel as though they’re the only two people alive. Because how could there be other people living when Y/N and Harry felt so good?

“Come on, baby. I can feel it, give it t’me.”

Y/N clenches around him as he nudges so deep and then releases Harry’s arm to beg, “Inside, inside, please.”

It nearly ruins everything, the sudden disappointment that washes over him at remembering his inability to do so. But he plays along—after all, Harry loves to play. “Yeah? Y’want Daddy to fill you up? Want his warm come dripping out of you, baby? You’re so dirty.”

She nearly comes then, just from his words alone. But then he reaches his other hand down, roughly shoves it underneath her body and finds her clit easily. Y/N might as well have exploded. She withers, she disintegrates, she is dismantled to nothing but a shaking mess as she orgasms. Her body trembles and her throat releases high pitched cries, trailing off into tired moans as a few tears escape over her waterline. All while Harry bites down on her shoulder, holding off as long as he can for no good reason. To stay coherent enough to witness Y/N at her most beautiful, perhaps. But her cunt quivers around him, squeezing and releasing so quickly that he can’t help but finally let himself come.

“Oh, yeah— f—fuckin’ shit.” He buries his face in the back of Y/N’s hair, holding as much of her as he possibly can with the arm around her front. His fingers cease on her clit shakily, thumping down next to their bodies as he tries to support his weight. It’s fruitless, and he lets his chest mould to Y/N’s back as the last of his release fills the condom. He came a lot and he’s almost upset that he can’t fall asleep right now. But Y/N is still trembling and his instincts kick in once again.

“Good girl, baby. My best girl. You did so well,” he whispers, adjusting his hands so they’re holding himself above her. He dots kisses wherever on her face he can reach. A tear falls down the bridge of her nose and he sponges his lips to it. “Can you talk to me? Are these happy tears?” Y/N nods clumsily, stiffly trying to turn onto her back. Harry pauses her. “Let me pull out, sweetheart. Breath in f’me. There you go, darlin’, let’s see your pretty face proper.”

He doesn’t get much of a chance, however, as Y/N launches her heavy arms around his shoulders and urges him to lay on top of her again. Harry laughs gently, wrapping his arms around her back. She exhales contentedly. “You made me stop thinking,” her throat tightens. “I didn’t have to think.”

Harry squeezes her, “You don’t have to start again yet. You don’t ever have to think when you’re with me.”

Silence overtakes them for a while. Harry has rolled over so that Y/N is lying on top of him. Then he says, “I’m sorry, baby.”

Y/N frowns and props her chin on his chest. “What for?”

“If I had known you were floating away earlier, I wouldn’t have made you come home.”

She shakes her head. “It’s okay… I think—I think I’ve been like that before. Not sexually but… when I’m having a bad day I can go a bit… weird.”

“It’s not weird. You just get into a headspace. That’s what I’m here for. It doesn’t have to be sexual all of the time.”

They talk. They talk, and talk, and talk.

About her subspace, and the office, and the… friends thing.

“I didn’t know you liked to be so… so mean.” She treads carefully. She doesn't want him to think she doesn’t like it.

“I like control… which you give me plenty of already but—sometimes I need to be rough, sometimes I need to be angry.”

“You were angry? Earlier?”

“Not angry… frustrated. I was frustrated and I was a hypocrite, actually, and I shouldn’t have turned it into a sex thing.”

“I didn’t mind.”

He laughs, “I know but…I don’t want to get into that habit, love.”

“But…” she pauses. Harry looks at her and raises an eyebrow. “You said we’d talk about… about certain types of play.”

He hums, “I did. You like being tied, yeah? Like being restrained?”

Y/N nods, her chin moving against his chest. She’s more honest in this state. “I think… doing what you tell me to do… is the thing.”

“Mhm. I do too. You’re not gagging for silk, you’re gagging to be given orders and to have me do as I please to you.”

“Maybe,” she admits coyly, flattening her forehead to his sternum. Harry sinks his hand into her hair and tugs lightly in response. Then she purposely speaks so that it is near impossible for him to hear.

Harry still picks up certain, important words. “I can’t come in you, baby. Not unless we discuss it first.”

“Let’s discuss it now!” Y/N lifts her head up again, a hopeful glint in her eye.

Harry pinches her arse. “No. Later, I promise.”

Silence befalls once again, and they really ought to get up, pee, clean up, eat dinner. But Harry asks one more thing of Y/N. “What have I taught you today?” He echoes his words from when the pair were hidden away in his office.

She answers with no hesitation. “I’m yours.”

Y/N wouldn’t say she had purposefully littered her personality around Harry’s home, but when you spend more time somewhere than you do your own house, it tends to happen.

She buys some fridge magnets one day. A pack of letters—one of each in the alphabet—and the numbers zero to nine. Which, even as she is buying them she thinks, how ridiculous—that you can only spell words that don’t require more than one of the same letter. And yet she pays for them anyway.

She thinks about what she’ll spell out on her own fridge—but she’s too impatient to ponder for longer than a couple of minutes, sure that they’ll just be displayed in alphabetical order and reveal a true lack of imagination.

Somehow, they end up on Harry’s fridge, and Y/N finds that she’s much happier with that. Now she could leave him swear words and other insignificant things alike. Peas, Crow, Nip, Oink. Once she spelt out C-U-N-T but felt it too inappropriate for kitchen decor and quickly changed the C for a P.

Whatever word Y/N chooses to leave for the day has always been altered by the end of it; the silent game between Harry and her soon becoming a reason to peek at the fridge unnecessarily just to see if their letters have been rearranged. If he is up before Y/N, the morning light makes his head especially saccharine and the magnets are always spelling sweet names. Love, Pet, Angel, Darling. But by the evening, he’s a little less soppy. Stinky, Mush, Gremlin, Bean.

Y/N once spelled out I Love You (using the zero as the second O) just to see what it would look like but felt like she was doing something naughty and quickly disorganised them in a far from natural manner.

Then Harry buys her some little strawberry magnets and places them on her fridge without telling her. When she sees them, it makes her heart skip a beat. Along with the dozens of clothes he continues to purchase for her, his wardrobe has been considerably disturbed and he figures he ought to leave his mark somewhere in her home too. If not her wardrobe then her fridge would do just fine. But there's really no competition, because if you were to take a peek inside of his dresser, Harry’s clothes would be generously making room there too for Y/N’s—something she always feels guilty about but Harry denies her any opportunity to move anything to her own home.

He wants to tell her to do the opposite. To take everything from her house and put it in his. But he doesn’t. And he won’t.

He’ll just keep relishing over seeing her shoes by the front door, her shampoo in his shower, and her charger plugged in next to his bed.

The stomach has an interesting relationship with the brain. And the brain has an interesting relationship with the heart.

Because Y/N’s heart tells her (and has been for longer than she wants to admit) that she’s fallen in love with Harry… but her brain refuses to take love—as an option entirely—into consideration. And at the same time, on a particularly bleak weekday evening, her stomach says that it’s threatening violence if she doesn’t eat something and her brain translates that to a complete dismantlement of her capability.

It’s funny (only in retrospect) that being hungry can result in such a drastic change in one’s behaviour. That an empty tummy can make even the gentlest of souls behave erratically—so suddenly full of anger that even the smallest of things can make them explode.

Y/N has had a bad day… and… well… Every day is a bad day for Y/N. When you hate your job—hate working, even—every single day ends in dread for the next. And sometimes, every so often for Y/N, things start to build up. It’s slow and steady, and can take weeks if not months to lead to a breakdown. But she does break down… and it happens far too often for the average person to deem healthy.

Today she’s reaching her limit.

It’s just something she can feel brewing, from the moment she wakes up. And there’s no denying that her life has improved drastically in recent times. That waking up now fills her with the excitement of being able to see Harry again, instead of what was once a solemn reminder that she was still living the same old, uneventful, depressing life. She didn’t even class it as a life. Y/N was just existing.

But Harry isn’t a drug. He can’t calm the buzzing in Y/N’s head, all the time. He can distract, sure. But he can’t cure.

So when Y/N woke up with the knowledge that she was going to Harry’s house after work and it didn’t get her through the day with ease, she knew her balloon of stress was about to pop.

Her body feels heavy as she unlocks the grand door to the home she’s spent more time in than her own, recently. Except there’s no Harry to kiss her hello, to take her bag and to sweep her off her feet. No. Because he’s still working. Because that’s what he does. The same as always, and yet today it breaks her heart.

Classically and disastrously, a telling sign that Y/N’s period is due makes itself known as a cramp sears through her abdomen. Which only upsets her further. Because, really, where is the necessity of pain before the bleeding has even begun. Where is the respite? And not so long ago, Y/N would have walked past the kitchen and fallen face first onto her bed. But knowing she has someone now that will care very deeply if she doesn’t eat dinner has her feet heading for shining tiles. Y/N doesn’t know if she could take a punishment today. Not a punishment fuelled by genuine disappointment, anyway. Maybe if Harry swatted her hard enough it would rewire her brain.

But now that she’s acknowledged the existence of food, Y/N is suddenly aware of the intense hunger beating in her stomach. And she’s too tired. Too weak to try and make anything, or do anything. She just wants to lie down. The island becomes a surface intended for rest as Y/N transfers her weight to her forearms and lets her head turn into a dead weight on her shoulders as it hangs down. Just for a moment. Just for a moment that feels impossible to physically shift from. She could sleep standing; it’s not impossible.

Her empty insides howl. Gurgle, and moan, and fuss. Y/N groans pitifully into the counter.

Sluggish movements carry her to the fridge—pulling the door open with the strength similar to that of a baby bird. Leftovers greet her like awkward friends in an uncomfortable situation. Desperately attempting to lighten the mood and only twisting the knife further. Because Y/N doesn’t want lasagne. And it nags at her, the voice of her mother exclaiming, “If you were really hungry, you’d eat it.” Which holds logic, it does. Y/N is hungry and she should want anything to quell that need but her brain doesn’t accept that. Her brain sees leftover lasagne and decides that it would rather starve—despite normally enjoying the meal.

Tears brim over Y/N’s waterline, frustration and exhaustion threatening to drip down her cheeks. Why was something so simple causing this much trouble? How could she be letting the concept of dinner make her cry?

But then she hears Harry, soft encouragement echoing in her skull. He’d tell her that he understood. That he knows she doesn’t want to eat but she will do to make him happy. To go to bed with a nice full stomach and take good care of herself.

And that outweighs everything.

She reaches out for the ceramic dish, cold numbing her hands and tugs it to the counter. Even looking at it makes her frown. But Y/N finds a plate, and a serving spoon, and a knife, and a fork. She lays them all out in preparation, so orderly and neat. So much so that she doesn’t know how it happens. It shouldn’t happen—and it wouldn’t if she were another person or herself on another day—but today is a bad day, as previously mentioned.

Perhaps she tugs the lasagne too quickly, or surprises herself with the amount of strength she uses. But the plate gets shoved too close to the edge. Close but not over. Not until Y/N panics to keep it on the counter and instead of guiding her hand underneath, she manages to knock it downwards and watch—in what feels like—three times speed as it crashes to the floor.

It’s far too loud. It’s piercing to Y/N’s tired ears. And it’s the icing on the cake of her poorly concealed feelings. The tears start to stream without constraint as the picture of shattered porcelain starts to blur.

The sound of the smash masks the opening of the front door. But whilst Y/N doesn’t hear Harry, Harry hears her, and he comes rushing into the kitchen with purpose. Her back is to him when he asks, “Have you hurt yourself?”

Y/N jumps, a wet gasp tearing from her throat. She spins around reflexively, unable to wipe away the tears on her saturated skin first.

Harry’s face falls. “Oh, my love. Did you cut yourself?”

Y/N wipes at her face frantically, head shaking. The broken plate taunts her from the floor, its jagged pieces begging her to get closer—to slice her skin on the sharp edges. Perhaps that would carve some sense into her. “No,” she forces out, her voice thick.

“What’s the matter?” He steps around the mess, comforting palms smoothing over shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, refusing to meet his eye.

“It’s just a plate,” Harry brushes it off. “What’s upset you, sweetheart?”

Y/N can only cry harder—her mind suddenly insistent on the reminder that she’s falling hopelessly in love as Harry’s soft, gentle voice caresses her soul. And love doesn’t help. Not right now. It makes her sob louder. Usually, Y/N is a woman of few words. Often nervous words, in a less than manic manner. But once she starts, it’s difficult to stop for long enough to claw back composure.

“I’m… hungry,” she blubs, eyes squeezing shut as she tries to inhale. “And tired—and my period is about to start. And I hurt. And I hate my job….I don’t—want to do it anymore. ‘m not ha—happy. And I want to go to bed,” she trails off in quivers, wet fingertips digging into fragile features.

Harry breathes for her, a slow, deep inhale as he processes all of her emotions. “Okay,” he whispers, large hand scratching the back of her head in hypnotic motions. Y/N’s face falls against his chest. Strong and steady, unmoving against her wracking body. He murmurs into the top of her head, “You’re as safe as you could possibly be right now. I’ve got you.”

And that’s exactly what she’s worried about.

The thick grogginess that comes with intense, painful crying is starting to fog up Y/N’s head. She’s never stepped away from Harry’s embrace before but that’s precisely what she finds herself doing. Harry doesn’t question it with the same ferocity that is plaguing Y/N’s thoughts; she’s not in a good place, after all. “One thing at a time, let’s get some food in you, yeah?”

What is realistically a simple request that Y/N would never refuse otherwise, has her head shaking from side to side once more. She doesn’t want to eat. She wants to sleep.

“No?” Harry cocks his head, palms outstretched in front of him in a silent expectancy that she’ll slip back into his hold. “I don’t know that I was asking you, darling. I believe I’m telling you. You know you need to eat.”

It feels foreign to disobey. But Y/N needs to protect herself, she needs to protect Harry, she needs to push these feelings down. “I don’t want to eat.” Her voice hardens. It’s jarring and more tears spill.

“I want you to eat. And you will. Because I know what’s best for you.” He stays gentle, somehow. His words are statements—orders—and yet his cadence stays wonderfully light. Y/N agrees with him; that he knows best, but it doesn’t translate to her mouth.

Or her head as she shakes it fervently, struggling to maintain eye contact as she looks up at Harry’s impressively calm face. His previously styled hair now falling over his forehead in delicious swirls. The dreamy slope of his nose that points towards his stubble dusted cupid’s bow and raspberry tinted lips. His beautiful face stays blank—not implying of any emotion.

“I’m not going to punish you. Or shout at you, or scold you, or do whatever it is you think you deserve. I can see it, darlin’. I know you’re tired, I know your head hurts you. I wish I could take it all away.” Y/N’s lip quivers and she sniffles loudly. Her eyes pinch shut, refusing to cry anymore, but it’s fruitless. Especially when Harry hoists her up by her waist and encourages her thighs to wrap around his body. The immediate relief from holding her own weight has Y/N lugging her arms over his shoulders and burying her wet face into his neck. He holds her tight, strong arms wrapped around with no intention of letting go as Y/N cries.

She thinks she starts to fall asleep, uncaring of Harry’s silent movements around the kitchen as she stays latched on. Half-consciously does she recognise the sounds of the microwave and the gentle nudging of broken porcelain with his foot into a pile he’ll clean up later. She hears him taking the lasagne out and her stomach certainly takes note of the smell, despite how fervently she refused to want it.

He hoists them both up on the counter, Y/N’s knees knocking a little against the hard surface. “G’na eat now, okay?” Harry says softly into the side of her head. The tears have ceased, but her face is very much melded to his neck with cold, salty trails.

Y/N shakes her head, “Tired.”

“I know, sweetheart. Let me see you.”

It’s embarrassing—to peel her face away. To show herself at her lowest, mentally and physically. And she knows the least relevant thing right now is how attractive she looks, but in the lap of a man that she’s sure has never been less than stunning, it’s intimidating and Y/N can’t help but have it on her mind. Along with everything else.

But she listens and Harry praises her for it.

“Hi, baby. You look so pretty,” dancing his fingertips around her hairline to bury behind her ears.

Y/N can’t help but snort—the sight relieving to Harry. “I’m crying.”

“I know. Call me a sadist, then, but you’re still pretty.” He doesn’t elaborate on how the wet clumping of her eyelashes makes her look something akin to a mermaid that guards the key to his heart at the bottom of an enchanted lake or that the shining of her cheeks begs to be kissed and soothed by his lips.

Although it seems she can hear his thoughts when she says, “You’re silly.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Stop!” Her hands meet his chest in a light thump and he smiles.

“Let me feed you?”

And that… that does sound quite nice. But there was something about this height of emotion that was making Y/N stubborn. So she doesn’t respond. Verbally or non. She looks at Harry, at his soft sea-glass green and stays silent. He brushes her wet cheeks with his thumbs, leaning forward to press the soft pillow of his lips to the tense space between her eyes.

Then he drops his voice to a tender brush of air against her forehead, “Do this f’me. Do this for Daddy,” and Y/N leans back with glistening eyes open wide to see as much of him as possible. It clears the fog a little, that one, small word. The dissolvement of responsibility—her weight supported by Harry, her face framed in his hands and her mouth the only thing she’d need to worry about when she inevitably gives in. When she nods slightly and curls her fingers into the back of his shirt. In return, Harry sinks his hand into the back of her hair, close to her scalp, and tugs a little. Not hard—just enough to feel tight and secure. “Good girl.”

For a moment, Y/N can’t even remember what she was crying about. And when she does recall, it doesn’t feel like such a big deal anymore.

Harry scoots further onto the island to allow room between them to hold Y/N’s dinner. Her knees are starting to ache against the surface but she doesn’t say anything. Not when she’s finally on the precipice of feeling peaceful. Not when Harry holds a mouthful up to his lips and blows gently to make sure the steaming pasta doesn’t burn her. Not when he hums quietly as Y/N accepts the food and her eyes flutter shut in contentment.

One thing at a time, as Harry had said. Maybe he couldn’t quell her overworked brain but he could relish in her relaxed brows as he fed her. And then he could carry her to his bed (now just as much hers as it was his own—especially with the sprinkling of products and clothes alike decorating his furniture) and help her fall into a much needed slumber.

When it comes to it (going to bed), Y/N plucks up the courage to put on her comfiest nightie that she’d stowed away in Harry’s dresser for a bad day. It’s not inherently embarrassing to wear a nightie but… what’s on it makes Y/N feel a little silly. Cartoon Ariel and Flounder underneath a banner that reads ‘100% Mermaid’… She’d had it a little while. And it’s not that she worries that Harry will make her feel stupid but it does make her look a little childish—it’s hardly lingerie.

But she needn’t have worried when Harry takes her tired brain and cradles it in his hands—spews some filth like he can’t help it—and calms the bothersome thoughts. “Why would you think, when I can see your nipples hardening through the material, and you’ve got your pretty legs all bare, and when I hold you tonight as your little nightie rucks higher and higher up and over your ass for such easy access, that I would give a shit about what’s printed on it? Would you rather me say that my dick goes limp at the sight, darling?”

It’s safe to say she learns to love the way it looks.

Harry notices a change in Y/N’s behaviour.

It’s subtle to begin with—something he doesn’t question straight away—because he wants to figure out what’s going on without making her aware.

Little things like forcing Harry to ask her more than once to do something—Come here, sit down, stand up. They might sound disrespectful from an outside perspective but that’s how the pair operate. Y/N likes being told. But recently she has been hesitating, literally and figuratively. She’ll abide only after Harry has asked two or three times, and on multiple occasions she will say something he deems bratty (“Make me,” tends to be her favourite) and trail off with big eyes—as though she’s waiting for him to punish her for it.

He never bites. He thinks he can tell that she wants him to; he never does. It never feels natural, never comfortable in his heart.

And then there’s the breaking of rules. Which he takes far more seriously. Not even to protect his ego but because Y/N’s rules are set in place to keep her healthy—and Harry cares about nothing more than her health.

When Harry first served Y/N fruit for breakfast, along with her magnificent blueberry pie he begrudgingly loved, it was obvious that Y/N wasn’t entirely impressed. She still ate it all, and grabbed a slice of toast as well (very much encouraged by Harry) but it wasn’t her deliciously disgusting cereal that she so often tucked into. So, being the kind, caring man that he is, Harry decided to find a way to increase her enjoyment of a healthy breakfast.

He did so with cookie cutters. Because Y/N appreciates cute, thoughtful gestures that don’t necessarily change one’s life but look nice on the eye and make things feel pretty. So he buys stars, and hearts, and flowers, and spends his time pushing fruit through them and presenting them nicely in a bowl. Just for Y/N.

And she loves it. Her eyes go all big, just the way Harry admires, her hands clasp and come up to her chest, and she responds as though he’s made some sort of grand gesture. He thinks she’s adorable, and watches her eat with a satisfied smile when she makes no complaint and bobs from side to side with such a sweet expression on her face.

That’s how he first gathers that something is off, because he knows she loves her breakfast now, so why is she suddenly refusing it? Why is she suddenly so insistent that she needs to have pain au chocolat or a fry up or something else just as equally soaked in oil or butter? Harry doesn’t give in, he doesn’t get angry. He tries to compromise with her in as calm a voice as ever, which he’ll admit he’s not used to having to do—because Y/N is never usually so argumentative.

Never so argumentative and never so absent whilst he was speaking to her. Like she’s trying to tune him out, or her thoughts are overpowering the sound of his voice. That frustrates Harry—feeling ignored, feeling unworthy of her attention—and he nearly snaps at her a few times for it. Somehow he maintains the patience and restraint not to, and is able to bring her back with a stroke of his knuckles over her skin. It feels wrong though, like they’re taking a step backwards, or like she is. Like she’s hiding herself away again. And he hates it.

But they still haven’t even had their first argument yet, though Harry feels it might be on the horizon.

It’s a cold, rainy day when that fact of their relationship changes.

The couple are at Y/N’s house for a change, huddled together on the sofa in a sweet exchange of kisses. Soft patterings against glass create the most wonderful ambience, like little fairies dancing on the keys of a piano, as the quiet smacking of lips fills in the gaps.

Harry’s arm, cloaked cosily in a thick, knitted jumper, rests around Y/N’s shoulder. Their heads are turned to the side in a way that suggests it was only meant to be one kiss—that inevitably turned into ten minutes of nothing else. Y/N’s fingers curl into the thigh of Harry’s joggers and his into the back of her hair as they sigh into each other’s mouths. Sweet balm is transferred to and fro, unable to identify who first applied the product.

When Y/N’s neck gets tired, she falls back to rest against the sofa; Harry follows in smooth motions, free hand coming to prop himself up on the other side of her body. He pulls away slightly, registering their reclining position and feeling his heart hammer at the sight of Y/N’s spit-slicked lips, plump from his own. She reaches behind his back to push him down onto her again, desperate pawing still remaining lethargic and unhurried.

He nestles her top lip in between his own two, nose squishing into the soft of her cheek. It comes out so blissfully, a harmless comment that turns sour—what he assumes is a hopeless display of how happy he is in this moment. Of how much he wishes he could stay like this for the rest of his life, as he whispers into her skin, “Y’should quit y’job.” Y/N doesn’t register it straightaway, too caught up in the heaven of Harry’s kiss—but when she does, her body stiffens.

He stops too, confused and suddenly worried he’s said something else. But she looks up at him with a nervous expression, like she has so much she wants to say but can’t possibly imagine articulating any of it. Despite having been somewhat out of it, Y/N remembers when he’d first asked her. In the shower, after changing her life on his sun lounger. She’d been able to play it off then, fuelled by dopamine and sleepy courage. But now… now it scares her. Now she doesn’t know what to say or how to say it.

Harry leans back further, eyes darting around her face as if to check for physical damage. “What’s wrong?” Almost as if controlled by a person, the rain hardens and thunder booms in the distance.

She jumps and shakes her head instinctively, despite her brain drowning in worry. “Nothing,” she whispers, hesitant hand scrunching into the front of his jumper to encourage him back.

“Don’t do that.” He’s gentle, grasping her fingers and entwining them with his, but his rejection sears deep. “You clammed up, baby. Talk to me.”

Y/N’s skin itches. “I— When you—,” she exhales, “Do you mean that?”

“That you should quit your job?” She nods. “I do. I do mean it. Do you not like that idea?”

She wants to more than anything. “I—I can’t.”

Harry’s patient. “And why not, darling?”

Y/N thinks that would be her dream come true. After all, the first night she’d met Harry she inadvertently spewed how happy she’d be not to work, and Niall had so obviously proclaimed her displeasure. But how could she actually, genuinely stop working and not feel completely using of Harry? They aren’t living together, they aren’t in love—at least not from his perspective, surely—they aren’t even conventionally matched. Because certainly, someone like Harry; someone so important and beloved, deserved a person on his arm that was confident, and flashy, and impressive in their own right. Y/N can hear him telling her how ridiculous of a notion that is, as she thinks it. But anxiety isn’t always rational.

What falls from her mouth hardly hits the tip of the iceberg. “I— It’s— I’d feel bad.”

“You’d feel bad?” Harry asks. He’s trying to think about this from her perspective. Understands, maybe, the initial hesitancy. It’s a big thing, to stop working, to rely on someone else but… what they have feels secure, it feels good. He thought she’d love the idea. “I need you to explain it to me, Y/N.”

She panics just trying to order the words into some sort of acceptable speech. “No,” she shakes her head, “no, it’s fine. I’m sorry,” her heart drops when Harry sits back completely, removing all of his touch. “Please, I— I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We have to talk about this, darlin’. It’s not good to push stuff down.” Y/N doesn’t say anything. She sits there, gaze averted from Harry’s intense jade. When the silence tips over the edge of definitive, and Harry feels his grasp of the situation loosening, he sighs, “Okay,” and stands up. He leaves her alone on the sofa and takes himself stoically to her kitchen to stare out of the window at the bleak downpour soundtracking this moment.

“Harry?” He hears her call, confused and nervous. He thinks if she won’t talk to him then he’ll just remove himself altogether. What purpose does he serve being there if she can’t even look at him? “Harry?” Another call followed by quiet shuffling along floorboards. “Why are you ignoring me?” Her voice sounds sad—it makes his chest tight to know he’s the cause.

Harry takes a deep breath and turns around to take in her dejected appearance. She looks so much smaller when she’s upset. “I’m not going to have this lack of a conversation with you anymore. If you can’t talk to me then I will go home. You need time to think.” His tone of voice is hard—lacking in delicacy. It sounds meaner than he intends it to.

Y/N’s brain immediately goes haywire—she can almost feel her neural pathways shrivelling up, imploding, disappearing completely. He’s upset with her. Finally. It’s happened. She’s actually done it—he’s going to go home and never see her again. He’s going to block her number and return all her stupid clothes and disgusting shampoo in a box on her doorstep. What had first felt like an attempt to protect her heart in a sabotaging but worthwhile way (and save Harry from the stress in the process) doesn’t feel relieving in the slightest. It feels despicable.

“I’m sorry,” her lip quivers, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Her lungs feel pea-sized, and her head feels thick. Tears blur her vision as she stands there in front of Harry like a little girl, crying over nothing. It’s made worse when he crouches down in front of her and encourages her knees to collapse around his body. He rubs her back soothingly, the warmth of his palms seeping through her cardigan, saying nothing but shushing gently into her hair.

After a while of Harry breathing deeply and slowly, and Y/N silently matching him, he speaks up. “I’m going to talk now. You don’t have to say anything, just listen t’me, okay?” She nods into his neck. The longer she can stay here, the longer she can avoid the humiliation of looking him in the eye after bursting into tears. “I think you should quit your job. I’ve known you loathed it since I met you—I encouraged you, in fact—that your want to stay at home isn’t silly. And not even a whole week ago you were telling me you hated it. You do so much for me, my love. Whilst still working. You bake wonderful treats, you clean everything despite me imploring that you do not have to. You breathe life into every room. You give me someone to come home to. And above all, you make me so, incomparably happy. Every single day.

“What about me wanting to share my wealth with you makes you so uncomfortable? I just want to provide for you the way you provide for me. And quite frankly, I haven’t been strict enough. I shouldn’t encourage you to work all day and still try to take care of me, especially when you don’t take well enough care of yourself. But that’s my job, yeah? Why won’t you let me do my job?”

Y/N’s breath quivers, “Y-you still want to?” peeking out from Harry’s freshly soaked neck.

“Of course I d—” He pauses and his expression turns to sadness. “Oh, darlin’. You didn’t think… Just because of a little argument? This is the tamest argument I’ve ever had in my entire life, baby.” Her face burns. “It is so normal for couples to fight. I’m not going to do anything drastic, don’t be so silly.” He pushes his lips to her hairline, feigning calm despite his heart weighing heavily in his chest. “Now come on,” his thumbs swipe underneath her eyes, “talk to me, please.”

“It’s just—” her fingers pick at the skin around her nails. “I feel so guilty. Because I’m so needy a-and you do so much for me already. And money is… money is a big thing. I don’t want to be a—” she whispers it, “—a gold-digger.” Harry opens his mouth but Y/N continues, staring at her hands, “We don’t li—live together, we’ve known each for months, it—it feels too good to be true. I don’t know.”

“You’re worrying about societal standards, lovely. You’re not a gold-digger and time doesn’t have to mean a thing.” He kisses the space between her eyes. “Look, we’ve discussed it now. I’m so proud of you. We don’t have to do a single thing else, just think about it, okay?”

Y/N looks up at the man who she loves more than anything in the entire world and feels her lips twitch ever so slightly into a small smile. It’s not the most authentic of smiles she’s ever displayed. But she still means it. And suddenly she wishes to tell him—she wishes to but she won’t. Not today. She feels proud of herself because Harry does, decides she’s been vulnerable enough as she nods and squeezes her arms underneath his armpits.

But this feeling of invincibility, the relief of having a cry and having someone there to soothe her—the adrenaline won’t last long—and maybe she should have confessed her feelings before the doubts returned.

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shots #mutually beneficial #writing #dom!harry #domrry #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles blurbs #harry styles imagines

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wonijinjin · 5 months

Text

seventeen’s hiphop unit when their s/o falls asleep on them

author’s note: was feeling tired, wrote it quickly hehe. let me know if you guys want the other unit versions aswell! the vocal unit version of the fic is available here.

synopsis: what the title says

word count: 0.7k | genre: pure fluffiest fluff | pairings: hiphop unit x gn! reader | warnings: mention of food in wonwoo’s

you were laying in bed with cheol, pillowtalk being the routine of most of your nights, just casually discussing how you spent your day. “then i had to scold mingyu because he wasn’t listening and we couldn’t make progress regarding the lyrics.” he explained, voice low and quiet, waiting for your usual giggles about his members being silly as always, but silence was your only reply. he looked down at you on his chest, seeing your eyes closed, mouth slightly open, a bit of drool coming out of it, right onto his shirt. “seriously? man, my shirt is gonna get soaked.” he sulked jokingly, knowing fully well you couldn’t hear him, otherwise it would’ve earned a betrayed whine from you. “you are lucky you’re cute, i will let it slide this time.” he giggled while trying his best to keep his voice down as much a possible. he rubbed your back while looking head over heels at you, easing you to dreamland even more so, whispering. “good night my love, see you in the morning. i love you.”

wonwoo knew you were tired the moment he saw you when he arrived at home, so he figured that it would be a matter of time when you were gonna stop fighting sleep and let your eyelids get heavy. he was editing the photos he took on his walk earlier, you snuggled up into his side, watching him do his magic in different editing softvers on his laptop. “these pictures are so pretty wonwoo.” you said sleepily. he smiled softly while looking into your eyes. “thank you sweetheart, but you are way prettier.” his cheesy line normally would’ve made you burst out laughing, but as he expected you were already half asleep, eyes closing for longer amounts of time every minute. a moment later he sensed how your head felt heavier on his torso; he kissed your forehead and patted the crown of your hair, smiling sheepishly to himself seeing you rest at last. “my sweet baby.” he said while shutting his laptop down, holding you closer to him.

“wow, the special effects are amazing!” you commented to which mingyu hummed in agreement. you and mingyu were watching a movie, your head in his lap. you were invested in the plot, but it was a bit late in the evening. in fact it was so late that mingyu had actually kind of dozed off for a few minutes, resting his eyes after hours of work with woozi in his studio, the screen’s hue taking a turn on his optic nerves. when he opened his eyes he did not expect to find you asleep, especially since you chose the movie; it was one of your favourite director’s new films. he took a moment to just stare at your face shamelessly, feeling like he was falling in love all over again; your cheeks were squished into his thigh, nose scrunching up from time to time thanks to a few strands of hair tickling it. you were just so adorable in his eyes. he brushed the hair out of your face, stroking your cheeks gently. “i am so lucky to have you. i will always protect you, my darling.” he muttered, draping a blanket that was resting on the couch next to him over your slumbering form.

you were in the practice room with vernon since he had to work overtime with their newest comeback approaching, you offering to stay until the end so the two of you could go home together. he knew you were exhausted from all the exams you had to take, and even tried to talk you out of staying, but you insisted, getting into a comfortable position on the floor, head resting against the wall. he sat down next to you, drinking a bottle of water while you put your head on his shoulder. “i should’ve urged you to go home. look at you, so tired and in an uncomfortable room!” he whined, feeling extremely guilty about the situation. you didn’t reply to which he raised his head a little, upon doing so seeing your relaxed face, soft snores and breaths escaping your mouth. he slowly lowered your head into his lap, but not before putting his hoodie on it, making up for the lack of a soft pillow. “i should take a break anyways. sweet dreams, babe.” he smiled, gently kissing your lips.

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luxaofhesperides · 3 months

Text

“You know, I never realized how true the ‘eyes are the windows to your soul’ thing was until I saw yours.” + fluff + cafe AU ; requested by @kiv1!

He’s sure Danny didn’t expect to see him every other day after he casually mentioned that he had gotten a part time job at a local cafe. However, as his friend, it is Duke’s moral duty to only get coffee from that shop while Danny is on shift, specifically to annoy him.

Also, so he can support his friend, but being annoying takes priority.

It’s a routine now, for both of them. Danny clocks in for his shift and an hour later Duke is strolling into the cafe with his eyes locked on Danny’s. The rest of the baristas always shove Danny up to the register when they see Duke, taking over whatever order he was making. Even some of the other regulars turn their attention up to the counter, hoping for another few minutes of entertainment.

Danny sighs as he gets ready to input Duke’s order. It’s never the same one, because Duke would hate to be predictable and make things easier for Danny, but it has the side effect of making him realize that some of the expensive, seasonal drinks are really good.

It’s a bit hard on his wallet, but it’s a price he’s willing to pay for teasing Danny.

“Hey,” he greets cheerfully as he leans against the counter, grinning at Danny.

Danny sighs again. “What can I get you today, random customer that keeps bothering me.”

“A latte, but make it sweet somehow. And iced.”

“What size would you like?”

“Let’s go with medium today.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah.” Duke leans closer to Danny, watching as he fights down a smile. “I just gotta say that you got gorgeous eyes. You know, I never realized how true the ‘eyes are the window to your soul thing’ was until I saw yours.”

Danny considers this for a moment, then shakes his head. “It kind of sounds like your trying to steal my soul through my eyes.”

“Why is that what your mind goes to?”

“Well. I watched Coraline last night.”

Duke stares at Danny, taking in the dark circles under his eyes. “...Didn’t you say that movie gave you nightmares as a kid?”

“Yeah! And it turns out, it gives me nightmares even now!”

“And ruined my pick up line,” Duke complains playfully.

“It was too cheesy anyways,” Danny replies, putting Duke’s order into the screen. It prints a moment later, no doubt with some bizarre name since Danny refuses to actually name Duke on his orders, and then recites the price.

He pays and watches as Danny slaps the order onto a medium sized up, then tosses it over to the barista making the drinks. He’s not actually sure what her name is since she refuses to wear a name tag, but she always gives him a wave and also a rating of how good his pick up lines are.

“Seven out of ten!” she calls out to him today, then gets started on making his drink.

“I don’t see why you don’t flirt with anyone else,” Danny says, “I’m pretty sure my coworkers like your pick up lines even more than they like me.”

“Why would I want to flirt with them? Danny, I’m literally only here to bother you.”

Danny rolls his eyes. “Yeah, trust me, I know. My good looks just keep pulling in business.”

He says it like a joke, but it’s true. Duke has noticed it. Danny’s coworkers have noticed it. His manager noticed it and now has him out on the floor every shift. If they can get him to work on the chalkboard sign outside, or wipe down the two tables out front, then they do it, because Danny is Midwestern to his core and it’s very charming in a place like Gotham. He smiles at people as they walk by, happily answers their questions when they ask him what the cafe serves, recommends food and drinks for them, is generally a bright and nice person to everyone who comes near the cafe.

His cute looks draw people in, then his personality makes them stay.

It’s all customer service, of course, because Duke never gets the cute, sunny Danny. He’s left with the sarcastic, rude, and funny Danny that’s been his friend since they met in junior year of high school.

“Your eyes are really pretty, though,” Duke says, “Very blue. Sometimes green. It’s no wonder people keep falling for you!”

Danny reaches across the counter to shove Duke away, but he’s blushing, so Duke is counting it as a win. “Shut up. Now you’re just lying. My eyes are never green.”

“Yes, they are. Danny, I’ve seen them multiple times. They’re green sometimes.”

“No? My eyes have literally only ever been blue. They’re the bluest blue to ever blue. They don’t just turn green.”

They squint at each other for a long moment, trying to figure out who’s wrong and in what way. Duke’s pretty sure Danny’s wrong, since he can’t exactly see his own eyes, and Duke has spent an embarrassing amount of time just admiring how nice they are in different kinds of light. But also, they are Danny’s eyes, so he should know what color they are.

Then Danny’s coworker is setting down Duke’s drink on the pick up counter, giving Danny an excuse to get back to work.

“One medium oatmeal cookie iced latte for Cornelius Aggravating Douglas.” He holds up the drink and makes very direct eye contact with Duke, holding out the drink towards him.

“Did you really have to make the initials ‘Cad’?”

“Yes.”

“Fair enough,” Duke says, making Danny crack a smile.

“Are you heading out after this?”

Duke grabs a straw and sticks it into his latte, swirling it around some. “That was the plan, yeah. Got a few library books to pick up. Why?”

“I got approval for a half shift today, so I’m off in like ten minutes, if you wanna wait for me.”

“Hell yeah, dude! I’ll wait outside so I don’t distract you with my flirtatious winks again.”

“Get out of here,” Danny laughs. Duke lifts his drink in a quick toast, then gets out of there. He takes a seat at one of the tables out front, content to just people watch as he slowly sips his latte.

It’s cloudy out, but not raining, which is always a plus. As much as he’d like to see the sun, these kinds of days aren’t so bad, either. The wind still carries a bit of a chill, but the spring is steadily warming things up. There are tons of people out, a constant rush of movement, but a few do catch sight of him, then look towards the cafe, their steps slowing down as they think. Most keep walking, but Duke does manage to get a few to go in just by taking a long sip of his latte to really enjoy it.

Really, he should be getting compensated for the work he’s doing to draw people in. Danny’s not the only one who can do it.

Bruce keeps offering him money, so he doesn’t need to get paid, but maybe he can convince the other employees to talk Danny into accepting one of his pick up lines so they can go on a date one of these days.

It’s become a bit of a joke, but the first time Duke used a cheesy pick up line on Danny, he was being absolutely serious about it. He definitely shouldn’t have used a pick up line he found from a website centered on relationship advice, but he panicked and needed some extra help.

Instead of smoothly asking Danny out on a date, Duke froze up, blurted out the pick up line, then had to laugh it off with Danny and pretend it was a joke.

He still wishes he was able to ask Danny out properly before, but he’s also glad that they got to spend more time as friends, getting to know each other. It’s easier to be with him now, no longer so tongue tied and flustered.

Duke gets to fluster Danny now, which is much better.

And maybe one day his pick up lines will work! Sooner or later Danny’s going to question why he keeps doing this, and then he’ll connect the dots and understand what Duke feels for him.

As it is, he has yet to connect shit.

“My eyes are definitely blue,” Danny says as he walks out of the cafe, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “I checked while I was putting my apron away.”

“You’re still on that?”

“They’re blue.”

Duke gestures for Danny to come closer. He complies and leans down, letting Duke cup his face in his hands. He checks, considers, then checks again, and says, “They are indeed blue.”

“Told you they weren’t green,” Danny says smugly, pulling back.

“And I said they were green sometimes. Now clearly isn’t one of those times, but they do turn green!”

“I don’t think you should be allowed to say any eye-related pick up lines until you admit that you were wrong and didn’t know my eye color.”

Shaking his head, Duke stands up and pushes in his chair. “Just wait, I’ll catch it sometime and prove it to you.”

“Sure, whatever. Don’t you have library books to get?”

“Yeah, you coming with?”

“Obviously. Why else would I leave my wonderful job where I am left alone to make drinks in peace?” Danny knocks his shoulder against Duke playfully, then reaches over and steals his drink right out of his hand. He takes a sip, makes a pleased hum, and drains half of what was left in the cup.

“Hey!” Duke moves to take it back, which is naturally the exact moment Danny takes off running, effortlessly dodging everyone else on the sidewalk. He takes off after Danny, using his powers to make sure he can move out of the way of anything or anyone who gets in his path.

They’re past the block when Danny starts to slow down, taking another sip of Duke’s latte.

He puts on a final burst of speed and all but tackles Danny into the mouth of an alley, reaching for his cup. “Gotcha!”

“No!” Danny wails dramatically. He takes a step back and Duke watches as his power kicks up again, showing him a vision of Danny stepping on an empty can and falling back. Except he doesn’t really fall back? His foot rolls back on the can for a second, then goes through the can and settles back onto the ground where he catches his balance. Through the entire three second fall, Danny’s eyes are a bright green, brighter than Duke’s ever seen them.

His vision fades away and he moves to catch Danny, taking the chance to watch carefully as Danny’s foot does indeed go through the can. He quickly brings his gaze up to Danny’s eyes, which are green, but not inhumanly bright like they were in his vision.

Is the green not perceptible to normal humans?

He can probably only see it due to his powers. Which means he somewhat inadvertently outed himself as a meta.

Whoops!

Might as well just bite the bullet.

“Hey, do you have powers?”

Danny chokes, shoving Duke away as he coughs and tries to clear his throat. He looks panicked, wild-eyed, searching for an escape route. “What? No. Why would I have powers? Maybe you have powers, have you ever considered that?”

“I mean. I do have powers. That’s why I’m asking.”

“Hold up. Stop talking. You have powers?”

“And your eyes are green sometimes.”

“That’s. No, they’re not,” Danny lies. It’s a very bad lie, seeing how on edge he is, and as much as Duke hates making Danny feel like that, he did get some bad habits while training with Bruce and this is one of them: the need to keep pushing, chasing after clear answers regardless of what the cost is.

Duke shrugs, taking a sip of his latte, down to its last few mouthfuls, acting casual. “If you say so. But my powers don’t lie, man. As much as I wish they would, sometimes.”

“...Can we not do this out here?” The defeated tone Danny speaks with makes Duke hate himself. But he needs answers now. He needs to know if Danny is like him, if he’s safe, if he needs help. He needs it more than he needs Danny to like him at all.

“Sure. I know a few quiet places we can talk.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Danny mutters. “Did my eyes really give it away?”

“Yeah. I mean, to be fair, I also didn’t realize until literally right now, so I don’t think anyone else will figure it out just from staring into your eyes.”

“See, this is what happens when you keep flirting when you don’t mean it. Secrets get pulled out into the open and it’s bad for everyone!”

Duke lightly punches Danny’s arm, trying to lift the mood. “Hey, who said I didn’t mean it?”

“What?”

“Who said I didn’t mean it when I flirt with you?”

Danny blinks at him, confused, then says, “I mean, no one I guess. But it’s pretty obvious?”

“I only flirt with you, you know.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Duke says, trying to ignore how his voice shakes slightly. “There’s another one of my secrets. Can we call it even now?”

“Oh!” The shock of the revelation distracts Danny from his earlier nerves. Which is great, because now Duke is the one who’s nervous. It’s worth it, though, seeing the pretty blush come to bloom on Danny’s cheeks. “So all those pick up lines—”

“Yeah.”

“And the pick up line made you realize my powers!”

“These pick up lines are doing the most,” Duke agrees. And then he realizes, “Hey, you what this means? I was right! Your eyes are windows to your soul!”

“I’m going to hit you,” Danny says, already winding back for a solid punch. He lets Danny hit him since it’s only fair for the stress he caused; as a meta, Duke knows how important secrecy is, how the difference between life and death can be just how well his powers are hidden.

“Are we even now?”

Danny considers him for a moment, then sighs. “Yeah, I guess. Let’s be done with this for now, okay? Let’s go to the library.”

He refuses to entertain any conversation about powers or Duke’s feelings for him. It’s nice to spend time with Danny, but by the end, Duke is sure he can feel his heart start to crack in half. A sleepless night awaits him when he gets home, moving past his cousin’s attempts to talk to him in favor of flopping face down onto his bed.

But the next day, Danny grins at him when he walks into the cafe. He doesn’t have a new pick up line, choosing instead to act as calm and casual as possible to give Danny some space.

Also breaking routine, Danny insists on personally making Duke’s drink, writing something onto the cup before he fills it up with a floral tea.

You’re so fine, you made me forget my pick up line, is scrawled on the side of his cup when he gets it.

“Enjoy your drink, Cutiepie the Third,” Danny says with a shy smile.

“The Third?” Duke repeats, relief making him feel lighter than air, “Who are the first two?”

“Don’t worry about it, cutie. Get to class!”

Duke lets Danny chase him out, and holds in his laugh when he hears Danny’s coworker screech, “What was that?!”

Yeah, they’ll be fine. In the meantime, Duke needs to see if apology pick up lines are thing. Danny definitely deserves one.

#ghostlights #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #prompt fill #my writing #duke went from flirting to accidentally outing both himself AND danny as people w powers. and then lowkey confessing. disaster <3 #meanwhile danny has been slowly falling for duke bc of his cute and cheesy pick up lines that he always turned into a joke bc he didnt #believe that it was real. and also his coworkers would embarrass him if he got too flustered #they all ship him and duke btw. so do some of the regulars #coffe with a two minute show lol #thank you for the prompt!!

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satoruhour · 9 months

Note

hello!! ive been lurking on your acc for a little bit and i absolutely adore your writing like omg!! but earlier i got to thinkin about toji (as we all do) and i was thinking about how vulgar i imagine him to be in a sexual context and it makes me like soo shy and im not shy 🙄 im just obsessed with the idea of him saying really filthy shit to us and then practicing what he preaches yk

PRACTISE WHAT YOU PREACH

a/n: i keep falling asleep on the couch writing. and thank u for the inspiration for the name LOL

wc: 2.4k

warnings: reader has the same bite to her as toji does but gets shy when said man says filthy things, dom!toji, implication of sex in parts of the drabble, (public) dirty talk, pet names, he calls you ‘whore’ and ‘slut‘, toji calls you ‘mama’ once, oral (m receiving), deepthroating, spitting (on hand and in mouth), p -> v penetration, clit stimulation, unprotected sex, riidng, praise, degradation, daddy kink at the end, creampie / breeding kink, brief oral / cunnilingus @ the end, n*sfw under the cut

fushiguro toji is a vulgar man inside and out. It’s obvious when he tells the teenage boys to go fuck themselves when he catches them looking at you and you have to slap his bicep, or perhaps grabbing a piece of your ass while waiting in line to pay for groceries and all you can do is send him a nasty glare and a strong nudge of your elbow.

he doesn’t mind his baby fighting back, especially with how easily he can overturn the tables and have you squirming and breathing heavily whenever he gets you under him in the bedroom.

it comes to light first when you’re talking with a co-worker at a company party, talking casually with them before toji comes over with both your drinks. he’s tamer, then, sucking up to your insufferable colleagues even if they didn’t know what they were saying. this dude was clearly eyeing you, too, despite knowing toji was your plus one, and at that point the poor man has had enough.

“how ’bout you invite him back to our hotel and let him watch as i fuck you? maybe then he would stop fucking starin’.” toji passes you your drink as he whispers it, albeit the last part filled with mild bitterness, not entirely as secretive as he would like to be because the colleague’s eyes are widening immediately. he swallows his saliva at the large stature of your boyfriend’s and you just know he did it on purpose. but when you don’t reply and bark back at him with annoyance, toji’s lips curl in a smile, a light bulb going off in his head at his discovery and he’s been incessant since.

“yeah? how ’bout you clean a bathroom for once, fucker,” you roll your eyes, throwing a rag into the bathroom sink, disgruntled at how your boyfriend couldn’t even clean his own sink. it was beyond him to clean the place where water flowed everyday but when he told you that all you could muster was a look of disgust.

you were in no mood for him when you saw him creep in behind you in the mirror, eyes trained on the male who just mutters apologies into your neck, kissing the skin there like a tease and resist the urge to shiver, keeping up your angered expression.

until his words hit. “’m sorry baby, shoulda known better than to say stupid shit like that. how ’bout i make it up to you?”

“like what, toji? you gonna get on your hands and knees and scrub the floors yourself? cause i’d like th—”

“i’ll do it,” but not for the reason you think, “i’ll do it if i get to eat my pretty girl’s pussy out. and then let me pound her while she watches how good i make her feel.”

needless to say, your panties were thrown in the washing machine immediately as he made your moans echo in that squeezy bathroom, and the sink ended up being squeaky clean for the next few weeks.

it’s the best way to get you to shut up and sometimes the way your lips move as you’re rambling about something or how your figure looks as you’re reaching for the tv remote and spouting profanities is just so hypnotising. he’s obsessed with you.

toji stares blankly at you while you’re explaining the way to work the air fryer for the third time that day, and it’s not his fault you’re currently in a camisole. it’s accentuating your tits and the home shorts you’re in isn’t helping either, because he can easily swipe it to the side to fuck into you.

you snap your fingers in front of his face, “wha—? listen to me when i’m talking to you, babe.”

toji just rolls his eyes, something he knows you hate, and he watches your outburst with a lovestruck smile. he catches your snapping hand with ease, switching to holding it. “hey! what did i say about rolling eyes?”

he leans forward, placing his other hand dangerously close to your ass, but the forehead peck distracts you. “i heard you the first time, darling.”

“you—!” toji just laughs at your surprise. sure, he was old as fuck but he wasn’t entirely clueless about the air fryer, but he let you explain and drone on about the settings, knowing you’d be focused on the device. that way, his eyes could travel unforgivingly and just like that, the playful moment is overcome by his vulgar disposition again, the act of his body craving yours before his words made you freeze on the spot.

“but enough about air fryers, hm?” the sight of toji’s hand almost covering yours was enough to send you reeling, but it’s increased when he drags your hand down the hardness of his front. you can feel the ridges of his abs, down, down, down until his bulge. he guides you to squeeze his dick, a guttural groan making its way to the front of his throat. “how ’bout you show me how much your eyes can roll back as my cock disappears into you, huh?”

your breath hitches at the proposition and toji’s smile spreads into a grin at your reaction because it’s like this every. single. time. unconsciously your hands start to undo the knot of his sweatpants, pulling it under his hardened shaft, the other sighing when your hand finally wraps around it. it aches so much that he finds himself thrusting into your hand briefly before you start stroking.

toji gathers a blob of spit on his tongue and maintains eye contact, spitting directly onto his cock for some lubrication and you take a deep breath, slick noises sounding out throughout the house. he makes sure to do it again later. “getting it ready for your pretty little cunt, aren’t you? filthy girl— f-fuck…”

the words make you rub your thighs together, stepping closer to him while you continue stroking, up, down and up, down, determined to give him a taste of his own medicine. pushing him until you’re out of the kitchen, he lets you shove him onto the couch, a loud groan leaving his lips when you descend to your knees and your mouth closes around his cock.

“s’big,” you whimper, swirling your tongue around his angry tip and going back to deepthroating him, desperate to feel his dick down your throat.

“oh— s-shit, baby,” toji pulls back the hair from your head, seeing your eyes barely being able to focus as it hits the back of your throat, “that’s it… suck it like the dirty whore you are.”

the degradation is reason enough for you to bob your head quickly, moaning around his length as your mouth drips drool mixed with the pre-cum from his tip. toji chokes out your name, hips bucking into your warm mouth while your hands find purchase on his thick thighs, taking him down your throat until your nose meets his pelvis. soon he‘s cumming down your throat with grunts, feeling the hot semen rush into your cavern.

“stay there, good fuckin’ girl,” the other groans out when your eyes shift to him, swallowing bits of his cum with a small stream of tears filling your lash line that threaten to fall. he notices your hand sneaking into your panties and he smirks, bringing you off his cock to catch your breath. you sputter and gasp, hand still lightly wrapped around him. he’s still hard after cumming, but he’s also more sensitive.

“can i ride you now?” you ask like it’s any other question, shimmying out of your underwear before wasting no time to straddle him. his tip pokes your pussy and you grab him, dragging him up and down your folds to collect your slick. before long, you’re grinding on the bottom of his shaft, your labia spread along his dick and toji is charmed by how you move on him with needy moans and two hands on his torso.

“sure ya can, doll, but…” you can tell toji’s impatient, as with you, so with a roll of your eyes (toji mumbles under his breath that you’re a hypocrite), you sink down slowly on him, the arousal of your cunt wet enough to take him without prep. inch by inch you take him deep, head thrown back as toji enjoys the view — the curve of your body, how your nipples poke through your camisole — and he smiles as his baby calls out his name from being so full.

“o-oh my god… toji—” the last bits of his name fades out when he moves his hips experimentally, the pain soon fading into pleasure and the feel of his cock in you causes you to lean forward.

“yes?” he grins, body now propped up with his elbows, meeting you halfway, “is my princess tired already?”

“n-no, i can do it,” you mewl when your hips start to bounce, the stretch of his dick feeling so good. he’s reaching places in you that you can’t even fathom, “i can take you…”

toji groans softly at your declaration, body twisted in such pleasure as you soon find a rhythm on him, relishing in the way toji watches you with lust in his eyes. he helps you with a hand on your hips, but the other pushes your top past your tits, mouth latching onto your nipple and taking one into his mouth and the gesture halts your movement for a bit. a chill runs through your body as he swirls his tongue around your bud, a breathless moan leaving you as toji looks up at you through hooded eyes.

it’s got you clenching, and toji hums into your chest, moving to your other nipple before releasing it with a pop! “tired?”

you make a small sound of agreement, the sensations of his thick cock in you paired with his lips on your tits and the burn of your thighs too much for you. he happily indulges you, bringing your body close to him before he plants his feet on the sofa and fucks up into you, a choked moan leaving you. that one thrust was just to tease you, limping into his embrace as he hears the slap of his balls onto your ass.

“you’re taking me alright,” toji laughs, cut off by a moan when he continues his ministrations, entranced by how you’re so wet you manage to leak down his length. with how your pussy is drooling, he rams into you easily, obscene noises of your sopping cunt against his pelvis as your sounds of pleasure comes out in little breaths.

“so wet,” toji comments softly, cock twitching from how your boobs felt against him and how your pussy feels so damn tight. it hugs him so snugly he has to will himself not to cum, but you’re making it difficult by how you call out his name in whines. “don’t tell me she was wet earlier already?”

you can hardly focus on his questions as he bullies his cock into you, body rocking from his relentless hips and the friction of your clit against his skin, but you mutter out a yes, a high-pitched one that’s got toji chuckling.

“my baby loves it when i talk dirty, huh?” you whine into his neck, arms tightening around his neck, “she loves it when i tell her how much i want to slam my cock into her pussy, yeah?” toji is ruthless, continuing to thrust while his words have very much the same effect. “or maybe she wants me to say how i want to cum deep in her cunt, filling her to the brim. shit… does she want me to fuck a baby into her?”

you clamp down around his cock with a loud moan and he stutters, “gotta stop clenching around me, darlin’, f-fuck.”

“y-yeah… wan’ that…” you pull away from your hiding place to babble out, eyes close to closing and drool dripping down the sides of your mouth. “wan’ all your cum, daddy.”

toji sucks in a breath at the name drop and in a second, he’s switching the positions. he admires the sweat on your skin and your heaving chest, and for the first time he’s able to see just how soaking wet you are, along with the stretch of your pussy on him.

“wan’ you to make me a mommy…” you mewl softly, and that’s all it takes for the other to start moving again because if it’s anything he loves more than seeing you crumble at his words, it’s how you tell him what you want.

you can feel toji twitch in you at that, but you have close to no strength, letting him thrust into you with vigour that’s running out too — he’s too besotted with your moans and face that’s morphed into pleasure, along with your whiny pleas.

“c’mon, open your mouth, mama,” toji pulls on your bottom lip with his thumb, “stick out ya tongue.”

you obey, hand squeezing his bicep as he gathers saliva in his mouth again, thrusts stopping briefly. he can feel your hips move, but you’re still focused on how toji purses his lips and how the spit leaves his lips — the long line of spit that descends slowly onto your tongue and the tension that surrounds it tells him you love it.

“attagirl,” he grins, wiping the corners of your cavern as the pace starts up again, and it’s so sudden you already feel like cumming.

“g’nna cum, daddy,” you mutter out, legs closing around him when you feel the familiar coil of your abdomen and toji just holds you closer, intoxicated with the moment that he wants it to last. “gonna—”

your eyes are blown wide when toji secretly reaches down to press a thumb into your clit, drawing lazy circles. that’s enough for your orgasm to come crashing down on you, pussy clenching hard on the other.

“daddy— oh my god!” toji still continues to rail into you, whimpers of his name spurring him on until you’re moaning out again as his cock spurts his cum deep in your cunt, filling you with his load until it spills out.

toji immediately drops down and starts to lap at your clit, a first class seat to his cum leaking from your pussy, laughing when you hardly care about it staining the sofa, too cockdrunk to care about reprimanding him.

“so pliant,” toji uses a finger to push his cum into you, “maybe i should get you like this more often, heh.”

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen toji #fushiguro toji smut #fushiguro toji x reader #toji smut #toji x reader #jjk headcanons #jjk x reader #toji x you #toji fushiguro smut #jjk toji #toji fushiguro #fushiguro toji x you #jjk scenarios #jjk smut #jjk drabbles

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tadpolesonalgae · 3 months

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The Other Woman

Azriel x Necromancer!reader

Synopsis: Coming from a long line of necromancers, you’re bound by an oath of submission to the High Lord. Dark power that many fear concentrates in your veins, a rare and precious gift. A perfect match for the Shadowsinger whose darkness comes to rival your own. Until one day, he seems to have no need for you anymore. Perhaps he never did.

Warnings: adolescent turbulence, beauty, angst, self-hate, violence (self-inflicted and other), general depression all around.

a/n: I think I went a little insane, writing this

Word Count: 15,042

“Did you see her makeup?” You laugh tipsily over your drink, blessed warmth sweeping away the day’s troubles. In truth you’re far from drunk, but a little playfulness never hurt.

Azriel rolls his eyes, wings tucked in carefully to avoid bumping into things despite being in a large private booth, overlooking the restaurant. “Maybe you should ease up on the alcohol,” he suggests, taking a sip from his own drink. “And waste your coin?” You muse, tilting your head to the side. “Never.”

The edges of his mouth quirk, gaze casting out over the busy scene below, waiters weaving in and out of the packed tables with trays practically piled to the ceiling—how anyone can eat that much food and not be ashamed is something you’ll never understand.

“Besides,” you say idly, glancing at the male. “I thought it looked nice.” But Azriel shakes his head, smiling faintly, your own reflecting their movement. “I’m sure you did,” he replies, still watching the tables far below. Hazel eyes following the waitress that had brought your drinks with slight interest. You subtly cast your attention after her—hair tied back, long legs, slim build but sturdy. Your nose wrinkles, lip twitching in disgust. “She could learn to lose that muscle,” you muse lightly, leaning forward to splay your forearms on the cool wooden surface of the table.

“She’s working a manual job,” he replies, still watching her. “Of course she’s going to have a bit of muscle from carrying those drinks around.” You take a sip of your own, watching as the waitress disappears through a door. “She serves as the pretty face of the restaurant,” you comment, “leave the heavy lifting to the others.”

“What are you going to order?” He asks, switching subjects. “Probably a salad,” you sigh, “I doubt I could manage any more. What about you?”

Azriel hums, the deep vibration warming your skin, and you resist the urge to shift in your seat, cunt aching to have him between your thighs.

“Probably a portion of mind-your-business with a side of roast potatoes,” he drawls, peering at you from over his menu. “Hold the judgement.” Hazel eyes glimmer with amusement, locking with your own, a slight smile softening the edges of your mouth. You raise your hands innocently, back curving to subtly showcase the generous neckline—deep but tasteful. “Just my opinion,” you reply, conceding on this topic.

He hums again, and you both settle back into peering through the menu. Much of the contents you can guess will be cooked in oil, making it greasy and fatty, something that would have made your mother’s lip twitch in disgust.

“Salad it is,” you mutter, pushing the menu away and sighing. “I know you like this place, Az, but this really is the last time we’re coming here. The air is practically dripping with sweat.”

“You know you say that every time,” he muses, hazel eyes flicking leisurely over the various meals and side dishes. “I mean it,” you counter, turning your head to once again peer at the crowd below, nose wrinkling ever so slightly before you suppress the inclination.

“There’s nothing wrong with letting loose every once in a while,” he replies casually, seemingly taking him time with deciding. “That’s rich coming from you,” you drawl, pointedly glancing at him. “You’re practically married to your paperwork. We had to set up a schedule for these dinners,” you emphasise, rolling your eyes. “Mother forbid you don’t get what you want exactly when you want it,” he replies, still choosing.

“What can I say? I deserve to be spoiled.” His shoulders shift, a low laugh huffing quietly from his mouth, the sound dripping between your legs. “Isn’t that right,” he drawls, deep hazel eyes settling leisurely on yours, shadows swishing idly over the plush seating.

You arch a neatly groomed brow, lips curving in a feline lilt. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was something you wanted to say?” You angle your head, keeping his gaze. But he shakes his head, that faint smile still on his mouth.

The waitress decided to return at that moment, and you resist the urge to berate her for so clearly interrupting the conversation. Instead you offer a polite smile, requesting a salad, pointedly asking how big it would be. “How big?” She repeats, playing dumb. You nod, keeping the smile perched on your lips, refusing to let her win. “I’m really not that hungry tonight,” you explain sweetly, “I was wondering since I saw you carrying some pretty large trays earlier—how do you even manage to carry that weight?” You ask, laughing slightly as you eye the thickness of her arms.

Beneath the table, a shadow zips up your leg, and you flinch, before shooting him a glare across the table. Azriel watches neutrally, but his gaze seems amused. With curved lips you return your attention to the waitress—so much wasted potential there. “I’m afraid all the salads come in the same size, but if you find it to be too much, nothing will go to waste,” she says smugly, “scraps get sent off to the farms, either for food or compost, so you needn’t worry about not finishing anything.” You smile blandly, not appreciating her bringing up farms and animals in a dining space.

She sucks in a breath, smile tightening as she at last turns away from you. “And for you, sir?” She asks, and you could vomit from her tone. Sprinkled with extra sugar. “This, please,” he replies pointing to something on the menu—tilted away from you. Curiosity simmers in the back of your mind, but you refuse to ask in front of the waitress. He’s probably doing it just to get to you.

She smiles and nods, jotting it down on her notepad before finally leaving, trotting away down the stairs.

“You better not be thinking about taking her home, Az,” you muse, leaning back in the seat as you fold your arms, subtly plumping your breasts. Mischief gleams on his hazel eyes as he casually examines his hands, “I don’t see a ring.” Despite the irritation gnawing at the back of your brain, the edges of your mouth lift at the comment, sighing heavily. “I should be the only female on your mind right now,” you say slowly, pulling out your nails to examine them in the warm light. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ignore a dinner partner?”

“Forgive me,” he counters, lips quirked, “you’d seemed more interested in the waitress. Trying something different tonight?”

Your lip twitches in disgust. “Are you trying to put me off my meal entirely?”

“I don’t think I said anything particularly foul,” he replies, amusement fading. “Well we both know your mouth isn’t the cleanest,” you muse lightly, surveying the decorations upon the table: a small vase of flora that’s been pushed to the side, some candles, a half-empty bottle of wine and some playing cards. “I’ll use my mouth how I want to,” he drawls, watching you steadily. “As will you.”

Traitorous heat liquefies in the pit of your stomach, bubbling and simmering away at the low timbre of his voice. You hum noncommittally, returning to his gaze. “So long as you aren’t using it on another male,” you say, shrugging. “Then live and let live.”

Azriel’s brow narrows, the edges of his mouth lifting. “You know that’s a contradiction,” he deliberates, relaxing in his seat. “You aren’t supposed to pick and choose who you’ll let live.” Habitually your lip twitches in disgust, but you tamp it down. “So long as it’s not being shoved in my face, then they can go on with their lives and I’ll go on with mine.”

“And Mor?” He questions casually, and despite his gaze having drifted idly to the candles you can feel the weight of his attention. “What about her?” You reply, keeping your features neautral.

Hazel eyes flick over the table, locking with your own. “Where does she fall among your morals?”

“Mor is Mor,” you reply blandly, resting your cheek on your palm, nails prickling skin. “She can do as she likes.” Azriel’s features remain in an unreadable set, but tension lessens as he reaches once again for his glass, sipping lightly.

You watch silently, how the warmth of the candles smooth his naturally flawless skin, shadows flickering in the hollow beneath strong brows, darkness dancing down the column of his throat. His lips remain in a bland line, tongue flicking out to bring in the alcohol, before returning the glass to the tabletop.

Casually, you slide your attention to the three candles that have been pushed to the side. “Want to learn a new trick?” You ask, feigning boredom. “I didn’t think you were one for party tricks,” he muses, an edge of mirth underlying his tone.

Ultimately you ignore him, allowing no more than a roll of your eyes before a single candle is being dragged over. Eyes latched with his, you brush the pad of your thumb and middle finger over your tongue, before clamping them over the flame, putting in out in one swift movement. Digits pull away, revealing the extinguished candle, a glint of victory in your eyes.

“Very impressive,” Azriel replies dryly, just as you had anticipated.

Watching silently, you slide a candle across to him. “Want to give it a go?”

There’s nothing subtle about the way tension ripples across his features, muscle tightening from the talons of his wings to the tips of his fingers. Hazel eyes the candle warily, a faint grimace on his lips.

A laugh spills from your chest at the expression, edging the flame away and instead reaching for the deck of cards. “How lucky do you feel tonight?”

Some of the torsion within his muscles relaxes, but he remains stiff. “Under normal circumstances, very,” he replies, glancing down as you deftly flip the box open, cards dancing between your fingers. “How about a bet?” You muse, eyes locked, shadows flickering at his back, spilling onto the table. “But if I win, you give that trick a go.”

Silence stretches between you, charged and taut.

Hazel drops to the cards being shuffled effortlessly, how they blur beneath your ministrations.

“Okay,” he says after a long moment, “I accept.”

Darkness flares around the booth, your teeth gleaming in a flash of white as a brief grin splits your lips. “Spine?” You ask, to which he nods, accepting the game—not even a sly quip about a necromancer suggesting Spine as the amusement of choice.

The seven cards are dealt out, the top one flipped over. “Ace is the skull. Good luck,” you smile, picking up your hand. “I do remember how to play,” he counters, features shifting to neutral as the game commences.

The rounds tick by, with him winning time and time again, all the while you’re sat opposite, with that bland, lifeless smile on your lips not even getting a single set down on the table. Still, when you reach the final round, your total amounts to no more than thirteen, having been forced to go out on a two during the first round, since the ace was worth twenty five, being the skull.

For the last time, you deal the seven cards, darting like shadows across the table as fingers flick deftly, setting the deck down softly, and flipping over the top card. Putting it face up on the surface.

With vague interest you watch his expression as he takes in his hand. If you didn’t know it was doomed, you wouldn’t be able to tell, his mask set firmly in place, no hint of disappointment or frustration to be found. Not even a curve of his lips with the fulfilment of your mutual knowledge—you’ve never lost to him. To anyone.

(With one exception.)

As expected, all seven of your cards end neatly catalogued into flushes, discarding the skull on the pile—the king of spades.

Azriel sighs, knowing the victory was coming, revealing his score of seventeen. A small smile plays on your lips as you sweep the cards back into their pack, pushing the candle toward him. “Better luck next time,” you say, his turn to fulfil the bet.

He eyes the flame warily, hazel glowing softly as the light warms his usually neutral features. You drink the sight in quietly, memorising the lines of his silky hair, a single strand brushing just below his right brow. How nice it would feel to skate your fingertips across his skin, pushing the inky lock away.

“Is it too late to back out?” He asks grimly, and you prop your chin on your knuckles, peering at him with a faint smile. “You agreed to this the moment you accepted the bet,” you reply softly, attention on him not the flame. Even to a stranger, his hesitance would be blatant.

“I’ll do it with you,” you say dryly, pulling the third candle over. Lick your middle and forefinger, watching as he reluctantly copies. “And…out.”

The flame winks out, extinguished in a heartbeat, casting your table mostly in darkness.

Blown-out hazel locks with you, still smiling faintly.

The grin fades, fingers dropping to the base of the candle to push it away. “Impressive,” you murmur sincerely, “once you wouldn’t have even considered playing.”

“Maybe a few decades ago,” he mutters, quick to push the candle away, hands sliding beneath the table. You hum noncommittally, straightening in your seat, sensing his aversion to the topic.

Your brow furrows, nails drumming on the table. Lip twitching with annoyance. “How long does it take to prepare a damn salad,” you mutter, pretending not to notice the ripple of ease across his shoulders. “Really, we’re never eating here again. The wait time is obscene, not to mention that server had an attitude on her. Doesn’t she know she’s supposed to be doing her job? All I needed was a simple answer, not a deep dive into their personal ethics.”

“You’d complain to an orphan if you got the chance,” he says, a hint of mirth returning to his eyes. “And you’d sooner destroy your own mind than let someone else have a look at it,” you return idly, reaching once again for your steadily draining glass, spotting the waitress making the journey up the stairs.

“Took her long enough,” you mutter under your breath, before pasting on a bland smile to soothe the male before you, a look of wariness on his features. All irritation is assuaged however, when you spot a smudge of lipstick on her straight, white teeth. Your mouth settles into a deliberate, straight line, glancing at Azriel to see if he’s noticed.

The waitress flashes a pretty smile your way as she sets the plates down, and you bite down on the urge to laugh, keeping your features politely neutral. When she turns to Azriel however, you feel an icy bite at your ankle, startling as one of his shadows nips at the exposed skin and you watch as he makes eye contact with the waitress. He thanks her, subtly gesturing to his teeth to let her know about her little embarrassment. She flushes wildly, a twinge of humiliation in her eyes as she hastily covers her mouth, apologising.

You offer her a sweet smile as she swiftly leaves, making her exit as quickly as possible to the stairs.

As soon as she’s gone, you turn back to Azriel, laughing. “Why’d you tell her?” You ask, sighing with mirth, pulling your plate closer. “Why didn’t you?” He counters, amusement void from his expression. You roll your eyes at his comment. “I didn’t want to embarrass the poor girl,” you reply, picking up the cool cutlery, feeling its weight in your palms. “Did you see how humiliated she looked at the end there? That was awful of you.”

He hisses your name lowly, and you raise mirth-filled eyes to his, spearing a slice of tomato on your fork. “What?” You grin, twirling the small weapon in your fingers. But he pins you with a hard look, shaking his head. “You can be a real piece of work, you know?”

“I had no idea,” you drawl, biting down on the crisp, red skin, delighting in the slight saltiness. A selfish indulgence on your part.

“At least now she’ll switch to a different lip tint,” you muse, watching as his expression turns cold. “Learn through experience, right?”

————

The hall fills with the sound of rustling clothing, voices chatting with pitched cheerfulness, heat pleasantly flooding the great room.

Night settled hours ago, faelights glowing proudly as the scent of warmly spiced mulled wine weaves through the air, sprinkled with sugar. Wreaths hang from the walls, decorating the large glass chandeliers, dripping diamonds.

The dark red liquid swirls in your glass, caught in a group conversation consisting of Mor, Elain, and a quaint looking bunch the latter seems familiar with, along with a couple of other familiar faces from your own circles. Andriette, with the hat wreathed in sparky feathers, laced through with purple and gold thread, accents of silvery aqua running through the deep indigo coloured gown she’s selected for the night. Changria with the vibrant oranges, rubies adorning her fingertips, wrists and neckline, looking like bloody teardrops from her earlobes. Small sequins have been scattered through the deep black of her hair, silky and lustrous.

Then there’s Cordia, the newest addition to your preferred group, still in the initial phase of integrating herself into your world. With rich brown hair and eyes to match, she’s chosen muted colours for the evening, complimenting her skin tone that’s lacking in the ripeness of life. As one of the many Fae of the night Court who organise their lives around the sparkling starlight, you find her a little bland on the eye, lacking the visual charm to fully convince you she has enough to offer.

Elain seems to be content leading the flow of conversation, though you can sense your ladies are getting restless and bored from the discussion, uninterested in the best soil to sow orchids in. A few of Elain’s own friends nod enthusiastically, offering their own tidbits and unnecessary opinions, eyes hurriedly darting across the circle you make up in search of a flicker of approval. Occasionally Mor will nod or laugh, offering one of her own comments, but even she is flagging in the conversation topic.

Changria shifts on her feet, and you take a mild sip from your drink to hide the eager quirk of your lips.

“Speaking of flowers,” she muses lightly, rubies glittering as light refracts through their pure colour. “I haven’t seen you frequenting the Peacock Inn recently, Mor. Spending your free nights at Rita’s these days?”

The vivacious blonde doesn’t seem the least bit ruffled by the slight sneer in your friend’s voice, instead allowing her full lips to curve into a rosey smile. “I find the conversation to be much more stimulating that side of the city,” she replies silkily, swirling her glittering champagne between pearl-tipped fingers, forgoing her signature red for the night in favour of a glittering ball gown that sweeps across the floor like golden starlight. “I’m surprised your sister hasn’t yet managed to pull you over. With how much time she spends there I find it strange you haven’t latched onto the spot.”

Elain’s friends shift uncomfortably on their feet, anxious to return to familiar ground.

“I think you must be mistaken,” Changria replies with her viper’s smile, as clean cut as glass. “My sister has no interest in fraternising with…same-minded folk. We were raised to be aware what counts as polite company to surround oneself with.” She pauses, dark eyes flicking to Mor’s from beneath thick lashes. “Not that there’s anything wrong with your group, of course,” she says with fake sincerity.

The edges of your mouth quirk, attention shifting to the bubbly blonde to see what she’ll do.

Irritation flares up when your fun is cut short, her pretty caramel eyes cutting to yours with enough ice that you have to step up. “And you?” She asks, “do you think this is polite company?”

You take a leisurely sip from your drink, having her wait just a few seconds before deigning her with a response. Both Andriette and Changria hide their mirth well, but you recognise that glimmer in their eyes. “I’m sure it’s all in good fun,” you smile, meeting her gaze, inclining your chin subtly. “Isn’t that right, Ri?” The black-haired female laughs, waving her bejewelled hand dismissively, “of course. My sincerest apologies if you felt otherwise, Mor.”

You smile at the superficial expression on her features, meeting each of Elain’s friends eyes, hurried and nervous smiles quickly pasted onto their lips before you turn to Mor. “It’s been a long night, after all,” you excuse smoothly, “she means nothing by it.”

The blonde hums, clearly choosing to ignore the snide remarks cleverly shot her way. Really though, what did she expect?

She can handle herself anyway—she didn’t need you to put a stop to Changria’s remarks, simply that it was the smartest thing to do.

In your peripherals, you watch as Cordia shifts, spurred on by the sly remarks, tempted to come out of her shell to find her own target.

“Maybe you’ve had a little too much to drink,” Elain suggests easily, eyes weaving through the crowd effortlessly. “There’s a server coming by—maybe have a couple of the snacks to soak up a bit of that alcohol. They really are lovely, those ones.”

“Am I right in understanding you advised what foods should be served, Elain?” You ask, watching as her cheeks flush a little with colour, dipping her head in a nod. The gesture is so imbued with feminine dignity you can’t help but warm to her, as if able to see a fragment of your younger self contained within her frame.

“That’s right,” Elain responds, a small smile on her lips. “Nuala and Cerridwen kindly assisted in preparation, as well as a good handful of others.” She nods kindly toward the gaggle of females she’d brought to the circle, and her friends faces soften into smiles. “You all remembered to wash your hands between gardening and preparing our food, right?” Cordia chimes in, eyeing the tray as it’s brought in.

They’re all perfectly bite-sized, different toppings upon small crackers with an assortment of herbs and spices sprinkled in varying heaviness. You glance tersely at Cordia from the side of your vision, before selecting one of the small biscuits from the outskirts, raising it to your lips to taste. Andriette and Changria follow suit, Cordia following soon after, eager to learn and copy. Elain’s group takes a few of the finger-pieces, nodding and congratulating one another on the different flavours.

You hum, pleasantly greeted by the slight citrine flavour of your tiny mouthful, finishing it off in another bite, aware more than a few sets of ears will be interested in how you judge the food. Moments pass, and you take your time examining the flavours—surprisingly enjoyable considering their size.

“Very nice,” you hum mildly, feeling the piercing weight of Mor’s attention on your lips. “Who’s idea was that one?” You ask, and Elain practically beams. Ushering forward one of the females in a pale blue gown, chestnut hair rich beneath the warm faelight. “This is Idris,” she introduces, and you incline your chin to look down upon the tall female. “It came from a home recipe,” Idris blurts out, and Cordia grins into her glass—at least she knows to hide her mirth. “My father used to make it for me and my siblings when we were younger, and I thought it would be perfect to share.”

“Your father did the cooking?” Cordia remarks snidely, and you send her another sharp glance, growing impatient with how she’s speaking out of turn. “What sort of circumstances led to that situation?” Idris shifts uncomfortably on her feet—shoes worn without heels, likely in attempts to muffle her unusual height. With a nervous glance your way, she elaborates. “My mother passed away when we were young, so my father had to learn how to care for us. Those snacks were the first things he mastered, so I’m proud knowing they’ve been served to such a vast number of people tonight.”

“He couldn’t afford servants?” Cordia questions humorously.

“Cordia,” you call sharply, pleased when she stiffens, twisting to face you—head slightly lowered. “Remember our earlier conversation about polite company?” You ask mildly, sipping from your emptying drink. The female nods, and you don’t doubt she memorised every word. You swirl your glass idly, before glancing at her sidelong. “Make sure to keep to that category. There are very few exceptions I make when it comes to the people I associate with, and you will not be one of them.”

The female flushes deeply, nodding hastily before mumbling a half-hearted apology to the tall but meek Idris, who accepts, likely out of sheer awkwardness.

You turn your attention to the pale-robed baker, meeting her eyes that flit about the room anxiously. With dark, tea-coloured skin, the dusty shade of red looks almost soft on her round and full lips, and you wonder why she’s decided on a pale blue robe when one that was wine-coloured would be far more suitable. With a dusting of gold over her eyelids, she could sweep a fair portion of the night’s attendees off their feet—both metaphorically and practically.

“Idris, correct?” You muse, nails glittering beneath the light. The female nods, fingers stuttering over the stitches in the bodice of her dress.

The very edges of your mouth raise, elegantly shifting your weight to one hip, running an appraising glance over her figure.

“Would you be interested in catering for another event like this?”

————

Footsteps tap softly along the floor of the open balcony, heels clicking as she finds you beneath the moonlight.

The glass has been refilled, and you gaze down at the revelry below, coloured lights dripping like diamonds, bobbing like fireflies between the shadows as fae sing and dance.

She comes to a stop at your side, waiting for you to address her, and you take another sip, just to make her squirm.

“How kind of you to join me.”

Cordia keeps still, attention keyed to your movements—smart thing. “You wanted to speak with me?” She asks, tone carefully neutral, but unable to mask the twinge of hope in her rich brown eyes. Her skin that must have once been livened from the sun in the Dawn court now lacks its vivaciousness, the colour of dried autumn leaves that crinkle and crunch daintily beneath booted feet.

“Allow me to be blunt as you are not someone I’m willing to soften my words for,” you say lightly, swirling your glass, glancing at her sidelong—watching as she stiffens further, and a twinge of fear creeps into her spiced scent. “You have not done yourself many favours tonight,” you muse, returning your attention to the sky, the clouds that have shadowed the moon. “It would serve you well to understand how things work for someone in your position.”

Her round figure is already fully facing you when you turn to her, fingers gripping her drink too casually.

“First of all, if you are going to target someone, do it with grace. Kicking a child does not prove strength, but weakness.” Cordia nods hurriedly, a sharp dip of her chin, eager to learn. “Secondly, do not go for someone contained within a group who will obviously side with them. Targeting that female when she was surrounded by others she was close with was foolish, and brash. A stupid error on your part, and embarrassing on mine.” She flushes wildly, lips parted, but nods again, mumbling out an apology. “And third,” you say voice icing over, “do not lash out with half-developed quips.” Deathly power condenses at your fingertips, like dew sliding along the taut string of a spider web. “There is a time and a place for mild jabs, but if you are unable to go for the throat, then you have no place in my circle.”

The sour tinge deepens, and your magic stirs in response, like a cat stretching out its spine, claws glittering.

“Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” she responds, a little hoarse.

“Prove it.”

“Prove it?” She echoes, and a small smile sharpens the cut of your lips, death haloing your figure as you stare her down. “Prove you can strike where it hurts.”

A blink reveals her hesitance, and you turn back to survey the city, sipping idly at your drink, as if you aren’t about to make or break the female at your side. The seconds tick by and you can hear how her lips fumble, silently scrambling for something sharp and bladed to gift.

Your eyes slide shut momentarily, mouth set in a sour line. “You can see yourself from the party.”

Cordia practically stumbles, but you don’t deign her with attention. “Reconsider,” she requests, gathering her pieces together, holding firm. “My answer is final,” you repeat idly, watching as a small circle appears below, people leaping and dancing as the round the small fire.

“Please,” she repeats, and through your peripherals you can make out as she discards her drink on the balcony, hands clutching the muted tones of her dress as she dips into a deep curtsey, holding the position flawlessly. The edges of your lips raise, before finally giving her your attention.

“I suppose it would be a shame to waste your dancing abilities,” you muse lightly, glittering black earrings tinkling as an icy breeze washes in. Cordia doesn’t dare look up, keeping her gaze trained on the round velvet of pitch dark heels. “Put on a show that will impress me,” you say at last, “and I will reconsider.”

“Thank you, my lady,” she breathes, relief soothing her muscles as she raises to a stand. “It will be the finest—”

“Down there,” you smile, gesturing with your chin to the bonfire far below, where the lower classes thrive and mingle, robes lacking the lustre and vibrancy of rich saturation, a sharp divide between the two spaces.

Cordia’s smile drops faster than a millstone through water, skin leeching further of colour, turning ashen. But she dips her head, understanding the ultimatum.

And so she leaves to dance, even if it will mean setting herself ablaze in the process.

No sooner than she’s out of sight, a familiar figure prowls silently out onto the balcony, stepping out of shadow and into the moonlight, bathed in silver.

“Azriel,” you greet, smiling faintly as he glides from the darkness, all calm quiet and reassuring grace. In a world that’s ever-shifting, he’s a constant, keeping the same cold attitude and unreadable mask wherever he goes. But then there are those moments where something warmer glimmers in his eyes, and your axis shifts a little, centre of gravity swaying as you enter his orbit. Rare moments where flame licks between paragraphs of conversation, small embers being allowed to warm before they’re once again fearfully stomped out.

“You could have chimed in when your friend was practically spitting in Mor’s face,” he says lowly, bypassing you entirely to lean calmly against the balcony railing and you blink, pulled back into your own realm. Features shift into a mask of soothing ease, moving silently to stand at his side. “She can handle herself,” you reply. “Besides, I won’t tell them what to think.” Through your peripherals you mark the slight frown between his brows, the displeasure in his mouth as he looks out across the midnight city, rendered in dark, inky blues and sparking pale starlight. You keep your back to the view, attention keyed to the male at your side, all thoughts of Cordia vanishing along with the task you gave her to complete.

“But you stepped in when it was Elain?” He asks, still not looking at you.

“Would you have preferred I said nothing?” You return dryly, sipping on your drink, casting your gaze back to the ballroom.

Azriel shifts, pushing up from his rest on the balcony, turning to look at you. “What would Rhys think?” He asks, and there’s something in his tone that has your full attention openly moving to him. “He’s like a brother, why would it matter what he thinks? We’ve all done bad things,” you reply grimly, memories pulling across your skin. “He’s your High Lord,” Azriel reminds quietly. “Your master, too.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, “that bond hasn’t been called upon in generations. And besides, he’s too soft-hearted to ever use something as outdated as that.” A note of affection has entered you voice, despite the slander you’re spewing. You peer up at Azriel, smiling faintly, “he refuses to so much as peek into someone’s mind without them knowing, he could never manage the bond. Much less given our relationship.”

Likely dozens of centuries ago, the both of your families had been powerful. Yours powerful enough that the dominant lineage grew wary of the necromancy that passed from blood to blood, never losing its potency no matter who it was bred with. Eventually a bond of submission was forged, rumoured that a hand had been forced, and ever since then, your blood has been bound to the ruling one’s. An oath of obedience sworn with each new ascension.

Admittedly, when Rhys’ father had been killed, and your own mother passing as collateral, you had hoped to escape it. Having grown up together, arranged to be married, lived in the same city for centuries, you’d thought perhaps something would change with you. Instead something had changed in him, after the loss of his family. A proposal had never been offered, and hopes of absolute freedom had been abandoned. You’d taken the oath the day he returned from Spring, blood still dripping fresh from his leathers, violet eyes so abnormally cold and cruel you’d done what you could to return their warmth. Shown you’d chosen to stay by his side, needless of a prompt.

“Still,” Azriel says, pulling you from recollection. “The fact remains. Stepping too far out of line will only force an unpleasant decision upon him. One that will likely be unpleasant to receive, too.”

“You don’t understand what you’re talking about,” you say softly, darkness gathering down your spine, festering and writhing. Fifty years worth of memories he has yet to understand. He watches you quietly for a moment more than usual, before his attention is stolen by a figure entering your shared privacy of the balcony.

Azriel visibly relaxes, standing straighter as Elain walks up to him, greeting the both of you with a warm smile that noticeably reduces the strain in the air. She comes to a stop at his side, and you frown as they exchange a quiet look, feeling too close to the outside of his neat circle for once, having been unaware of the constraints tightening. She leans into him, and you feel a frown emerging on your brow at her forwardness. Maybe she should take her own advice and find something to soak up the alcohol.

“Elain,” you greet, inclining your chin slightly, plastering on a pleasant expression as she turns to you. “Thank you for offering Idris another opportunity,” she says sincerely, voice soft as cotton. Azriel stiffens at the small revelation—nothing Elain would notice, but something you have no trouble spotting, almost perfectly attuned to him. “She loves cooking, though she doesn’t let it show that often,” she continues, oblivious to the Shadowsinger’s tension. “So even if she’s already said it, I wanted to thank you, too. I think it’ll help her in ways none of us can—getting to finally do something she loves, and getting to do it well.” Deep, swirling cocoa rises to meet you, tender and soft with emotion, so easy to target should someone want.

“It’s no concern at all,” you smile pleasantly, the corners a little too sharp to be entirely sincere, an edge in your stomach at her proximity to Azriel. “Though I appreciate you upholding the pretence that it’s anything but a self-serving action—very gracious of you, I must admit.” Her brows furrow a little, tilting her head, but then she shakes it, smiling faintly, “you like your mask, don’t you?”

Before you can ask—or even react to—what she means, she’s turning to Azriel, pushing up onto her toes to press a light kiss to his cheek, before smiling again kindly, and taking her leave. You watch her go, silently, until she’s disappeared between sweeping bodies, turning to Azriel. Raise your glass to your mouth, “well that was interesting.”

The rigidity is beginning to make sense now.

“How long are you going to let it drag on?” You ask, averting your attention to the fire below, fuelled by twigs as fae and faeries dance about. He’s quiet, and you fight against the muscle in your jaw, the urge to grind your teeth at his silence. Jealousy isn’t a pretty colour.

“We’re together,” he says at last, and you scoff.

“And I asked for how long,” you reply, not looking at him.

He’s silent again, and your lip twitches in disgust, pushing up from the balcony, turning to face him. “And when were you going to tell me you were fucking Elain?” You ask bemusedly. “I can understand keeping your other lovers private, but Elain Archeron?” You marvel, voice dripping with fake incredulity. “What does Rhys think?”

“It’s serious,” he replies quietly, and you scoff again.

“Uh-huh. And the Mother’s going to kiss my hands when I go to heaven,” you reply sardonically. “Seriously Azriel, what the hell are you thinking?”

“I’ve already heard this talk from Rhys and Feyre. I don’t need it from you,” he says coldly, and you pin him with a hard look.

A heavy breath blows from your chest, and you return to the balcony, surveying starlit Velaris. “Whatever. Even I can’t stop you from making this mistake.” Your name hisses lowly from his mouth, but you ignore him. Instead you focus on a small, female figure appearing below, emerging from the shadows as she meekly approaches the bonfire. A smile sharpens your mouth, and you lean forward. “Evening entertainment is starting,” you hum to him, shifting the subject.

There’s a pause on his end, and you know he’s considering dropping it, picking up on your cue to change the topic. Move away from the unpleasant conversations in favour of lighter topics. The air shifts, but he glances over the railing to where you’re looking. “Let’s see what the little chestnut has, shall we?”

“What did you do this time?” He sighs, a note of familiar exasperation in his tone, a faint smile softening your mouth. “Why do you always think I’m behind it? Can’t she enjoy a night on her own?” You ask, shifting to face him, jaw resting on your palm.

A muscle flickers grimly in his jaw, darkness simmering in his gaze. “She’s taking her top off.” You blink, turning to peer over the balcony. A sharp, surprised laugh cuts from your throat, more a harsh bark than mirth, because there she is, undoing the corset portion of her bodice, revealing the translucent white fabric beneath, swaying as she joins the revellers. “She’s certainly putting on a show,” you muse, pleasure shimmering across your skin as you wonder at the humiliation she might feel. What you hope she does feel, and what will go unrewarded. You would never have allowed someone like her to join your circles to begin with.

Beside you, Azriel shakes his head. “You’re going too far,” he mutters, “stop it.”

“Stop it?” You echo, “but she’s just beginning to enjoy herself,” you croon softly, watching as a male figure joins her on the ground below, hands greedily skating up her waist. Your name is again pulled from his chest in a warning, dragged out deep and gravelly. “What am I to do?” You muse, returning your gaze to his, now cold and hard, lethal beauty painted in pale moonlight. “I can hardly order her about from up here. Besides, I know what I’m doing, and this is a small price to pay for what she tried to bring my way.”

His lip twitches in disgust, and your heart skips a sudden beat, heat swarming your chest. The familiarity of that gesture—it’s one he’s learned from you. Like how behaviours can rub off on other people, you’ve left your own mark on him, and here it is, presenting itself to you. Nerves squirm around your throat, warmth fluttering through your lower stomach at the thought. Biting back a small, helpless smile, averting your gaze.

“You’re a nasty piece of work sometimes,” he mutters lowly, and this time you allow a fraction of the genuine smile to show, warmth gathering beneath your skin as you accept his invitation, falling back into the cruel dance of life, sparring with sharpened blades. “And you just perfectly captured Elain’s future thoughts when she finds out the things you do, Spymaster,” you reply, amusement lining your features. “She might not see that blood, but I do, and it’s not something you yet know how to fix.”

His features harden to ice, hazel eyes glittering with frozen cold as your words crash against his scar-toughened skin.

Down below, more clothes are being stripped away, and you grin, wondering how far she’s prepared to take this dance. How far she’ll go to preserve her precious face.

“How do you feel about trying a new restaurant this weekend?” You ask, distracting from the show. “After the embarrassment of that last time, I think it’s fair we go to a place I like for once.” You turn to face him, smiling faintly, but you’re met with emptiness.

At some point within the last minute, it seems he’d simply walked away.

Leaving you quiet on the balcony.

————

The ball had quickly lost it’s appeal after the small shock—what on the Mother’s head is he thinking? Elain of all people.

Fingers rub across your chest, just below your collar bones, massaging the area to relieve pressure. Him and Elain. Why hadn’t he told you? From how casually she’d stepped into his side, it has to be something that’s been going on for a while. The others must have known about it…why were you left out? Brows twitch but you pull back on the frown, anxious to avoid any suggestion of lines.

The conversation reworks itself in your mind, repeating until you practically have it memorised.

She might not see the the blood…

With each replay you can see as he walls himself off. Can spot those self-defence mechanisms kicking in, as thoroughly ingrained in him as the scars on his hands. That’s not what’s supposed to happen when he’s with you. He’s supposed to open up, not close himself off. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say… You’d thought it clearly a game, but maybe he’d been taking you more seriously than you’d anticipated.

…but I do, and it’s not something you yet know how to fix.

And he’d left after that. You don’t even know if he’d heard your rather bold dinner invitation, or if he’d winnowed elsewhere. To be at Elain’s side. To enjoy her as he would a ripe fruit. Maybe she is something to be wary of… If their relationship is so out in the open… You can’t remember a time Azriel had ever been okay with any of you meeting a partner, preferring to keep them to himself, hidden away until he got bored or it fell apart. Whichever happened first. It’s unnerving to find your constant shifting, and not in a favourable direction.

The tightness builds in your throat.

While it wouldn’t be long, you’d rather not have to sit through their relationship for the few years or so, even if you know it’s bound to end in misery, just as it always seems to be when it comes to him. Like a little black raincloud.

Your heart stutters in your chest, pulse increasing and you have to even your breaths.

Yeah…you should say something to him. Even if he likely won’t accept your apology due to cripplingly low self-esteem and issues with vulnerability, you hope the effort will be worth it. You don’t want him to wall himself off around you. You want him to bleed and gush, guts spilling, allowing you to see the mess you know lurks beneath his skin. A mess you could easily find in yourself, too. If only you could open up enough to show him your similarities. The connection would be obvious, and maybe…maybe you’d get to have someone who understood you, too.

Maybe he wouldn’t hate his own darkness as much if he was able to see how deeply rooted it is in your own, soulless body.

————

The dinner happens as usual, and you try to resist sinking into the off feeling.

It’s nothing obvious, but it’s lacking the usual cohesiveness, the fluid conversation feels dwindling and forced, and you realise he isn’t pushing back as much as he normally does. The snide remarks you make are left untouched, no disciplinary glances or displeasured frowns when you pass a quick judgement. Even when the comments become unfair to your own ears, he ignores them, instead choosing to pay attention to the food.

Once again, despite all your protests, you’re here at the same place you always go. He claims it’s his favourite, but you can’t bring yourself to believe he could possibly enjoy a place where the air is so thick and heavy, to the point of being stifling. You can practically smell the sweat and grease with each breath, and your skin crawls with disgust at having to frequent the restaurant so often.

Eventually the meal reaches its end, and the two of you leave, Azriel having paid once again. You think it’s only fair, since it’s his spot. There’s no way you’re paying for such a mediocre meal and such poor service.

The skies are heavy and grey, verging on thunderous, the air dense even once you’ve breeched the wards that keep the restaurant alive with heat. Cobbles are slightly crooked in places, and you take care walking, wary of the thin pencil-wide stilts that serve for your heels. All around, folk are enjoying their suppers, sat beneath water-proof gazebos as day at last utterly yields to night, faelights warming the streets dimly through the bizarre heaviness of the darkness.

“Azriel,” you call from his side, voice coming out confident despite being so unsure how to go about touching on yesterday’s subject. He makes no sound to acknowledge he’s heard you, simply continuing on with the leisurely stroll, and yet you know he’s listening. Just as he always is. Ever attentive.

“Yesterday, when we spoke,” you begin slowly, intentionally shifting your gaze to brush disinterestedly over shop fronts and seating areas. Nerves crawl uncomfortably around your throat, tightening but you keep your spine straight, shoulders pulled back as had been drilled into you. “You seemed closed off,” you say, unable to look at him. Not with the stutter of your heart.

When he makes no effort to speak back or elaborate, you push forward, anxious to keep your feelings tightly concealed. “You understand I was joking with you, don’t you?” You ask, counting each step, marking the cracks between the grey cobbles. He hums, not really and answer. Your throat rolls, gaze sliding to eye him sidelong, the clean cut of his profile against the dark blues of the night, skin keeping its soft warmth despite the swiftly plummeting temperature.

“You took your time to tell me about Elain,” you remark, switching topics hastily. Quickly dancing away from the apology that was sat so readily on your tongue—just unsure how to come out. What words to join together to express your grief over his own reactions while not feeling an ounce of regret for what was said. You won’t take it back, but you wish he wasn’t…however he is, with you.

“About that,” he says, and your attention keys to him entirely, as it always does whenever he seems prone to revealing a little more of himself to you. “Things are going to change,” he elaborates, “Elain and I will be going out to dinners together, and because of our lives, this is going to have to find time somewhere else.”

You blink, steps faltering, heels stuttering over the cobbles as you stare at him but he keeps up the idle pace, forcing you to push your body into fluid movement, flowing after him. “What… Az, what are you talking about?” You ask, tone confused, lacking its usual sharp edge as apprehension tightens around your throat. “These suppers,” he repeats, attention remaining ahead, “they’re going to stop.”

“Why?”

“Because Elain and I are together, and we—”

“Shut up about Elain,” you say sharply, voice lowered, coming to a stop on the cobbles. Azriel pauses, features superficially neutral as he takes in your stance. Waiting patiently, as he’s always prepared to do.

“These are our dinners, Az,” you hiss, keeping your voice low, wary of eavesdroppers. “They’ve been our time for almost three centuries. And now you’re trying to replace them because you got laid?” Disbelief drips from your hushed voice, staring at him incredulously, shaking your head. “We’ll talk about this again when the blood’s returned to your head,” you hiss sharply, but his brow dips in displeasure, and you’re kept from walking away.

“Don’t talk like that. About me, or her,” he says bluntly, irritation itching across your skin. “Az, you’re thinking with your cock,” you hiss again, stepping closer to reduce the chances of being overheard. “These dinners are the only times we get to be together. You are not cancelling them just because you want to get between her legs, is that clear?”

Azriel makes a sound close to a sigh, and emotion—raw and unfiltered—sears across your chest, licking like flames as you stare at him. “Don’t bother getting frustrated. I’m not asking, I’m telling you what’s going to happen. Besides, the family dinners are still open.” Even if you haven’t attended one in almost two-hundred and fifty years.

Your heart pounds in your chest, long-suppressed rage rearing her head with such force there’s nothing you can do to muffle her. “Don’t pull that, Az,” you warn lowly. “You know that’s not a solution. You can find time elsewhere, these days are the only ones that work for us.”

“She’s my partner. She comes first.”

“And what about me?” You hiss. “You’ve known her for—what? Two years? Have been in a relationship for less than that, and I’m the replaceable one? Pull your shit together.”

His brows narrow, gaze hardening as he takes you in. Hazel eyes cool, freezing over as his patience is relieved of its duty. “I want to eat with her. I want to spend my time with her,” he says coldly, “you are tiring and draining to be around.”

“Tiring and— What has gotten into you?”

“This isn’t anything new,” he replies, “she and I have been together for a while now, and this is how things happen.”

“How long is a while?” You hiss, feeling as if the cobbles are falling away beneath your feet. “Long enough,” he replies monotonously.

“This is how you treat your century-old friends?” You ask, power writhing in your stomach. “Pushing them aside when something new and shiny comes along?” You hiss, emotion whipping at your heart until blood leaks out. “Fine. Fuck the tightness out of her for all I care. See if you’re still interested once you’ve gotten what you want.”

“Do not—”

“I have everything, Azriel. I’m the most sought-after female in this city,” you hiss, pressure building behind your eyes but you shove it away—you can’t have the kohl running. “Males have crawled on their knees to gain an ounce of attention. My life is perfect, I don’t need anybody but decided you might be worth my time.” Anger heats your skin, features twisted in an ugly carving of rage.

“If your life is so perfect, why do I pity you?” He replies harshly, rain beginning to drip from the heavy skies.

“Pity me?” You echo, faintly. “You pity me, shadowsinger?” You grit out, lip curling back with disgust. “I don’t want your pity. My life is perfect. People would die to be in my position. To be as coveted I am, and I gave you a chance at that.” You spit, seething, keeping an eye on the rain—looking like it’ll become heavier. It’ll ruin the curls you kept pressed in if you don’t get inside soon. “You can’t replace me,” you scoff, staring at him beneath lightly dipped brows—careful of wrinkles. “You’ll never find someone as good as me.”

A vindictive smile stretches across your dark-painted lips, triumph searing across your skin, heart pulsing in a way you’ve been craving for decades—centuries. “I’m everything you could ever want: beautiful, intelligent, rich. Not to mention excellent in bed, anyone would be blessed by the gods to call me their own,” you point out, baring your teeth with victorious rage. “You can’t deny we’re perfectly suited for one another. Everyone and their mother knows we’re a strong pair, practically untouchable. We spend all of our time together—there’d be no difference between how things are now and how they would be if you would just open your damn eyes and realise how much you need me.”

“I’m the one you confess your sins to, I’m the one who absolves you, I’m where you go to seek comfort,” you hiss, wary as a strand of neatly curled hair falls out of place. “And you think Elain is anything in the face of that?”

Breath puffs from your chest, air curling in thick tendrils as the crispness of the breeze deepens in its chill. Fingers tremble at your side, skin immune to the swiftly plummeting temperature, spurred on by self-righteous anger. The need to right a wrong becoming satiated now he understands what an awful choice he’s making.

Azriel’s expression doesn’t shift, hardly shows a grain of emotion, the rain beginning to drip into the soft, inky locks of his hair, weighing the strands down to curl over his brow.

“I spent my time with you because I thought I could fix you,” he says blandly, making you falter. “You’re so self-obsessed, convinced the whole world would pause everything for you—I can’t even begin to understand how insecure you must be to have reached such a severe state of delusion.”

“Delusion?” You snarl, freshly manicured nails piercing the soft flesh of your palms, hours of pampering ruined by a single outburst. “The only one who’s deluded is you, for even considering picking the flower-baring whore over me.” Hazel eyes gutter, taking on a glittering icy hue as his jaw tenses.

“You’re the court torturer, and I’m the necromancer—there’s never been a better pairing cast together, and there never will,” you seethe, death and rot simmering at your fingertips that his eyes trace warily. “You’re really so selfish you’d latch onto Elain and bring her down with you?” You ask, watching as the blade finds its mark, hazel flinching. “I’ve seen your darkness, and you’ve seen mine. The mother couldn’t have made our match more obvious.”

“You know I’m right, Azriel,” you crow, taking a step forward, needing to wrap this up quickly—people are murmuring, rain growing heavier. You can already feel it beginning to take the silky sheen from your hair. “I’m the better choice. Now and forever. I will always be the better choice.”

His expression shifts to something you can’t place—almost like sorrow—thick brows narrowing over dark hazel eyes. He takes a silent step forward, the edges of your mouth kicking up with a spark of success. Vicious pride blazing in your gaze—warping into tunnel vision.

“I will tell you only once,” he bites out, glittering fury lighting the deep hazel of his gaze. “Never speak of Elain that way.”

“Or what?” You bark, staring up at him, arms folding indignantly to plump up your chest. “You choose that bitch over me, and it’s over between us,” you declare, victory within your grasp. “You forget I know where her father’s buried,” you hiss viciously, keeping your voice low enough for only him to hear.

A blind person could spot his kindness from a mile away, as useless as it is. He would never put himself first, especially not before you. You’ve had centuries to observe his behaviour, you know this is his weakness, the cripplingly low thought of himself, somehow unable to appreciate the divine beauty of his own features, looking as if he’d been hewn from the heavens themselves then unleashed upon earth to wreak destruction.

He’s equipped with the weapons to be a heart-breaker, to have whoever he wants, yet has somehow managed to overlook his own beauty. A rare gem for you to take for yourself, to treasure and polish to perfection, to stare at and admire in the guarded privacy of your own heart. He’s the first, and only one who’s ever managed to get past those impenetrable walls of ice, having thawed you out over likely thousands of dinners, and nights out, and not-so-casual brunches.

But Azriel shakes his head slightly, sighing in the freezing air, breath curling in a smooth twirl, whisked away by the chill breeze. “You’re doing this to yourself,” he says quietly, hazel piercing into you beneath a narrowed brow, gaze filled with ice. “I’m not going to choose you.”

“So you’d throw away three centuries of simmering pleasantries?” You spit out, an icy drop of rain slipping down your generous cleavage, goosebumps raising. “Don’t be so arrogant; it’s unbecoming.”

He takes a step forward, casting you in his darkness, his warmth remaining just out of reach, pulling you into his orbit. “You think anyone will love you like I will?” You ask, but your voice shakes as the words slip out. Throat rolls, nails slicing into already ruined palms. “I know you, Azriel,” you grit out, “what you are. What you do.” You shift on your feet, spine straightening, shoulders flattening. “Do you really think anyone else will stick around for that?”

Shadows flick over the peaks of those great wings, wreathing them like dark halos as hazel shutters. “Walk away,” he murmurs, darkness swirling idly about, like early morning mist. “Walk away, and you can keep your fragile sense of self intact.”

“Is it the number of people I’ve slept with?” You grit out, glaring up at him. “We can pretend that never happened, if you want me to be more like her. I can learn botany—it wouldn’t be an effort. I have gardeners that could arrange bouquets, and lace my hair with wild flowers. I’m sure someone’s found a spray to keep bugs away, so—”

“I’m not picking you,” he says harshly, eyes pinning you to the cold, icy cobbles.

“Why not?” You hiss, but he shakes his head, exhaling a short sigh.

“Just go back home,” he replies, a little softer. “Save yourself the embarrassment. I’d hate to be the one to shatter your carefully cultivated image,” he mutters, turning on his heel.

Panic surges, blindly reaching out, heart clenching in your chest as both of you stare at your hand gripping his wrist. The murmurs hurry in intensity, but fall away as hazel meets your gaze, narrowed and wary. You know he must be able to feel the tremble of your fingers, but you can’t let go now, that would be admitting defeat. So you step closer, his warmth washing over you, night-kissed scent wrapping with your own.

“I can change,” you manage, voice hoarse in the freezing rain, weighing and ruining your curls. Tiring and draining, he’d said. “Tell me what to do, and it’ll be done. I can fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” he replies shortly, “I spent a long time thinking I saw glimpses of myself in you—when you used to quieten in the evenings instead of plastering on one of your catty smiles. When you used to enjoy the silence instead of trying to fill it with numbing activities.”

You stiffen in the cold, grip tightening on his wrist, gaze locked with hazel.

“At some point you might have been salvageable, but not anymore,” he continues, small pieces of yourself trembling with each word, raw and tender. “And what about yourself?” You reply, heart tight in your chest. “You think that you have the right to pass judgement on me? With the things you’ve done?” You stare up at him, pulse beating to a nauseous rhythm. “You’ve lied, murdered, and tortured your way to where you are. I’m an angel compared to you.”

“You’re rotten to your core,” he hisses, wings flaring wider, towering over you. “Rotten, spoiled, and utterly unloveable.”

Something faintly familiar stings through your stomach, wrapping in knots and dragging outward, twisting.

“No one would pick you—has anyone even thought of doing so?” He asks, sharp hazel eyes piercing like blades through the thawed out ice of your heart.

“You did,” you whisper, lungs filling with choked-down aches. “You chose me, Azriel. So I’m choosing you back.”

“That’s not how it works,” he hisses, pulling his arm from your grip like your muscles are made from rain-soaked paper. “I gave you a chance to change. You could have been better if you’d tried.”

You shake your head, staring at him, fingers cold as icy water drips over their outstretched tips. “That’s not fair,” you whisper, “I didn’t know I was being tested.” But he pays you no mind, turning on his heel, making to leave you out in the rain.

You’re moving without thinking, darting into his path, blocking his way.

“Fine,” you breathe harshly, fingers trembling as they clench at your sides. “I’ll say it.” Alarm flares in those beautiful swirls of colour, his lip twitching but you ignore the familiar expression, gone with a flash of pain.

Your throat rolls thickly, staring up at him, aware of the whispers from beneath cafe shelters, hardly bothering to keep their volume low. “I don’t—…” you fumble, shocking humiliation twisting across your stomach. Are you really doing this? Is he worth your pride? Worth losing those cultivated defences? They’ve been up for so long, you’re unsure if you’ll be able to swallow the emotion that’ll inevitably swamp you.

Hazel waits silently, all quiet grace and reassuring shadow.

“I don’t have anyone else.”

The words burn across your skin, the admission having nausea roiling in your stomach, pulse pounding wildly. Stripped bare, emotion flayed to a raw, bloody pink.

“She has other people,” you whisper painfully, lip curling in disgust. “She doesn’t want you like— She doesn’t need you like…like I do.” Despite the way your confession sears through your blood, hurting like a scar picked open, he already seems to be done with the conversation. Ready to move on and leave you behind.

“You don’t need me, or want me,” he replies blandly. “You’ve been so emotionally numb for the past dozen decades you’re addicted to the first drop of feeling you’ve gotten. You like the idea of being with someone after such a long period of loneliness, and you’ve misunderstood whatever you’re experiencing as love when it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, heart fluttering in your throat so high you think you might be about to regurgitate it at his feet. “I’ve kept to myself because no one else has been worth it. No one else has made me even consider talking with you like I sometimes do.” A cold wind blows through your skeleton, a shiver shuddering in your stomach, hands clutching your exposed arms.

“I’m far more beautiful than she is anyway—”

“No,” he cuts in, “you aren’t.”

And suddenly you’re reduced to your adolescent self, secretly sneaking into her mother’s purse, snatching at all the makeup you can find and scurrying away to the bathroom to paint yourself beautiful. How heavily the bright lipstick had weighed on your lips, slippery and over-lined. How your eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot once you’d finished with the thick stick of kohl. The pins that had curled your hair into a matted mess, tangled into a unsolvable nest.

How proud you’d been of your work, parading out into your mother’s chambers, eager to show off your likeness.

She’d taken one look, and screamed, landing a hard smack across your cheek. Staining the carefully applied lip tint, pushing it onto gleaming white teeth that bit into your tongue with the force of the impact. She’d dragged you by the hair back into the bathroom, tub filling to the brim with freezing water where she’d shoved you in, clothes and all. Grabbed a towel and started scrubbing at your face, the water clogging your airways as her nails scraped and poked until your skin was raw. She’d wasted no time unpicking the curls from your hair, simply ripping them out, or in some cases, sheering the locks jaggedly from your scalp.

The following weeks had been the worst of your life, keeping your head hugged in a kitchen cloth, not having any of your mother’s precious silk caps to prevent friction and fraying. You’d hardly taken your eyes off the ground, keeping your gaze trained to the pretty bows on your shoes, clutching the straps of your bag tightly.

There had been other instances like that, but none quite as debilitating—the time a month later your’d put together a small breakfast, teetering up the stairs one at a time in your freshly pressed dress, starched and aired, before pushing her door open. She’d screamed worse than last time, and your feet had frozen to the floor. It was only when the glass vase had smashed against your temple that they’d unstuck, hands shuddering as you tottered backward, stumbling until the door had slammed in you face.

Whether it was that specific instance, or the litany of other formative moments of your childhood that had be warped and distorted into something cold and cruel that had led you to this moment, stood opposite him in a freezing cold street, gossiping whispers passing like a sickness between onlookers as the rain drips down cream-smooth skin, you’ll never know. Too many actions uncorrected for too long for you to ever understand when you truly became her spitting image. At what point you went from a young girl trying to fit into her mother’s skin, to fully embodying her rotten perfection.

Plump, rosey lips hiding a mouthful of foul, fetid teeth.

“So you’re—… You’re really…” something warm and wet drips down your cheeks, and you realise with mortifying humiliation you’re crying.

Azriel sighs harshly, the impatient sound slicing across your breast bone. “That’s not going to work,” he says coldly. “Cry all you want, it’s not going to change anything.”

Your heart flutters wildly in your throat, as if trying to break free, stomach twisting and turning in vicious knots. You don’t understand why he’s walking away. “She won’t… She’s not going to treat you better,” you manage, voice cracking along with your heart, shattering with such painful slowness you can practically feel it fracturing. Ice splintering off into shards.

His jaw works, and you resist the urge to turn and run beneath his gaze. He shouldn’t be seeing you like this. It’s gutting your chances.

“I trust her,” he mutters lowly, rain hissing on the cobbles. “I trust her not to take advantage of my weaknesses. To see them and accept them.” He steps closer, and your legs tremble. “Not to turn them into ridiculous little games designed to make herself look better.”

“That wasn’t—… I was helping you.”

“You enjoy succeeding where others fail,” he hisses, his warmth at last brushing over your skin, close enough for his scent to wrap around you fully. “You get a kick out of proving you’re better, no matter how good your life is.”

Your jaw trembles, nails biting into the soft flesh of your palms. “I have worked for my supposedly good life,” you say sharply, tone wobbling.

“Your predecessors worked,” he hisses, “you were born with a power that made you precious. Without it, you’re nothing.”

“Power is everything.”

“And that’s exactly why no one’s ever loved you.”

You flinch.

Stumble a step back.

“That’s not true,” you whisper. “Rhys loves me. So does Cassian, and Mor. You do, too.”

“You wouldn’t know love if it knocked you to the floor,” he snaps, and a long-forgotten memory flashes across your skin.

“I love…I like myself.”

He rolls his eyes, brows narrowing in disbelief. “You hate yourself more than I do.”

Shoulders bunch together, curving inward. “Doesn’t that make us perfect?”

He blinks, caught off guard by the tone, bathed in broken curiosity. He’s known for a while there’d been something wrong taught to you, but you’ve never really allowed him close enough to find out what.

Then he shakes his head, turning away. “Mutual hatred doesn’t equate to love,” he mutters, pausing. Looks at you from over his shoulder. “We spent three centuries together, and you couldn’t even figure that out?”

You remain silent, lips parted as you search for an answer.

He huffs in disbelief. “No wonder you’re always on your own.”

————

You’re hardly able to stumble your way back home, looming before you in a great mass of shadow.

You’re at the threshold of the tall gates, when a voice calls your name, and you turn to find a female with rich brown hair with deep eyes to match, skin just a little to wan for your tastes. Cordia.

“Leave,” you order coldly, the tall iron gates swinging open upon your command, power thrumming beneath your veins as you make your way up the road, thick forestry lining the edges. Breath drags raggedly from your lips, lungs spasming as emotion rages in your chest, ripping itself open upon the now jagged shards of ice that he’s splintered, damaged and bruised.

“You’re in a sorry state,” she calls mildly, following behind you as you march up the steep road with little difficulty, body shaking and trembling as raw feeling strikes at your core repeatedly. Teeth grit together, nails digging into your upper arms as you huddle against the cold, choosing to continue along the rain-soaked path in favour of winnowing.

“That was quite the performance you put on there,” she hums, and you freeze in your steps. “Oh? That got your attention,” she smiles, stepping into your path. “Yes, I saw your breakdown. So did Andriette, so did Sangria. Anybody who is anyone will have heard about your little-girl tantrum within the hour.” Terror thuds in your throat, stomach lurching as your meal is upended into the shrubbery nearby. You hear Cordia make a sound of disgust while tears prickle at your eyes, nostrils burning as your stomach spasms, retching over and over until you’re struggling for breath.

“And to think after all that effort too,” she gloats. “All that beauty and power, and you still couldn’t have the male you wanted. Serves you right for being so picky,” she hisses gleefully, watching as you remain hunched over, knees sunken into the dirt after your legs gave out. “I guess you’d call that karma. You destroyed me, now you’ll hit the bottom of the barrel too. How’s it feel to be in the shit-gutter with me, huh?”

The tremors become violent, and she laughs, stepping away. Breath shudders in and out, hyperventilating as you spiral away, discipline and control turned weak and mushy from flayed emotion, humiliation and terror mixing in a deadly combination. “Does rejection feel good to you?” She asks, arms folded across her chest, and you barely gather the strength to stand.

And that’s exactly why no one’s ever loved you.

You wouldn’t know love if it knocked you to the floor.

No wonder you’re always on your own.

Fresh tears sting at your eyes, stomach lurching again, retching and a palm presses to vomit coated lips, the taste bad enough to make you try to throw up all over again. Cordia makes a sound between disgust and pleasure, relishing the moments she’s being gifted. “Everything you have,” she marvels, “land, money, beauty, power. At least you’re an ugly crier. Who’d ever want to kiss piggy lips like yours.”

Rage burns you alive, hands wrapping around her throat, ripping her life away in seconds, reduced to dust, mixing with mud that you take minutes trampling deeper into the wet road. You wipe your mouth, staring grimly at the mess on your shoes, stomach turning but you feel a little better now that things are fairer.

When you reach your home, you make no effort to dampen your power, allowing it to roll in thick waves from your soaked body, rat-tailed hair slicked away from your features. Let the message convey itself, for every maid and servant to leave immediately, or face the consequences. Livid emotion rocks and shatters across your chest, swirling with unstoppable intensity and you kick off your shoes, heading up the stairs, treading rain into the clean white rugs.

A maid rounds the corner too quickly, slamming into you, and your urge to kill finds its target, power piercing into the quaking female. You grit your teeth, yanking at its leash, guiding it elsewhere to keep from murdering an innocent. Instead your hand pulls back, taut like a bow string before lashing across her cheek, the sharp jewels on your fingers biting and tearing at her skin as she’s shoved backward. “Get out,” you hiss, voice distorted and raw, power recoiling and refocusing, licking its lips as it finds the maid again, but she’s already scrambling away.

Breaths rage in your lungs, and you manage to make it to your bedroom, eyes skittishly darting to and fro in search of something, something you need—

Tears spill heavily, a sigh of relief and wonder releasing from your body as the razor drags across your forearm, short and sharp breath stuttering as that pressure builds and builds, the steel flying across your skin until you could peel the flesh apart like the crusty pages of an old book.

You pant heavily, arms trembling unsteadily with adrenaline you haven’t felt in years, suddenly crushed by the weight. Groans drag from your chest, sobbing wretchedly as you settle on the floor, ripping the clothes from your legs, slicing and slicing and slicing as you cry and smile and scream and die— Like it’s all condensed into fluttering feelings, passing through, forcing their way so intrusively through your mind it’s shards of glass nicking at your head, wrapping your brain in a bag of needles then tossing it down a flight of stairs.

Blood paints your floor, dripping heavily and exhaustion sticks to your skin like sweat, the compulsion to purge the poison dulling with your heartbeat, thudding weakly in your chest and life bleeds thickly and fluidly from your body, gashes torn through your skin already beginning to stitch themselves back together. Exhaustion fills you, taking adrenaline’s place, and the last thing you can manage it a flick of your wrist, transporting the blood-stained rugs to the large kitchen sink a few floors below, filled with water to keep it from setting.

You’re slumping to the floor, bones digging jaggedly into flesh as it’s ground into the hardwood floor, body relieved of consciousness, shuddering strain seeping away, washing like a cool breeze in the peak of summer up your spine. The world fades away, taking with it the heaviness of emotion, the searing ache across your breast bone, lungs stuttering with deep-seated pain.

At last escaping it.

————

Heavy thuds pull you ungraciously from sleep, coming from your front door.

The first thing you feel is a deep ache across your body—back and shoulders stiff from lying on the floor. Your lids feel thicker…heavier than usual, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth as you peel it away.

Memories hit you like a sack of bricks, passing in a flash before delightful numbness banishes it to some dark and lonely corner of your body. To sit until you’re ready to face it, or until it rots away to something harmless and unbothered. Whichever comes first.

The thuds repeat, and you close your eyes, sinking into your floor, skin thick with imagined grease, hair tangled at the base of your neck, skin hurting with stinging pain when you attempt movement. While the cuts have faded, the echoes burn beneath your flesh, small needles embedded beside bone, prickling and spiking with every motion. Whoever’s at the door can dissolve into the wind for all you care, you’re in no state to deal with anyone.

Magic clicks through the house, and you startle, as if zapped by a whip of static. Your heart pounds as the door unlocks, disobeying its enchantments and allowing entrance to the stranger. Except it’s no stranger, the only soul who has access to your house is the High Lord himself, a condition of the bond that stretches between you, malnourished and untouched.

Quiet steps to the staircase reveal him stood in the hallway, hands placed with deceptive disinterest in his pockets, clothing fine and tailored perfectly. Just as it always is.

Cold, violet eyes flick to you, stood atop the case, but even he’s unable to entirely conceal that razor’s edge in his gaze, glint cutting through purple-blue. Sharper than steel, colder than ice.

“What do you want?” You ask, not bothering with pleasantries. He clearly isn’t here for tea and biscuits.

He’s silent for a pause, gathering his patience, or…you don’t know what. But he takes his time, as if to set you on edge. “Come down here,” he says at last. There’s not a single note of inflection in his voice, lethally soft, whispering effortlessly across the marble of the front entrance.

Your features remain set in their hard, bland line, gazing down at him with mild hatred. Whether it’s a side effect of the bond, or his natural terror as High Lord, something inherent warns you not to disobey, reluctantly descending the stairs, glittering black dress still clinging to your body, hair a ragged mess at your shoulders, lips likely stained and eyes smudged from the kohl.

“What do you want?” You repeat lowly, bare feet settling on the floor, level with him. Darkness seems to whisper at his back, thrumming throughout the halls, muffling all those usual noises, becoming abruptly silent. Vibrations dying in his wake.

Cold, violet eyes run over you appraisingly, though he makes no comment over your dishevelment, and it’s somehow worse than if he had struck the mark. As if he knows he doesn’t need to sink that low to hit where it hurts, biding his time to deliver the fatal wound.

“Can you guess why I’m here?” He asks softly, wrath underlying his poisoned tone, hairs prickling at the nape of your neck. Your pulse spikes as his attention skims the lavish halls, entirely empty, before turning for the door that will lead him to the sitting room. “I’m too tired for your games, Rhys,” you mutter bitterly, following after him warily. “There’s nothing playful about the decision that’s about to be made,” he replies icily, nodding to one of the sofas as you pass by. “Sit down.”

“I think I’ll remain on my feet,” you say with forced calm.

A muscle feathers in his jaw, features remaining cold and disinterested. Warning chimes drill up your spine, alarming you to the off-ness about him. The tautness to his usually elegant movements, fluid and lethal. Now cut to something harsher, hewn to something more brutal.

“Tell me,” he orders quietly, “why you think I’m here.”

You stare at him silently. Sullenly. Stinging all over your body.

“You wanted to say hello?” You say at last, lacking any humour to the response, too drained to muster up even a spark of emotion.

The edges of his mouth quirk, no mirth to be found in his face. A grin a he would have given Under the Mountain. A grin you’ve come to despise, and one you thought would never be shown again. Sharp, glittering talons prickle at your mental shields, hardened to steel on their outer walls, utterly impenetrable without permission.

Or so you had thought.

In one clean slice, the razors have cut through your adamant as if it were fatty flesh. Not a single brittle bone impeding the clean incision. Shock paralyses you, breath stolen as that faint grin ices over, threat now rolling visibly from his shoulders, darkness condensing into something almost solid, gaining density as it slinks closer to the ground.

The sound of skin smacking against skin cuts through your mind, a sharp inhale stolen after, shuddering gasps rasping through the silence, followed by panicked footsteps as she flees. Your cheek burns, feeling the metal bite of jewelled knuckles upon rubbed-raw skin.

Fingers rise, trembling as you check absently for a mark, brushing lightly across the afflicted area self-consciously.

“Why do you think I’m here?” He repeats, the whisper as quiet as a last breath on dying lips, cold and utterly lifeless.

For the first time in three hundred years, terror filters through your veins. Cloying, and dominating, pinning down and twisting your senses. “It was for good reason,” you breathe, becoming acutely aware of the lethal brush of darkness. A single touch that could reduce you to a red mist.

“Stop,” he says, quiet and sharp, like scissors snicking through hair. “You’ve been toeing the line for a while now, and that was the last step you’ll take in my city.”

My city. Velaris.

Your mouth opens to speak, nausea rising, stomach twisting as emotions begin to seep back into your body, satiating your mind with painful vibrancy. But the words are stuck in your throat. You stare at him, eyes round and wide, at once blank and contorted with raw feeling. Rushing and spilling as guts twine together, restitching themselves after being sliced across the floor.

“You’re an infection,” he hisses lowly, talons tightening at your neck, and you remain helpless. Powerless. “I don’t care for whatever excuse you’ll try to spin. I’m done with you. We all are.”

The talons retract, and air burns at your lungs, nostrils and eyes prickling as you gasp, hunched over, stomach spasming enough you think you might vomit again, and you’re thankful you didn’t put anything in it. The thought of reaching for your own magic hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Whatever remarks you want to make, I will tolerate. You are, and have always been your own person,” he says lowly, prowling forward on predator’s feet. “But the second you lay a hand on one of my people, it’s over. You will not return from it.”

“I hardly even touched her,” you choke out, lip curled back from your teeth, emotion thrashing and raging against your ribs, volatile in your blood as you stare up at him. At once having given you everything, and left you with nothing.

“I saw the memory,” he hisses, “she told me what happened. How you treat—” His nostrils flare, freezing in his tracks. Pupils dilate then contract to slits, and you stare as he turns on his feet, making for the closed kitchen door. Where the blood soaked rugs and sheets remain.

“Rhys…” you rasp, stumbling forward. “Rhysand.”

The smell of iron is sharp, bursting throughout the room with a potent tang, saturating the air with its distinctive metallic scent. The water is a deep red, concentrated with cold blood, almost opaque with its thickness.

The High Lord is utterly still in the doorway, taking in the devastation of the kitchen, some of the sheets laying strewn wetly across the floor, and it occurs to you he will not know that it is your blood dripping across the white tiled floors. That’s it’s your blood staining the pristine surfaces.

Undiluted terror crushes into you a second before his own darkness does, breaking across your skin as you’re flung across the room, smacking against the ground as the air is knocked from your chest. Your ears ring with the impact, lips parted, back arched in pain, hands trembling as memories flash across your skin.

You wouldn’t know love if it knocked you to the floor, he had said.

You stare up at cold, merciless violet.

Both of you know what he’s just done, but only one of you cares.

Words fail you, unable to admit to your own stupidly self-inflicted disciplines. Shame ruptures across your skin, unable to move from the shock of being floored in a heartbeat, after having had centuries to put between the last memory of pain this deep. It always scars more when it’s from someone close by.

“I don’t know when you lost yourself,” he breathes heavily, staring down at you, twisted and warped from the force of his magic. “I don’t know when, or how, or why. And I don’t care.” The words break on your skin like whips, cracking and splitting still-healing flesh to put the pain deeper. “You hurt one of my people,” he hisses lowly, watching as you struggle to your feet, limbs moving disjointedly from pain he’s unable to see.

He takes a step forward, and you have to force your legs not to stumble back, to hold strong as he prowls closer, night rippling through the room. “Many people are hurt in your city,” you grit out, “many people are hurt in your court. And yet you’re finding fault with me?” You shake your head sharply, glaring at him from beneath your brow. “You went too far,” he hisses, the sound like hail and ice slicing skin. “Every day you pushed a little harder, and I let it slide because I thought you needed the freedom, that you needed to at last understand you were free of her.”

“Fucking shut your mouth,” you spit, death leaking across the floor, rising to meet his own.

Both of you know who would win this battle, but you don’t seem to care any more.

“I kept my mouth shut for too long,” he counters, striding closer and magic sparks and crackles, tendrils colliding then recoiling as it’s mixed in the confined space, pressure building in your fingertips. “I let you get away with too much. Leeching off Az until even his patience ran out. Putting Mor down because you couldn’t stand to see someone from your own position escape, and live. We offered you help and you chose to walk away.”

Fury lacerates through your heart, burning at your mind as you meet his step, moving forward as you bare your teeth, the house quaking as more power is funnelled into it’s contained space. “You dragged me beneath that godsforsaken mountain, Rhysand,” you hiss lowly, “I stayed with you for fifty godsdamn years, while they got to stay here, because I was the one who was common knowledge.” You shove at his chest, but he hardly budges. “I was there for you, whenever you fucking needed me. So don’t you dare try and spin betrayal on me.”

“It is your duty to stay by my side,” he snarls, hand gripping your jaw in a vice-like hold, muscle spasming beneath his touch. “Everyone suffered in those years. Everyone sacrificed something. Everyone had something taken from them.”

“You chose them over me!” You spit, nails tearing at the rough skin of his knuckles as heat burns at your eyes. “You protected them. You suffered, and gave up pieces of yourself for them. None of it was for me.”

He stares at you, unreadable emotion raging behind writhing violet, lips parted as darkness rumbles through the house. “Why would it be for you?” He whispers, still staring at you. “You’re so wrapped up in your own life you forget anyone else exists.”

“You’re lying,” you mutter, “that’s a fucking lie, and you know it.”

“You threatened to bring their father back from the dead,” Rhys snarls, the damper on his power coming clean off, air growing thin as pressure crushes down on your bones, too much to possibly be contained.

“I don’t care if you’re bound to me until the day that I die,” he hisses, and you can feel that fatal strike being prepared to wound. “I don’t care if you have no way to disobey me should I give you an order. I don’t care if I could command you to never abuse your magic like that again.”

“Rhys…” you breathe, staring at him, fear bubbling away. You’d told Azriel he would never touch the bond, that he would never do that to you, and yet… “Rhys, don’t…”

“I can’t,” he hisses, defeat lining his features.

Relief washes over you like a wave of cool water, shoulders slumping from their tension, magic beginning to dissipate.

He shakes his head, a lock of neat, blue-black hair falling out of place. “But if you aren’t out of Velaris by the time the sun rises tomorrow…”

He’s in front of you in a flash, but your power doesn’t respond. Not as he appears before you, or as his hand slides around your throat. Not even as he forces a bargain upon your flesh, ink burning as it’s stamped in plain sight.

“You will not only lose your powers over death, but your life, too.”

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut

#azriel x reader #azriel angst #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #heart dividers by cafekitsune

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roonilwazlibimagines · 4 months

Text

control freak - t.n x female!reader

Blurb: theo has control issues but his girlfriend doesn't mind

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: this was originally 6k words but i felt like the second part was really intense self indulgence but if people like this i'm happy to fix the second part up and post it as well :))

Masterlist | Part 2

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

If Theodore Nott had his way, people would stop calling him controlling. Okay, maybe there had been times where he had lied and deceived to get his way, and sure, he was quick to rise to temper which often made people just agree with him, but it was just because he always knew what was best.

He had first said this thought outloud to the pretty girl he had been dating during their seventh year at Hogwarts and after two years of being with him, she felt comfortable enough to scoff at his words.

“Because you know what’s best?” They had just left Draco Malfoy’s and Theo was driving her home.

His eyes flickered to hers and back to the road, astounded that she had the audacity to scoff at him.

“Well, yeah.” The only reason they were having this conversation was because of something stupid Draco had said.

“You need another drink,” Draco had said as soon as he noticed the girl sitting on Theo’s lap had an empty cup in her hand.

“Ooh, yes please.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

She turned to look at her frowning boyfriend and gave him a look to match his.

“Theo,” she had whined.

“You’ve already drank enough, if you drink something else, you’ll get sick.” He had sat up to whisper in her ear and there was a piece of her deep down that knew he was right. She was currently happy and drunk and she had drunk that last drink quite fast. Another would probably move her to the next level of drunk that she did not want nor need for a casual get together with friends.

“I might have one a bit later, Draco, thank you.” Theo slouched back down, happy with the compromise.

“Merlin, Nott,” Draco scoffed, “you keep her on a tight leash.”

Theo suddenly wasn’t slouching anymore nor was she sitting on his lap.

“You were happy and drunk, another drink only would have made you feel worse.”

She took a deep breath and bit her tongue as they came to a red light. It casted a shadow on Theo’s face as he turned to look at her. He kept one hand on the steering wheel but brought the other to give the flesh of the thigh closest to him a squeeze. He left it there as she sighed.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m just saying you’re controlling.”

His gaze wasn’t harsh, but it still let her know that he wasn’t happy with her response.

She did her best to change her face in a way that would please the boy who had a small tick in his jaw. She widened her eyes and wet her lips, sinking into her seat slightly and glancing at the large hand still sprawled over the top of her thigh.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

That made his gaze soften.

It was true.

She had been in the same house as Theo for seven years when she first started dating him and had been in the same circle for the same time.

She had seen him yell at first years to get out of their spot, she had seen him lead all of their group projects and she had seen him get angry with new people on the Quidditch team because they couldn’t understand his new formation.

But she had only really realised this in their sixth year during the Sytherin’s annual end of year celebration. There was a bottle of firewhiskey and a deck of cards that Theo was currently dealing.

She had known amost since their first day that Theodore Nott was attractive, but it wasn’t until a couple of months ago that she had decided that she was going to do something about it. And doing her best to make sure she was in his line of site at all times, she had somehow ended up next to him in the circle, trying to keep up with the rules he was currently explaining to her.

“-and if you don’t, you drink. Does that make sense?” She was nodding even though she was still caught up on the first rule he had started with.

He had finished dealing and was looking down at her in a way that told her he knew she was lying.

She didn’t mind.

Nor did she mind when he said, “how about I help you for the first round?”

And she wasn’t surprised either when it was her second turn and she had been staring at her cards for less than thirty seconds before he grabbed them out of her hands and said, “here, let me have a look.”

It reminded her of how he’d grab the parchment out of anyone’s hands whenever he didn’t trust them to write in enough detail for their group tasks.

“Play this one,” he had said, already throwing down her card before he handed her deal back to her.

She didn’t really mind this. She still chose to date him halfway through their last year and it wasn’t until the next year’s celebration that she came to the realisation that she even kinda liked it.

She was sitting in his lap and he had a cigarette in his mouth. He tried to blow it away from her but sometimes it would waft back and she would try to stop her nose from scrunching up. Their relationship was still too new for that.

She blamed the red plastic cup in her hand for the reason she asked, “Can I have a go?”

Theodore had been laughing at something Blaise said, but in the second he had turned down to look at her, Blaise had turned to Pansy and she took his opportunity to nod at the cigarette in the hand that wasn’t gripping her waist.

The chucke lines on his pretty face smoothed out and he let his hand drop as he immediately said, “No.”

She pouted at him.

“Why not?” She was giggling and she wasn’t entirely sure why, it did nothing to change the harsh angles of his jawline nor the serious look she was now on the receiving end of.

“They’re not good for you.”

“You do it.”

“That’s different.”

She giggled again, giving him a faux confused look at his contradiction.

“Please,” she whined. She really had no desire to smoke said cigarette, she just wanted to see where this would go.

“No,” he said, “end of discussion.”

There was a fluttering in her tummy and Theodore wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, but he didn’t miss the way her body gave a slight twitch at his words.

And in his defence, after seeing that boy with a cigarette in his hand almost everyday for the last couple of years, she could count the times she had seen smoke blow from his pretty mouth on one hand since that incident even if his clothes stil smet like smoke.

But it wasn’t until that night that they had spoken about it. And it was hard to tell whether that small confession in Theo’s car had changed the amount of control he usually used over her.

As shown by the events that had led up to that conversation, Theo had always kept her on a tight leash at parties.

“I just care about you, s’all,” he’d shrug when she gave him a pout everytime he cut off her drinking.

“Come straight back though,” he’d instruct when she’d get up from her designated seat (his lap) and go with Pansy to the bathroom.

“Stay where I can see you,” he’d whisper when she went to go join Pansy on the dance floor.

And he was even worse when he wasn’t at said party.

It had been three years since they started dating, over a year since the conversation in his car and a few of her friends from her work had convinced her to join them in testing the new club that had opened in Diagon Alley.

When she came out in a tight back dress that rested just below the flesh of her bum, she didn’t even react when she saw the muscle jump in her boyfriends jaw. He had come over to hers to annoy her while she was getting ready.

“I’m not annoying,” he had scowled when she said this to him.

He was driving her in and he only came early so he could make sure he knew exactly what the night would entail.

“You don’t like it?” He was sitting on her bed and she made her way over to him, nudging his knees with her own so she could stand in between his legs. His hands rested happily on her hips, rubbing the fabric of her dress he wished wasn’t covering her pretty skin.

When she let out a playful giggle he tore his hands away, only to bring them back to make a loud slapping noise as he brought them down on the flesh of her bum. She squealed as he continued to give it a tight squeeze making her body draw closer to his.

“You know I love this dress,” he whispered over her small gigges, “and I don’t care when I’m there, people know not to mess with me.” She wanted to roll her eyes at his corny words, but refrained knowing she was already pushing his buttons by wanting to wear this dress. “But I won’t be there tonight, baby.”

His voice was soft and she was letting herself melt into his touch. His hands were now rubbing the fabric covering the flesh he had tortured and she was feeling content.

Which was why she was sure she had gotten whiplash when he said, “So go change.”

He was using the same tone he had used when he told her that he wasn’t going to let her smoke. She could almost hear him say, ‘end of discussion.’

She turned her head to look at him, her mouth slightly agape in shock at the change in her boyfriend but he kept his gaze firm and she was quite dumbfounded at what had just happened so she kissed the top of his head and moved herself out of his embrace to go change.

She hadn’t thought too much about what she was wearing. She had only been out without Theo a handful of times and she had never had to worry about what she wore, only ever choosing what she felt best in at that moment in time.

She came out in another black dress, but this time it was longer.

“How’s this?” She had asked when she came out to show Theo again.

“Better.” He stood up this time to walk over to her.

When he was standing in front of her he placed the palm of his hands under her jaw, his thumbs resting on her cheeks. His palms were soft and warm and she let her head sink into his touch.

“If anyone bothers you, you know I’ll be there straight away.”

“I know,” she said, going on her tippy toes to place a gentle kiss on his lips. And she was truly grateful for that.

In the car, Theo continued.

“Message me as soon you’re ready, I’ll be there straight away. Cover your drink. If you feel even sightly off, just let me know. Trust your intuition. If you go anywhere else, let me know as well. And if anyone-”

“Gives me trouble I’ll let you know.” They were parked outside the club, but the car was still on. Theo turned his head to raise a questioning eyebrow at her.

“Don’t be a brat.”

“I’m sorry,” she sighed, “I know you’re just looking out for me, I promise I’ll keep you updated the whole night.”

“Good girl,” he mumbled as she leaned over to kiss him.

“I love you.”

“I love you pretty girl, have fun.” And what that, she slammed the door.

He watched her walk over to her friends and then began his drive back home.

The whole drive home his mind was full of worry for the pretty girl he had just left barely seconds ago.

What if something happened to her? Whenever he was there he made sure she could let her guard down and of course, he trusted her and knew she was more than capable, but he couldn’t help himself.

When he got home he sent her a message.

‘home x’

‘did you get in okay?’

He stared down at the two bubbles that had come from his phone. He tried to get his mind off it.

He got out a book, but all he was doing was looking at words, he wasn’t comprehending anything.

Five minutes had passed.

‘my love’

‘please answer’

He tried to make himself a snack. But he found he wasn’t actuay hungry.

Ten minutes.

This wasn’t good enough. She needed to answer him. Did she not know that he was going crazy wondering about all the horrible things that could have happened to her?

He pulled out his phone and rang her number.

She didn’t answer.

He was seconds away from going there himself. He knew it was crazy, but there was a part of him that wanted to go in with her. Sit at a tabel by himself so she could have her fun and he could still keep an eye on her. But even he thought that might be going to far. Except now he knew that that was what he should have done all along.

He was twirling his keys in his hand, seconds away from going there himself when her pretty picture filled up his screen.

“Theo?”His heart started beating again when he heard her voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, we were just on the dancefloor. I’m sorry.” And he could just imagine the sheepish look that was overtaking her pretty face.

“It’s okay my love, please just keep your phone on you, yeah?”

“Ok Theo,” she said, “I will, I promise. I love you.”

“I love you my girl.”

He waited until she hung up the phone and put his keys back down.

Now that he knew she was okay, he feared he may have been a bit dramatic. But he coudn’t help it.

He was sure that it had come from his father. His father who was quick to temper and was aways the leader in his group of friends. It wasn’t a trait he was proud of, but the pretty girl he called his girlfriend claimed not to mind and he had to trust her on that.

It was later that night that the discussion had been brought up once more since that night in his car after Draco’s party.

Theo had picked her up and she was tipsy in his bathroom taking her makeup off with the makeup wipes he had bought for her after a night out when she didn’t have anything to take her make up off and had whined the whole night.

“Be quiet, I’lll buy you some tomorrow.” He had grumbled when they were in bed and all he wanted to do was sleep after hearing her moan and groan for the last forty-five minutes.

“My friends thought it was weird when you rang me.” He wasn’t sure she really knew what she was saying, but her words still made him sit up in his bed where he was waiting for her to join.

“What do you mean?” Her eyes were closed as she stumbled back into the bathroom to put the wipes away. Theo had already dressed her in her pyjamas and he watched her stumble back to the bed to join him.

As she pulled the blanket up she giggled out, “They think it’s controlling.”

“What did you say?” He asked, turning to his side and putting his weight on his elbow so he was looking down at the pretty girl with her head on the pillow.

“I said,” her eyes were closed and she finally opened them to meet his, “you have no idea.”

Theo frowned and before he could move to turn the other way, her hand shot up and grabbed his jaw.

“You know I love it.”

#theodore nott #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott blurb #theodore nott fluff #tn #tni #tnf #harry potter #harry potter imagine #harry potter blurb #harry potter fluff #harry potter angst #theodore nott angst #tna

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seresinhangmanjake · 5 months

Text

The One I Want: Part 3

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Plus size!reader

Summary: You're new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Notes/Warnings: cursing, maybe. I don't think anything else. Sorry if there are typos.

Words: 1720

The One I Want Masterlist

---

Jake Seresin is a wizard. Or a mind-reader. Or some creature with wildly sensitive hearing. You’re sure of it.

In the month since you moved into the apartment, your only moments alone come when you lock yourself in your bedroom. Otherwise, Jake is near you—sitting next to you, looking at you, talking to you. If your door opens, he follows not five seconds later. If you sit down at the island with your breakfast of bland cereal, he enters the kitchen within two minutes to prepare his own meal; the same meal every morning. Eggs, Canadian bacon, and a protein shake. If you dare to switch the television on, turns out he’s been meaning to watch that show for weeks. You had no idea he was into movie special effects competitions.

It isn’t irritating, exactly—though, it wouldn’t shock you if others experiencing similar treatment would feel that way. You just can’t figure him out. He’s unfigure-outable. You’re pretty sure that’s a thing. If not, Jake Seresin just brought it into existence. And here you thought you were the mystery.

“So I was thinking,” he says.

You close your book without a second thought, having barely read and retained a line in the last fifteen minutes anyway. From the moment he came out of his room and plopped down on the couch—his leg bouncing and eyes trained ahead on nothing—you’ve been waiting for him to snap the tense band of silence between you.

His fingers clasp together, thumbs subtly twiddling when he finally looks over to you. “Maybe you could meet my friends. They’ve asked about you, and you’ve already met Nat so it’s really only the guys.”

That was perhaps one of the last things you imagined he would say. You’ve heard very little of his friends. They’re also pilots. His team. They all have weird nicknames. Half of those nicknames are animals.

There are other tidbits Jake casually mentioned as well. Coyote is his closest friend. There’s a Rooster who recently found himself a chick. A Bob and a Phoenix—who you learned is Nat—are particularly attached.

But every bit of that information you figured he was simply spilling to fill moments where you were in the same room but not speaking. Or perhaps it’s some method to draw out feelings of trust so you might participate in his little game of show and tell. In his eyes is always the hope that you’ll share something of your own, but you have yet to find the courage or need to do so.

“Oh,” you reply, trying to gather the correct words to turn him down. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not really up to meeting a group of people today.”

You hate the way his face falls. Like a puppy denied a treat. But it lasts only a second as another thought brightens the green hue of his irises.

“What if we went somewhere? You and me.”

“What?”

His body shifts on the couch, more of him now facing you. He’s wearing a shirt today. He’s been wearing shirts around you since you made the request weeks ago, but they’re weak at disguising the body underneath. Thin fabric pulled tight like a second skin.

“You said no bars,” he continues. “How do you feel about diners?”

—

It’s an odd image—Jake framed in this setting. He’s all lean muscle and neatly styled hair with a clean-shaven jawline surrounded by greasy food and booths so old their plastic seats are cracking. As others watch him—particularly the hostess who cannot for her life keep from glancing his way every thirty seconds—he watches you. Says nothing; just watches until the waitress returns to set a few plates and mugs in front of you both.

“There you go, kids,” she says. She’s older, and her hair is done up in a style that hasn’t followed the turning of the decades, but you like that it suits her; that she hasn’t paid attention to the change around her, or simply doesn’t care. With her hands on her hips, she says, “Now Jake, if I knew you were bringing a girlfriend I would’ve set aside some of that pie you like.”

Your eyes bug so much they could’ve fallen right onto the table, but Jake chuckles, smiling at you before directing it to the waitress. “Don’t spook her, Mags,” he teases. Then, “This is my new roommate.”

Her lips form an ‘O’ that holds for a few seconds too long before she blinks and tilts her head to the side. “Didn’t work out with the other one, honey?”

“Not so much, no.”

“Well, that’s just fine. I wasn’t a fan.” Mags takes a breath and straightens out her little apron; a costume element you’d rather die than wear, but much like her hair, Mags seems to take pride in it. You can’t fault her for that. You wish you could find a job you enjoy. Or a job at all. She shoots you a grin; nothing like the rehearsed smiles from someone in a customer service job, but a genuine curve of the lips that creates a warm little ball in your chest. “You, on the other hand, look like such a sweetheart. So be good to my Jake here.”

You don’t have the opportunity to disappoint her because she doesn’t wait for a response. Be good to her Jake. Not an ask. A demand. An unspoken ‘or else’ hanging in the air. And though she’s got at least forty years on you, you’re pretty sure she’s spry enough to follow through on her sneaky threats.

Mags squeezes Jake’s shoulder and departs, leaving you in a confused state of mixed energies. Shock and discomfort radiate off of you like heat waves, meeting the cool calmness emanating from a beaming Jake.

“Will you tell me more about yourself now?” he asks.

Shaking off the questionable tone of the older woman, you reconnect yourself to the man in front of you. His words soak in; another unexpected curveball Jake has thrown you within one day. His friends want to meet you, and now your personal details are on his mind. What would come next? Does he want to know the last time you were thoroughly kissed? Your high school GPA? Height and weight? If so, he’s going to be terribly disappointed.

Steaming, wispy tendrils invade your vision, and you finally register the blueberry hint hitting your nostrils. Jake had whispered the order to Mags with the explanation that he already knew what you wanted. And being the mind-reading wizard you’re convinced he is, on a menu of nearly one hundred items he magically happened to pick something you enjoy.

You hold yourself back from digging in, instead meeting his eyes as you cross your arms over your chest. “You think free pancakes are a good trade for my life story?”

He slowly slides a mug closer to you. “I got you coffee as well.”

When you raise an unenthused brow, Jake sighs.

“Fine. You’re leaving me no other choice than to guess,” he says. “But if I get it right, will you be honest?”

With a snort, you pick up your fork and take your first bite of the sweet fluffy cake. It’s undeniably delicious. Fucking wizard. “Sure,” you say, and akin to a child, Jake’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree.

He ignores his own food and drink to once again watch you. Observing. Your eyes to your lips to your neck and back again. When he comes to a conclusion, he leans back in the booth. “You are a fan of the beach and before you die you intend to live in every beach town this country has to offer for at least two months each.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “Are you kidding?”

“Well, since it appears that I am wrong, I’m going to say yes I am kidding because I’m very funny like that.” He stares some more, eyes narrowing. “You’re searching for a long-lost family member.”

“No.”

“You are only attracted to Navy men and thought you’d travel to a hub.”

Again, as he likes to do, he leaves you lacking words for a moment. “That better be another one of your ‘I’m very funny like that’ attempts,” you eventually manage to say. “And you know I wasn’t aware this was a Navy town.”

Jake nods and then leans forward in his seat, arms overlapping on the linoleum tabletop. You can sense the sudden shift; a new energy. The glint in his eye doesn't quite go with the steady seriousness of his voice. Like mismatched puzzle pieces. “So you’re not attracted to Navy men?” he asks.

Your head jerks back to regain the distance he lessened. “Not exclusively.”

“Damn,” he replies, full playful tone back in place. “I wanted to at least get that part right.”

There’s another bright smile from him. A wink. You look to your right to find Mags' watchful gaze; motherly and hopeful.

After another swallow of pancake, you say, “Alright, you’re done for the day.”

“Oh, come on,” he whines.

When you shake your head, he picks up his fork and begins to poke at the eggs on his plate, and you bask in the silence of his disappointment. Peace and quiet, with the exception of the diners surrounding you. No questions. No attempted agonizing small talk. You have a moment to breathe.

It’s not until you’re halfway through your food and the coffee is nearly drained that Jake lifts his head.

“I’m going to figure you out,” he says with an unwelcome note of determination.

Your eyes snap up.

The feeling behind his statement is hard to nail down. You would’ve said delving into your history was something fun for him to do. Something to pass the time with the new person in his home. But now it comes off more like a need. A little prick in his side that he can’t shake.

You so badly want to be wrong in your interpretation. You want him to give up; to surrender to your stubbornness. Ideally, sooner rather than later.

“You really don’t have to,” you say.

Jake doesn’t miss a beat. Nothing about him—not his breath, not his stare—stutters at your response. Instead, he returns with, “But I want to.”

---

A/N: Sorry it's a little short. Next chapter will be labeled 3.5 and will be from Jake's POV.

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @ssa-sadboi @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @penguin876 @rogersbarnesxx @nani-kenobi @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @elite4cekalyma @buckysteveloki-me @shelbycillian @kissmethric3 @fox-bee926 @hangmandruigandmav @waltermis @fandom-life-12 @a-serene-place-to-be @bruher @cehenyne @tngrace @mamaskillerqueen @benedictsvestcollection @blackwidownat2814 @himbos-on-ice @entertainmentgal8 @hookslove1592 @whoeverineedtobe @alwaysclassyeagle @chaytea06 @cherrycolas-things @turtle-in-a-tornado @have-a-nice-day-k @inkandarsenic @kidd3ath @coldmuffinbanditshoe

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #jake seresin fic #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin fic #top gun hangman #top gun #jake hangman seresin x y/n #tgm #tgm fic #jake seresin fluff #jake seresin x plus size!reader #jake seresin angst

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lolahasmoxie · 6 months

Text

Conversations at 3 AM (E.M.)

PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Reader

WORD: 1.3k

WARNING: nudity, language, casual intimacy, established relationship, friends to lovers, mentions of getting pregnant, mentions of sexy times, heart-to-heart talks (Eddie & reader are 25)

CONCEPT: You and Eddie aren't used to people sticking around.

DIVIDER FROM @firefly-graphics

Even though you were born at 6 a.m. on the dot, you were a night owl through and through.

During high school and college, summer meant you became a nocturnal creature, much to the annoyance of your family. There was one person it never annoyed, though.

You had met Eddie in elementary school after he moved into the trailer across from yours. From the day you met, you had been thick as thieves. For years, your friends watched as you skirted the line of will they won't they, watching the other traverse dating and relationships with an envious eye. It wasn't until a year ago, when Eddie kissed you during the middle of a movie night, that you had finally become more.

Tonight, you'd had dinner at Steve's house with the whole gang, seeing as Mike, Dustin, and Lucas were all in town for a long weekend from college. The boys had planned a one-off campaign at your shared apartment the following night, and by midnight, you and Eddie were in your home.

Side by side, you brushed your teeth, trying not to laugh as Eddie made faces at you in the mirror. Once in your Queen bed, Eddie's hands began mapping your body, and in a practiced routine that felt like breathing, you let him love you until sleep came for you both.

However, this time, sleep only came for Eddie.

You had tried everything to fall back asleep: counting sheep, listing Metallica songs followed by Black Sabbath, breathing in time with Eddie. Nothing worked. So, as carefully as you could, you crawled out of his hold, placing your pillow closer to Eddie when he started to stir. As his gangly arms wound around the object, you entered your kitchen.

You had been at the table for a while when you heard soft footsteps coming down the hallway. Turning your head, you watch as your tall metalhead boy walks into the kitchen naked as a jaybird, cock dangling freely as his hands wipe at his eyes like a little boy.

"What time issit." he mumbles as Eddie comes up behind you. He wraps his arms around you, placing a kiss on your hairline. "Why are you still up?"

"Almost 3 a.m. and I tried to go to sleep, but no dice," you say. He nods in understanding before sitting next to you at the table.

"I was having this great dream; you were wearing that black number you wore to our last show at the Hideout? Anyway, you were letting me drag you to the bathroom to do unspeakable things to you when I woke up, and instead of rubbing against my pretty girlfriend, I was humping your pillow. By the way, I'm pretty sure there's a stain, and I'm sorry in advance." You can't help but smile as you dip a carrot into the hummus.

"Didn't want to wake you up. You know how I toss and turn when I can't sleep."

"So there's no reason you're up at almost 3 a.m. eating," he paused as he reached for the container of hummus. "Jalapeno hummus? Holy fuck, you're not pregnant, are you?"

"No, you asshole," you playfully slap Eddie's arm as he tries to play off his terrified expression. "Nice to know how you feel about the topic, though."

"I'm just warning you, we could be on a babymaking schedule to get knocked up; I will still probably freak the fuck out when it does happen, so just a heads up for when we get there."

"Duly noted." you chuckle. Eddie laces his hand into yours and brings them to his lips. You can feel his eyes on you; you know Eddie will give you your space to work out whatever is going on in your brain. But he's also a persistent asshole who won't stop until he finds out why you left him alone in bed. "Does this ever feel too good, Eds?"

"What do you mean?"

"Us. I mean, we disagree on things, but we never really fight. Being together with you has always just felt scarily easy; I've never had that with other boyfriends." You sigh as you look at your joined hands. "Feels like I'm waiting for something, but I don't know for what."

"Easy, I know what it is," Eddie says as he gives your hand a squeeze. "You're waiting for the other shoe to drop." When you meet his gaze, those cow-brown eyes study you, looking at you with more love than you think you can handle.

"Elaborate, please."

"You and I have always been alike," he begins. "our dating histories are littered with people telling us we were too much. Too loud, too needy, or too whatever. But here's the good part, babe. You will never be too much for me. Ever."

"You mean it?" You're impressed that he could sum up your feelings so succinctly. He grins at you, a beautiful smile spreading from ear to ear.

"Of course I mean it. I had to watch you date assholes for ten years; you really think I'm gonna let you go now that I'm lucky enough to call you mine? Not a chance, sweetheart." You reach out a hand and cup his cheek, and you can't help but smile when Eddie leans into your touch.

"Thank you, Eddie."

"No problem; you know, I had resigned myself to loving you from afar a long time ago. Sometimes, when I wake up next to you, I feel like I gotta pinch myself to make sure it's real."

"You're such a cheeseball," you tease. "Why don't you head back to bed? I'm gonna clean up and join you in a minute." You stand from your chair, but Eddie stops you with a tug of your hand. In a flash, you're on his lap. Your hands hold onto his shoulders, although you're in no danger of falling. Edde's grip is secure as he gives you a look you are all too familiar with. You speak his name, and he raises a hand to push the hair from your face.

"You know, it was very mean to leave me in that big bed all by myself," he begins, his hand cupping your cheek. You feel your body warm as his thumb caresses your cheek. "Why don't you let me take you back to bed and help quiet that big brain of yours. Sound good, sweetheart?"

You lean in to kiss your man, his arms wrapping tight around you as he fists your shirt in his hands. When his tongue runs along the seam of your lips, you happily grant him access, tangling your hands in his hair while you slowly start to grind against him. When you feel him hard and warm underneath you, you think you may never want to sleep again.

You both enjoy the kiss, neither of you rushing things. You pull back when you need air, and while Eddie's face is happy, there's something else. You raise an eyebrow as he licks his lips.

"You taste like salsa." You can't help but laugh as you lean forward and bury your nose in his neck. He pulls you closer, hands caressing your back like you're the most precious being in his universe. You can feel his chuckle as your chests press together.

You stay still for a moment to enjoy being surrounded by him. One of the things you loved about being nocturnal was how quiet the world was at almost 3 a.m. You hum contentedly when you feel Eddie's lips against your hair. You close your eyes, wanting to commit this moment, this feeling to memory.

"Alright," Eddie taps you on the ass and breaks the silence. "Let me take you back to bed, alright?" You climb out of his lap and softly kiss the corner of his mouth.

"I'll go brush my teeth. Why don't you go make sure the bed is warm." Eddie hops up, cock bobbing comically as he begins to do a naked run back to your room.

"I'll keep the home fires burning! If I fall asleep, wake me up with head!"

BONUS: THE NEXT DAY

Dustin: I'm just gonna have a seat here, and we can get started.

Eddie: fair warning, my naked ass has been on that chair.

Dustin: 😳

Dustin: like, recently naked?

Eddie: last night.

Dustin: you're a fucking animal.

Eddie: 😁

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic

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neopuppy · 1 year

Text

Walk You Home (M)

pairing. jaemin x female reader

genre. baseball AU, pwp…what plot, explicit smut, M/F, dom Jaemin, established fwb(maybe feelings)

warnings. pet play, nicknames: kitten/kitty, use of a furry tail butt plug, degradation/praise, unprotected vaginal sex, owner/pet roleplay, soft moments. minors DNI.

wc. 4k+

now playing. Walk You Home//NCT Dream

a/n. I did not abandon this series🗿

“Whad’ya wanna do later?” Jeno bumps into your side in casual greeting, distractedly tapping away at his phone screen.

Pink fluffy triangular ears blend with highlights of white, lit up bright against the dark interior of your locker. “Uh,” hiding them beneath your bag swiftly, you turn to face him, pressing your back into the hollow space as if he may see the incriminating costume piece. “Later?”

Jeno peers up at you slowly, half-focused on whatever discussion he’s attempting to catch up on in one of the various group chats he’s been forced to join. “Why do you sound confused?”

“Right,” nodding, you sneak a glance past his shoulder in search of a round set of diabolic eyes. “I can’t today.”

“What, why??” Jeno says, clearly lost before trailing your gaze across the hall. He sighs, muttering ‘dick’ under his breath. “Fine, he’s really stressed out about this next game. Huge scouts coming to watch him play.”

Jeno’s hand waves haphazardly, continuing on about how Jaemin better start acting grateful that he’s lucky enough to have a best friend who cares for him this much.

‘Does kitty want to play?’ Jaemin’s eyebrows raise, meeting your line of sight; silently repeating the scribbled note attached to the ears in your locker. One side of his face picks up, the poor effort to full on smirk brings to light how badly he needs this.

Of course kitty wants to play.

Jaemin’s walking extra slow, each step more purposeful then the last as he enters his neighborhood and spots a familiar figure sat in front of his house. A tickle of excitement grows within him with each pass of another house.

Cement ground beneath his sneakers is still wet from odd weather blooming into Spring, the puddles of leftover morning rain reflecting back how drained and exhausted his sunken eyes make him appear.

It’s been a long month, too long, long enough that he’s hardly had the time or energy to bother you; which he’s sure Jeno is more than happy about. He sighs, flicking away strands of loosened hair from his forehead upon taking in the cute way you sit with your ankles crossed together, ears perched on your head perfectly out in the open where anyone can see.

“What’s this?” He hums, gliding closer to pinch your chin between his thumb and index finger. “Did my kitten sneak out again?”

“Jaemin..” you say demurely, lowering your gaze as his other hand reaches for your cheek to keep your attention on him.

“What was that, kitty?” He asks, a rasp lingering in his tone with more intensity behind his large glossy eyes. “You know better than that.”

His lips twitch, tongue flicking out to moisten them as he watches you intently awaiting for your next move, knowing well which way this can go depending on your mood today.

A satisfied smile stretches his lips with your heavy set gaze blinking upward, a pleading expression and a light vibration emitting from your throat, cheek finding a hiding space in his palm to nuzzle into.

He lets out an exaggerated tired sigh, bending at his knees to cup your cheeks and stroke along the warmed up flesh, lips pouted together by the weight of his palms pressing in. “Such a naughty kitten, after all I do for you..”

Jaemin’s thumbs dig into the meat of your bottom lip, pressing until your mouth gives in, allowing the tips of his fingers to reach inside and apply pressure on your tongue. “Do you even know how dangerous it is for a pretty pretty little kitty like you to be out here alone?”

He shakes his head, pushing harder on the center of your tongue until drool spills out past the corners of your mouth. “I do my best to take care of you, don’t I?”

He has to hold back a chuckle when you nod, the desperation loud enough even without words, making your best effort to lap at his thumbs despite a wad of saliva collecting at the back of your throat causing you to gag.

“You don’t take me serious enough,” He scolds, pushing his digits against your cheeks until the fat squeezes between each. “I do this for your own good, kit. How long have you even been out here, huh? Showing off your shiny coat for anyone to admire?”

Releasing his grip on your face he latches onto your waist, pulling you to sit on his lap; immediately smothered by his biceps that seem to expand endlessly in mass.

“You know what I have to do now, don’t you?”

Jaemin’s smooth forehead gathers down the middle, taut skin wrinkling up as he smirks, smoothing a thick palm up your thigh to feel under your skirt; his pearly front teeth poke out with tight cheeks to hide a smile as his fingers skim higher and higher until they stroke between the crease your upper thigh creates.

“Bad bad kitty,” he tsks, pushing between your squeezed legs to cup your center. “Sitting out here for any nasty dog to come find and fuck, you want me to punish you that much?”

Jaemin knows you’ve been on edge ever since opening your locker, probably squirming your way through class picturing the different ways he’d play with you today, it’s not as if he’s ever been one to go easy on you.

“I’ve been so stressed lately, you know..” leaning forward he whispers, the tip of his nose pressing to yours as his fingers work to spread your folds open, letting out a soft pleased sigh at the first touch of wetness he finds. “When I really can’t handle it all, I think about you.”

The pads of two digits roll in a circle tracing over your entrance accompanied with a loud nearly embarrassing sound of arousal pushing out against his teasing touch, he breathes heavier over your parted lips, a minty aftertaste of mouthwash he swirled after practice tickles between each puff of air meeting yours. “Think about how you always know exactly what I need.”

Jaemin’s lips part between yours, skimming back and forth as he proceeds to murmur incoherently, adding pressure with each press of his digits against your entrance until your hole gives and allows him to slip in to the first knuckle.

“Mmmphh..” moans come out more struggled, trapped in your throat as you attempt to calm enough to keep up this act, nuzzling into his nose with parted lips for him to suck at different areas inside and out.

“My kitty likes that,” he says, gliding in further with more strength in seek of the pleasure point inside of you. “Your owner knows how to take care of you best.”

Jaemin’s lips slot against yours with a firm press, tongue slipping in past the gasp you let out when his thumb makes contact with your clit, the thick pad of his finger rubbing back and forth while the two filling you up pick up speed; each thrust reaching deeper and deeper echoing vulgar sounds of wetness from between your thighs.

“Don’t cum.” Jaemin pants out, lapping at your tongue falling from your lips to chase after more of his soft rapidly swelling lips. “You don’t get to get to cum like this.”

He grunts, pumping his hand faster, the fat of his palm smacking loudly upon contact with your core, thumb relentlessly rubbing your clit to a stiffened little point. “Bad kittens don’t get to cum this easily.”

Jaemin knows by the way your teeth bury down and the whined whimpers stuggling to escape from the back of your throat that you’re close, trembling against him from the force of his fingers working in and out of you faster and faster. “You’re gonna be a good little kitty for me, right? Do what your owner tells you to do for once.”

A small helpless nod is the best you can do to answer, clenching down on his digits to slow his rapid motions, useless as his bicep only rounds out more, the muscles fully bulged up; a smile stretching his lips lifting up the sharpened outer corners. “Bad kitty thinks she deserves to cum? After breaking my rules and sneaking out.”

“N..nu..” your lips tighten into a thin line as Jaemin’s smile only grows more menacing, itching for you to break and beg, a satisfied gleam taking over his gaze as he feels you clamp down around him repeatedly; quelling your orgasm away with tears burning down your cheeks. The pain of stifling your climax tingles through your stomach, aching it’s way up to your chest unhappily.

Jaemin’s fingers slide out messily, leaving your hole gaping open and shut expecting more to get you off properly. The two digits coated in your arousal as he lifts them between your mouths and smears the excess of it across your lips and chin.

“Come on, my good little pet” he moves to stand, gaze locked on yours, motioning his eyebrows upward as he steps back. “Now kitten..”

Jaemin’s tone falls into a low growl, half-threatening as you begin to get up, staying put with your knees bent and a confused tilt of your head. “Hmm?”

“Since when do kitties walk on two legs?” Tilting his head to the side in the same manner to mock you, his arms come up to cross over his chest, the bulk of muscles thick and corded on top of each other causing you to gulp as you return to your knees and set your palms flat.

A chill of breeze runs across the backs of your bare thighs, skirt lifted up higher in a bent position leaving the tail plugged inside of your ass exposed. Jaemin knows the neighborhood’s mostly calm and empty at this time of the day, but the idea of anyone spotting you in this position shoots straight to his cock nonetheless, biting down on his bottom lip as he ponders how shameless you can get.

“Come on kitten, it’s dinner time.”

Jaemin takes steps back, heading inside without stumbling once, even with his trained gaze focused on your hips swaying side and side and the grimace hidden behind your pursed lips with each hard press of your knees to the floor. He stops just at his bedroom door, crouching down to smooth your hair away from your face and sets a gentle peck on the bridge of your nose, petting the ears clipped to your crown softly. “Such a good kitty.”

Hands make way to your throat, encasing you snuggly as his eyes begin to roam over your chest and smushed together thighs. “I got you something, a surprise.”

He stands back up, finger curling in, motioning for you to enter his bedroom. “Something that should help when you try to run away again.”

Jaemin grins, nodding to a pink bowl neatly placed near a cage just large enough to fit yourself into. Hesitation halts your movement, glancing back and forth from the cage to his smug face, remembering the last time he’d left you locked up for hours until you cried enough to be let out. “What’s wrong, kit?”

Moving behind you he pats your butt right where the tail disappears inside of your rim, pushing a hiss from your lips as you continue to crawl forward, glancing over your shoulder when you reach the bowl.

“Dinner first, then I’ll give you your gift.”

Jaemin sits down, unbuttoning his jeans as he leans back into the gamer chair in front of his computer screens; his gaze staying trained on yours continuously glancing back and forth between him and the bowl of milk beneath you. The only way to properly pick any of the creamy liquid with your mouth requiring to get further down, jutting your round hips out further. The postion giving him a perfect view of your waist disappearing into your heart-shaped bottom, tail popped up high with your buttcheeks split open ready for the taking.

“Eat up kitten.” Jaemin beams, shifting from side to side in his chair, one of his palms finding a place to rest between his thighs. “It’s your favorite.”

Jaemin’s favorite.

Watching you struggle to stay bent with your back arched in deep, on all fours unable to use anything but your tongue to lap at the sweet cream. Most of it ends up on your chin and chest, dripping down your neck, drying up similar to his cum pouring from your chin while you take his cock in every hole.

Hooded eyes peer up between kitten licks of milk, dribbling out past the corners of your lips, Jaemin focused as he intently watches the clear white droplets pour down your throat and ripple their way between your breasts.

He hums, satisfied, palming his crotch roughly over his jeans while you continue to slurp. “Tastes good kitten?” Jaemin asks, voice gone husky with the need to fuck you.

The sound of his palm slapping against his jean-clad thigh halts your action, gazing up dumbfounded to Jaemin leaning back, legs spread open beckoning you to come to him. Without cleaning your mouth off, you begin a short crawl to nestle against his inner thigh on your knees with your chin perched on his knee, the sound of his tongue clicking on repeat accompanying your walk over.

“So pretty when you listen..” Jaemin cooes, swiping his thumbs beneath your damp eyes. “My good little pet.” Your thighs pinch together the more he drawls on, stroking up your triangular ears, manipulating the fur in different directions while your cheek nuzzles against the inside of his thigh akin to a kitten scenting their owner.

“Remember what I’ve taught you?”

Without allowing you more time to even think, his hips slide forward, forcing your nose to crush against the seam lining the middle of his crotch; heavy balls smothering hot along your face permeating a mixture of musky arousal. The hidden smell of raw sex emitting from the confines on his covered groin is enough to have you gasping for air, dizzied by the heady thick aroma filling your senses.

Jaemin’s reaches past your waist, large palms closed over your torso sliding down hotly, tugging your skirt completely up to unveil your ass. “Fuck.” He growls, hips pushing forward roughly, digging your face to smash higher against the damp cloth of his briefs, thick cock throbbing heavily against the middle of your face. He bends closer, the first thwack of weighty palm colliding with your ass jolts you leaving a stinging sharp pain the harder he lands, gnawing at the insides of your cheek to contain a pitiful cry.

“So slutty,” Jaemin says, throatily groaning between gritted teeth. Two of his fingers trace the plug pinching in and out against your rim, still wet from the lube you used to stretch yourself open. Tail swaying cutely behind you the more he slaps his free hand on your hip, gripping at the meaty flesh on your bottom with a tight squeeze. “Dirty kitty, fucking your hole open just to let me play with you.”

Jaemin rarely breaks character until his arousal consumes him, evident in the way his hips haven’t stopped rocking against your face, congesting your air flow with the underside of his clothed cock rutting over your gasping mouth. Another succession of smacks has you drooling, incoherent sounds of pained moans and mewls lost between the heap of heavy cock and and cotton suffocating you; distracting enough to miss one of his digits sneaking in beside the plug.

“So tight, so warm..” Jaemin licks over his spit slick lips, finger nudging alongside the cool metal shape filling your hole. An exerted groan wishing to exit your lips the more he adds to the stretch, burning around your rim as he tugs to watch your hole pinch around him. “It’s my fault you ran off kitten, I’ve been too busy as of late, right?”

Jaemin knows you won’t answer much other than a pathetic mewl you try to force down, mouthing at his crotch like the thirsty pet you are, leaving copious patches of drool behind, enough to darken the material and perfectly outline the shape of his fat hard cock.

“I need to make it up to you..” his finger releases, lifting to his mouth to smear the leaked out lube across his plump lips, the gleam too vulgar to possibly be legal as he sucks in a breath with his mouth popped open. “Is that what you need?”

Jaemin’s big round eyes shine from where they peer down at you, damp fingers trace across your face smoothly gliding over the definition of your cheekbones. His touch feels gentle, petting you with light strokes and tapping the tip of your nose. The answer a lazy nod with your mouth latched to his clothed size.

“I know what will make you happy.” He grins devilishly, appeased by how happy he will feel as well. The slide of his drawer catches your attention as he reaches to pull out a rectangular velvet box, snapping his fingers for you to sit up on your knees properly.

“That pretty neck..” he reaches, locking his heavy palm around the expanse of your throat again. The grip tighter this time, using his thumb to push under your jaw and keep your lost gaze on him. “Could use some decoration.”

Jaemin snaps open the case displaying a pink vinyl collar, the center decal in the shape of a heart with a kitten paw adorning the plaque and a little silver bell attached to the tip. His smile grows along with the size of your eyes as he discards the box to fit the collar around your neck. “Tight?” He whispers, moving to the very first hole when you gasp and nod, the material digging into your throat just enough to add to the lightness that’s begun to take over your mind.

“So pretty,” he bites down on his lip, pinching your chin to turn your face side to side, admiring the veins pulsing up the sides of your neck beneath the collars constraint. “Now I’ll always be able to find you kitten.”

Jaemin flicks the bell, chiming obnoxiously against the dip between your collarbone. The sound of it rings like a bell instinctively straightening out your spine to stand alert.

“One more thing..”

Pushing his chair away, he stands, hand dipping into the back pocket of his jeans to pull out a thin leash, dangling it in the air slowly as he takes in your eyes nearly going cross eyed. “Not typical, but a bad bad kitty like you can’t be trusted..”

He clasps the leash and collar together, wrapping the leash up tight around his fist, hand coming down to pet your head in a tender manner. “The cage wasn’t enough..”

Jaemin’s fist rips back, lunging your body forward back onto all fours, his free hand coming down to smack your ass again. “Up.”

The leash tugs harder, leading you to the edge of his bed until you manage to lay your upper half stomach flat between coughs and choked breath, his hand landing like a snapping whip against any bare skin. “Do you even realize how wet you are right now?” He sneers, hot palm lodging between your thighs to cup your core, shooting your spine into an arch.

“Such a fucking slut, getting off from being treated like this.” Jaemin’s hand glides down to your knees, wet slick that won’t stop bubbling from your hole reaching its way down to the tops of your thigh-highs. “What did I do to deserve such a naughty kitten?” The sudden pull at your neck jolts your head back, panting short breaths of air in a panic the less oxygen reaches your brain.

“I’ll teach you once and for all to listen.” Jaemin pulls at your tail, the thickest part of the plug stretching you apart as he lays it upward on your back and tugs his cock free to swipe between the mess covering your inner thighs. “You’ll be a good kitty for Nana from now on.”

The tip of his length nudges against your folds side to side teasingly, causing your thighs to shake in anticipation, hours passing since excitement for this moment brings you to the edge faster; biting down on your tongue to not shout out ‘fuck me please!’.

“There it is..” he groans, cockhead dipping in and out of your pulsating entrance. “Exactly what I needed.”

With held breath Jaemin pushes in finally, the size of him thick in all the right places, girthy and hard pushing your walls open forcefully with a rough rock of his hips. The belt hanging from his jeans clapping againsts the back of your thighs as he crashes down on you, expelling a low growl from his chest. Quickly tugging off his shirt he leans in, crushing his chest and weight against your upper back, hips grinding down to make you feel every inch. “So tight for me kitty, so fucking wet and tight.”

Jaemin’s energy matches yours, immediately jerking back into a quick thrust forward, the restriction on your neck never letting up even as his pace builds and slams into you harder. The sound of his ragged breath circling your head along with the chime of your bell collar shaking with each collision of his hips against your ass. He’s always rough, more desperate than usual as he grips your hair at the scalp and shoves the side of your face against his bed.

“My kitten, so pretty, fuck.” He spews through gritted teeth, nose shoved into your cheek, breaking a sweat the more he forces his length deep inside of you. “Feel good, yeah?”

“Jaem—ughhh” his tongue drags across your face, nastily licking up the sweat and tears that have slidden down. Digging his cock inside of you with another deep thrust until you scream, feet kicking against the floor.

“Doing so good for me kitty.” Jaemin’s hands splay down on your shoulders, pushing you deep into the bed to pull himself out, the loss of his length throwing you into a fit. “Shh, shhh, I said be good.” He rasps, pulling on your shoulders to manhandle you higher onto the bed, knees digging into the backs of your thighs.

“Jaemin.. please please..” your voice cracks from lack of use, squeezing your eyes shut as his nails dig into your back and claw down, ripping the tail stuffing your ass suddenly.

“Fuck.” Jaemin spits, licking up the sweat on his upper lip as three fingers shove into your open rim, cock pushing back inside of you all at once. “Nasty filthy slut, so fucking tight kitten, wish you could see how good you take it.”

His pace accelerates, slamming in faster than before, hand jerking where he continues to stretch your ass open, his other finding your hair once again to hold onto. “That’s right, take it like the fucking slut you are.”

Jaemin thrusts turn merciless, messy and offbeat reaching closer as he continues to babble nonsense. “My little f-fuck toy, dirty.. dirty kitty, letting me—use you.”

“Jaemin! Ah, Jaemin!!” Thick muscles circle your neck, using the leverage to thrust in past your orgasm locking your pussy tight around him, growling brokenly while you whimper and beg for him to cum.

“Please, cum, w-want please—please!”

Jaemin cries out a growl, pulling out of you to press into your ass, cock throbbing with release pouring inside of your neglected whole. Panting curses as his thighs tremble, cock twitching, pushing out the last few spurts of cum into your ass.

His eyebrows stay twisted, teeth grinding together hard enough for the sound to carry and vibrate near your ear, his wet spent cock slapping down on your lower back. “Stay still… good little kitten..” he mumbles, voice coming out more dry and raspy, lazily gripping one of your buttcheeks to hold you open.

“My sweet kitty listened well today,” he sighs, pushing the tip of your plug to scoop up any cum that’s begun to drip out. “Earned a treat.”

Jaemin shushes the groan you let out as he stuffs the plug back inside of you, extra lubricated by his release only partially dripping out past the toy. Clicking his tongue he strokes your tail, smoothing the ruffled hairs down until it sits pretty above the backs of your thighs.

“Stay.” He whispers, nearly too quiet to decipher with lips pressed along your nape.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t want you to leave yet.” Jaemin litter’s featherlite kisses against your shoulder blade. “Stay for the night.”

“I can’t..”

“Please?” He sounds mildly desperate, built arms circle your waist from behind with a soft squeeze, suggesting an offer of unusual cuddling. “..Walk you home in the morning.”

“Promise?” You smile to yourself, eyes lazy as the warmth pressed to your body begins to feel too good, adjusting against his bed to lay comfortably. Jaemin hums, nuzzling into the crook of your neck with breathy groans buzzing against your jaw.

“Of course kitten, anything for you.”

#jaemin smut #na jaemin smut #nct dream smut #nct smut #nct au #neopuppy fics #na jaemin fanfic #nct jaemin #onek

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straylightdream · 1 year

Text

“𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐈 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭“

Lee Minho x F.Reader

friends with benefits / roommates au / college au

↳ The lines between friends and lovers is quick to blur. There isn’t anyone you would rather spend your time with, and he finds his sweet escape when he’s alone with you. What started out as casual thing that was supposed to be secret kept between the two of you leads to so much more.

wc: 5.8k

warnings: soft dom! Minho, unprotected sex, rougher sex, dirty talk, begging, edging, names such as: (kitten, angel, pretty), breeding kink, creampie, cockwarming, cum play and cum eating. Minho mentions knocking up the reader.

an: I probably didn’t edit this enough. This is a part of my college skz series SSFW where you can read one or all the stories. Each boys story weaves together but they can be read as ones shots. Thank you @sulfurcosmos for helping me with this stories and all my other stories.

Part two

𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬.

Rough hands grip your hips as he thrust into you from behind. Your hands grip the headboard holding on for dear life. Biting your bottom lip you try your hardest not to scream his name.

“Minho,” you moan, his name barely loud enough for him to hear. He bends over so his body is pressed against yours as his hips snap into yours. His hand reaches around covering your mouth attempting to muffle the sounds coming out of your mouth. Muffled moans leave your mouth as his lips are brushing your ear. The feeling you get when you’re with him is like nothing you have ever experienced before.

“That's it angel, your tight pussy is sucking me in,” he whispers into your ear. His pace is rough and quick and you can’t get enough. “How are you still so tight after I’ve fucked you so many times?” he whispers filthy words into your ear.

“I think it’s time you came, angel,” he growls in your ear.

Like a command your orgasm washes over you. Your walls contract milking him. Your head falls forward as silent moans pass your lips. Biting your lip you try your hardest to hold back making noise. Hyunjin is home and the last thing you need right now is him hearing you.

“Fuck, I’m gonna fill you to the brim,” Minho moans in your ear.

He snaps his hips into your two more times before painting your walls white. His hand grip your hips, holding you flush against his hips as he rocks into you a few times. His hands leave your skin as he pulls out of you. Rolling onto your back you take slow deep breaths trying to calm down. Your legs are left spread and bent at the knees. An accelerating high washes over you.

Minho sits back on his hunches between your spread legs. He runs his fingers through your wet folds. His release is already slowly seeping out of you. Using one finger he pushes his cum back into you. Leaving his fingers in you for a long moment. You watch him as he intently stares at your sensitive core.

“You’re so obsessed with coming inside me. It’s almost like you want to get me pregnant,” you laugh.

“Believe me angel I’m not trying to get you pregnant, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing if you did.” The idea of having a child with him isn’t terrible. Minho would make a great father and with his genes that kid would be beautiful. “To be honest you would look good pregnant though. Especially with my kid.”

His fingers run through your slick collecting some of his release. He brings it up to your mouth and your lips part, taking his fingers into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around his finger, getting every bit of his release off his digits.

“It’s a good thing I’m on the pill then,” you smile.

“I wasn’t like this before you. The thought of coming inside someone didn’t turn me on until you,” he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your bent knee. “You're the first girl I’ve come inside. Hell you’re the first person I have ever had sex without a condom.”

It’s nice to know he appreciates you, and knows the fact that you trust him enough to have unprotected sex with you is a big deal.

“So your breeding kink is only because of me?” You raise your eyebrows suggestively.

He scoffs rolling his eyes at you.

“Well you’re the only guy who has ever been inside me without a condom,” you reach up grabbing his hand so he’ll lay down with you. You share a type of trust with Minho you’ve never shared with another person before. He’s someone you trust to do anything with your body. You know no matter what he would never do anything that would make you uncomfortable.

“To be honest you’ve made me a different person. I wasn’t exactly social before college. Back in highschool I kept to myself. I was never someone with a huge group of friends or someone who went to parties. If I wasn't roommates with Changbin, who knows how college would have gone for me.”

“I’m glad you were roommates with him, because it led you to me.”

He leans over kissing the tip of your nose, “pretty I’m glad it led me to you.”

Having sex wasn’t a new thing for you and Minho. In August before senior year of college started you started sleeping with your roommate. Changbin went home with Jisung to see their families and Hyunjin was so busy at his art studio he was rarely home. You were home alone with Minho and after a night of watching movies you got to talking about your sex lives and one thing led to another and you were naked on the living room floor with Minho head between your legs. It wasn’t a one time thing by any means. You and Minho were constantly hanging out like you used to and now most of the time the night ended with either you sneaking off to his room or him sneaking into yours once he thought it was safe. Your nights spent with Minho we’re your little secret. You decided after your first night together you didn’t want to tell your friends. You told him if something happened and you stopped your arrangement you didn’t want your friends in your business.

“Do you think Hyunjin is still here?” Minho asks.

“I don’t know, why?”

“Because I need a shower before going to Chan and Jisung’s, and you should probably shower with me. I need to clean you up after the mess I made of you.”

Getting out of bed he reaches on the floor for his boxers. He pulls them up his thick legs before walking over to your closet. He pulls out the black silk robe he bought you when you bought a set of lace lingerie, because he said he saw it and thought of you.

“Who should sneak off into the bathroom first?” Minho asks, handing you the robe.

“You should go first and I’ll meet you there. Don’t lock the door.”

He slips out of your room while you get up pulling in the silk robe. You give Minho a minute to get the water warmed up, and you hope that Hyunjin won’t notice you joining Minho in the bathroom. Opening the door into the steaming bathroom You lock the door and take off your robe sitting on the counter next to Minho boxers. Sliding the glass door open, you step into the water. He’s in the process of washing his hair. He steps back under the warm water rinsing away your mango scented shampoo. He steps aside letting you step under the warm water. You lean your head forward letting the water hit.

“Have I told you recently you’re beautiful?” you look up at him. His eyes are intensely trained on your wet body. You can’t help but smile. He steps closer to you holding a washcloth. There is something about the look in his eyes that always makes you weak in the knees. “I need to clean you up. I made a mess.” He’s always like this after you let him come inside you. Minho’s aftercare has always been great with you. Minho told you once if you’re sleeping together it’s his job to take care of you.

“How crazy do we think Honey’s birthday party is gonna get?” You ask as he finishes wiping away his release from in between your legs.

“Probably not. She doesn’t exactly like wild parties.”

You work on washing your hair with the same mango shampoo Minho used.

There is a knock on the door and you freeze in your spot. “Minho are you in there?” Hyunjin shouts.

You open your mouth and Minho’s hand covers it quickly. You weren’t going to say anything. You were just startled by the interruption.

“Yeah Hyunjin?”

“I think YN, already left but I’m heading over to Chan and Jisung’s place, I might meet Felix and Cherry there” he shouts over the noise of the water.

“Okay, see you at the party,” Minho shouts.

His hand stays covering your mouth for a few months after. Removing it you look up at him with wide eyes. Leaning forward he presses his lips to yours for a kiss. “We almost got caught,” he whispers with his lips close to yours.

“It’s okay we didn’t,” you smile.

Leaning forward he presses his lips to yours for a kiss. He can’t seem to get enough of you and that’s okay because you can’t get enough of him. Things with Minho are easy. You don’t feel like you have to put an effort in to make things work between. You have this perfect little thing between you. You have absolutely amazing sex, but you have this amazing friendship with him. Most days it’s rare if you don’t hang out with him after class, or eat dinner together. With Changbin having a girlfriend and Hyunjin being interested in Felix's roommate they’re both rarely home. For the most part it’s just you and Minho like it has been since you moved in with them. Even before both of your other roommates were busy with other people you were always with Minho. You started sleeping together long before the other two got into relationships. You didn’t think anything had really changed between you except for what happened when you were alone in bed.

Your past relationships with men hadn’t been anything thrilling. You were still with your high school sweetheart freshmen year of college and then that fizzled out. Sophomore year you dated another guy and you got to really find yourself but there was just something in your heart telling you needed to stay guarded. Your bond with Minho seemed to happen as soon as you met. Even when you had a boyfriend Minho and you were still close. You lived with Chan’s girlfriend freshman and sophomore year. When junior year rolled around she rented a one room apartment off of campus. Changbin and Minho wanted to move off campus and found a four bedroom townhome not too far from campus. One of Minho’s classmates, Hyunjin, wanted to move in but they still needed another roommate. You had originally been trying to find your own one bedroom studio but gave up when Minho told you they still needed one more roommate.

Adjusting to living with three guys was interesting. Luckily you were friends with them already and they all were nice and respected you.

Chan and Jisung’s house was always the place for parties. You remember the small arguments Jisung and his girlfriend had about him throwing her a birthday party. The house is filled with friends, it’s quite a small gathering compared to the other parties the boys have thrown in the past. Walking into the kitchen looking for Minho you find an unsuspecting Chan with his best friend turned girlfriend pinned to the wall. His lips are all over her neck with her eyes closed. She looked like she was desperately trying to hold back a moan.

Clearing your throat they pull apart and Chan’s cheeks immediately blush. His girlfriend on other hand seems way less embarrassed.

“Chan don’t you literally have a room here you can do that in?” Minho says walking up behind you.

Chan is left speechless and his face and tips of his ears are burning bright red. Bambi on the other hand is unfazed by Minho's comment.

“Minho let’s leave the love birds alone,” reaching down you grab his hand pulling him out of the kitchen.

The living room is filled with friends of Jisung, Chan, and Changbin. Changbin is standing on the staircase whispering in his girlfriend's ear standing very close to them and Jisung is playing beer pong while his girlfriend Honey is sitting on the couch with Felix talking. There’s a mix of other people who are friends with the rest of the boys in one way or another. Minho disappeared off to the kitchen and walking over you sat down on the couch next to Felix.

“I feel like I never see you anymore,” Felix pokes your side earning a smile from you.

“This last semester of school has been hard and getting into my nursing program hasn’t been easy,” think back to all your late nights studying and the difficult test you’ve been taking.

“How have you two been?” You look between Felix and Honey who is sitting right next to him.

“School is going good and my job is nice. I still spend most of my Friday nights at work with Jisung sitting in the library so I’m glad that didn’t change.” You remember before you had even met Honey you heard Jisung go on and on about the library girl that he brings strawberry lattes to.

“This second year of college has been rougher but okay. Having a new roommate has been interesting,” he says. Felix's roommate is an interesting girl. She’s very sweet but kind of a hot mess. She comes from an extremely wealthy but controlling family. She’s been trying her hardest to be an independent person away from them but it hasn’t been easy.

“Did Cherry come to the party?” You’re curious about where his roommate is.

“Where do you think Hyunjin is?” He smirks.

“Wasn't Hyunjin going to play beer pong with Jisung?”

“Cherry showed up a few minutes ago and that means Hyunjin will be by her side,” Felix smiles.

“Poor guy's head over heels for her,” Honey chimes in.

“I’ve told her she has to be gentle with him,” Felix responds. “I don’t know all about Hyunjin's past but I know he doesn’t date or anything like that. I told her he’s quite innocent.”

You remember one of the first times Hyunjin brought Cherry over to your place. She looked like she had been crying when she showed up late at night and the next morning when you found her and Hyunjin eating breakfast in the kitchen. From the stories you had heard about Cherry from Felix and Hyunjin you were a little worried she would hurt Hyunjin but after talking to her once when Hyunjin went off to his room you realized she’s a sweet girl.

“Hyunjin can be naive and want to see the good in people, but I told Cherry one day I know she won’t break his heart,” you made her promise she only had good intentions with your friend.

You watch as Hyunjin walks into the living room with his hand on Cherry’s lower back. The way she looks up at him you can tell she truly cares about him. You’ve seen him bring her into your apartment a handful of times with her makeup running down her face after she looks like she’s been crying. Hyunjin has become her person. From what you have seen he’s always there to pick her up when she’s had a fight with her parents or just needs someone to hold her. You can’t help but watch him as he stands by the doorway to the kitchen. Cherry is dressed in an expensive looking dress and her lips are that glossy cherry color they always seem to be. You don’t know the full details of Hyunjin’s relationships with this girl. You aren’t sure if they’re sleeping together or anything like that. You just know he’s kissed her before because he’s come home late before with her red lipstick stained on the side of his mouth.

Honey’s birthday party is a fun time. After Jisung wins his beer pong game he pulls his girlfriend off the couch and makes her stand in front of a cake as the room filled with all our friends sings happy birthday to her. Jisung puts a dab of frosting on her nose before he kisses her.

The party is fun and it’s nice to actually get out of the apartment and not have to worry about studying. Minho stands next to you barely leaving any space between you. Leaning over Minho lips, brushing your ear, “when can we go home? I’m too tired for this.”

Out of your whole friend group Minho has always been the one who isn’t a fan of parties. Most parties normally consist of you and Minho skipping them all together or leaving early.

“We can leave now if you want. Did you just want to sleep?”

“Can we get food and then cuddle?” He asks.

You say your goodbyes to Jisung and Honey, noticing that Chan and Bambi are nowhere to be seen. Finding Changbin in the kitchen with his girlfriend and Hyunjin you let your roommates know you guys are heading out. Walking out of the house Minho arm is over your shoulder holding you close by. You get into Minho's car and he drives off to his favorite ramen place that is open late. You’ve spent countless late nights at this place between studying or just hanging out with Minho. Minho doesn’t even look at the menu; he just rattles off both your orders to the waitress the moment she walks over. Minho presents in your life has been a source of comfort and security for a long time. Becoming roommates just made him truly become your best friend.

“Do you think Bin is coming home tonight?” You ask as Minho takes a drink of his hot tea.

He shrugs his shoulders and takes another drink. “If he does it’s fine. If he comes home he’ll probably have Kitten with him.”

Changbin and his girlfriend rarely slept alone at night. They tended to rotate from staying at your apartment or her apartment.

“Do you think Bambi and Chan will be the first to move in together?” Between the three boys that have girlfriends you’ve been wondering which pair would move in with their significant other first.

“Chan and Jisung have a nice house together and Bambi likes her apartment a lot. I don’t think they would move in together. I think if anything Kitten might move in with us.” You have to say you agree with him. Changbin and Kitten seem to be the closest to moving in together.

“What about Jisung and Honey?”

“I could see Jisung moving out with Honey too. I think if he did Changbin would probably ask us if we’re cool with him moving in with Chan.” For some reason the idea of Changbin moving out makes you a little sad. You’ve grown to be really close with him since living with him, but you know his best friends are Chan and Bambi so I would make sense.

“Don’t be sad Angel, Bin isn’t leaving anytime soon.”

The waitress comes out bringing too hot bowls of ramen. Your late dinner with Minho is delicious like always. The hot broth of the ramen warms you up, making you feel good.

Walking into your apartment you kick off your shoes. Minho takes off his own shoes before leaning forward and pressing his lips to yours for a gentle kiss.

“Your bed or mine?” He pulls off his jacket and lets out a yawn.

“Let’s go to my room,” follows you off towards your room. You make quick work of getting dressed for bed. You pull on just an oversized shirt and a pair of small shorts. Minho strips down to a pair of lounge shorts he leaves in your room. You both stand in the bathroom brushing your teeth before heading off to your room again.

Crawling into bed with you watch as Minho walks around your room. He strips off his shirt leaving him in nothing but his boxers. His beautiful skin is on full display. He pushes his fingers through his hair letting out another yawn. Joining you in bed he wastes zero time pulling you against his body so he’s spooning you from behind. When he suggested leaving the party you fully thought your night was going to end with you once again naked and moaning his name. You didn’t expect him to just want to cuddle. Pressing his lips gently to your shoulder you can’t help but smile.

“You only want to cuddle?”

“I just want to hold you,'' he whispers. There is this feeling you have that's been creeping up more and more that Minho isn’t just your friend. You feel things for him you don’t feel for your other friends.

“I want you to hold me,” you whisper.

This semester has been extra hard for you. Your senior year of college isn’t nearly as easy as you thought it was going to be. You have a huge test next week and you just finished a ten page essay you were beginning to think you were never going to finish. A few friends were going out to the bar tonight and they had invited you, but you had to decline so you could get some more studying in.

“YN do you want to order dinner while we study tonight?” Minho sets his laptop on your bed in front of you.

“Why aren’t you going to the bar with Bambi and Chan?” You thought he might go out tonight after you heard him talking to Changbin before Changbin left for class.

“Why would I go there when you’re staying home?” He knits his eyebrows together and looks at you like you’re insane.

“You are aware you’re allowed to have fun without me right?” Minho doesn’t normally do anything social if you don’t go with him you’ve come to notice.

“I know that. Let’s be honest Changbin and Kitten will show up and to be honest I don’t want to watch him feel her up every chance he gets.” He’s not lying basically since the moment Changbin and his girlfriend have gotten together Changbin can’t seem to keep his hands to himself. He’s been head over heels for her long before they started dating and ever since they finally got together he’s always touching her.

“So instead you would rather study with me?“

“I also have a huge test coming up. I thought senior year was gonna be easier and then I decided to apply for grad school,” he sighs, laying down on the bed next to you.

“It’s okay Minho,” you pat the top of his head. “If we get enough studying done maybe you can feel me up.”

He looks up, cocking his eyebrow. “Are we talking about feel,” he motions his hands. “Or are we talking about me filling you to the brim.”

You scoff, pushing his shoulder, “you are literally obsessed with coming inside me.”

“Can you blame a guy?” He laughs.

“I guess not,” you lean down pressing his lips to yours.

Minho is one of the best study partners you’ve had. He’s actually helpful and can easily focus on a task when he needs to.

Studying for this huge test seems to have melted your brain. Sitting on the bed with your back against the headboard and your legs across Minho’s lap as he sits in the middle of the bed. Biting down on the burger Minho ordered you, your eyes are trained on the side of Minho's head as he’s focused on the book he’s holding. He made a big deal about you eating your food before it got cold but can’t bring himself to put down the book he’s reading.

“Minho,” you say.

Lifting his head looks over at you and blinks rapidly a few times trying to focus. “Yes?”

“What happened to eating while it’s hot?”

“I was trying to finish this chapter,” he closes the book, setting it down on the bed next to him. He picks up his burger and finally starts to eat. Things between you are comfortable just like they always are.

“Minho I don’t want to study anymore you,” you whine between taking bites. A soft laugh leaves his lips. His hand that isn’t holding his burger reaches down and rubs your calf. “My brain can’t take anymore information tonight.”

“Okay, no more studying.”

“After eating if you massage my back I’ll give you a reward,” Minho giving you any type of massage is one of your favorite ways to relieve stress.

He takes one final bite of his burger chewing slowly before looking over at you smirking, “can my reward be I get to fuck your brains out?”

Your stomach flips at the thought of having rough passionate sex with Minho. You could just picture it now him having you bent over the closet surface while he pounds into you.

“Anything you want,” you rub your foot gently across his Jean over soft cock. He groans, biting his lip. You feel his erection start to grow before he grabs you by the ankle. He gets up so he’s sitting on the bed next to you and taps between his spread legs. Getting up you move so you’re sitting in front of him. He starts massaging your neck first. His finger works your tissue massaging away your tension.

“Did you want to get dinner Friday?” He says casually as he continues his work on your shoulders.

“Just the two of us?” You go out often just the two of you, but the way he’s asking makes it sound more like a date then it normally does.

“Obviously.”

“Yeah I'm down for dinner.”

He finishes massaging you and both take all your studying materials off the bed. It takes little effort before he has you born completely naked. Laying on your back with your legs spread, Minho's hardened cock fits snugly inside you as your lips move together. He’s shown no signs of moving. He seems absolutely content just kissing you. He’s resting on his elbow with his body right on top of yours. Everything about him is consuming you and you never want it to end.

You push your fingers through his hair pulling his lips away from yours. A crooked smile pulls at his lips.

“What happened to I’m going to fuck your brains out?”

“I’ll do it later, right now I want to savor my sweet reward,” he whispers.

The way he kisses you sends butterflies to your stomach.

“Do you think Changbin or Hyunjin know about this?” You’ve wondered for a while if any of your friend group knows what goes on behind closed doors between you and Minho.

“Are you worried they know we’re lovers?” he purrs before between kisses across your jaw.

“Minho,” you whisper his name.

“Pretty I could care less if anyone knows what we do. The only person’s opinion I care about when it comes to you and I, is yours.”

“I have a feeling Changbin has caught us,” you say knowing that your room is right by Changbin’s. “He always makes comments calling us love birds, and he seems more observant than Hyunjin.” You know Hyunjin’s mind is quite preoccupied between his art and whatever he has with Felix’s roommate.

“I don’t care if he knows. I’m not trying to hide you. I would have no issue kissing you at one of Chan and Jisung’s parties. Or right out in front of Bin and Hyunjin.”

He’s staring into your eyes like you truly are the only thing that matters to him. Running your hands up and down his back you can’t help but smile at him.

“I’m not some dirty little secret?”

“Pretty, you are definitely dirty, but you have never been my secret.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “Is dirty a bad thing?”

“God no. Not when it comes to you pretty.”

Ever so slowly he rolls his hips into yours. His lips are all over the sensitive skin on your neck. He gently sucks on the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet. Your leg latches over his back resting just above his cute butt. He thrust into you at a slow but firm pace. Sex with Minho doesn’t normally happen in the missionary position, you learned early on that Minho is a fan of taking you from behind. Being able to see his beautiful face while he thrust into you turns you on even more. Your hand tangles in his hair and pulls his head back lightly. He removes his lips from your and smirks as he looks down at you.

“Lee Minho, I like you a lot,” you moan.

“Oh my pretty angel I like you a lot too.”

He sits up on his hunches and works on continuing to thrust into you at that same slow but firm pace. He leans over taking your hands. He laces your fingers together pinning your hands above your head. He thrust into you a little bit harder earning a gasp.

“Minho,” you moan.

“Yeah Pretty?”

“I’m so close,” you moan.

Releasing your hands he moves so he’s hovering right over you again. His hands are on each side of your head. You wrap your legs around his body holding him as close to you as possible. With each thrust he hits the gummy part deep inside you earning loud moans from you. You’re so happy nobody is home that you and Minho can be as loud as you want. As you get closer and closer to finding your release Minho is there to coax you closer and closer to the edge.

“Pretty, can you come for me?” His words are intoxicating.

Silently you nod your head desperately wanting to come. “Minho, if I come will you come inside me?” you’re begging him. You want anything you will give you.

“That’s why you’re my girl angel. Come for me and I’ll come inside this tight pussy. I’ll fill you to the brim,” he groans.

A white hot wave washes over you. You see spots as your walls contract around his still hard length. “Your pussy was made for me,” he groans as his thrust grows sloppier.

With one particular deep thrust he finds his own release painting your wall. He sits back on his hunches pulling out of you slowly. His eyes are glued to your core as his release slowly drips out of you. He drags two fingers through your lips collecting his release. He looks at the milky liquid before gently pushing it back into your sensitive hole.

“Pretty?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re all mine. I don’t ever want to share you,” he hops off the bed and leaves you alone. He comes back with a warm washcloth. Your legs are still spread and waiting for him. He cleans up the mess he made and comes back to bed. You get under the covers and lay on your side. Your body feels absolutely spent after the passionate sex you just had with the man you’re in bed with.

Staring at him laying in bed next to you. He scrolled through his phone smiling at something. It feels like a light switch suddenly clicked. There is a warmth that takes over your chest. Nobody in your life matters to you quite like Lee Minho. The boy who was your friend, turned roommate, turned lover. You realized then that you were indeed head over heels in love with him. Sitting up you stare at him for a long moment studying his face.

“Minho, do you love me?” You wanted a straightforward answer, you didn’t want to play games.

“Yeah of course?” He sets his phone down on his nightstand.

“I don’t mean as a friend. Are you in love with me?.” He knits his eyebrows together and give you that signature smirk he gives people he when he thinks they're dumb.

“Yeah? Why? Of course I love you.” He said it like it was something that was completely common knowledge.

“Doesn’t it seem weird that all our friends are in happy relationship and we just have sex and do everything they do but we don’t tell them that?”

“Angel of course it’s weird, but if you want to date and have the boyfriend and girlfriend titles we can. But know you’ve been my girlfriend in my head since September,” he leans over with his lips close to yours. “You’re the only thing that I think I got right.” He leans forward pressing his lips to yours for a searing kiss “Should I formally ask you?”

You can’t help but smile, “yeah.”

“YN, you are the girl I literally spend every day of my life with. You’re the girl that Changbin literally refers to as my girlfriend. Will you be my girlfriend?”

“Obviously,” you lean forward pressing your lips to his.

The next morning you and Minho are in the kitchen making breakfast. More so he’s making breakfast while you make two cups of coffee. Kitten just left saying she had something she had to do and Changbin and Hyunjin joined you in the kitchen. It’s rare all four of you are home at the same time these days.

He leans forward pressing his lips to yours. Changbin lets out a laugh as Hyunjin stares at you and your boyfriend with a very confused look on his face.

“Does this mean you aren’t just fuck buddies anymore?” Changbin asks. Your eyes can’t help but go wide at Changbin’s response.

“Wait what?” Hyunjin can’t get the confused look off his face.

“To be honest I don’t know who was more clueless. Hyunjin… or you two.” Changbin laughs as he pats Hyunjin on the back.

“Have you guys been sleeping together for months?” Hyunjin asks.

“I’ve known about it since December but I would bet money it’s been going on way longer,” Changbin says.

“You’ve known since December?” You can’t believe Changbin didn’t tell you before now that he knew. Minho just laughs wrapping his arms around your stomach from behind.

“Hey it wasn’t my place to say anything especially if you guys hadn’t said anything. Let’s be honest even though you have been acting like a couple for way longer than December, the most your two do in front of everyone is hold hands and sometimes Minho likes to cuddle you like the cat he is.”

“Are you officially together?” Hyunjin asks.

“Yeah I have considered her to be my girlfriend since like September,” Minho finally speaks up.

“Yes we’re official and we plan on letting the rest of the group know,” you say.

Soon Hyunjin leaves telling everyone he needs to go see Cherry and Changbin heads over to his class on campus. You’re left alone with your boyfriend and you can’t help but smile.

“I knew Changbin knew,” you say.

“Somehow Changbin always knows,“ he says before pressing his lips to yours.

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