#The arboretum's right there what | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

capslocked · 6 months

Text

KINKVEMBER DAY: 4

[prompt: roleplay] male reader x kang hyewon 8k words

“I need you,” Hyewon says in the uneasy dark of a hotel room, with two urgent fistfuls of your shirt, “need you to do to me all the things my husband never will.” “Yeah, I know,” you tell her, “you said that,” and her eyebrows move in all the wrong directions, “I’m just wondering if, you know, maybe we should give him a little more credit.”

Here’s the truth:

Hyewon doesn’t believe in leaving evidence behind and you don't find it particularly productive to doubt her; you’ve been talking in code for years. Parts and pieces of yourselves reduced down and bottled into set phrases that, to anyone else, would be totally incomprehensible.

"i've been thinking," she texts you, which you've come to understand means she's already made up her mind, "maybe we should do that thing we were talking about. tonight."

(You're not always so fast on the uptake.)

You send two back two texts, both of which ask "which thing?" because the hallway from the breakroom to your desk has poor reception and it never lets you send just one.

Then, right after you cross the threshold between signal-drowning-concrete and the glitzy glass-walled arboretum they've built to make you feel like you're not a total cog in their corporate machine, your phone pings the receipt of Hyewon's reply: a picture - her laptop, propped up on your coffee table with its screen angled for perusal, of a booking site that's filtered to show results for their 'king bed & view' room at a midrange hotel a forty-five-minute ride from your apartment.

"not really doing much narrowing down here hyewon."

She replies to you - her text bubble appearing over another couple still images, of herself in the vanity mirror as she curls her hair around her finger and holds this little black slip of a dress over her shoulder, black lacy lingerie in tow, the whole nine - with:

"i'm feeling kinda adventurous."

Five o’clock rolls around but you never really do figure it out. You spend the last three hours at work deciding which kink of hers (oh, does she have a few) this is all in service to.

There's nothing overtly sexual about her pics in the first place - not more than usual anyway, more showing off her curves and cut jaw than showcasing anything for her 'adventurous' intent. So that can't be the tell - you'd seen her in a corset once (you can't unsee it) and the angle of her hips to the mirror makes you think that if she was planning on pulling on a pair of crotchless panties then she probably would've found her thigh high stockings, too.

You try and think of what the two of you had even talked about when discussing these little scenes - how many times you'd ended up 'in the mood' during or after such a meeting of the minds, how it'd snowballed from there, a whole list of filthy what-ifs that she'd probably put more thought into than you ever have - but you draw a total blank. It could be any of a number of things.

Until,

"i left you instructions on the kitchen island," reads a text on your phone which you definitely don’t check while you’re driving -

And then it hits you.

"ah."

"yeah, 'ah'," she replies.

A quarter past seven at the hotel bar is way too early for any real promiscuous activity, but then again, you're here playing at pretend and half the fun of games like this is in the setup.

Meet me at the bar, your instructions read, introduce yourself, and play it by ear.

There's some couples at the other end, some friends downing shots by the round, people musing over their aperitifs, and a woman sipping alone at the bar - Hyewon, appearing to you from the back first:

The pointed edges of her shoulders narrow out over this tiny cocktail dress that somehow covers less of her than if it weren't there at all, skin tight, accentuating even her softest curves. She has her hair fixed a particular way - teased enough to flip at the ends but still a single sweep down her shoulders, pulled together softly by a ribbon in the back, tied like a fantasy, allowing a wispy strand to fall to her face - glossy and dark and glowing to this rich, deep mahogany where it's cast in the lamplight.

The line of her throat, of her chest. Where her hips meet her waist in a rounding flare. The effort and beauty she's gone to, for you - that she puts in every day just because she knows it gets your attention, can do more than turn a head or two; Hyewon's appearance is almost indifferent of you, only coincidental, but she puts on a damn good act.

(You look a lot more worn in comparison: jacket thrown over dress shirt and khakis, tie loose at the neck. Standard office attire with just a step-outside-regulation. Disheveled.)

A drink, you suppose - approaching the bar to try and catch the bartender's attention to order a single malt.

But if Hyewon's been waiting long, she doesn't complain when you pull into the stool beside her and sit for a long moment.

"Do you mind if I join you?" you say over a pair of politely folded hands - and that's generally where her 'instructions' end.

The look she fixes you with is just this unashamed smoldering, her body language this contradictory kind of lazy - cool, like her night was going exactly the way she planned but she still had places to be.

"It depends," she replies, one slender finger curled around the stem of her martini glass - which historically, is a drink she hates. "Who's asking?"

"Just me," you offer, letting the gesture and your tone leave it up to her. And then slowly, perhaps awkwardly: "ostensibly a complete and utter stranger who knows a gorgeous woman when he sees one - and who could never pass up a chance to see how the rest of her is."

"Smooth."

"I guess it is, considering you didn't immediately run for the exit."

Hyewon nearly snorts.

"Hard not to." She tilts her head back at you, assessing. Her cheeks are rosy pink. "A handsome thing like you doesn't usually buy themself a girl's time with flattery -"

"Buy your time or your drinks?" you tease, and you can tell she wants to roll her eyes - but she keeps them carefully lowered. Eyelashes dipping down like blackened fans.

Hyewon shifts slightly, resting her chin onto the heel of her wrist like she's leaning against an imaginary windowpane and tipping her face a little sideways. It makes you smile. "One gets the other, if you catch my meaning."

Maybe it takes you a little too long to lift your gaze off her lips to find her eyes, or off the sweeping curve of the hemline sitting high across her long legs, but she watches you for just a breath. It's a more telling moment that she pretends she doesn't know you.

"You can look at me if you like," and then without further preamble, she introduces herself with a slight tilt of the head and an expectant expression: "call me Hyewon."

You figure that if you've gotta say one word to get the ball rolling you want to say her name, and as a little revenge for forcing you to think on this scene and think on what to say, what your character would say, how exactly she wanted you to go about 'meeting' her in a hotel bar, how her fucking scenario's been building up in her head for god-knows-how-long (even though, in the scheme of the two of you and your relationship, it’s nowhere close to being the most demanding sex you've had), you reply simply with:

"Pretty."

It's satisfying, how she hesitates - pausing a little longer on your face to gauge exactly what you meant. Studying. But the next beat of your heart - or hers - is effortless, easy.

"I know. That's what my husband calls me."

"Husband?" You keep yourself from raising an eyebrow. "And I don't suppose I'm also... married?"

"Different day, different you."

"Meaning I have a wife or a mistress of my own," and you flick your wrist at the barkeep for a top-up of what's in front of Hyewon. "You're telling me I'm the kind of man who'd only settle for two."

It doesn't sound quite right, though Hyewon picks up on it. Doesn't let on. "Aren't men like you always? Charming to a fault, but always voracious - insatiable, especially with women like me."

"Women like you."

"Married women. Unavailable," she simpers, and in a practiced little motion, draws her hand out to where you can see it properly, this sparkle on her fourth finger that catches the lowlight of the bar. The diamond looks real - not that you'd actually know - and your stomach flexes up mid-somersault thinking about the financial impropriety for what amounts to a gag. A practical joke. Hyewon the comedian.

Still, you go with it and take her hand in yours, admiring. "What a pity." The glint off its faceted surface - Hyewon's watchful as she allows it.

"Isn't it," she agrees.

The more unnerving thing - besides how composed Hyewon can make herself be - is how the narrative quickly becomes a whole hell of a lot clearer with the context of marriage in play. She's mentioned it before: the infidelity thing, the way it leads to the raunchiest, filthiest bits she'll dare to explore. In some ways, her desire for the untouchable makes a lot more sense -

And maybe that's what had been nagging at your mind since she brought up the idea of playing the part: you always end up kissing in that stupid 'caught up' sort of way. With an intensity that's hard to beat. Even though you wouldn't ever cheat on her. Not in a million years. You'd watch her leave before doing anything like that.

But it's thrilling, almost, and even more thrilling that this isn't entirely improvisation: how well the two of you might actually play this off, as two total strangers to this illusory little roleplay that you'd normally say was your very last interest.

"But you know there's something I've come to appreciate about married men," Hyewon continues, her voice in this conspiratorial sort of hushed.

You blink, drawing her out.

"They know how to tie a knot."

There's the flirty wink, an upward flick of the chin that draws your eye to the span of her chest. To her body in that skin-hugging dress and your fingers entangled in hers - the gentle bump and shift of the bodies behind her, moving between the tables - Hyewon a queen of circumstance, playing to the moment as it bends; as her lips part in a pleased smile, red and smooth, almost innocent, and you can't help but imagine tasting her on your tongue, the force that'd take for her to yield when you finally got your hands in her hair.

(What a character, honestly.)

"Tell me something," you say, "why would a married woman, this pretty little thing like you, be all alone in a place like this - without her charming husband."

Hyewon's smile curls at the edges like smoke. "I never said he was charming."

You raise an eyebrow. "Good-looking, then."

"Never said as much either."

“Why are you with someone you find neither attractive nor charming?”

Hyewon makes a face, slightly pitied. “If that Isn’t what I’m asking myself everyday.”

"Hm." You narrow your eyes into something more quizzical than suggestive. It works on her anyway. "That doesn't feel too much like it's in character, Hyewon."

She shrugs, but it's that coy kind of shrug. She thinks you'll let her off easy - you usually do. All considered, she's the type who thrives off the chase and, as of today, so do you.

"But he is cute." Her expression is just this side of sweet, as she takes a dainty sip of her drink. Like the taste doesn’t bother her, like she isn't pretending she doesn't hate it with every fiber of her being. Like this is easy. "And maybe -" she quirks an eyebrow at you, withholding a smirk. "-you're right. Maybe, I was looking for someone cuter to fill the bill. And luck would have it, here he is."

So - apparently - her character doesn’t mind a little light infidelity.

Hyewon takes in the vague sense that the message wasn’t as clear as she might have liked, her forehead scrunching as she tries to convey - in a way that would communicate even to an airhead - some realization to play your part.

"Maybe it's the wrong question,” you start over, taking it from somewhere near the top, “what are you doing here, with me?"

That's when Hyewon graces you with one of the soft, slow kind of smiles: the kind that manages both an air of 'you dimwit' and 'good question'. Her fingertips barely graze yours but it's noticeably electric. Just enough to feel your pulse fluttering.

(You don't care that none of it’s real - Hyewon looks to you through thick eyelashes like a goddess of temptation and sin - and it makes something wicked coil up warm at the pit of your gut. A curious thrill and a recklessness that you have to admit feels a little nice - being the man trying to talk this woman into bed. The challenge and the buildup, the want to work for it. It's new. It's fresh. Lo-and-behold, it's kinda hot.)

When you catch her stare, she fidgets. So slightly, so briefly, your chest is on fire and you're barely into the pages of her plans, of this night ahead.

"Wish fulfillment, let's say," and that is no less true. "See it’s my husband."

"Mhmm."

"He respects me too much to do the things I'm going to ask you to do."

"Like?" you continue to prod.

Hyewon lets out the tiniest shiver of a sigh, like a trickle of cold water down the length of her spine. "Take a good guess."

You finish the rest of Hyewon's martini, slow. Savoring the warmth and bitterness sliding down the back of your throat. The night's young, sure - and if you're supposed to be spending it all wrapped around Hyewon's finger. This means you can take your time.

"Show me your room?" you propose, gesturing to the empty glass.

"I thought you'd never ask."

At your offering, she stands up and throws on her coat - long, double-breasted, chic - but only really just off her shoulders to have the hem hit her legs mid-thigh. One of her many personal quirks. Hyewon knows how to move like there aren't two eyes staring at her wherever she goes: not the awkward side-to-side of a girl who wasn't made to wear heels - a loping gait - nor the assured click, click of the taller kind that totter like it's all they've got going for them.

Something totally different: a little careless and a little haughty and an assurance of the highest confidence.

She winds an arm round yours like they do in movies, this parody of a leading lady - Hyewon not a seductress as much as she is someone who'll look the part just to convince you otherwise. There is a pretty big discrepancy, you find, between her bravado and her smile, her figure and her artistry - you couldn't act if you wanted to; meanwhile, she does whatever she damn well pleases. And somehow that doesn't even begin to cover the things that turn her on.

The two of you make for the stairs, winding up floor after floor until it's perfectly quiet, perfectly out of sight - hidden away from prying eyes and ears.

The silence of an empty hotel stairwell is thick - Hyewon's hand comes off the railing, as she takes to the wall and turns to face you. It's a gentle tug at the tie loose around your neck, barely any give before you're already there, holding her by the hips.

"Might've gotten us lost there," you whisper, as her finger plays at your chest and finds its way round the collar of your shirt. Your top button is already undone by the time you notice she's not fond of it. "The elevators would've gotten us where we're headed faster."

"Don't worry." She hums, leaning in close - like a magnet, like gravity. "You're getting the scenic route."

"Anything to stall the inevitable," you tease, but it isn't a thread she seems interested in developing.

"Something like that."

Hyewon shifts her weight back onto her right foot, her skirt riding up just barely. The dip between her inner thighs and the smooth curve of her leg is open and bare to your sight, her dark stockings like an unspoken challenge: the panties, lacy, loose, no crotch.

And it gets... indecent, the way your lips connect, how you realize half-way into that kiss, she's still smiling. It isn't any one way that does it; maybe it's the clever use of her tongue, or that particular position you've coaxed her up against the stairwell wall that makes it seem like Hyewon can't be any more in danger - it's too much to handle and your mouth goes slack on the reflex of an apology; her hand has a hold on you by the jaw and it won't budge.

"My husband," she murmurs into you, the trace of the words ghosting into the breath between the both of you. "Never lets me."

"What," you rasp, barely recognizing your own voice, your hand heavy on her side - the very real fear that you might tip over a banister because Hyewon's got her heel half-way into the back of your calf and any less bracing would bring you down. Your thoughts are a fog, with her cheek in one hand and your knee already up between her thighs.

"His wife," she almost swallows down, kisses turning chaste because maybe it's just easier to gently peck out her intentions, how she looks to you with dark eyes, heavy-lidded and wanting, a thumb trailing down the plane of your cheek. It'd feel like pity if you weren't thinking exactly the same.

You try to finish it for her:

"She likes it rough."

"No." Her nose traces yours before she connects you again - gentle and slow, and a shudder rolls all down the expanse of her shoulders; you think you have it about right. Until she makes the slightest adjustment and her grip in your hair turns agonizing, perfect and burning on the edge of too tight - too much. You are straining against the wall of a hotel hallway and she's saying, "not rough."

She kisses you. Hard. Until you gasp for the stolen air in her lungs.

"Filthy," she manages against the heat and sting at the side of her cheek.

(Damn.)

Your voice has gone and lodged itself firmly somewhere between her lungs - but there's something that says she knows. That you've got it in you, the brimming potential that might just say everything you ever wanted but couldn't figure the right way to put it.

It's the tone of her voice or the spark in her eyes, but one moment into the next - you're caught in this pull - like gravity's increasing tenfold at her will; her heartbeat's so strong you swear you feel it against your ribs as she's demanding:

"Messy. Dirty. A little uninhibited," and the obvious thrill of that must flare up like lightning under her skin - the way it makes her moan, soft and breathless: "fuck me like my husband doesn't."

She’s not even waiting for the comfort of the room yet, which in hindsight is probably checking more of Hyewon's many boxes - it's the sex in public thing, the fear of discovery thing, the desire to have you ravish her out where anyone can come upon you sort of thing - the thought of which has your jaw go a little slack too. Her leg up is coiled up around your hip, your fingers tangled in her hair and sliding up the length of her thigh, until you're fucking kneading up her ass and drawing out that desperate whine in her.

"Fuck," she exhales into your shoulder - a hand on the metal bannister to brace against those little circles you start to rub inside her, pushing - slowly - one, two, three knuckles deep, testing - before drawing back, and plunging forward again. This ache, slow and purposeful, pressing just enough into her until there's a wet sort of friction that has your hand slick all down your wrist.

It never takes long, with your fingers on her clit, fingers inside her, a palm covering the moans out of her mouth -

She cums just like that.

Whining and broken and bent under you, and with an elbow hard against her ribcage to make the breaths come shallow.

"Stay quiet for me, sweetheart," you find yourself murmuring, as your teeth graze the shell of her ear - the short burst of hair and silky strands across the back of her neck; you're undoing the neat ribbon tied round the length of her hair and letting her waves settle on her shoulder in time for you to swallow down the sound of her sighs, the tension in her lips, and the frantic jolt when your fingers push through the wet, heat of her pussy again, merciless and quick. You have to be careful; she nearly bites your fucking tongue out.

"Can't." Her jaw's tight on it, the slight staccato to her breathing, murmuring and slightly dazed: "if we get caught, someone will see. Someone will notice."

Her next exhale is more shaky. "Anyone could see us like this," with just her toes curling and her stomach tensing on every second beat. Your grip leaves a bruise. "Please-"

"We're not supposed to be doing this at all, are we? If you've got a husband waiting somewhere?"

You hear yourself, and it sounds sorta degenerate, though in all the right ways, you figure, like something straight out of one of Hyewon's romance novels, the dirty, smutty ones that she swears up and down she simply reads for the plot, but the dazed, hazy kind of mood they get her worked up into suggest otherwise.

You trace the rough pad of your thumb over her pussy, this delicate, ghost of a touch. One you'd have to strain to even tell if it was there or not until she whines - eyes screwed shut like she doesn't mean to, just does. The sound of it bouncing around the stairwell.

And then, all this wet: her skirt's ridden all the way up to her stomach, damp and near-transparent with slick, and you can just imagine the puffy pink between her legs - between her stockings in the afterglow of an orgasm, spent and sensitive and sore and wanting for more. Your eyes linger a little too long -

"I shouldn't let you," she manages, half a moan on it - one of her heels comes up the stair you're standing on and the way Hyewon clings onto you for balance says enough, but still, she demands, with all the strength her throat allows: "make it fast. You're lucky I let you see me like this at all -"

And she cuts off abruptly, looking at you.

(She'll play coy for a while longer. Which, Hyewon being Hyewon, will look like as much an effort as her sprawl out on the bed for you is.)

"The room," you say to her, harshly, "where is it."

"Four more floors."

Room 1014 as it turns out is like every other room you've ever been in, each one perhaps a little more identical than the last - except this one has Hyewon sitting in your lap while you get comfortable on the bed, and there's also the way she looks in the mirror above the headboard, the desperation in her stare, right back into the reflection.

"What all," she says, "do you want to do to me?"

This time - no explicit instructions - just an implication. You have to figure it out.

See, the image of her is like every fantasy rolled into one, wearing this thin black bra that has her breasts just about spilling over. They're amazing - the color and shape of her skin. Soft. Cradled between the cups like a godsend, and maybe that's why it drives her a little crazy how good you look biting down the ridge of her breast and flicking your eyes back up to catch her expression.

It has you feeling, if nothing else, a little ‘adventurous,’ too.

Her belly tenses on a heavy sigh and it's one hell of a thing to have Hyewon staring you down, like you're an animal or an idiot, with her eyes flashing and a thinly veiled anger in the purse of her lips. There's a thousand things she'd like to do to you - for you to do to her - but it's about the predicament: the silk necktie she'd pulled off you as you both stumbled through the door has ended up around her wrists, pinning her arms behind her back in a way that suggests a loss of control. Just the mere suggestion of a little playacting, but she's almost keening.

You feel the touch of her right calf keep rising - curving down your waist, hooked behind the small of your back - her thighs smooth, and a hot line along your sides.

"I should fuck that pretty mouth of yours," you say against the shell of her ear, because you know better than anyone, the very concept gets her wet. Uncomfortably so.

And she leans her head against your temple like she'd love it. You could be imagining the little whimper as she clenches up round nothing - until a growl escapes the back of her throat and she's saying -

"Is that how you're going to cum? With me on my knees and nothing else? Cover my pretty face? How you’ll completely ruin me?. You’re more creative than that."

“I don’t know that I am.”

Her hips move to find some friction where there isn't any until you give her some, pulling your cock out through your pants and feeling it brush, once, twice against the seam of her. Hot, and hard. Ready. And if she only tried a little, the angle was made perfectly to slot your head in, but neither of you move. She doesn't yield.

"Let me fuck myself on you," she suggests, strained, almost pleading. "Then perhaps I will."

You could take her like she is. Any which way. But this is about getting a particular reaction - one that'll leave her spent and trembling - and nothing like that will happen without a little bit of preparation and prelude. You want to watch her writhe for hours. Until she forgets she's playing a character at all, until she's panting your name and whimpering for release, her cheeks burning.

But at least it gets her writhing on you, the heat and press of her body as she leans in close, your eyes locking:

"Get your cock inside me-" the urgency in her voice. "-fuck me right now, this second-"

"Say it again."

"Fill me with your perfect cock." The words land right on your lips, frayed at the edges as the tether to her control slips another notch. "Push my thighs apart until you break me," Hyewon tells you - and then with her legs twisted up in the comforter, the creaking mattress and the sweat on the sheets: she rolls her hips like they're pleading for it.

"Pushy."

"Gentle's got no appeal for us."

"Apparently not," you reply - but then it's suddenly a lot easier, to slide one hand in Hyewon's hair, and grip at the knotted silk wrapped tight 'round her wrists to hold her. There's no hiding the subtle arching of her spine, how the pressure off her arms pulls her chest in or makes it all the more comfortable, she doesn't let on, she'll probably keep pretending she doesn't like this, that she hasn't always wanted -

You run your tongue over her collarbone and thrust up inside her, once - a warning that you're not giving in to her quite yet.

The smile that runs her lips is brittle. Like her patience isn't what it used to be - she makes a quiet little noise, pained. A flash of discomfort. But there's a moan and a curse out of her:

"Like that. Harder."

"What does harder mean?" you ask, with a deliberate repetition in motion, thrusting upward, forcing her hips to shift a few degrees further back - her knees clenching around the sheets as you're met with no give - Hyewon's resistance through a dark smile, and her grip slackened in her hands, despite you keeping a fist wound tight in the hair on the back of her head, tightening the other around her restraint.

Her throat flinches: this shudder.

She takes a couple heaving, open-mouthed breaths, before she has it in her to glare at you again.

"Harder-" The way her mouth shapes around the word gets the better of you - cute little cupid's bow in pink, full and swollen and pursed up as if in pain. Or desire. Or both, the way her head is tipped back, hair half undone - an idea is already coiling at the back of your mind. "-until I can't stand."

"Or talk?"

And when your hand loosens on her wrists, her posture slumps like it's relief, that you're finally going to move along in a direction she's getting some satisfaction from -

Hyewon shakes her head in a moment that's almost blissed.

"You," her voice breaks on the tail end, "fucking wish you could shut me up that easily -"

In a motion almost gentle, you twist the length of hair down around her, from her scalp to her jaw, and wrap it around a hand. "Let's see if you'll change your mind, shall we."

There's a sharp draw of air in past her lips, just one sound, not a word. No proper rebuttal. She bites down, teeth clicking.

So you pull.

And this isn't some revelation, that Hyewon's cunt is heaven. Slick and tight, the fit around your cock and the gasp escaping the base of her throat - that isn't new. You've been here countless times, fucked her past her breaking point, beyond what should reasonably satisfy her or satisfy you, but that still doesn't take away from this incredible, heady rush that pulses through your entire body. It never stops getting better, not inch-after-fucking-inch the way you're bottoming out inside Hyewon's body and feel how hard the rest of her muscles tense up in the contact, how her pussy tightens and quivers, and grips around the entirety of your cock, the briefest taste of pleasure and release before it's pulled back just out of her reach - overstimulated, until Hyewon cries out.

You expect, predict the fight, the whimpers that spill out of her mouth with every slap of your skin and the breathless way she begs, pleads, like she'd rather her pride take it from her than have your fingers tug her hair up, right out of her scalp, with your arm locked around her lower waist. With your cock pumping faster, faster and a pressure, hot and inescapable, right there - the friction building - the slippery-wet heat sliding along your shaft with every stroke until you bottom out and her next exhale is a sob.

A goddamn fucking sob and the warm gush of liquid down her thighs - all on you. You fingers are pressed into her ass, pulling onto you, steading her bounce - and Hyewon finds her breathing uneven, as you smear wet across the curve of her backside, rubbing circles into her lower back as you catch up on the rhythm she'd lost.

"This tight little cunt, huh," you tease, and she nods so desperately it seems like she might snap. Like she might cry again and this time for real, a drop of her eye color past the blush, streaking down her cheek. You have the wherewithal to remember your character, your blocking, your lines: "this is what your husband won't do? Won't fuck you on every piece of furniture until you're a ruined fucked-out mess? Doesn't have the decency to work over his little slutty-wife until she's passed out, dripping with cum?"

Hyewon's fingers curl up into two balls of white knuckles and she chokes on her reply. "He won't."

"Tell him. He has a hot and dirty little piece of ass right under his own roof-"

"You think," and the string of words trails off when you manage to grind in, at this angle that has her reeling, trembling at every shift and jerk in momentum. Your knuckles drag against her soft and giving curves, almost gripping at her in the attempt to hold her down on you. "-my husband isn't enough."

"Well you wanted me to fuck the domestic housewife out of you," you murmur, taking two greedy handfuls of the ass bouncing in your lap, rubbing your palms along her hips, up and around the shape of her abdomen and her ribcage like you'd map it, memorize it. She wants this, you know this: your palms come around and over and brush your thumbs against her rising gooseflesh - she's putty in your hands. "No strings attached, remember, a one night kind of thing-"

"My husband loves me."

"Then it seems-"

"He makes me cum with his hands alone."

Your jaw works tight - Hyewon's cunt feels as good wrapped around you as she says your cock feels making a mess of it.

"Tells me he'd die happy hearing me moan his name."

"Oh, because no matter where he goes," you say, fingers wrapping under and around the back of her neck, forcing her to look you in the eye, "no matter what, your sweet cunt's the only one his mouth is ever watering for, isn't that right-"

A blink, lashes thick and feathering down and over the pools of her pupils as you have a hold of her tight.

You're having a hard time with this, and you want to give it to her, the toe-curling-crescendo that would see her cumming at your will, or worse, losing the plot completely and your entire setup falling away from the charade of characters you'd both conjured. But she looks at you like she's never loved anyone like she loves you, the naked, barefaced devotion, the tenderness - a quick breath, a second - and the game is suddenly something far more personal, a truth. It isn't exactly fair: how your heart stutters. How much her heartbeat makes your pulse flutter, the electrifying rush you get when you fuck roughly up into her tight, wet cunt and make her bite down on nothing in the throes another orgasm.

You barely have a second to think of something coherent, let alone an out before she kisses you. If that isn’t totally disarming. So you move her into the next, flipping her onto her stomach, and she does nothing to fight back: Hyewon just lies there - the side of her face plastered to the comforter - exhausted, and gives a willing, malleable moan at the contact where your hand digs into the shape of her upper thighs, spreading them out as her elbows struggle behind her back.

"Here, baby," you say, finally unwinding the silk knot between her wrists, "I'll have you like the little desperate fucktoy you really are."

There's the bite to her bottom lip, the whole five seconds it takes for her hands to spread out and twist her fingers tight in the bedspread, before she whines - full-throated - and rocks back onto her toes to arch her back.

(See, the thing: Hyewon likes being fucked within an inch of her life. On all fours and pleading for more.)

With your free hand, you reach around her to run over her inner thighs.

Hyewon brings her grip to the bottom of the bed frame, for purchase, or leverage, you don't know, and in one simple motion, you slip your cock back deep inside her pussy.

You curse under your breath.

Hyewon fucking collapses.

It's a dangerous combination, having her begging and you nearly fully clothed while she's wearing barely more than this thin strip of black silk around her waist and a stocking on one leg, but you can't help it - she looks good this way.

"Fuck," she spits out, voice lost when your hips find hers in this wet, sloppy crash of skin that gets louder, faster and more punishing on each beat. "Like that, oh my God-"

Her whimpering only gets worse - when you start only pulling out halfway, until she's gasping like she can't breathe. You think there isn't a more wonderful, more obscene, more gorgeous thing than Hyewon spread out in front of you - the curve of her spine defining each and every one of the lines, dips, and rises of her body - and you would thank God or some higher deity right about now.

It’s fuck and please and every other little pliant utterance of “fuck my brains out, use me, make me beg, I'm so turned on right now I'll let you fuck me anyway you want - harder, faster, I can do whatever, just show me how, make me, push and fuck me hard until I'm raw and aching - god - like this, let me cum, please, let me - keep fucking going, oh my god, please, like this, fuck, just like this-"

You do thank God, actually - there's mirrors everywhere in this room, and you can catch the circular swing of her tits every time you force a curse and a sigh out of her: the bared teeth and the effort to push herself back on her arms, bracing for every thrust, fighting and fumbling to keep her balance and to make sure you have to pound her into the mattress until her cries reach a pitch.

Then, the thing you'd learned she'd never ask for but oh-so-dearly-wanted - you open your palm and bring it down hard on her backside. The impact of your flesh to hers, a crack, a moan and her whole body flexes - and it's then you do it again: matching the hit to the visible red outline of your handprint. The third time, she hisses, biting into the bed sheets so as not to cry out.

"Right? This is what you want? To be fucked and used?"

She doesn't reply with words, because she may in fact be biting her teeth into the cotton threadcount at the end of the bed, but she lifts her ass higher, angles her hips like she's waiting for more. Her brow is creased in a smile, even though a frustrated groan escapes her lips - so you give her that again, and again, until the back of her thighs are turning red and she's clawing one hand back along the length of your legs - pushing and pulling.

"You want me to fuck you senseless, sweetheart?"

And then, so needy and desperate she's just saying the first word that come to mind:

"More-"

"-when I've been railing into you so hard and your husband probably knows already, has to have seen, maybe he's listening at the door- oh," and your whole train of thought comes to a sudden halt upon seeing Hyewon's hand land on the perfect round of her ass, fingers pulling her soft, reddening skin taut, up and away from where your cock is disappearing between her cheeks - to allow more of your shaft into her hot, wet cunt - allow you to fuck her and fuck her up - allow the length of your shaft to slide deeper and hit all the spots that will send her reeling into this orgasm and the next.

Your gaze is stuck however, not to her curves rippling in excess, the damage of your thrusts pounding her body to ruin, or the look of flawless pleasure twisting up the pretty features of Hyewon's reflection, but instead it's the fucking flash and catch of the diamond that adorns her fourth finger. Even when you have her completely helpless, bent on your mercy, she's still wearing that promise, that intention to have and to hold, and you think, for at least a second, this whole roleplay thing isn't the worst idea: being a surrogate to fulfill someone's wildest fantasies. It might even be enough to make you hard all over again - the thrill and the debasement of your girl, lines quickly blurring between the Hyewon you'll take home and put back together and the Hyewon you're fucking pouding into a mattress - the here and now.

"Fuck, Hyewon," you find yourself swearing - steadying the hips rolling back in your palms, bending down until the flat of your chest meets her back, until your nose is in her hair, the long strands sticking to her lips and the back of her ears. Until you feel her shaking as you suckle against her skin, at her neck, hot kisses between the shoulder blades, finding a grip in her hands. Her grip in yours - as she's muffling these exquisite, needy sounds; she is perfect. Hyewon is perfect.

The first time you cum, it's this hot splatter of white: smeared across her ass and the crease of her lower back. It feels almost dirty to think that's just how you feel about it; your heart is stuttering in its erratic pace, but your eyes are drawn and enraptured, the sight of it all.

Then second, maybe your favorite: when she slips her hand to your aching shaft and simply takes you back inside her. This soft, wet, inviting heat that pulls you back to her.

"God- please," her head tips back, you feel the arch of her back through her ribs and stomach, the way her breath catches as you slide your cock through her creamed-out-cunt so much harder and smoother. "It feels so fucking good, baby," and there are tears now, welling in the corner of her eyes, "don't stop, God don't ever stop-"

She can barely finish her sentence before she's cut off, a moan ripped from the bottom of her lungs and a gasp straight from the pain-pleasure that has your balls slapping against her pussy every other stroke. And suddenly she's sitting, or rather, squirming into your arms, her face buried in your shoulders as she starts riding you, and not-quite crying and saying again - again, the whole filthy lot of things: about her wanting you to fill her, to plug her up with your cock. Every thrust she whines in your ears, clutching onto the fabric of your shirt and making a mess of herself in you.

It's this wild and reckless thing that makes its way around the room, on every surface and bit of furniture. You fuck her over the counter, let her ride you on the sofa, the chair, the two of you managing to find some sort of assistance in the wall even, the door frame, her legs up your sides and the slippery-sticky-heat of your mouths connecting and everything that isn't exactly meant to support that kind of strain buckling and nearly giving way - once when the wooden joints in the door-frame shift, once when she begs for release in that frantic voice that doesn't sound a thing like her. And the way she comes apart under you after, on top of you - is even sweeter; you imagine there's this endless possibility for love, for pleasure, a whole world in bundled in the notion that you could do it for her again, that it was always a question of Hyewon letting you have her that way, and the rest was mere foreplay - a stretch.

Only, on the bed again, Hyewon shivers beneath you, this full-body response, and you've got her stretched as she opens up - that the slightest of movements has her already whimpering out "fuck," and "please," and "right there," and "fuck you're going to make me come like this. You're so good, just fucking," and "more, harder, please, you feel so fucking good-"

The desperation for release is so palpable in her that it's curling into your stomach as your press Hyewon's knees into the points and edges of her shoulders and fold in her half - this perfect angle of leverage. Fucking her like she's yours and no one else's - the absolute delight of her cunt, wet, hot, and desperate to milk you empty - her body quaking at the force of each thrust, and the hungry grind of your hips into hers. Her fingers digging and knotting in the sheets around you until her knuckles pale, and your own grasp on her skin threatens to bruise.

"Inside me," she gasps out, because she can feel that edge just as well as you, "I want you to fill me, just cum inside, God, you always feel so amazing, fuck, like that, cum inside me, cum in me-"

"How could I say no, especially when you ask so sweetly," you tell her, kissing into her smile, "can you take another? Baby, look at me, look into my eyes, yeah? Look right back at me."

Her eyes blink and roll back a bit, almost losing focus and her eyelashes flutter - the creases in her brow, the elegant lines of her face locking up in the overwhelming tension, then, a peak.

And a demand, meekly asking you to fill her up. Until there's nothing left. "Cum," Hyewon moans, "for the love of fuck-"

You push her past her climax until she's practically weeping, sobbing through a litany of nonsense and slurred, unfinished sentences and almost howls, struggling beneath your weight and coaxing her fingers over the surge at the base of your spine. Before a hot liquid mess bursts out of you, into the deepest reach of Hyewon's throbbing cunt - cumming inside her, while you hold her down, not allowing her to move as your hips lock and you're both left groaning in utter agony.

(This was the thing you'd told her once - cumming inside her was almost always worth the effort it took to clean it all back out. You like the possessive aspect of it, maybe the slight humiliation, and more than anything, she'll just melt: once she's gone past the immediate discomfort. If anyone could really learn to get off on feeling a little filthy, it's the two of you. And she knows that too, Hyewon's eager little pout intimates, as she blinks down to watch where the two of you connect.)

You don't say much for the next while. If there's a line where this particular escapade blends back into your normal life, where the Hyewon curled up in the sheets is your own girl and not some half-conceived entity that didn't fit the reality of the rest of the evening, or how you see Hyewon everyday, even then, it’s not clear.

She's utterly boneless - this fragile, dazed thing that runs her palms all the way around her breasts and pulls up her stockings a little further up the line of her hips, as if you weren't going to peel them back and slip them all the way off when you had the wherewithal to handle it. But the strength in her isn't entirely lost either, she looks ready to burst: this air of pride and smugness - victory, right in her grin, which isn't totally surprising. Hyewon usually gets an odd satisfaction out of your participation in whatever hedonistic or obscene thing it is she wants to try.

This was her fantasy - maybe not a deeply rooted or unattainable one, but she'd worked out some kinks of hers and has walked away a far better woman for it, knowing what a sight she is to you. Like this.

"That was... fun," Hyewon eventually says, collecting articles of clothing strewn about the room.

Her shoes are one of two sets in the shoe-rack, but she'll have to look around and under the bed to find her dress. It would probably be some strange level of easy to play dumb and wait until she comes to the conclusion on her own that she should bend down and check down there, but she looks a little too worn out to really be interested in her clothes, more like, ready for the next part.

"We should do it again," her gaze lands, intent, and serious, back to you.

"Which part?" you have to ask, because you're probably still, a little slow on the uptake.

A small laugh, the sly smirk to herself; she knows she has you wrapped so perfectly around her finger, ready to bend to whatever game she can come up with: "whichever part you like."

#hyewon smut #izone smut #izone hyewon smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember

1K notes · View notes

stuccobaby · 10 months

Note

kahlopatra headcanons? 🙏

bestieeee

these are gonna be random a f

(college au/i aged em up)

Cleopatra runs cold, Frida runs hot. It's perfect.

yes, they both have their tickets for the Barbie movie. Cleopatra has her outfit planned out (pink pink pink everything) and Frida is very excited to be Cleo's Ken.

Frida thought she had a high tolerance for spicy food but Cleopatra is in a different league. Like she could go on Hot Ones and not even flinch.

but Cleo haaaates Tajin. Frida loves it. She puts it on fruit and Cleo couldn't believe her eyes.

Cleopatra has a cat! (i was picturing a siamese) Frida is lowkey allergic, but she can handle it. But if you thought Cleo was snooty...wait till you meet this cat.

Cleopatra snores. Frida thought it would be cute and quiet but it's actually kinda loud. Frida is contemplating ways to bring this up and survive to see another day.

Frida is an Aquarius! Cleopatra is a Scorpio (not to get in my astrology bag but I think she's a scorpio sun, leo rising and gemini moon. venus in leo or taurus. what do yall think about it.)

I wrote a lot hehe woops.

(TW: weed) Cleopatra is like a 'smoke at parties' kinda girl, whereas Frida smokes often for funsies and as a creativity boost.

(TW: weed) They tried to do a 'take an edible and go to an aquarium' date but Cleopatra got too high and freaked out in the shark tunnel. They'll try again but with an arboretum next time.

Frida can play the guitar. Cleopatra goaded her into playing for her once and folded immediately when she started singing. (at one point, Frida looked up and Cleo was taking off her clothes)

Speaking of, Cleopatra told Frida she signed up to be a model for her art class. Frida did not know she was a nude model. Frida should have guessed. damn it was hard to focus on painting that day

Cleopatra is now Frida's personal fashion consultant. She's a (cheerleader, homecoming queen) part-time model, she has a very keen eye for fashion obvi

When it's cold, Frida wears socks to bed and they argue about it all the time. They also argue about what side of the bed to sleep on (they both want the right side smh).

Frida loves going along with Cleo on her many beauty shop appointments (nails, hair, spa, etc) but won't go into any waxing/threading shop because the technicians start getting twitchy just looking at her. She feels like if she fell asleep, she'd wake up tied to the chair with two eyebrows.

They watch a lot of movies. Cleopatra laments how expensive TVs used to be but loves that they're cheap now because a big screen TV still makes her feel rich and luxurious.

Frida will be the first one to say I love you and it will mess Cleo up a little bit. don't worry tho, they'll talk about it! she's just not used to being loved (saad)

Frida is teaching Cleo Spanish, but all she wants to learn is swear words and dirty talk. it's gonna take a while

Cleopatra is a bug killer, Frida tries to trap and release.

Harriet (Frida's roomie in this AU) was extremely suspicious of Cleo at first ("wasn't she like your nemesis?") but she came around eventually ("enemies to lovers is kinda sexy...")

Frida is currently showing Cleo so many Spongebob episodes, she was sick of her constant references going to waste.

yes, they listen to a LOT of new music together. Frida tries to go in chronological order (2004 music, 2005 music etc), so that Cleo could hear the progression of music sound. (i could go on and on about music but these r getting long already)

Cleopatra is a passenger princess, but mostly because everybody is too scared to get in a car with her at the wheel; she drives like she's playing fucking GTA. (Frida thought people were kidding, but after they went soaring over a downhill speed bump one time, Frida politely took the keys forever).

speaking of GTA, that's Cleo's favorite video game. she enjoys mowing people down, blowing things up, and getting cute new outfits. Frida thinks its a good way for her to indulge her sadistic streak.

Mario Kartin': Frida mains an Orange Yoshi, Cleo goes between Peach and Rosalina (she refuses to make a Mii she thinks they're too ugly to represent her).

They become a different couple when they play mario kart. Frida is really fucking good and Cleopatra can't stand that shit eating grin every time she wins. (cleo would be like that tik tok sound: right hand on the bible, god can strike me down if im lying, that motherfucker's cheating!)

-----

I could write more but i wrote way too much already. y'all would have to ask for part 2. Also... may have snuck my next fic in here teehee.

if anybody wants to use these for art or what have you, go for it (but it better be gooood 😜)

tag and credit me tho so i can see it and be overjoyed

THANKS FOR ASKIN BESTIE!

#kahlopatra #clone high frida #clone high cleopatra #thank you for this question bestie hehe #anybody watch mpgis?

409 notes · View notes

petrichorium · 1 year

Text

Quid Pro Quo

in which you attempt to seduce il dottore in the desperate hope that he will save your life, and come to realize it’s not entirely faked

dottore x fem!reader

word count: 7.2k reader: afab, leaning fem (no pronouns, neutral names, feminine clothing, pussy/cunt/clit/breast used) tags: EXPLICIT CONTENT, blood, violence/chopping off a hand (not toward the reader), possessiveness/jealousy, manhandling from both parties, corruption vibes, biting, idk what to tell u man it’s dottore, established relationship but also they’re getting together, chronically/terminally ill reader (kept vague; dottore is treating it), reader is called “pet” and dottore is called “my lord” but it’s not a kink thing they’re just emotionally constipated, heavy petting, fingering, edging, pls don’t be fooled genuinely the smut is so vanilla compared to the rest of these tags KDNFKENF, implied oral (reader receiving) at the end but it’s fade-to-black

“my lord, this is absurd. have i not been dutiful? have i strayed?”

“very different things from devotion and affection, i’m afraid.”

who is he, you think bitterly, to demand those of you? to demand you tell him at all, let alone here and now with so little warning?

“well?” his voice is merciless. it has you panicking, desperate not to disappoint.

“i—” the words catch in your throat. you choke on them, swallow them down before they can ruin you. frankly you can’t even be certain what you’d have said.

dottore frowns, slumping back in his chair and lifting an arm to rest his chin in his hand as he regards you. “pity. i thought you less delicate than this.”

“you’re being cruel,” you say in a desperate attempt to make him relent, but he scoffs meanly.

“i’m a cruel man.”

“not to me!” this time it’s a wail. your lip quivers involuntarily, and even to your ears you sound like a petulant child as you cry, “never to me.”

“don’t pout. don’t—” he cuts himself off with a long-suffering sigh. when he speaks again it’s low, muttered; less to you and more to himself. “damn it all, what you do to me…”

you might find it flattering if you weren’t so riled up. tonight, once your blood cools and you return to your room, you’ll let your mind stray to it—the growl of his voice, the tempered emotion, the way his fingers twitch as if to reach out for you.

perhaps you’d have let him, if he’d done so rather than turn his eyes back to you with a glare and spit out yet another accusation.

When you’d first approached Dottore with a proposal, you never anticipated he’d accept it.

You’d been desperate, alone and moraless, shackled with an illness only curable to those more fortunate than you. You weren’t fool enough, not even back then, to think he’d accept out of pity, or even something as human as lust for you. Even now you don’t quite understand why he’d agreed.

But by some miracle he did, and now you stand here months after you’d thought you would die, bundled up in a heavy wool coat lined with plush fur, dragged out to the main palace just to be ordered to sit and wait until his convening with a number of other Harbingers has ended.

You have no right to complain. Being paraded around like a glass doll—or rather hoarded like a priceless jewel, never left in the company of others long enough to consider abandoning your promise—is the price you pay for who you’ve thrown your lot in with. And you can breathe freely without coughing. You can move without growing weary, you can stand without pain. These are the true luxuries Dottore has given you. You’ll wait for him, even if you grow bored in the meanwhile.

Two guards stand watch over you. For a time they were regular, familiar faces who shadowed you whenever you went anywhere beyond Dottore’s wing in the palace. Then you made the mistake of calling one by name in front of him, and now they change every few days.

“Boys,” you call out to them, louder than you mean in the silent, cavernous hall. “Would you come with me to take a walk? Just in the arboretum, nowhere far.”

They exchange a brief look, certainly debating the chances of trouble from such a proposal, before seemingly coming to an agreement and nodding in unison.

You stand, eager for a change in scenery. What happens next, however, you couldn’t anticipate.

A guard’s hand finds your shoulder. As soon as it touches you realize your mistake; you’d started down the wrong way, headed deeper into the underbelly of the palace rather than towards the grand conservatory in the center. If you had more time you’d turn on heel and apologize sheepishly, and he’d remove his touch, and all would be well.

But a second is all it takes. His fingers brush the thick wool covering you and a moment later you feel a whistling blade followed by the horrifying sound of flesh being severed in a single brutal strike.

You scream, lurching back—the severed hand is still on your shoulder, limp, and the horror of that doesn’t sink in until your sudden movement makes it slide off and fall to the floor with a sickening thud.

Before you can get far, though, an arm slings itself around your waist and drags you back in an ironclad grip. Your shoulder slams into the wall first, and then your back, so sudden and forceful that it knocks the wind out of you.

Dottore has you pinned against the back of a recessed niche. You’re tucked away like this, hidden to all eyes except his, which you’re certain take in your disheveled form greedily though you can’t see beneath the mask to confirm—and your gaze stubbornly remains pinned over his shoulder either way. Your chest heaves, still catching your breath, but the heavy beating of your heart is hardly from terror anymore.

His fingers find your jaw. They’re big as they splay across your cheek, grasping firm to tilt your head upward and force you to look at him. That gloved hand is covered in blood, hot and slick; you can feel it smeared over your face and neck.

“My lord—“

He’s kissing you before you can finish the word, teeth clacking against yours, licking in past your lips before you can close them. On instinct you bite down, but despite the taste of copper flooding your tongue he doesn’t pull back—in fact, he presses in closer, groaning into your mouth.

“My lord,” you try again, voice muffled entirely, “you’re out sooner than anticipated.”

He kisses you harder, drawing an embarrassing noise from your throat. It’s all you can do to keep up, but you attempt to speak more anyway.

“What is this? You—“

The sound he lets out is feral, growling; it stops you in your tracks, throws every word out of your head. But it’s too late. He pulls back fully to look at you, unreadable even to your discerning eyes.

“I return to find you attempting to leave,” he says, low and dangerous. “And another man’s hand upon you.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “If anything he was stopping me. I only wanted to visit the arboretum, my lord—“

“The arboretum is the opposite way.”

“Yes, which would be why my guard was directing me the proper way. And you cut off his hand for it!”

Too impassioned. Your mistake. Dottore shoves you against the wall again and you wince, eyes slamming shut. This time he goes for your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down the taut surface as you angle your head to give him ample room. Soon enough they turn even more heated, nibbling at you with those sharp teeth and sucking harshly at the dip of your jaw.

You melt against him, weak-kneed and floating. His lips leave your skin momentarily. He’s still close enough for his breath to puff against your neck with each pant, but he hovers, waiting until you’ve opened your eyes and let your half-lidded gaze meet his own to lean in again and sink his teeth into your shoulder.

The noise you let out is obscene. You have no control over it; it’s wrenched from your lips instantly, something like a yelp that trails off into a breathy moan. All things considered he hasn’t bitten you too deeply—you’ve certainly received worse by his own hands—but he breaks skin with those teeth, and when he releases you the sting is only slightly soothed by his tongue lathing over the mark.

“Lord Second!”

He pulls away from you with a snarl. You’re left panting, legs shaking, relying on his hold to keep you up as you close your eyes and let your head fall back to rest against the wall. It’s Pulcinella who has played savior long enough for you to catch your breath; you can hear his chiding, the annoyance in his tone, the sternness as he demands Dottore let your unfortunate guard leave to get his wound tended to.

“I’m hardly stopping him,” Dottore says dismissively. His hand comes up to your face. You aren’t anticipating it, jolting and opening your eyes when the leather of his glove makes contact. His grip tightens, fingers pressing into your cheeks and pursing your lips. “No need for you to get involved, rooster.”

You can see how he intends to return where he left off before he leans back in. His grip is so secure you couldn’t turn your head to escape his kiss even if you attempted it, but you know better than to try.

“Wait!” you gasp out against his lips. “Not—ah, in front of—“

“Oh, now you’re feeling demure. Didn’t care about your guards, did you?” His hand slides down to wrap around your throat—not quite choking, but undeniably present. At the same time he bites down hard on your lower lip. “A decision for you, then. Would you like me to stop, or to dismiss the boy?”

“Dismiss him,” you say without hesitation, not entirely altruistically. Dottore is always put in a far better mood if you allow him to do as he pleases with you.

“Listen to your companion, Dottore,” pipes up Pulcinella from the other side of the hall. “Pierro would be displeased by this scene.”

“Lucky, then, that he hasn’t stumbled upon it.” Again, Dottore turns away from you to face Pulcinella. Again, you take the moment to catch your breath. “Why are you here?”

“I was sent to fetch you. Lord First would like a word privately.”

Another snarl. This time, however, he seems to understand he has no choice. When he returns his attention to you it’s clear that he intends to pull away entirely.

Beneath that damned mask, his eyes aren’t visible. Still, his grin is sharp enough that you can imagine the wild look they likely hold, the one that never fails to send a thrill through you. The blood on your skin has dried somewhat to become tacky. He leans in once more, licks a long stripe up the column of your neck, lips coming away covered in scarlet. Something settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Go clean up, pet,” Dottore says, low enough that it’s meant for only you to hear. “I can’t stand the stench of another’s blood on you.”

Frowning, you pry yourself from his hold as much as he’ll let you, unfulfilled though you think you ought to be grateful that he’s willing to let you compose yourself. You huff. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”

Somehow, that grin sharpens. He reaches out with a hand again, fleeting—gentle, even—as he crooks his finger beneath your chin to lift it slightly. “As you wish.”

And with that he pulls away. The hand on your back nudges you over towards your remaining guard and then Dottore is gone, with a final keep your hands off growled at the poor man (who assuredly does not need the warning, not with his partner’s blood still staining the floor beneath his feet) before he stalks off to follow Pulcinella deeper into the palace.

Hours later, after a long bath and attendants having dressed you in clean clothing, Dottore summons you to his lab.

Though it’s located in a separate building, it takes you mere minutes to arrive; you know the path by heart, and while there will always be assigned guards and the occasional assistant lurking, few fatui agents linger longer than necessary in the halls belonging to the second harbinger. Such dallying always increases the risk of being purloined for use as a test subject in some fatal experiment or another.

You’ve been told that when you’re not around the place is crawling with segments, too. You know of their existence, of course—have even seen a few from a distance—but Dottore has long refused to let you near any of them.

His lab always runs on the colder side, even for a Snezhnayan facility. If you regularly wore clothing in it you suppose it might be more bearable, but he rarely summons you for reasons which allow you to keep anything on.

You think longingly back to your chambers, made cozy and warm with the help of your personal effects and a number of mechanical heaters in varying levels of prototype courtesy of your eccentric lover. He can be considerate, you’ve learned, when he truly wants to—though he would never willingly admit it. In the case of providing you warmth he maintains it’s merely because he can’t stand your shivering when in bed with you.

You’ve refrained from pointing out that you never shiver when he is there to keep you warm.

Dottore’s office door is open, and you know you can enter without announcement, but you choose to linger in the doorway and reach out to rap knuckles against it twice.

You can see him sitting at his desk across the room. Despite how you’re the only one who would approach him now, he wears his mask, gloves still on, dutifully paying sole attention to his work—or rather seemingly, because he shifts as you enter, and you feel his eyes on your back when you turn to close and lock the door behind you.

The shoes you wear are soft slippers, flat upon the ground. You almost regret not wearing anything with a solid heel; perhaps if your approach came announced by the loud clacking of metal upon marble he wouldn’t ignore you so. Either way, you note how his arm shifts as you elegantly step past his chair, clearly itching to reach out and hold you.

You settle yourself upon his desk, legs crossed demurely, the chiffon fabric of the nightdress you’d been tugged into pooling prettily around your thighs and draping over the edge.

His eyes might be concealed but you can tell by the angle of his head that he’s staring. You’re glad for it—the little show you put on, leaning back to emphasize your chest and angling to draw attention to your legs, should not go unseen. You sigh dramatically, reaching up to pull the dressing gown from your shoulders and let it fall to your waist, and that’s what ends it.

He huffs (you might be so bold as to call it fondly exasperated) and turns back to his work without a word.

Perched on his desk like this, you can easily lean forward and reach out to lay hands on the mask he wears over his eyes. He stiffens, head snapping up, one hand catching your wrist in a harsh grip just shy of aching.

“Did you lock the door?” he hisses, all too used to your insistence of not fucking a masked man to even ask what you’re doing.

You roll your eyes and stubbornly continue on your mission. “Yes, my lord. When have I ever left it unlocked?”

Nobody but his fellow harbingers would dare to interrupt one of his appointments with you, and a locked door has never kept the likes of them out, but you’re not entirely keen on the idea of being interrupted either, so you dutifully turn the bolt every time.

“I seem to recall my last assistant.”

“That woman had a key and far too much nerve for her own good.” It’s true—you had locked the door that night, though you’d also goaded her privately beforehand just to see the look on her face when Dottore gave her no mercy like every other person unfortunate enough to have walked in on you nude.

Dottore’s eyes glint as you remove the mask fully, his mouth tugging into a pleased little smile. “Jealousy becomes you, pet.”

Your scowl does nothing to deter him. As penance you set the mask down on the far side of you. If he wants it back, he’ll have to lean over you to reach—even with his absurdly long wingspan—and almost certainly end up with his face in your lap.

A very bold part of you hopes he does.

For now, though, your annoyance is unquenched. So you tilt your head, letting his eyes fall to the slope of your shoulder, and speak. “If you called me here for anything, tell me or I’ll simply leave.”

He dips his head as if focusing on the papers before him. “And if I merely wanted you to pose on my desk like a pretty little ornament while I work?”

“You think I’m pretty?” you tease without missing a beat. “Truly?”

He doesn’t deign that with an answer, though he allows himself one more lingering scan of your form before turning back to his work.

When he does, you shift and recross your legs. It’s pointed, timed for the moment his eyes flit over to you; an uncross and a shift to the other leg on top, fast and smooth but with enough time to give him a good look of what’s between your thighs.

Or rather what isn’t, because you’d refused the undergarments your attendants had tried to throw on you. The movement bares your cunt to him in its entirety; you see his eyes hone in on it, his mouth slacken, the reaction involuntary and borderline feral in the fleeting seconds before your legs close again.

And then you watch him frown, as if witnessing his very thought process dawn upon his face—the realization that you’d made the trip without anything beneath your nightdress has him irritated.

“Presumptuous thing you are,” he growls. “What if I’d called you here for treatment?”

“You said we’d finish that talk.”

“This,” he gestures at the entirety of you, and you snicker in return, “does not suggest talking.”

“I didn’t choose what my attendants dressed me in.”

It’d been laid out for you when you’d come out of the bath; all gossamer layers and intricate lace, low in the front and short at the bottom and held together by only a satin ribbon. You’re inclined to think Pantalone is the true culprit. Dottore likes such things on you, though he insists he holds no preference, and therefore one of the tried and true ways the shrewd man has come to flatter your capricious lover is to throw luxuries at you—lavish jewels and thick furs and long billowing dressing gowns—and instruct for you to be dressed up in them like some spoiled, pampered lapdog before you next visit the lab.

You can’t say you mind. The dress you wear now is the kind of soft only an exorbitant amount of mora can buy, perfectly tailored and clinging to every curve that should most be flattered. Calling it a nightdress, while you’ve been doing so, likely does it more credit than deserved. The intent is assuredly not for sleeping. With the matching dressing robe it proves modest enough, though not as you wear it now; pulled low and teasing over your arms, the tie fallen loose to give no coverage.

“Your attendants send you off like a lamb to slaughter.”

You shrug. “A willing one.”

“Fair enough. Tell me, then, willing as you are to enter this wolves’ den. You were particularly appalled by my actions this morning—the longer I’ve had to ruminate, the less remorseful I’ve become. He ought to have known better than to lay hands on you. Unless, of course, you encouraged it.”

“Oh, please.” Now you roll your eyes openly, toss your head with the motion just to emphasize it. “My lord, I don’t even know the boy’s name. I simply believe removing his hand was a punishment unfit for the crime.”

“And yet you kissed me. You threw yourself at me, really, despite all those tepid protests. Would you have let me fuck you there, I wonder? In front of your guards, knowing that I would never let them live after?”

Your cheeks heat at the accusation. “No, I—”

“Is this not what you wanted? My infatuation? Don’t tell me you’re second guessing now that you know exactly what it entails—it’s too late. The thought of another man touching you…” he trails off, but you hardly need him to finish. You’re well aware of just what he’s thinking. “Why do you think I never allow my segments to come near you?”

Your brow furrows. “They are younger than you, of course. I assumed their volatility posed too great a risk.”

Dottore scoffs, low and dismissive. “Hardly. The true reason is that the resources required to remake them are so great.”

It takes you a moment to understand the meaning, but when you do it has your mouth parting. Should a segment interact with you, he’s so certain he’d kill it that he’d determined it simpler to keep the two parties separate. A shiver runs down your spine—to your chagrin, you doubt it’s horror.

“Your segments are yourself, my lord,” you attempt again. “They are bolder than most agents, and guaranteed to be attracted to me as you are. You cannot hold the guards you assigned to the same scrutiny. The boy was merely leading me away.”

“What of my poor assistant, then, hm? What is the difference between the boy and the girl? I should passively allow every warm body to touch you and cannot even have a lab assistant? She was a quick one—certainly not at the caliber of my segments but decent enough in their absence.”

“You regret disposing of her, then?”

“No need to sound so bitter, pet. I have no regrets. Your company is far more preferred, and…” Dottore trails off, letting out a low chuckle, voice a purr laced with meaning not well hidden, “I hardly need to tell you that you paid me back thoroughly for whatever loss I might have incurred that night. But my point remains—the boy easily replaced, the girl less so. What difference do you see?”

“That the boy would not have dared compete with you, even if he’d found me alluring,” you hiss. “The girl had intentions that insulted me.”

“Intentions?”

“With you, which you knew, so I should hardly need to say it. I almost pity the poor thing—you intended all along to kill her, you simply decided to have fun with it along the way.”

“Only when I realized just how much I enjoy your jealousy. Truly, I ought to bring another in. Any agent hungry enough for the position would naturally desire an even higher one at my side…”

You frown and, in a motion so fast you can’t really think it through, reach out to hook your finger into the ring of that harness and yank him upward.

The noise he lets out is something between a hiss and a groan, rich and growling and heated. No shock is clear on his face; rather, he stares up at you with a grin that exposes sharp teeth, teeth which part to let a pink tongue run along his lower lip.

When you speak it’s steely. “Few people in this world would find you standable, my lord. I must be touched in the mind to feel for you as I do.”

“Oh?” You’ve stumbled into some kind of trap, you realize by the tone of his voice. “Tell me, then, what do you feel for me?”

“What?”

“Be candid, now.” His grin only grows wider. “Don’t hold anything back. Admit that you’ve come to love me.”

You recoil, yanking your hand away as though you’ve been burned. He falls forward rather than back, arms against his thighs, laughing harshly while you shuffle further away.

“What?” you say again, poisonous in tone. “Where did you—who said anything about love?”

“Is that not what you were implying?” His words are smug, incapable of being swayed. Still, you have no choice but to try.

“No.” You’re stern, leaving no room for question.

“No? You refuse to admit it? Perhaps we ought to revisit our arrangement, then—“

“No!” He raises an eyebrow at the outburst, but you’re far too panicked to be ashamed. “My lord, this is absurd. Have I not been dutiful? Have I strayed?”

“Very different things from devotion and affection, I’m afraid.”

Who is he, you think bitterly, to demand those of you? To demand you tell him at all, let alone here and now with so little warning?

“Well?” His voice is merciless. It has you panicking, desperate not to disappoint.

“I—” The words catch in your throat. You choke on them, swallow them down before they can ruin you. Frankly you can’t even be certain what you’d have said.

Dottore frowns, slumping back in his chair and lifting an arm to rest his chin in his hand as he regards you. “Pity. I thought you less delicate than this.”

“You’re being cruel,” you say in a desperate attempt to make him relent, but he scoffs meanly.

“I’m a cruel man.”

“Not to me!” This time it’s a wail. Your lip quivers involuntarily, and even to your ears you sound like a petulant child as you cry, “never to me.”

“Don’t pout. Don’t—” he cuts himself off with a long-suffering sigh. When he speaks again it’s low, muttered; less to you and more to himself. “Damn it all, what you do to me…”

You might find it flattering if you weren’t so riled up. Tonight, once your blood cools and you return to your room, you’ll let your mind stray to it—the growl of his voice, the tempered emotion, the way his fingers twitch as if to reach out for you.

Perhaps you’d have let him, if he’d done so rather than turn his eyes back to you with a glare and spit out yet another accusation.

“You lie to yourself more than you lie to me—convincing yourself you find me disgusting, telling yourself your interest is faked. But you and I both know you enjoyed that incident this morning just as you enjoyed what I did to that girl. You enjoy me. You want me, so cease this foolishness and let me have you.”

“You have me,” you say automatically, and the scoff he responds with makes you recoil. It’s snarling, animalistic, accompanied by him lunging up from his chair to corner you in the curve of his desk.

“I don’t mean this scheme.” Dottore looms over you, arms on either side of your body. The hard wood of the desktop digs into your ass as you lean back precariously. “I don’t mean your little stratagem, which I only entertained out of amusement—”

“Yes, of course,” you snap in return, suddenly enraged as the shock wears off and you lunge forward, forcing him to reel back, “this shrewd scheme of mine, desperately selling my life to you lest it be snuffed out, which you only agreed to because you found the concept fascinating. Except now you say it isn’t enough to own my body, you are owed my heart, too—and I must serve it to you on a gilded platter because you are too cowardly to give me yours first.”

“I have no heart to give, stupid thing. This is for your benefit.” Still, you see his jaw tense. He returns to his chair, and the movement is heavy; he sinks back as if in a trance.

No heart, he claims, as if he is still satisfied with the arrangement. No, he can hardly hide such things from you. He has become too fond and now burns with the need for you to tell him you feel the same—you know this, know it like you know his touch against your skin and his body easing into your bed next to you during the night.

But you also know how volatile he is, both at his core and, more precisely, when discussing this very topic. This is not something you can push too far; unfortunate for the both of you, then, that you are just as stubborn, especially in the face of inequity.

It isn’t fair. You shouldn’t have to bare yourself if he’s unwilling to do the same.

Crossing your arms, more for self comfort than any determination on your end, you slide yourself down from the desk and make to leave. You doubt he’ll let you, but you’ve made up your mind to try—and sure enough he sits forward, ready to move.

“Come here,” Dottore demands, and tenses when you shake your head and take a bold step away. “You’re not leaving, pet, we haven’t finished this.”

“I have no interest in discussing anything with you if you’re going to be so callously selfish.” It’s a futile attempt, you know, but you try to dart off anyway, leaving your dressing robe behind to flutter down and settle on the floor. He lunges over and catches you immediately.

You struggle against him, really just to make him work for it now, and he meets the challenge in kind, lifting you easily and dragging you back to his chair despite your squirming and incessant protests. Soon enough he has you sideways on his lap, a heavy arm around your waist to deter any further attempt at escape.

“Are you going to stay put?”

You cross your arms again and stubbornly turn your head away. “I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

Instead of speaking, he lets his hand find your neck, scruffing you like a troublesome kitten and forcing you to face him with a thumb and forefinger on either side of your jaw. For a moment he scans your face. Whatever he sees there excites him somehow; his free hand tightens against the dip of your waist, groping at you, trailing down over your hip to the curve of your thigh and squeezing there, too, as he draws your legs even closer.

Initially, when he leans in, you think he’ll go for your neck. Instead he captures your lips in a surprisingly subdued kiss—closed-mouthed, slow, lingering. Something you might call sweet if it came from anyone else. He doesn’t part much when he pulls away; he stays close, foreheads nearly touching.

“If threats won’t work,” he says, lips brushing against yours with every word, “then I’ll simply try a new tactic.”

When he kisses you again it’s what you’re used to from him, all heavy and hot, his tongue delving into your mouth eagerly. You feel the need to gasp for air within seconds, but he never gives you enough, and always leaves your head spinning.

You wish you could hold out and let him work himself up trying to get you to respond. But it’s as if your very bones cry out for him now, as if your blood sings for his attention. You return the kiss in kind despite the lack of air, coaxed into it without him even trying, only spurred on by each sharp-toothed nip to your lips and suck to your tongue. Soon enough, however, your lungs begin to burn, and you tear away from him to pant desperately, lips parted as you struggle to catch your breath.

Never deterred, his tongue darts out to lick up your chin—you’d been drooling, you realize, and your nose wrinkles at the thought that he apparently hadn’t had his fill of your spit even with a kiss like that. Then he nips at your cheek, hard enough to make you jolt in his lap, which in turn causes that hand on your legs to press you down against him, though none of those things give him pause as he kisses down the line of your jaw.

His hand tilts your head back now, or perhaps it falls on its own, baring your neck. Your eyes flutter closed and your breath hitches as his teeth graze your pulse point, the barest hint of pressure, followed by an open-mouthed kiss, both of which are accompanied by his other hand dragging you closer against him.

Dottore’s gloved fingers are deft (when are they not, you ponder fleetingly) as they slide up your thigh to dip beneath the ridden-up hem of your dress. His thumb finds its mark first—he dips it between your folds, trailing up through the wetness there to slick it before brushing higher against your clit. Already that has your breath hitching, the sensation of his leather gloves against you there always odd; when he presses more firmly, in quick little circles, you gasp and squirm in his hold, your hand instinctively flying to clutch at the wrist that disappears under your skirt.

“My lord—”

He turns his thumb just the right way to have you keening, bucking up against him and turning your head into his arm. His hand has moved from your neck to your back, and he uses it along with a grip around your thigh to pull you up until you’re straddling him entirely. All the while his thumb never stops; the motion has pleasure steadily building in your core, golden-warm and only getting hotter. You can feel how wet you’ve become already.

“We’re still talking, pet.” He might be, but if he thinks you’ll say a word then he’s sorely mistaken. “I’ll draw a confession from you somehow. Perhaps if you phrase it as a demand, you so love to give me orders. What do you want from me?”

That free hand slides further down beneath the nightdress, cupping your ass briefly before sliding higher. It drags the dress with it to reveal the entirety of your legs and presses against the small of your back, urging you to grind harder against his hand, sending white-hot sparks throughout your body.

It’s a slow and steady task, working you up to the edge, but he throws himself into it with vigor. Soon enough you feel yourself coming towards it, climbing up so high you can see the peak, almost inevitable.

“What do you want?” Dottore asks again, and you shake your head in mindless refusal. His thumb dips down to slick itself again, sending a shiver through you as the pad presses just barely into your pussy and brushes over your folds on its way back up to your clit.

You nearly lose control over your voice when it returns with a vengeance, hard and fast, just on the good side of painful. He knows your body acutely well by now; can feel every twitch and writhe, hear every bitten-back moan and breathy whimper, rewarding you for them all until you can feel just how close you are to tumbling off into bliss.

His thumb stills. You whine, struggling against him, determined to get that final bit of stimulation and push yourself over the edge, but the attempt is futile. His hold on you is steadfast; you feel the high fading, desperation seeping in.

“What do you want?”

Not enough for that.

“I want you to make me cum,” you demand petulantly, fingers digging tighter into his arms.

It earns you a disappointed little click of his tongue. You’re forced to sit like this until you’re pulled entirely from that precipice, the sensation bringing tears to your eyes as you bite back a wet sob.

He takes the time to release his grip on your thigh and lift his gloved hand up. The black leather shimmers in the light—you hadn’t realized how wet you were—and he takes his time bringing it up to his face to lick it clean with meticulous fervor.

Then he reaches out, placing the very tip of his thumb against your lip.

“Bite,” he commands, so you do, teeth catching hold of just the folded leather over his skin. He pulls his thumb away, tugging his hand free entirely with the glove left dangling from your mouth.

The glove is removed from your mouth to be replaced with two of his fingers. Even you so rarely get to see his bare hands—you have many more chances than most, to be sure, but it’s always a treat—and you open eagerly to allow them entry, sucking, swirling your tongue around them and grinding down against his lap for stimulation.

Soon enough he’s pulling them out to lower his hand and ease a finger into you. If he’d kept up his rubbing at your clit that would have been enough to bring you over, you think miserably, back arching at the feeling. It fills you up so much better than your own. His thumb returns, warmer and softer and so much more intense without the leather.

Already he’s building you up again, starting off harder than before, prodding at the rim of your cunt with a second finger once you stop clenching so tightly. His other hand moves, reaching up to the thin strap of your top and tugging it over your shoulder. It allows him to free your breast, peaked in the chilly air of the room; still gloved, you squirm when he brushes his thumb against your nipple, then pinches lightly. The mild pain makes you jolt—he takes that moment to lean in and suck it into his mouth, at the same time pulling his finger from your cunt and pushing it back in with the second.

Dottore’s arms don’t hold you anymore, you keep yourself balanced on his lap by clinging to his shoulders. His still-gloved hand slides in to squeeze at your other breast as his teeth graze your nipple and his fingers assault your cunt. It’s all too much, too quickly; you throw your head back and he lets out a muffled groan as the motion presses you further into his mouth.

When you’re openly moaning he can tell you’re nearing the end again. With one final nip at the tender skin of the underside of your breast, he pulls away just enough to speak.

“What do you want?” he tries again, but you can hear it in his voice now—the heady lust, thick on every word. His fingers don’t stop their movement at first, not until he seems to remember what his intentions are, and even then they only slow.

Before he can remove them you reach down to grab his face in both hands and pull him up to kiss you. He returns it with the same vigor you give him; his fingers delve back in, pressing deep and full, thumb coming up to rub at your clit again, and you cum hard.

The wave that washes over you has you moaning into his mouth. His free hand leaves your breast to find your back, big and warm between your shoulders, pulling you even closer as you buck into his still thrusting fingers. Your whole body is buzzing, hot pleasure coursing through you.

You go limp against him when it finally subsides, breaking the kiss, boneless and satiated as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck. He eases his fingers out of you; you clench involuntarily as they exit, whimpering a little and receiving a soothing rub from just his thumb between your shoulder blades for your troubles.

For a long moment you let him hold you like that. Panting, shaking in the aftershocks, you cling to him and he rearranges your dress for some semblance of modesty, pulling the front back over your breast even as he continues to leave sucking kisses to every available part of your shoulders and collarbone and neck. His hands trail across your body, greedy and groping, less to calm you and more to take full advantage of how limp and pliant you’ve become.

And perhaps it’s because of that, or perhaps being satisfied has put you in a more agreeable mood, or perhaps you simply want to reward him for being so weak to you (because, certainly, all those many months ago when you’d first come to him cold and desperate, he wouldn’t have been so lenient), but you give in.

“I want you to court me,” you say, muffled against his shoulder. The moment the words pass your lips you feel him relax beneath you, tension fading from his shoulders. Dottore says nothing, however, and so you continue. “I want to be your lover in actuality, rather than because of an arrangement. I want you to give me treatment because you care for me—I want you to fuck me because you care for me, not because I owe you a willing cunt.”

“I care for nothing, you simple creature.” Still, he shifts beneath you, and for the first time tonight you feel him hardening against your thigh, brought on not by you cumming on his lap but by your confession. “Tenderness is beneath me.”

“Yes, of course, my lord,” you tell him smugly, just to be a brat. “You gave in just now because you do not care for me at all. In fact, this entire conversation was initiated by you because you were completely satisfied by our arrangement, and it didn’t make you seethe every time you thought about my affections being faked to avail myself of your—”

He interrupts you by sinking his teeth into your neck, just a few centimeters above the scabbed-over bite he’d given you earlier, and you break off with a wrecked moan as you fall limp against him. You claw at the back of his neck in retaliation; a poor attempt, as it only seems to rile him further. He laps at your weeping wound for a moment before fixing his mouth to your pulsepoint and setting about leaving another kind of mark.

When he finally pulls away you can feel the low throb of blood blooming beneath your skin, his heavy gaze burning against you as he stares. For a beat he’s silent, and then he’s leaning in to lick at your neck more, hot tongue running over every blemish—you’re quite certain more of your skin there is stained than not, angry black and blue and purple beneath the surface. The wide, low neck of the dress gives him ample access.

“I will allow it,” he finally mutters, muffled with his mouth well occupied.

“Hm?”

“I will court you,” he clarifies, low and annoyed at having to say it. “Though make no mistake, it is entirely for your benefit.”

“Of course. You have no desire whatsoever for courting.”

“Careful, pet.” He shifts you now, positioning you more comfortably on his lap. “If my hearing were worse, I might think you were asking me to throw you out and let you return to your quarters alone for attendants to dote on you rather than me.”

“Don’t you dare.”

You expect him to return to his work with you dozing away on his lap—it would hardly be the first time—and wiggle, shifting against him to rest your head against his chest. Eyes fluttering shut, you settle for the many hours to come.

And then you’re jolted back into the world of the waking when he stands, taking you with him.

Yelping, you scrabble for purchase, grabbing at his shoulders as they shake with mean snickers, but he doesn’t go far. A moment later your back is hitting his desk and he’s sweeping his piles of papers aside to lay you out on the solid wooden surface.

For half a moment, Dottore stares. Those eyes drink in the sight of you—chest heaving as you catch your breath after the scare he’d given you, pretty nightdress pooling at the top of your thighs, which are still trembling from the shattering release he’d drawn from you earlier.

“Epsilon is overseeing the transfer of your belongings to my chambers,” he tells you clinically. “You’ll live there from now on.”

“Oh,” you say, all breathy, sounding more than a little brainless even to your own ears; your mind is admittedly still a haze of endorphins and, stupidly, the giddy high from your newfound status. His hand is soaked with your cum, slick as he grips your jaw and turns your head toward him to look at you as you struggle to keep your heavy lids from closing.

“I don’t imagine they’ll be done for quite some time. In the interim…”

He lets go of your face to bring his hands to the hem of your nightdress and shove it up over your stomach, nipping just beneath your navel as he kneels down.

And then his tongue is sliding through your folds, big and hot, and he’s latching lips to your clit in a sucking kiss that has you gasping and your back arching and your hand flying to grab at his hair. When he pulls away the look on his face is smug; his hands pry your thighs from around his head and pin them to his desk with a strength you’ve never hoped to fight back.

“Perhaps I can draw out a true confession if I bring you to completion a few more times.”

With that Dottore buries his face back into your cunt, and you let your head fall back with a soft thud against his desk.

#dottore x reader #dottore x you #dottore x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #genshin impact x y/n #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x reader #mine.🌧#fic.🌧 quid pro quo #biting.cw #blood.cw #edging.cw #manhandling.cw #jealousy.cw #fingering.cw #the only head that matters

358 notes · View notes

jetpackexhaust · 7 months

Text

Julian and Miles going from unrequited- to best-friendship is one of my favourite things in Deep Space 9. I particularly love how the turning point is Bashir being the only one prepared to tell O'Brien the difficult but necessary truth.

Miles is running around converting a cargo bay into an arboretum for Keiko. Everyone else is supportive, great idea, hard work for your wife what a good man, and only Bashir will sit him down to tell him This Will Not Work. Worse, it will feel like it's working for a while, then things will be even worse.

And at this point Julian's desperate to have Miles like him! Every episode up to now he's been a keen puppy barking at the exasperated Working Dad Who Just Wants Some Peace And Quiet. But instead of reassuring Miles that everything will be fine, well, he's the doctor. He's not going to tell someone they'll be fine and should ignore symptoms. So he sticks his neck out to get hated even more and just does what needs to be done.

Which is part of a larger facet I love about early Julian, deeply insecure in many ways (you have to ignore the later genetic bullshit or these great early episodes make Julian a sociopath) but when it comes to his field of expertise he'll punch out an admiral to administer the right treatment.

So he tells someone what the need to hear instead of what they want to. And from that moment on, a genuine friendship unfolds.

#ds9 #bashir #miles obrien

91 notes · View notes

andypantsx3 · 2 years

Text

fingerprints | 5 | todoroki x reader

pairing: Todoroki Shouto / Reader

length: 5k of est. 25k words | 5th of 9 chapters

summary: When you’re outed as pro hero Shouto’s soulmate on national television, there are really only two sensible things for you to do: blame someone else and run.

tags/warnings: romance, soulmate au, fluff, pining, not actually unrequited love, aged up characters, eventual smut

The next week passed in a flurry of activity—busy days at the shelter, a never-ending volley of texts from Shouto, and a perpetual, low-grade anxiety over what it would be like to meet a member of his family.

Shouto, for his part, was acting like things were normal. He texted every day, now with five pictures of Princess a day, as she napped, as she ate, as she shredded the legs of all his furniture and menaced her own reflection in his windows. Towards the end of the week, he sent one picture that was so maddeningly cute that you found yourself absently reopening your phone to look at it at least once every five minutes.

It was poorly-lit selfie of him with Princess, his mouth pressed against the top of her little cream-and-orange head, his expression clearly fond. You eventually saved it to your camera roll, feeling guilty.

You couldn’t keep your eyes away from the expression on his face, the press of his mouth, wondering what it might be like to experience that same type of affection from him.

You knew it wasn’t your place to expect that from him—soulmate or no—so you treated the picture like the shadow of a substitute. A little glimpse into something you might have had, if Shouto had been the more traditional type about soulmates.

He also called several times during the week and the two of you aimlessly chatted about nothing—talking over Princess’ latest escapades, suggestions on her training, how she was eating and drinking. You also attempted to subtly wheedle a little more out of him on his mother’s likes and dislikes, trying to think up a present for her.

You were able to assemble a vague portrait of her through the small details Shouto gave away—a calm, forgiving woman, who was working every day to treat the things in her life with care and intention. You intuited that most of their time together was spent on light strolls when the weather was nice, and that she especially liked the nearby arboretum, with its tangle of gardens full of wildflowers. When the weather kept them indoors, they had tea together, sometimes chatting, sometimes reading in one another’s company.

This glimpse into Shouto’s relationship with his mother made you want to sink your fingernails into him the way Princess did when she was feeling deeply affectionate and pleased, kneading the absolute shit out of him until he was a soft little pile of dough.

Eventually, you settled on an idea for a present. When Saturday morning rolled around, your paycheck with it, you set out for the nice tea shop in the heart of the neighboring ward.

The tea shop was small and neat, blonde wooden shelves straining under the weight of almost a hundred different blends. There was a tiny woman stuffed behind the counter, in a floral patterned apron, and the interior of the store smelled earthy and fresh.

You got there right when it opened, allowing you enough time to pore over every single blend with the most intense focus of your life. After a half hour of painstaking deliberation, you finally settled on two selections. One, a traditional genmai cha blend that sounded like the kind Shouto had described drinking with his mother, and the other a warm, wintery blend promising notes of plum and winter spices.

You asked the woman at the counter to wrap them up in a pretty white paper, tied off with a small, deep blue ribbon, and forked over nearly a quarter of your biweekly pay, wincing as you did so. You hoped Shouto’s mother would like it—and that you wouldn’t be coming off as presumptuous, or like, creepy.

By the time you made it back to your apartment, showered, and scrounged up your nicest sweater set, it was nearly time for Shouto to pick you up. You managed a couple quick swipes of makeup, hoping Shouto wouldn’t find you weird or overprepared.

You were alerted to his arrival by a polite series of knocks on your door. You quickly opened the door, planning to step outside lest Shouto get an eyeful of the interior of your apartment—but you were quickly arrested by the sight of him. He was dressed in a deep blue sweater that peeked out from under the grey wool of his coat—looking handsome and soft and absolutely delicious.

He was also holding a small posy of wildflowers, a spray of tiny white buds among several soft pink and orange blooms, wrapped in a crinkly brown paper.

He held them out to you murmuring your name in greeting, and you startled, realizing he meant for you to take them.

You had a wild thought that he meant you to carry them–but then the even more absurd truth of it struck you. He meant for you to have them.

Your heart did a weird somersault up through your chest, lodging somewhere in your throat. “These are…? Me…..?” You garbled out, stupidly.

Shouto’s mouth twitched. “For you, yes,” he said, eyes flickering over you in some kind of assessment you didn’t understand.

You realized with some horror that this meant you would have to return back inside to put them in water—and that good manners would compel you to invite Shouto in while you did. He would see your apartment—the tiny cramped rooms, the chair with the tear in the arm, your assortment of mismatched furniture and donation bin cookware.

You fought the urge to retreat into your shell like a turtle.

You supposed he was going to have to see it sometime—you just hoped he didn’t think it had anything to do with your ability to take care of yourself. If you were ever going to get in financial range of opening an animal shelter of your own, sacrifices had to be made somewhere.

You hoped the inherent kindness with which he seemed to evaluate everything held true in the middle of your dinky little living room.

“Thank you,” you told him, clutching the flowers to you tightly. They really were beautiful, and he’d gotten your tastes just right. You liked the slightly wild, slightly disorderly look of them–the pinks and oranges both competing for attention, the spill of the white buds out of the brown paper.

“Um, do you want to come in while I put these in water?” you asked.

Shouto nodded, and followed you as you led him into your apartment. You were glad you’d gone on a mini-cleaning spree when you’d gotten home the previous evening–shoving all of your roommate’s randomly discarded clothes back into her room, sweeping the floor free of its wintertime coat of tracked-in sidewalk salt, folding your various throws and rearranging your pillows.

Shouto looked around curiously as you shut the door behind him.

“Uh, make yourself comfortable, this will only be a second,” you said, and zoomed off into the kitchen to avoid witnessing any of his evaluation. You pulled a vase out of the cabinets, and quickly freed the flowers of their brown paper wrapping, trimming the stems and filling the vase with water.

It took only a few minutes to make it back out to the living room, placing the vase on the coffee table. It made the room look instantly warmer and friendlier, the flowers standing out prettily against the worn cherry wood of the coffee table.

Shouto had apparently not made himself comfortable, however. He was still standing as you returned, peering interestedly through the gap in the adjoining door you’d left open–-the one to your bedroom.

“Your room?” he asked, looking down at you.

You nodded. “Uh, do you wanna see it?”

To your surprise he nodded, and you led him over to the door, feeling strangely lightheaded. You were about to have Todoroki Shouto in your bedroom.

He really was truly overwhelming to have in your private space. Your room was small, only enough space for a tiny bed, a squashed little dresser, and a shelf for knick knacks–all so closely crammed in together that you could be touching all three at the same time. But Shouto made the room seem even smaller, somehow, filling up the space with his broad shoulders and tall frame, in a way that seemed to draw the corners of the room in towards him.

You thanked every god man had ever worshipped that you’d made your bed and swept your own floor, and that you’d just done a laundry load full of sheets so that your room still smelled like the cottony clean detergent you’d used.

“It suits you,” Shouto said, surprising you, going over to your shelf with apparently no qualms about looking like he was snooping. He touched his fingers to the leaves of a plant, flipped a book cover over to examine it.

You had no idea what this meant.

He thought you were…cramped and poky? Stuffy and weird?

He turned towards you, as if able to read your mystified thoughts. “Comfortable. Warm.” He paused, dragging a hand absently down your bedding–a neatly arranged pile of cozy comforter, puffy pillows, and a knitted throw for extra warmth, all in cheery warm tones. His fingers lingered on your pillowcase. “Cute,” he said.

You reached out, grasping your bed frame for stability, suddenly weak around the knees.

Those mismatched eyes flicked back up to you, pinning you in place, and you felt like you needed to exert sudden, extreme focus on all of your bones lest they turn into liquid.

He did not mean to say you were cute, you quickly told yourself. He meant the bed set, your winter nest of cold old lady trappings.

Regardless, your head felt swimmy as you answered him, your ears burning hot. “Um, thank you. I’m a blanket enthusiast.”

Shouto’s mouth curled just the tiniest bit upwards, again, and your heart started feeling like it might explode, so you quickly turned around, grabbing his gloves off of your dresser where you’d kept them.

“I meant to give you these back!” You said. “Thank you again for lending them to me.”

Shouto came closer to take them from you and you caught a nose full of that light, clean cologne he always wore. You took a step back to stop yourself from shoving yourself nose-first into his chest.

“Ooookay so let’s get going!” you said quickly, and then turned and all but threw yourself out of your room.

You quickly hustled Shouto out of your door and locked it behind you, then bade him lead the way.

He pulled on a beanie and sunglasses, and you laughed, realizing this was his outdoor disguise—and not entirely ineffective at that. It hid most of his signature two-toned hair and his unsettlingly keen heterochromatic eyes. Someone would have to be actively looking for Todoroki Shouto before recognizing him.

“So where are we going?” you asked as he gestured you into step beside him.

“Little Sheep,” he replied in his low, even tone.

You didn’t recognize the name.

“It’s a luncheon cafe my mother loves,” Shouto explained. “She likes their tea and cakes.”

You patted your bag, a little proud of choosing tea as a gift. You hoped she liked it as much as the Little Sheep tea.

“Can’t go wrong with cake,” you said longingly, though you knew you wouldn’t order any. Your goal was to get in and out having spent as little money as possible—and that meant the cheapest thing on the menu, and a water.

Your budgeting resolve soon turned out to be prophetic, as the cafe Shouto led you to was definitely upscale—set into an old, brick building with several long panels of sparkling new windows. The inside was bright and airy, all cream tones and natural woods over an exquisitely tiled floor. Long-vined leafy plants dripped from the rafters and tiny vases of bright flower buds sprouted from each table.

It was so lovely. You could feel your wallet groan from inside your bag.

You were led to a table in a quiet alcove, out of the way—and there she was. Todoroki Rei.

You could see her resemblance to Shouto instantly. He looked more like her than he did Endeavor–he had the same elegant bone structure, almost too pretty for a man, the same nose and full mouth, as you’d noted looking at her picture in his bedroom. Even the tilt of their eyebrows was the same, and the careful, contemplative way they regarded people.

Which they were both doing now, as you stared between them.

You gave a hasty bow, introducing yourself to Shouto’s mother. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Y/N.”

“My soulmate,” Shouto added quietly, sending a lick of heat right up your spine.

“Y-yeah,” you acknowledged, nose burning. “Also a friend!” you added, lest Todoroki Rei think that you were trying to put the moves on Shouto.

Your feelings may have not been pure, but at least your intentions were.

She smiled and took your hand in her surprisingly cool one. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Shouto has told me a lot about you.”

“He’s a gossip,” you joked, your nerves making you stupid as hell.

Shouto adopted a carefully blank expression, and quickly set about herding you into a seat. You thought he might be embarrassed that his mom had told you he talked about you often.

He pulled out the chair for you and then for his mother, a move that made you want to bite him he was so good. Then he sank down next to you, one broad shoulder brushing dangerously close to your own. You huddled closer to the wall, skin tingling.

“I, um, brought you something,” you said quickly, for something to take your focus off of Shouto.

You fished the gifts out of your bag, and passed them over to Rei, hoping she didn’t think it was weird.

She looked pleasantly surprised, her ice grey eyes darting up to catch yours. Her gaze was surprisingly warm. “Thank you,” she said, her voice so full of gratitude that it embarrassed you.

You looked down, scrubbing at your hot cheeks. “I hope you like it.”

It was quickly evident that she did like it—that or she was a fantastic actress. As she unwrapped it, a smile so shockingly similar to Shouto’s pulled at her mouth–a pleased, almost shy upturn. She turned the tea boxes over, studying their descriptions, running an elegant finger over the curling script embossed on their faces.

“This is wonderful, Y/N,” she said. “You are a very thoughtful girl. Shouto is lucky to have you.”

You totally were not, just a nervous idiot, and Shouto was probably just okay to have you, honestly. But the compliment warmed you anyway.

You instantly latched on to a water glass as the waitress approached your table, hiding your awkwardness in the depths of your cup. Rei said something to the waitress in greeting, and you jumped when Shouto’s mouth was suddenly at your ear.

“You remembered,” he said in that mind-numbingly low tone of his.

You suppressed a shiver. “That you guys drink genmaicha? How could I forget? It’s gross.”

When you turned, Shouto was surveying you closely. “You did not have to do that.”

Your stomach turned. Maybe it was inappropriate–you should have guessed. But his mom didn’t seem bothered. You hoped you hadn’t upset Shouto too much.

“I didn’t—um—it’s not because I have any expectations!” you told him quickly. “Oh my god, I didn’t mean like—it’s not a gift for my boyfriend’s mom or anything. Obviously. Because you’re not my boyfriend. And you obviously wouldn’t want—” Shouto’s gaze sharpened, and you scrambled for verbal cover. “--I just didn’t want to be rude. I don’t know protocol! You’re the only soulmate I’ve ever had! No one teaches you these things!”

Shouto’s mouth twitched and he leaned in even closer, bringing just a hint of that clean cologne with him. “I meant that you did not have to spend the money.”

“Money!” you said, panicking with his proximity. “What money! I’ve never even heard of money!”

Shouto’s eyes widened, and he looked very suddenly like he was trying not to laugh.

You wanted to slam your head against the table. Every time he got close, you got stupid. This was why you had bolted from the scene of soulmate-gate in the first place! He was a health and safety hazard!

“Thank you,” he said quietly, looking you directly in the face, which only served to shut your brain functions down further.

Lunch had been a bad idea.

You were thankfully saved by the waitress circling back with menus, and you garbled out a thank you, burying your face in yours.

You quickly tracked down the cheapest thing on the menu–a salad that cost thirty entire fucking dollars. Shouto watched you with a strange expression as you ordered, and you tried your best to ignore him, which proved incredibly difficult when he suddenly slung a heavily-muscled arm across the back of your chair.

You froze, despairing over the delicious heat from his entire left side–then leaned forward to give him space to rest it.

His mom leaned in, catching your attention. “Shouto told me you work at a shelter?”

You nodded, happy for the distraction from Shouto’s arm lingering dangerously close behind you. “Yeah! For a couple of years now. I love the work–the animals are so sweet and so fun and I like making sure the people who come in will take proper care of them. I want to open my own rescue someday–-I’m saving up for property and I’ve been working on drawing up a funding plan!”

You hoped that made you sound more impressive, somehow. Like there was anything more to a funding plan than finding rich people and begging for donations.

“Your own rescue,” Rei echoed, in the same contemplative way Shouto sometimes repeated the things you said.

The resemblance really was uncanny.

“Yeah!” you supplied. “I love the shelter but we only have so much space. The more shelters the better, and I want a space specifically dedicated to rescue animals–the ones who have seen the worst of it and need somewhere safe and someone to love them more than anything.”

Shouto shifted behind you and you sat up a little straighter, careful not to brush his arm.

“That sounds lovely,” Rei said. “Shouto told me you were very thoughtful—I can see he was right.”

Your entire face went white hot and for a moment you thought Shouto had accidentally quirked you–but it was just your embarrassment, flashing through your body like a grenade.

“Nope,” you said reflexively. “I’m not thought, uh, full. Not full. Just a normal amount of thoughts. Like halfway filled, maybe.”

Shouto made a noise like a cough that sounded suspiciously like he was choking down a laugh.

Could this get any worse?

“Anyway,” you said loudly, eager to move on. “Um, what about you? Do you have any pets?”

Rei shook her head, her white hair slipping over one elegant shoulder. “No. I’ve met Princess, though, and she is very charming. She may convince me yet.”

You tried not to be put out that Princess apparently was good with Rei too, even though she didn’t have a fire quirk. She probably smelled like Shouto, and Princess was too whipped to make the distinction.

You couldn’t exactly blame her when you were basically a little pile of whipped cream yourself.

The three of you kept up the conversation as lunch was served, and Rei seemed too eager to learn more about you. You tried steering the conversation clear of your own situation as you were not especially interesting, just a completely normal person who read too many books and watched too much youtube and who wanted to get into several different hobbies but was mostly bad at them. All you really wanted to do was run your rescue, hang out with your friends, and find a cute boyfriend to cook with and nap on during the weekends.

And it was a comment to this effect, actually, that brought the table to halt.

Rei had asked more about what you did in your free time, and you’d thought for a minute.

“Reading mostly. And hanging out with friends,” you said. And lest she think you had plans to compromise Shouto’s virtue or whatever, you told her, “I’ve been trying to cook more as a hobby but I will probably like it more when I get a boyfriend and we can do it together. Just gotta find the right guy.”

The words were no sooner out of your mouth than the table was suddenly thirty degrees colder. You looked up to find both Shouto and Rei staring at you, both of their respective drinks completely iced over.

You went completely still, feeling suddenly hunted.

Rei’s cool grey gaze slowly slid from your face to Shouto’s, and she affected the tiniest raise of a perfect, snow white eyebrow. “The right one,” she murmured. “Perhaps he is already known to you.”

You kind of felt like she was implying you should get with Shouto, which was so nice of her but so completely divorced from even the wispiest fringes of reality. Obviously every mother thought their son was the catch of the century, it just so happened she was right about it–Shouto was the catch of any century. You couldn’t have reeled him in if you had fifteen million fishing poles–though you sorely wanted to.

But Creati existed. And also Shouto had like, standards, probably.

“Um, no one I know is interested,” you said, feeling kind of embarrassed to admit it to your own soulmate’s mother. “But you know—it’ll happen! Mari at the shelter has been on me about getting onto dating apps and stuff! I’m planning on it, just thinking about how to explain the soulmate thing. I know some people are weird about it if your soulmate is in the picture, especially if they’re not into you.”

Every single one of the sauces in front of Shouto froze over, and the teapot Rei had ordered for the table suddenly stopped steaming, wisps of ice curling up through the air where the steam had just been, sparkling in the light from the windows.

Rei’s face was so perfectly still, you could tell she was attempting to suppress something—exactly the way Shouto did. “Perhaps someone will surprise you, soon,” she said.

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence.

“Uh, I hope so,” you said, trying to sound cheerful.

It was so hard being around Shouto when you were so stupidly in love with him.

After another minute of awkward silence, Shouto finally moved. He pressed a hand to the teapot and it started steaming again, the ice wisps fizzling into vapor beneath his touch. He passed a hand over the table, unfreezing everything.

Rei made another light comment, thankfully off the subject. Lunch after that went back to normal, and you horked down your salad at the speed of light, both to avoid further conversation and because you’d forgotten breakfast in your quest to get Rei’s tea.

After you finished, Rei insisted you have a cup of tea once Shouto reheated it–thankfully not a genmaicha. She also ordered a plate of the aforementioned tea cakes, and Shouto had one on your plate before you could even open your mouth to politely refuse.

“I really couldn’t,” you told him, leaning away from the tea cake lest you breathe on it and contaminate it for someone else. It looked so good, a delicate pat of whipped frosting and three jewel-toned little berries nestled on top. It also looked like three billion dollars.

Shouto just made a contemplative humming noise, almost like disbelief, and you shot him a dirty look.

“I’m serious, I’m totally full,” you said, patting your stomach for effect.

Shouto’s eyes roved over you slowly, all the way from your face to your lap, and your face heated. “Ah yes, salad is known for its substantiality.”

You were stepping on his boot before you knew what you were doing, hissing at him so his mom couldn’t hear. “You are so fresh.”

An honest to god smirk pulled wickedly at Shouto’s mouth, and your own mouth suddenly went completely dry. He leaned in, putting his mouth near your ear, and then said, “Ah, but not as fresh as your salad leaves.”

Your brain short-circuited, your focus torn between the feeling of his mouth at your ear, the press of his face so close, and the absolute fucking audacity of this man.

“I insist,” Rei piped in from the other end of the table. “These are my favorites.”

You nodded on autopilot, eager to please her. Shouto looked a little smug, and you wondered if it would be too obvious if you accidentally flung one of the berries at him.

You mourned the loss of fifteen other dollars–or however much the damned thing was–even as you nearly transcended this plane of existence with every bite. It was just as good as it looked, delicate and sweet, the berries the perfect compliment to the light, creamy frosting.

You mourned all the way until the bill was delivered—at which point you encountered another obstacle.

Shouto’s elegant fingers swiftly closed over the folio, placing that intimidating black card in the pocket, before he swiftly sent it off with the waitress again. You made a noise of panic, gripping his sleeve.

“Wait-–I owe—”

“It’s my treat,” he intoned in that low voice, turning back to you. His eyes were hot on your face.

You shook your head, turning to your bag. “I already owe you from the coffee shop too! Here, I’ve got–”

A cool hand closed around your fingers before you could even dig out the appropriate bills, smudges blooming across your skin at his touch. You froze in his hold, brain swiftly going offline, eyes glued to the way the color blossomed across your skin under his fingers like a brand.

“Y/N,” he said, low, exactly the way he had in the shelter last week. Your brain fizzled with static. “Let me.”

You would let him do anything he wanted to you. Except pay.

“I’m, um, serious–” you started, but then Shouto’s hand curled all the way around yours, thumb smoothing over your knuckles, leaving a distinct streak of color across them. “Y/N,” he said, his voice going even lower, and he leaned in again, so that his face was scant inches from yours.

“Yes,” you replied automatically.

Shouto’s mouth quirked up, and his thumb smoothed across the back of your hand again. You would absolutely never forget the press of his skin over yours as long as you lived.

By the time you returned to yourself, Shouto had apparently managed to recollect his card, and also managed to herd you out of your chair and into the brisk air outside, where a car was waiting for Rei.

To your surprise, she leaned in and hugged you, a motherly hand reaching up to pet over your hair. Your heart swelled.

“I hope to see you again soon, Y/N,” she told you. “Make sure that Shouto brings you by, and we’ll have some of your tea together.”

You nodded, unable to help grinning at her. There was no denying she was quiet and a little mysterious, the way you’d thought Shouto was. But she was so deeply kind in exactly the same way Shouto was, and he was so much like her in his mannerisms, you couldn’t help but like her.

Shouto handed her into the car, like some sort of old fashioned coachman, and you gave him a little wave goodbye. “Thanks for lunch, Shouto. It was amazing—and I promise I will pay you back! I’ll think of a good spot for next time.”

A weird look passed over his face, and he stepped back onto the curb, gently pressing the car door closed behind him. “I’d planned to see you home,” he said.

He stepped a little closer, gazing down into your face. Your eyes trailed absently over the planes of his handsome face, the way his scar looked pinker in the winter sunlight, the edges raised and uneven. You fought down the urge to reach up and touch it, to see if that skin, too, would respond to your touch.

“Um, sure. That would be nice,” you said.

Shouto waved the car on, and you caught a glimpse of Rei smiling softly, waving back. You raised your hands, waving with both of them like an eager idiot.

As you did, Shouto’s hand came up and caught one of your own, the dark fabric of his gloves pressing into the backs of your fingers. You turned back to him, startled, only to see him looking down at your bare fingers pensively.

His eyes flicked back up to yours, snaring you.

“Would you perhaps have time for a detour,” he asked, fingers curling around your hand and shifting so that he was holding it between you two—actually, literally holding your hand.

Little fireworks went off in your brain, and a full marching band geared up for a parade down every single one of your synapses. Todoroki Shouto was holding your hand!

“Yes, anything you want,” you said a little breathlessly, cringing at how stupid you sounded.

Shouto didn’t seem to mind, just grasped your hand a little tighter. A little indent pressed at the corner of his mouth, and he pulled you into step beside him.

You flexed your fingers happily in his gentle grip, head spinning. And then you went with him, walking beside him in the afternoon sun.

#todoroki shouto x reader #todoroki x you #todoroki x reader #shouto todoroki

908 notes · View notes

sorry-moots · 3 months

Text

Inversion of Genesis But I Changed It

i'm sorry this is late and short but college is really kickin my ass that's a lie i just procrastinated writing this and now i'm procrastinating my assignments too WHOOHOO character featured: scaramouche, haypasia, lumine, mention of tighnari cws: none :) wc: 1,016

prev | masterlist | next

Chapter Nine

“You’re just in time,” Scaramouche says as you walk in. You had left to grab lunch and had been dragging your feet but the harbinger managed to pique your interest.

“Just in time for what?” you ask, eager to know what had your superior so excited. It’s not every day he’s this cheery and you were planning to enjoy his good humor.

“Take my hand and close your eyes,” he commands, and you do so without hesitation.

“Behold, my first follower.”

You open your eyes again and you’re no longer in the office. You’re now surrounded by trees and flowers and green glass. As you take everything in, you become aware of a young woman sleeping on a small bed in the arboretum. It takes a minute for you to process everything and reply.

“Your first follower? What about me?” you ask, faux offended.

“You’re not my follower,” he shoots back. “You're my right hand.”

“Oh really?” you tease. “And just what are my benefits as your right hand?”

He smirks as he answers, “Front row tickets to my neverending awesomeness.”

For once, you’re the one rolling your eyes. “I was hoping for PTO but that works, too, I guess.”

The banter eventually stops, but the atmosphere remains amiable and light. The two of you are content to watch the sleeping woman in the comfortable silence, until she receives a guest.

“Oh, this day just keeps getting better!” the harbinger exclaims. “Watch this, I’m gonna start talking to her– it’s gonna freak her out.”

You watch as the traveler looks around, searching for your boss, not realizing he is only there in spirit. Her little companion is flying around erratically like an anxious gnat.

“...I know you must be curious. I might as well tell you that I entered Haypasia’s consciousness the moment I sensed your touch.”

As they talk, you finally entertain the thoughts nagging at the back of your head.

If he was able to project himself to the traveler through Haypasia hundreds of miles away, how come he needs to hold my hand?

Clearly, he can maintain a telepathic connection without physical contact— how else would he be talking to the traveler? And she can definitely see him, too; she’s staring right at him. There’s no reason for Scaramouche to be holding your hand. He just is.

Just as that train of thought began to consume you, the harbinger’s voice took on a hint of ire, detectable only because you spend so much time with him. He doesn’t look mad, per se, but whatever the traveler said has soured his good mood.

“Both good and bad things can be considered gifts. After all, gods are not expected to abide by reason.”

Thunder rumbles, simultaneously distant and in your ears. Through your connection with Scaramouche, you can see the sky darkening above Pardis Dhyai. A lightning storm of his own creation. Screams quickly follow.

The greenhouse blinks out of view and you’re disoriented until you move and feel Scaramouche’s fingers tighten reflexively around yours. Realizing what he had done, he drops your hand like a squirming beetle.

A heavy silence hung in the air. Not wanting to further upset your boss, you went back to your desk to sort through the correspondence.

Hours pass and you're finally about to leave the office when you notice Scaramouche lost in thought. As wont to avoid irritating him as you are, your curiosity– or worry?– gets the best of you.

“Lord Scaramouche…?” you call out. He raises his head and you continue. “Did the traveler say something to trouble you?”

“That little twerp tried to talk me out of ascending to godhood,” he growled. “She said that my allies plan to infuse my consciousness with divine knowledge capsules. She said that I’ll change, that I won’t be the same.

“That they’re essentially turning me into a new person,” he finished.”

You contemplated his words with a concentrated look. No words would reassure him, so you took a different approach.

“Well, are you sure you even want to ascend to godhood?”

The harbinger looks positively scandalized but you keep going. “I mean, think of all you’ve accomplished!

“You command an army of soldiers. You answer directly to Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa. You’re already really powerful on your own and, I dunno, I kinda like you the way you are now…” You trail off at the end, cracking your knuckles nervously. “Well whatever you decide, I’ll support you.”

He’s still staring at you with his mouth agape, so you turn to walk back to your desk before a question comes to mind.

“By the way, sir… Why did you electrocute that one guy? Your accuracy is usually perfect, but just now you hit someone who was protecting Haypasia.”

Broken from his reverie, his lip curls. “I’m not a fan of foxes.”

*****

Before you parted ways at the hotel last, Scaramouche told you he didn’t need you to come, essentially giving you the day off.

Unfortunately for him, you hadn’t taken a day off since before you started working for him. With your overabundance of time, you found yourself itching to bake. Three hours later, you stood in the hotel’s kitchen with a perfect custard pudding. And no one to share it with.

You know he’s not a fan of sweets, but you ultimately decide that your boss should be your judge. In a blink, the pudding is packed into a basket and ready to go.

The walk to the base is most pleasant. A gentle breeze softens the sun's intensity and plays with your hair, caressing your face like a fond mother. The cheerful sun, the billowing clouds, and the song of the dusk birds made for the perfect ambience. Such tranquility could not, however, mask the banging coming from underground.

Without much thought, you pick up the pace. Scaramouche is probably getting rough with the soldiers again…

A moment later, you arrive at the mecha suit lab and push the doors open. To your horror, it is not a Fatuus that Scaramouche has engaged.

It’s the Traveler.

prev | masterlist | next

tags: @lacunaanonymoused, @dollpoetwriting a/n: this would've been longer but then it would've turned into a 2-for-1 chapter and that would really irk me

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #reader insert #genshin impact #x reader #slow burn #scaramouche x y/n #genshin scaramouche #genshin impact scaramouche #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche

33 notes · View notes

strawberryfairi · 1 month

Note

Hello girl!! I love the stuff you write, it’s so immersing and fun to read,

To start off, how about JJK men and where they’d take you on a first date! Maybe also if they fumble or not? Or something along the lines of that if you’d like!

Note🧚🏾‍♀️: Omg hey🙋🏾‍♀️ that is so so sweet, thank you so much🥹!! I really appreciate that 'cause sometimes I be like dang, is my writing ass🧍🏾‍♀️🤡💀?? Lol but anywaaaayssssss...I decided to go and try the short fic kind of route for these so they'll be on the longer side, therefore I'm gonna make it a multipart thing! (P.S. Lmk also if the short fic version gave as opposed to the just straight bullet point thoughts)

JJK + First Date Headcanons

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

CHOSO KAMO ʚ🌹ɞ

Choso, being new to the dating world and not having really anyone to go to for advice on this particular field, chooses what he believes is the smart way to go....to the internet. There's so many articles, Youtube videos, and even movies that discuss the topic of "The Perfect First Date". The options are overwhelming, yet there's one idea that really catches his eye.

It's a Saturday, just hitting around twelve in the afternoon, and Choso is right on time just as he said he'd be. He's at your door, dressed in a black- fairly loose fitted- button up top, with acid wash black ripped jeans. His hair is in his signature style, the two spiky buns that you absolutely adore on him. You could smell the subtle hint of cologne on him, a very earthy and mellow fragrance that seemed to match his overall personality well. It was highly attractive.

He looks so nervous, and honestly, a huge part of you was relieved as you were shaking in your own boots as well.

"H-hey" He stammers cutely, "You ready to go?"

A sweet smile etches it's way across your glossy lips, "Yeah, I'm ready!"

He extends his right arm, allowing for you to link yours with him as he takes you to his car out front of your place. "You look beautiful by the way;...as always." He compliments with a faint dusty pink hue across his pale cheeks.

"Thank you. You look great as well; as always." You chuckle lightly, feeling your own cheeks heat up right along with him.

The drive isn't too long, and you figure out exactly where he's taking you as he pulls up to a beautiful looking arboretum parking lot, in the outskirts of Tokyo. You let out a soft gasp, heart warming at his choice in date destination.

"Oh wow, Choso this looks so beautiful already!" You beam excitedly, staring out the window in a rather childlike way as he puts the car in car.

"I'm glad you think so. I was so nervous you wouldn't like it." He admits with a timid chuckle. He gets out of the car, then comes around to give you a hand as you step out. You watch as he goes to the back seat, taking out a large blanket along with a basket that you hadn't even noticed. As if his idea couldn't get any sweeter. You feel your heart swell with warmth, watching as a happy, wide smile plasters itself across his adorable face.

"Ok..." Choso nods, grabbing your hand gently and leading you past the tall, black metal gates.

He chose such a perfect time of year as well, mid spring, when all the flowers have bloomed and the trees are full of lively colored leaves. The scent of all the flowers fill the air, being carried around by the soft breeze. You spot plum blossoms, cherry blossoms, camellias, and even lavender. Choso practically follows you around like a lost puppy, taking in all your explanations of each flower and how you love their shape and color. Even he can't help but squat down and gently touch some of their soft petals.

Finally, the pair of you reach the main event of the whole arboretum, a small stream with a beautiful, traditional looking red bridge in the center of a field. Beautiful lines of cherry blossom trees surround the area, and patches of flowers grow along the bank of the stream.

Choso sets the blanket down while you smoothen it out along the grass, and place the basket filled with foods he hopes you'll like down. The two of you talk, getting to know each other better while enjoying both the scenery, and overall, each other's company. You're already so enamored by Choso solely due to the amount of effort he's put into the first date alone.

So far, he never comes across like you're a burden or that it's some kind of obligation to take you out on a date, and you really appreciate that attitude from him.

He's made his intentions very clear with you, and this first date is just the icing on the cake. Inwardly, unbeknownst to either of you, you both wish this date would never end.

────────────────────────────

A/N❥: Choso does NOT fumble the first date bag whatsoever in my book! He's just too much of a sweetheart for that; he gon' do his RESEARCH🧐🔬 okaaaay!!!! But fr though, this was very fun to write! I really like this idea of doing date headcanons in this kind of short fic form, thank you so much for the ask🙆🏾‍♀️

#choso kamo #choso kamo x reader #choso jjk #choso headcanons #strawberryfairi🧚🏾‍♀️#jjk #jjk headcanons #jjk fanfic #choso x reader

34 notes · View notes

charmwasjess · 2 months

Text

As I promised @bolithesenate, I copied out a scene (wouldn't fit in a pic!) from one of the canon novels that I absolutely love: Qui-Gon's memory of his first real interaction with Dooku from the book Master & Apprentice by Claudia Gray. For the hilariously realistic first impressions vibe, and also for the beautiful glimpse of Jedi place and culture and the Temple as both a home and sacred space.

"You're frightened," said Master Dooku.

Qui-Gon Jinn, twelve years old, knelt in front of his new Master. Only yesterday, Dooku had chosen him as Padawan. He'd spent his last night in the younglings' creche, laughing with his friends, imagining all the adventures he would have, and practicing with his lightsaber in the sparring room until Master Yaddle ordered him to bed.

...

"Well?" Dooku raised one eyebrow. He seemed to stand three meters tall, looming over Qui-Gon like an obsidian wall. "Have you no response to my observation?"

I'm not afraid. The denial surfaced in Qui-Gon's mind. It was what he wanted to say, because it was what he wanted to be true.

But it wasn't true. Surely a Padawan wasn't supposed to lie to his new Master.

Qui-Gon admitted, "I am, Master."

"Why should you fear me?" Dooku said in his deepest, most intimidating voice, as though answering his own question.

Think, Qui-Gon told himself. His fear was so obvious, so all-encompassing, that he could hardly understand where it came from. But he needed to find the truth within that fear.

Finally he said, "I'm afraid of not becoming a Jedi, but that doesn't make me afraid of you, Master. I'm afraid of failing. Of not being worthy."

"Of yourself," Dooku said. "Of a future other than the one you want."

"Yes," Qui-Gon's fear deepened. Surely Master Dooku would realize he'd made a mistake, choosing someone so cowardly as a Padawan.

But then Dooku said, "Very wise." When Qui-Gon looked up in surprise, his Master smiled -- a distant smile, but a genuine one. "Most young apprentices would deny their fear. If they admitted it, they would almost certainly lack the self-knowledge you have shown."

I got it right? Qui-Gon's amazement must've shown on his face because Dooku shook his head in tolerant amusement.

"You proved yourself honest today," Dooku said, gesturing for Qui-Gon to rise to his feet. "You demonstrated insight. And you convinced me of your intelligence."

"Intelligence?" Qui-Gon straightened. Standing up only helped so much with the sense of intimidation; his head was below Dooku's elbow level.

"Yes, my Padawan." Dooku's amusement had a feline quality to it -- sly and self contained. "Anyone who begins to journey farther along the path of the Force should be afraid. The dangers are many. The struggle is eternal."

Qui-Gon wasn't entirely sure what Master Dooku meant by "the struggle" but he assumed it was something about always doing his best. That was the sort of thing the creche masters always talked about.

Before he could ask, Dooku gestured for Qui-Gon to follow him. "Come. There are many sections of our Temple that younglings never visit. Understanding our Temple most completely will help you better understand the Jedi Order."

The promise of finally seeing the whole Temple pushed every question out of Qui-Gon's brain. He grinned at Dooku for the first time. "Yes, Master."

Together they walked throughout the Temple -- not all of it, because it was too large for anyone to see the whole of it in a day -- but the important parts, the ones Qui-Gon had always been most curious to see. Dooku showed him the Padawan's sparring dojo, and let him take a look at the one for Jedi Knights. He finally saw the Great Assembly Room, reserved for the rare times when the entire Order met. Various meditation champers were ... well, not exciting, but at least of interest. Probably most other Padawans wouldn't have found the arboretum thrilling, either, but Qui-Gon spent long minutes wandering through the trees, flowers, and ferns of a thousand different worlds while Dooku patiently watched.

-Star Wars: Master & Apprentice, by Claudia Gray

#the perspective on the Temple is so beautiful to me #all of Dooku's fucked upness around the idea of “home” the fact that the Temple is literally the first thing he wants to show him - ugh!#also I love that the sparring rooms are the first on Dooku's list #yeah his love language #the repeated references to Dooku's size is also hilarious #master and apprentice #master dooku #qui-gon jinn #star wars books #claudia gray #jedi culture

26 notes · View notes

storiesbyjes2g · 3 months

Text

3.72 The ambassador

On our way to the Arboretum, I highlighted a few noteworthy features of the neighborhood, including a shameless plug for my yoga classes at the Celebration Center. Clear skies and warm sun made it the perfect day for this tour. Though, there was never a wrong time to visit San Sequoia. Every day was perfect.

"This is Gilbert Gardens," I said, vaguely gesturing around us. "It's my favorite place in San Sequoia because it has so much to do for all ages."

"I can't get over this weather. Is it always this nice?"

"Amazing, right? That's one of the best parts about San Sequoia."

The warm rays beamed down on us while a cool breeze whisked back and forth, ensuring we remained comfortable. Dub glanced around, shaking his head in disbelief at the gorgeous weather.

"Henford is usually covered in snow right about now," he said with a hint of snark.

I chuckled at a memory that popped into my head.

"I've seen snow exactly twice in my life. It doesn't snow much in Willow Creek. That's where I've spent the most time."

"I think snow is overrated," Dub huffed, waving dismissively again.

"You might be right. I mean, it's super cold...you can't see if it's too thick...and you have to clean it up!"

He slapped my arm.

"See? I knew we were in sync."

"Playing in it looks fun, though."

"That's overrated too! I don't like my hands being cold. There's no fun in that!"

He was hilarious and I know he wasn't trying to be, but the fake outrage amused me.

"I might have to agree with you there," I said.

We got halfway around the lake before I realized I hadn't shown him much. I made a terrible tour guide, but I think we both enjoyed the company more; I know I did.

"I teach at that spa over there sometimes," I said.

"What do you teach?"

"Yoga. I also lead guided meditations."

"So, yoga videos and classes? You must really love it."

"I do."

His eyes squinted a bit, like he was processing my words or something. I hadn't said anything too deep. Was he one of those yogi haters?

"A good friend of mine just told me she's into it too," he said. "She says it's for therapeutic reasons."

"Good for her. I think everyone should be into yoga."

"Why do you say that?"

"It's great therapy. I think everyone should learn healthier ways to deal with stress. Sims turn to so many self-destructive ways of dealing with their problems, only to make it worse. Having a healthy body leads to a healthy mind."

"I'm sure Maia would agree. She made me promise to try it with her."

"I hope you do."

I hadn't heard of many men who had platonic relationships with women. Even I had some sort of physical attraction and a bit of lust for my female friends. What was his relationship with this friend?

"So...Maia, huh?"

"Yeah, she's my friend I mentioned."

"I see... Well, I'm glad you'll try it. I think you'll find it helps a lot.

He didn't catch it that time, but I wouldn't let him miss it the next time, and there would be a next time. I was sure of it.

"Over there, you have the splash park. Mostly kids hang out there. We can swim in this lake."

"It's huge!"

"Tell me about it. My dad and I jogged around it once. I think I nearly killed him. There's all kinds of trails around here, but this is my favorite."

As we approached the trailhead, Dub looked around in awe, exactly like I did the first time I visited. The garden was what made it exceptionally beautiful. The way they expertly arranged the flowers and creatively teased the topiaries, it truly was a work of art.

"Woooow. I never would have seen all this back here."

"They call it the Arboretum. You ready to go?"

"Always."

We stretched, and I recommended we take it easy and pace ourselves, but Mr. Funny Man had other ideas. Good thing I was also athletic. I accepted the challenge, but of course, I had to flex on him a few times.

I asked about his family. The fact that he was the oldest of three boys amazed me. With no brotherly figure or close friends in my life, I found it difficult to imagine the dynamics of such a relationship. Would I enjoy little brothers? Would they annoy me? Maybe both because little sisters could be fun and annoying. Dub and his brothers grew up on a farm, and he hated it. Memories of the sights and smells of cleaning out chicken coops and milking cows disgusted him all over again. I would never laugh at anyone's pain, but he was so easily grossed out. I almost wanted to try it to see if it was really that bad.

Naturally, he returned the same questions, and I told him about our family dynamics and how my sister and I bounced between Willow Creek and Evergreen Harbor our entire childhood. I kept it casual and didn't say anything emotional, but he remained silent. Maybe he was contemplating my situation just like I was considering farm life with a bunch of brothers.

We took a few breaks, and he guzzled his water as if he were on fire. I shook my head, secretly laughing at him for dashing off like it was a race. Eventually we arrived back at our starting point, winded but feeling like a million simoleons.

"That was a good run," he said. "Maybe the longest I've done so far."

"Yeah, before I ran around the lake it was my longest too."

"And it was very scenic, like you said."

"You should see it in the summer! It's amazing."

I could tell by how golden the sky was, and the emptiness in my stomach, dinnertime was near. I had another idea I hoped he'd be keen on.

"I'm usually having dinner about now. If you have more time, you wanna go to the best restaurant in San Sequoia?"

"Yeah! Uhh, actually, let me check with Maia first."

See? I knew he'd bring her up again. This dude was in love and didn't even know it, and it was so fun to watch. Even the way he said her name had hearts all over it.

"Of course. I wouldn't want to get you in trouble or anything," I said in a cheeky way.

"Whatever, man!"

He may have sounded offended, but I did not forget that grin. One way or another, I'd get their story out of him. Ugh...I was unquestionably my mother's child.

Wade Banks by @mysimsloveaffair

#ISBI challenge #sims 4 story #sims 4 gameplay #adolting #adolting gen 3 #luca winston murillo #wade banks #banks crossover

29 notes · View notes

hockeylovee12 · 11 months

Text

Just A Pawn-Luke Hughes

Chapter Two

Summary: As the ‘friendship’ between Remi and Luke continues to evolve so does Luke’s feelings for her. And Lukes friends become increasingly worried about this relationship and Luke himself.

Warnings Smut, Cursing, Adult Subjects, Protective friends, Maybe toxic behavior,

A/N there is a lot that goes on in this chapter please don’t read if you are not ok with any of the things mentioned above. I believe I had all of the right tags I do apologize if I miss something or if something should be categorized a different way I am new to this and on the younger side so please feel free to let me know so I can fix it. Otherwise I hope you enjoy this chapter

Luke hopped out of the shower, grabbing a towel off the rack. "Yo, Dylan, you seen my phone?" he called out as he wrapped it around his waist.

"It's on your bed," Dylan shouted from the living room.

Luke walked into his bedroom and picked up his phone. He saw he had a new message from Remi and grinned to himself. They had been hanging out a lot lately and despite Luke trying to keep his feelings in check, reminding himself that this was all just a plot, he couldn't help but feel a spark of attraction to her.

"Hey, you still up for tonight?" Luke texted back.

"Yeah, absolutely!”

“What do you want to do?"

"I was thinking we could go on an adventure."

"Sounds exciting, I'm in! See you at 9?"

"Perfect."

———————————————

As Luke walked into the living room, Mackie looked up from his homework. "Where are you going tonight?" he asked curiously.

"Out with Remi," Luke replied nonchalantly.

Mark rolled his eyes. "Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean didn't your brothers tell you to stay away from her anyway" he asked

"I can handle them," Luke said defensively. "They're just being overprotective."

Ethan chimed in. "I mean, I don't know if she's the best influence..."

Luke cut him off before he could finish his sentence. "Look guys, I appreciate your concern but I like spending time with her. So can we just leave it at that?"

The guys nodded hesitantly and went back to their respective tasks.

———————————————

That night, Luke met up with Remi outside of a town favorite bar downtown. They decided to skip the bar scene and instead took a walk around campus.

"This is nice," Luke commented as they strolled down a lit pathway next to the Arboretum.

"I knew you'd like it," Remi said, grinning playfully at him.

They eventually ended up wandering through the woods behind campus, chasing each other around like little kids. They climbed trees and hid behind bushes, laughing loudly.

"Hey, we should sleep here tonight," Luke suggested somewhat jokingly as they collapsed on the ground breathlessly.

Remi looked at him with the same mischievous smile he saw the first time they met before responding. "Sure, why not?"

“Wait, you seriously wanna sleep here?” Luke asked with a laugh

“Ya! Come on, it’ll be fun!” Remi encouraged him as she pulled him towards the trees.

“Uh ya it’s a little dangerous?” Luke asked as he looked around nervously. Sleeping in a dark forest alone was not exactly on his to-do list.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Remi asked with a giggle.

“Um I don’t know, we could be attacked by a bear or a murder” Luke suggested

“What’s life without a little danger?” Remi said with a smile.

Luke looked into her eyes and smiled, before agreeing.

They made a makeshift bed out of leaves and branches and settled in for the night. As they laid there, looking up at the stars above, Luke realized then that he was genuinely happy with Remi. He wasn't just stringing her along to piss off his brothers anymore; he actually liked being around her a lot.

The next morning, Luke woke up to his phone ringing incessantly. It was Coach Naurato wondering where he was for morning practice.

"I overslept," Luke admitted sheepishly as he laced up his skates.

Coach Naurato shook his head disapprovingly. "Let's go Hughes, run three laps before practice starts."

After practice, Coach Naurato pulled Dylan aside to ask him some questions about Luke's behavior outside of practice.

"Is he okay? He's been acting really weird lately," Coach Naurato confided in Dylan.

Dylan hesitated for a moment before answering truthfully. "I don't know, coach, I haven't really noticed anything too out of the ordinary."

The truth was that everyone had noticed Luke's behavior changing over the past few weeks. He was more distracted during practice and seemed to be preoccupied with something outside of hockey. But no one said anything because they didn't want to get into trouble with their teammates or coaches.

———————————————

Later that night Luke walked into his house and saw his roommates sitting in the living room watching TV. He was happy to see them, but they looked at him with deep concern.

"Mate, are you okay?" Ethan asked.

Luke shrugged and sat beside them. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you've been acting different lately," Dylan said.

"What do you mean?" Luke asked.

"You missed class this morning," Mackie said. "Coach was livid."

"I know, I messed up," Luke replied. "It won't happen again."

"It's not just that," Mark said. "You've been hanging out with Remi Carson a lot lately."

Luke rolled his eyes. "So what? She's just a friend."

"A friend that you spend the night with?. We know you didn’t come home last night, we were a little worried.," Ethan told him.

"I’m 19, don’t try to control my life" Luke responded.

"We're not trying to control your life, bud," Dylan said. "We're just worried about you."

"I appreciate it, guys, but I'm fine," Luke assured them.

His roommates exchanged a look of worry as he walked away.

———————————————

Then one chilly afternoon at his house after he'd skipped practice, she convinced him to go all the way, saying it'd be "new". As she lay shirtless above him she whispered "ready?"

Luke smiled up at her before nodding eagerly. The moment he entered her, he heard a door shut.

Luke paid no attention to it, continuing to grind his hips into her.

Luke enjoyed the sound of her moans, and at that moment he was in a state of euphoria, which made him completely oblivious to the door that had shut.

Seconds before Luke had reached his climax, a heavy knock sounded on the door.

Angry and frustrated, Luke yelled at the door. “Go Away! I'm busy!” Remi couldn’t help but let out a laugh at his frustration.

“Luke, we need to talk!” Mackie yelled on the other side of the door.

“Unbelievable” Luke muttered, as he pulled out of her, grabbing his sweats from the floor and slipping them on.

Luke shot a look at Remi, who was still laying on the bed naked and covered with a blanket. She gave him a smirk and Luke let out a frustrated groan before slipping out the door.

“What the fuck guys!” He yelled noticing all of his roommates staring at him, all of them looking worried.

“You skipped practice!” Dylan stated worry lingering in his voice.

“Yeah, and?” Luke snarked back

“Dude we’re worried about you! And Coach was pissed he was thinking about benching you! You’re lucky we covered for you” Ethan chimed in.

“He’s not gonna bench me, it was one practice chill out” Luke says nonchalantly

“It’s not just that Luke you’re different. It doesn't matter to you if you miss a practice, don’t care about your grades, and you just don't seem to care about anything at all! We’re all fucking worried about you!” Ethan yelled

“You guys are ridiculous, I’m fine!” Luke yelled back.

“No you’re not! You just don`t care, it’s ridiculous” Mark said,

“I told you before,I can handle myself” Luke retorted before returning to his room, slamming the door behind him.

“Are you alright?” Remi asks, watching as Luke takes a deep breath before placing his hands on his head.

“Fuck” Luke screams out angrily slamming his fist onto his desk. Remi’s mouth drops open as she hurriedly gets herself out of bed wrapping the sheets around her and walking over to Luke.

Remi gently takes hold of Luke’s now bleeding hand and inspects the damage.

Thankfully no damage was done to his knuckles but the hand is a bit red and swollen.

Luke looks at Remi with a look of desperation in his eyes. A smile appears on Remi’s face as she guides Luke’s hand closer to her mouth and kisses the knuckles.

Luke moves his other hand to Remi`s waist and pulls her closer to him as he kisses her neck leading up to her ear. “Ready to finish?” He whispers in her ear.

Remi nods her head and smiles, dropping the sheets that covered her body. Now standing completely naked in front of Luke, he stripped off his sweats and threw them at the door, locking it before grabbing a condom from the desk drawer and slipping it on.

Luke gripped Remi underneath the waist and placed her on the desk. He begins to kiss her neck, moving his hand down to her breast. Remi lets out a loud moan as Luke makes his way past her stomach…

All images from Pinterest

#luke hughes #nj devils #umich hockey #feel free to interact #dylan duke #mackie samoskevich #mark estapa #ethan edwards #luke hughes x original character #hughes brothers #just a pawn #original story #original fiction #team 101

56 notes · View notes