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runa-falls · 5 months

Text

my turn

part 1 | part 2

pairing: marc spector x reader (a bit of steven grant x reader)

summary: marc has had enough of watching you take advantage of steven and not him...

cw: smut (18+), voyeurism, masturbation, rough sex, dirty talk, degrading words, pining omg so much pining, angst, creampie, fluff?, ft. steven

wc: 3.4k

a/n: long time coming (cumming) -- i just realized i barely have marc fics so hopefully this holds up to expectations!

masterlist

----

You know Marc. But you wouldn't necessarily say that you're friends. And even if you were, you're definitely not 'friendly' with him the way you are with Steven.

If you were to ask him though, it wasn't for the lack of trying.

Since you've met Steven, Marc has merely been a shadow behind him, stopping in to check on Steven's personal life every so often before disappearing again.

What you aren't aware of, though, is that the only time he trifles in Steven's life is when he gets to see you.

Usually, Marc is uninterested in the daily life of his other half.

Steven wakes up, catches (or misses) the bus, gets to work, grabs some food on the way home, then calls it a day. It's a bland routine that Marc set up specifically to make sure that Steven is safe and sane. So, of course, when there's a change, Marc starts to pay attention.

Suddenly, out of the blue, you're everywhere.

A smile in the background of Steven's phone, a sticky note on the fridge reminding him to get more blueberries, and the oversized sweater you leave on the armchair one day that Steven steals whenever you're away.

He has no idea how you came into the picture, how he's never noticed you, or how Steven of all people captured your attention.

All he knows is that Steven is fumbling. Hard.

Marc had no idea what the nature of your relationship was until he had a front row ticket to one of your friendly favors.

---

Steven isn't subtle about his feelings. Anytime he's exceptionally scared or excited, Marc is called forward by his subconscious mind just in case he's in danger.

Usually, Marc is forced to front when Steven is about to burn his flat down from his nth attempt at cooking, or when he nearly walks into a busy intersection because he has his nose stuck in a book. But he never expected this.

He knew you liked to baby Steven. Take care of him because he had no one else to turn to (except Gus of course), but he just assumed you were being friendly, a kind soul willing to take Steven under your wing.

Nothing could have prepared him for when he woke up to the sight of you on your knees in front of him. It's odd being in the back seat of his body while Steven is getting all of your attention. He can feel everything, from the way your soft lips brush so sweetly against his cock to the hot suction of your mouth, but there's something that's holding him back from taking what he wants.

He wants so badly to bury his hand in your hair and push you down onto him until you're making a mess of yourself, eyes welling with pretty tears and drool dripping down your chin. He needs to tell you what a good girl you're being for him, so desperate for his cock in your throat. He wants to pick you up and carry you over to the bed to show you just how beautiful you are.

He wants you to look up and know it's him.

But he can't. Because who knows when this development started.

You acted platonically just the other day, and now, you're begging for Steven to cum on your tits.

What are you to each other?

If interferes now and messes this up for Steven, you might leave their lives altogether. Damn, how have you lured him into your clutches without even talking to him?

For all he knows, it could be a one-off thing...

---

It's decidedly not a one-off thing.

Marc has barely had the chance to front since the first time you made a move on Steven. You're always coming over, whether it's a spontaneous movie night or an offer to cook Steven some dinner, you always find a way to slither your way back into his bed. Not that Steven minds.

But Marc does.

With each fumbling move that Steven makes, Marc gets pushed closer to the edge. He could do it so much better. Make it clear that you're wanted. Give you the pleasure you deserve.

He cringes inside with every wary arm that gets thrown over your shoulder during a movie (one of Steven's signature moves to get you to cuddle -- somehow it works, every time). With the messy, unpracticed kisses that Steven haphazardly presses against your sweet lips.

He physically holds himself back from taking control of the body whenever you fall asleep in Steven's arms. He wants to hold you, feel your body molded against his, even if you have no idea it's him.

It's painful watching the two of you walk circles around the truth.

"I'm always thinking about you." Just tell her that you like her, you idiot! What is there to be afraid of? She looks at you like you painted the stars and hung the moon!

At this point, he doesn't even know why he tries.

Whenever you're around, Steven has total tunnel vision. He practically follows you around like some lost puppy. He lets sweet words spill from his lips without even thinking first and you lap up any type of affection he'll give you.

It's a vicious cycle of obliviousness.

Steven is a lost cause. But he isn't.

He can't take it anymore. He can't take waking up with a lingering taste of you on his tongue, or seeing your lovesick smile directed at someone else. He can't take the way you treat him like a stranger, like someone to avoid.

He wants you. So he's going to show you.

---

It's been a long day.

Marc's been out, jumping on top of roofs and kicking ass, all while Steven's 'sweetheart' blows up his phone.

Marc narrows his eyes, shuffling through all the smiley faces and hearts that litter your messages (and the thumbs up messages from Steven).

This book made me think of you <3

A cute little picture of you holding a book next to your face stares back at him, painting his face in a soft glow as he stands in the darkness of the night. He wants to crush the device in his hand.

Call me when you get home safe :)

You know exactly where Marc is right now, and what his life consists of, but you always avoid talking about him directly. You're always just waiting for Steven to come home so he can sleepily tell you he's back in bed and give you the green light to come over and snuggle your face into his chest.

Marc likes to think that he makes measured decisions, but what he does next is completely out of character:

Come over.

---

He's a little impatient, sitting on his worn couch as he waits for you to show up. You said you'd be 20 minutes, but it's been 30 since he texted you.

Sory thought the cookies would be done earlier! I'm otw now!

Your hastily typed out text blinks up from the forgotten phone that lies next to him. He read the sheepish reply when you sent it, but didn't bother to text back because of course you baked cookies for Steven.

He's starting to regret tricking you over. All he can think about is the inevitable rejection he'll get once you realize he's not Steven.

Marc leans back against the collection of overstuffed pillows and (your) gifted squish-mallows that decorate the couch, not caring that he's taking up as much space as possible. Flashes of your time with Steven override his doubts, reminding him of the softness that only you can provide.

He doesn't even realize he's unbuttoning his pants until his hand slips himself out of his briefs. Fuck, he's already so hard just thinking about you.

He doesn't want to get himself too worked up so he attempts to take it slow, stroking and squeezing himself until he's teetering at the edge, pretending that it's your hand instead of his. He quickly gets lost in the feeling, floating in a euphoric dream of you and your touch. It isn't until he hears the door click open that he returns to reality.

You're here. The thought alone nearly makes him spill over himself.

"Steven!"

-- And he's good.

"I'm here--oof," He hears you run into a kitchen stool, "why is it so dark in here?"

He should shove himself back into his pants and greet you like a normal human being, but some sick thing inside of him wants you to see what you do to him.

You place a container of freshly baked cookies on the counter with a smile, satisfied with your work and excited to see him try one. You've been working on a new vegan snickerdoodle recipe just for him.

A sweet treat for your sweet treat. You nearly giggle at your thoughts.

You take a second to smooth down any wrinkles on your dress, desperate to look nice for him. Steven has no idea how obsessed with him you are. You want him all the time. You're constantly craving to coax out soft whines and stutters from your favorite boy.

You look around the dim flat.

Where the hell is he?

Usually you'd find him in front of his makeshift desk, sprawling through various books under a harsh lamp, but tonight his spot is empty.

A soft grunt guides you to the couch, your usual movie night spot. No way he's starting without you.

"Ah, there you are." You're slightly put out that he doesn't move to greet you, but maybe Marc's mission just took a particularly harsh toll on his body.

It's only when you're standing at the side of the couch that he meets your eyes. And you meet his...hard cock, desperately throbbing in his hand. What a sight. Your eyes nearly glaze over at the sight of his mussed hair and laid back positioning.

He just looks up at you, casually. He's been expecting you. He wants you to watch him. It makes it that much more delicious.

He doesn't shy back at your presence. If anything, he sits up to give you a better view. His hand moves methodically -- controlled, stroking himself from tip to base as his half-lidded eyes stare straight back at you.

His dark look and posture nearly make him unrecognizable. It's not just the clothes he's wearing, or the 5 o'clock shadow, but the way he furrows his eyebrows and grips himself so confidently, like he does it all the time.

You shake off the odd feeling settling in your stomach and move over to him with the practiced grace that usually makes him weak in the knees for you.

"Mm...Steven...you're quite needy right now, aren't you?"

He raises a dark eyebrow, briefly squeezing himself in his hand as he unabashedly takes in your figure, draped in a soft dress. He's not backing down like you're used to. At this point, he's supposed to be begging for you to touch him, not staring you down like you're a piece of meat.

"M'not Steven, sweetheart." His voice makes you freeze in front of him and all of the confidence you once held rushes out of your body.

"M-marc?"

A cynical smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"You remember me?"

You capture your bottom lip into your mouth, holding yourself back from crawling on top of him and skipping the conversation. The dark and intense version of your lover is serving himself up on a silver platter, and all you can do is watch.

"Why wouldn't I?" He shrugs.

You can tell he's enjoying this, watching you squirm uncomfortably as he teases himself right in front of you. He touches himself like it's an afterthought, something to simply accompany the sight of you.

"W-where's Steven? I was supposed to meet him here..."

"I'm the one who texted you."

You freeze, not knowing what to do.

He wants you here?

He wants you?

"You...?"

"Are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna be a good girl for me like you are with Steven?"

What would Steven think?

"I-I don't know..."

"C'mon, you're always dying to suck him off."

Your face flushes at his bluntness. Are you that obvious?

A hand comes up to hold you by the waist before you're pulled closer to him. He looks up at you, eye-level with your chest, looking as predatory as ever, despite his position under you.

"What's the difference, hm?" He slides a warm hand under the hem of your dress, gently caressing the bare skin of your outer thigh. "It's the same body on top of you. The same cock stretching you out..." You shiver when you feel his fingers tease the edge of your panties, the deep red lace you picked out specially for Steven. "...even the same cum filling you up."

You look down, mesmerized by the way his hand moves under the thin fabric of your dress. You watch his shrouded arm pull at the fabric until it barely brushes at your upper thigh as his hand slides up over the softness of your stomach and the dips of your ribs, before stopping at the curve of your breast.

"You want this."

It's not a question, it's a statement. And he's right.

He watches your eyes flutter close as he cups you in his hand. Despite the heat in his eyes, he handles you so softly. Like you're a porcelain doll in his hands. It's a familiar touch, but there's a hint of something more.

"Steven..." You breathe out. It's said out of habit. This feeling inside of you has only been associated with one person. It's always been him. But now, a whole other side of yourself is opening up.

You quickly realize your mistake when his grip tightens around your waist and on your breast, demanding your attention.

"No." His voice is low, "Not him."

"M-marc."

He hums and rewards you with a teasing flick of his thumb over your nipple. You're disappointed when his touch suddenly leaves you, but before you can complain, he begins to work his pants all the way off.

"Don't worry about him, sweetheart." He pulls you close enough that you nearly fall over him, causing you to straddle his lap and sit chest-to-chest. "Tonight's about us." The skirt of your dress falls around your thighs, shielding the way his length presses against your inner thigh.

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, flustered by the feeling of his hot body against yours, at the idea that this is really happening.

You breathe in once. Is that..?

And then, once again.

He smells like him.

"You good, baby?" He rubs over the tops of your thighs comfortingly while subtly shoving your skirt up to your waist.

"Mhm..." You hum against his skin, relishing in the feeling of his embrace. You experimentally push your hips against his, grinding your needy center against his. He groans at the contact and cants his hips upwards, forcing you to feel just how hard he is.

Your cunt pulses in desperation as he continues to rut against your clothed clit. You're nearly soaking through your underwear with how wet you are. And by the way he groans against you, he can tell.

An eager hand shoves between your bodies to shove your panties to the side. "Need to feel you." He drags a finger against you, spreading your slick until it runs down the palm of his hand. "Fuck. You're so ready for me."

"P-please." It's a hushed whisper against his shoulder, but he hears it loud and clear.

"Please, what?" He pushes you back, forcing you to look at him as he lines himself up. Heat pricks at the tops of your cheeks before you cast your eyes downwards.

Is he really going to make you say it?

"M-marc." You whimper as he brushes the tip of his cock through the seam of your cunt, covering himself with your lust. He mouths at your neck, ignoring your pleas by keeping himself busy sucking bites and bruises into your skin. "Please, fuck me, Marc."

He barely gives you a second before he's pushing in with a single fluid motion. The feeling is indescribable. How can he share a body with Steven, but make this feel so different?

"So big..." You gasp out, thighs trembling around his.

"Taking me so well, baby. Just let me in."

He pushes up until you're filled to the brim, drawing out a broken moan from your lips. The stretch is exquisite in this position. You feel like you've never felt anyone as deeply as he is right now.

As soon as he's sure you're comfortable, he starts moving, grinding up against you until you're looping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. You're mewls fill the room as his cock drags perfectly against your slick walls. You arch your back and start moving over him, desperate to feel him entirely.

He watches you bounce on his lap, timing his movements so his thrusts meet yours.

"Such a greedy slut aren't you?" His harsh words are punctuated with sharp thrusts, causing you to clench around him involuntarily. The sensation almost leaves him breathless, but he continues talking through gritted teeth. "You couldn't get enough from Steven, hm?"

His pants turn into rough grunts as he speeds up. He thrusting into you like he's taking revenge, like he's proving that he's the piece that's been missing from your life.

You shake your head, "Need b-both."

"Yeah, you do. Always so desperate to be filled by this cock." He holds you in place and begins to viciously thrust up into you.

"O-oh-!" He's hitting that spot inside of you that makes you see stars. You can't help the way your mouth gapes at the toe curling sensation.

Everything around you quickly fades away and all you can see, hear, and feel is him. You can't even articulate anything when pure ecstasy blooms in your core and permeates throughout your body.

You seize in his hold as he continues to roll his hips against yours, feeling boneless from the pleasure that hums through every nerve. He groans at the flutter of your walls around him, gripping him so tight in your warmth. He can barely get out a handful of thrusts before he's spilling inside of you.

You're a mess on top of him, soaking his lap in a mixture of the two of you. Your hair sticks to your face and neck, but it doesn't matter when you can still feel him pulsing inside of you.

Your eyes flutter open as a gentle hand caresses your jaw and guides you to lean in.

You meet vulnerable eyes framed by dark lashes.

He takes a breath, like he's bracing for the worst, but he doesn't have the chance to let it go before you're pressing your lips against his.

---

You sleep like a rock. It's almost like no time has passed. Why dream when you have everything you want right in front of you?

Or behind you, that is.

You can already tell it's Steven with the way he nuzzles himself against the back of your neck. "G'mornin', darling." He's adorable with his roughened groggy voice.

"Hi, baby." He curls up at the pet name and holds you closer, already flustered before he has fully woken up. You can tell it takes him a few moments to blink the sleep away because suddenly he's stiff against you (and not in a good way).

"W-what. What happened?"

You sigh, "Marc happened."

"Did he hurt you? Oh my god," He pushes away to get a better view, "was he mauling your neck?!"

"Steven, it's fine." You feel your face warm up at the thought of the night before. "I...kinda liked it."

Steven huffs to himself as his thumb lightly brushes over a particularly obvious bruise on your neck, "He's trying to steal my girlfriend."

You nearly choke on yourself, "G-girlfriend?"

"Yes...? I mean, you are, right? Unless," Steven's eyes widen, "I-uh, didn't mean to assume--"

"No, Steven. I-I'd love to be your girlfriend."

#marc spector smut #marc spector x reader #steven grant smut #steven grant x reader #marc spector #steven grant #moon knight

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hoodielord · 4 months

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Green eyes in the fear fog.

For half a second, Steph thought today would be a decent day. But no, not in Gotham.

Steph's current events professor, who was also the head of student affairs, had offered extra credit to help give college tours. Look, she had to take the extra credit she had to, even if it meant that she had to be a tour guide. It wasn't hard, just annoying.

The group was small, only five people, but two of them stuck out. A brother and sister. The brother was the definition of adoption bait blue eyes, black hair, vigilante tendencies withholding. The sister was at least as tall as Jason. She had orange hair just like Babs, you'd think they were related.

Anyways, Steph's new mission was to make sure the kid and Dick never met. The kid would not stop making puns. Some of them earned him a laugh but some earned him a smack from his sister.

"Aw, come on, Jazz, it was funny."

"You can do better." she shrugged.

" Sounds like a challenge." A wicked smirk appeared on his face.

" Danny, please don't."

"Challenge accepted."

Yep, I'm definitely keeping him away from Dick.

But something was off about them other than looking at the crime capital's university. They could probably be metahumans. Their eyes seemed to slightly glow blue. They carried themselves as they had already expected danger. I mean, it pays to be prepared, especially in Gotham, but they aren't from here.

If the siblings weren't already on a list B has they should be now. Jazz had been almost ecstatic when we were moving through the psychology department. Danny was practically bouncing off the walls when it was time to go through the engineering and physics departments. Definitely should keep an eye on them.

It was reaching the end of the tour in the cafeteria. Another weird thing about the siblings was their reaction to food. They seemed to have this sort of optimistic curiosity like they were happy to have food to eat, but at the same time, they were poking to make sure it wouldn't attack or something.

Talking with the siblings was interesting too. Danny was buzzing about the engineering department. He went into a great rant about a project that Wayne Enterprises was working on in the aerospace engineering division. Maybe she should keep him away from Tim, too.

The conversation died quickly when a shriek rang out from down the hall. Steph turned quickly to see green fear toxin fill the cafeteria. Swarms of people ran for the exits knocking each over. She quickly dug through her bag and pulled out her gas masks, one for her and her backup.

"Jazz? Jazz, where did you go?" Danny called. They must have gotten separated.

Damn, she needed another one for the siblings. She shoved her spare into Danny's hands.

" Put the mask on and head for the exit."

"But I need to find Jazz."

"I'll find her. Put the mask on and go." Steph yelled as she went further into the fog. Quickly, she sent an alert to Oracle. Signal is on patrol right now, but more bats might show up.

It was dense she could barely see in front of her. There was some noise up ahead. Someone was screaming. The yelling grew louder as she rounded the corner.

"Stop! Get away!"

It was Jazz. She was practically growling. Her fist slammed into the concrete wall, leaving a deep impact. She was clearly affected by the Fear gas. A meta affected with fear gas, not good.

"Stop! Don't hurt him. He's not a monster! He's my little brother!" Jazz had gone from fury to sadness as she practically begged for her hallucination to stop haunting her.

If it wasn’t the meta thing it was whatever she was hallucinating that caught Steph’s attention. Definitely on B's list now.

"Isn't it interesting what fear does to the mind?"

Steph saw Scarecrow emerge from the fog.

"I saw you in the psychology department. Your eyes lit up like a fire. But now they are clouded with fear."

A chill went up Steph's spine. She quickly checked her mask for leaks but didn't have any. Turning her attention back to Jazz and Scarecrow, she saw something. Green eyes shifted inside the fog. They looked like a predator hunting its prey. For a second, they look like Jason's.

From behind Scarecrow, the eyes stopped, and a figure emerged. A baseball bat slammed into Scarecrow's face, knocking him to the floor. The figure came into full view now. It was Danny his eyes were glowing green.

He knelt down to Scarecrow.

"You really don't have any brains. Do you Scarecrow? If you did, you wouldn't have hurt my sister." His voice was downright, frigid.

He turned and rushed over to Jazz who was still trying to convince her hallucinations to stop.

"Jazz, it's okay. Come on, I'm fine. It's okay." His voice was soft and gentle as he helped her up. Jazz mumbled a little as she stumbled down the hall.

Steph quickly caught up to the siblings slinging Jazz's arm over her shoulder.

"Sorry, I couldn't help earlier," Steph spoke quietly.

"It's fine. Not everybody can be a hero."

Steph wanted to laugh at the irony of that statement, but she just nodded.

"Sorry about the tour too."

"It wasn't all bad."

" Oh, the rouge attack and poisoning wasn’t bad?" Steph asked sarcastically.

" Our hometown is haunted and our community college is funded by my godfather. And he is a rich fruit loop.”

‘Ghosts?’

“You know Gotham University is funded by Wayne Enterprises right?”

“Annoying crazy fruit loop or weird himbo? Hmmm. Yeah, I’m going to have to go with the himbo on this one.”

Steph laughed at that one. Bruce is going to want to hear about this but she’ll keep him away from these siblings for a little while.

#dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp #Danny and Jazz visit colleges #Steph is the relucent tour guide #Had a vivid image of Danny emerging from the fog to beat Scarecrow pop into my head it turned into this.#why does my brain get ideas when it is time for me to sleep why?

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capslocked · 4 months

Text

HONNE, TATAMAE & THE OTHER ONE

male reader x shin yuna

9k words

Yuna shuffles into your office with the same sneaky smile, the same easy slouch, and she settles into one of the chairs across the table. There is, apparently, more to talk about.

It's a matter of image, of perception, is what she knows.

You know every good lie starts with the truth.

So you swallow. You pause. Some other part of you understands Yuna can't ignore who she really is, and you’re not sure you can either.

Look - Shin Yuna is the kind of woman that turns heads, even with the best of intentions. A long, lithe silhouette; an easy, rosy sort of youthfulness clinging to the swell of her cheekbones, the curve of her waist. Take a dress that's cut to show a little thigh, or a hairstyle pushed back on one side - earrings, or heels, or just the subtle swipe of red over her lip - it doesn't take much for men (or anyone else) to figure that out. A girl who, more times than not, really ought to have a boy's hand planted on her ass, in possession.

So the opportunity to capture such a form perfected - all toned and graceful and flush for curves, her legs never seeming to end, the slithering fit of the dresses - these were the things they wanted. Package it, put a logo on it - better yet, a ribbon or a bow - and ship it straight to the consumer.

Somebody everyone wants, somebody no one can ever have.

“So,” Yuna asks from the other side of your desk, lips slanting halfway coy. “Are you going to treat me like an adult?"

Her fingers play idly with the hem of her skirt, and she lets a long, slender leg slowly slide out from beneath her.

“In what way,” you answer, half paying attention.

"The photos." She doesn't have the slightest qualms about lifting it higher. The soft creak of leather, and a deepening smile. "Am I not allowed to be a little racy?"

"That's certainly... one way of looking at it."

You glance away from where her stockings wrap around the soft curve of her thighs to flip back through the photos in your lap, one after the other, each a little different from the last. The beach, the sun, a flimsy white slip of a bikini top that hides exactly nothing, her muscles wet and glistening and perfect. Beyond suggestive, it's considerably inappropriate.

But then to a lot of people, Yuna is a lot of things.

She’s more clever than anyone gives her credit for. And she’s fucking gorgeous, sure. That’s definitely not up for debate, but god is she young - she's barely twenty. And here’s some rather uninteresting food for thought: you couldn't even technically take her for a drink without faking an ID or breaking some law or another, like a real one. So go ahead, chew that down. Girls her age are typically studying, or working a retail job and getting wasted on the weekends. And they aren't typically making six, seven figures turning their head to the camera and asking how much more skin?

You have some thoughts.

Prudently, you’re her publicist, and it’s your job to make sure that the public gets a good look at her and sees exactly what you want them to see. It's unfair. She wields sex like a weapon. She's got the face, the body; it's an easy sell, commodified and commercialized down to the finest detail, the softest curve, the slightest arch of her brow. The idea's to not let anyone look too long, should they catch something you haven't approved yet, or the fact that she's quite possibly a real person with a real life and real feelings, which could easily fuck up her brand, so unfortunately, that's a bit of a no-go.

Sign of the times maybe, no ethical consumption under another something, yadda yadda - it's a shitty business, really, and the whole thing usually leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

(And just to be upfront, as an important disclosure: you are fucking her brains out on the side, which is a different kind of ethical dilemma, with a different kind of flavor to it.

You’re supposed to be something of a role model - and she’s gone and fucked up bad by falling for you. From her perspective, it probably makes sense. Girl gets boy, bespoke song, credits roll and it's fine. No sin to atone, no 'after'.

It was supposed to be a one time thing. It’s metastasizing into something you’re not even going to attempt to put into words. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen, you know that. And you know the girl has daddy issues, but then you've never had a problem whatsoever playing into it. The possessiveness, the control - she gets off on it. You're pretty sure that she'd do just about anything if you asked her, and you'll admit that the thought alone makes your stomach stir, your mouth run dry.)

Yuna taps her knuckles on the wood of your desk. “What’s the verdict?”

"Well, professionally," you say, caveat in hand, and you give the photos one last flip through. "I'd say they're fine.”

"Oh?" Yuna cocks her head to the side. Her long, blonde hair curtains over her shoulder, and the smile that shadows in at the corner of her mouth is almost wicked. She leans forward, chin propped on a palm, and you see that her expression is bright, glittering with interest. "And unprofessionally?"

Sure. It's a fair question.

Though she's wearing her stage face, the one that looks all big eyes and doe lashes, a hint of a pout on her plush bottom lip, and she's staring at you expectantly, the way she might look at a man she's just asked for the time.

You've seen her look a million other ways. You've seen her with her knees spread, her cheeks flushed, on all fours, straddling your lap, face pressed into the sliding glass door of your shower, her eyes screwed shut as she chokes out your name. And god, doesn’t she look good in all of them.

Your fingers tap against the photos.

“Unprofessionally," you tell her, and the smile on your face is tight - unknowable. "I think they’re a little… gaudy."

Yuna frowns, and it's just a flash before her expression is carefully blank again, the stage face back in full swing. She's been doing this since she was a teenager, so the mask is impeccable, but you know her, and you know that she's thinking: about the photo shoot, the way the photographer was looking at her, and the way you had looked at her later, too.

She knows what you've seen. She's wondering if that's why.

"Really," she asks, a note of disappointment in her voice.

"Really," you confirm with a small sigh, though you're still smiling. It's a small, private sort of smile, like you're remembering a joke. You don't miss the way she glances down at your mouth either. "Let me be clear, you have a shot at real success. I mean, you have a chance at a career. A real, sustainable career.”

She's sitting there with her legs crossed, her foot tapping restlessly, and when she's silent for a moment too long, the way her eyes narrow just a smidge, her head tipped slightly, you realize how it sounds. Patronizing.

"Look," you amend. You're not the best at apologies, but you try. "I just mean - I think that you could be doing something that you actually enjoy."

"Who says I don't enjoy this," she says, and there's a bite in her tone, a challenge. She's leaning back in her seat now, arms crossed.

"What, taking your clothes off for the camera?" You laugh, a quick bark. Isn’t that a cruel question, and you can see it in the way her eyes flash. "You could do a lot more than that, I'm just saying."

"Right," she says, and she doesn't blink, doesn't even move. Her gaze is fixed, unwavering. "Because I'm not pretty enough."

You open your mouth. Close it.

It's not a question. It's a statement.

"That's not what I'm saying-"

"Do you know what makes me different from the IT-girl-of-the-month? The Jang Wonyoungs, the Bae Irenes, the Kim Jisoos of the world?" Yuna cuts in.

"Yuna, this isn't-"

"You should know. " She laughs. "It's your job, knowing things, isn't it?"

The silence stretches thin between you. She's not wrong. There’s the quintessential beauty, the timeless classic, the fantasy-wrapped-up-as-a-daydream - oh, it's all sexual, but the product there is palatable (read: marketable). An idea the general public wants to take home to their mother, not take to bed. A beauty so docile and innocent, you feel guilty harboring those untoward thoughts it makes you have.

Yuna is somewhere possibly, someway probably the opposite. You’ve sold her as such, as fantasy in sheep's clothing. She's neither afraid to put the images to words, nor speak her desires aloud. It's her own brand of sensuality, and it's what the public wants - has always truly wanted, since the dawn of man and of popstars fucking their publicists - what the public wants but turns itself in knots just to pretend they don't. The only way it’ll end up in anyones’ parents' home is under the guise that it will be smuggled upstairs and held down into the springs of a mattress. Hand over her mouth, or maybe around her throat, just so she'll shut up.

She's not a nice girl, or the girl-next-door, a bride-in-a-box, but you'd known that before. The line between fact and fiction is fine indeed.

"You're different," you tell her, finally.

"When I first came in here, you had no qualms, no issue to raise, and now all of a sudden, everything is too much," she says, and she's not smiling, her tone flat. "If it was a problem from the jump, you would've said so."

“I just think a little subtlety would be a nice change of pace. It could go a long way, I mean, I could show you the data- "

"So you're going soft on me, is that it?"

You blink, and the realization hits.

"Just where was this noble version of you when we first started out? You had no problem then, remember? Put a sixteen-year-old in front of a camera, in this industry, and all of a sudden-"

"Don't."

“And suddenly it's all 'oh no, that's a little too much, we need to dial it back'." She sighs, a single sharp burst. "Why is that? Is it because you think that now you own me? I fuck you, swallow your cum and call you daddy, and now these are your decisions? Is that it?"

She’s standing now, her chair shoved back so fast it nearly clatters to the floor. There's a storm on her face, almost a rage. This now become a familiar story. The one where the girl's too pretty for her own good. Too much, too soon.

"I'm not a child," she tells you, her tone measured, a sharp contrast to the fire in her eyes. "I know what I want. I know how to get it. You're not telling me anything I don't already know. I'm different. You're right."

She's different, but the girl's clever, too. And she's stubborn. It's a dangerous combination.

You breathe slow. "Then why don’t you act like it."

“If they’re going to call me a slut,” she hisses, and she's walking forward. Her palms land on your desk, hard, and you glance down at her clenched fists, at her neatly kept nails, "you know, after we leak them all those steamy photos online-"

Your mind clicks. You reach to slam the cover of the photo book shut. She's caught your hand, though, in hers, holding it firmly to the desk.

Yuna glances at the photos over again, at the tight fit of the swimwear, or how the ties slip in an invisible breeze. And she's biting her lip, trying not to smile, you can tell. "You know it might be worth it for once," she says, slipping a finger between the buttons of her shirt.

There's a long, tense moment, and before you can register it, Yuna has rounded your desk; she’s closing the distance, fast.

And she’s lowering her eyes. Putting her lips on yours.

It knocks the wind from your sail, for just the instant. You're speechless.

Because her fingers. Her mouth. Her hair. Yuna's everywhere, and she's warm. It's utterly selfish, you understand: you want her to be yours. You want her to be yours and no one else's.

She’s realizing she might be.

You feel her grabbing for more of you. Wanting. She tilts her head, her breath hot, and you kiss her back, her mouth slick against your own, and the kiss is a fast, deliberate kind of messy. Your teeth catch her bottom lip, and her tongue slips past yours, licking into your mouth, her hands clutching at the collar of your shirt. It's not like it is when you're fucking, which is slow and hot, and she's on her back, legs around your waist, her nails biting into your skin, or when she's bent over the arm of the sofa, her ass in the air and her back arched, her breathless moans a chorus of yes, yes, please. This kiss is more battle, more heat, less gentle and less finesse. It's the kind of kiss that's just short of an argument.

"You're an asshole," she breathes into your mouth, and it's not a compliment.

You smile against her.

"So are you," you murmur, and her lips are parted, her eyelids fluttering shut, her breath coming quick and hot.

"Then maybe you should just fuck me," she says. She's not asking. “Yeah.” You press your words right into her neck, her collarbone. “Maybe I should.”

Your hands are on her hips faster than you can realize what it is they’re doing, palms pressing into her, and then you're walking her backwards, shuffling a few steps until the small of her back collides with the edge of your desk, and you're lifting her up onto the surface, the photographs falling to the floor, scattering.

"I thought we weren't supposed to do this here," she murmurs, pulling away for just a moment, her mouth swollen and wet, her eyes dark. She knows exactly what it does to you: the goading, the taunting - the looks of faux-innocence later over a bare shoulder, her ass in the air. How it can get you to fuck her within an inch of her life. What it’ll get her, the return on investment.

"And I thought we agreed to longer skirts."

Her thighs are smooth, silky, and they part, the lace of her underwear stark against her skin. You slide a hand beneath the elastic band, sinking down, and down, until she inhales sharply.

"The fuck do you end up doing going up the stairs?" you add, and your fingers are tracing the swell of her hip, and you can feel the goosebumps on her skin.

She bites her lip. You sink down to press a kiss to her thigh, and then the other.

"Nothing," she tells you, and her eyes are wide. "I guess it all just hangs out."

She simply smirks right back into you, throws her arms over your shoulders. You’re snared, caught - she’ll always be able to fuck what she wants right out of you.

"Jesus, Yuna." Your hand curls around her wrist, thumb pressed to her pulse, and her shoulders roll back.

You push her down, and she's sprawled across the desk, legs stretching wide, her head tilted back and her chest heaving. “God, you’re so fucking wet, and I've barely touched you. That turns you on? Being a brat?"

She sucks air past her teeth, and you can measure each rise and fall of her chest. The lace under her hips is soaked, her pussy swollen and pink. Like if she doesn’t get your hot, open mouth on her clit this instant, you’re both going to have a problem.

You slip two fingers into her instead, and Yuna keens.

"I know it does," you say, and your voice comes out lower, drier than you expect. She's hot, so wet around you, her pussy fluttering. "It fucking turns me on, too."

"Please," and “god,” is what all you receive back in half whispers, while her legs are spread, her heels now really dug into the square of your back, and she's got a fistful of your hair like she owns it. Her voice is high, her eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t be such a fucking tease."

You're not going to make it easy. She's not going to make this quick.

"What, and you aren’t?"

You curl your fingers inside her, and the noise that leaves her is positively obscene. She's grinding against your palm, her hips bucking, and her lips are parted, her eyelashes dark and thick, fanning her cheeks. She's panting, her thighs trembling.

"No," she breathes. If she’s shaking her head, you can’t tell. "I'm exactly what you tell them I am."

Your hand stills, and it takes a moment for her to realize that the pressure inside her is gone. Her eyes snap open, her mouth twisted.

"Fuck you," she spits. "Put them back."

You're already sinking down to your knees, and you've got her skirt shoved up, the lace panties pulled aside, her hips canted, her pussy glistening. The stockings can stay, fuck, the heels, too. She's so fucking hot, her legs spread apart and her lips red. Her palm shoved into her brow, and her breath just barely more than a ragged huff of air. You can feel her body wound tight and ready, her eyes on the ceiling.

You put your tongue against her, flat and slow. Inaccurate, indiscriminate, licking up her wet cunt. And her whole body arches off the desk, a cry leaving her mouth with her head thrown back. Her thighs are shaking, and her heel presses into your shoulder, and god, she tastes incredible.

"Please." It comes like music, really, a song of desperation. You can hear it. She's singing it for you now. "Oh god, please, fuck-"

So you do her one better. You put your whole mouth over her, and she fucking shivers. You don’t even try to ease into it - you're devouring, ravishing her, working your lips and tongue all over her pussy, lapping the length of her in broad, hot strokes, and she's almost shrieking, her body going taut. You suck on her lips, pressing your tongue into her clit, and when you pull off her, your hand takes over the place where your tongue can't quite reach, her wetness slick around your fingers. Yuna's close - you can see that she is, you can hear that she is, and it's her gasp that lets you know.

"I'm -" she says, her voice reaching higher, her nails digging into the flesh of your shoulders, the wood of your desk. The sound she makes is wretched and beautiful. "God, I'm cumming, I'm cumming - fuck!"

The licking, the lapping, the fucking fingering. You can feel her slicked cunt pulse and throb in a satisfied, anticipatory kind of way. Even if she wasn’t audibly wet around your knuckles, you’d read Yuna like a map.

Your thumb taps across her clit, once - twice, thrice, and it’s just that.

She arches off your desk, thighs trembling as your tongue works her over, This hard, hungry kiss, and she tastes as sweet as she looks - as filthy as she acts, too. Her pussy is slick, her hips rolling, her body trembling, and she's making soft, little ah, ah, ah, sounds into the wet seal of your mouth. She's trying to keep it quiet, because she knows as well as you, everyone in the damn office does, probably - it's one thing to play at being a slut. A complete other to really fuck like one.

Your finger slips in and out of her pussy, and then another. They fill her up. The knuckles bending and pushing deeper. Yuna's fucking ruined - your desk is ruined.

But then there you are, complicit, and perhaps a little evil: licking and licking and licking right into her, making her grip twist in your hair and her thighs clench around your face. You can feel it in how her breathing is coming fast, faster, her whole body growing taut, and it was never going to take long, you figure, the way her hips were rolling the moment you got your hands on her. You can tell. She's close, and she's so pretty, all flushed and writhing, her skirt hiked up, her ass perched on the edge of your desk, and when her mouth falls open and her breath catches in her throat, you pull yourself up to watch her, the heel of your hand pressed against her clit, and she's shaking.

"Look at me,” you tell her, a kiss trailing unsatisfyingly into the crease of her thigh, your voice running coarse.

She does, her gaze glassy, and the sound that leaves her mouth is a sob. That’s all it really takes.

“Show me. What face you make when you cum on my fingers sweetheart, show me what a slut you actually are-"

You can watch it all in real time, the panting, the heaving. The sculpted lines of her pretty face screw up, real tight, and she lets out another moan, breathier this time, her mouth hanging open. She does it again when you press down. And Yuna fucking shakes, her hands balled, white-knuckling, and the desk rattling beneath her.

It's all a matter of slight degradation, you’ve learned, the barest humiliation. Like the paradoxical freedom she knows she can find in a hand clenched tight around her throat or her hair pulled and twisted into a fist or the sharp sting of a smack across her ass. Her pretty face. She likes a little something that burns. Something sinewy, visceral, raw: you call her a whore, a filthy fucking cumslut and it makes her body curl like she has hot metal pressing into her skin. Makes her breathless, like she wants you to own her.

Sometimes it's better than being fucked.

(Sometimes.)

Because just look at her: she’s in the middle of coming apart, mouth fallen slack, brow furrowed - and she gets real quiet when she cums, the absolute opposite of the journey she’d taken to get there, all those loud little, uh-uh-ah, fucking please god, her moans, her whimpers - her orgasm ripping right through the middle of her, the hourglass of her entire body stiffening on borrowed time as it washes across her features.

You let out a loud sigh, something she can moor herself to that isn’t your fingers, the desk, or your hair at the roots. Yuna can be every bit as uncomplicated as she can be complex, but god, you love her most like this: an unrehearsed, beautiful mess.

"Baby," you tell her, because it's easier to just call her that, and because you don't know how else to end the statement, because you know if you ask, she'll let you - hell, she'll beg for more, and that’s got your brain feeling rather mushily incoherent at present.

"Daddy," she responds - because of course she fucking does; she’s gasping, and her cheeks are still so pink, her body sated, and your heart leaps into your throat.

It's a problem; you've been trying to work it out for a good few months now, and by this, you mean the little moment you have right after you're done, where your eyes meet, and you smile at her. A problem, too, her lips. A problem, because she kisses you, soft, and slow, and easy. A problem, because her heart's probably already yours.

If anyone were to ask, you would have said there's no greater pleasure than knowing a girl that's almost died to take your cock, but maybe that's the point: it's just supposed to feel a bit better if you're a little head over heels, a little stupid about it too.

"I'm going to use this perfect pussy now," you warn her - just simple formality - because you're already rolling her down onto her back, your cock hard and aching against your trousers.

You've got your hands on her stockings, tugging them down to her ankles, the lace of her panties around her thighs, the neat garter of her garter belt wrapped around her hips, her cunt bare beneath it. You unzip, too slow. You tug yourself out.

“I’ll be good,” she says to you, a promise.

“Yeah,” you return to her, “I know.”

And you slip your cock into her cunt, just barely - maybe an inch, maybe more - and you hear a little noise leave her throat, low. Broken.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, and god, you just can't help it, it's easy; you sink deeper, nice, slow, everything smooth inside her, until another broken sort of gasp spills off her lips.

And then another: "oh my fucking god."

You snap your hips back in, bottoming out this time in the wet heat of her perfect cunt, and she just fucking collapses. Yuna looks like an absolute dream in this state of half-dress, half-distress: black suede around the ankles, stilettos, with just the perfect heel. There are worse things, you can imagine, and she looks perfect sprawled out against your notes and portfolios, all this hot, aching want. As gorgeous as she is fucked. You tear into her stockings, a little. You’ll tear more.

You already know you're going to hell. Or at least that’s where you should already be, but you hips crash into hers again, fucking her legs wider apart, spreading her open across your desk for you, getting her slick all over the photos, her career - it’s all so perfectly unfair.

"You have no idea, the things I want to do to you right now," you breathe, your tone hushed, and you're talking again, like you often do. There goes your mouth - but your hips drag back, and then again, her pussy clenching, vice tight and impossibly wet.

It's a long, torturous, lazy sort of a pull, that draws these pretty thin moans from the very center of her.

And the way that feels, your cock buried deep in her cunt: better than good - heaven, if you care enough about labels for it, or the names of things. You haven’t any real way to tell; the gates haven't opened or anything, so all you're working from here is an educated guess. From the fact that Yuna’s eyes have slid closed, her lips parted, and her whole body starting now to tremble gently with it.

"Jesus, this perfect, tight pussy grips me so good, god - such a good girl, always so fucking wet for me," and your mouth is pressed to the arch of her ear, whispering every last thing you know will make her cum again, like a dream.

And she is, she does.

She's twisting up to grip at your hips, her head falling to one side. When you drag your cock through her cunt, slowly, you watch her lips purse and the way the flush moves all the way down the column of her neck, past her collarbone, her shirt half undone and her tits heaving against the white, sheer fabric. You fuck her for a little, and then you roll your hips slow, so slow.

Until your pace is fucking punishing, deep, and so hard. You can’t help it.

Because it's unbelievable - she's so perfect, so tight around you. Fit snug like a glove, like she was made to take your cock, to whimper and mewl at your mercy. Her lips part further and she keens, her brows twisting in similar disbelief as you pound your length into her. The heat pooled in your belly, the way she looks under your desk: fuck, she's so beautiful like this, properly fucked.

You'd let her ruin you for life - it's that simple.

"Yuna, you - fuck," you barely say, and you sound more than slightly stunned, so she’s filling in the gaps, elaborating in the spaces you cannot - that she loves it, that you’re so good for her, and so is that, and that, and that - the way it hits, right there, keep fucking her just like that, because right there, right there, right there, right there - the way she props herself up on her elbows to tell you, "you're fucking me so deep, oh my god - yes, oh my god, fuck."

By the time Yuna shudders through another orgasm, a silent ghost of a wail leaving her pretty frozen mouth, her lashes are batting against her cheeks, and she's biting her lip, so hard you're certain she's going to break the skin, her back strung like a bow. It's the look on her face, that soft sort of reverence, and how her lips are swollen and spit-slick, the pretty hollow of her throat. Your thrusts become faster, shorter - your own moan thick in your throat, your jaw hanging slack.

“Here,” you say, and she’s just putty between your fingers, on your cock.

You’re flipping her around, onto a different angle. You know she likes it, the way her tits are pressed against your desk, and it's hot the way her ass tilts right into your hips, arched. Proffering. "Be good for me, and spread yourself open."

She's already so meek when she complies. "Anything, sir. Stretch me out; I want you to make me yours."

God, she's practically purring when she talks like this. She knows exactly what that fucking does to you. Knows that when her eyes draw back, big and watery and full, you're a goner - if your cock wasn't deep in her pussy, fucking her open and raw, the view would nearly be enough. And all of this, the pretense, the pantomime, she knows how to bend the line of your body to her own, because when she turns, and presses her red mouth to the crest of her shoulder, you are hers.

You could probably cum, right now, deep down into the molten hot of her cunt: if your hips keep up their ruthless pace, if her ass was sticking up the slightest bit more - the sound that would come from her.

"Take that perfect cock - and fuck my pussy up," Yuna mewls, her voice saccharine and slurring, a touch whiny. She rolls her hips. Your cock grinds, still, though it stutters now - shallow and quick.

"All this pussy, for daddy's cock," and you're sure that the entire office can hear her now, the moans that escape from her mouth - but you can't even find it in you to care. You're caught, all of her a net you've willingly been ensnared by, and here you figure that's the slightest bit appropriate; you're so fucked, and it's funny, too. Funny enough to laugh about, later. "Nobody fucks this tight little pussy the way you do, sir."

It's a smile she hears in your voice when you say, "is that right? Go on then, let’s hear all the things you'd have me do to your slutty little cunt."

The line's crossed again, in some indecipherable direction. Where, again, exactly, does it matter? There are lines and lines, and none of them quite mark the beginning, the end, the periphery. This time you don't pull back; you dig deep, and it makes Yuna cry out like you’re killing her. Which, in a way - you already have.

So your hips stutter forward again, once more, and you lean into the slant, so fucking deep it's practically impaled. There’s nothing quite like holding this girl’s hips and pounding her from behind. Her pussy alone is fucking incredible. And the sound her ass makes against the flat of your stomach, the crease of your thighs - it's unimaginable, the way Yuna makes these little squeaks of a noise, like half-broken moans, when you fuck deep, deep, deeper into her. The way her arms splay wide and search frantic across your desk. And as you grab her slim, dainty wrist, pin it back and pull her tight - fixing her upright until you have her head lolling back against your chest - you simply fucking pound away.

Fucking all these little curses and sounds of appreciation out of her throat. Your cock forcing out each syllable, "yes," and "fuck," and "god, oh my fucking god - I cannot believe," now on repeat, how her tone grows tighter. How she moans - a lot, like something's being worked loose.

"Uh-uh," and you're holding her steady now, with one broad, strong hand at the back of her neck. "Keep telling me, and maybe I'll let you cum."

Your free hand finds purchase in her hair. Yuna's groan coming out pathetic and wanting, her mouth half open. You wrap her silky golden locks around your fist, her hair thread neatly through your fingers, and then give the slightest of yanks.

Christ, her pussy just fucking soaks onto you. Greedy. Needy.

"Shit," and Yuna gasps when she can, where she's allowed to.

"Oh, is my little girl into getting her hair pulled?" and you can see the signs of affirmation: the muscles inside her flexing, grasping you as you roll in, a small, soft nod, and the way she sighs your name, like a prayer on her lips.

Listen, she can barely speak, the way you're fucking her apart. Yuna's body is wound like a bow, like string and taught wire. Bent into the side of the desk and open for you, her pussy pulsing tight around you with every stroke.

"Sir, I'll do - whatever you need, just - just - let me have your cum, please -" and there, she's begging now, and her voice is tinny, breaking, breathless and airless.

Then it’s her fucking hair. You pull so much on it harder this time, with another measured thrust inside her, your body flush against her ass. Fingerprints searing down onto where her hips flare and taper, impossibly narrow.

You’re probably hurting her. You’re probably ruining her for anyone else - nothing will ever satiate her more than the way she sobs as your fingers twist tighter through her hair. Around her fucking miracle of a waist. It's an obscene sound that echoes down to your cock, as deep, hot and fucking filthy as her cries when she cums for the third, fourth?

"Just," Yuna barely makes, her eyelids heavy, her gaze flitting somewhere behind her. "Just look at you, fucking me so hard, filling up my tight little pussy, making me take everything your cock has to give. God, you love wrecking my perfect little hole, don't you?"

No, or yes, or probably. You’ll figure out the details later.

"God, I love it when you get real messy, when I get you like this-" your words run seamlessly into the searing heat between your bodies, like punctuation, like the end of days -

"Use me." She doesn't just say it. "Take me, and cum in me, wherever you want. Daddy, you can have my mouth, or, or, you can - you can finish inside me."

And god, you could, you really could: just the timbre of her voice does things to you, the way that it curls around the words daddy, and sir, and you're fucking me so goddamn good. She's saying them now, her whimpers breaking into outright moans and all: shit, please, please - you're gonna make me cum - oh - oh fuck! And when she's wound that tight, a quivering, sopping mess of a girl, you put your fingers against her clit, circling and pressing in tempo to the thrust of your cock.

The cruel metronome that makes. Hell, it fucking sends her.

She’s begging you to finish inside her. It's fucked up - and she knows it. She wraps her heels around the square of your back, and the tension rises, and rises, the coiled spring tight and waiting - just a push away, so you slam into her once, then twice more, the push of a hand splayed between her tits and your fingers digging into the muscle of her thigh. She wants you to cum in her pussy, fill her right up; she tells you that, again, that she wants it, and her voice is raspy, high. That she wants you now, as if she didn't before, and how does this compare, because she needs it now.

You hold out for just a little. You’re holding your breath. Just a little, just until Yuna’s eyelashes flutter open over her shoulder and she says your name, so sweetly, and says, "please, just, inside."

You shouldn't.

You can't.

So here, barely able to think at all, you end up doing the unthinkable - thinking all the while of pumping her right to the finish and draining your balls straight into the deepest reach of her cunt, how fucking tempting it may be - you muster an ounce of good judgment still adrift in a sea of lust. Your throbbing cock draws out of that wet, inviting heat and into your fist, and watch how that makes her begin to unspool: the way she tries to press her knees shut. She's sobbing for it, pleading, her lashes dark with tears. "No, no, fuck me, please, I'm begging you. Please, I'm going to be so good - god, please -"

You tug her back, look her in the eye, and let out a loud, shaky exhale. "Knees, princess."

She's too wracked with need to do anything other than comply. Her jaw drops. “But-”

"Mouth," you cut in, sharp enough that her gaze lifts, and you're right there - on the precipice, so close, watching her tongue dart out of her mouth to run across the swell of her bottom lip.

Watching her knees fold into the carpet, her stockings down loose around her thighs, her underwear hanging off an ankle. The rise and fall of her chest like rolling waves, and you can see her hands fisting on her knees, and her face: you watch the emotion flash over, like water on glass, and a moment is all it takes. She leans her face forward to your hand, as you wind her hair into your fist, her lips parted and her gaze lowered. She's obedient, taking the weight of your cock with her pretty pink mouth like the fucked-up-little-fantasy that she is, opening so nice and wide.

Her eyes flit up to yours, her mascara-ringed lashes fanned against the pink of her cheeks.

"My face," she tells you, or something close to it, "fuck my face. Go ahead, use it - cum all over me."

Your cock slides halfway home, her cheeks hollowing, and when it presses to the back of her throat, she gags. You curse and tip your head back, the wood of your desk digging into the flesh of your palm.

"What did you say," you half groan out. "Baby," you add, just for good measure, just to play along, "c'mon."

The tip of Yuna's tongue sweeps and swirls just beneath your cockhead, and she moans her answer around your length, lapping at a leak of precum. "I said," she's repeating now, her cheek brushing across your shaft, and you shudder. "Fuck, what I said was I want you to cum all over my face.

Jesus.

You bury your cock into her mouth once, twice. Let it sit there. Let her really struggle for it, the angle just a tad awkward from above. Let her lips stretch wide, and her shoulders shake a little - tears start to gather, pricking her eyes, her lipstick a mess, the way your cock fits, plugging up her throat so full. You hold her like that for just a second, a little less - until Yuna's moaning, the vibration low in her mouth, and her eyes flutter open, closed.

"Fuck," you spit out, and "perfect," and your voice is shot, your whole face warm, and you're going to cum on her - everywhere on her. Yuna, who’s been staring up at you in wide-eyed submission, gives you a little nod, like she means it.

Like she’s earned it.

And maybe she has: it only takes one last look to seal it - her hand curled around your cock, her cheek matted with her own spit and lipstick, the bright smudge of her own cum from the point of her chin to the cleft of her cupid's bow, and her eyes are locked on yours, eager and hot. Maybe she hasn't - and maybe you should make her beg, fuck her mouth some more - it's almost cruel, how she looks. A perfectly pretty picture, poised and pliant and waiting, and she's right there, beneath you, and fuck - this is so wrong, and you'll ruin her, you'll mark her up like this. She'll be painted like a work of art.

Your pulse thickens. Stands right up in your veins.

Then, your control, snapping: her pretty lashes flutter, her mouth gone slack, her jaw still tilted up like she expects a gift, an offering, her palm wrapped so nice and snug around the base of your cock, her expression dazed, and so easy, and perfect, so eager. You tilt your hips just a fraction further, and she fucking swallows, her tongue tracing the underside where you throb harder, heavier - her body lilting up as you press in so deep.

“God,” you breathe in, out. It hits hard. It hits fast. “Yuna-”

A tensing of your stomach coils up through like smoke, and your grip tightens on the edge of your desk, the other in her hair, a helpless, desperate thrusting, and there - it's a wonderful, brilliant sort of explosion, like light, the white-hot burn of a fever breaking. You cum all over her face and into her hair, spilling out streaks of hot, filthy white onto her sculpted features and the sweet line of her throat, and god, there's so much, she's taking it so easily, all her breathing hot and heavy and loud.

Her skin alabaster and porcelain; cotton and canvas; she lets you fucking paint her, all messy and ruined.

In fact she’s even smiling like she’s holding in a laugh, all gooey-soft with satisfaction, and you're jerking your cock slow through her slender fingers, even after there's nothing else left to give and every inch of her face is marked - the way she wears your cum like new skin. You feel the shockwave tear your nerves open, and then the calm, right on its heels, spreading out from your core to your fingertips, out through the roots of your hair.

"Ah," you exhale, a tight gasp. Yuna takes the entirety of you into her mouth, sucking down your length - harder - as she swallows back a final, sticky load, her own hair sweat-slick to her face.

Just look at the damage: that’s a story not even you’d be able to spin. There's cum on her nose, dribbling past her cheek. On her jaw and on her cheek. Filthy white streaked all over her parted lips, her neck. Down her shoulder blades, and soiling her hair, and leaking down past her collarbones.

(Christ, was this better or worse? You can't even tell. Every version of her that's been served on a plate for you has seen fit to make you sweat.)

When the dust begins to settle, you’re left panting and spent. Yuna, the collateral on this fine, whiny, disaster of a deal. A collection of photos, and some thoughts and ideas, that now sit disheveled on the ground. There's a scathing voice inside your head that's demanding to be heard, reminding you all-too-casually that this is not any way to manage a client. She could snap her fingers, call out to that sycophant at the top floor, and your career would be over - she could do anything she should ever desire.

You know, on a baser level, this, and worse: the duality of the thought. Her tight cunt on your desk, you on your knees; the sharp gasp you can steal from the top of her throat, perhaps when she feels the gentle pressure of teeth around one rosy nipple. The pinch of your thumb and index finger around the other. Her nails down your back in ten angry lines, and the throb in her throat, while you slide the whole width of a hand, rough, over the flesh of her ass.

Maybe the desk, like everything else, can just join the pile on the floor.

"Yuna," you say, the vowels pitching like a sigh.

Her palms find the sharp crease in your pants and slide upward. She's gazing up at you, bright, her face sticky with you.

"You can't send me out like this," she tells you, matter-of-factly, letting a smile cross the lines of her lips - or a smirk. A wordless extension of the previous sentence - of a few.

You pull out and away from her: a white and gray dotted tie hanging loose, unknotted; a button still fastened somewhere mid-center, your trousers pulled off and loose down just below your knees, the fly gaping open. She's in a similar state, the cups of her bra slipping loose, her mouth flushed, lips swollen and red, the outline of how she’d let you use her in a smeary, runny stain across her cheek.

"Maybe let your manager know," you tell her, pulling your belt in place, and you think you catch her eye rolling. "That you're going to be late."

Yuna doesn't hesitate.

"Tell her yourself," she responds, "I'm sure she'll be relieved to hear I'm not actually dead - just having gotten fucked stupid on my PR person's cock."

"I might forget to include a couple details."

"You shouldn’t." Her eyebrows jump. And she's chewing, lazily, on the full curve of her lower lip, her teeth glinting like razors. "Here, before you throw all this to the sharks -"

So, so very dramatic, and with this: her thumbnail pressed beneath your chin. It draws your gaze up - up, and down: from the splay of her legs and the gleam of wetness between them, a brief rest along the arcs of her chest - the room's a total fucking wreck. Your necktie, her skirt, her blouse, her pantyhose. The papers and books all spread, bent, broken, the stack knocked clean onto its side. The skirt's probably still pulled too far up her hips for decency, her breasts shoved up to her neck and the collarbone, and then there's her face - her chin streaked with cum. Yuna smiles then, the corner of her mouth pulled upward.

She might kiss her if you'd let her.

Cum on her lips be damned, she's beautiful like that, like she isn't even trying. And in fact, she never really had to - this girl, she'd do it alone. The idea that someone could be as universally loved as she, is enough, a marvel even, but here she is in front of you, every atom and curve a siren, a study in perfection and composition. Like she’s not just all your mistakes laid out to bear.

"Take a second to take a proper look, hm? Get all the memories in, while they're fresh."

"Because?"

"You can remember I'm only the person you say I am, for you."

"You can remember I'm only who you say I am, for you."

"Oh, of course," and the laugh that leaves your throat sounds dry, cracked open. The band of her skirt stretches, snaps back, so neatly that it leaves a pale line on her flesh. And now there are your hands, fitting around her hipbones, a sigh: a short, sudden motion, tugging her up. Yuna gasps: something surprised, delighted. She's all grins and teeth, all clean, bright incisors.

"Mine," you're breathing, the flat of her stomach underneath the fingers you've placed upon it. "This is mine - you. Yours - you're all mine."

It’s possessive, but, you’re not all incorrect.

"Yeah," she more than agrees.

There's a ribbon-taut quality in the way it leaves her mouth, the tension in her body coiled up through to the bones. She makes it sound like the beginning of a promise, the beginning of something much larger.

And by the way." She’s still buttoning her shirt. Putting herself together. You’ve seen the triage, the damage control. This is the Yuna you get.

So, she needs the second - a respite to lick a stray stripe of slick and cum off her wrist - blotting her cheeks with a ball of wet tissue, until all that's left is the smeared lipstick, her stockings splayed around the floor. The pattern you've worn, where your fingerprints would've shown, gets covered up under her skirt and her coat, wrapped up in a scarf.

The smug satisfaction in her tone pulls your focus, just in time, her hair's falling in waves down her shoulders - perfect, but not flawless: there's a creased line, a hint of her throat, just beneath the collar. There's a slight wisp out of place. The buttons aren't arranged all the way from her collar to her sternum.

"I'm going to go with that photoset, with the white top, in the sand - gonna post 'em online and generate some buzz. You even said it yourself: they're fine. " She pauses, pushing away a strand of hair. "Professionally, of course."

"Professionalism." You smile. "Of course."

She walks out carrying the stilettos: pumps in either hand.

"Always. Catch you soon," she promises, and you do catch a last flash of her expression, lips parted, the lower curving into a satisfied smile, right as she flicks the lock on the door open and your office goes back to quiet.

For a split second, it's unbearable: the silence.

And you think again.

She can have anything, get any boy, girl, whoever, any designer, photographer, make-up artist in the world; there's something so unmistakably intoxicating about the fact that the thing she's decided she wants, is you.

#yuna smut #itzy smut #itzy yuna smut #male reader smut #kpop fanfic

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ddejavvu · 3 months

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hi!! I have a request for james potter (this is something that happened to me recently and it made me so upset). Could you do mean!gf (being mean is her love language and someone tells her that shes a bad girlfriend to james, but james knows that its her love language) and she asks james if shes a bad gf??? like angst/comfort kinda

You pose the question over dinner, but perhaps that's unfair seeing as James feels the need to gape at it, and his meal succumbs to the unforgiving force of gravity. An obscene half-chewed lump of rice and beans escapes his mouth and he apologizes hurriedly for the mess, still struggling to comprehend what you've sprung upon him.

"Shit- say that again?" He asks, scrubbing fruitlessly at the brown stain on his blue shirt, napkin wet with condensation from his glass.

"Am I a bad girlfriend?" You repeat, each letter striking an axe against your heart until you're sure it'll crack with a jagged edge like you're a Saturday morning cartoon.

"No, I did hear you correctly the first time," James concludes, mumbling more to himself than to you and grimacing at the sheer audacity of your words, "I- darling, I don't really know what to say to that. I mean- fuck no, 'f course, but- but why are you asking? What made you think that?"

"Someone told me I was," You shrug, your fork looking rather sullen as you drag it listlessly around the salsa on your plate that's leaked from the soft tortilla layer of your burrito.

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter. Someone who knows us. That's what matters."

"Did they tell you why?" James asks, careful not to prod at their identity, even if that's on the forefront of his mind.

"'Said I'm always mean to you." You murmur, "And- and I think I am."

"You're not mean to me," James scrunches his nose, confusion filling the wrinkles that appear there, "But- well, you're not always mean to me, but I like it when you are."

"It's not funny." You tell James, decidedly somber even in the wake of his reassurance, "I called you dumb the other day."

"Well, darling, I had been boxing with the toaster because it wouldn't toast my bread, and you came up behind me and informed me that it wasn't plugged in. That was dumb."

You bite your lip, and James hopes you're withholding a smile.

"Well. That was dumb, but you aren't. And you're not any of the other mean things I say about you, either."

"I like it when you're mean to me." He repeats, "You're nice to the people you don't like, and you're mean to the people you do like. You're just a bit like a broken compass, darling, but I'd walk south for miles if I was following you."

In order to avoid splitting your lip open with the harsh force of your bite you chew words instead, and spit them out, "You're cheesy."

"And you're mean," James grins, "But that's the way I like you, and y'can't be a bad girlfriend if I like the way you are."

#james potter x reader #james potter imagine #james potter scenario #james potter oneshot #james potter one shot #james potter one-shot #james potter headcanon #james potter headcanons #james potter hc #james potter hcs #james potter fanfiction #james potter fanfic #james potter fic #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter dialogue #james potter fluff #james potter x reader fanfiction

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inkskinned · 6 months

Text

no, but really, we need to talk about the casual objectification that has become the fallback discourse of the internet: if you're pretty and dressed nicely, you're a slut. and if you're even vaguely outside of their body standard, you're fucking disgusting.

too-frequently, people position sex workers as being "the problem". they sneer you're addicted to pornography, you don't know what a real woman looks like. but real women are in pornography. the real bodies on display are not the issue here: the issue is that other people feel extremely confident when commenting on someone's physique.

2000's super-thin is slowly worming its way back into the public ideal. recently i saw someone get told to "go for a run", despite the fact she was on the thinner side of average. not that it would ever be appropriate to say that: but it's kind of like sticker shock when you see it. people think that is fat? holy shit. do they just have no idea about things?

but what are you going to do about it? that's the problem, right. because chances are - you're a normal person. we can say normalize carrying fat on your body, but we are not the billion-dollar diet industry. we are not the billion-dollar fashion industry. we are just, like. people. who are trying to make content on the internet, without being treated shittily.

as someone who has been on both sides of things: you are treated better when you are thin and pretty. this is statistically correct. i am not saying that you cannot be bullied for being thin; i'm saying there are objective institutional biases against certain bodytypes. there are videos of men and women who lost weight all saying: i now know for a fact exactly how much worse you're treated. in the comments, some asshole inevitably says something akin to you deserved to be dehumanized when you were fat.

which means that ... the easiest thing to do is be pretty and thin. it is the path of least resistance, because of course it is, because any time you post a picture of yourself without a thigh gap, someone immediately comments something like you need to try a diet.

the other half is also dehumanizing though, huh, just in a different way. when i put on makeup and nice clothes, i am told i slept my way to the top as a professional. do you know how many women in STEM have told me they purposefully dress to "unimpress" because they already struggle to be taken seriously and if they're ever considered pretty - it for some reason takes away from their authority.

so they make it seem like it's your fault. you, existing in a body - it's your fault! if you didn't want shitty comments, don't have a body. they position us against each other like chess pieces; vying for male attention we don't even need.

and i can be an authority on this unless you think i'm fat and unattractive. when i am pretty and thin, i'm an activist. when i am just a normal person who makes a good point: i am immediately dismissed. nobody fucking believes you if you're not seen as attractive. you literally lose value. you cease to exist.

but the whole time, it feels like - is anyone actually grounded the fuck in reality? the line of "pretty and thin" keeps shifting. nobody seems to understand what "a normal weight" even looks like, because it's not something that exists - you cannot tell a person's health by looking at their body. even if you think you could tell that, even if you're sure a person is dangerously overweight - people are not your dolls. they do not need to be dressed up or displayed properly to soothe your aesthetics. you aren't concerned for them, you're stealing their agency. you don't get to say if they're "allowed" to take pictures and post them on the internet - you don't get to tell them how to exist.

people hide behind "the obesity epidemic" without any actual qualifications. they crow things about "normalizing unhealthiness".

but it's bullshit. i have visible abs. there is a pair of parallel lines on my body, even when i'm relaxed; where my obliques meet my abdominal wall. i am proud of this because it means i'm strong, because i overcame an eating disorder only to be ripped as fuck. it is genetic and physical luck that i even get any definition, i'm pleased as punch.

but it does mean that my abdominal wall sticks out a little bit. the other day i posted a video of myself dancing, and, for a moment, my shirt slipped. you could see a little bit of my stomach. i was cartwheeling to the floor. moments before this, i'd had my foot over my head.

a guy slid into my DMs. a row of vomiting emojis prefaced: you should really lose some weight before you think about dancing.

i stared at it for a long time. there was a time when i would have been triggered by this, where it would have encouraged me to starve myself. i would have ignored the fact i'm flexible, agile, good at jumping: i would have lost the weight for a stranger's passing comment. i would have found myself and my body fucking disgusting.

and for what? to please what? because why? so that he can exist in this world without an unchallenged eyeball? what would my self-hatred even accomplish? usually i write paragraphs. obviously. on this particular occasion, in this body i've been at war with for ages: i just felt exhausted.

it shouldn't be even worth saying. it shouldn't be hard to explain. all of this emotional turmoil when he cannot even comprehend the most basic truth: i am not an object on display for him.

#spilled ink #writeblr #warm up #like if im getting fatshamed. babe......... wake up #is there fat on my body? yes :)#btw this behavior wouldn't be okay even if I WAS overweight!!! that is my point!!!#it is both that people have no idea what weight is supposed to look like #and even if they DID... they do not seem to understand that PEOPLE ARE NOT DOLLS #YOU DO NOT GET TO TELL THEM HOW TO EXIST #if you respond anything akin to ''but raquel there IS an obesity epidemic''#you're blocked and reported.#go fucking DONATE TO A FOOD BANK THEN. volunteer in a food desert. start a free fitness program #GO GET A DEGREE AS A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL AND PRACTICE IN NUTRITION IN UNDERPRIVILEDGED LOCATIONS #FIGURE OUT HOW TO LOWER FOOD COSTS. FIGURE OUT HOW TO NORMALIZE AND STANDARDIZE #ACCESS TO FARM-FRESH FOOD. PROVIDE ACTUAL FREE ACCESS TO OUTSIDE ACTIVITIES #FIGURE OUT HOW TO TEACH PEOPLE HEALTHY CHOICE MAKING WHILE ALSO LOWERING THE COST OF MEALS.#THE AVERAGE GROCERY BILL OF THE AMERICAN CITIZEN HAS QUADRUPILED IN THE LAST YEAR.#SHUT. THE FUCK. UP!!!!!!!!!#you don't want to help these people!!!!!#you want to bully them but still feel like a good person!#you want to be justified in your hatred of an entire CLASS of people!!!#you don't give a fuck about how it makes them feel!!!!#you care ONLY about whether or not YOU get to VIRTUE SIGNAL that YOURE so thin and pretty!!!!#it is BECAUSE of people like you #and the fact you tolerate fatphobia - BECAUSE of that normalization. that men like the one who called me fat #feel like they can get away with it.#bc there's a line for you where you WOULD be okay with it. where if i WASNT thin you'd be okay with it.#which means the line can always be pushed in a certain direction. and it's always going to appeal to male aesthetics.#''well you didn't deserve it'' maybe fucking NOBODY does babe. maybe we should just all agree not to comment on ppls bodies!!

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dhampling · 2 months

Text

lifeblood 18+ (astarion x fem!reader)

As you step closer and drop the basket on the ground he throws a palm up at you. Short, ragged groans. “That… tea. It’s done something to me. The old wretch.” - astarion discovers an aphrodisiac during a trip to the night market, and only one thing is on his mind. cw: breeding, afab reader, mommy kink (brief), sex pollen, comfort, sexual frustration, zero plot, p in v wc: 2.5k, if there are errors no there aren't; enjoy!

The Night Market is particularly vibrant this evening, people and creatures of all description wandering the streets browsing various wares - and so when Astarion feverishly takes your hand and pulls you away from your browsing in a staggered gait; your immediate thoughts are all telling you to watch for danger.

Wicker basket in arm, flailing as he weaves you both through the tepid mulling crowds - a harsh whisper when you scramble close enough to ask ‘what is it?’ - he’s unrelenting in his pursuit, eyes searching off to each alley and aside between stalls. It’s not until he finds a gated passage a little along that his momentum stops and he drops to his knees to pick the lock; then jumps up and pulls you through with a harsh grasp on your upper arm.

You await the slam. The frantic recollection of whatever it is that has him so wary, the whispers and heads over the gate as you duck your way back home from wherever you’ve now ended up.

Had he been caught thieving? Surely not.

Instead though, he surprises you.

He begins to fiddle with the laces of his trousers. Panting. Brow furrowed into a crease and typically-deft fingers losing hold of the lacing with a pained yowl.

“What is this?”

As you step closer and drop the basket on the ground he throws a palm up at you. Short, ragged groans.

“That… tea. It’s done something to me. The old wretch.”

You bypass his hand and bring the back of your own to his forehead, feeling a clammy sweat atop his brow and a slight heat broiling. The tea you’d turned down around half an hour ago, before you’d split for your own respective market gains.

“Gods - Astarion, the aphrodisiac? Of course it has - you okay?”

As you speak he brings your wrist to his nose and huffs it. A haggard wail. Snorts the salt of your skin and gives a strangled curse. He finishes the laces of his trousers and works to free his cock, looking from it to you in a desperate plea.

“Here? Now? What in the hells is going on?!”

“I can smell it. You. You’re so…’

Another huff. His other hand bounces his cock in his palm, spidery strings of prespill linking pale skin.

‘Fertile. Like a cat in heat. Gods, I- I don’t know what this is.”

His hips rut with insatiable want into the air.

“How do you feel?”

You take him in one hand while wrapping the other around his shoulder in a soothing sail. A few gentle pumps to bring the skin around the head down; a thumb down his slit, literally leaking now. He sobs.

“I’m burning.’

He writhes against the wooden gate, still standing. Tender cries from his wet, wanting mouth.

‘It’s painful. I- I need you. Please.”

“What do you want from me?’

A deliberate, slow jerk; your wrist turning effortlessly.

‘How can I help you, angel?”

For the first time in this whole sorry sequence his eyes meet yours, red turned a dangerous carmine.

“Don’t make me say it.”

You squeeze him in your palm and he wails.

“Maybe I want you to say it.’

He thrusts deeply into your hand and screws his eyes closed, panting in habitual breaths. You lean close to his flushed ear and kitten-lick the inner skin with an intentionally wet tongue.

‘Say it for me. Say it for mummy, darling.’

When the word leaves your lips, his head whips to you furiously. Eyes round and brimming with tears. Bottom lip trembling. Your foreheads meet and you soften. Your poor boy.

‘Do you want this? Or would you like to go home, Astarion? I’ll draw you a bath, we can-”

“I want this. I need- I need to-’

You shuffle away, lifting your skirts and fiddling at your own underclothes to loosen them down your thighs. When he sees your own spool of arousal connecting cunt to cloth he jerks furiously and advances behind you, this time in your ear.

‘Let me fuck you. I’ll make you a mummy. I need to-’

Your fingers disappear deep between your legs, arching your ass into him; and emerge drenched in clear jelly slick - a film connecting them as they splay.

He’s shaking now. He can smell it more vividly than he’s ever been able to smell anything. His hands press over your lower belly; the womb ripe for fertilisation, the way he can envision himself sunk to the hilt and ebbing at the entrance to your cervix, his seed leaking directly into you with each prespill pulse and throb.

‘I need to put a baby in you. I need to breed you.’

He regains control for a brief moment as deft fingers work their way down your front and to the top of your pubic bone. If you were to stop and consider then you know there’s categorically no way he could impregnate you, and even if so; it’s not something you’ve considered to any realistic extent.

‘This won’t go away until I do, sweetheart. I can feel it.”

There’s a solemnity to his whisper, you note. A consideration.

A sadness, maybe?

You wonder how literal he is. If this has triggered some latent need to knock you up. If your fertile days will be spent with him filling you to the brim with his undead spend, over and over; until he somehow manages the impossible.

A stack of crates nearby. They’ll do for this.

You lead him now, a shepherd; to the boxes and hitch your skirts over your ass while you bend over the dry wood.

“If you let me do this, I won’t be able to stop.” Astarion’s voice cracks in the whisper while looking at your glistening cunt with admirable restraint. You feel yourself leaking down the soft skin of your thigh - your own arousal catching on the cool night air.

“I don’t want you to stop.’

He descends on you after a dazed moment to steep in your words, testing the waters with nimble fingers edging between your swollen lips.

‘Fuck me full. Breed me.”

“You’re so ready, aren’t you? Little minx.’

A wretched groan.

‘You want me to get you pregnant? I can feel how ruinously soaked you are - tell me, is this what you want? Have you wanted this for a while?”

When he speaks it’s simply silken. Syrup. His fingers feel excruciatingly good as they round your lust-engorged clit, babbling nonsense in a lusty haze.

“Gods. Yes. Yes. Please, please fuck me. Spill into me.”

The fingers are merely customary. He knows what he wants, and you want it too. Each wanton wiggle of your hips, each brush against your ass cheeks. The blunt head of his cock settles just broaches your entrance as you hear him suckle on his fingertips coyly behind you.

A low hum of approval.

“Good. My darling girl.”

On darling, he begins his relentless campaign.

Once settled at the hilt he stops for a moment in a weighty groan, eyes rolling back into his skull as you turn over your shoulder. His hands settle in a firm grasp on your hips. At this moment he’s determined. Needy. Your cunt is the relief he so desperately seeks and he takes a second to adjust so he can hump you properly. To ensure the seed settles once he’s gathered the momentum to have it spurt deep into your womb.

He feels ridiculously good like this.

Like a meal to the starving, water in the desert. The wet glubs accompanying his shallow thrusts are evidentiary to just how much you need this. Him buried inside you - rattling on like a madman. Talks like his mind will never be the same again.

The only thing in his brain being the unfettered desire to make you round.

“I’ll take you back here again, in a few months. When you’re- when you’re round and aching. Keep your arm in mine at all times so- so they all know just who did this to you.’

A few shallow ruts before he ploughs back in deep.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I- I feel your heart racing, darling. You want my babies? You want to make me a daddy?’

He cants his hips at the breech of your cervix, not pulling back, simply moving to adjust himself inside you. Ensuring his prespill leaks into your waiting womb with each rock of his pelvis.

‘Because I’m feral thinking about making you a mother. All glowy and swollen, my baby inside you.”

His clammy hand slaps your ass, heavy balls smacking on your clit with his terse thrusts.

“I- I want it. I need it. Please.”

Your moans are directly into the dry wood, face now pressed to the side against the crates. Lips swollen from your own attempts to bite back your lewd proclamations. Spit forming a glob of drool in the resting corner.

You’re smiling. Beaming. Gods.

Had you wanted this? Had it been some subconscious desire of yours to mother his children? Has some sketchy tea from a Night Market vendor done this to you through his prespill seeping in? Made you realise just how you wanted your life with him to look?

You’ve not planned for this, but no fear overwhelms you at the thought of the possible outcome of your breeding session. The thought of him sat beaming over your child. The most beautiful man you’ve ever seen; yours, your family, everyone knowing your devotion to each other in the most lifelong sense. Infallible and real and capable of producing something beyond yourselves.

As he continues his pursuit you wonder if they’ll have his eyes. Fangs. Dhampir aren’t a common breed. They’re far too difficult to rear.

But there’s something potent in the way he piles into you where you can begin to see an entire brood of them. Dhampir.

The sheer determination behind his smacks, the way you ass burns each time his palm meets it in a sharp slap. His chuntering warbles - moans, grunting, the light pleading;-

The light pleading.

He’s reaching around your front and holding your lower belly as he fucks you, a slight falter to his pacing.

Poor thing.

“Feed.” You whimper, brushing all hindrances from your neck and arching into him once more so he stops his thrusting.

“I- I can’t. I can’t risk it not taking. This isn’t going away, love.”

His voice cracks, a desperation once more.

“I said feed. Feed on me, my angel. Then fuck me full of you.”

He keeps inside you as he leans over your back, hands moving to feel for your nipples under your blouse and lightly jerking the peaking skin. He stills for a moment in an attempt to regain some of himself.

“Yes, mother.”

You both fall about laughing until he corrects your stance with an urgent tug and waits no time to sink his teeth into the long-standing wounds on your neck.

From his position he can’t thrust, stretched over your back like some heavy battlecloak of old.

You warm him with genuine delight at no risk of him growing soft and feel the way his pretty cock pushes against your ridges in the most minute way. His suckling from you in order to eke out your lifeblood, becoming his own once swallowed. The saccharine pool of metal red gathering under his tongue with each lap.

Once finished, he lifts with renewed vigour. Wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and cackles something wicked.

He gives you no time to adjust before he resumes his conquest on your body, a brutal thrust giving you cause to wince into the crates below you. You whip your head around to sneer at him which earns you a sheepish smile.

Each snap brings you closer. The white heat boiling, spluttering in your gut threatens to spill with each mutter from his blood-smeared mouth.

“I’m close.” You whimper.

He leans over you once more.

“Milk it from me, love. Cum for me.”

The whisper tips you over. Each rolling tidal wave of ecstasy as his thumb strokes the side of your distended clit is molten in extremity, each clench of your cunt vice-like around him. His roaring laughter ecstatic as he rides you through your peak like some seasoned rancher.

Whoever has set up stall by the alley is definitely aware of your brutal fucking. The thought of them discovering you has you in near shambles as you reach the end of climax. Being discovered. Something else that’s relatively new to you, but not unpleasant.

Then, he gasps. Trembles. Shatters. Through the haze of your orgasm you feel him stutter on weak legs and the vulnerability you’ve come to know so well has blinked back into the frame.

“Tell me I can. Now. Quick.”

“Knock me up. You can do it, baby.”

Eyes still round, Astarion humps your ass in anticipation one more time and spills with such force it sends him reeling into audible ecstacy. Each twitch of his cock inside you milky smooth in your combined secretion, blood-pinkened slit spurting, the sheer control as he presses impossibly deep into your waiting cunt. You find yourself rolling back in your own delirium.

His orgasmic rutting doesn’t stop for a long while. A series of beleaguered moans, the way his humming pitches with each slap of his hips; each of his taps against your cervix causing you to clench further and therefore feeding the cycle.

When he does eventually stop, his face buries in between your shoulderblades; arms wrapping around your waist. Silence.

“Astarion, love - are you okay?”

A feeble whisper. Back still arched, his weight on you.

“I’m- I’m so sorry.”

There’s a teary singe to his quiet words, reverent kisses planted on your own now-sweat laden skin. He sniffs.

“It’s okay! We all make mistakes. She did say it was an aphrodisiac, to be fair to her. Is it still affecting you?”

“No, not that.”

“Then what?”

He sniffs once more and wipes his face with the back of his hand, using your hips as leverage to stand.

“I- This. All this. I didn’t want it to come out like this, ideally.”

You shuffle a little and he slips from between your legs, taking your underwear from the floor and turning to face him whilst you roll the garment over your thighs.

“What? That you have a raging breeding fetish?”

He taps your arm lightly and laughs a little, lacing up his breeches.

“Well. Kind of?’

He pulls a face and brings you close, moon overhead gleaming in the cool night. A slight breeze.

‘I don’t know what I want, per se; but I think I like the idea of… Well. This.’

His hands roll over one another as he plants a soft kiss atop your head. You lick your thumb and wipe any remaining blood traces from his lips.

‘It feels ridiculously sordid and entirely dangerous, but the moment that… stuff hit my blood I knew what I needed. I could smell you miles off. Still can.”

“You want to put a dhampir in me?” You laugh, waggling your fingers near his face. He groans.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope.’

You kiss the back of his hand as you reach for the discarded basket.

‘Not until you’ve done it, anyway.”

#my writing #astarion x reader #astarion x female reader #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #nsft

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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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pandoraslxna · 13 days

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Sweet like Cherry — Chapter 5

Miles Quaritch x female scientist reader

Words: 6.3k

Summary: Miles has a secret admirer and apparently, she has a thing for photography.

Warnings: explicit smut, age gap, size difference, alcohol consumption, somehow all men are assholes in this chapter, taking advantage of a drunk reader, cat calling, spanking, rough oral (f receiving), jealousy, possessive behavior, minimal dub-con warning, gambling, biting, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, virgin reader, obsession, authority kink, power play, corruption kink

There's a good reason as to why you don’t talk about personal things with your coworkers.

The problem with most coworkers is, they either don’t know or don’t care about someone’s boundaries. They'll just do something like this because they think it’s a nice gesture, and you don’t understand the point when in reality, they just need another reason to get wasted on another saturday night.

Out of place didn’t even begin to cover the way you felt right now.

You knew parties could be fun and a good time for everyone. Not that you’ve been to many before. You just don’t want to be in the middle of this, can't stand the fact that all these people are clustered around, laughing and talking and celebrating you. It feels like a game of play pretend. You don’t even know half of these people that claim to be your friends. They’re not even coworkers, you think. A dozen of them you’ve never even seen before and you’re sure they don’t even work on the same floor as you.

Maggie is going to pay for this later, because she's the only one who could possibly have told them that it's your birthday, and you specifically told her you weren’t going to let her do anything for your birthday. But you should’ve known, the second she asked to do your make up, then stuffed you into this sinfully tight and entirely too short dress of hers because she convinced you it would be fun, and then coincidentally found a pair of heels to match the look.

You couldn’t actually be that stupid, could you? Obviously she had something planned for you, when she asked to spend the evening of your birthday with you for a coffee. Now that coffee turned out to be whatever liquor was filled into that plastic cup in your hand that was then downed with a loud, cheerful whoo of every women in the room because they convinced you that’s how it’s done at a party.

"Aren't you enjoying yourself even a litte?" Laura asks, looking a little like a puppy hoping for a treat as she watches you chew on the inside of your cheek, standing stiff like a rod in the far corner of the room. You’re almost a little disappointed in her, after you found out she helped planning all this. But you can’t be mad at her when she only means good. Apparently that’s what good cowork— friends. That’s what good friends are supposed to do for each other.

And even though you want to say no, you can't bring yourself to throw their kindness back in their faces. After all, they were the only ones that gave you a chance to prove that you could be more than just that nerd. That nerd that doesn’t even bother to make friends or go to parties, that nerd that doesn't even get invited to said parties because you’re no fun anyways.

You may have earned yourself that name, but it still stings to think too much about it. And maybe you don’t want to be that nerd forever. Maybe you want to let yourself enjoy this.

"Yes, I'm enjoying myself," you finally say, swallowing down a sigh.

"Then smile, and go dance with us!" Maggie nudges your side and you cringe at the thought of dancing in the center of the crowded room.

"Why?" You force out a laugh, even though the question is genuine.

"Is this going to be some kind of philosophy discussion?" The brunette rolls her eyes, and you can’t help but admire her talent in applying false eyelashes that long without poking her eyeballs out. "I wanna dance, that's why!"

"I don't dance."

"Everybody dances! You just move, and you're dancing. How easy is that?"

"No I mean, I don't dance. I spazz. It's painful to watch. Me, spazzing all over the floor…" Your voice has grown quieter with every word, until you’re nearly hiding yourself by taking another gulp of that bright yellow liquor in your cup.

It's sweet and fizzy and tastes like sunlight might if you could drink it, so you empty another cup.

Flashing lights give you a taste of what epilepsy might be like and you feel the music pounding through the air and floor caress your every nerve. You feel fuzzy.

But it seems to be a good fuzzy. Warm happiness flows through your body like thick honey. Okay, maybe that happiness was just this overly sweet tasting booze, but you still felt distant in a nice way, and your head seemed to be floating, only attached to your neck by a string. The feel of Maggie’s sweating hand wrapped around your wrist distracted you beyond words, until you realized she was trying to drag you somewhere.

"Well then, let’s find yourself some company so you don’t get bored while you don’t dance all night", she giggles.

The two of you wended your way across to the other side of the room despite every protest that came from you; dodging tables, drunks, dancers, and others with ease, until Maggie seemed to reach her destination with a proud smile on her face. A group of men, most of them as unfamiliar as the better half of people here.

One of them you knew, though. It was Phil from floor 3. G., that computer engineer that had earned himself the title of Maggie’s friend, but with certain… benefits. However by the way these two were looking at each other through that heavy drunken lust in their eyes, one could assume they were actually more than just that.

Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you nervously nipped at your drink once again as Maggie introduced you to the group. A bunch of people that came to celebrate you, yet none of them even knew your name, you came to realize. Great. And if you weren’t slowly starting to feel very funny inside, that would’ve been just another reason for you to leave this party immediately, slip into your favorite pjs and call it a night.

"So, twenty-six, huh?" One of the men smiles and lifts his drink in a toast, gently tipping the cup against yours which snaps you out of your trance. Looking up, you’re met with long, silky curls that framed a slightly tanned and politely smiling face. Your eyes skimmed over his frame for a split second. His body was...compact, lean, firm, though not overly muscular. Just an average looking guy.

"Yep", you clear your throat and send the man an awkward smile that he answers with a chuckle.

"I‘m Ben", he says and for a second, you hesitate to take his hand that he holds out for you to shake. "Nice to meet you."

The impact of that barest of touches, a mere whisper of skin-against-skin as you shake his hand and he squeezes yours, was enough to send blood rushing to your cheeks. His hands are soft, too soft, you think. Ironically, that makes you think about the dozen times a day lately when you had caught yourself thinking about Quaritch‘s hands. His are rough, big and warm, littered in tiny scars that you could feel when he caressed your skin or when he held you in a bruising grip.

The ones that had you concentrate very hard, to not beg him to touch you, on running those fingers across your body. His hands weren’t soft like Bens, who probably worked behind a desk and spent most of his times indoors, preferably in an office of some sorts.

Ben was also polite, you realized right away. He held small talk like it was second nature to him, even though you couldn’t help the awkwardness in the beginning. But his voice is smooth like honey and his jokes actually manage to make you laugh. Genuinely.

But by the time you had emptied your next cup, you couldn’t even seem to focus on the conversation anymore. Everything had turned into a blur of movements around you, and you were grateful for Bens guiding hand as he placed a glass of water into one of yours and took the empty red cup from the other.

"Here, drink this", he said with a chuckle, "Can’t have the birthday girl pass out this early on her special day, right?"

For a moment that seemed endless to you but for anyone near sober it must’ve been nothing more than a few seconds, your eyes lingered on him. Ben was cute, you thought. Not that kind of puppy cute that could make you go aww and ruffle through his hair, but that kind that made you blush and feel hot all over. He was handsome too. For an average guy. But then again, you’re just an average woman, are you not? And kindness, real kindness, was something you suddenly felt very starved for, especially now that it was served to you on a silver platter.

Suddenly it felt as if that hunger was beginning to burn out of control. As if he could sense your feelings, Ben moved just a little closer, the heat from his body searing your skin as he placed a hand to your upper arm and tilted his head.

"Y-Yes, no, i mean–", you stutter, quickly adverting your gaze from him to the glass of water in your hand. "You’re right. Sorry, i didn’t mean to zoom out like that, it’s just been… it’s just been a week for me and normally I don’t drink. Not that much, at least."

His hand moves in a soothing motion, up and down on your arm as he listens attentively. Ben tells you that you have nothing to apologize for. He asks about your work, your studies. He nods along and smiles to everything you say and it makes you feel appreciated, on a level you can’t remember ever feeling before.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for you to realize that you��re rambling about your work life. And it takes you even longer to realize that through it all, Bens hand hasn’t moved away. That all it did was move up, up, up until he reaches to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking over your cheek just as you explain to him how the the Pamtseowll can be used as a musical instruments due to the sound produced when the wind moves across the leaves of the plant. Looking back you realized, that must’ve been pretty boring for him to listen to, especially since Ben decided to cut you off mid sentence as he pressed his booze tasting lips against yours.

You’re taken aback from the sudden invasion of your personal space, especially when Ben wraps his arm around your middle and pulls you flush against him. But the alcohol in your system makes up for that pretty quickly, heat rushing up to your face and simultaneously between your thighs makes you feel tingly all over.

His tongue pushes past your lips and you gasp into the kiss, the cup in your hand almost slipping out of your grasp as you lean into it.

The allure of cruising for a quick fuck, or possibly hustling for one; no commitment, no strings makes itself known when a soft sigh, almost a whimper, escapes you. It could be so easy, you think. You could do it tonight and get it over with.

You had to do something about this, this feeling whatever it was, get it out of you.

And his lips already fit so perfect against yours, but that’s really the problem, isn’t it? They’re not too big or too small. His hands can’t close entirely around your upper arm. His chest is basically flush with yours. God, you’re almost eye level with him. He’s so normal, so average. It doesn’t feel special with him. There’s no spark behind his kiss, it doesn’t consume you, it doesn’t take your breath away. He doesn’t make you feel special.

No. This wasn't a good idea.

It was no use, picking a man that wasn't even going to be able to fill in for the one you actually wanted. The one who’s hands you wished were touching you now, instead of Bens. The one who’s lips you wanted on yours, so desperately, you couldn’t even stop imagining it were his instead.

Fuck it, you thought. If he could seek you out to find some temporary relief, so could you. And you needed one, needed him, before you did something you would surely regret in the morning.

Bens face was so close, you had to blink a few times to bring it into focus before you gave him a subtle little push and his lips finally detached from yours.

It must’ve been the sudden change of your facial expression, but he suddenly found the need to apologize for kissing you so sudden, so unsolicited.

"No, no, it’s not that. I just need some fresh air, I feel a little nauseous", you admitted sheepishly, which was both, the truth and a lie. You tried not to pay too much attention to the guilty look in Bens face as you excused yourself and quickly found a way to the exit without anyone taking notice of you, basically ditching your own party.

By now, you could make the walk through the dimly lit hallways to Quaritchs room in your sleep. Or, in this case, drunk and on uncoordinated feet.

Anticipation fills your hazed mind and with an enthusiastic thud, your knuckles connect with the metal frame, producing a muffled echo as you knock on his door.

Heart pounding rapidly in your chest, you eagerly wait for him to open, but the silence that follows is deafening. The realization slowly dawns on you that the Colonel isn't home and a mix of disappointment and frustration crosses your face. But you won’t give up that easily. If he’s not here, there’s only one place he could be at this time of the night.

Two floors up and down the corridor on the left, you could already see light beaming under the comically large door, loud voices and laughter echoing through the hallways that could already be heard as you had exited the elevator earlier.

Peaking into the common room that belonged to team Deja blue, you were greeted by a vibrant atmosphere where you knew the military men gathered to unwind after work. The space was adorned with patriotic decor, displaying flags, emblems, and photographs that reflect their shared commitment as well as their love for barely dressed na’vi pin up girls sitting on tanks and posing with guns. How ironic.

The air carries the smell of smoke and beer, and the musky scent of the day's work and you can’t help but shudder. Your inner warning sirens were working overtime as you stepped foot into the room, fear making your knees go weak, yet every sense of logic and common sense was overtuned by the alcohol buzzing through you. The room exuded a sense of unity, one you clearly didn’t belong to, making you stick out like a sore thumb.

Uniformed recombinant soldiers were relaxing on comfortable couches, their boots resting on coffee tables, engage in heated games of pool or cards -everything maximized to their ridiculous size.

It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for the first pair of eyes to land on your much smaller frame, before nudging the recom next to them with their elbow, pointing at you with their chin.

You try to ignore their boring gazes, the sound of low whistles and snickering picking up the more of them realized your presence. Pulling your sinfully short dress a little down lower, a feeling of regret fills your cheeks in a dark blush. But before you can change your mind and turn around to exit, a large palm settles on your lower back, keeping you from walking backwards out of the room.

"Hey doll face, where ya‘ going?"

Craning your neck up, you’re met with a grin that belonged to a recom that had a pair of sunglasses resting on top of his bald head. You knew he seemed familiar, but the liquor you had consumed earlier made it impossible to concentrate enough to remember his name.

"Oh excuse me, I- I‘m– I was just, uhm, looking for Colonel Quaritch?" You winced at the way you made it sound like a question, cursing yourself for embarrassing you by drunkenly rambling to a stranger.

"The Colonel?" He exchanged a look over his shoulder with some of the other soldiers, who were seemingly interested in what you had to say. "Why’s that, buttercup?"

"I, uhm, want to give him something", you improvise. "It’s urgent." That much was true.

The man looks you up and down for a moment, his eyes nearly peeling the little dress from your body as he takes you in, brows raised high.

"Give him something, huh? Why don’t you give that little something to me?" He laughs.

"He’s not here right now, but we can have good time together too", one of the others calls from behind.

You swallow the lump in your throat, awkwardly picking at your fingernails as your hands begin to shake. Deciding to back off and step back from the whole situation, you set one foot behind the other, already preparing yourself to mumble an embarrassing excuse before an arm wraps itself around your waist and you nearly stumble forward and into one of the soldiers arms.

"C‘mere pretty, I don’t bite", he grins, then points his chin to the bald soldier on his right, "But the Corporal over there sure does."

The men laugh and shove each other like a group of rowdy teenagers, and you’re honestly scared one of them could accidentally crush you if they fell. You use the short moment of chaos to wriggle yourself out of the soldiers grasp, only to be stopped short by your wrist.

"C‘mon short stuff, don’t leave", the bald one shows you an almost apologetic smile that you still struggle to trust. "Ignore these fuckers. Stay for a drink, yeah? I‘m sure the Colonel will be back in a minute. And we have the best beer anyone could get in this shit hole!"

Blame it on the liquor, but your mind was slowly beginning to draw blank, throwing all logic and consequences right out of the window and welcoming the nervous excitement of the forbidden. It felt like there was a pressure in your ribcage, making it harder for you to breathe properly, until you finally exhaled a shaky response.

"Just one."

The thing about working in the military is that you learn to kill your own tells. Killing your own tells is what keeps you from getting that double-tap to the back of the head. But learning how to pick up on what other people do when they're nervous as fuck, that's what’s really helpful, you’ve only just realized.

In hindsight, you should have known that agreeing to one beer that ultimately lead to two more and then to a round of poker was a bad idea. And now you’re perched up on someone’s lap and you don’t even know how poker works. That someone is named Lyle, you remind yourself of the previous learned name. His chin rests on top of your shoulder, nose buried in your shared cards that you hold up for him to see, one of his hands squeezing your hip while the other holds your hands steady.

"This one next," he whispers into your ear, pointing at the card on the far left before you laid it down in front of the table as instructed.

"Three fours showing, and over here…" The recom named Prager slaps another card down face-up in front of you. "Still garbage, sorry sweets. Ace high." Grinning, he pushes three colorful plastic chips into a pile in the middle of table. "I bet three."

The rest of the group remains silent, save for the sound of grinding teeth and stressed sighs.

The nervous trembling of your thighs doesn’t let up when the next round of cards is handed out, so you reach for the can of oversized beer and gulp the rest of it down.

"Relax, buttercup," Lyle chuckles, his hand soothing over your thigh, "You need to work on hiding your tells. You don’t want us to loose, do you?"

"Yeah but ya’ gonna if she keeps that up, Wainfleet," another soldier laughs.

"Poor thing is shaking so much, you might as well bet her next to finally get a lucky streak."

Crimson red fills the apple of your cheeks, barely visible however under the alcohol-induced flush of your skin. But even though your senses are as if in daze and directed at what is happening in front you, you still got enough situational awareness to realise that there’s someone standing in the doorway watching with a tense jaw.

"You gotta be careful," that someone says, the words flowing like nothing ever has, making the hair rise on the nape of your neck. "Betting another man's things like that."

And it should bother you, how easily he can categorize you as one of his things, like a gun or whatever fucking possessions he had, but it doesn't, because you are his. Aren’t you?

"Ah, boss", Lyle laughs, and you may not be a marine or recombinant or anything of the sort, but you could tell that he was nervous. Silence bleeds over the rest of team Deja blue as the Colonel steps into the room, sending cards go flying as he yanks you up by your wrist and throws you over his shoulder like a dead deer. Prey.

You squeak once the room has turned upside down, hands instinctively reaching for the hem of your dress to keep it in place as soldiers ogled the way Quaritch was walking you out of the room without another word and marched down the hallway.

The amount of times you’ve found yourself in his room could be counted on one hand, you came to realize, once you’re thrown onto his bed, almost bouncing off the oversized mattress.

A finger is pointed at you, and shame and dread uncontrollably fill your eyes with tears that dare to spill over as Quaritch barks at you like he’s lecturing a child.

"You listen here very careful, kid", he’s damn near yelling, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

Kid.

Being now twenty-six years of age, you certainly took a degree of offense when a man his age still called you 'kid.' There wasn't much childish about you, never have been. Not in the last ten years, so there was no need for him to go running his mouths at you like you were twelve.

Balling your fists at your side, you barked right back at him, "I‘m not a child!"

For several seconds, there was nothing, and you wondered if you’d truly fucked up this time, and you don’t even dare to look up at the man towering over you like a mountain. That is, until the bed suddenly dips and a hand effortlessly closes around your wrist and manhandles you to bend over his lap.

You would squirm and fight and run if it weren't for the iron grip on your wrists, pinning them behind your back like the wings of a butterfly to a board.

"That’s right," he murmurs that part, but the rest comes out more sternly, "So quit actin‘ like one whenever something doesn’t go your way!"

The first blow of his hand descended onto your upturned ass comes so sudden and unexpected, sending you sliding forward over the muscular thigh you were bent over, that you couldn’t help but yelp, before you sucked in a sharp gasp of air as the sting spread through you. "What the— fuck!" You hissed. "What are you even talking about!?"

"What am I talking about?" Quaritch scoffs.

You barely forced yourself to relax when the next one came, making you jump, and duck your head down even lower in a vain attempt to scoot farther away from his hand.

"I can smell the liquor all over you, hun. And the way you were throwing yourself at these little creeps? Don’t act dumb with me. You and I both know damn well what you were trying to do here."

"Y-You’re imagining things!" You protest. Another slap, and this time you could feel the smooth fabric of your dress riding up, giving him unhindered access to the tender flesh beneath. "Fuck, that hurt, you–"

Blow after blow came over you, cutting off every complain and every thought that might’ve formed if you could concentrate enough, and you might have tried counting them but there were so many. Too many, and your ass was burning and suddenly you wanted nothing more than to say you were sorry, you'd never do it again, and maybe the Colonel would stop soon and you could just promise to be good—

But he didn't stop and you heard the smack again and one more landed, and god damn it really fucking hurt. You only realised you had started speaking aloud, babbling apologies and begging for it to stop when fingers ran over your panties, feeling for your throbbing clit beneath the thin fabric.

"Tell me, would you’ve spread your legs for them like you did for me? Thought you could just take what you want because I’m not giving it to you?"

One hand squeezed and molded a cheek, and you moaned as he groped the overly sensitive flesh. If you could gather enough strength to crane your neck and look at him, you would’ve caught the way his ears flicked at the sound of that.

Another slap, this time aimed a little lower, more gentle, with fingertips brushing over your folds at the impact and you let out another moan, less like a painful one and more in a way that was so unmistakable, that when you felt the thigh you laid on tense, you could only guess what was coming now.

"Does this turn you on, getting what you deserve?" Quaritch said lowly, the spanks stopping for a while in favor of torturing you with the barest of touches, rough fingertips flicking over that little bundle of nerves until you were whining and squirming.

"No," you then responded in a hushed whisper.

Pulling the fabric of your panties taunt, Miles gave you a mean wedgie as he inspected the wet patch forming right there. With a chuckle he told you, "you’re pretty little pussy is telling me otherwise."

"That’s– that’s not true!"

"Oh, it’s not? That means you did enjoy all this attention they gave you today, hm? You enjoyed having all these fuckers look at you like you’re candy they want to peel out of its wrapper?"

"I- No, I didn’t–"

Rough fingertips run up and down your slit, cutting you off mid sentence as you feel him pull your slip to the side.

"What were you even doing there?" His voice sounds calmer now, collected, as he thumbs your exposed clit.

"Was looking for you", you mumble, all fight gone the moment warm pleasure fills your veins the more he plays with you like this.

"For me?" Quaritch chuckles, brows raised high. "Why’s that?"

"You know why…" You groan when one of his digits that had been circling your entrance slides into you, painfully slow and teasing, just an inch before it slides out again.

"I do. But I want to hear you say it."

Biting your lip prevents you from giving in to his teasing, but it doesn’t help muffle the moan that’s slips out when he pushes back inside, letting you feel the stretch of your walls as they envelop not one, but two of his thick fingers.

"Missed me, hm?" He grins. You can’t see it from your position, but you can hear that shit eating grin in his voice. And then his fingers start to move. His palm smacks your ass with every thrust, fingers curling inside you to feel for that spongey little spot that made you gasp.

"C‘mon, say it."

He speeds up fast. Too fast for you to catch up with, forcing moans and wet squelching sounds out of you, until you huff out in frustration.

"Fuck, okay! Yes, I missed you." That one actually makes him laugh, enough for you to grind your teeth, turn your head and bark back at him, "And you’re an… you’re a jealous old man!"

"Yeah? That so?"

His eyes seem to pierce right through yours as he glances back at you, grin sharp and dangerous before he grabs you by the waist and spins you around so you’re pushed with your back against the mattress, instead of being uncomfortably bend over his thighs.

If there was one thing that was able to set the butterflies in your tummy alive and making them do little jumping jacks, it was the way Quaritch so easily manhandled you so you were bend like a pretzel, panty shoved down and over your ankles, who were now nearly touching your ears. It was harder to breathe like this, that was for sure. But you don’t mind the position one bit, especially with the view of him laying down flat on his stomach, head neatly nestled between your spread thighs as he admires the wet glossy look of your pussy just begging for him to finally fucking do something.

You had guys go down on you before. Two in total. And it wasn’t like they were necessarily bad at it, it was just that they apparently had learned one way to do it and then decided to stick with whatever that technique was called. And that’s when you decided that being on the receiving end of oral, it wasn’t really for you.

But with Quaritch, you knew from the very second the tip of his tongue parted your folds from your slit to your clit, that it was gonna be different.

It felt like the pleasure was shooting straight up your spine, making your back arch off the bed as he repeated the same motion once more, groaning when your slick juices hit his tastebuds.

"Holy shit", you let the words out in a shaky breath, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling above you.

"Eyes on me, cherry."

Glancing down on yourself, you catch the moment he spreads your folds with his thumbs to get better access to your clit that coyly peeks out from under its hood. Quaritch gives the little nub a teasing tap with his fingertip, and you both watch as a thin string of arousal and spit connect your clit with his finger before it breaks. Not even a split second later and he’s on you again.

You nearly choke on a moan when his lips close around your clit and sucks, his mouth halfway covering your whole cunt as he eats you out, tongue swirling around those sweet spots of yours. The noises he makes are wet, sloppy and so dirty, and it brings you to the edge of that pleasure high faster than you could process.

A hand reaches for his buzzed down hair as he gives you a filthy kiss right where you need it.

"Oh- Oh god, I think I’m gonna come", you moan as his hands slide up to hold you more open than you were before, so that he could taste you again and again, his tongue dipping deeper and deeper inside every time. Your hand curls tighter in his hair, tugging, and you worry for a moment that you were hurting him. Not that this was even possible. Still, you just couldn’t help it– touching him was the only thing anchoring you, as if you would float away and disappear if you‘d move your hands just an inch.

But Quaritch doesn't seem to mind, not if the way he groans, grinds his face against your pussy and thrusts his tongue deeper into you is anything to go by.

You could feel the pleasure growing inside you, in your toes and in your spine and behind your eyelids, and you arch against him, moaning at each touch of his tongue, his lips against your clit– sucking and slurping and kissing. It's building and you’re reaching for it, hips jerking violently as though to follow his mouth, and then you’re falling apart with a gasp that ebbs into a moan.

You don’t even hear yourself for the first couple of seconds, the blood rushing behind your ears drowning out the volume of your moans before your legs finally stop trembling and clenching around the head nestled between them.

Arms falling limp to your sides, you watch your own chest raising and falling in frantic pants. You’re spent and exhausted, truthfully. But you can’t help but notice that the wet glide of the Colonels tongue hasn’t stopped yet. It circles around your clit, not quite touching it, just teasing.

"Miles", you call for him, soft and quiet, voice hoarse from moaning. You’re not prepared for the sudden suction on raw nerves created by his puckered lips, and you cry out in surprise. Your legs twitch in overstimulation as he sucks and groans, the vibrations only adding further to the stimulation that quickly morphs from uncomfortable to pleasurable. "M-Miles, fuck! I- I can’t, wait!"

Your back nearly arches off the bed, if it weren’t for his his hands keeping you in place. It felt like his tongue was everywhere at once, licking every inch of your cunt, all those places that brought yet another orgasm rushing forward.

Unable to control the movements of your body, you pump your hips against his face as your stomach muscles clench and your head digs into the pillow underneath you.

"Can’t, I can’t", you mewl, "s‘too much!"

"No, you will take it", he says, barely lifting his head to speak and the air that blows out between his words send a full on body shiver through you. "You will take it because that’s what little sluts get. I‘m only giving you all this attention that you were seeking today and now you’re complaining?"

It takes a moment for you to find your voice.

"I‘m not- not a slut", you protest. Glancing down at Quaritchs face, his wet chin and lips slicked with you, his lips curl in diabolical pleasure.

"No? Then whose humping my face like this? Who’s been fucking dripping all over my thighs from being spanked, huh? Cherry, you are a little slut. A desperate one too."

His sharp tongue then flicks over your clit again, and you break into a thousand pieces. It feels so good you’re shaking, as red hot pleasure surges through your veins and clouds your vision. Your second orgasm ebbs away faster than the first, but is nonetheless as intense. The feel of sticky wet arousal soaking the sheets below you makes you cringe and you want to move away, but the iron grip he has on your thighs doesn’t falter. If anything, he just holds you more secure, pulls you closer, to press his tongue into you as far as it could reach.

"Oh god- please, I can’t!" You nearly sob, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes while Quaritch flattens his tongue to catch every droplet of slick running down your slit. "Give me a break!"

"One more," he purrs, dark and sinister, his sharp grin visible even as he peeks up from between your legs.

"I don’t know if I can," you whine, throwing your head back at the invitation of sensations that just don’t let up.

"You can and you will."

The pressure of his suction continues as he moves his tongue, trailing it along your lips and over to your clit again. He sucks the sensitive nub and then slides two fingers inside your body, curving them, increasing their pressure as your loud moans turn into screams.

Miles wraps his free arm around your waist, stilling your trembling hips and locking you in place. He increases the thrusts of his digits, rubbing intently against your walls as he sucks harder on your throbbing clit. He's determined to make you see stars and it’s for him to decide when this insanely pleasurable form of torture is finally over.

You could only hope, pray and moan to him, god or whoever– as you felt the beginning tremors of what you hoped would be your last orgasm for the night course through your body, and your legs clamp tightly, unable to withstand the sheer intensity of it.

Sensing the growing tension in your body, Miles suddenly pulls back, replacing his mouth with his thumb on your clit, stroking around the glands before touching it directly, causing you to cry out.

He grins, catching his breath, and then continues his assault on your body until you’re past the point of return, walls clenching around his fingers and thighs pressed firmly to his shoulders, framing his head.

It’s heat against heat, hot tongue against hotter folds, and you throw your head back and sob with relief. It’s good, really good— his tongue is long enough so that when he laps at you he hits your clit on the upswing every time. Your hips buck once its too much, his tongue nearly rubbing you raw but he holds you down and then it becomes just right as you fall apart with a cry.

It takes several minutes for your senses to come back together, regain your vision and hearing, and when you blink your sore eyes open, you’re met with Quaritch‘s, just as he’s finishing leaving a final mark on your inner thigh. His teeth have left a purplish imprint on your soft skin and he grins at you.

"You’re mine. Never forget that."

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dailypenpen · 4 months

Text

What do Genshin Men think of with you in their arms? (pt. 2)

characters: Alhaitham, Wriothesley, and Childe

notes: overworked reader (Alhaitham). gn reader, only you pronouns used.

a/n: hello hi um make sure to like and subscribe!! Thank you all for your nice comments on my previous post :) this might not be as good as the prev one 🙇

HERE'S PART 1

Alhaitham thinks you're quite the unique person. You're on the verge of sleep, yet you insist on fighting the urge to shut your eyes. You try, and fail, to rub it out. Your pen is gripped loosely in your hands, your handwriting starting to appear like gibberish.

Alhaitham frowns at your actions, observing you with lidded eyes. Why are you so persistent in keeping yourself awake? Don't you realize that your body is already telling you that it wants to retire right now? He wonders if you got any sleep last night, with how your head is drooping so much. His eyebrows knit together in worry at your state.

You aren't even listening to him anymore, brushing it off with something along the lines of you're not tired. Your lies aren't backed up properly, Alhaitham points out, with how much you're yawning. You groan, now moving to ignore him completely. Your writing is now incomprehensible. You almost planted your face on your papers.

Well, drastic times call for drastic measures. You are in mighty need of a nap.

He grabs you by the shoulders, much like a mother cat with its kitten. He drags you away to the couch with ease. Your sleepy protests are left unheard as he gently sets you down onto the cushions. The moment your body feels the softness of it, your face melts with satisfaction. Alhaitham sighs, sitting next to you. He reaches for your head, letting it lean against his shoulders as the two of you relax.

He glances at you, your tired eyes finally closed. He looks down at your hands and intertwines them with his own. The corner of his lips turned up at the soft sight of it. Who would have thought that someone like him would end up with someone like you? It's puzzling, really. But he chooses not to question it, settling on focusing on you.

Alhaitham presses a soft kiss on your head, his other hand running through your hair. He takes in your features, taking in the ethereal beauty that your entire being exudes. He leans in close, wanting to look at you even more clearly. Tracing the curves of your face, studying it with precision. His eyes trained to look at every part of your face that he deems the most wonderful piece of art his eyes ever laid on. Beating even Kaveh's best work, he muses to himself.

You stir, blinking awake your eyes in hopes that you can catch a peek of him. You try to subtly glance at him but you didn't expect him to look at you like that. To look at you with such softness, with such fondness. With such great intent, great purpose. You can feel your cheeks flush at his heavy gaze. Like by just looking at you, he might find all the answers he seeks.

"Take your rest now, sunshine. You deserve it."

Wriothesley thinks that he is one damn lucky guy. The two of you decided to go on a much needed date after not seeing each other for so long. You wanted to go to this one restaurant, fancy decorations and equally fancy food to be paired with a lovely night together. Of course, who was he to say no to you? He missed spoiling you, hugging you, giving you all the love you rightfully deserve. But work had made both of you busy, so it's no wonder why he immediately jumped to the offer of a date.

He leans against a building near the restaurant, occasionally looking at his pocket watch. He's wearing something more formal, yet still so distinctively him. Wriothesley tugs on his tie, Sigewinne must have tied it a bit too tight for his own liking. It takes half a mind for him to resist the urge to loosen it.

He glances at the people around him, whispering amongst themselves. He knows that some people are looking at him with surprise. The Duke, out in public? Not on official business? He smirks at the thought of their potential questions. The people here can't live without their gossip, can they?

Your voice suddenly calls out for him, Wriothesley instantly perking up. You're running towards him, a huge smile on your face. He opens his arms wide, and you take the cue to jump forwards. He doesn't so much as stumble when you both collide against one another. He wraps his arms around you, taking in your scent and warmth.

At this very moment, he thinks that all is finally well in this world.

You're almost floating off the ground, with Wriothesley lifting you up so that your face is close to his. Your huge grin from before is still present, your hands moving to cup both of his cheeks. He softens instantly, akin to a dog receiving pats from their owner. You could almost see a tail tagging from behind him.

He thinks you look absolutely gorgeous— almost ravishing if anything. You don't often wear clothes like this, but when you do he just relishes in it. He preps kisses on the palms of your hands, smile softening as he hears you chuckle at his actions. He sets you down, not before staring deep into your eyes and leaning ever so closely. He whispers to you, intending that you and only you can hear his proclamation of love. That only you can know about what he truly thinks of you.

"Sweetheart, do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"

Childe thinks he might be in heaven. The two of you just finished a round of sparring with one another, covered in sweat and grim from it. He sighs in satisfaction, knowing that you beat him this time. He'd want nothing more than to shout out to the skies that he lost against his lover. Childe is proud that he lost, because it was against you. He'd be ok with losing, if it was you who was winning.

You lazily lean against his back, gasping for air. You wipe your sweat with your shirt as it hurriedly drips to the ground. All the while Childe is starring intently at you. You don't even notice the way he's looking at you, eyes focused on your exhausted figure. He whistles lowly, eyes glinting with a plan.

Who was he to deny himself of this opportunity?

Before you know it, you feel a weight on your back and you somehow manage not to fall under it. You screech in surprise, turning your head to look at Childe with wide eyes. You try to shake him off you but he's persistent in staying put. He only grins at you, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling your neck. He doesn't care that he's sweaty or that you are too. All he wants right now is to be close to you, even if both of you are filthy and in desperate need for a bath.

You eventually give up, grumbling under your breath. Your hand unconsciously moves to his hair, ruffling it to get the dirt out. He hums in glee, eyes closed and hands tightening around you more. Childe wishes to stay like this forever but he knows that you'll immediately protest to his suggestion. What a bummer, he thinks to himself. You are much too comfortable to let go of. If he had it his way, he would have brought you both to the ground. That way, you won't be able to escape his hugs.

He kisses your cheek, reluctantly releasing you from his embrace. You turn to look at him, wanting to scold him. And dread goes to your face once you look at his playful face. What was he thinking this time? Surely he wouldn't want to spar again? Childe laughs at your expression, and he can almost hear what you're thinking. Really, can you blame him? You give him so much joy and happiness! Who was Childe if he wasn't going to chase that high?

Plus, it's you. He'll never get tired of you, no matter what you both do.

"C'mon babe, you can't be tired already! Come at me!"

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incorrectbatfam · 1 year

Note

dickie and jason headcanons pretty please

Everyone thinks Tim and Damian are a nightmare to have in a room together, but it's actually Dick and Jason. Tim and Damian still need to work through a thing or two and subconsciously pull their punches because of that, but Dick and Jason have no such thing. They've been siblings the longest and at this point it's an undisputed fact that they love each other, so there's zero limit to them being absolute menaces

They've been in a Toy Blast standoff since last year. Dick keeps speedrunning the levels and Jason keeps deleting the app from Dick's phone until he catches up

The bathroom switch in the Bludhaven apartment is outside the bathroom. Barbara kept telling Dick to get it changed and he kept procrastinating, so when Jason broke in and turned the lights off in the middle of Dick's shower, all Babs said from the other room was "Told you so"

Jason: "Alfred, tell Dick to quit breathing over my shoulder"

Dick: "Tell Jason to quit blocking the screen with his big helmet"

Alfred: "Sort it out yourselves, this is not in my job description"

Dick wrestled Jason for an Oreo but also gave him the comfier sleeping bag in the span of five minutes while they were on a stakeout

Jason is absolutely the sibling that chases Dick around the house with a knife for fun when Bruce and Alfred aren't around

Dick: "Get out of my room"

Jason, lurking outside the windowsill: "I'm not in your room"

Dick's outfits aren't truly considered nice until they pass the Jason Test, which is getting a "meh" instead of "you look like you were drawn by a fourth grader"

To brag that he got the last slice of pizza, Jason slapped it across Dick's face

The most accurate ruler in the world is the one they use to split the last candy bar (but Dick secretly lets Jason have an extra millimeter)

And the most accurate measuring cup is the one they divide the last of the apple juice with (though Jason generously gives Dick a few drops more)

The tension is palpable—even the Subway guy cutting their sandwich can feel it

Alfred sends them out to do yard work and they start sword-fighting with increasingly bigger sticks until Dick grabs a rake and Jason whips out the All-Blades

Jason: "I was here first!"

Dick: "I was born first!"

Jason: "I was adopted first!"

Dick has two Instagram accounts—Dick Grayson and Nightwing. Jason has three—Jason Todd, Red Hood, and the verified Nightwing

When the Cave is colder than usual, Jason brings Dick his favorite peppermint hot chocolate but always takes the first sip

Together they stole the bat-plane, flew to Lebanon for food, received a hefty fine after nearly colliding with a fighter jet, got a huge scratch on the side, paid someone under the table to fix it, and put it back where they found it in the span of Bruce debriefing the Justice League

Dick will go through Jason's leftovers, pick out what he likes, and leave the rest. Later he'll hear Jason walk out of the kitchen shouting "Who the FUCK took the shrimp out of my shrimp fried rice?!"

When they were kids Jason's bedtime was half an hour later than Dick's. Dick still has beef with Bruce about that

Dick is Player 1. Jason is Player 6 because the first time they played he grabbed a random controller from a box of dozen

Jason: "Help me bury this body"

Dick: "Sure"

Jason: "Also I need to delete all record of this guy's existence"

Dick: "Will do"

Jason: "And can you get me a drink?"

Dick: "Get it yourself"

When he first arrived, Jason was resistant to the idea of having an older sibling until he realized he has Younger Brother Privilege

Dick hides the remote with a sword swallowing trick and Jason hates it

They use texts for personal conversations, WhatsApp for vigilante business, and Snapchat for unhinged memery. It's like talking to 3 separate people

They also have their own text abbrevation: DTB (Don't tell Bruce)

They don't apologize, they just sulk in their rooms for a couple hours until Alfred calls them down for dinner and they forget all about it

Goon: "Who's that blue fella? Youse was fightin' real loud"

Jason: "Nightwing. He just pisses me off sometimes"

Goon: "I can take care of him"

Jason, lighting a cigarette: "Go ahead, I'll be here when you get your ass handed to you"

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shinjisdone · 10 months

Text

When You Have An Secret Admirer - And It's Not Them (Diasomnia; 7)

A love letter was left at your door and now you are searching for that ‘secret admirer’ - everyone wants to help you out…but have their own reason for it.

'I can't give you the faboulus experience of an Fae nor can I give you the treasures of royalty...I'm sorry about that. But know that I can give you my entire heart.'

form of headcanons + scenario-ish

[note: reader is gender-neutral but mostly mentioned in 2. pov; a series of everyone you meet following you. headcanon will follow each char. own thoughts on the situation. mostly nervousness, slight jealousy & stubbornness]

Part 1: Heartslabyul

Part 2: Savanaclaw

Part 3: Octavinelle

Part 4: Scarabia

Part 5: Pomefiore

Part 6: Ignihyde

Weirdly enough nighttime was your comfort time.

An odd thing to name it, Malleus noted. You could only half-heartedly laugh as your eyes drifted to the ground. You could barely listen to his ramblings of gargoyles.

In fact, you were somewhat...relieved. Malleus and in this case all of Diasomnia haven't...done anything. No cheating. No corruption. No overblot.

Not yet at least.

There wasn't a single thing to dislike about them, aside from their little ego boost they get when they show off their power. It's true most students of that dorm are highly talented nobles and nobility tends to get arrogant. Surely they couldnt be such an eyesore, right?

Could your secret admirer do anything to them?

Lillia Vanrouge

That'd be a foolish decision.

Lillia is surprisingly one of the last people to get wind of these things. Both Kalim and Cater weren't so talkative of what happened in their dorms when he meets with them in their club. In Cater's case, Riddle insists on not talking about the 'criminal' so rumors wouldn't spread and Kalim was surprisingly dejected at the mention of the secret admirer.

A secret admirer, eh?

Oh, how exciting that sounds. Lillia didn't know young people were still into that old courtship tradition.

Though he has heard they aren't really your typical, run-of-the-mill admirer...

Even for Fae standards that is...woof.

And they have their eye, heart, admiration and affection all for you? Little Prefect of Ramshakle dorm and Malleus' friend?

Well, that makes perfect sense. Lillia couldn't imagine anyone else being the target object of affections, especially when someone is this determined to show their love.

On one hand he is happy for you. You deserve all this attention for you are such a cutie human. But on the other hand...eeeehh, perhaps such a person would not really suit you, no?

I mean, even Lillia finds them a tad bit odd and maybe extreme.

The father-like blood in him causes him to worry. He is of course worried about you but especially about Silver and Malleus. The latter won't like that his favorite human is...well, getting attention in such a way.

And Silver? Poor boy probaby doesn't know what to do with himself.

Oh, my. Perhaps he should offer a helping hand.

Sebek Zigvolt

What is the meaning of THIIIIIISSS

The last one of the first years to catch up.

Literally did not notice a single thing until the squad straight up told him + he needed the extra confirmation from Lillia. What do you mean you had a secret admirer from the very start?

Your strange behaviour? Sebek shurgged it off, probably just the change of the weather.

Things going haywire in the other dorms? Well, obviously. They aren't as great and organized as Diasmonia and have no great WAKA-SAMAAA in their circle.

Admirer shenanigans? Pah, nothin' but rumors.

BUt the MOMENT Lillia or Malleus tell him of these things he just IMMEDIATELY believes them.

WH-wh-wh-WHaAT??? :O Waka-sama you are so smart for noticing these things! OH, you are like a royal detective, the Sherlock Holmes of faes to-

Wait, everybody already knows?

.-.

A bit...stumped and confused. You...got a secret admirer? And judging from all the things he has heard and all the lasting consequences he has seen in the dorms...it's quite serious too, isn't it?

huh

WelL; whAt does the matters of a hUmAN concern him ANYWAY??? YOU Aren't Waka-sama nor Lilia-sama so...who cares??? Sebek doesn't. Nope. Not one bit.

The others try as they may but Sebek gives the entire thing the cold shoulder. He doesn't care, that is your problem. If anything, aren't humans usually super happy when they have a secret admirer? You should concider yourself grateful.

The squad tells him, no, this isn't something to be thankful for nor something to ignore. This is serious and complicated and none of them can just leave you alone in this.

Sebek supposes that makes sense...

But well, he...he can't show he cares...because he doesn't. No.

Silver

Also kind of the last one to catch up. Mostly because he literally slept on it.

Well, techincally it is not of his concern. It doesn't interfere with his classes, his training or when it comes to protecting Malleus, though the latter seems to be concerned.

He can't deny his worries...and understands them, too. You are a great friend to Malleus and to Silver as well.

Of course. It makes sense that you have a secret admirer. You are to be admired for all that you are. All that you have gone through as a magicless student. Though is this attention truly...loving?

Does not have a single concern in his mind if Diasomnia will be humiliated next. His old man is nto concerned and therefore, he won't be either.

Silver is more worried about Malleus.

Additionally, you have to face these 'affections' all on your own...will you be alright? Perhaps you need protection?

Silver would gladly provide it...but he is unsure if he can just barge in and be part of this whole shenanigan.

Malleus Draconia

Funnily enough, Malleus is one of the first people to know about your admirer.

It was the night after the 'crime' was comitted at Heartslabyul. Lost in your thoughts you almost forgot that you promised Malleus to accompany him on your many night walks.

The prince noticed your stillness.

"I'm sorry, Tsunotarou," You gave him a nervous smile, "Something came up today and I think I need to...think it all through."

You cut the stroll short and excused yourself. Malleus had no problem and let you be, a bit surprised you'd ever find yourself in a pickle. "Certainly. Just know that you can always talk to me about your worries, Child of Man...or not if you don't prefer."

And so you were gone. And your strolls became shorter and shorter.

Out of worry, the fae went to Lillia and told him of his woes. His friend is...not as chipper as usual.

Lillia promises to keep an eye out...and lo and behold, as the news of the admirer became bigger and bigger and the things they caused out of love more vivid and vivid, Lillia told Malleus of what was really going on.

...Oh?

A...secret admirer?

He felt a bit uneasy at the thought...

He may not be present at everything nor up to date (it feels like not getting invited) but Malleus can tell that this way of courtship is...peculiar.

Was first surprised that traditional wooing was also executed by humans (your admirer IS human, right?) but oh my, not even faes are that...hm, let's say, determined and petty.

Thinks it's endearing but also pathetic. Winning your love does not need to revolve around the doom of other dorms, does it? Even when they have wronged you.

After all, you all made up. You wanted to and were the reason why everything was good between you and the dorms now, even though you are magicless.

Seems like this admirer does not know you well...not as well as Malleus does.

The prince has been quietly pondering ever since, cradling his chin in thought. Lillia watches in anticipation.

My, this is strange.

Lillia has been watching from the sidelines for quite a bit...but he got the feeling that today was especially peculiar.

Making his way to the entrance of the dorm he absent-mindedly told Silver of his mild woes to which the lad immediately insistend on accompanying his father. Usually the fae would decline and say it isn't a big deal...but maybe Silver should witness it, too.

The student followed worriedly as Lillia seemed to...go up and down and all around the entire dormitory. He knew he was old but old enough to know the entire building like the back of his hand? Where are they going anyway, it feels like entering a labyrinth.

The wind blew high and dark clouds swirled around. Just as Silver wanted to ask what they are doing on the roof, Lilia seemed to have caught something right before it went down the chimney. The fae barely waited to be back in his room and opened up the letter right then and there.

'Nighly walks can make one sick, Draconia.'

What a way to start off a greeting.

Lilia

Oh my, my, my, MY!

Alright, his gut was right then.

Lilia wasn't planning on interfering, really...but this won't do.

Passive-aggressive jealousy towards Malleus and therefore the entirety of Diasomnia cannot be ignored.

It's kind of a shame really. This secret admirer seemed so passionate but it also looks like their negative traits are passionately expressed as well.

They just had to succumb to their weakness...love really makes people complicated. Or commit awful things unnecessarily.

Silver already knows and he trusts him. However, it's best if you and Sebek don't get the news...you are heavily involved as the admired and Sebek can get uuhhhh...maybe even more passionate than the admirer themselves.

Unsure how to approach Malleus though. The lad also feels quickly challenged...

Silver

An emergency!

Silver is ready to draw his sword. It must be one of these messaged threats to royals he has heard about! In fact, it reminds him of the tale of the Thorn Fairy...

Nevertheless he keeps his cool, following Lilia. However, he can't help but stick close to Malleus in general...glimpsing at him in worry.

As a matter of fact, his thoughts then flow over to you. While the message was meant for Malleus and is certainly no love letter, he still worries about you. If Malleus has to deal with something akin to jealousy and well, a threat (thats what he sees it as for sure, Lilia is a bit more amused even in his concerns) what must you be feeling being the object of affection?

How long will you play that role? Are you comfortable? Unsure? Unsafe? It is such a complicated issue, one that does not need to go over such lengths...

If only your admirer were normal...

Hm, no...maybe no. Maybe that still wouldn't calm Silver entirely.

As a knight he does not have a good feeling about this. He decided he will protect Malleus and you. The crown prince is being threatened and you seem more like a damsel in distress rather than a blushing maiden to him anyway...

Just how is Silver going to approach this? Just start hanging around you like a guard?

He got the feeling he might start having bad dreams about this...

Sebek

As much as Lillia tried to keep this a secret, Sebek of course butts heads and shoves his nose wherever needed when it comes to the well-being of Malleus.

WH-WHA-WHAT? A-AN EMERGENCY! A THREAT! AN ENEMY! WE NEED TO FIND THEM ASAP!!!

Is quick to panic and will drop everything to find the 'enemy'. No one will get past him to WAKA-SAMA!!!!

Unlike Silver, Sebek is unfortunately too emotional to control himself and will quickly blame you for having this 'secret admireeeer' of yours who only causes trouble! Don't you know?! They want Waka-sama's head! (An exaggeration)

This of course leads to the word being spreak quite quickly. Huh? The dormleader of Diasomnia got a letter? Bullying? No, threats? THE crown prince? What's going on?

Great job, Sebek, now everyone knows.

The student quickly clams up and starts feeling guilty for pointing his finger at you and barking up the wrong tree. Silver and Lilia are quick to tell him that this isn't your fault and that just adds to his guilt.

Yet...it is your secret admirer's fault. They are the one causing trouble, they are the one envying Waka-sama, they are the one trying to win your heart.

He's all over the place and so are his feelings. Sebek is trying to do the right thing but it isn't going as swell as he hoped he would.

If only that admirer never had the courage to show you their love and none of this would be happening. If only things could have stayed the way they have.

Malleus

Thanks to tattletale Sebek, Malleus swiftly heard of this 'bullying' as some students have asked him about and demanded Lillia to show him this so-called 'threat'.

Re-reading the one sentence over and over again, Malleus couldn't help but laugh. He first chuckled, then chortled before straight up letting out a guffaw.

"Nightly walks makes one sick, eh?" He mockingly repeats. There's something about this letter that hinders him from crumbling or throwing it away. Looking at it a second longer, Malleus insisted on keeping it.

Wouldn't matter if it did go missing. The prince can easily recall the threat as if it were a spell.

The fae can't deny it. The thought of you having a secret admirer irked him. It made absolute sense that someone else notices your quaint self and so he held himself back. As long as you were happy.

But now this petty student thinks they can just challenge him? Tell him to stop spending time with you?

All the while spitting out the name 'Draconia'. He could read the venom out of it.

How funny. They think Malleus will listen? Set aside his own feelings and just - stop being your friend? Sever your bond and accept defeat as if he had no chance whatsoever?

Pathetic little worm.

[welp, this is the last one. i saw many wondering who the admirer might be and...its not what you think. not malleus. think of anyone and you are wrong. its no one from rsa either. sooo...will be taking a break now and instead take requests. after that another project with the secret admirer will be started before they finally and officially confess to you...]

#twst #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twst #twisted wonderland #secret admirer #diasomnia #twst x reader #lilia vanrouge #twst silver #sebek zigvolt #malleus draconia #twst scenarios #gender neutral imagine #twst headcanons

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fairyhaos · 8 months

Text

how seventeen help their s/o who bumps into things

requested by anon: "I'm someone who is pretty bad with my peripheral view & I end up bumping into corners, walls, or tripping/stumbling over objects that are near me, I was wondering if you could make a svt reaction to them realizing this really bad habit & how they would react?"

notes: a 'how svt' reaction from fairyhaos after a long, long time ! i hope you guys like it <3

masterlist

seungcheol

in the beginning he'd get soso concerned that you were constantly bumping into corners and tripping over things on the floor. has attempted to book and drag you to an appointment at the opticians on a total of 5 different occasions only for you to insist that it's just your horrible peripheral vision and it's Fine. gets worried that you're gonna bruise yourself rlly badly, but you've convinced him to be less hovery-panicky when you accidentally walk into the latest inanimate object.

jeonghan

alternates wildly between acting like a concerned parent and not batting an eye. he's quick to pull you away from walls when it looks like you're getting close to bumping into it while rushing around a corner tho. makes small, conscious efforts to prevent you from hurting yourself, like holding your hand while you're out walking together or making sure that pathways through doors are as smooth as possible in his house so there are no obstacles for you to bump into. still laughs and shakes his head fondly as he remembers the one time to rammed head first into a glass door bc you didn't realize it was shut

joshua

you've bumped into his dining table and his coffee table and every piece of furniture in his house so many times that he asks you one day, half joking and half serious, if you'd like him to baby proof his house for you. finds it rlly endearing actually. gets concerned that you'll get painful bruises tho and always whips out an ice pack when you've had a particularly nasty bump with the wall, but other than that he's gonna make a surprised "oh!" sound before smiling and rushing over to you to pat your head and ask if his lovely darling is doing okay and do you want him to kiss is better for you? ^^

junhui

you're just like him fr!!!!! this little kitty keeps bumping his head on stuff bc he misjudges how short something is (or how tall he is) and so the two of you together are Walking Hazards. neither of you can walk in a straight line. you're constantly bumping shoulders, or bumping into other people, or just bumping into Stuff all the time. jeonghan jokes that you just make each other worse, and you protest every time before accidentally bumping into a table or a wall and making junhui trip over your feet bc he was standing far too close to you

hoshi

acts like it's the end of the world every time. wails loudly, whips out an emergency aid kit from somewhere and asks you to "show me the injury babe, show me where the wall hurt you so i can fix it immediately!!!!!" even if it's just a light, accidental touch against the wall as you turn a corner, he's fussing over your shoulder and asking if you need any bandages. definitely carried u bridal style one time bc you just kept on bumping into things as you walked and he was like. that's it. i can't have you being hurt anymore just jump into my arms and ill carry u!!!! he ended up almost tripping over thin air but oh well. he means well.

wonwoo

his eyes immediately zero in on you whenever he hears a soft "thump" and the sound of you either swearing your head off or making a small "oops" sound, depending on how hard you'd hit something this time. always assesses if you've hurt yourself badly before deciding how to respond, but these days he's learnt that your bumps often aren't incredibly life threatening and more like a little kitten bumping into their reflection in the mirror bc they didn't even know reflections existed. it's kind of cute, he thinks, even if he does wince in sympathy a little when you stub your toe against a chair leg and then start swearing like a sailor

woozi

you come running into his room to show him something before abruptly tripping over a fold in a rug, bashing into the wall and knocking his headphones off his side table all in the span of three seconds, and he doesn't know whether he should laugh or ask you if you're okay. he's kinda used to it now tho, so he does both, and you just roll your eyes before flopping onto his bed and pulling out your phone to show him the video you originally came to show. it's a normal occurrence, you're both used to it, and he's long since given up trying to protect you from your habits

minghao

yelps in surprise every time, and then sucks in his teeth and clicks his tongue, pulling you closer to him to avoid any more accidents. rubs your arm or your hip or wherever you've managed to hit yourself against something this time, telling you that your body is precious okay u can't keep hurting yourself like this >:(( still lowkey thinks you look like an adorable bumbling baby animal tho, especially when you walk wobbily and end up bumping into something before shaking your head confusedly and continuing on your path. is trying to teach you better spacial awareness. can't tell if it's actually working or not.

mingyu

he loves it. thinks it's hilarious. not the part where you might hurt yourself, but the part where you run into stuff and go "oops" so adorably. the both of you are The Clumsy™ couple with mingyu breaking things left and right and you giving yourself bruises every day when you bump into the latest innocent object that had been minding its own business. the first few times he was worried you'd hurt yourself really badly, but once he realised that you didn't get too hurt from it then he'd resorted to grinning at you adoringly (like your terrible peripheral vision was something cute???) bc he just thinks anything you do is so funny and sweet

dokyeom

always has an arm slung over your shoulder whenever he can while out walking on the street to protect you from dangerous corners or lamp posts or anything while you're out and about. it doesn't stop you bumping your hip against like, those mini standing cafe signs, or tripping over cracked paving slabs though, no matter how securely he's holding you into his side. you always end up making a surprised noise when you bump into something and then immediately apologise to the object, and it makes seokmin burst into laughter every time and pull you even closer to him because he just thinks that it's the funniest and cutest thing ever

seungkwan

soooo protective of you like actually. he would totally not be averse to the idea of wrapping you up in bubble wrap from the moment you wake up to the moment you're back in your safe and not dangerous bed at the end of the day. tsks affectionately and has lovingly dubbed you his mini walking disaster. makes startled noises every time you walk into or out of a room and accidentally trip over the uneven flooring or your own feet. tells you to pay better attention to ur surroundings, but tbh he's one to talk bc he's stubbing his toe against a table leg literally five times a month

vernon

spends like ten seconds laughing at you when you bump shoulders with a lamp post on the street and then automatically muttering a "sorry". then he's so busy laughing that he walks smack into a lamp post himself, head first and making a concerning ringing sound as he does so and now it's your turn to laugh, even whilst you're holding his head and making sure that he hasn't given himself a concussion. you're not too bothered by your terrible peripheral vision (okay, you are, but you've kinda accepted it now) so hansol just thinks it's funny too. plus his hand-eye coordination isn't the best, so the both of u are always stumbling into stuff 24/7 anyways

chan

pretends to square up at whatever object or obstacle you've had an altercation with this time. he's all like "oh you DARED to be in the way, huh???? you're gonna pay for that!!" until you're laughing and trying to drag him down the street again. asks if you're okay, afterwards, smiling all the same bc he loves that he was able to make you laugh bc of how he reacted. and at home the freezer is stocked with mini ice packs bc he is Afraid that one day you're gonna bruise yourself rlly badly and god forbid you have to get Hurt and god forbid that you think he won't immediately try and do everything within his power to make the hurt go away :((

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