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prettyinsophie · 5 months

Text

burning desire

Synopsis: With Abby away at some party and your body aching and asking for release, you can’t help but touch yourself while pretending it’s your roommate.

warnings: top abby x virgin (lowkey loser) reader, fingering (r receiving), mentions of strap, squirting, r gets caught by abby, sex toys.

2.9k words

a/n: i’m going to pretend this isn’t way too specific. it’s my first time posting here so im sorry in advance if there are any mistakes, english is not my first language and i wrote this in a rush bc im going insane😇

ofelia si te sale esto no lo leas‼️

There was something utterly wrong with you.

As a girl, you went through your awful womanhood cycle and all that. You never entirely understood how all of it worked, you just ovulated when you were extremely horny and wanted to either kill yourself or everyone around you when on your period. That much you knew about your own body and every other girl went through the same.

The problem was you’ve been on fucking heat for over a month.

Your hormones were a mess, the sexual frustration consumed your being and you couldn’t find a solution. You were a virgin, and quite frankly, an awkward person so it was hard for you to even initiate small talk without quickly making it uncomfortable with your lack of social skills.

You tried distracting yourself throughout the day by attending your classes, doing homework, scrolling through Tiktok, and exercising. Even if you ended up beat by the end of the day, that damn aching between your legs would not leave you alone, and you had to touch yourself to at least make it less awful.

Unfortunately, you didn’t live alone. You shared an apartment with Abby, your high school friend who so happened to get into the same college as you. You didn’t mind, of course, you liked Abby, and now that she was grown and muscular you couldn’t deny she was a total eye-snack. Thing was, you were jealous of whoever the fuck she brought to your shared apartment, Abby must be some sort of goddess if she could make girls scream like that, begging her not to stop while choking in their tears, the bed loudly creaking to the point the blonde had to buy a new mattress. You resented it. You had to settle with sex toys while she fucked almost every week.

The amount of batteries you had in your drawer was embarrassing. Every night you had to abuse your pussy while thinking it was a certain girl doing it for you, had to get good at being silent because you’d throw yourself off the window if Abby ever heard you. Your clit ended red and puffy after an hour of nonstop intimate time with yourself, your eyes swollen because the scenarios in your head were so intense you cried while thrusting a six-inch vibrator inside you, touching that sweet spot it took some time for you to master hitting perfectly until your head went numb, and you squirted all over the pink towel you covered the bed with so you wouldn’t wet the pretty covers and sheets you slept in.

You were ashamed of how filthy your fantasies were for a twenty-year-old virgin, it always hit you once you were over, panting heavily in silence while blushing because your private thoughts and desires bugged you.

You hoped it’d all end soon, that maybe your hormones were a bit crazy just because they decided so be in a silly mood. Every girl goes through shit like this. But no. God was testing you, progressively getting needier as the days passed by. Your god-awful gorgeous friend/roommate worsened it whenever you were doing your assignments at the dining table, and she came home from the gym looking so dirty and delicious, your eyes struggling to focus on your laptop screen and not the way her muscles glistened with not-fully-dried sweat and looked like the glazed donuts you loved eating as a sweet treat, the comparison didn’t make sense, but her body made you feel hungry. You were so sexually frustrated you were convinced you had gone insane.

You wished someone would approach and straight up told you to fuck. You’d accept without second thoughts. But it was the real world, as pretty as you were, you still looked awkward and shy. Fuck your life, honestly. Why couldn’t you be dauntless like the girls who flirted with Abby? Touching her biceps while twirling their hair as they looked at her with nothing but lust and confidence. They were embarrassedly bold but they got exactly what they wanted because Abby was a sucker for pretty girls like that, she loved to fuck the cockiness out of them.

You couldn’t help but think about it every day. You were pathetic, imagining how it would feel to be under her, talking you through it, making you lie there and do nothing but take her until your legs turned into jelly and make you forget all about your stupid sex toy collection hidden in a box under your bed.

Anyways.

Tonight was going to be fun. Abby told you a friend of hers would be throwing a party, subtly inviting you, but you didn’t take the hint and told her to have fun, so off she went an hour ago, leaving you alone in your shared apartment.

Eagerly and with your heart thudding, you arranged everything before jumping right into it, at this point it was just as important in your nocturnal ritual as your skincare routine. You had bought a new toy, this one being 7.4 inches and a bit thicker than your other ones, so you were a bit excited to try it, hoping the sensation would help you release more of your frustration.

With a silky pillow under your lower back, you lied in your bed and took a deep breath, your fingers slowly rubbing your clit, making you gasp softly at the familiar but delicious feeling. Your muscles quickly relaxed as you kept circling your needy button. You didn’t need much teasing, you were already wet, arousal sneaking down and making you groan because it was icky.

Lately, you didn’t rely on your hand that much, ever since you figured out the way to hit your G spot, that’s almost all you needed to come. That being said, you took the pink toy in your hand, lining it down your entrance and teasing yourself by lubing the tip of it with your arousal, imagining it was Abby’s strap and spreading your legs. You had to be quiet every time you masturbated, but you were completely alone now and you wanted to treat yourself by taking the liberty to be as loud as you felt like. Pants and whines of desperation filled your room once you started taking inch by inch of the toy slowly. There were nights you straight up wanted to release everything and go to sleep, or nights such as this, where you felt like dragging your orgasm to make it intense and mind-breaking.

“Holy shit.” You whined once the vibrator was deep inside, you closed your eyes and played start to your fake scenarios.

In your wild fantasies, Abby would tease you, keeping her strap in place while circling your clit and making you wait for her to move. So you did that. Little whimpers left your lips while imagining her talking in your ear, whispering sweet encouraging words. You could multitask with no problem at this point, it was routine. You turned on the vibrator, hips jerking at the feeling and your lips hung as you gasped. Thrusting it slowly the fantasies grew steamier, and your cheeks flushed at the sound of your voice doing all those pathetic and pornographic sounds.

It was big. When you bought it you were so cocky about it but you were actually struggling to slide it in and out smoothly, but thankfully you were so wet it only took a few minutes. And so the madness began. In your head, Abby was fucking you with her strap, your hand moving fast and aiming for your sweet spot like your life depended on it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You whimpered out loud, the buzzing toy hitting the right place inside of you while you kept rubbing your clit clumsily because it felt so good.

You wanted her. Pitiful whines getting caught in your throat when you remembered Abby was far from your apartment, far from your room, and definitely far from your bed. She was probably messing around with another girl at that party. You winced at the thought, feeling like crying as you kept abusing your pussy. Imaginary Abby would slap you and grab your chin so you’d look at her, telling you to stop drifting away from her when she’s right there with you, to not listen to those silly thoughts of yours.

Your therapist would never hear of this.

“Oh my god, Abby! Please, please, please-” You were okay with being loud at this point, whatever you usually blabbered under your breath now resonating on the walls of your room.

Sometimes you wished you had four hands so you could add a little something to your intimate sessions. You wanted to know how it would feel to have her deep inside with her big and strong hand wrapped around your neck, preventing you from breathing properly while praising you. Shit. Your hand moved faster and rougher, seeking for the most realistic sensation possible. Wanting to pretend this was the real Abby pounding into you.

You needed her. Your eyes stung with tears as your chest heaved because the toy was now at the highest setting, hitting your sweet spot oh so deliciously you were even drooling.

With your eyes squinted shut your mind went fuzzy, the scenario pausing for a moment while focusing on the familiar twisting in your tummy and reaching for your orgasm. Abby was calling your name in the distance, you were so into it for a moment you felt worried about how real it went through your ears.

“Yes, yes, yes! Right there, Abby! Plea-se-!”

Your voice cracked. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you choked weak whimpers while squirting all over the towel, so intense even the toy almost flew out of your cunt. Your legs trembled and you panted loudly, riding out your fifth climax of the week. The cold air of your room hit your bare lower body and made you groan because your slick was drying up and you hated the feeling, but you also needed time to recover before cleaning your mess.

After a few moments, you sighed and opened your eyes, slightly leaning onto your side to grab your phone on the nightstand. You froze at the figure of someone standing by your door. Your stomach dropped and you could feel your heart in your throat.

Abby was there, standing with her arms crossed while looking at you with a stare you couldn’t decipher. No. This could not be happening to you. No!

“Abby-“ You sobbed, the shame betraying you by making you cry.

“How long?” She asked, her blue eyes staring into your soul even from a further distance. Her voice lower than how she usually talks to you.

“W-What?”

“How long have you wanted me to fuck you?”

The question sent a shiver down your spine. This was definitely not how you imagined it’d play out, not in one of your thousands of wet dreams.

“A while…” You mumbled embarrassed, looking away from her. Thankfully you were only naked from the hips down to your feet, you were wearing an oversized shirt that could cover your most private parts.

Abby seemed pleased with your answer. A heavy and shaky sigh left her nose as she walked to your bed.

“And you do this every night while thinking about me?”

The question (which sounded more like a statement) stabbed your core sharply. You nodded and felt your cheeks blushing in shame.

The bed creaked when she joined you in it, getting on top of you while smirking smugly. Your pretty face was adorned with confusion and embarrassment. Lips puffy from crying and your face dampened and red.

“Poor girl. Had to hear me pleasing other girls instead of you, hm? You should’ve just said so, baby.” She comforted you, brushing her fingers against your cheek, making you shiver at the unfamiliar contact.

“Didn’t want to mess with your innocence, you’re so pure I couldn’t dare break you. That’s why I used whoever wanted to throw themselves at me, but turns out that’s all you wanted all along? Wanted me to make you cry and beg?”

Holy fuck. You thought as you were getting wet again. You almost whimpered because this was the real thing. 4D Abby was on top of you and talking dirty with her husky and alluring voice.

“Yes.”

You hated yourself so much. Just a few moments ago you were so mouthy to her in your fantasy and you couldn’t even form a sentence with the real one. Abby laughed at you as if finding you amusing.

“‘Yes’ what, pretty girl?”

This was it. You were going to go for it.

“I-I want you to…fuck me and make me scream and beg for more.” You stuttered softly, looking into her eyes while batting your lashes because you couldn’t maintain eye contact.

“Yeah? I bet I can do a better job than your toys.” She leaned down, your faces closer than you ever thought they’d get, sucking the air out of your lungs.

You yelped in surprise when her fingers went down your folds, spreading the wetness as she teased your sensitive parts. “So wet, waiting for me to read your mind and touch you, huh? Gotta use your big girl words. C’mon, tell me what you want.”

Her voice melted your brain as her fingers spread your lips, making you gasp and squirm under her. You were too shy for your own good, she knew that as well but that made this more interesting. Abby wanted to see how far she could lead you, and how much control she could have on you.

“Please touch me.” Your voice was breathy and almost weak, feeling her fingers replacing your own was too much.

She circled your throbbing clit, causing you to close your eyes and whine loudly.

“You like that?”

“Y-Yes, so so much, Abby.” Your mouth was getting loose, drunk in pleasure and your head was still dizzy from your previous climax. Abby could feel herself getting wet from your reactions to minimal touch.

Poor little thing, so touch-starved. She thought while continuing to please you.

You mumbled curses and her name under your breath. Hands gripping the covers of your bed tightly because she was the one touching you, you had no control over the speed nor the pressure her fingers had on your sensitive bud. Your legs squirmed as you spread them further so she’d position herself more comfortably between them.

“Want you inside, n-need you inside!” You begged pathetically, looking at her with half-lidded eyes.

Abby couldn’t believe this. This was too good to be true and she couldn’t wait anymore either. She kept boundaries out of respect, she knew you were a virgin and had no experience, and she didn’t want to scare you off with her deprived desires. Yet you were there, asking her with tears in your eyes to fill you up. You were so desperate she wanted to eat you alive.

“‘M gonna use my fingers, doll. Don’t wanna fuck you with the same strap I use with other girls. I’m going to get you your own, and I’m going to fuck this horniness out of you. You’ll only need me.” She whispered in your ear before shoving two of her fingers inside you, gaining a loud whimper from you.

Her fingers were thick and long, she filled you up almost perfectly you didn’t want this moment to end. Your chest raised up and down as you struggled to breathe properly. She moved them in and out, curling them expertly inside your warm walls.

“Faster, please.”

Abby knew once you two were done tonight, every time she’d hear the word ‘please’ from you would be a trigger. She wanted to tease you, drag you to the edge, but she was aware of how frustrated you felt and it was pitiful. So she let you give her orders, just this once though.

She hit it. That magnificent spot of yours that sent you to the moon. You were a moaning mess, hairs sticking to your forehead with sweat while she kept thrusting her fingers forcefully.

“Fuck, Abby! There, holy fuck.” You blabbered, your back arching off the bed, and the pillow under you helped to reach your g spot smoothly. Abby was also panting, even groaning because you were giving her a show. The things she’d do to you from now on, whew, she was going to ruin you.

“So pretty, taking my fingers so well. Want you to come all over them, doll. You think you can do that for me?”

Nodding drastically up and down, she sped up if that was even possible. Your tummy swooped and you didn’t realize you had tears running down your cheeks. Abby’s face was blurry and your eyes struggled to focus. Your hand found her bicep, clawing it with your acrylic nails as you reached the delicious bliss.

“Shitshitshit!”

Moaning Abby’s name and profanities, you came on her fingers and probably her pants as well. You kept squirting while sobbing because you’ve never experienced an orgasm like this one, your legs shaking against your will. Now you were panting, catching your breath and when you opened your eyes and met with hers, reality hit you.

You opened your puffy lips to say something, but Abby cut you off.

“Next time it’ll be my cock.”

#abby anderson smut #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #abby tlou #abby x reader #abby x fem!reader #abby smut #tlou2 #abby fanfiction #abby anderson fanfic

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fioiswriting · 7 months

Text

Reunion | oneshot

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

[Part 2]

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not). Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.

Words count : 7600

Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever

Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!

Enjoy 🖤

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met The night we met - Lord Huron

The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment. Ashes. Fire. War. It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss. It was like a long howl and then sudden silence. Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.

For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him. There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side. The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.

It had been the best solution, you knew.

For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded. He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight. He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface. He had searched and no body had been found.

So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.

The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.

You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair. But it still hurt. It sill fucking hurt.

Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation. A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years. A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother. And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges. And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled. Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.

Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.

During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever. Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger.

Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.

And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders. Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.

But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it. He knew. He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans. And the humiliation was all the more bitter.

First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own.

And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.

You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed. When he had become more forgiving. When he had trusted you. When he had become gentle. When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly. When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.

You loved him.

So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice. Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.

Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?

Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands. You felt as if you were losing your mind.

But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.

Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.

It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell. Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost. King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.

But above all, it was haunted by him.

The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.

You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you. Probably glad to see his friend again, too. Your friend, to both of you.

But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.

Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all. It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.

On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.

When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.

"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you."

You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor. You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.

"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.

It felt good to be back. It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family. It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you.

Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.

The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead. It must have been your imagination. You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.

Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest. Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there. You feel as if you are being followed.

At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed. In the gardens, with your son. Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.

But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.

You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep. All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.

One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.

The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.

And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged. Fuck. Fuck.

You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.

"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen.

That voice. It couldn't be.

Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.

It can’t be.

That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.

"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."

The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.

It is impossible.

He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.

Is it a ghost? Is it a hallucination?

"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.

You have so much to say to him. So many things to reproach him for.

His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears.

The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver. You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets. And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.

You want to kiss him. You want to slap him.

He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.

The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.

"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.

He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.

"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company.

He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how. Why.

He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to. Who you were married to.

A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal. You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead.

But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.

"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly.

There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway.

"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"

"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him. You've waited three years, what's another moment? But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be. You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't."

"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.

"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."

The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs.

"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you. You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin. Not a sound leaves your lips.

"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."

Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall. Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself - but you can't help feeling your heart clench. You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.

"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time.

You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again. You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.

"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him. A bit of anger, perhaps, too.

"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly. Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."

Everything is so confused in your mind. A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy. Of love too.

You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond. Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.

"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."

You nod. Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words. The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips.

There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.

His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.

"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."

You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.

"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."

His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.

It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.

You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet. You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion. You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts. All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you.

The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know. But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.

"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.

His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.

Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.

"On your knees then."

The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago. You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit. He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.

Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely.

Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes. He doesn't look away from you.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion.

His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."

You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly.

"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder. Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.

His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience.

He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps.

" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.

The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.

"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you.

The memory was so close and yet so far away.

Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.

"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him. He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.

"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.

"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence. You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you. You have this power over him and it's delicious.

His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching.

He doesn't let go of you.

"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him. It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.

His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his.

Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you.

You need him to make you feel whole again. Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him. You had always burned for him.

In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.

There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.

His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.

He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow.

He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other. Your hands are buried in his long silver hair. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs. You need him desperately, right there.

The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.

"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet?

Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.

"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress.

You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.

"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."

"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."

Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.

You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away. You grunt in frustration.

You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.

He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.

He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation. He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices.

The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.

" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body.

He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.

You feel whole again and you want to cry. You never want to lose that feeling. You want to keep him, against you, inside you.

You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.

"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command. He always has that need to control. He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.

"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable.

You need him.

When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.

Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.

"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."

The praise is sweet music to your ears. You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.

You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.

"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.

Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him. Your moans grow louder.

"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."

The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him. It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse. It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.

I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you.

He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.

The weight of his body on yours is comforting. For the first time in years, you feel alive. For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.

When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness.

You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.

Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you. You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment. He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.

And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.

You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.

"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."

When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy.

He lets out a hm and pauses.

"Is he yours?"

You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth. You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?

"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.

"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"

Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment. You should lie. You know you should lie. To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years. You only need one word.

You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.

"No, he's not."

The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.

"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece." Disappointment.

You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.

You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips.

" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."

You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye. It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.

"What did you say?"

You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words. You want to bury your face in his chest. You breath.

"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.

It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.

Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image. He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.

Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.

"My son," he repeats in awe. It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity. Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.

"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.

He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.

And this time, he makes love to you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret. Your hand rests on his.

"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.

It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.

Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.

"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"

The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings. It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.

"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know."

He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.

"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him.

You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him. You know he would have made a good father. You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.

You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand. You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up.

Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know." Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence. He has always suffered from his father's indifference.

You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.

"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.

You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions.

But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

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matryosika · 1 year

Text

Hyung Line: Love Languages and Sex

Wordcount: 5,467 words.

Genre: Smut, partly head canons and scenarios.

Includes: SKZ Hyung Line members, female reader, brief discussion about food in Minho's scenario, curse words and dirty dialogues. Smut warnings below.

Author's note: Long time no see! I just randomly thought about this yesterday, and I had a couple of scenario/drabbles I wanted to write about regarding this topic so here they are. I thought about uploading them individually, but I don't know. I'm currently working in the second part of this, so yeah. Thought I would just put this out there for now. I hope you guys like it! Please remember that english isn't my first language and this is not proof-read so I apologize for any mistake in advance.

If you like this, please consider supporting me by reblogging, leaving a comment or sending me an ask. If you wish to support my work further, please consider buying me a coffee! ☕

Smut warnings (varies from scenario to scenario): Masturbation (f. receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting, praises, use of petnames, established relationship, foot massage (for Minho's part), public sex (for Changbin's scenario), body cumshot (for Hyunjin's scenario), vaginal penetrative sex, unprotected sex, implied creampie (for Changbin's scenario).

Chan: Acts of Service and Words of Affirmation

“One more?”

When you told Chan you were feeling stressed, you didn't exactly expect him to try and cheer you up like this —face buried in your sweet, throbbing cunt, and hands intertwined with yours. You have been going at it for hours on end, with no signs of Chan ever wanting to stop —not even after your third orgasm.

“Channie…” You want to tell him it's his turn, that you also want to make him feel good. That you need to help him releasing the tension between his legs, make him come just as much as he has made you tonight.

But you can’t even begin to deliver a coherent sentence, or at least not when his nose is applying the perfect amount of pressure to your clit while his tongue laps messily on your slit, his spit and your own wetness creating a sticky, awkward sensation that reminds you of all the time Chan had spent working on your cunt in the past hour or two.

“Mhm?” He knows you’re too fucked out you can’t even speak, but the devilish grin plastered on his face tells you that he wants to listen to you. Or at least your babbles. “What is it, baby?”

“Chan,” you latch your hands onto his dark locks, pulling them harshly and earning a hiss from him. “Chan, please!”

You don't have to tell him exactly what you want for him to know. The way you grind your hips against his face sells you out —Chan knows you need more than just his mouth, and he is more than happy to comply.

If you ask for it, of course.

“Greedy,” he laughs under his breath, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your cunt. “Come one more time for me, and I’ll consider giving you what you want”.

A fair exchange, you think. But when the ravages of over-stimulation start hitting you painfully than before, you highly doubt you can fulfill his plea.

“I can’t,” you gasp with shortness of breath, hands leaving Chan’s to clinge at the bedsheets underneath you. “Chan, fuck, wait!”

The last thing you want is for Chan to stop, but the words fall from your lips faster than you can process them. So he withdraws from your pussy and stares at you with half-lidded eyes, swollen lips and chin glistening with your arousal.

“No! Don’t- don’t stop, I’m sorry”.

You’re not making any sense, and he loves it.

“Am I hurting you?”

You shake your head eagerly, swallowing hard while you take advantage of the break to take a breath. “No, it’s just- I’m- I want to please you”.

Chan smiles.

“I have to take care of you first,” he mumbles, lips attached to flesh of your inner thighs. “Want to make you come enough until your mind is completely empty”.

“But I-”

“Tonight isn’t about me, okay?” he drags his words lazily, humming and slightly whimpering them when he rubs his nose yet again against your clit. “I need to make sure you’re not feeling stressed anymore”.

You plop down onto the bed again, hands gripping his curls while unconsciously bringing him closer to your core.

“See, I know you can come one more time,” Chan whispers against your pussy, two of his fingers spreading your folds while he coats them with your previous arousal, “you’re always good to me like that”.

You buck your hips when he unexpectedly thrusts his middle and ring finger inside you, walls welcoming and clenching around them so tightly Chan almosts come right in his pants.

“3 orgasms are not enough for someone like you, hm?” he fucks you delicately, enjoying the wet sounds your cunt makes every time he sinks his fingers inside you, “you still want more”.

You cover your face in shyness, only letting out small whimpers and moans every time he curls his fingers.

“Don’t,” his available hand, which he has underneath your right thigh and the curve of your ass, reaches out to pull both your arms, causing you to uncover your face, “I want to see you when I’m talking to you”.

He grabs both your wrists with his available hand, while the other works wonders on your cunt. From where you lay, the sight is heavenly —you can catch a glimpse of his flexed shoulders and back, along with his bare face and messy, dark curls. You could reach your fourth orgasm just by that alone, but Chan has other plans in mind.

“You’re so sweet,” he’s practically groaning his words, licking remains of your orgasms from his lips, “I don’t ever want to go a day without tasting you, ever”.

You moan at his words, heart racing faster than it was before. He has always had a way with words —ever since you two met, he has always known exactly what to say to have you at his feet, mercilessly.

“Channie,” you cry out loud, head falling back as your back arches in pleasure. “Chan!”

“Come on,” he drags his swollen lips against your hip bone and the side of your tummy, inhaling deeply the scent of your skin while the room is filled with wet, lewd noises, “I can feel you’re close, I know you can take one more”.

There’s no point in trying to hold back, so you start letting yourself go.

“All day I’ve been thinking about your sweet cunt,” the more he talks, the rougher he fucks you with his fingers and the closer you get to your release, “you’re all I fucking need. I don’t want anything else but you”.

You melt with love, tears threating to spill from the corners of your eyes. There’s something enticing about the contrast between his words and his touch, how he can say the sweetest, purest and loving things while his fingers keep on fucking your pussy with no tenderness, exactly how you like it.

“I just want to show you off to everyone,” Chan continues, feeling the wetness around his fingers starting to increase, word by word. “Want to tell everyone how pretty you look like this, how proud I am to have you with me”.

“F-fuck,” you’re coming, he can tell. The way your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your hips spasm against his hand sells you out.

“That’s it,” he moans, the raspiness of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “Give it to me, I know you can”.

He continues fucking your cunt through your orgasm, not daring to stop even when drops of your arousal wet his hand and bed.

“Stay still, baby,” with his available arm, he holds you down and pins you against the bed, preventing you from closing your legs or get away from his touch, “make a mess, I want to lick it clean”.

Minho: Acts of Service and Physical Touch

Minho is naturally a giver.

Sure, he does love being on the receiving end from time to time, but really nothing gratifies him more than taking care of you, in every way you should be taken care of.

Whether it’s taking a chore off your hands when you’re exhausted, running an errand to save you time on a busy day, or picking up take out and medicine when you’re feeling down, one of Minho’s ways to show you love it’s by performing acts of services.

Hence that, you’re not surprised to come home tonight with a full home-cooked dinner, with dessert and all.

“Hope you’re starving,” your boyfriend welcomes you, still wearing an apron on top of his work outfit. Black, formal pants and a white shirt with rolled sleeves, “It’s your favorite, by the way”.

Earlier today, he called you to ask you for a quick grocery shopping list, in case you had some things missing from your fridge. Apparently, he was going to be released early from work, so he had some spare time before meeting you at your place and he could stop by for the things you needed..

“My head is all over the place,” you admitted, hands brushing through your hair in frustration, “I’m sorry Min, I completely forgot to leave the grocery list you told me. And I’m not even sure what’s missing- probably the whole fucking fridge is empty”.

He could tell how busy and exhausted you had been over the past few weeks, so he came up with a plan.

“I can come to your place and do the list myself,” he proposed by the phone. “Then I’ll go to the supermarket and pick the food and stuff you need, yeah? I’ll return to your place at night, and we can unwind together. Is that okay?”

You thanked him, probably a million times, before hanging up and going through with your day.

When he sits at the table with you, you finally get a taste of the dish. As expected, is more than just delicious. It’s a whole fucking experience, especially because it was made just for you.

You two eat together and help each other cleaning the kitchen afterwards. When you're done, with a comfy outfit and while having another glass of red wine, Minho suggests he does a massage on you because you look tense.

“What a nice, elegant sex proposal,” you laugh, extending your legs on top of his while you are sitting in the couch.

“I never said anything about sex,” Minho tiltes his head, the tip of his digits grazing against your skin. “So who’s proposing that to who?”

“You know, I could use a massage,” you leave the glass of wine on top of the coffee table, and let your body slowly slide into the couch. “I’m not sure about the sex part. I don’t know if I could ride you with how fucking sore my legs are, but I can make it up to you during the weekend”.

Minho laughs, a genuine, heart-warming laugh.

“We don’t have to fuck tonight,” his hands and digits trail an immaginary path from your feet, to your ankles, to your knees and inner thighs. The touch is enough to get you wet, and you curse him mentally for that, “but I still want to make you come, at least once”.

Sometimes, you really can't begin to comprehend how Minho is all that. Attractive, smart, hard-working and just… perfect in every aspect, including sex.

“I’m so embarrassed,” you admit, moaning softly when his hands start working on the soles of your feet. It’s certainly not a massage massage, but rather a compilation of soft and lustful touches, “I really want to make things up to you but I’m a mess right now, there’s a lot going on at work and-”

“Hey,” he interrupts you, caressing the sides of your feet while working on them. “I’m not complaining nor asking for anything in return, am I?”

He isn’t.

And he is also not the type to expect some sort of payment for a favor.

Minho loves like that¸ without expecting absolutely nothing in return except for your satisfacion.

“But-”

“Am I?”

“No,” you softly reply, more as a whimper than an actual response. He is still massaging your feet and ankles, slowly growing harder at the series of moans and hisses you’re letting out.

“Why don’t you tell me where you keep your vibrator?” You love how it’s a casual question, how you no longer grow timid when he asks stuff like that. You are a couple, and he knows way more about you and your private life than anyone else. “Let’s put it to use tonight, hm?”

“Nightstand, second drawer,” you immediately sigh, losing the warmth of his body when he stands up from the couch to go to said location —the nightstand, second drawer.

He comes back not even 2 minutes later, holding the hot pink item to his hand. He sits right next to you, inviting you to spread your legs for him while he pushes your underwear and pijama shorts to the side.

A proud smile peeps out of the corners of his lips, knowing he did absolutely nothing but you’re still dripping wet, underwear and clothes sticking to your folds.

“You weren’t sure about the sex part?” he hums in content, caressing your slit with the tip of the toy. “Honey, you’re body is begging for me to fuck it”.

You arch your back unexpectedly when he turns on the toy, digging it further against your clit. He motions for you to take care of the toy, guiding your wrist to it in order to have both of his hands free and available to caress you, grope you and kiss you as he pleases.

“It’s really good,” you moan, masturbating for him while his hands reach out to your breasts, massaging them and pinching your nipples. “It’s not as good as your cock, but it does the task. I should get a better toy”.

Minho laughs against your skin, tongue latched to one of your hardened buds. His right hand wanders along the side of your body, caressing your waist, hips and thighs as much as he wants.

“You know nothing compares to me,” Minho whimpers against your skin, his hips grinding ever so slightly against your spread thighs. “But it’s cute that you’re still willing to try and find something that could compete against me”.

You bury your right hand onto his dark hair, pulling him closer to you, if possible, while your left hand holds the wand against your cunt.

The more he touches you and kisses you, the closer you get to your orgasm. And pathetically close, at that, since you’ve only been doing this for roughly 3 minutes.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed your body these days,” Minho groans, peppering kisses on your chest and neck while his hand sneaks between your ass and the couch. He squeezes and gropes it harshly, making you move your hips a bit up to give him better access. “Just want to cover it all with my kisses, lick it and touch it how you like it”.

Minho buries his face on your neck, and starts kissing your skin sloppily while his right hand is still groping your body. He doesn’t care about being messy —in fact, that’s exactly what he is going for tonight.

“Don’t stop,” you babble, grinding your hips against the toy while Minho’s lips and hands are all over you. “Don’t stop, Min, please, don’t-”

When you’re just a second away from your arousal, Minho places his hand on top of yours and presses the vibrator against your clit more, forcing you to orgasm faster. “Don’t worry,” he groans near your ear, face still buried in the crook of your neck, “I won’t stop until you’re satisfied”.

Changbin: Words of Affirmation and Gifts

“What do you think?”

Changbin has to take a full minute in order to arrange his own thoughts. If he had to say what he actually thinks of that dress, he would earn a couple of disgusted faces from the rest of the people at the boutique.

“Good,” it’s all he manages to say, slyly leaning forward to hide his bulge, “let me pay for it and let’s go home”.

“I’m still not done, though,” there’s a bunch of clothes you wish to try, and you know that doesn’t impatient Changbin –he is a great shopping partner. But judged by his lustful gaze, you think he has changed his plans, “I’ll be quick, I promise”.

He isn’t mad, nor wants to rush you, but Changbin wonders how long it’s going to take for him to lose his sanity before he gets to fuck you in the very same dress you just tried on. It hugs your body just right, allowing you to show just the right amount of skin to drive him crazy.

“Shit, I don’t know about this one,” you murmur from inside, just a long curtain separating you from Changbin, who is currently sitting at a small couch placed strategically in front of the fitting rooms, “I don’t think this is my size”.

Before he could ponder the situation, the pros and cons of demanding a small, modeling catwalk from you, he asks you to show the dress to him.

“It’s too tight,” you complain, struggling to zip it up, “one wrong move and I- I’m going to flash everyone in here”.

“Let me see it,” he asks again, impatiently looking forward to watching the curtain slide back, revealing you.

“I don’t- I look weird,” the dress is not your style, nor it’s something you would wear out on any occasion. You thought it would be fun to try it on, see if you could get out of your comfort zone, but it escalated too quick. “It’s too much, it barely covers anything”.

It’s not intentional, but you’re practically edging Changbin with your words. The longer you drag it out, the whiner he gets.

“Alright, alright,” you finally exhale, your hand pushing the curtain separating you from his gaze out of the way, “but don’t fucking say anything”.

Even if he wanted to say something, he can’t even speak. His throat is dry, aching just as much as the throbbing pressure between his legs that demands for his whole attention.

After some excruciating, awkward moments in silence, you speak again.

“Okay, say something,” the lack of words from him is making you feel unsteady, because he is just staring right at you quietly. You can’t possibly now what’s going on in his mind. “I told you it doesn’t fit and it is too damn expensive, and the fabric is -”.

“Get that one too,” it’s not a question, nor an advice –it’s an order.

“It’s too exp-”

“I don’t care,” the pent up tension is making it seem as if he’s angry, but you know he isn’t –he is just too damn horny, and needy, and desperate to get home and fuck you in every position possible.

“Alright,” you nod, feeling your heart skipping a beat when Changbin’s intimidating gaze falls up on you, basically begging for you to be done. “I’ll just… take it off and we can- go home, yeah?”

You go back to the fitting room with a wet sensation between your legs, feeling your folds sticking to your underwear while you relentlessly try to take the dress off. It had been hard to put it on, but you underestimated how difficult it was going to be to take it off on your own.

“Bin?” you ask, “is someone there who… could help me?”

Changbin looks around, but there’s no one other than him. Not even the lady who manages the changing room and checks which clothes people are trying on is there.

“There’s no one here,” the dark-haired replies, standing from the couch with more confidence now that he knows no one can spot the bulge in his pants, “what do you need?”

You shyly push the curtains to the side yet again, revealing the now messy dress after your failed attempt to take it off. “Can you help me?”

You turn around, putting the back zipper on display for him. It’s rather an easy task, he just needs to pull it down.

But how easy can it be when all he can pay attention to is your ass, and how good it looks underneath that tight dress? The clothes are so tight he can catch a glimpse of the silhouette of your underwear, buried in the flesh of your arse.

“Please?”

He doesn’t helps you unziping it and, instead, pushes you inside the fitting room again, closing the curtain behind him as he is sure the area is completely empty, except for the two of you.

“I can’t,” he breathes, turning you around so that your hands lay on his chest. “I don’t want you to take it off”.

“I have to if you want to buy it for me, silly,” you’re teasing him, acting oblivious to his sudden reaction. “Quick, don’t want anyone to catch us together in here”.

“I want to fuck you while you’re wearing it,” he confesses, his lips so close to yours you can actually feel his breath caressing your chin. “I want to fuck you right here, so you can see how pretty you look”.

You would be lying if you said you’re not turned on, not even in the slightest. But your hardened nipples and wet underwear speak louder than you can.

“Please,” he begs, hands moving slowly from your waist to your ass, groping it while pulling you closer to him. “Please let me fuck you”.

The more he pulls you towards him, the more you can feel his throbbing, hard cock against your body. You are probably going to regret your decision, but you still give in.

You need him more than he does.

“If someone catches us…”

“They won’t,” Changbin groans, lifting your dress up with one hand while the other unbuckles his pants with a swift motion, “just keep your pretty mouth shut and I’ll take care of the rest, yeah?”

It seems like he isn't asking for a lot, but he is. How can you possibly keep your mouth shut when his raw cock is about to stretch your pussy?

He turns you around, your palms resting on the wall for support while his nimble hands place you in the perfect position for him: back arched, ass up and legs open. Really, how can you possibly keep your mouth shut when the tip of his thick cock slides against your slit?

He knows time is running out, so he doesn’t waste it –he sinks his hips against yours delicately, only to pick up the pace when he feels you getting used to his cock.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he groans against your shoulders, leaving wet, sloppy pecks that soon turn into love bites. “You’re just- too pretty- can’t keep my hands off of you”.

You moan at his words, sounds that are quickly muffled by one of his hands against your mouth.

“So- fucking beautiful,” his words come out choppy, but he manages to keep the volume of his voice down, unlike you. “You're just too good to be real and mine”.

The sound of your muffled whines, Changbin’s soft groans, skin hitting skin and the wetness of your cunt around his cock is what fills the whole fitting room. You’re wondering if someone can hear you two, but you really don’t care anymore.

“You’re so tight,” he can’t get himself to stop. The urge to praise you and compliment you is the exactly the same as coming inside you, he is really desperate for both and judged by the way you squeeze his dick everytime he speaks, he knows you like it too. “Perfectly made for my cock”.

The rougher he pounds himself inside you, the more you lose balance and control of your own body. Your cheek is against the wall, your weak arms barely doing anything to support your body, but his grip around you is what keeps you stable.

“I’m going to fill you up, yeah?” he is not that far from his arousal, and neither are you. “I want to show you how much I love you”.

You nod eagerly against his palm, drooling all over it. One of your hands leave the wall to rub your clit, the new stimulation provided pushing you to the edge.

“Come with me, pretty,” he pants, barely speaking with shortness of breath. “Give it to me, let me know how much you love the way I fuck you”.

His words have never failed to make you lose it. Not even once.

Hyunjin: Physical Touch and Gifts

You’re his muse.

You have been since the day he met you, since the very first time he laid his eyes on you.

Whether it’s for a poem, a drawing, a painting or a sculpture, you’re exactly where he finds his inspiration at. Hyunjin would rather die than looking at someone else, would rather stop making art before immortalizing another body that isn’t yours.

And besides being his muse, you’re also his lover. His partner, his accomplice, his everything. He trusts you more than he trusts himself, cares about you more than anything else. He wants to share all of himself with you, from his anger and sadness to the things he can’t say out loud, his filthy desires that he knows only you understand.

To be honest, you share a lot of the same. Especially your preferences, like and dislikes.

“Isn’t it pretty?”

A set of laced lingerie, your favorite color.

“What’s the occasion?” you ask him perplexed, carefully folding the wrap around it.

“Saw it on my way back to your apartment,” he is standing right in front of you, smiling softly at your excitement. “I thought you were going to like it, so I just couldn’t not buy it for you. It’s too pretty for you not to have it”.

Hyunjin is like that, always.

If he sees something he thinks you’d like, or if there’s something he wants you to have, he buys it and gives it to you as a gift. There doesn’t need to be a special occasion for Hyunjin to shower you with gifts —whether it’s a painting of yourself, a small hand-made bracelet, a new coffee mug or a whole expensive set of lingerie, Hyunjin always makes sure to get to your apartment with his hands full.

“I love it,” you reassure him, your fingertips tracing the lace of the underwear. “I’m going to try it on for you”.

He smiles widely, his eyes turning into crescent moons when his muse promises such a thing —he’ll get to see it on you, on your naked skin that always tempts him into touching it.

You come back faster than he expected you, only wearing the set of lingerie and nothing more.

“Oh,” it’s all he manages to say, his body freezing in its place.

“It looks good, hm?”

Hyunjin makes a mental note to go back to that place and buy all sets of lingerie available just to gift them to you, as soon as possible.

“You’re a fucking goddess”.

His compliment gets you shy, but you still walk towards him as he is sitting on the edge of your bed. Right next to him you spot some of his arts supplies –a sketch notebook and some other utensils.

“You want to draw me?” you ask him with a smile and the warmest tone of voice. Like pure honey and sugar.

“I wanted to,” Hyunjin murmured, looking up to you, “but I’ve changed my mind”.

“Why so?”

The position you two are at is perfect for Hyunjin to embrace your body –you’re standing right in front of him, between his spread legs. His mouth is at the level of your torso, and his hands can explore your whole body easily.

“I just want to admire you,” he sighed, leaving a single, quick kiss on your tummy. “Kiss you and touch you, remind myself that you’re all mine”.

You giggle softly while latching his fingers to his hair, something that earns you a subtle moan from him.

“You know I’m yours,” you sigh when his mouth and tongue becomes bold, licking and nibbling at your flesh while his hands caress the sides of your body, “don’t need to remind yourself something you already know”.

“Sometimes I can’t believe it,” Hyunjin whispers, grazing his plump lips against the lace fabric of your underwear, “that you belong to me”.

You arch your back slightly when his tongue licks a trail from your pubis towards your chest, the trace of his saliva looking better than any texture or color Hyunjin could paint, ever.

“I do,” every time it gets harder to hold your sighs and moans, his skilled mouth making you feel impatient for his touch, even when he is all over you. “I belong to you. I’ve been yours ever since the day I met you”.

He inhales deeply the scent of your skin, the way the tip of his nose brushes against you sending shivers down your spine.

“Let me mark you,” Hyunjin whispers, doe eyes staring up, right at you. “Don’t need that sketchbook when I have your body like this”.

He guides his lips to the side of your hips, nibbling at the skin and sucking somewhat harshly, only stopping to soothe the skin with soft kisses and kitten licks.

“You’re going to cover me all in love bites?”

“If you allow me to,” Hyunjin smiles, admiring the print of his teeth against your skin. “I want everyone to know you’re all mine, in every way possible”.

He guides his hands from your ass to your lower back as he stands up, pressing his body against yours.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper, hooking your arms against his neck. Your touch makes him shiver, but he conceals it well. “Please?”

You don’t have to tell him twice before he is already laying with you on his bed, taking his clothes off on the way.

“Can you leave this on?” he asks you when you’re about to unhook the top part of the underwear. The idea of getting to fuck you in something he gifted you is riling him up, so he prays for you to agree. “Want to come all over it, so everytime you wear it you can remember me”.

You just smile and nod, impatient to feel him deep inside you.

“You’re so warm,” Hyunjin hisses when his fingers push the lace underwear to the side, revealing how ruined they already are. “So fucking slippery”.

“I’m always like this when I’m with you,” you admit, “especially when you have your hands all over me. It drives me insane”.

You’re both more than ready for each other, as usual. It’s a magical thing, how it only takes you a few words, touches and gazes to receive each other’s body.

“Relax for me,” he whispers when the tip of his cock stretches your entrance, “like that”.

He holds your hand and you squeeze it hard as he enters you, sinking it into the mattress right next to your head.

“Shit,” a gasp escapes your lips when he bottoms out. And, slowly, he pulls away only to repeat the same movements of his hips against yours, “so- good”.

Hyunjin leans down to kiss your forehead, and then your cheek. He then finds your lips, and synchronizes the brushes of his tongue with the thrusts of his hips.

“Faster,” you plea when he releases your lips to let out a quiet whimper, pressing his forehead against yours while his body moves on their own. “Fuck me faster, Hyunjin”.

And so he does. All to satisfy you.

Every time he bottoms out, his pubis brushes against your clit and gives you the much needed stimulation to reach your climax, so you’re getting closer every time he slams himself inside you.

Hyunjin notices it, by the way your walls clench around him, so he continues steady with his movements. He hasn’t let go of your hand and he doesn’t plan to –he loves feeling you squeeze it, telling him with your touch what you can’t put into words.

“Hyune-”

“I know,” he groans quietly with shortness of breath, “let yourself go, I’m right here”.

Your orgasm hits you right when your gazes meet, and Hyunjin can feel it from how wet and slippery you’ve become, and how hard it is to maintain a steady pace when your hips are practically begging for his release.

“Come on,” he encourages you, not wanting to pull out before fucking you through your high, “give it to me”.

You arch your back and let go of his hand to hook both of your arms around his neck, violently trembling against his body while trying to get away from the stimulation he is providing you with.

But only after you’re done he does so, with a swift movement he pulls away from you and strokes his cock two or three times before coming all over your body, the set of lingerie getting paint with his orgasm.

And as he jerks of the remain of his high on top of you, Hyunjin realizes no painting he has ever gifted you has done you any justice.

#stray kids smut #skz smut #kpop smut #bangchan smut #minho smut #hyunjin smut #changbin smut

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vivwritesfics · 1 month

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Fire Is The Devils Only Friend

Chapter Five

There was no such thing as making it on your own with a high profile boyfriend. That was why she kept her relationship a secret. But then after a PR fuck up, her boyfriend is forced into PR relationship and she's left on the side lines, missing him

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Carlos didn't tell her that he had bought her book. He didn't mention it when he kissed her goodbye, leaving her with Piñón. But it was in his bag as he headed to the Grand Prix.

With Rebecca Donaldson at the Grand Prix, there was very little Carlos could do to show her that he loved her. But any spare moment he got, he was reading her book. In his drivers room, in the back of the garage when he wasn't needed, he had her book open.

Fans noticed immediately. They first noticed that he was reading. But then they took notice of what he was reading. At first it was no big deal. She'd been in the garage a couple of months ago, so it wasn't the most outlandish thing in the world.

But then one fan pointed out that the book had only been released in English. He was reading the book in English!

The theories from the fans started. Well, were they theories if they were correct? The ferrari media team watched if all unfold. They knew they had to get on top of it and quick.

So, while she was sending her mother a picture of Piñón with his head on her lap, a picture was circulating instagram. She hadn't touched instagram since the day she found out about Carlos and Rebecca, and she didn't touch it this time.

A screenshot from Carlos's account, his latest post, in fact, was he and Rebecca Donaldson, hand in hand as he kissed her head, popped up below the picture she had sent her mother. 'Is this him?' Her mother had typed beneath the picture.

"Fuck," she choked, turning the phone off and throwing it to the side. Piñón went to chase after the phone, but she held onto his collar, crying against his fur.

She thought she was okay with it, but she wasn't. She hadn't been prepared for the onslaught of emotions that came with seeing that picture.

"He kisses my head like that," she said to Piñón. "I don't think we have any pictures like that together."

Of course, she didn't know the context, didn't know why that picture had been posted. She didn't know it was because Carlos had been caught reading her book, and that fans were beginning to get suspicious.

She wiped her tears and grabbed Piñón's lead. Taking nothing but a set of keys, she left their house and took Piñón for a walk.

It was therapeutic, taking Piñón on his walk. He led the way, taking her on the trail he usually walked with Carlos. The three of them had never gone together. It was usually Carlos. Normally, when she took Piñón, she was careful, avoiding main roads and potential pictures being taken.

But, today, she couldn't find it in herself to care.

"Is it my fault?" She asked Piñón as she sat on a bench. "I mean, if I hadn't been so against us being public in the first place would this have happened?"

Of course, Piñón didn't answer. He couldn't answer. He was a dog.

She thought she could do this. She certainly loved Carlos enough to try. But this, seeing another beautiful woman doing all of the things she wished she could do with him, was too much.

And even if Carlos publicly broke things off with Rebecca for her, he'd always be seen as a cheater and she'd always be seen as the other woman. It could ruin her life.

Well no, that was exaggeration. But she didn't see it that way, she wasn't going to see that way, not for a while. At the moment, Piñón was the only thing keeping her there.

Carlos was on the podium. It was a win, actually. She watched on the television as he stayed ahead of the rest of the grid. He was showing Ferrari exactly what they would miss if they dropped him. It gave her a little slither of hope.

But that hope soon dissipated. She wore a small smile as Carlos climbed out of the car. He ran over to celebrate with his team, and then his father. The father that didn't know she existed.

Behind his father, she was there. Carlos hugged her as she stepped towards the barrier. Hugging wasn't so bad; they couldn't be seen ignoring each other, after all.

But then Rebecca's hands were on his face and she pulled him in for a kiss. The camera zoomed in on them as Carlos shut his eyes, melting into her.

Fuck, she couldn't do this.

For the second time in two weeks, she packed up her things and placed them in her car. Tears rolled down her sheets as she turned the few frames full of pictures of her and Carlos around so that they were facing the wall.

Last, she grabbed Piñón's bed. He wasn't her dog, and she had no intention of keeping him from Carlos, but she was going to take him with her, keep him well looked after while Carlos was away.

And then, when Carlos came to pick him up, she'd break up with him.

Piñón sat in the back of the car as she drove to her mother's house. "Oh, buddy," she whispered. As they drove. He slept on the drive, unaware that anything was wrong. She couldn't help but be envious of him, of how unaware he was of what was going on.

Her mother opened the door as soon as she saw her car coming up the drive. "You couldn't do it, could you?" She called, watching her climb out of the car.

She scowled as she grabbed Piñón. When she saw him, her mother gasped and let out a laugh. "You kidnapped his dog? That's hilarious," she said taking the dogs lead from her daughter.

Her daughter, who said nothing as she got her things from the car. Her mother could never understand this, could never understand what she was going through.

"I saw them doing all of the things that I wanted to do with him," she said quietly as she walked into the house and unclipped Piñón's lead. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't watch it, I couldn't watch him pretend to be with her while I sat at home, looking after his dog."

She scratched Piñón's ears. Piñón, who, at that moment, she'd miss most of all.

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woso-dreamzzz · 4 months

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Champions League

Hardersson x Child!Reader

Alexia Putellas x Hardersson!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: The second time you meet Alexia

The only fun thing about the Champions League this year is that, with Not-Wolfsburg in the final, you get to go back to Sweden.

You love going back to Sweden because it means Morsa doesn't force you to speak English all the time. It also means that you get to have your favourite foods practically on demand at the hotel and it doesn't take ages to get like when Morsa makes them at home.

"Why aren't you playing?" You ask Zećira as you all file out to sit on the bench.

She shrugs. "I think Emma has a plan."

"Momma says Barcelona is very good," You say," But they're in pink."

Zećira chuckles. "Does wearing pink mean that they can't play well?"

You shrug. "I dunno." You think for a moment. "Are the Barcelona girls cool?"

Zećira laughs again as she taps you on the nose. "Don't go turncoat on us," She says," You're a Chelsea supporter, aren't you?"

As you're talking, a deflection from Melanie tumbles into the goal and even you recognise the wince that all of the Not-Wolfsburg girls give. You've got a bad feeling that this won't go the way Momma and Morsa want it to go.

Your interest in the match dims after that until a penalty is given away. Like always when there's a penalty, you perk up and move to stand on Zećira's lap so you can see properly.

Jonna makes sure you don't wobble off and you watch with eagle eyes as Ann-Katrin goes the wrong way and the Barcelona eleven slots it home.

It's fairly impressive to watch and you're filled with that same bouncy energy you always get when you're allowed to watch penalties. It annoys Morsa and Momma, you think, the way that you're most animated watching people take penalties.

At Not-Wolfsburg, that's always when you come to take part in training. Not to shoot your own penalties, of course, but to help save the ones shot at Zećira.

Momma and Sam get some pretty good chances to shoot but it's either not on target or deflected by Barcelona's keeper.

Barcelona get another two goals in the first half and, in your heart, you know that Not-Wolfsburg has already lost so you don't even bother listening to the way the girls on the bench are trying to encourage each other to not give up hope.

But, they all seem to shut up and let everything sink in when Morsa comes beelining towards you when the halftime whistle rings. You're sitting right by the tunnel that all the players are going down.

You get up, ready to take Morsa's hand but she just falls to her knees in front of you and pulls you into the tightest hug of your life. You hug her back, feeling a little bad that the game is going this bad.

A few of the Barcelona girls do a double take as they walk past to their changing room. You're not sure why. Maybe it's because you're so little and Morsa's hugging you so tight.

Momma comes and kneels in front of you too, stroking her hand over her face and pressing her lips to your hair. She murmurs something in Danish that you can't quite hear but it makes Morsa sigh softly before releasing you.

"Sorry," You say to them both," That Not-Wolfsburg is losing."

"It's not your fault," Momma says," Come on. Let's get you nice and fed."

Coach Emma makes you leave the changing room after you've eaten. You know that means she's going to yell. She always makes you leave when she's going to yell, ever since the first time when your English was not so good and it scared you so much that you cried.

So, with your special drink and a packet of Ahlgrens Bilar, you sit outside and press your ear to the wall to try and hear what Coach Emma is saying.

The walls are thick though so you can't hear anything.

You kind of wish that you had gotten your girl-swan out of your bag because you're a little bored without it and you just have to kind of wiggle your legs on the floor to amuse yourself.

Coach Emma's still yelling and you huff and look down the corridor to the big room before the tunnel where a blur of pink is moving out to the pitch.

They're talking in Spanish like when you went to Barcelona last year with Momma and Morsa. You still don't know Spanish so you don't pay them much attention until the sounds of cleats get closer to you and you look up.

A few of the Barcelona girls have approached you, shifting on their feet like they're not too sure what to say.

You don't offer up any explanations to them. You just move to sit cross-legged in front of them and munch on your marshmallow cars. You look down at your packet briefly and then back at the girls, smiling and offering the packet up to them.

It gets smiles from them and a few even take some of your cars. The girl from the beach last year, the one with the dog who is also somehow Barcelona's eleven, crouches in front of you. This time, she doesn't try to speak Spanish at you.

"Your mamas are in there?" She asks, indicating towards the closed door of the Not-Wolfsburg changing room.

You nod.

She nods too. "And you will sit here and not wander, yes? So your mamas know where you are?"

You nod again.

She thinks for a moment. "Can I wait with you? To make sure that your mamas get you properly?"

You shrug. Coach Emma is taking longer than usual to yell at them. "Okay." You move to sit back against the wall again and take a long drink of your special drink. You don't know what it is (Momma never tells you) but it's nice and it's like being cradled up in her arms in Denmark in Momma's momma's house.

The other girls in pink head out to the pitch after beach girl tells them something in Spanish.

"You're going to win," You say simply.

It's clear that she doesn't expect you to say that because she looks at you all weird.

"Momma and Morsa are gonna be sad," You continue, squishing one of your sweets between your fingers," But that's okay 'cause Zećira says that she'll let me play in goal with her no matter what."

"You like playing in goal?"

"Uh-huh. Zećira's teachin' me. She's the best."

"Really?"

"I'm gonna be better though and I'm gonna get Momma and Morsa the Champions League medals they want."

"Princesse."

You look up to see Morsa in the doorway, her hand out waiting for you. Momma's behind her, with a much more friendly face as you approach.

"Putellas," Morsa says," What are you doing here?"

"Just keeping her company," Barcelona's eleven says," I'll...I'll go now." She heads off down the corridor and turns back to wave at you once before disappearing back through the tunnel.

"Momma?" You ask," Why's Morsa angry?"

"Morsa's just having some big feelings," Momma assures you as she walks you out and sets you up in your seat with more snacks, your baby blanket and your girl-swan," And no matter what happens, she's going to need our help with those big feelings later, okay?"

"Cuddles at bedtime?" You ask.

"Cuddles at bedtime," Momma confirms, pressing a kiss to your head before heading off to the rest of the team.

You look nervously at Zećira, leaning against her as she wraps part of her coat around you. "We're going to lose," You whisper," Morsa's going to be so sad."

It goes exactly as you expect and you feel a little wobble in your chest when the whistle goes and you see Morsa look up at the sky like she's trying not to cry.

Zećira helps you down from your seat and you sprint across the field to crash into Morsa.

She's definitely crying now and she drops to her knees and presses her chin onto the top of your head. She keeps repeating the same words to you over and over again. "I'm sorry, princesse. I'm so sorry, princesse."

You can feel her tears drip into your hair and you make sure to squeeze all of your love into the hug. "It's okay, Morsa," You say," I'll get you a gold when I'm older. I'll get Momma a gold too." You look at Momma over Morsa's shoulder. "I promise."

Momma joins the hug too as Morsa cries into your hair. "It's okay, Magda," She says," It's okay."

You stay glued to Morsa's side as Coach Emma brings everyone in for the huddle talk. Morsa's still crying slightly and you offer her your baby blanket for comfort, which she swings around her shoulders and holds like it's a lifeline.

"Momma," You whisper, tugging at her arms as you look nervously at Morsa," Momma, can we go now? Morsa needs cuddles."

"We've got to get our medals first," Momma says," Just a bit longer."

"No! Morsa needs cuddles now!"

"I know," Momma says," Just a little bit longer and we can all go back to the hotel and have lots of cuddles."

You relent briefly though it's not long before you've attached yourself to Morsa and she even carries you up onto the stage to get her medal, which immediately gets put around your neck.

"Is Morsa going to be okay?" You ask Zećira as she pulls you away to go play in goal as the Barcelona girls start getting their medals.

"Your Morsa's going to be just fine," Zećira promises you," She just needs some comfort from your Momma right now so we're going to set up here for a bit."

You look back at Morsa and Momma and then nod at Zećira. "Okay."

Even though she didn't play today, she still brought her gloves and helps you put them on.

"Okay," She says," Now, what's the most important thing when being a keeper?"

"Doesn't matter if it goes in, as long as I try," You reply.

"Good."

She takes little shots at the goal for you to save and then chips one over your head when she notices you're distracted looking at Morsa again.

Both of you completely miss the approaching figure until she stops in front of you.

"Hello again," Putellas says.

"Hi."

Zećira takes a step forward, almost protectively but Putellas doesn't seem to care, kneeling down so she can be your height and peering past Zećira's leg to properly look at you.

She's in a different shirt on now but she's still got the pink one in her hands too. Her medal is around her neck like Morsa's is around yours. She's smiling at you too, holding out the hand with the shirt to you.

You step past Zećira and cautiously reach for it. You hold it in your hand before tugging it over your head. You smile back at her.

"Can I play?"

You look at Zećira, who shrugs.

"Your choice."

You look back at Putellas. "Okay."

She kicks the ball gently at you a few times and smiles every time you make a save. Zećira stays nearby, sometimes approaching to give you little tips or to tie your hair back and adjust your gloves.

Morsa and Momma finally come over a long while later. Morsa's finally stopped crying but you don't even try to save Putellas' shot as you approach Morsa to make sure she's okay.

"Better now that I've got you," She says when you ask, heaving you up onto her hip as Momma presses ticklish kisses to your face.

Putellas stands there awkwardly, now completely outnumbered by Chelsea girls.

But Morsa smiles at her, tugging down at your new jersey. "We don't have a wall here, princesse. Why don't you go and stand next to Alexia and we can take your picture?"

You wiggle down and crowd into Alexia's space. She crouches down to your height as Momma takes out her phone. Her hand goes to rest on your shoulder as you beam up at the camera.

"That's being framed," Morsa says.

(It does get framed and put on your bedside table where it's joined over the years with pictures of you with other footballers)

Alexia awkwardly clears her throat. "Can-Can I have a copy?" She asks, almost shyly," I think it would be nice to have one to remember her by when she's the best keeper in the world."

Momma laughs in delight and nods," Put in your number. I'll send it to you."

"Best keeper in the world," Zećira says wistfully as she helps you pull off her gloves," You're going to have to keep training hard."

"She will," Morsa says," She's going to get enough medals to give out to a whole team."

#woso x reader #hardersson x reader #pernille harder x reader #pernille harder #magdalena eriksson x reader #magdalena eriksson #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso #The Big Adventures Universe

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fredwkong · 10 months

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Genie: Marcus’s Wishes

Click here to see the genie’s first master.

Marcus wasn’t your average jockboy. In school, he had been the class queer, marked for bullying because of his femme interests and gay voice. Worse, because he was one of the only Black kids. At university, he’d caught the iron bug and gotten huge, but kept the femininity, too. Nowadays, even with his powerful bod and handsome face, he still got dirty looks for his paisley shirts, peppy attitude, and swishy walk.

It was somewhere around 3 AM, and Marcus was feeling well and truly used. He hadn’t been topped like Mr. Peters had topped him in… he didn’t know how long. The Daddy dom’s husband, Lars, had told Marcus that the couple never double dipped on a guy, which sucked, but Marcus had more than enough wank material from this night alone to get him through.

Lars, still naked, followed the half-dressed Marcus to the living room. Mr. Peters was lounging on the balcony upstairs, smoking. Lars was giving Marcus the instructions for getting to the main street in his thick German accent. The other boys had left a few hours ago to catch the last busses home.

Something caught Marcus’s eye in the dimly lit room. A glint of light off of brass, an old, traditional lamp sitting next to Mr. Peters’ humidor. “What’s that?” Marcus asked.

Lars looked at the lamp like he’d never seen it before. “Some object of Daddy’s,” he grunted. “You like it?”

“It’s beautiful.” Marcus was living in his own place for the first time, and he was starting to decorate. He drifted over and lifted up the lamp. He could base a whole room off of its aesthetics.

“Take it.” Lars waved away Marcus’s half-made protestation. “If Daddy thought it was important he would tell me,” said the German model. “It clashes with our decor.” He moved closer, and growled in Marcus’s ear, “You deserve a present for being such a good slut.”

An hour later, Marcus crashed into bed, not bothering to undress or unpack his bag, leaving the lamp in his gym duffel.

The next morning, he woke up late and made a protein shake for breakfast. As he chugged it, he pulled the lamp out of his bag. Held it up against different spaces in his apartment. It would clash with the Britney poster in the bedroom. Ditto for the Barbie display in his office. He settled on the entryway. He could get a pedestal for it and make an Arabian nook or something.

There was some kind of stain on the side of the lamp. Grabbing a hanky, Marcus started to rub it, but was interrupted as the lamp slid from his grasp and released a cloud of rainbow smoke. When it cleared, a burly Arabian man in a thong and a slutty stringer tank stood in Marcus’s apartment.

“Hey cutie,” said the genie. “Make me some wishes and I’ll get you hot.”

Marcus’s eyes caught on the genie’s ample bulge, and then he processed what he was being offered. In the second before he made his first wish, all he could think was masculinity. There was a corner near his apartment where Hispanic men gathered to shoot the shit in their jeans and tank tops. Their manliness was effortless, totally unstudied, what Marcus had dreamed of being in his childhood.

“I wish I was more manly, like a Latino guy.”

“Got it,” said the genie, with a snap of his fingers. “One Latino meatlover, coming right up.”

Marcus found himself surrounded by a cloud of orange smoke. It smelled like sweat and spices, and Marcus found himself inhaling it deeply. The scent blazed a trail through his mind, and Marcus started to think in Spanish rather than English. His university education vanished, replaced by the foundation of his own landscaping company at 18, and all the hard, manual labour involved in maintaining and building yards for rich, lazy white people.

At the same time, the smoke pumped up Marcus’s big Black muscles further, and lightened them to a sun-kissed tan. His hair straightened and retracted partway into his scalp, leaving him with a simple, masculine haircut. His dick and balls expanded, and the extra testosterone threw his already ripe armpits into overdrive, filling the room with the smell of his sweat. Finally, the last of the smoke thickened into threadbare white briefs, tight jeans, and a tighter tank top, an outfit fit for the masc Latino guy Marcus was becoming.

The genie snapped his fingers once again, and Marcus’s apartment became Marco’s house, a one storey bachelor pad full of thrifted furniture, hand-me-downs, and Marco’s curated selection of Tom of Finland prints hung on the walls.

Marco looked around with satisfaction, his big, callused hands on his hips. “Buen, cabron,” he told the genie in his deep, firm voice. “I need to go work now.”

“See you tomorrow, hermoso,” said the genie, vanishing back into the lamp that sat on Marco’s living room dildo shelf.

During the day, Marco drove his pickup truck to the office, maintained the lawns for some clients, and handled everything it took to run his own business. He hadn’t done great at school—too busy working so his mami could rest—but once he’d founded the business he’d discovered a knack for accounting, so he sat in his air conditioned office to do paperwork while his college boy employees worked through the heat of the afternoon.

Well, he finished the work in an hour and spent another two sniffing his spicy pits while he tugged his thick cock.

After work, Marco drove home, checked his immaculate front and back yards for anything that needed maintenance, and fired up the barbecue. He didn’t realise he had cooked for four until he sat down at the table with a mountain of meat and no one to feed.

The next morning, Marco summoned the genie bright and early with his second wish. “I wish I had some amigos to share the evenings with.”

“Aww, you could have just asked,” the genie cooed, and blew Marco a kiss as he vanished, sending a heart-shaped orange smoke ring to hit Marco in the face with the scent of musk and spice. When nothing seemed to change, Marco shrugged and loaded up his truck for work.

At the first client’s house, Marco dealt with the usual white housewife cooing over his big muscles and blue-collar masculinity with a roll of his eyes. But then the woman’s son, a lean twunk home for the summer, stumbled down the stairs for coffee. He glanced at Marco, who was setting up the lawnmower, and saw a flash of orange light as his nostrils filled with the scent of the Latino’s musk, and his mouth with the flavour of unwashed Latin cock.

As Marco packed his truck back up, the twunk stepped shyly up next to him. At first, he asked the usual questions about Marco’s gym routine, but then Marco raised his arms, showing his hairy pits and releasing a cloud of fresh, sweaty musk, and the white boy seemed to swallow his tongue. He handed Marco a paper with his number on it and fled.

It was the same with every client that day. At some point while he worked at each house, a cute young white boy would walk up and hand Marco his number. Some were little femme twinks, others buff jocks, and a couple were cute hairy cubs. All were shy, pretty, and lived in the rich neighbourhoods Marco worked in. While he was in the office that afternoon, Marco was so busy talking to all his new boys that he fell behind on the accounting.

That evening, Marco’s house was full of the voices of hot young guys. They filled the dining table, the couches, and the patio Marco had built with his own hands. Marco barbecued to his heart’s content and wandered among the boys with his own plate. As he greeted each new boy, Marco instinctively pulled them in for a firm kiss and grope, then said “Hola, mi chiquita.”

As the night went on, the boys got rowdier and hornier. The rich, potent smell of Marco’s musk and the genie’s magic filled the rapidly heating space, and Marco found himself on his bed in a happy pile of rich white boys desperate to sniff and lick him all over. Just at the stroke of midnight, the genie heard Marco, facefucking a little twink while some jocks and cubs worshipped him, mutter, “I wish I could see myself fuck this little gringo.”

A blast of magic suffused every corner of the house with musky orange smoke. When it cleared, Marco’s bed was surrounded by film cameras, taking different angles as he shoved his thick Latin dick into the white twink’s throat. In the spare room, two of the nerdier boys sat naked at monitors and called shots for the stream. Each room had a camera setup, including a hidden corner on the patio and a secluded bower in the garden.

Once he was done with the twink and a sweaty musk worship session with a couple of jock boys, Marco got dressed for bed in a pair of stained white briefs and turned to camera one. “That’s all for tonight, gringos,” he told his viewers in an playfully thick Spanish accent. “Come back tomorrow once I’m done working hard on your lawns.” He fondled his pouch, and the stream cut.

As Marco stood by the door, kissing his boys goodbye, one young lad caught sight of a weird lamp sitting next to Papi Marco’s dildo collection.

Idea with inspiration from a chatbot of my own creation.

Click here to see the genie’s next master.

Click here to see all the genie’s adventures.

#genie #wish #reality change #male transformation #daddification #blue collar tf #latino tf #muscle tf #musk tf #dumber tf #race change #genie of the lamp #male tf #all fwkong

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goldsainz · 1 year

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THEY BROKE UP? — one shot.

pairing: daniel ricciardo x reader

MASTERLIST.

NOTE: i’m a sucker for angst😁 i don’t know why i felt so inspired, i have never been in a relationship. or what drove me to write that article, which i didn’t spend as much time on as you would think, i guess i was inspired. please enjoy this, happy danny ric grand prix (not anymore😐)!!! this is my longest social media piece to date (templates by @mybodywakesup)

liked by tchalamet, jennaortega and 2,047,159 others

yourusername my EP “FWD” is out in all streaming platforms! this EP comes from a very deep, personal and heartfelt place. many nights of non-stop writing led to me putting out 4 songs i never would’ve released months ago. thank you for giving me time to come back as the best version of myself.

view all 30,707 comments

selenagomez I am so happy you released this! The world needs to see all of your talent shine ❤️

⤷ yourusername thank you for being there sel 🫶

ynfan1 I WAS NOT PREPARED FOR HOW HEARTBREAKING THIS WOULD BE

ynfan2 oh so we’re back to making us cry

dannielfan1 things i wish you said is so about daniel

user1 after 9 months of no content she just puts out four songs?

⤷ ynfan3 please read her newest vogue article before commenting things like this

alexademie i’m in love with you?

⤷ yourusername i’m in love with you too?

ynfan3 LONESOME BEST SONG!!!!!

When I got the call that Y/N Y/L/N wanted to do the article with Vogue, and that I was appointed as the writer I remember thinking ‘What will I say?’. There isn’t much to prepare you when a celebrity like her decides she wants you in her home, opening up about her hardships with you there to listen and write it all down. But, alas, I put my nerves beside me and took all of the questions the world wanted answers to, to the only woman who could answer them.

Her house in the English countryside is just as perfect as you would expect. With dark mahogany floors, potted plants everywhere and white walls that are filled with different memories she framed, Y/L/N’s home is made for those who love the feeling of being at home. It brims with a cosy feeling, from the rugs she picked which bring an unexpected, yet welcome, warmth, to the open space that shows off her beautiful backyard. Y/L/N’s house is nothing short of exceptional. If each room were to speak to me they would all rave about how comfortable they feel, how there is no other that feel like a ‘home’ quite like theirs.

The moment I arrived at her front door, she was the one to open the door and greet me with a hug. There was no one but us at her house, nothing but the comfortable silence and the occasional chirping of a bird. Her outfit was casual, with some Stella McCartney jeans, a Prada silk blouse which she wears with the top 3 buttons open, and a pair of Hermes sandals, it all made her look relaxed whilst still looking polished. She offered me a single-couch to sit down on, offering me different options of beverages she proudly concocted. I opted for a refreshing blueberry lemonade, while she had an already drunk, half-full glass of orange juice.

After what seemed like forever without her presence on red carpets, premieres or her famous F1 paddock appearances, Y/N Y/L/N created an enjoyable life for herself. She admits that even though there have been many hardships, she has pushed through them as best as she can. “Sometimes you just have to take a break, take a moment to look around and wonder what you really need.” She expresses, “This life isn't for everyone. I am very happy with how things turned out for me, and there is not one day I regret what I’ve done. But, there are moments in which things get out of control and space is needed.”

On the outside, Y/L/N has always appeared to the masses as someone who never falters in her step. From her modelling debut when she was freshly 18 years old, turning herself into the face of Prada back in 2012 when the whole world wondered ‘Just who is this girl?’. It wasn't long before she delved into the acting world, with her first role in 2014 for the critically acclaimed film ‘The Grand Budapest Hotel’ as ‘Agatha’. Everyone loved her, wondering what her next move would be, so the whole world was shaken when just a year later she released an album. ‘Honeymoon’ took the world by a storm, with emotional lyrics that only added to the mystery of who she was, Pitchfork said “It's an album about love, but "love", as Y/L/N sings it, sounds like mourning. The romance here is closer to addiction—something that's sought for its ability to blot out the rest of life's miseries…”. Nobody knows who drove her to write this, but the speculations never stopped, not to this day. On the inside, however, she struggled to know who she really was.

She talks about not having the right skills to cope with the sudden fame, how overwhelming it all would really be. Still, she never stopped putting out new content for her fans. Nobody could forget the girl who despite all the luxury that surrounded her, uploaded vlogs to youtube about her life. No one could take away her raw authenticity.

Maybe that is why when in May of 2022 her posts on Instagram, Twitter and Youtube came to a sudden halt, fans wondered what happened to her. What made Y/N Y/L/N drop from the face of the earth? Why did she stop appearing everywhere?

The talk never ceased, the world could not let go of the woman they had grown up with and learned to love over a decade ago. “It was weird seeing all those rumours while I battled to know who I was. I tried as hard as I could to drown it all out, so I uninstalled every single social media app I had. I ended my connection with the world to reconnect with myself.” She says. “It was hard, but it was truly what I had wanted for a while.”

Since she appeared in the spotlight, her relationships or lack of, has been questioned. “I watched my female peers struggle to get away from their love lives, how every interviewer didn't care for the projects they were in, but rather who they were with at the time.” She recalls. “I was in a relationship with who I thought was the love of my life, for almost 7 years. It is rather jarring coming to terms that sometimes people grow, and that you are the one that needs out of a relationship which is nothing short of special. My concept of love was tarnished by a guy who was older than me, and another guy who was just as immature as I was. So naturally, I was swept off my feet when suddenly, all I ever knew wasn't how I thought it was.”

Even now, after the heartbreaking experience she went through, Y/L/N only has kind words to say about the man she loved. “He is a true gentleman, he knew me like no one else did. I guess, along the way, I stopped knowing myself. That was the problem.” She says. “How can someone else know me when I don't even know myself? I asked myself that a lot. I like to think I know myself better now, I learned how to love every part of me, and that was the most rewarding journey. It wasn’t his fault, but I couldn't love someone else without loving me first.”

Self Love is a very important part of her life now. She puts her well-being over her need to succeed, something that made her iconic, was destroying her slowly. “Being an ‘icon’ to many stuck me in a box. There was an underlying feeling of having to always outperform others and myself, it was exhausting and that was how I started losing sight of myself.”

When talking about her future projects, Y/L/N expressed that she was “taking her time”. No more would she be walked over and feel pressured to put out new content, opting for a more relaxed and controlled lifestyle. Though she once was everywhere everyday, she now hopes to be mentioned when she does something valuable and not when she is merely existing.

“I do have an EP coming out. It is just four songs, but I wrote them alone, and they are my most special songs to date.” She says. “One thing I do not want happening is for people I care for to be harassed or accused of things they are not responsible for. Music is a creative outlet for me, it is never made with the intention to hurt anyone.” She adds. “‘things i wish you said’ is my favourite. It’s the first one I wrote after my breakup, which makes it the rawest out of all of them. I think that's why I like it so much, the other three were written in different periods of my life, some even years ago. It will be fun seeing everyone dissect them.”

She decided to keep the EP to just four songs because all the others were too personal or she decided to keep them for another time. “I’m sure the world would love to know all the nooks and crannies of my past relationship, but that is something I would like to keep between him and me. I am ready to move on from all the pain, to leave it all in the past. If people want to remain stuck there, that is their own choice, I choose to be free and continue growing.”

Y/L/N’s journey is far from finished. She has not even turned 30 yet, but she redirects her narrative because it just does not fit her anymore. She is not that young 18 year-old girl who knows nothing, but rather a 28 year-old woman “ready to move on” as she puts it.

At that point in our conversation, her previously relaxed demeanour has only grown. With her legs tucked on the black leather couch she has in her wide living room, an arm resting on a deep magenta pillow, she is in her own space. Y/L/N smiles and pays attention to every question I ask, she has no qualms in sharing. Though she sometimes opted to give no comment about certain situations, not once did she feel offended or made me feel out of place.

As our conversation came to an end, she gave me one final piece of advice: “Only you can decide what's best for you. Once you learn how to manage other people’s opinions, there is nothing that can truly stop you from being uniquely you. Love yourself, you have one life, why live it in misery?”