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soaps-mohawk · 1 month

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Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 13: Piece Me Back Together

Summary: Your pack deals with the aftermath of your heat.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader, Ghost x Soap

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, handjobs, anal fingering, anal sex, unprotected sex (please practice safe sex irl), spanking (it’s like once), choking (kind of), light Dom/sub dynamics, Johnny's praise kink, excessive use of the word cock, heat cycles, mating cycles, brief mention of blood, brief medical stuff, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, and of course a little fluff

A/N: Well folks, we've made it past the heat portion of the fic. Now things can really start moving. Lots of aftercare, some world building, and of course a little spice at the end for you all to enjoy (as if the last chapter wasn't enough lol). I tried to catch all the possible tags for this one but as always, let me know if I missed one. The smut happens in the very last scene, so if you'd prefer not to read it, then skip that last little bit. You won't really miss much. Also, there's a lot of jumping around in time in this one so I tried to mark when things are happening relative to the present moment in the fic.

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6 Days Ago

“Looks comfortable.”

Kyle glances up as Johnny closes the door to his room, blanket and pillow in hand. “Slept on worse.” He shrugs, glancing down at the cot set up in the hallway before looking back up at Johnny. “Moving out?”

“Camping in Si’s office for the next week. Keep our distance.” He nods at the closed door.

“Probably for the best.” Kyle says. “Have fun!”

“Don’t enjoy yourself too much.” Johnny winks at him before making his way down the hallway and disappearing around the corner.

Kyle shakes his head, starting to sort through the many bags of supplies they’ve stocked up on in preparation for their omega’s heat. They’re well prepared, all of them, for the next week, Kyle especially. He’s spent the last few days reading up on what to expect, how to best help and support his alpha and omega, and what to look out for in case things start going wrong. He doesn’t think they will. He has a lot of faith in Price and he knows Price will take good care of their omega.

Still, he can’t help but feel a bit nervous. He has a big job to do, even though there’s not much to do until after the heat is over with. He just has to ensure Price doesn’t hurt you accidentally, or maul you to death. He doesn’t think that’s likely to happen, but then again, one can never know.

Kyle lets out a shaky breath, grabbing the bags with the electrolytes and nutrient bars before heading for your door.

It’s going to be a long week.

Present Day

It’s quiet. Has been for almost an hour now. Kyle rises from the cot, slipping his phone into his pocket. He slowly approaches the door, leaning in to listen for a moment before putting his hand on the knob. He lets out a breath before pushing the door open slowly, slipping in and closing the door quietly. The smells in the room are worse than they had been last night, a toxic mix of omega, alpha, sex, and sweat. He takes a moment to breathe, adjusting to the scent.

You and Price are spooned together on the bed, asleep, or at least you are. Price had pulled the blankets up around you, tucking you in. Kyle approaches slowly, not wanting to accidentally step on a wrapper and startle either of you and risk you getting scared or Price getting territorial. He brushes the damp strands of hair from your face, your body temperature significantly lower than it had been even last night. He pulls the forehead thermometer from his pocket, taking your temperature quickly before sending a text to Dr. Keller.

He carefully lifts the blankets, checking beneath. You’re still locked together as he expected, and he lowers the blankets back down, tucking you both in again. He unplugs Price’s phone from the charging cord that he’d plugged in last night, rotating it to your phone. He knew the chances of either of you being aware enough to use a phone for anything would be low, but just in case, he kept them both charged.

He tiptoes through the mess of wrappers and bottles, grabbing the bag of trash that he had started a couple days ago. He picks up the mess on the floor, cleaning off the nightstand as well before setting out a new bottle of electrolytes and a couple nutrient bars. There’s still quite a few left, but those could be saved for your next heat.

Price stirs a bit as Kyle sets the bag of trash off to the side next to the bag of things that would have to go to the wash. He hurries over, gently keeping Price from moving too much.

“Easy. You’re still knotted.” He says, putting a hand on Price’s shoulder as you let out a quiet sound. His skin is warm and sticky from sweat, and probably other things.

Price rubs his eyes before blinking up at Kyle. “What day is it?”

“Morning of the sixth day.” He answers, passing Price the bottle of electrolytes. “I think it’s over. Her temperature’s back to normal. Just waiting on Dr. Keller’s opinion.”

Price hums, unscrewing the cap from the bottle before taking a long drink. “Feel like shit.”

Kyle grins. “Been a long week for you, Cap. How do you feel?”

Price screws the cap back on the bottle before leaning over you to place it on the nightstand. “Like I got hit by a truck and rolled down a hill.”

“Speaking from experience, sir?” Kyle smirks.

Price gives him a look before closing his eyes again, relaxing against your back. He lets out a groan as his knot deflates, his cock slipping from your folds. “Christ, that's going to hurt later.”

“Let me get the bath started.” Kyle says, going into your bathroom.

He starts the water, making sure it’s warm enough before he grabs the epsom salt off the counter and adds some in. He leaves the water running as he moves back to the bedroom, helping Price off the bed first. The alpha groans as he stands, leaning heavily against Kyle’s side. Kyle wraps his arm around his shoulders, supporting Price as they make their way to the bathroom.

“I’ve been beaten, tortured, shot. I’ve jumped out of moving cars, been in helicopter crashes.” Price says, grunting as Kyle helps him down into the bath. “This might be the worst I’ve ever felt.”

“Not quite as spry as you used to be, old man?” Kyle teases, making sure he’s comfortable.

“Plenty spry, but god I forgot how energetic omegas can be.” Price leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

“Just relax.” Kyle says, turning off the water. “I’ll bring her in.”

He heads back into your room, approaching the bed. You’re shivering, eyes squeezed closed and eyebrows pinched. Kyle kneels down next to the bed, placing a gentle hand on your arm. You start a bit at the touch, a quiet whimper leaving your lips.

“Shh, easy love.” Kyle tries to soothe you as you shake. “You’re alright.”

You let out a whine, seeking out your alpha in your disoriented state. The bathwater splashes as Price shifts in response to your call, his own instincts still on high alert.

“Let’s get you into the bath.” Kyle says before gently slipping his arms under you and lifting you up.

You let out a whine in protest, your body sore and aching from the last six days. Kyle quickly carries you to the bath, easing you into the water between Price’s legs. You’re trembling, quiet whines leaving your lips as he eases you back against Price’s chest. The alpha wraps his arms around you, a quiet rumble sounding from his chest as he tries to ease your disorientation and discomfort.

Kyle leaves you and Price there to soak as he heads back to the room to strip the sheets and start the laundry. Most of your pillows and stuffed animals are stacked in the corner of the room by your desk, spared from the mess that the bed has turned into. The sheets are still wet with a concoction of fluids, and he knows they’ll need to soak for a while. He stuffs them into the bag with your clothes, along with your blankets, before he heads down the hall to the laundry room.

He checks on you and Price when he returns, both of you content still in the bath. He can’t help but smile as he watches the two of you, pride swelling in his chest at the sight of his alpha taking care of their omega.

Their omega.

It seems almost strange to think now. They’d gone so long without an omega, and thought they wouldn’t be getting one. Now, six weeks later, they’ve all fallen head over heels for a little omega none of them even knew they needed. He can’t imagine life without an omega now, how well you fit into their pack, how well you fit with all of them, how you’ve only served to make them stronger and more efficient.

He hates to admit that perhaps Laswell was right.

Maybe they did need you after all.

Kyle bags up the plastic mattress protector, glad to see it did its job. He replaces the sheets and blankets for now, knowing you’ll want to nest once you’re more aware. He checks his phone before heading back into the bathroom, kneeling down next to the tub. Your shaking has subsided, reduced to a shudder here and there as you’ve slowly relaxed in the hot water.

Kyle grabs a cloth and your body wash, starting to gently clean your skin, or at least get the sweat and other fluids off. Bruises litter your skin and the claiming mark on your shoulder is scabbed and angry. Kyle carefully washes it, not wanting to apply too much pressure as he cleans off the dried blood still stuck to your skin. He knows it’s going to hurt for a while.

“What did Dr. Keller say?” Price asks as he helps ease you up so Kyle can wash your back.

“Said if her temperature is normal then the worst is over.” Kyle answers. “She wants to do a check up soon, make sure everything’s alright. Said she’d come here to do it, if that’s alright.”

Price grunts quietly as Kyle starts to wash his chest. “That’s fine. Easier than going all the way to the medical building. Simon and Johnny?”

“Fine.” Kyle answers. “Been keeping busy running drills and stuff. Johnny’s been keeping Simon occupied.”

Price hums, letting his eyes close as Kyle washes his neck and shoulders. “Good.”

Kyle makes sure to get all of the soap rinsed off before pulling the plug on the water, carefully lifting you up to stand. He lets you lean against him, grabbing one of the towels to dry you off as best he can. Price gets himself standing, drying himself off as Kyle helps you back to bed. Price joins you, wrapping his arms around you tight as Kyle tucks the blankets up around you both.

“Can I get you anything?” Kyle asks as he sets a new bottle of electrolytes on the nightstand. “Real food maybe?”

“I’d kill for some bangers and mash, maybe a pint.” Price says, a smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ll see what I can scrounge up.” Kyle says, glancing at you one last time before he leaves the room.

Your body aches. There’s a deep soreness in your muscles, and a painful throb between your legs. Your skin feels raw and tight, and there's a steady pulse behind your eyes. A quiet sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, the sound cracking and broken from your raw throat. There's a desert in your mouth again, your tongue dry and heavy in your mouth.

Your thoughts are dragged away from the agony in your body as a quiet rumbling starts somewhere in front of you, your brain going quiet except for the need to seek it out. You press yourself closer to it, meeting warm skin as you try to get closer and closer. You want to bury yourself in it, seep into its depths until you can feel the vibrations of it in your bones. Arms wrap around you, pulling you in closer until you're squished against a bare chest.

You press your face against the soft skin, trying to get closer to the rumbling purr vibrating from deep within. You let out another sound, body going lax as the purr lulls you into a relaxed state. The tension leaves your body, easing the ache in your muscles a bit. Not much, but enough to pull a relieved sigh from your lips.

“Easy, love.” A quiet voice says, another hand touching your back.

You tense slightly at the intrusion on your safe space, but quickly relax as the hand stills on your skin. The calming scent of beta overtakes you, easing your mind to a quiet hum as your alpha and beta work to calm you. You feel a bit disoriented as reality slowly begins to return, seeping back into your brain.

You went into heat.

You remember waking up with the blistering inferno burning hot within you, the insatiable need pulsing between your legs. You remember Kyle being there, the soft scent of him as he helped you prepare, pulling off your clothes and making you drink some of the electrolytes. You remember John entering the room, the way his scent made your brain feel like mush. You remember him sinking his teeth into your shoulder, his knot forcing you open before everything went dark.

Everything else is a dark blur, wiped from your memory after your instincts took over.

You shift against the body you’re pressed close to, a deep ache rippling through you. It hurts, everything hurts. Your hips are sore, your shoulder is throbbing, every muscle feels like you just did a triathlon with no training, and there’s a sharp throbbing between your thighs.

You’re crying before you even realize it, the tears uncontrollable as they slide down your cheeks, the quiet sniffles and sobs aggravating your already aching body. The arms around you tighten, the purring getting louder, but you can’t stop the onslaught of tears.

You flinch as something tickles the skin of your forehead, chapped lips pressing a soft kiss to your hairline. You let out a whine as you continue to cry, your mind a swirl of confusion and disorientation as you try to come to terms with everything that’s happened. You don’t know how long it’s been, what day it is. You don’t even know what happened to you in the last week.

You continue to cry, oblivious to the conversation happening over you, the gentle purring in your ears lulling you into a dazed state as you float in and out of consciousness. The pain of being moved momentarily brings you back before you settle again, laying back against a chest. A baggy shirt is pulled over your head, smelling of your alpha. The fabric feels different than it had days ago when you’d woken up in the throes of your heat. It’s soft, not offending, and it offers you warmth and comfort.

You don’t want to move, you don’t want to do anything. Exhaustion pulls at the edges of your mind as you lay there, the tears still streaming down your cheeks.

He hasn’t stopped purring since you woke up. The low rumble in his chest hasn’t stopped, and neither has the ache blooming there since you started crying. Even in your dazed, half asleep state, the tears still roll down your cheeks, quiet shaky breaths catching every so often. He’s not sure what to do, how to help. He’s never been with an omega that’s cried before. Not like this.

His purring kicks up in volume as you startle awake when the door opens, letting out a broken whimper as your space suddenly gets invaded. He tries to soothe you, his arms tightening around you to try and ground you in his presence.

“Hi, honey.” Dr. Keller says, kneeling down next to the bed, her voice soft and the scent of beta thick in the air. “Still a bit out of it, huh?”

“She hasn’t stopped crying since she woke up.” He says, rubbing gentle circles on your arm with his thumb.

“That’s not unusual.” Dr. Keller says, digging through her bag to pull out a thermometer. “There’s a lot going on right now for her. Besides the exhaustion and the confusion and the pain, there’s a lot of rapid hormonal changes happening. Some omegas can just wake up and hop out of it immediately and be just fine.”

John frees one of your arms so Dr. Keller can take your pulse and blood pressure.

“Others might struggle a bit more.” She continues. “Purebred omegas especially have a hard time coming out of it. They’re more sensitive to those instincts and the sudden cut off of them is rather jarring.” She puts her equipment back in her bag. “Her vitals look good, which makes me confident to hold off on any further examinations until she’s more alert and aware.”

“Are there things we should look out for?” Kyle asks.

“She’s going to be drowsy and fatigued for a while, but if you can’t wake her at all, call me. If her breathing gets shallow or her pulse weakens or she starts developing a fever again, call me. Also check for blood the next time she uses the bathroom. Her vitals aren’t showing any indication of internal injuries, though, so I think she’ll be just fine.” She pulls a pill bottle from her bag. “I’ve prescribed some muscle relaxers for her. There’s a week’s worth in there. It’ll help with the pain and discomfort, but they will make her sleepy. The best thing she can do right now is rest and recover. Once she’s more aware, you can try some soft foods and lots of liquids. If she’s really struggling, I can set up an IV and get some fluids into her, perk her up a bit.”

“Thank you.” John says, shifting you slightly so Dr. Keller can look at the bite mark on your shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” She asks him, pulling out a disinfectant wipe.

“Sore.” John huffs out a laugh. “Nothing I can’t handle, though.”

Dr. Keller hums as she cleans the wound on your shoulder. “I know I’m not here to give you medical advice, but as your omega’s doctor I feel the need to remind you not to ignore your own symptoms. She needs you right now, more than ever. So don’t try to macho man your way through anything. You need to rest just as much as she does.”

“Yes, doctor.” He grumbles, adjusting your shirt once she’s done.

Dr. Keller gives him a smile. “You did a good job.” She turns to Kyle. “Both of you. Don’t hesitate to call me. It’s what I’m here for.”

A smile tugs at John’s lips as Kyle practically beams from Dr. Keller’s praise. He did do a good job. You’re both still breathing after all.

3 Days Ago

“I cannae take anymore.” Johnny pants, his breaths near wheezes as he rests his hands on his knees. “Ye said you'd go easy on me.”

“I never promised anything, Johnny.” Simon says, standing behind him.

“Hell's bells, L.T.” Johnny groans, dropping to his hands and knees. “Gonna kill me at this rate.”

“Don't be dramatic. C'mon, again.”

“Uh uh.” Johnny says, flopping onto his side on the ground. “Am pure done in! ‘S almost lunch anyway.” He rolls onto his back, looking in the direction of the barracks as he wipes the sweat from his brow. “Think they're havin’ fun?”

Simon looks down at him, looming over him like a shadow. “Probably seems like it right now. Be a different story when it’s done.”

“Sometimes I wish I knew what it was like.” Johnny says, turning his gaze up to Simon's face. He can't see much under the mask, and right now is one of those moments when he wishes he could.

“You really don't. It's messy and gory.” Simon offers him a hand, helping Johnny to his feet. “Gotta be prepared to pick up the pieces afterwards.” Simon turns, heading in the direction of the barracks.

“That why you've never taken an omega?” Johnny asks, following him.

Simon stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at Johnny. Johnny's back straightens at the look in Simon's eyes. No, not Simon. Ghost. He's looking at Ghost again.

“Drop it. Or I'll make you do another lap.” Ghost says, his voice taking on the low rasp he gets when he's shifted into the laser focused headspace of the Lieutenant.

“Yes, sir.” Johnny says, following after Ghost as they head back towards the barracks.

Ghost slips into the showers once they enter, Johnny heading to the corner to peek down the hallway towards their rooms. It's quiet now. It hadn't been when they left earlier. He could hear it as they passed the hall to go out the door, the distant sound of moans and the bedframe knocking against the wall. He had fought the erection threatening to tent his shorts all the way to the field. He knows heats are no light matter, but the mental image he's drawn up of you blissed out, mouth open as you moan, back arching in pleasure has been plaguing him for nearly two weeks. He's desperate, practically chomping at the bit to get a chance to see it himself first hand, to see the real thing putting his mental image to shame.

He makes his way down the hallway, keeping a respectful distance between himself and your room. Kyle looks up from his spot on the bed where he'd been scrolling on his phone.

“How're they doin’?” Johnny asks, wiping the sweat from his face.

“Alright. Sleeping for the moment.” Kyle answers. Johnny can only imagine the torture of having to sit and listen to nonstop fucking for the last three days.

“We're gonna grab lunch soon. Want us tae bring ye somethin’?”

Kyle nods. “Sure. That'd be great.”

“Ye got it.” Johnny nods, passing a glance at your door before looking back to Kyle. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, mate.” Kyle says, watching his fellow beta walk back down the hall.

Johnny glances up from his phone as Simon huffs out what's the tenth sigh in the last three minutes. The alpha is seated at his desk, clicking away at something on his computer and occasionally mashing away at the keyboard rather harshly. Johnny's surprised he hasn't cracked a key yet, or just thrown the whole thing out the window. The beta can see how tightly his alpha is wrung by the tenseness in his shoulders, the hard set of his brow, the set line of his lips, the occasional tick of his jaw.

“What's got ye all riled up?” Johnny finally breaks the silence, setting his phone aside.

“Nothing.” Simon grumbles, ignoring Johnny's gaze.

Johnny’s brow furrows and he pushes himself to stand, moving over to Simon’s side. “Doesnae seem like nothin’ to me.” He puts his hands on Simon’s broad shoulders, squeezing them, feeling the tension in his muscles. “Awful tense, Si.”

“Leave it, Johnny.” Simon grumbles, trying to swat the beta away, but he’s insistent.

“Wouldnae be a little omega getting you so tense, would it?” Johnny teases.

Simon turns to him, his eyes darkening. His jaw clenches, hands closing into fists where they sit on the armrests of his chair. “Don’t push it, Johnny.” His voice has that deep rumble to it, the threat of his alpha coming through.

Johnny stares at him, feeling the danger prickling at the back of his neck, but at the same time, he wants to push that boundary. He wants to see just how far he can push his alpha until he finally gives in.

“I don’t know why ye keep torturing yourself like this, Si. Ye know ye like her. She’d be more’n willing-”

“That’s the problem.” Simon snaps, pushing himself up from his seat, forcing Johnny to take a step back. “She’s not doing this because she wants to. She’s only doing this because she’s been told to do it.”

“She’s an omega. Her whole life was going tae be people tellin’ her what to do and forcin’ her tae do things, even if she didn’t want to. Ye think things would have been different if she’d been put with a different pack?” Johnny doesn’t back down from Simon’s glare, having been on the receiving end of it enough times now he’s almost immune to it. “Things could have been a lot worse for her. She might not have wanted to be here, but she is. Ye can’t change that, Si. No matter how badly you might want to.”

Johnny can tell by the slow fall to Simon’s tense shoulders that he’s struck home. The situation wasn’t ideal, but it’s what they were dealt. You’re here with them, and he’s going to make sure you feel as comfortable as possible.

Simon lets out another sigh, turning away from Johnny to crawl into their makeshift bed. He lays down with a huff, closing his eyes. Johnny smirks, slowly crawling onto the two cots pushed together, laying down right next to Simon. He rests his hand on Simon’s thigh, feeling the powerful muscle flex under his hand. He slowly begins to drag it higher, Simon’s eyes opening again.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Simon rasps, but he doesn’t move, even as Johnny reaches the junction of his hip and thigh.

“Yer all worked up, big guy.” Johnny says, leaning his head on his hand, slowly moving his hand over Simon’s very prominent bulge. “Thought I’d help ye.”

“What makes you think I want your help?” Simon says, still laying still.

Johnny lifts his brows, slowly rubbing Simon through his pants. “This looks rather painful, and I seem to be the only option to help, since everyone else is rather occupied-”

Johnny’s words are cut off as he finds himself suddenly on his back, Simon’s hand around his throat. The alpha is leaning over him, a deep rumble vibrating through his chest. “You talk too much, Johnny.” Simon rumbles, leaning close to the beta’s face.

“I’ve been told tha’ before.” Johnny says, leaning up to try and kiss his alpha, but Simon backs away before he can make contact. “By you if I remember correctly.”

Simon’s fingers flex around his throat, a moan spilling from his lips as Simon grinds his hips against Johnny’s. His cock is hard in his pants, has been for a while. He’s not sure if it’s from the lewd thoughts that have been plaguing his mind since you first kissed him, weeks ago, or if it’s just a response to the knowledge that you’re currently fucking their pack alpha like your life depends on it.

Johnny lets out a whimper, bucking up against Simon desperately. Simon tuts at him, pressing against his throat to keep him still on the bed as he sits himself up on top of the beta.

“Naughty little thing.” Simon says, staring down into his blue eyes. “Know you’ve been thinking about sinking your cock into the new little omega for weeks.” Johnny lets out a whine, his cock twitching in his pants. “I don’t think you’ll even make it that long, will you pup?” Simon chuckles. “Gonna cum in your pants as soon as you see her tits, huh?” Simon presses down, putting more pressure against his cock as he rubs it through his pants. “Gonna cum in your pants just thinking about it.”

Johnny holds his breath, trying to focus anywhere except for Simon’s hand. He squeezes his eyes closed as Simon undoes the button on his cargo pants, releasing his throat to tug the fabric down around his knees.

“Bloody hell.” Simon says, wrapping a hand around Johnny’s hard cock. “Prettiest cock I’ve ever seen.”

“I thought Kyle’s was the prettiest.” Johnny says, opening his eyes to glance down at his alpha.

“Kyle’s just pretty.” Simon says, slowly stroking Johnny’s cock. “You have the prettiest cock.”

“Christ...” Johnny breathes as Simon continues to jerk his cock, his hips bucking as he can feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge.

A pathetic whimper leaves Johnny’s lips as Simon pulls his hand away, sitting up on his knees over his beta. He undoes his belt, tossing it to the floor before undoing his pants, pulling them and his briefs down to release his own throbbing cock. Johnny licks his lips as Simon fists his own cock, slowly stroking it.

“Turn around. Let me see that pretty ass.” Simon says.

“Yes, sir.” Johnny smirks, wiggling himself until he’s flat on his stomach, pushing his ass into the air as best he can with his legs trapped between Simon’s.

Simon purrs quietly at Johnny’s response, running his hands over his beta’s pert cheeks. “Prettiest ass too.” He murmurs, gently spreading his cheeks.

“I’m startin’ to think I might be the prettiest.” Johnny says, gasping quietly as a glob of warm spit hits his hole.

“Give me a night with Kyle and I’ll get back to you on that.” Simon says, pressing a finger into Johnny’s ass.

Johnny groans, pressing his face into the pillow. “Fucking Christ.”

“You can take it.” Simon soothes him, reaching down to fish the lube out of the bag he’d tossed it in last night. He squirts some on his finger before pressing further in, spreading Johnny’s ass open. “Good boy.”

Johnny nearly melts into the cot, letting out a pathetic sound as Simon adds a second finger. He’s still sore from the last three days, but his drive to please his alpha pushes away any sensitivity he’s feeling. That, and the lust burning hot in him. Betas don’t have heat cycles, but he might as well be in the middle of one with how horny he’s been these last few days. He knows part of it is Simon being worked up by the knowledge that there’s an omega in heat nearby, and his own body reacting to his alpha. He’s never been around an omega in heat, and he doesn’t think Simon has either.

He’s not sure Simon has ever been with an omega at all before.

More cold lube hits his hole, a second finger pressing in. He gasps at the stretch, squeezing around Simon’s thick fingers. Simon’s other hand trails up his back, pushing his shirt up as he goes. Johnny pushes himself up slightly, tugging the fabric over his head before he relaxes back down against the blankets.

Simon presses a third finger in, working Johnny open with what still won’t be enough, but Johnny won’t complain. He’s taken his alpha before. He’ll do it gladly again.

“Fuck, Johnny.” Simon grunts as Johnny squeezes around his fingers again.

“Cannae help it.” Johnny whines. “Feels too good.”

“Didn’t say you could cum yet.” Simon says, removing his fingers. “Naughty pup.”

Johnny lets out a pathetic sounding whimper, pressing his ass up to try and chase Simon’s fingers. He yelps as Simon’s hand meets his skin, his hips dropping back to the bed at the force of Simon’s spank.

“Stay still.” Simon growls, the cap of the lube popping open again.

Johnny does as he’s told, keeping himself still as Simon prepares himself. He groans as the tip of Simon’s cock presses against his hole, his hands fisting the sheets at the stretch. Simon’s hand rubs his back, trying to get him to relax. Johnny breathes, forcing himself to go lax, letting Simon slip in further.

“Good boy.” Simon groans, bracing himself on the bed as he presses further and further into Johnny’s tight hole. “That’s my good boy. You can take it.”

“Fuck!” Johnny groans, practically preening from the praise.

“That’s it.” Simon groans, pressing in until his hips are flush with Johnny’s ass. “Bloody fucking hell.”

Johnny’s mind goes blank as he’s filled, all thoughts leaving at the feeling of his alpha inside of him. He’s panting already, stretched open around his alpha’s cock. Simon begins to move, rocking his hips slowly, drawing his cock out before pushing it back in. Johnny whines, pushing back against Simon, needing more.

“Please...” Johnny begs. “Please alpha!”

“Fuck.” Simon grunts, bracing himself further before snapping his hips against Johnny. “Like that? That what you want, pup?”

Johnny almost yelps at the sensation, hands fisting the blankets as his body rocks forward on the cot. “Fuck, yes!”

Simon sets a brutal pace, hips snapping against Johnny’s ass. Pleasure numbs Johnny’s mind as the sensation of Simon inside of him. His cock is trapped between his body and the cot, dragging against the blankets with every thrust. He’s going to cum soon, he knows that. He won’t be able to hold it, not with how sensitive he already is.

“Gonna cum, can’t hold it!” He whines, pushing back against Simon’s thrusts for more friction. “Fuck, alpha!”

Johnny cums quickly with a groan, the blankets getting damp under him as he shakes in his release. Simon doesn’t stop, undeterred by Johnny’s clenching around him in his orgasm. He’s going to ring a few more out of Johnny before he’s done.

They’re both in for a long night.

Taglist:

@bobaprint @ashy-kit @anunintentionalwriter @mockerycrow @hayleybarnesx @protokosmonaut @fruitymoonbeams-blog @blue-blue0 @hindi-si-ikay @thatonepupkai @redwites @kattiieee @141trash @lothiriel9 @dillybuggg @beebeechaos @konigsmissedbeltloop @kaoyamamegami @idkkkkkkk8363 @wallwriterstuff @smile-child-13 @anomiatartle @dangerkittenclaws @bless-my-demons @mystic60 @evolutionarry @red-hydra @lunaetiicsaystuff @linaangel @codsunshine @thriving-n-jiving @slayerx147 @ferns-fics @spicyspicyliving @cityoffallencrows @ttsbaby01 @heeheehoohoohahahihi @sleepyoriana @ihatethinkingofnames10 @cassiecasluciluce @darling006 @sheep-from-rad @ohgodthebogisback @willow-sages @scythemood @daniblogs164 @mirzamsaiph

#call of duty #call of duty fic #task force 141 x reader #tf 141 x reader #x reader #captain price x reader #John price x reader #gaz x reader #Kyle gaz Garrick x reader #soap x reader #John soap mactavish x reader #Simon Riley x reader #Simon ghost Riley x reader #a/b/o #alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics #Omegaverse

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bahablastplz · 2 months

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SKZ Recs (NSFW)

As a chronic fanfic reader, I have a lot of recommendations. So, these are the ones I think about the most. All of them include smut, so they're 18+. Red text indicates fics on AO3. Go support these amazing authors!! Enjoy!! <3

Bang Chan

The SKZ house @writeonwhiskey (Chan x reader x Hyunjin…SKZ but make it a frat… and also sexy)

Silent cry @j-0ne25 (Fake dating/friends to lovers, live laugh hurt comfort… emphasis on the hurt)

Love is intuitive @skzonthebrain (forbidden love and angst… so emotional and loving <3)

Kinktober Day 8 @dreaming-medium (breeding, best friend, fake dating, so sweet and spicy)

Summer in Seoul @writeonwhiskey (strangers to lovers, summer love, spicy and romantic)

Saturday mornings @skzdarlings (Chan/reader/Seungmin where Seungmin is an absolute menace that gets reader in trouble… dom Chan is so good in this one omg)

It’s cold out @therhythmafterthesummer (roommate Chan is going through his rut… oops there’s more ABO on this list than I realized sorry not sorry)

Bodyguard: The first guard @skzdarlings (A sequel to the bodyguard, an ongoing work that has elements of enemies to lovers and great, in-depth world building and character development)

However you want it, lover-lover @cbini (you ask your bf Chan to step on you after watching spicy edits of him on tiktok omg)

More than just friends @kwanisms (roommate Chan is entering his rut... he's usually able to control himself but this time you're ovulating. sprinkle some brat taming in here as well and it's so delicious)

Lee Know

The Experience Project @leeknowsallyoursecrets (Enemies to lovers Lee Know, really good plot and relationship building!)

Sanguis Limerence @jl-micasea-fics (Vampire OT8, Lee Know x Reader x Chan, SUPER good world building, especially in their sequel with the backstories… I was so invested. And it’s super hot)

Barb Wired Brat @roseykat (BDSM Lee Know with reader going into subspace… awakened things in me)

Audience @gimmeurtmi (2 min, wet dreams, exhibitionism, degradation… yeah)

Well Shit @2chopsticks2eyes (Brother’s best friend, inexperienced reader, enemies to lovers and fwb… literally so good)

Sea May Rise, Sky May Fall @skzms (Lee Know x Reader x Han, ongoing series, Pirate AU with beautiful world building, in-depth characters and great smut)

rsvp @cbini (teasing dom vampire boyfriend Minho and you get the punishment you deserve... brat taming and so so so sexy like it's insane)

Changbin

The accidental acquisition of sugar @skzdarlings (accidental sugar daddy Changbin x reader that’s absolutely hilarious with great smut)

Valentine’s series ‘do you really think you’re in a position to give orders’) @skzdarlings (forbidden love/romeo & juliet style but with gun play… um this was so hot tho)

Close your eyes (...And count to seven) @MysteryBird (Possessive gang leader bf! Changbin that you’re trying to piss off by sleeping with the other members… 100k+ words and so delicious)

Hyunjin

Praise kink Hyunjin @dreaming-medium (A kinktober fic, enemies to lovers detective Hyunjin… absolutely delicious)

Snowed In @moonjxsung (really artistic, heartfelt, and beautifully written)

Jury’s still out @straywrds (rivals to hooking up/hate sex… super spicy and hot)

Dressing down @jl-micasea-fics (shopping trip with best friend Hyunjin turns out spicy ahh the chemistry)

Han

Watch your six @dreaming-medium (sensory deprivation kinktober ah this is engraved in my brain)

The same but different @skzdarlings (ahh hanlix fairy au where they’re linked with great world building and is so funny… I maybeee think about this every day)

Sea May Rise, Sky May Fall @skzms (Lee Know x Reader x Han, ongoing series, Pirate AU with beautiful world building, in-depth characters and great smut)

Felix

The bodyguard @skzdarlings (Forced proximity, enemies to lovers, had me SUPER invested and made me cry)

The same but different @skzdarlings (ahh hanlix fairy au where they’re linked with great world building and is so funny… I maybee think about this every day)

Snap out of it @2baabbies (Felix gives you the option to either go home with your shitty boyfriend or go home with him at the end of the night ahhh!!)

Seungmin

Bet on it @skzonthebrain (Academic rivals, enemies to lovers and such good tension/chemistry)

Audience @gimmeurtmi (2 min, wet dreams, exhibitionism, degradation… yeah)

Saturday mornings @skzdarlings (Chan/reader/Seungmin where Seungmin is an absolute menace that gets reader in trouble… dom Chan is so good in this one omg)

Seungmin + hairpulling @straykeedz (kinktober fic, best friend Seungmin finds out you have a thing for hairpulling and can't get you out of his head... this is taken straight from the deepest depths of my fantasies i s2g)

no nut november @gimmeurtmi (this whole nnn series is fantastic but seeing Seungmin lose his composure because of his breeding kink does something for me)

august is a fever @seungminheart (mean dom Seungmin... you don't think he is really into you so you see how far you can push him/I love mean dom Seungmin and I think this fic does it just right)

I.N.

Lavender boy @hyunsvngs (A/B/O Alpha jeongin… super sexy and great dynamics)

Clueless @jeongin-lvr (inexperienced big dick I.N. that just wants to make reader feel good… also omg he’s so hot in this pls)

Better and better @seungminheart (sharing a bed, best friend Jeongin, amazing banter, soft dom Jeongin, brat taming, every trope from my hopes and dreams)

Third leg? @beesspacedotorg (huge dick alpha Innie... some brat taming, great banter and dynamics and sexy)

OT8

Sharing a bed series @skzdarlings (Best trope ever and they really do it justice) (Chan's is linked but you should read all 8)

Sharing is caring @skzms (Minsung x reader x OT8… really well written spice)

Fake texts @thefantasyden (I swear these are like crack I read them every single time)

Kinktober23 @roseykat (one of the first SKZ blogs that I started reading that really brought me deep into the fandom… My fav from this is Table Manners and Bible Studies, and it has a part 2)

All Bark no Bite @doitforbangchan (Main pairing is Chan x Reader with some OT8, it's an ABO au with some really good spice)

Masterlist

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aeyumicore · 2 months

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☾ .⭒˚ your fragrance ♡ rafayel x afab reader

⋆.˚ ☾ pairing: rafayel x afab!reader (very fem!reader)

☾ .⭒˚ genre: smut, pwp, pwf

⋆.˚ ☾ word count: 10.4k (how?????)

☾ .⭒˚ content warning: mdni, switch!raf (like he’s both sub and dom in this, if you don’t like that then this may not be for you), knee humping, standing sex, against the wall sex, sorta rough sex, references to rafayel’s lore (no more than what’s talked about the actual memory), dry humping, slightly aphrodisiac sex, dub con if you squint really really really hard, ejaculating in pants, panty ripping, pheromone kink, lots of teasing (calling raf a cat/kitty), cum play? kinda, nipple teasing, slight use of y/n, reader is mc, second person pov

⋆.˚ ☾ video link: absolutely not necessary to watch this to enjoy the fic/smut but it gives a lot of context and also a visual for the fic <3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vaxo4sxm0rc

☾ .⭒˚ a/n: the raf fic is here!! based off the 5* rafayel memory ‘your fragrance.’ the build up is realllllllly long on this one since i wanted to stay as true to the memory as possible. you can def just skip to the smut if you’d like!

i struggled to write raf a lot but enjoyed it so much like he’s so fun to write. i’m def a sub girly so i love writing dom partners, thankfully i hc raf as a switch. if you do not like fics where raf is a switch, then this may not be for you!

i can’t believe this fic ended up being 10k words too, i was thinking it would be a quick lil smut lol. i don’t even know how my zayne fic ended up being my shortest fic. enjoy my loves!

also this is dedicated to my bestie who is actually rafayel’s number one slut. follow her on x @/myusuchaa for so much good raf and other purple haired boy content. she is the master of rafayel lore, truly his wifey. a queen to us all.

⋆.˚ ☾ 18+ only ☾ .⭒˚ minors dni ⋆.˚ ☾ 18+ only ☾ .⭒˚ minors dni ⋆.˚ ☾

you let out an exasperated sigh as your foot taps irritably against the protective painting tarp rafayel always has laid out on the ground of his makeshift art studio, stray paint brushes strewn about. impatiently, you waited for rafayel to finish changing on the couch behind you, careful not to peek.

somehow, being rafayel’s bodyguard also made you his keeper. and rafayel was not easy to keep. always dragging you with him on odd trips even if you had work, pestering you at all hours of the day and night, disappearing and unable to be contacted for days on end. this particular time it was the latter; rafayel had gone mia three days before his important collab launch party with a high end perfume brand. now, on the night of the party, rafayel was still unable to be reached.

thomas had called you, in a sheer panic, as he always did when he needed help wrangling rafayel. he knew you were the only one in this world that could level with rafayel. and he’d never told you this before, but you were also the only one who could bend rafayel’s unbreakable stubbornness; a perfect match for the purple-haired obstinate artist. and thus, thomas had personally designated you as rafayel’s keeper.

and so, you found yourself at rafayel’s massive house, in the most extravagant evening dress you owned, hauling him off to his own damn party.

his annoyingly alluring voice cuts into the silence of the studio, “you can turn around now and give me a hand with something else.” you snap around to be met with the sight of rafayel, irritatingly and devilishly handsome in his expensive white dress shirt and designer cardigan, leaning lazily against the sofa with the tie you’d previously used to tie his hands with, woven in between his fingers. he grins and holds it up to you expectantly, “put this on for me.”

“don’t you have hands?” you snap, but your feet have a mind of their own, and you’re already approaching him on the sofa.

“my hands are numb from being tied up by you for so long.” you roll your eyes, knowing he’s being dramatic. while he waits deceptively patiently for you to give in, he leisurely takes a wristwatch out of his pocket to put on, as if he’s got all the time in the world. “clock’s ticking, keep it up and we’ll be late at this rate.”

you gape at him. the sheer audacity of this man, as if you’re the reason he’d be late. he only smirks at you, and it just infuriates you all the more. how he could so easily annoy the hell out of you and look so beautiful doing it. but you keep your mouth shut, and exasperatedly lean down to put on his tie for him, doing your best not to strangle him with it. it feels strangely intimate, and the brief reprieve finally gives you an opportunity to speak to him.

“thomas said you have to be present for all parts of the event. there will be reporters at the entrance taking photos, and…” you rattle off, before you realize rafayel is being uncharacteristically silent, “are you even listening?”

you look up from the tie in your fingers to glance at rafayel’s face. he doesn’t look the least bit interested in your words, instead his eyes are fixated on your wrist. you tap his chest to get his attention but he remains still, eyes still on your hands atop his collarbones. you curiously wave your hand in front of his face, hoping to snap him out of his trance. fortunately you do, but unfortunately rafayel grabs your wrist suddenly and urgently.

“...what’s the matter?” the bewilderment is unmistakable in your voice. you’re used to rafayel’s erratic and quirky behavior, but this was alarming, even to you.

finally his gaze breaks away from your wrist and he speaks, “i heard you talking about the event…” but just as quickly as you’d diverted his attention, it's back on your wrist. his voice is unusually clouded, deeper than usual. his eyes are back on your wrist that’s enclosed in his fingers, as a strange expression crosses his face. it almost feels as if he’s trying to hold himself back, but you’re unsure from what.

“your hand…” he trails off, inexplicable emotions caught in his hoarse voice. he suddenly tugs you towards him by your wrist, and you stumble forward.

“rafayel?! wait!” as you fall forward, your feet run out of space and hit the bottom of the sofa, causing you to tumble on top of him. he catches you easily, sitting you on top of his lap while he brings your captured wrist right up to the side of his face. the awkward position forces you to settle your legs on either side of his thighs, straddling him against the designer couch. the half knotted tie comes undone and you’re left clutching the smooth material in your hands. if it weren’t for the compromising position you found you and rafayel in, you'd be slightly disappointed at seeing your hard work unraveled.

the grip on your wrist tightens impossibly, almost possessively, “hold still.” his command is not totally unusual; rafayel is always demanding things of you, his precious bodyguard. but his voice comes out in a strange and sensual husk, leaving you confused, nervous, and weirdly burning. his silky smooth dress pants shuffle under you, and you’re reminded of the expensive clothes you’re pressed up against, likely worth more than a month of your hunter salary.

“your suit! it’ll get wrinkled.”

“i don’t care…let me smell this…” he trails off, his voice sounding impossibly far away. you can feel the tickle of his inhale against your wrist and it makes you shiver, goosebumps forming under his touch.

“what is that?” he asks, mostly to himself, lost in his own little world, “it smells good. and smells familiar…”

it wasn’t at all uncommon for rafayel to be mysterious and even enigmatic, but this was a whole other level of confusion for you, “what…what’s wrong? did something happen?”

his behavior is starting to worry you. he’s unusually breathless, and you can see a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. the last thing you needed was him getting sick! you could already hear his needy whines in your head at the mere thought. demanding to be taken care of and waited on. you almost want to smile at the thought of it; you act constantly annoyed with rafayel but deep down you know you can’t live without his antics.

“no, i’m fine. very well, in fact,” but despite his words, rafayel sounds anything but. his voice, normally a bright and charming, albeit annoying, timbre, is now a hoarse and needy rasp. his ticklish touch on the inside of your wrist reminds you of where you got the perfume that he was so intoxicated by.

“come to think of it…i tried an unreleased fragrance in the back office of the exhibition hall. it was made with special ingredients,” you scratch your chin with your free hand, trying your best to recall the name of it.

“perfume? you spritzed the perfume sample on your wrist?”

you glance at him, concern and confusion written all over your face. isn’t that what you do with perfumes? rafayel shifts his gaze to your eyes, but his breath remains on the inside of your wrist. it’s deafeningly silent and you realize the scent of the perfume gradually grows stronger as your body temperature rises at the proximity of your body to rafayel’s. you’re suddenly reminded of the fact that you’re sitting on his lap, and his face is so very close to your own.

he’s still lost in his own thoughts as he murmurs, more to himself than you, “it’s a bit bitter like fermented plants…but very fragrant.”

“it could be a mixture of artificial chemical stuff. now, unhand me please,” you’re desperate to detach yourself from him, unsure if you can trust your body when it’s pressed so readily upon rafayel’s own hard and sturdy stature.

“no.”

your jaw drops at his audacity. but before you can berate him, he’s reaching his free hand to undo the buttons of his collar, as if the clothing is restricting him and making it hard to breath. his purple eyes are glazed over, and a beautiful faint blush paints his cheeks. his exposed collar and chest have you biting back your words, completely losing your train of thought. you squirm at the sight, but rafayel’s hand on your thighs grip you in place, not letting you move a single inch.

“i could’ve sworn i’ve smelled this fragrance before,” he presses your hand against his cheek as he continues to slowly inhale the scent by the mouthful. it wouldn’t be completely out of the question, the unreleased scent had been developed for his artworks for the collaboration, so it’s very likely he could’ve sampled it during production.

“we can worry about it later. let’s go. everyone is waiting” you urge, feeling yourself blush as he shifts slightly under you, brushing against your sensitive inner thighs. you pull your hand away from his cheek, only for rafayel to yank it back, like a child unwilling to share his favorite toy.

“let me smell it again,” his demand is meant to be gentle, but comes out rough and urgent. you sigh, letting him melt into your hand again. it’s almost endearing; you quite like being so intimate with rafayel.

“you know, for someone who hates cats, you sure are acting like one,” you tease, “a kitty that found some catnip to be exact.”

the mere mention of cats is usually enough to set rafayel off, pouting like a little baby that’s been teased. but instead, he just distractedly responds, “so then are you a cat? i am not a cat. and also, you’re not allowed to say that. i just couldn’t resist…”

you roll your eyes but can’t help but grin at his adorableness, tempted to just give in to his touch, savoring every moment you possibly can before the bubble bursts.

“what is this weird perfume…” he’s talking to himself again, inspecting your hand carefully. his jumbled thoughts have you worried for him again. although rafayel did often have energy that bordered on adhd, this was much more intense than that.

“are you alright?” you repeat, softly. he doesn’t respond, but leans his cheek into your touch, his lips turning so they’re practically kissing your palm. like this, he inhales the scent with his parted lips. his adam's apple bobs as he gulps, almost feverishly. his hand reaches to further loosen his collared shirt, pulling it open to let the cool air soothe his burning skin.

“it must be an allergic reaction. this isn’t perfume. how dare they use such underhanded methods to trap me…” his words both confuse and scare you. you’re growing increasingly worried about his flushed and sweaty complexion, his collarbones shining under the faint glow of the city lights through the massive windows. his words fill you with a terror you do not understand.

rafayel holds the area between the bridge of his nose and his forehead, like his head is pounding, before returning to grip the collar of his dress shirt. his hand that holds yours is shaky as he rocks slowly underneath you, inhaling as much of the perfume as he can. his lap brushes against yours and your brain short circuits at the feeling of him pressed against you.

“h-huh?” is the only thing you’re capable of getting out.

“who gave you the perfume? who sent it?” his questions are increasingly alarming you, but you do your best to keep calm. you can tell he’s nervous as well, and the sight makes your chest squeeze. wanting to comfort him, you cup his cheek in your palm and he leans into the touch so contentedly and groaning in satisfaction. truly like a cat.

you blushed despite yourself. it was so difficult to not be aroused in this compromising position. you’d long since had a crush on rafayel, always craving his silly antics and theatrics. missing him intensely when he’d disappear for days at a time.

“no one. um, why do you look like you’re drunk?” you try to deflect from the burning between your thighs, hoping he can’t notice how hot and bothered you’ve become.

“i’m not drunk. i just don’t like the scent,” he pouts, but nuzzles your hand against his cheek like a cat getting cheek scratches. he turns his lips back into your palm, opening his mouth until you can feel his teeth graze your skin. he groans as he continues to inhale the scent, making you bite back a moan of your own at his gentle nibbles.

“rafayel…you…” but you find yourself at a loss for words as he continues to breathe in your scent like it's the oxygen he needs to survive. your own breaths start to come out in shallow pants, and you squirm in his lap. rafayel moans softly into your palm, biting down gently to get you to stop.

“are you trying to run away again?” he asks, almost painfully, his eyes piercing into yours, so intense and searching. the glassy look in them reminds you of how much you’re worried about his current well being.

“rafayel, you don’t look so good. shouldnt you go to the doctor?” you use the hand rafayel isn’t gripping to take his face between your free fingers and inspect his beautiful and flushed features.

rafayel’s breath hitches at your touch, goose flesh littering the skin where your touch singes, “i’m not going anywhere.” and though he doesn’t say it, you can feel what’s left unsaid.

and neither are you.

but he continues, dazed, “you’re gonna lock me up again…you’re with them. i just know it. don’t think i’m unaware of what you’re about to do.” he has both your wrists in his hands now, gripping them on either side of his neck. “y/n, i won’t fall for it again. not this time.”

though his words scare the shit out of you, you’re unable to concentrate on anything but his eyes that are trained on your neck, where your pulse thrums erratically in anticipation. you’re suddenly hyper aware that your heart is beating so fast you can hardly hear him anymore, despite his face being mere inches from yours. your breath is close enough to mingle with his. it seems he notices too, because he inhales deeply and throws his head back, gasping.

it's then you realize it's not just the scent of the perfume that's setting rafayel off, but your own scent mingled with it.

“rafayel, snap out of it!” you beg. but rafayel can’t seem to hear you as his cold hand grips the side of your neck, where you’d also dabbed the perfume along. your breath catches in your throat at the icy touch, unsure of what to do.

rafayel senses your hesitation, “don’t worry. i’m not gonna do anything to you.” his voice is a throaty groan, and you’re honestly unsure if that’s even what you want. his body is almost on top of yours now, his breath deafening in your ear. and all you can think about is how you’d wish he’d press into you harder, until you’re suffocating, only able to breathe him in.

but you go with your better judgment, pushing him gently, putting some distance between the two of you. he glances up from your neck, eyes unfocused, and says nothing. he finds himself staring at your lips that are parted slightly to let out the short pants of breath you’re wheezing out. he leans in slowly so he can breathe in as much of you as he possibly can, just nearly closing the proximity between your lips.

suddenly, your phone buzzes, snapping you out of your little bubble with rafayel, “its thomas! he probably wants to remind us of the time. let's head out!” you shove your phone until rafayel’s hands, forcing him to take thomas’s call for you.

while he’s distracted, you slip out from beneath him and bolt to the nearest bathroom. as you move your legs, you’re made acutely aware of the slick that has formed in your panties. but you focus first on furiously washing off the scent from your wrists and neck. as you scrub, you glance up at the mirror in front of you. you swear at the site of yourself, unbelievably disheveled and undeniably aroused.

as you continue to adamantly scrub, you can faintly make out rafayel on the phone with thomas, just outside.

“no, we’re not going to make it. i need to take care of something urgent. don’t call again please, bye.” when you turn off the faucet, you go to lean against the wall adjacent to the sink, trying to steady yourself and collect your thoughts. you turn around and gently rest your forehead against the wall, sighing into the cool surface against your burning skin, willing the arousal between your legs to go away. you try to remind yourself of poor thomas all alone at the exhibition right now. your guilt is short lived as you hear the patter of rafayel’s feet approaching the bathroom.

“where are you going?” rafayel’s words are right behind you, and his hand presses against the bathroom wall that your forehead rests on. you whip around and find yourself trapped between rafayel’s hard body and the solid wall behind you. you back up instinctively, but find yourself hitting the cold surface before you even take a single step back.

“gotcha,” rafayel smirks softly, and you tremble at his proximity to you. his other hand grips a towel bar to your left, while his other hand leans against the wall to your right, so you’re utterly trapped against him. he’s so close, close enough that you can feel his rapid breaths fanning across your parted lips. as rafayel’s eyes roam all over you, from your lips to your heaving chest, you feel very much like a lamb caught in a lion’s den. except you don’t want to escape.

“rafayel…” you murmur using both your hands to gently push against his chest, unintentionally brushing against the exposed skin below his collar, under his unbuttoned dress shirt. you’re hoping he’ll have mercy and release you, afraid that the palpable sexual tension in the air would cloud your, and rafayel’s, judgment.

he shivers as your wet hands brush against his chest, knuckles turning white as they grip the towel bar next to you. his breath comes out in shallow pants, chest heaving up and down, with a light sheen of sweat painting his pale skin. the sight snaps you out of the moment, reminding you that rafayel seems like he might have a fever.

“let’s go to the hospital…i’m worried about you,” your hands shift to grip his open shirt, bringing the fabric together to cover him up. rafayel’s hand releases the towel bar to take both of your hands into his, trapping them against his chest.

“what will it take for you to believe that i’m okay? i’m exactly where i want to be,” his gruff voice invades all your senses while his eyes burn holes through your own. he presses himself further into you, until his forearm is resting against the wall above you, only your joined hands pressed against his chest separating the two of you. he leans down, his face now impossibly close to yours, and for a second you find yourself lost in his purple and blue cosmic eyes.

you take a deep breath, trying to ground yourself to reality, and remind yourself that rafayel’s actions are only fueled by the strange effects the perfume has on him. he’s not in his right mind, and you need to think for him.

you whisper, craning your neck up to look into his eyes, “you’re not yourself right now. let me help you, i can take you to the doctor.”

rafayel leans down, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. he breathes you in, the smell of the perfume, still potent despite the scrubbing, mixed with your pheromones invading his very being. slowly, almost like it pains him to do so, he lifts his head away from you. he releases your hands and uses that same hand that gripped them to lift your chin towards him.

“do you know the only thing you could do that would help me?” his hooded eyes lock yours in. his voice is the soft purr you know and love, slightly tinged with a rough and carnal desire that shakes you to your core.

“name it. i’ll do it for you.“ part of you knows that rafayel isn’t going to ask you for anything regarding his health but you can’t stop the words from coming out of your mouth. you’re stepping into very dangerous territory and you can’t hold yourself back.

“kiss me,” his voice is low, but the assertive demand in it is undeniable. his command makes you shift in between his legs against the wall, becoming hyper aware of how deeply your bodies pressed into each other. you know you want to, you’ve wanted to for some time now. but you can’t shake the idea that the strange effects of the perfume are clouding rafayel’s judgment and inhibitions.

“r-rafayel…” you stutter hesitantly. trembling ever so slightly, you lean in to peck his flushed cheek. you watch, slightly amused, as rafayel’s ears get even pinker.

“why must you always make me beg?” he whines. his lips stick out in a signature rafayel pout, one you’ve grown to absolutely adore, no matter how annoying it can be.

you can’t help but laugh breathlessly, your chin still in his grip, “i don’t make you. you just love to beg.“

with your face still in his grip, he sighs dramatically, “then i won’t beg anymore.” he brings his face to yours and captures your lips with his. he swallows your surprised squeak, which is quickly replaced by a throaty moan of longing and anticipation. rafayel absolutely devours your noises, his lips so commanding against your own, bending them to his every will. they’re so soft, and you can’t help but think they fit so perfectly slotted against your own.

though you can taste the urgency on him, rafayel takes his time with you, engraving the taste and feel of you in his mind forever. he takes it so tortuously and deliciously slow that you find yourself nibbling on his bottom lip, begging him to take you fully.

you can just feel his maddening smirk against your lips. instead of indulging you, rafayel laces his practiced fingers under your dress’s skirt and onto your thighs. only when you yelp in surprise does he finally slip his tongue into your mouth, always intentionally doing things to take you by surprise.

the new sensation of your tongues on each other seems to have rafayel equally feral, because you feel the unmistakable press of his erection into your stomach. needing to do something with your hands, you trace the outlines of his chest muscles, enjoying the feel of them finally against your fingers.

rafayel’s hands venture to your back, expertly undoing the zipper of your dress, and then your bra. gasping into his open mouth as his fingers return to the pebbling skin of your nipples. he gives a harsh flick to each, and your knees buckle against the sensitivity. you sink down against the wall, lips still attached to his for dear life, but rafayel shifts so that he catches you with his knee instead. the mid length black dress your wore rides up and serves as a sheer layer of protection between your dampening panties and his knee. the friction of his leg against your crotch is unbearable, forcing you to throw your head back in pleasure.

your reaction only serves to spur rafayel further, as he begins to knead his knee into your cunt slowly. your body turns to mush at the ecstasy of his knee against your most sensitive region, but rafayel holds you steady with his hands gripping you from the swell of your underboobs.

burying his face into the crook of your neck, he inhales again. unbeknownst to you, he practically comes undone at the smell of you alone, “you say i’m always whining but look at you.”

you whimper at his teasing words right against your ear, clutching the back of his neck for support as he continues to hump his knee into you.

suddenly, rafayel stops, letting his knee still against your increasingly damp cunt. you can’t help but whine as you look up into his amused eyes. there’s mischief in them as he grins, “i’m getting tired. you’re going to have to do the work.”

despite your lust clouded brain, you can still think coherently enough to see through his brattiness. you narrow your eyes at him, “you’re tired? let me take you to the hospital. i knew you weren’t feeling well.” you duck down to escape his arms that cage you in, but he only lowers them so that they now trap you at the waist instead.

“you’re so mean to me y/n,” he huffs, “can’t you tell how vulnerable i am right now?”

“because of the perfume? why does it affect you so much?” you murmur, squeezing his cheeks slightly.

from rafayel’s expression you can tell he’s unwilling to share too much information. and as annoying as that was, you trusted him wholeheartedly and knew better than to prod him too much. you would take what you could get.

he rests his head on your shoulder, unwilling to meet your stare. dusting your hair behind your ear, he sniffs you again, practically consuming the scent. you shiver at the slight breeze he creates at your exposed neck, “i-it’s not just the perfume. i’ve dealt with this scent before, and i’ve developed a tolerance to it.”

you hold his neck against your shoulder, and gently knead his damp skin, letting him inhale the smell like his life depended on it, “then why?”

rafayel sighs, releasing the wall behind you but instead trapping you by wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing your bodies together. you sigh in satisfaction as his erection presses warmly against you again, your pussy craving his touch

finally he speaks, but his voice is low and almost feels dangerous, “the marine plant the perfume is extracted from…on its own no longer does anything to me. but when it’s exposed to another scent that i cannot control myself around…the reaction it causes can be extremely potent.”

the sensations of his body pressed tightly against yours makes your brain practically non-functional, so you’re not following his train of thought, so you ask dumbly, “like the air?”

you can practically hear rafayel rolling his eyes in his voice, “i need air to survive but do you think i can’t control myself at all times of the day?”

“okay well i’m confused! and to be fair you do act like an idiot at all times of the day so how am i supposed to know?!” he ignores you, taking another lungfull of the scent on your skin into his body. this time, he growls through an intense shiver, his grip on your body tightening against him. as if the very smell of your skin drove him into a lust filled craze.

and that’s when you realize what he meant.

“o-oh,” is all you can squeak out. strangely enough, the idea that your scent is what is driving rafayel to madness makes you leak further into the puddle that had formed in your panties.

rafayel groans again, one his fists releasing your body to gently pound into the wall behind you, “i-i can smell the arousal in your scent. it’s driving me insane.”

knowing he can smell the dampness between your thighs is both utterly embarrassing and completely erotic. your heart lurches, wanting nothing but to take his discomfort away and make him feel good, “h-how can i help you?”

reluctantly, he removes his chin off your shoulder and turns to face you, gripping your biceps in his hands, almost to the point of pain, “do you mean that? because you can’t take it back.”

shivering at the implications of his words, you nod slowly but more sure than ever, “yes. let me help you. i want to help you”

“i-if you want to help me…” rafayel’s voice is doubtful, like he’s scared you will deny him before he’s even gotten the chance to put his request out. between your thighs, you feel his knee creeping its way back against your leaking cunt. the shock to your recovering clit causes you to clutch rafayel’s firm shoulders and throw your head back with a breathy moan. rafayel feeds off your pleasure, imagining what you would sound like when you were actually stuffed to the brim with him.

“i want…i need to see you cum all over me,” rafayels throaty plea makes you blush profusely. you almost want to smack him across the head for his shameless words, but the pout on his face reminds you that he’s absolutely serious that this will help him. that seeing you come undone for him will help take the edge off of the effect the perfume is having on him.

“o-okay.” you gulp, nodding. the relief on his face is mixed with unbridled excitement that makes you squirm in anticipation of what's to come. your feet shift, which causes you to grind down on his knee once more. unable to withstand the unintentional teasing any further, you languidly moan and grind your leaking cunt against him to relieve some of the pulsing tension in your gut.

your broken groans grace rafayel’s ears and you can actually see his eyes light up with pleasure while his ears burn an even deeper red. his breath is shaky as he dips his head back down, inhaling deeply and dusting a kiss to the pulse point on your neck. you shiver as he gently uses his tongue against your neck to soothe his raging desire.

his reaction intrigues you, and you can’t help but want to tease him further, just a little. peering at him through your eyelashes, you tip toe upwards so you can fan your bated breath across his face, letting him bask in your scent. your tongue reaches out to gently swipe across his bottom lip, all the while you continue to pleasure yourself using his thigh.

rafayel is unable to contain his excitement as he watches you use his body for your own gratification. he pants desperately into the crook of your neck, high off your pheromones invading all his senses. through both your whiny moans, you reach out to graze his cock through his dress pants.

rafayel hisses at the slightest contact, and his reaction ignites your confidence, provoking you further. you grip him through the silky smooth trousers, holding his throbbing erection in your hand, using your thumb to tease where you think his slit would be.

“fuck–hah, be gentle please baby. m’sensitive,” he whines through gritted teeth. your cunt clenches at his words, so teasing yet so endearing from rafayel’s lips. you can feel the coil in your gut tightening as you continue to hump into rafayel’s knee, using his body to chase your own high. your black dress has ridden up, and now the only barrier between rafayel’s knee and your sopping pussy is your equally soaked panties. you bite your lip and pray that rafayel doesn’t notice the moist streaks that are starting to appear on his expensive pants.

through your hooded eyes, you can see rafayel is enjoying this just as much, if not more, than you are. his eyes are thick with lust, and you can practically see the pulse of his neck pound against his delicate skin. he desperately gasps for air, or maybe he’s trying to breathe more of you in, as you near your earth shattering climax.

“touch yourself for me,” you purr at him, purposely jutting your bottom lip out in a pout. he obliges obediently, one hand quickly undoing his belt and slipping in to grab his unbelievably hard cock into his hands.

as you watch his face contort in pleasure, you’re filled with the need to grab him into your own hands. “can i touch you too?” you ask innocently with wide eyes, imagining just how smooth he will feel in your bare hands.

rafayel whines, still obediently pumping his cock in his hands, “yes please, i need you to touch me.” at his plea, you let your hands find their way to his hands, still diligently pumping up and down. you wrap your smaller hand over his and mimic his motions. you gasp at the sheer size of him, your fingers just barely able to wrap around his girth. you can feel his veins throbbing against your fingers, begging you to continue further. the sheer amount of pre cum that already coats his fingers, and now yours, makes you wonder how delicious his spend would feel inside you instead.

“you’re so dam beautiful when you – fuck – use me like this. dreamed about this for s’long,” he bites out, his hands finding your nipples once more. his long artist fingers tease you expertly, taking the peaks and rolling them gently.

his skilled hands and filthy words accelerate the intensity of your body’s peak quickly approaching you. his entire body is flushed and burns under the pumps of your fist, likely exacerbated by the effects of your scent. you respond to his endless stream of gasps and swears with breathless mewls of your own, whispering sweet words into his ear.

“let me cum rafayel, please. want to cum for you s’bad,” you beg against him, despite him having given you all the power already, knowing the begging will drive him insane.

rafayel drives his knee further into you as your core grinds into him like second nature. your wrists vigorously pump his leaking cock, the thick heat of it feeling absolutely unreal against your palm. with your free hand you thread your fingers through his long soft hair, gripping gently. with a strangled groan rafayel sinks his teeth into your neck, sucking at your pulse point as if he’s trying to devour your scent. reluctantly he pulls away, throwing his head back in pure pleasure once more.

“f-fuck you drive me fucking crazy y/n,” he pants, his thick length throbbing at your vigorous pumps along his shaft, almost as if his heart was beating inside it. the endless precum that falls from the tip coats your fingers, making a wet mess in rafayel’s pants and your palm.

he groans in disappointment when you release his erection, but his eyes are trained on your every movement. overcome with your aching need for the gorgeous purple haired man before you, you bring your soaked fingers to your lips and slowly insert your index and middle finger into your parted mouth. you make a show of letting your tongue lap up his essence from your digits, never letting your eyes break contact with his as you devour him off your fingers. you can’t help but let out a muffled moan at the taste of him, sweeter than you could have ever fathomed, so deliciously rafayel.

he nearly hyperventilates as you peer at him through the tears of pleasure that had beaded onto your eyelashes. “look at you, hah, like a fucking masterpiece,” his thumb caresses your lip as his breathless praises make you squirm against his knee. the pre cum on his thumb swipes onto your tongue, and you itch to taste him again. you shift yourself so that you can take his thumb into your mouth, using your tongue to swipe all the slick off his slender fingers.

rafayel shivers at your touch, his mind a mush of lust and adoration as he watches your eyes roll back at the taste of his cum on your lips.

“you’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, drunk off your pheromones invading his senses. you only smile at him and tip toe up to press your lips against his, wanting him to be able to taste himself on your tongue. he groans into your mouth at the odd sensation of being able to taste both himself and you all at once. both his hands come up to thread in your hair, pulling you as deeply into him as he possibly can. you can feel his exposed chest against your own, his heart pounding rapidly against the swell of your dress covered breasts. the proximity lets him control every twitch of his quads against your cunt and you cry into his mouth at the stimulation.

as you continue to fuck yourself onto his knee, you find yourself on the cusp of your orgasm, nearly blinded by the ecstasy of his leg wedged between your thighs and the salty taste of his slick on your tongue, “raf-rafayel, m’gonna cum.”

despite his furious blush, he smirks at you, as devilishly handsome as ever, “you gonna cum on my knee baby?”

if it weren’t for the cloud of pleasure fogging your every nerve you’d surely have a snarky retort to throw back at him, but the need to have him is so great you can’t think of a single thing. without even needing to enter you, rafayel has rendered you utterly fucked out.

so instead, you nod eagerly as your grinding against his knee becomes increasingly sloppy and erratic. rafayel, entranced by the utterly fucked bliss in your eyes can’t stop himself from falling deeper into the abyss that is you: your voice, your eyes, your smell, your soul. he finds himself realizing that, though he’s seen millions of dollars in once in a lifetime artworks, even creating some of his own to add to this infinite world, the entire universe pales in comparison to you. the thick haze of emotions overwhelms him and he finds himself begging, once again.

“p-please cum for me, my love. i need to see it,” rafayel begs into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. the sensation makes your entire body shiver, causing your cunt to quiver further into his soaked knee. you’re not used to his voice, normally teasing and bratty voice, being this needy and adoring. it’s all enough to shove you viciously into your orgasm. you cling onto rafayel as you release all over your panties and his leg, still languidly grinding into you.

you can’t stop the screams that rip out of your mouth, pure ecstasy and satisfaction laced into your very breath. rafayel holds you tightly against him, cooing into your ear, talking you through the waves of pleasure, as the excruciating ecstasy makes tears spill out of your eyes and onto your cheels.

rafayel eyes widen in pure awe as he watches every shiver and twitch of your orgasm against his leg. he throws his head back, swearing as your scent becomes exponentially more potent. the smell of your spend is thick in the air, mixing with your pheromones and the perfume until it overloads every nerve in his body. the throbbing in his cock grows unbearable even with nothing touching it, physically twitching uncontrollably as he explodes inside his slacks.

you cry out one last time when your thighs collapse from the intense climax, and rafayel catches you by your waist, holding you steady against him and the wall behind you. the movements against your cunt slow as you ride out the final waves of your orgasm. with nothing separating his thigh from your cunt but your soaked panties, rafayel can swear he feels your clit throb against him, the aftershocks of your climax wracking your body, just as the effects of his own orgasm sear through his.

you’re a panting and sobbing mess against his flushed chest. your legs are completely useless, supported solely by rafayel’s strong and safe arms around your waist and his knee still wedged between you. he rests his face in the mess of your hair, breathing you into him. unbeknownst to you, rafayel is reeling from his own climax as he holds you protectively against him, almost for dear life.

through the comfortable silence that has blanketed the bathroom, rafayel’s voice vibrates on the top of your head, “you smell so fucking good baby.”

you smile contentedly against rafayel’s chest, your hands reaching up to smooth his curly hair away from his sweaty forehead, “do you feel better?”

he smiles against your head, taking another deep breath of you into him. his voice is thick with satisfaction, but also unrelenting hunger, “yes, but…” you wait for him to finish his thought, but there’s only silence.

“rafayel?”

his reply comes out strangled and heavy against the top of your head, “i-i need more. i need you.”

you shift so you can look up at him. he doesn’t speak, but his hooded eyes tell you everything he’s thinking. maybe it’s the post orgasm haze, but you find yourself being unable to deny rafayel, wanting nothing more than to please him.

getting on your toes so you can reach him, you let your bottom lip brush against his, relishing in the way his breath catches in his throat, and whisper, “take me rafayel.”

“sh-shit,” he mumbles and presses his lips the rest of the short distance into yours. he tears into you with such torrid intensity that your knees buckle. as his palms hold your face in place, you cling onto his shoulders for support, the feeling of him enveloping you so overwhelmingly addicting. as your legs give out under the excruciating anticipation of what’s to come, you hook your knee into rafayel’s waist. he grips your thigh, lifting it to hook around his back. his hand kneads into your bare skin as he reluctantly tears his lips from yours.

“you can’t stand anymore?” his cocky grin contrasts the deep blush on his cheeks. before you can snap back at him, he hoists you up against the wall. instinctively you yelp, wrapping your other leg against his waist as he holds you securely against the cool tiles behind you and his solid abdomen.

his lips simultaneously find yours again, locking deeply with an unrelenting passion that quite literally takes your breath away. as your breath becomes his, your thighs clench at the crushing intensity of his lips, wanting him deeper, harder. his tongue explores every inch of you, and you whimper into him at the pure need that was manifesting in your gut once more.

feverishly, rafayel breaks away, like he cannot possibly wait another second. he doesn’t even break a sweat as he balances your squirming body with one hand, his other hand reaching down to pull off his belt that he’d undone earlier.

you want to ask rafayel if it’d be more comfortable to go to his bed or even the studio sofa, but you’re rendered speechless as he pulls his cock out of his slacks. you’d felt it in your hands earlier, but seeing it in all its glory under the light was a whole different story.

rafayel definitely took pride in how he presented himself, his hair, his clothes; everything about him was pristine and curated just how he wanted others to see him. and his manhood was no different. he stood absolutely proud against his naval, his impressive length erect enough to touch just below his belly button, curving straight up. he’s unsurprisinglt well groomed, but with a dusting of pubic hair along his happy trail to his glorious cock. like rafayel himself, it was nothing short of art.

but then you noticed that he has trails of white cream smeared all over his delicious length, matted into the hair along his pelvis. far too much to be just pre cum.

“d-did you cum earlier?” you can’t stop the grin that forms on your face as you realize rafayel had finished earlier just watching you pleasure yourself against him. literally came undone at the mere thought and sight of your pleasure.

rafayel averts his eyes, hiding under his tousled bangs, his face tomato red, “sh-shut up!” his reaction only makes you laugh and want to provoke him more.

“you’re such a bad boy rafayel, cumming without me touching you,” you coo, using one hand to scratch his hair soothingly, “just an eager little kitty for me.”

rafayel’s eyes narrow as his lips form his signature pouty grimace, “i am not a cat.”

you open your mouth to tease him more, but rafayel pushes you harder into the wall so he can free one hand to rub his thumb against your lips. you yelp at the feel of the stone cold wall being pressed further into your burning skin. with his finger on your mouth, his eyebrow raise at you pointedly. his eyes light up with an intense and burning warning, “i’m about to fucking ravage you. are you sure you want to keep teasing me?”

his words shut you up instantly. you shake your head vehemently and obediently, your cunt aching at his promises, needing nothing more than to be filled with him.

“good girl,” he murmurs, his hand moving off your lips to reach under your dress, hooking his finger into the waistband of your panties. you shiver at the feel of his palm on your waist, as he attempts to pull them off of you. but he quickly grows impatiently frustrated at the tangle of your bodies.

“i’ll buy you another pair, ‘kay?” you’re about to protest but rafayel wastes absolutely no time, bunching the delicate material in his fist and tearing it off you. you gape as the sound of fabric ripping sounds in the air and watch the lace material fall to the ground.

“r-rafayel! i liked that pair!” you scold, hitting his shoulder in a mixture of disbelief but also arousal at his primal urge. you know you should be more upset but you find yourself just melting into a puddle at his unabashed behavior. i mean honestly you wore those in hopes that he might see them anyways.

“i’ll buy you as many as you want, if you let me rip them off of you,” he grins in feigned apologeticness. at your expression he continues, this time earnestly, “m’sorry, just can’t wait anymore.” and with those words, rafayel sheaths himself into you. you yelp at the alarming stretch, his girth much more than you’re used to. even with the thick slick of your combined orgasms, it’s slightly painful to accommodate him.

simultaneously, rafayel cries out huskily as he enters you, your grip down there absolutely strangling his erection. the finish of your first climax thickly coats his cock, but it’s just barely enough to offset the stretch from how thick he is. his strong arms hold you securely in place as his pelvis slowly begins thrusting up into you, pushing you up the wall at every stroke.

the angle he has you in meant every single thrust hits your cervix, his cock unbelievably lengthy. the curvature causes every stroke to drag deliciously against your g spot which makes you cream uncontrollably at each thrust, a ring of white forming at the base of his cock that splashes into you with every vigorous stroke. your clit rubs roughly against his pelvis, his coarse happy trail rubbing against it with every movement, stimulating your body beyond belief.

“fuck you’re taking me so well baby,” rafayel moans into your ear, swallowing another mouthful of your aroma. you whimper as you feel him getting unbelievably harder at your scent alone, his solid flesh brushing against every single corner of your gummy walls. his veins throb inside of you as he twitches in pleasure. “so fucking tight, all for me yeah?”

“raf, s’big. feel s’good,” you slur, the haze of ecstasy starting to cloud your consciousness. his thrusts go harder, deeper, at your praises, and you cry out, unable to stop your thighs, and simultaneously your cunt, from tightening around him.

a strangled moan leaves his lips at your movements, his damp forehead pressing against yours as one of his hands leave your thighs to grip the wall next to you. “sh-shit are you always this tight or is this jus’ for me?”

before you can respond, rafayel is babbling huskily into your ear again, “wish you could see yourself right now. you look so beautiful, so fucked out, all for me huh?”

your eyes squeeze shut at his filthy words, and you can’t help but clench down on him again. your profuse arousal coats the hair along his pelvis, creating the most filthy and lewd noises as rafayel continues to bounce you onto his cock, his stamina absolutely unreal. your lips chant his name, over and over, your brain only filled with him.

“look at me y/n, need to see you,” rafayel begs into your neck, still absolutely inhaling your pheromones, getting harder at every intake, “jesus you smell so fucking good.”

you force your eyes open, fighting the ecstasy from taking over completely. as he shifts to stare into your eyes, he gives you the most gorgeous rafayel smile that threatens to short circuit your brain and stop your heart. there’s an overwhelming swirl of emotions in his purple-blue eyes: lust, mischief, adoration, respect, longing, and…so much love.

it’s all enough to make you want to confess the feelings you yourself had forced deep down, trying desperately to forget them for the sake of your friendship and working relationship. rafayel keeps staring into your eyes, straight into your soul, and you finally open your mouth to try and find the words, “i–”

but instead, he cuts you off, bending down so your lips brush against each other again, “i know.” with those words, he presses himself needily into your waiting mouth

grateful that he doesn’t need you to say the words, you return his kiss with equal fervor, doing your best to convey all the things you had wanted to say.

the bruisingly passionate kiss pushes you towards the edge as rafayel continues to bounce you ruthlessly onto his cock. you’re forced to pull away from his lips to let out a strangled cry of pleasure. through the overwhelming ecstasy, rafayel takes the opportunity to shove his hand in between your bodies, easily finding your clit. the stimulation forces you to scream out uncontrollably, your eyes and head rolling back into the wall.

“jesus look at how soaked you are y/n,” he mumbles in awe, eyes glued to where your bodies connected, “look, baby.”

at his urging, you force yourself to lift your head off the wall and glance down at his fervent ministrations. the sight you’re met is enough to make you finish all over him right then and there.

the veins in rafayel’s thick forearm bulge as he paws at your clit furiously, the slick glistening on his thick length and splatters as the force of his thrusts rattle you deliciously against the cold wall. as he pulls out of you entirely with each thrust, you can see the throb of each vein of his cock, aching to be thrust back inside you.

“raf-rafayel,” you gasp out, “i–”

“i-i know baby, i can feel it. squeezing the life out of me,” he groans, shifting your entire weight onto his right arm while his left forearm slams into the wall above your head, anchoring him and allowing him to fuck into you with a new mind numbing intensity.

his chin digs into your shoulder as he hammers into you relentlessly, “ffuuck baby, gonna make me cum all – shit – over you huh?”

the force of the orgasm that chases you is utterly blinding, and against your better judgment you plead with him, “p-please cum inside raf, i want to feel you.”

you can feel his panting breath hitch by your ear, and he whispers, “are you sure? don’t tease me y/n. y-you can’t take it back. please.”

“won’t take it b-back,” you wail as his thrusts bruise your walls, the painful pleasure edging you closer and closer to your undoing. “please rafayel, need you inside me s’badly.”

at your begging, rafayel goes absolutely insane. he slams you so vigorously against the wall that you can practically feel the entire house shake. every throbbing thrust pushes against your more sensitive spots, bullying right into your cervix. his breath becomes increasingly erratic and he sinks his teeth into your neck to contain his throaty moans.

the sudden sensation of his teeth against your pulse, so dangerously aggressive yet gently teasing, sends you barreling into your orgasm. “cumming, cumming, m’cumming raf,” you wail repeatedly, unable to form any other words as tears stream down your face and onto his ruined dress shirt.

your hand roughly tears at rafayel’s hair as he continues to ravage both your clit and your aching hole, finally sending your body into the mind numbing explosion of your climax. your cunt grips onto him for dear life, throbbing uncontrollably to the sloppy rhythm of his thrusts. you ride the endless waves of your orgasm, vision blurring as tears continue to spill from your eyes.

“raf, s’too much,” you whimper, fingers releasing his hair and reaching down to scratch at his back, trying to relieve any of the overwhelming pleasure that threatened to make you lose consciousness. you couldn’t bring yourself to care about how you were destroying rafayel’s expensive shirt under your nails. your legs tighten around his waist as he continues to pound you into the wall. you’re almost sure your body will be battered and bruise tomorrow, not that you’d complain.

“m’sorry,” he pants, but only thrusts harder and faster, “jus’ hold onto me love. m’so – ffuuck – so fucking close.” you nod obediently, still riding the last receeding waves of your own orgasm, pussy quivering around every ridge and vein on his shaft.

“jesus if you could feel how tight you’re squeezing me right now,” rafayel grits through clenched teeth, “you want me to cum inside you that bad? that you’re gonna force it out of me?”

your lids feel so heavy as the pleasure of your orgasm ebbs into exhausted satisfaction, and you murmur, “m’not doing anything raf, you jus’ feel so good. so deep.”

at your praises, rafayel lets out a strangled groan and comes undone inside of you. you cry out as the warmth of his spend fills you, soothing the ache from the ravaging your poor cunt just took. he shoots rope after rope of it into you, a never ending stream of him emptying inside of you.

rafayel rests his forehead against yours, his forearm still using the wall above your head to support him. you both pant into each other as the quivering of your cunt squeezes every last drop of him inside you. he shivers at the feeling of your womanhood throbbing around his softening member, completely spent.

rafayel does his best to keep himself, and you, upright. his arms shake slightly, the aftershocks of his own orgasm devastating every muscle in his body. you can feel his biceps trembling, you fight to keep your eyes open, “s’okay raf i can stand.”

“okay love,” he murmurs into your hair, taking in one last whiff of your scent, before pressing a gentle kiss onto your forehead. you whimper as he slips out of you, your sore hole still wanting nothing more to be filled by rafayel. you do your best to ignore the thick streaks of your collective spend dripping down your legs. as you unhook your thighs and let your feet touch the floor, your body gives out.

rafayel catches you before your knees can crash into the tiled bathroom floor. you don’t have to look at his face to know he’s smirking at you.

“need me to carry you baby?”

as you hold yourself up clutching his arm, you narrow your eyes at him, “no. shut up.”

rafayel chuckles, the smile in his eyes glowing brightly at you, “come on y/n, let me take care of you.”

your snappy refusal is cut off by your squeal as rafayel scoops you into his arms, like a princess. you wince at the feeling of the smearing of dampness between your thighs as rafayel hooks his arms under your thighs. you hadn't even noticed that he’d put his belt back on.

“always with the theatrics rafayel,” you grin, unable to stop yourself from burying your face into his chest. he smiles in response as he carries you through his home. you breathe in rafayel’s scent, an intoxicating blend of sea salt, cardamom, and arousal.

“you love me.”

you sigh to yourself, love him you absolutely did. but that was a conversation you two would need to have another day.

looking up, you find yourself in rafayel’s room, his white curtains billowing as the night time breeze cascades through them. as rafayel sets you down on his plush king sized bed, your phone rings from the inside of his pocket. you’d almost forgotten you’d given him your phone when thomas had called earlier.

the phone keeps ringing as rafayel sits besides where you lay, attention focused solely on you. you pat his thigh, “raf? can you pick up my phone?”

rafayel grimaces as he grabs your cell phone from his slack pockets. “it’s just thomas,” he grumbles like a child, “i told him not to call again.”

he takes one look at your unamused expression and sighs in defeat, “fine fine.”

rafayel picks up the phone, snapping, “what thomas?”

“speaker phone,” you mouth at him, only able to hear thomas’s erratic mumbles through the phone. he rolls his eyes, but puts the call on speaker, holding it up between you two.

“you guys better be half dead in a ditch or actually dead,” he threatens sulkily, “how could you guys not show up?”

“didn’t i say not to call again?” rafayel fires back, but his tone is teasing. you know rafayel cares about thomas a lot, even if he makes the agent’s life hell.

“thomas, i’m so sorry! i’ll make it up to you i swear,” you apologize, feeling horribly guilty. you could only imagine how many angry sponsors and reporters he had to deal with.

as rafayel holds the phone with one hand for you to speak into, he notices your black dress had ridden up to reveal glistening streaks pooling down your legs. he uses the index finger of his free hand to scoop up the spend that continues to drip down your thighs. your breath hitches as he smirks at you, his hand creeping up further, into your inner thigh.

“you owe me so many dinners,” thomas grumbles, but you have a difficult time paying attention to the rest of his words as rafayel’s hands venture further up, dangerously. you give him a warning look, but his fingers only trail up further to tease you, grazing against your bare slit.

“are you guys even listening to me?” thomas demands through the phone, his tone is as pouty as rafayel normally is.

“y-yes, i’m sorry,” you try to keep your voice as steady as possible, “i’ll uh, i’ll get you take out tomorrow!” you swat at rafayel’s lingering hands but he doesn’t budge. his ears are pink and you notice his breaths are coming out in short pants as he quietly climbs onto the bed at your feet. you do your best to keep your own moans from bursting uncontrollably out of your lips as his fingers relentlessly tease you.

“yes, and i want boba too. with extra – wait. what are you guys doing?” rafayel and your eyes snap to each other and then to the phone. you’re about to speak when thomas’s shrill voice cuts in again.

“you guys better not be doing what i think you’re doing! i swear to g–”

“‘kay gotta go bye bye thomas love you!” rafayel interrupts sheepishly, ending the call with his thumb. there’s a brief moment of disbelief and silence before you both burst out into laughter.

you clutch your stomach, trying to catch your breath as the uncontrollable giggles keep coming. but the thought of thomas makes you feel guilty again, “rafayel maybe we can still make it to the party if we hurry. we can’t just leave thomas –”

rafayel shushes you with his finger, his hair falling into his eyes as he leans over you, “i just got an idea for a painting and i have to start right now.”

you’re no stranger to rafayel’s spontaneous bouts of inspiration. in the past, he’d literally drag you to the oceanside and not ten minutes into the excursion, he’d race home needing to get started on an idea he had right then and there. and sometimes he’d forget you at the beach.

“right now? but we’re not in the studio,” you squirm as rafayel leans closer to your face, shifting his body so that he’s kneeling at your feet, in between your legs.

“oh. i meant a different kind of painting. maybe on your stomach,” your brows furrow in confusion at his words as he smirks mischievously at you. you squeak as he climbs to hover over you, his body pressed against your still sensitive areas. your body heats up again as the feel of his hardening cock against you.

his thumb presses against your bottom lip, the salty taste of him invading your senses once more, “or maybe…on your beautiful face.”

the implications of his words finally hits you all at once, and your face burns like a wildfire. you hit his shoulder weakly and unconvincingly, already succumbing to the arousal pooling back in your thighs as you watch the desperate need return to his eyes.

“r-rafayel!”

“then again you’re already a piece of art,” he murmurs, his voice groggy with desire. he presses a kiss to your parted lips, then to your exposed collarbone, and then to your covered breasts, “but you know me. i like to take my time with my art.”

oh you were utterly fucked.

taglist: @queenashen @kttriangle @lyssa-211 @jeikeun

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daisy (english profrry x TA!yn)

part one of english profrry is here!!!!!

word count: 6.3k

BIG content warnings: massive, glaring warning for an inappropriate relationship. y/n is a graduate student in this and of legal consenting age, but there's an age gap of four years between her and harry. she is his TA, which means there's a big power imbalance between them. bc this is fic we'll pretend it's romantic and all very consensual but if this is triggering to you in any way, DO NOT READ IT. it's not worth hurting your mental health. also, if anything remotely like this happens in your personal life, IT IS NOT OKAY.

other CWs: small smut scene at the end (m masturbation with descriptions of m receiving oral, slight cum play), y/n alludes to having seasonal depression but it's never outwardly said (just be aware since the descriptions of it could be triggering to some!), a bit of angst but nothing crazy

with all that out of the way, if you still choose to read, I hope you enjoy :) love you all lots!!

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. . .

Professor Styles is a dick.

That’s what the entire English department said when it was announced that Y/N would be his newest teaching assistant for the spring semester.

They all sneered at her, throwing what they pretended to be caring warnings her way, claiming that he was impossible to work with and he didn’t even actually need a TA, he just liked picking students to embarrass. With their noses upturned at Y/N but not actually offering any kind of advice, she left the small English building shortly after the Dean unveiled the new schedule for TAs, anxiety bubbling in her stomach and thick, salty tears in her waterline.

She knows Professor Styles doesn’t have the greatest reputation on campus. She actually actively avoided taking any classes with him throughout the duration of her bachelor’s degree, and even as she chose to stay on to enter her first year of graduate school, she picked any other available professors over him.

He was known for his less-than-personable demeanor and the way he picked apart students’ essays, leaving them questioning their entire life path. Y/N has never felt much insecurity about her career — she’s always wanted to go into English, maybe opting for a small but impactful job in publishing or editing — but having a professional ruin her writing sounded… well, awful.

In reality, Y/N didn’t have much of a choice when it came to her teaching assistant preferences. She needed a job that wouldn’t take up too much of her time. Her first semester of grad school was difficult and stressful. All of her friends graduated and went on to cool jobs all over the country, while Y/N just stayed in the same apartment. She was homesick for her family and walked through a campus every day that reminded her of a better version of herself — one who had a flourishing social life and excellent grades. Just a few months of working on her masters degree had worn her down.

Despite the slight dip in her grades from university to graduate school (an expected change, her advisor had explained), she was still recommended as a TA for the English department in the spring. She’d really been gunning after Professor Rooney, a kind, middle-aged woman who had spent years working glamorous jobs in the publishing world. She had connections everywhere and was incredibly sweet, and Y/N knew she would feel comfortable working in her sections for the semester. All winter break, she imagined how wonderful it could be; that maybe it was the huge win she needed after such a shitty fall.

But Professor Rooney didn’t choose her. Professor Styles did.

Even with a promise of a reasonable stipend contingent on the completion of her TA position, Y/N’s world felt like it came crashing down just a little bit — but she knew better than to complain or blubber on about not getting her way. Instead, she chose to just get through it.

In the final days of winter break, Professor Styles emailed her to meet in his office the day before classes began. He didn’t ask if she was back on campus or if she had a good break. Y/N wanted to resent that, but chose to swallow it down.

When she got to his small office in the department, she gently knocked on the open door, signaling her arrival. He peered up from whatever book he was hunched over on his deck, straightened his posture, and checked his watch.

“You’re late.” he said flatly, shutting the paperback with a force she didn’t even know was possible. With furrowed brows, she glanced at the lockscreen on the phone she held.

“You said 10:30, right? It’s 10:30 now.”

“On time is late,” he muttered, folding his hands on his desk, “Early is on time.”

She swallowed, her lips parting like a guppy. He rolled his eyes and motioned to the seat on the other side of her desk. Quickly, she took it, placing her tote bag at her feet and making a mental reminder to arrive at his classes five minutes early from this point on.

“Right, so you’re my TA, then?”

She nodded, “Yes, for the spring semester.”

He hummed, though she couldn’t tell if it was a sound of approval or discontent. He moved his computer mouse over the surface of the university provided mouse pad, making his computer buzz to life. With an awkward silence settling between them, the sound of the mouse clicking was the only thing that filled the dim office.

“You just graduated from the English department last spring,” he said, eyes scanning over what she now assumed was her student file, “3.8 GPA. That’s fine.”

She blinked at that, resisting the urge to balk at him. 3.8 was .2 away from a perfect GPA. It was more than fine.

“You didn’t take any classes with me during your time as an undergrad.”

“Um, your sections were always full—”

“I don’t really care what your reasoning is,” he cut her off, continuing to scroll down the screen. A lump formed in her throat but she tried to swallow it down. Nothing sounded more embarrassing than crying in front of Professor Styles. “And now you’re getting your masters in English with a concentration in Feminist Literature. That’s an unusual one. Why?”

She’s surprised he’s bothered to ask her a question, so it takes her a moment to form a cohesive answer on her tongue. She’s flailing a bit and she knows he can tell, based on the unamused expression on his face.

“I’ve read a lot of literature where there’s a female main character and she’s just used to state a point or some sort of backwards lesson that was considered modernized for the time,” Y/N speaks softly, picking at her nails in her lap, “I’m interested in studying that more.”

“What kind of literature?” Professor Styles instantly fires back.

“Well, I wrote my undergraduate thesis on The Scarlet Letter, but I’ve also been thinking about basing my graduate capstone on Ophelia from Hamlet.”

He makes that annoying humming noise again, and she’s still unsure if he’s pleased or thinks she’s an idiot. She wasn’t unused to the latter — a lot of snobs in the English department thought it was stupid of her to care for critiquing older pieces of writing from an argumentative, feminist perspective, even if they acted like The Odyssey was an “absolute must-read” for everyone.

(It’s not. Y/N thinks The Odyssey is dumb and boring, but she’ll never say that, especially not to Professor Styles.)

“Right, well,” he lifts a white ceramic coffee cup to his mouth and swallows briefly. She glances down to see he’s drinking hot black coffee, and her lips furl into a quick, involuntary wince. “You’ll be with me three days a week. You are to attend the daily lectures — Mondays and Wednesdays are the shorter section and Friday is the long, three-hour one. Helping out with grading and holding office hours will be your primary tasks. If you fall ill or need to take a day off, I need at least 24 hours notice. If I receive any complaints from students, you’re out. Otherwise, it should be a fine semester. Any questions?”

She shakes her head, hoping he’ll show some inkling of delight at her quick ability to understand and process. Instead, his lips remain in a flat line and he nods, taking another sip of his coffee.

“You can go now. See you tomorrow.”

She scrambles to leave his office as quickly as possible.

. . .

Professor Styles barely speaks to Y/N for the first few weeks.

It’s unsettling in a way, especially because she doesn’t know if she’s doing a good job. She thrives off of reassurance, but every time she hands him a neat stack of newly graded papers or drafts, he simply waves her off with an, “alright, thanks.”

If she’s being honest, it makes her want to try even harder, though she’s not entirely sure why. She has the urge to claw her way to the very top of Professor Styles’ repertoire of students and assistants — a need for perfectionism that can only be quelled by the person least likely to give it to her.

And it’s driving her absolutely insane.

She wants to ask, straight out, “am I doing an alright job? Do you need anything more from me?”, but she’s positive that will only make her glow with insecurity. He’d probably laugh in her face and call her a baby for needing his acceptance.

It eats her alive as she sits at the front of the lecture hall, watching his female students stare at him with hearts in their eyes as he discusses the politics of Ursula Le Guin. It bugs her only more than he's one of the most attractive people she's ever seen, always impeccably dressed with long, ring-clad fingers.

Grumbling, she realizes that she probably looks just as pathetic, so she quickly straightens her posture and runs her fingertips over the mousepad of her laptop so it glows back to life. She’s supposed to be going over the grades of the students’ first essays — her and Professor Styles were meeting after class to discuss them in the event that anyone needed additional assistance for the upcoming paper.

She busies herself with that until he ends class, creating a list of a few names that would potentially need to be met with one-on-one. He doesn’t say anything as he gathers his own materials from the lecture, and she follows him out of the hall and to his office just as silently, carrying her laptop in one hand and her tote bag on her shoulder.

Professor Styles’ office is always cold and dark, never failing to send a shiver down her spine when he unlocks the door. Today, her shoulders shudder involuntarily and she pushes her sweater sleeves down to cover her hands. With a rumple in his eyebrows, he sits down.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

Y/N snaps her head up in surprise. She doesn’t mean to look shocked, so she quickly revises her facial features in an attempt to look collected.

“Oh, it’s just cold,” she says, waving him off nonchalantly, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah. I think this winter has been especially brutal.”

His reply especially dazes her — she’s unsure if that’s an attempt at making small talk, something Professor Styles has never done with her before, but she instantly nods her head, as if she’s speaking with a toddler who’s expressing their emotions for the first time.

“Yeah, I think so,” she says softly, “The snow is awful to walk through.”

“Do you live far from campus?”

She shakes her head and sets her laptop and planner on her side of the desk, across from Professor Styles and his things.

“No, just a 10 minute walk or so, but I don’t have a car.”

He hums at that — that stupid, unassuming hum that contributes absolutely nothing to the conversation. She wonders if she’s in her head about it, but she feels his eyes linger just a beat longer on her face before tearing them away. He licks over his teeth as he taps on his laptop to wake it back up.

“Right, then. Did you go over their grades?”

As she pulls her things out from her bag, she tries to ignore the small pit of disappointment in her tummy from Professor Styles shifting their conversation back over to class.

. . .

That weekend, Y/N thinks she’s hallucinating as she meanders up and down the aisles at Target.

She’s not really looking for anything in particular. Sometimes she just comes here for something to do. Her bank account isn't exactly flowing in a way that permits her to buy all the cute home decor she gazes at, which is why her basket currently consists of the following: pads, a new pack of her favorite gel pens, cookie dough, and a lip balm that she’ll probably put back before she checks out.

It’s another harsh, cold day out, the freezing temperatures refusing to let up as the days of the month flit by. This is Y/N’s least favorite time of year — when winter sticks around despite the holidays being long gone. All that’s left between now and spring is pesky snow and fake Hallmark holidays, and she yearns for the days where she can walk to campus and admire the tulips peeking out from the damp soil. By then, she’ll be closer to returning to her hometown for the summer, where she’ll likely get a job for a few months working in the local library or bookstore.

It’ll be good — she’ll get to see her friends and spend time with family and save up some money, and maybe the hopefulness of life warming up in a few months will be enough to get her through this semester.

And as she’s daydreaming of brighter days, that’s when it happens — when she thinks she must be fully hallucinating, because as she strolls down one aisle in particular, Professor Styles is standing there, his bottom lip pinched between his fingers as he stares at space heaters.

She’s never seen him off campus. Sometimes that happens since a lot of professors live close by, so it’s not unheard of to pass by an advisor or faculty member at the supermarket or through the park. But seeing Professor Styles here feels… illegal, somehow, especially given his casual, dressed down attire. He’s wearing what looks to be a cozy sweatshirt and a pair of athletic shorts, despite the temperature nearing the 20s today. (Y/N is bundled up in three sweaters, a jacket, a scarf, gloves, and leggings beneath her jeans.) White socks go just above his ankles, and the running shoes on his feet make her wonder if he’s insane enough to actually be working out in this weather.

She must be analyzing his form for a beat too long — maybe it’s the shock from it that still hasn’t worn off — because he feels her gaze, eyes veering to his peripheral, realizing that his teaching assistant is standing there as if she’s waiting for permission to enter the aisle.

“Hey,” she blurts out when she realizes she’s been caught.

Confused by her frank, laidback greeting, he lifts his head to face her. “Hey.” he echoes awkwardly.

“Um, sorry.”

He quirks an eyebrow and Y/N’s body heats with embarrassment. “Sorry?”

“Sorry… I-I should’ve just walked away when I saw you,” Y/N quickly attempts to revise, but she realizes it’s just making her sound stupider, “I was just surprised to see you here.”

“In a public store?”

“Right,” she nods curtly, turning on her heel, “Have a good rest of your weekend—”

“Wait, did you need something down here?” he rushes out, almost as if he’s fearful she’ll leave. She pushes the thought down but parts her lips nervously, eyes scanning over the contents on the shelves. She doesn’t need anything, she was just putting off having to brave the cold weather on her walk home.

“Yes,” she says slowly because, once again, she’s suddenly stupefied and enamored by the prospect of small talk with Professor Styles, “I needed… lighters. For my candles.”

He nods, a quiet “ah,” sounding from his lips, and they stand there like they’re doing some sort of parallel play; Y/N pretending to look at the long, safety lighters while Professor Styles continues to look at space heaters. She wonders if he for some reason is pretending, too, but then he’ll squat down to look at the features on one box, making a tsk-ing noise with his mouth, and straighten back up to analyze a different model.

When he finally decides on an option that’s best fit, he grabs the box and places it in his cart. Quickly, Y/N plucks a random display of lighters and throws them in her basket.

“Hope you found a good one,” she mutters out dumbly, feeling the need to interject one last sentence into their silence. He glances down at his cart, then at her basket, and then, finally, at her.

“It’s for the office,” he says. “You said it was cold.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“This should help with that.”

“Sure, yeah. I have one at home, it helps a lot with the draftiness.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.”

“Maybe you can get an extra lamp in there, too. Spruce it up a bit.”

A wrinkle forms between his brows, “What do you mean?”

Y/N wishes the ground would swallow her up whole.

“Nothing! I just meant— like, sometimes it’s a bit cold, and with the weather, it can get dark, too. The winter’s tough, don’t you think? That’s all I meant, I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re right,” he says with a decisive nod. “You’re the only other person that really spends time there besides students. Do you want to help pick one out?”

“Sure, okay.”

They walk in silence to the lighting display, which is filled with a myriad of different options. Professor Styles looks semi-overwhelmed by it all and Y/N has to bite her lip so she doesn’t smile too widely at his confused expression. She points to a simple, inexpensive standing lamp.

“I think something like this would be good, in the corner or something. Just for some extra brightness.”

“Is that the one you like?”

Y/N doesn’t have strong lamp preferences, especially when it comes to a space that she’s not even living in, but for some reason, it seems important that she says yes. So she nods her head, flashing him a small smile. He returns it, and she realizes that’s the first time he’s ever smiled at her.

“Okay. I’ll have this stuff set up for when you come in on Monday.”

She swallows, feeling the mountain of adoration in her stomach grow. She shoves it down.

“Thank you, that’s really kind of you,” she says.

“Sure. I’ll see you then. Have a good rest of your weekend.”

She hides in the lamp aisle for another 15 minutes, until she’s positive he’s left the store.

. . .

Professor Styles and Y/N are working in their typical silence when he says something that makes her jaw nearly drop to the floor.

She thought that after their short but personable interaction at the store, things would change a bit. Maybe he would feel more comfortable talking to her outside of monotone grunts or the occasional “are they failing my class?”, but things remained the same. When she came in that Monday, the space heater and lamp were both on and running as he promised, but it was as if nothing happened.

It irks Y/N to no end.

She assumes that he sincerely doesn’t care for her, which she supposes is fine considering kindness or approval aren’t part of the job description. That’s why she’s shocked when he says it a few weeks after the weekend they saw one another in public.

“I think you should ask to change your advisor to me.”

Y/N chokes on her spit, hurriedly coughing into her hand so she doesn’t spray saliva all over his desk. Once she recovers, he’s staring at her expectedly, as if what he said was completely and utterly sane.

“Sorry?” she asks, “Why would I do that?”

She doesn’t mean it to sound rude, but it’s a genuine question. Typically, there’s some type of rapport between a grad student and their advisor, and she and Professor Styles have absolutely none of that.

Professor Styles clears his throat and folds his hands on his desk. “Because I got my masters degree in the same thing, so I spent four years studying exactly what you’re studying. I think you’ve been doing very well as my TA and I would like to advise you.”

“Why would you ask me why I was studying that, then?” she blurts out, confusion apparent on her face. “The first day we met, you told me it was unusual.”

“It is.”

“But you studied it.”

“I did.”

“So why would you say that?”

Professor Styles sighs as if this is the most boring and obvious conversation he’s had all day.

“I wanted to hear you defend it. See why you’re interested and make sure it’s not all bullshit.”

Y/N shakes her head, “So you were playing some kind of mind game with me? For fun?”

“It wasn’t a mind game, Y/N. I just wanted to know why you’re interested in it.”

She bites her lip and looks down at her laptop screen, which has since gone dim since they began talking. If she’s being truthful, she’s grown tired of Professor Styles. Up until now, she was positive she was doing things wrong and he just didn’t care enough to correct her — only to find out that he wanted to work with her even more. It made zero sense.

“Are you going to do it, then?” he asks, tearing her from her thoughts. Her expression pinches as she rolls her lips into a thin line.

“I don’t know.” she answers in a watery voice. “I like my advisor, and I assumed you didn’t like me very much.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I like you?”

“You barely utter three words to me on a daily basis and never tell me if you’re happy with my work.”

Professor Styles scoffs, leaning back against his leather computer chair.

“You need regular approval from me to know whether or not I like you?”

“Yes,” she admits, anger building in her chest until she can’t help but blurt out what she’s thinking, “It’s how I work. If you were a good professor, you would’ve asked how I best function at the beginning of the semester. Instead, you ignore me for fun.”

“You don’t think I’m a good professor.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “I didn’t mean that. I think you are. I just don’t think you’re the best at managing teaching assistants.”

He shrugs, but she notices a slight wince in his features. “We can’t all be good at everything, can we?”

“Right,” she mumbles, drumming her fingers on the edge of his desk. When he doesn’t reply, she shuts her laptop and stuffs it in her bag. “I’m gonna go then. I’ll see you next week.”

He’s silent as she gets her things together and pulls her jacket on, wrapping her scarf around her neck and zipping it on top of her sweater for extra warmth. As her boots carry her across the length of his office and to the door, he stands from his seat.

“Y/N,” he says, and she turns to look at him. “The deadline to change your advisor is next Friday. I hope you’ll still consider it.”

. . .

That evening, all Harry can think about is his sweet, quiet TA. The one who he undoubtedly offended earlier today — he cringes at the thought of it, replaying their conversation over and over in his head. He can’t stop thinking about the upset look on her face. When she asked if he was playing mind games with her, he wanted to get down on his knees and beg for her forgiveness. He never meant to hurt her, not one bit.

He sighs as he runs his hand through his hair. He’s had reruns of some shitty sitcom on since he got home from work a few hours ago. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, but even a laugh track and ‘90s era merriment couldn’t distract him from thinking about her.

He considers the things she said about wanting his approval. He’s never been well-liked in the English department, likely because of his rough exterior. He’s not immune to the things he hears from students and faculty, about how he’s grumpy and someone to be feared, even if he didn’t even intend to come off that way. In all honesty, he never wanted to be perceived in that matter — but once his reputation began to precede him a year or two ago, he figured there was no use in trying to convince people otherwise.

That's how it had always gone, anyway — in high school, when he started experimenting with different styles of clothing, everyone assumed he was gay. He'd desperately tried to refute those claims, even if he wasn't completely sure of his sexuality himself. But no one cared — they'd already made up their minds, and it seemed useless to attempt to change their ways of thinking.

And when people spoke here, mumbling about how mean and terrible he was... well, what was the point?

Y/N was the only person he cared to win over, and it was eating him alive.

So much so that he made the blind decision to maybe, possibly cross a very clear boundary between professor and TA. Despite Y/N being of legal, consenting age (after looking at her student file, he found that he’s only four years older), he still attempted to prioritize maintaining a professional relationship with every one of his students and TAs.

He couldn’t help himself with her, though. He knew it was bad — he could feel his heart thumping quickly in his chest, the logical part of his brain telling him to stop while he’s ahead, but he couldn’t. Not as he grabbed his laptop, logged into his work email, and composed a message to her student address. Not when his fingers danced over the keyboard and resisted the urge to implore her to start fresh with him. Not when he clicked ‘send’ without even proofreading to make sure it sounded appropriate, not creepy or weird.

He pushed his laptop away and got up to pour himself some wine, attempting to rid himself of any lingering guilt.

. . .

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Today

Time: 9:57 p.m.

Hi Y/N,

I wanted to apologize for how I acted today. It wasn’t kind of me and you deserve far better than that. I understand if you have no interest in changing your advisor. Please know that whatever you decide, your TA position will not be in danger, should you choose to continue working with me.

Thank you for all of your hard work. You’ve been doing an excellent job and I’ve very much enjoyed having you this semester. Have a good weekend.

x Harry Styles

. . .

On Monday, Y/N’s mind is whirring.

It’s not because the semester is nearing midterm season, although that’s part of it. It’s because Professor Styles emailed her an apology at almost 10 pm on Friday evening, and she’s repeatedly read it over at least 50 times since receiving it.

She didn’t reply because she wasn’t sure what to say — and, most shockingly, he didn’t sign it as Professor Styles. Instead, he ended the message with a kiss, for crying out loud, followed by his name. His name!

It’s all she’s been able to focus on for days, to the point where she contemplates not showing up to his lecture on Monday. But she’s better than that — she’s stronger, and she’s smarter, and she doesn’t want to hide.

She avoids Professor Styles’ gaze all throughout his lecture, instead focusing on grading first drafts for the class’ midterm paper. She knows she’ll have to sit with him in his office afterwards, and her stomach churns at the thought. In some way, she feels ashamed that she said anything to begin with. Her comments about him not managing TAs properly have made her shrivel into a mortified version of herself, and she’s shocked he didn’t fire her on the spot.

Worst of all, she hates the way her heart jumped into her throat when his name popped up on her screen on Friday night. She craved the feeling, hoping he would, for some reason, do it again, even though she never responded. She wasn’t playing hard to get by any means, but the fact that her brain even veered in that direction proved one thing to be true: she has a big, fat crush on Professor Styles.

The knowledge sits like a rock in her stomach, especially as they walk in silence to his office after class. The air between them feels awkward, but she’s not sure that there’s ever been a time where it hasn’t felt odd between them. When he unlocks the door, she quietly steps inside, her heart skipping a beat at the space heater and lamp already turned on.

Usually, he keeps the door open while they work. Today, he shuts it, the soft click of the lock making her jump.

“Can we talk?”

Y/N’s throat dries but she nods, gripping the strap of her tote bag close to her arm. She turns to face him, and for the first time ever, she notices that he looks… nervous.

“About last week. I’m sorry, but I’m even more sorry for emailing you that on Friday,” he rushes the words out like he wrote a script out and was waiting to perform them, “It was completely inappropriate, and I got the hint when you didn’t reply.”

“The hint?” she peeps out, her voice squeaky and embarrassing.

“Yeah,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, “About not wanting me to advise you and… you probably found my email to be weird, right?”

Quickly, she shakes her head. “No, no. I.. I actually haven’t given much thought to the advisor thing, but I didn’t think it was weird. I just didn’t know how to respond.”

His eyebrows furrow, “Why’s that?”

“Because I felt guilty about what I said to begin with! A-and you could’ve fired me if you wanted to, but instead you apologized and said that I’m doing a good job—”

“You are.”

“Exactly!” she exclaims frustratedly. “I didn’t know how to respond to that.”

“To me being… kind?”

“Yes.”

He blinks at her, the crinkle between his brows deepening.

“I’m just not used to it, Professor Styles.” she says with a sigh.

“Harry,” he corrects.

“What?”

“My name is Harry. I don’t want you to call me Professor Styles.”

Y/N ignores the quickening of her heartbeat and shifts her stance from foot to foot.

“Why are you doing this?” she eventually blurts as she crosses her arms over her sweater-clad form. She’s not sure if she detects an inkling of pity in his face, but if she does, she wants nothing more than to run for the hills and never return. For some reason, the thought of Professor— Harry feeling bad for her makes her shoulders shudder, a prickly sensation tip-toeing down her spine, as if shame is completely and utterly eating her alive.

His lips part in a quiet sigh. “I just… I spent the weekend thinking of you and feeling awful for the way I’ve treated you.”

Thinking of you.

I spent the weekend thinking of you.

Her stomach turns as his words echo throughout the chambers of her brain. But then there’s a click — like the second part of the sentence just ekes its way through, planting a seed of self-doubt and insecurity. And she backs away like he may explode at any moment.

“You shouldn’t— no, that’s alright,” she shakes her head, gaze set low on the carpeted floors of his tiny office.

“Y/N—”

Again, she cuts him off with a shake of her head, raising her eyes to look at him. His expression is pained and she wonders if hers is any better, though she assumes for different reasons: He doesn’t want to get fired for torturing another grad student. She has an inappropriate crush on the professor she works for.

“It’s all good. Call it even?” she rushes out, leaning over to grab her things from her chair, “Fresh start on Wednesday. Don’t mention it again, alright?”

She’s gone before he can stop her.

. . .

Harry accidentally falls asleep in his office that evening.

It’s half because he’s absolutely swamped with work, too fearful to email Y/N and add things to her grading pile after the way she all but ran away earlier today. He’s terrified he made her uncomfortable.

He doesn’t want to return to the quiet loneliness of his apartment, where he’s constantly faced to force the reality of his life: A man in his early 30s with a job that he likes, but no one actually likes him at it. His entire family resides in London and with the exception of a few friends from his schooling years, he’s alone. Especially in the romance department.

His heart aches for Y/N. He realizes it’s a bit dramatic, even slightly taboo given the nature of their professional relationship, but he likes her. He likes her so much that he doesn’t want to go home and think about how badly he messed things up, so he falls asleep face-down on his desk, his cranium wedged between piles of pens and a Post-It list of to-do’s.

When he wakes up, he doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep for. The soft, golden light from the lamp is still just barely bathing the circumference of the room, but as he blinks his eyes open, he realizes that it’s silent. He can see through the small frosted window that the hallways are dim, which means it’s most definitely sometime in the evening.

He feels… somewhat guilty but charged as he wakes from the fog of his sleep, eyebrows furrowing as he stretches his arms out. His neck already aches from the discomfort of his sleeping position and he groans, lifting a palm to sort the knot out.

And that’s when he realizes it — why he feels as if his body is buzzing, his hands sweaty and his throat dry. He’d woken up in the middle of a sex dream and, like a pathetic teenager, the star of it had been his crush. Y/N.

He scoffs to himself as he glances down at his crotch where, sure enough, his length is painfully hard beneath the constriction of his trousers and underwear. He swallows, eyes flickering closed. He can remember the exact details of his dream, even if they send a bead of guilt dripping down his chest — they’d been in his office, just like this. She was between his legs, knees pressing into the carpet of the floor, her eyes rounded and expectant as he toyed with her, pretending to guide his cock between her lips only to take it away at the last minute. She pouted every time, a plushy lipped-frown punctuating the words he hadn’t even realized he’d been dying to hear: “Please Professor Styles, stop teasing me.”

At the realization, he’s sent into a frenzy. He doesn’t even think to check whether the door is locked (or maybe if he’s locked in the building, no less), before he’s clawing at his belt and zipper, yanking the fabrics down to reveal a pair of swollen balls. His length stands hard, his eyes nearly rolling back just from the feeling of looping his fingers around the base. He can’t remember the last time he was this pent up just from his own imagination, but it’s not a difficult place to return — not as his head leans back against his office chair, allowing his dream to pick up and take form in full consciousness.

So much pre-cum is bubbling at the tip that he doesn’t need much of his own spit to lubricate himself. He bites his lip hard to prevent himself from groaning out too loudly, envisioning the way she’d finally suckle around the tip of his cock, looking up at him with proud eyes. He’d gradually help her go deeper, but she’d be excited, willing to bruise her throat for him. She was so good — in his dreams, in real life, she was always so, so good.

“So good, Professor,” she’d pant out, popping off to lick a stripe up the side of his cock. With spit-swollen lips, she’d venture down to his balls, rolling them in the palm of her hands before taking each one into her mouth. In reality, he gasps at that, tugging them in his own hand.

But what really gets him there is an impossible thought — one that has nothing to do with the silly wet dream his brain conjured while he slept. Her in her own bedroom, her naked form wrapped up in her sheets while he gazed over lovingly, pressing soft kisses along her shoulder and down her arm. She’d giggle breathily before flipping onto her side to face him. And she’d say it — I love you — and it’d feel like heaven.

That’s what pushes him to finish all over his hand, cum dribbling over his fist as he pants and gasps like he’s just discovered masturbation. His orgasm encompasses his entire body, a few beautiful, peaceful moments of complete pleasure that causes all of his muscles to tighten deliciously. Of course, he envisions her taking all of his cum, licking it up eagerly over his digits, making a show of it — she’d open her mouth, pretty pink tongue out, and he’d watch as she swallows. He shudders at the thought of it, quickly snapping his eyes open and grabbing a tissue from the box on his desk to clean himself up. He’s immediately back to his grumbly state as he does, irritated that he allowed himself to lose control in such a finite way.

He tosses the dirty tissue in the garbage can and stands up to tug his briefs and pants back up. The clink of his belt buckle is the only sound throughout the small room, so he jumps when a knock sounds on the other side of his closed door.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, someone knows, I must have said her name, I’m such a fucking freak—

His eyes widen when the person speaks: “Profess— Harry? Are you in there? It’s Y/N.”

2K notes · View notes

alavestineneas · 5 months

Text

Losing dogs

pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader

summary: His golden prize, his future wife, was now bound to him by the ring on her finger. Of all of his investments, this one had the potential to yield the greatest return. warnings: not really canon-compliant, mentions of minor violence, blood and shitty relationships word count: 4k

Part 2 is here!

author's note: remember kids, manipulators and sick bastards are only hot in fiction - don't do them (and drugs) in real life!

The polished toes of his new shoes reflected everything in the grand hall—they caught glimmers of lamps adorned with gold, colourful drapes on the enormous windows, and the kaleidoscopic dresses of women around. The chatter filled the room, almost too loud to hear the music—not that he would enjoy it either. Some things require focus.

''Mister Fabius, Missis Fabius.''

Corialanus's face melts into a smile-like expression at the sight of the older couple.

They look like lice in the large building—rich lice, that is. The golden and platinum rings on Missis Fabius's fingers shine with every gemstone known to man, mirroring the bright lights. The jewels look ugly on the wrinkly hand, he notes. What a waste.

''Mister Snow, what a surprise! I was just telling Livia of your prodigious success in your new position. Incredible work, Mr. Snow; simply incredible! ''

The man's face radiated with excitement, getting closer in shade to his burgundy tie. The gold threats on it piqued more interest for Mister Snow than the words of the old man—after all, it's not every day you meet such luxury in person.

The man's wife, however, seemed less enthusiastic; her cold, bored gaze circled him up and down, stopping only after getting the satisfaction of an undoubtedly unpleasant conclusion.

Coriolanus mentally went over his outfit, hairstyle, and anything else she might have noticed. Nothing was out of place; the holes in his coat were a thing of the past. Still, it was something—that thought found its place in his brain, drilling a small hole in its way.

''When will we know of your decision, Mister Snow? We gave you time—a lot of time.''

''This evening, Mrs. Fabius. After the play, I promise to give you my answer tonight.''

He has to look first. What fool buys a horse blind? Sure, the horse came with immense fortunes and, most importantly, connections, but still. He couldn't afford to make a hasty decision, especially when the stakes were so high. After all, he was one of the most desirable bachelors; Fabiuses had to thank him for even considering the offer.

''There is no agreement until tomorrow, Mister Snow. We will have you for breakfast at nine o'clock sharp,'' Mr Fabius said, placing a hand on his wife's back and leading her towards the entrance. They could afford not to make one's adieu.

The opera was popular among the richest; all of the seats were taken. He would have lied if he said the golden rails and red velvet didn't make him feel a bit out of place. Nobody paid him any attention, although this time it didn't hurt him as much as usual. He could hide in the shadows of his box seat without being concerned about making an impression.

Not the stage, of course. It was the least of his worries, although he did pay a high price for a ticket. No, he looked at her.

The golden gown on her was a shimmering masterpiece. Layers and layers of the most expensive fabric covered her body like soft waves, crashing down at the round neckline with their gilded ends. She wore diamond earrings, just like her mother did, although they suited her better.

Coriolanus remembered her from the academy; she always sat near the window, gazing out at the world with a longing in her eyes. She wasn't a very bright student but rather a dutiful one. always on time, always prepared with her assignments, and always eager to please her teachers. The heiress to the jewellery empire. The flower of the elite social scene. Her presence attracted attention, yet she seamlessly blended into the background, never stealing the spotlight. YN Fabius was everything he needed her to be—a picture, but never a spectacle.

The manor was grand and opulent, showing the wealth and status of the Fabius family. Its sprawling gardens and delicate architecture were a testament to its esteemed position in society. Collums, paintings, and endless staircases stood as if frozen in time. It was as if there was no war just a decade ago.

''Mister Snow,'' the butler called out, his voice echoing through the grand foyer. ''Breakfast is served in the blue dining hall; if you would please follow me.''

Thousands and thousands of steps and passages lined the walls, leading to various wings and chambers of the mansion. It was warm, even during the cold autumn season. Only keeping the fireplaces always lit must cost a fortune.

When they finally reached the needed room, Coriolanus was slightly out of breath. The blue walls reached the high ceiling, painted with pictures of half-naked gods and goddesses frolicking in fields of flowers. It created the illusion of a smell wafting through the air as if the vibrant colours had come to life.

The table was served for four, not three, suggesting that someone else was expected to join them. The silverware gleamed under the soft rays of sunshine, casting a shimmering glow across the room—pure silver, nothing less.

The door behind him opened with a gentle creak, revealing Mr. Fabiuse's humble figure. His simple, at first glance, shirt was another of the perfectly constructed illusions—Coriolanus knew the fabrics like the back of his hand. The shirt, though seemingly plain, was made from the finest Egyptian cotton, woven with intricate patterns.

''Mister Snow, how good that you came on time. Excuse my ladies, the girls are such girls at every age. Take so long to get ready,'' he laughs. ''Please, take a seat," Mr. Fabius said, gesturing towards a plush chair covered in velvet.

''There is no point in all of those paints once you hit sixty,'' Mrs.Fabius said, appearing right behind her husband. She circled the table before taking a seat herself, her eyes glancing disapprovingly at the young man. "Let's begin before the food grows cold," she added with a sigh, her tone tinged with resignation.

''Of course,'' Mr. Fabius nodded, lifting the lid on the first dish. The aroma of it filled the room, and Coriolanus couldn't help but feel his hunger grow. He didn't have the habit of eating so much in the morning—another thing he needs to adjust about his routine.

When Mr.Fabius finally placed the fork down, Coriolanus knew it was time. ''Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Fabius. I must say, I thought a lot about your proposal, and after careful consideration, I have decided to accept it.''

''Good.'' Mrs. Fabius answered instead, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear that, Coriolanus. I believe this union will bring great delights to both of us."

Mr. Fabius seemed not to notice the interruption. ''I think a winter wedding would be absolutely perfect. Everybody seems to be getting married in the spring, but in the winter? Oh, it's definitely going to be a hit. Ah, and here's the lucky bride-to-be!''

She stood beside the just-opened door, her eyes following his expressions. Her hands, adorned just with one small pearl ring, were gently clasped together in front of her. She looked nervous, like a child standing in front of the full class on the first school day. Her dress, a delicate lace creation, clings to her figure like a second skin.

He smiled at her. YN looked like an antique statue, as if she just stepped out of the ruins of the Panem. Coriolanus wasn't even sure she was breathing—her stillness was so deep.

''Let's leave the lover birds to chirp,'' Mrs.Fabius said, standing up. She walked towards the couple, her heels clicking against the floor, and extended her hand towards YN. "Congratulations, my dear," she said with a warm smile before leaving, her husband following after her.

''It's time for a ring, isn't it?'' Coriolanus cleared his throat. Everything is to be done appropriately; there is no reason to avoid traditions. He reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a small box. White, of course—who is he, if not a romantic at heart?

''Mr. Snow,'' YN watched him stand up and come closer with the same expression she always bore—a mixture of melancholy and worship. ''Grant me something.''

He paused. Coriolanus didn't like to make promises. He would have to make it clear to her later, after the wedding—the fact that he took her for a bride was enough of a promise. Still, he needed this engagement to work, and he was not about to lose it to a crude lie. With a sigh, he softly replied, "What is it that you desire, Miss YN?"

''Promise me you will be kind to me. All of our marriage, promise to be kind to my heart.''

Coriolanus almost laughed in her face. Oh, what a lovely, clueless fool. "I will do my best to treat you with kindness, Miss YN."

''Good,'' she smiles. ''I think we will make a great couple then, Mister Snow.''

''Coriolanus, my dear. Please call me Coriolanus."

He couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. It was sealed. His golden prize, his future wife, was now bound to him by the ring on her finger. Of all of his investments, this one had the potential to yield the greatest return.

Mr.Fabius didn't lie—his daughter was the perfect bride. She never spoke to him unless he did first; she never questioned him. She simply followed his lead, like a well-trained pet. A pretty, lovely YN. She knew what to do, how to dress, and what to say. He searched for one—at least a slight imperfection—and couldn't find one; it was as if she wasn't a human, which, to him, she wasn't.

''What are you going to do today?'' he asks, without bothering to look up from the newspaper. He doesn't wish to hear her answer, but he still asks out of courtesy. Coriolanus knows that her daily routine is made up of attending charity events, dinners with influential figures's wives, and shopping for designer clothes. It's a predictable pattern.

''Well, the trees I ordered came in today; I'll have to chat with the new gardener about them. Are you meeting with anyone important later?"

''As a matter of fact, I do. Larry Tremblay wants to include me in a business deal he's been working on."

It's partly true, but she doesn't need to know more. Just a familiar name was usually enough for his wife to hum in satisfaction and assume that he was still climbing the social ladder. Not this time, evidently.

''You shouldn't accept.''

He looked up from his cup, trying to guess if she had gone out of her mind. YN looked like usual, her eyes meeting his without a care in the world. Why today, of all days, she decided to question his decision was beyond him. He cleared his throat, attempting to maintain his composure. "And why should I decline such a good-looking opportunity?"

''He beats his wife. Just yesterday, I saw her with bruises. ''

Coriolanus fought hard to keep a smile from forming on his lips. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, feigning indifference. He knew his wife wasn't the brightest, but this? "Is that so?"

''Don't you understand what it means? The man only beats his wife for two reasons. If he has always enjoyed those types of things, which Larry did not, or if he loses power and control in other aspects of his life. The business isn't going as well as he wants it to,'' YN lowers her gaze, losing confidence in her voice. ''I thought you would want to know that.''

He would, very much. Her conclusion was the dumbest thing he ever heard, based on some black and blue marks and a twist of her imagination. Still, it was interesting—his wife's head wasn't always empty like he hoped. She thought enough to notice something, and she listened enough to remember his partners.

''I will keep that in mind,'' he replied, his tone tinged with a hint of annoyance. What harm could it do to entertain her thoughts? It was even slightly amusing to see her try to piece together a puzzle that didn't exist.

It wasn't so fun anymore when Larry Tremblay was fired exactly two weeks later. Surely, it could be a consequence, but Coriolanus Snow didn't believe in them. There had to be something, anything, to explain his wife's sudden knowledge—she couldn't have acquired it on her own, about that he was sure.

YN looked unfazed by his questioning gaze as she lay on the dark olive-coloured sofa in his office, continuing to play with a snow-white kitten on her stomach. It was his wedding gift, one of many—the pricy creature with a diamond collar. He thought it was rather symbolic—two caged animals who were once considered sacred.

''How did you understand that Tremblay was about to be fired?'' Coriolanus asked, his voice laced with suspicion. It could be that she overheard the woman talk about it, or even that she had some inside information from her connections. What bothered him more was what she could know from the same source about him.

YN paused, her fingers gently stroking the kitten's fur as she met his gaze. "I didn't know that. I simply knew he had trouble at work. Evidently, they were big enough for him to lose his position."

''Really?'' he chuckled. Maybe she was telling the truth. ''Then, what can you say about my work?''

YN's eyes narrowed slightly. "Your work doesn't matter; how you present yourself does. Can I give you some advice?'

"Sure.'' Coriolanus bit his tongue, fighting the urge to snap back at her. After all, it is what he married her for—to fit in. He took a deep breath.

''Buy a new car, but not the most expensive one; it will give off an impression of stability, like you know the job isn't going anywhere. Your shoes are always too polished; it's like you wore them right out of the box. And throw away that hideous tie you always wear—you look like a student."

''Something else?'' Coriolanus mustered a weak smile, trying to hide his frustration.

''I don't want to offend you, Coriolanus. But I want you to do well. After all, you are my husband now, and your success reflects on both of us. Why not help where I can? You know I love clothes.''

''Good, '' he replied, forcing a more genuine smile. "Now get away from that cat before it scratches you. I'll figure out the rest on my own."

''Of course you will. You are the smartest man I've ever met.''

He was. It was because of his intelligence that YN married him, because of his ambition. Well, that and something else.

From her earliest childhood, YN knew what she was destined to be. She was the child of late parents, the only child, and a girl; she would inherit everything the generations of her family worked so hard to achieve. And YN was no fool; she needed a man. Driven, proud, and cold-blooded. The one who was not afraid to get his hands dirty while she spent her time leisurely in his shadow. Oh, no—YN never minded her place, much like her mother did. She taught her to bet on the finest horses, and Coriolanus Snow was no exception.

From the time she saw him in his ridiculously tight shirt in the academy, she knew what she wanted. Him. The top of every class, the charmer with pretty eyes—a catch, really. Her mother said there was darkness inside her dear Coriolanus, but YN knew. That's why she now sits in the opulent living room, waiting for him to get home. Mr. Snow was a horrific, ruthless man. But he was still, at his core, a man.

And men never listen. That's how she got him and got him good—a silent, fawn-eyed creature that he thought he could control. An obedient wife and a lovely lap dog. It was funny to see his gaze twitch slightly when she said something she wasn't supposed to—how long would it take him to figure it out?

It's time—his tall figure appeared in the corridor leading to the living room. YN watches silently as he takes off his shoes and coat, placing them on the rack by the door. Home at seven p.m. sharp, just like any other day. Just like any other day, dinner is at the table.

He never said thank you. Instead, her closet grew bigger with countless dresses, bags, and shoes—sometimes even brand-new jewellery. YN didn't mind it; she loved it—the jealous whispers of other women at the events about how lucky she was. She didn't have to sleep with a big, fat old man to get the latest fur coat or the most exquisite diamond necklace.

At least a few times a month now, Coriolanus would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. This night was one of those: YN woke up from the constant turning and tossing in the bed. She doesn't know how he didn't figure out why; it was easy to guess his food contained something to make his sleep far worse—YN made sure of that. Maybe he just didn't have the heart to admit his weaknesses, even to himself.

''Hey,'' she whispered, getting out of the warm covers. YN tiptoed over to Coriolanus' side of the bed, careful not to bump into anything in the dark. ''Hey, wake up. Are you okay?" she asked, gently shaking him awake.

Coriolanus jolted upright, his eyes wide with fear as he gasped for breath. He wasn't; of course, he wasn't. Yn would have lied if she said she didn't find it hot to see him like this—sweat glistening on his forehead, his chest heaving.

''You were having a nightmare again.''

He looked at her with the eyes of a lunatic, still not over his dream. ''What did I say this time?"

''You were mumbling something about birds and songs, I think? It didn't make much sense."

He doesn't recall that she mentored the 10th game too. Without much success, of course, but one thing she did remember was a girl from District 12 who liked to sing. Coriolanus remembered her too; it was evident from the fear that crossed his eyes.

''Excuse me,'' he said, his voice still shaky. ''I need a moment.''

YN watched as he stumbled towards the bathroom, his hands twitching. As much as her husband wanted to hide those parts of himself, he couldn't. Not from her.

There was nothing else to do but wait. YN climbed on the bed, turning her back to the bathroom door. Coriolanus would only come out when he thought she had fallen asleep. She learned to control her breath when she was just a little girl; it saved her life once, when a rebel pointed a gun at her small frame, meaning to shoot. He didn't—what use was it to waste a bullet on a non-breathing child?

Surely, after some time, the blonde man stepped out of the bathroom. For a few minutes, he listened to her steady breathing before sliding under the covers and pressing his body against hers, his large hand covering her shoulders. Coriolanus wasn't gentle; YN wasn't sure he knew what the word meant anyway, but he was careful. His arm around her chest wasn't tight—just enough for him to bring her closer.

As much as YN wanted to turn around and face him, she didn't. There was no point—like any other human, he hated the feeling of vulnerability. Instead, YN focused on the warmth of his body. Coriolanus Snow was a god more than a human, and real gods were never kind. The only currency they recognized was blood.

The annual party for the victor of this year's games. The first year Coriolanus Snow worked as a head gamemaker, his creation was a bloodbath, a spectacle of violence and despair. He did a good job—an excellent one, even—and one of the greatest stars of today's celebration was him.

They needed to dress the part in clothes that exuded power. And so they did. Coriolanus's suit was ample—purple velvet with gold embroidery—the colour of Roman emperors. The colour of the winners. The suit hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, suiting his white hair. Gold cufflinks, gold rings—he looked like a sovereign among men. It was risky to do so right in front of the current president, but who was Coriolanus Snow if he was not confident in his success?

YN wore the gown from the matching collection, a floor-length masterpiece. The deep purple colour was a stark contrast to her skin tone. And jewellery, of course—she came from the Fabius family for a reason. The lavender diamonds on her necklace and earrings. They were rare—the rarest—even. Only a few violet diamonds have been mined in the past seventy years.

It was all anyone talked about behind their backs. Whispers, rumours, and so much venom dripped from the mouths of Panem's elite—that's what they were hoping for, anyway. The Snows were just as shamelessly rich as they were powerful.

That's why they now sat at the President's table, just a few faces away from them. Coriolanus smiled to himself - not even the President's wife could compare to YN. Not in fashion, not in elegance. He had an impeccable taste - even a person far away from politics could see that.

''A toast!'' the President stood up with a glass in his hand, turning to face the Coriolanus. ''I am sure many of you know who was the mastermind behind the games this year - it's my pleasure to introduce Coriolanus Snow to those of you who don't. However, not many know his story of success. From a dirt-poor background, when his greatest possession was his family name, he worked hard to achieve the position he holds today. Let us raise our glasses and celebrate his remarkable journey to success and the country of Panem - the land of opportunity!''

YN cursed under her breath as she listened to the crowd cheer for her husband. He remained stoic - the only thing that gave away his fury was his eyes - they grew as dark as the sky outside. She didn't bother to calm him - this fire was impossible to put out. The President made a fatal mistake with his speech - she knows. But the true fear crept into her heart when she saw the President's wife pass Coriolanus the dish.

Cabbage.

Under a fancy sauce, it could be transformed into a delicacy fit for their circle. But tonight, it was his last straw. The colours changed on the face of Coriolanus, from white to all shades of red. His fists clenched, and veins pulsed on his temples. The room fell silent as they observed.

''Oh, I am so sorry,'' YN chipped in. Quick, something. ''I have a terrible allergy to cabbage.''

The President's wife looked concerned. ''Oh, I didn't know.''

YN made her eyes water, throwing a coughing feat for more dramatic effect. ''I think I need to step outside for some fresh air."

She felt a warm hand on her back. ''Let me accompany you, just to make sure you're alright." her husband announced, carefully leading her towards the exit.

The first thing he did when they reached the women's bathroom was break the mirrors in a fit of anger. Shards of glass scattered across the floor as he paced around the room like a caged animal. YN watched as shouted and hit the walls, sitting on the bathroom floor. Beautiful one - the tile was a lovely shade of pink, contrasting with the chaos unfolding before her.

After a good few minutes, he finally calmed down and sank to the floor beside her, his face buried in his hands. Her husband, her hauntingly beautiful, pathetic husband - oh, what a sight. He looked mad, maniac, even; his blonde hair was far from its usual perfectly styled form, falling on his tear-stained cheeks.

"What do you think of me?"

His voice is hoarse, a few notes down from a honey-like. She likes it better, YN thinks - nothing of the fasçade he was trying so hard to uphold. No, just a raw hunger with a mix of equally raw despair.

"I think you are an animal, Coriolanus."

She smiles, watching his expression change. He suspected it, of course - her husband was a smart man. Still, he can't believe it - his head twitches in her direction, his gorgeous bottomless eyes shining under the weak light of the only surviving floor lamp.

"What?" he asks with such a loss in his voice YN has to fight the urge to bring him close. Not now, she thinks. It's not the time.

"A hungry, desperate, sick, sick animal with nothing to lose."

Coriolanus gets closer abruptly, clearly angered - she can't let him leave now. His arm shouts to find its place on her neck, long, slim fingers forming a circle around her throat. "You think I am after money, don't you?"

"No, no," a yelp escapes her lips, bordering a hysterical laugh. "Only fools are after money, Coriolanus, and you are no fool."

YN watches as he loses his grip a little, calmed by her words. What a pitiful, fascinating creature was her husband - one word of reassurance and he is willing to let thousands of cursings slide.

"What is it, then? What did you fantasize about in your small dull head?"

He still doesn't believe her. YN is surprised at how quickly it becomes boring.

"You want power."

Clap - the grip on her neck is tight again.

"That's why you choose the fear. People forget the hand that feeds them, but the one who beats? Never."

The frown on his face falls a little, and through the gritted teeth escapes something like a curse. "You talk an awful lot about me," he notes. "What are you hungry for?"

"You."

He laughs. That was a deep, chest laugh - YN thinks she never heard him laugh so sincerely. "You want my love? Don't lie to me, YN," he taunts, pressing a little harder on her neck.

"Not love. Love is easily swayed, is it not? No, I want you."

Coriolanus looks at her as if he never done so before. Well, he looked thousands of times, but he didn't see. His eyes study every expression in hers, every part of her face. "A hungry dog is not a loyal dog," he finally masters.

There is a certain silence after his words. YN gulps, desperatly trying to help her dried throat - the blood from his hands ran down her neck onto her exposed chest, leaving sticky, dark trails behind.

"Feed me, then."

He kisses her. He puts a force behind it, watching her hands fall on his chest for some kind of support. Coriolanus kisses her until there is no air in YN's chest anymore, and she has to push him away to take a rushed breath.

They were going to be just fine.

After all, they both never bet on losing dogs.

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