#l writes!
Note
hi my love!
Chris Req!
the reader and chris are in a secret relationship and he accidentally kisses the reader without even thinking, in front of their friendgroup.
not much detail so obviously do as you please!
'dummies in love.' - C.S
synopsis - "what? i can't kiss my girlfriend when i want to?"
warnings! - none really, fluff! kind of short and really sweet!! lowercase intended
A/N - this is such an old req omg, but i wanted to write for chris. happy new years everyone, hope everyone had a good 2023 (mine personally was kind of shit)
“Baby?” I hear Chris from beside me, making me turn my head, only to be met with a short - but sweet - kiss.
“Chris!” I whisper yell at him, raising my eyebrows when he pulls back.
We’re both seated on the couch of their house during a little get together while they have Nate and Justin in town, our entire friend group surrounding us in their house.
“What? It’s not like anyone’s looking. That’s why I did it.” He shrugs with a small chuckle, only for it to be cut off by Matt.
“You’d like to think. Your boyfriend’s an idiot.” Matt says as he walks up to us, sitting next to Chris.
“Yeah, I know.”
“What? I can’t kiss my girlfriend when I want to?” He makes an overdramatic kissy-face at me, making me laugh and lightly push him away, thankful for everyone being caught up in their own conversations to be looking at Chris right now.
“Not when there’s a bunch of people around Chris. Nobody knows yet, remember?” I pat his leg gently as he nods.
“Yeah, yeah. I still love you though.” He leans his head on my shoulder - which is pretty common with anyone considering Chris’ love language is physical touch.
“And I still love you.” I kiss his head as Madi and Nick sit down next to me and we spark up a conversation.
Tags ! ✮
@dwntwn-strnlo ✮ @ssturniolo ✮ @strniolo ✮ @20nugs ✮ @prettysturniolo ✮ @mxqdii ✮ @thetriplets3 ✮ @slaysturniolo ✮ @gwenlore ✮ @opheliaofficial07 ✮ @gabbylovesreading ✮ @luvsturniolo ✮ @itsaaliyah2 ✮ @strniolosworld ✮ @parkerssecrets ✮ @rac00ns-are-c00l4 ✮
If you want to be added to the list, all you have to do is ask ! ✮
I love you all !
And I hope you all have a good day and / or night ✮
#l writes!#nick sturniolo#matt sturniolo#chris sturniolo#sturniolo triplets#chris sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo imagine#christopher sturniolo
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au where L and Light fall in love during the yotsuba arc ............... i think its a crazy interesting concept
#fanart#art#artist#light yagami#light yagami fanart#lawlight#lawlight fanart#l lawliet#l lawliet fanart#L#death note#death note fanart#IM SOBBING.#i might write a fic ab this .......#imagine light breaking down after realizing he's kira dude#like ..... wow#i feel like light should've def had SOME kind of confliction after getting his memories back#like..... one second hes like KIRA IS UNJUSTIFYABLE then the next hes like HEH HEH I WON#my art#sorry this looks low key bad#i didnt feel like doing heavy rendering :(
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Erika L. Sánchez, from Lessons on Expulsion: Poems; “Amá”
[Text ID: “In One Hundred Years of Solitude, / Márquez wrote that we are birthed / by our mothers only once, but life obligates / us to give birth / to ourselves over and over.”]
#erika l. sánchez#motherhood#rebirth#gabriel garcía márquez#one hundred years of solitude#life#excerpts#writings#literature#poetry#fragments#selections#words#quotes#poetry collection#typography
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eddie isn't sure when steve becomes a synonym for safe. isn't sure how someone he actively avoided in crowded hallways morphs into a pair of eyes he seeks out when things are too much. isn't sure what it is about steve harrington that has him gravitating towards a once was king. it just suddenly is.
steve's a steady hand on his shoulder, a gentle nudge with the toe of his shoe to get him up and moving. he's a barely there smile reassuring him that things are okay, will be okay, could be okay if they keep trying to get to whatever okay could be.
steve's there for all of them, he always has been. he's the one that every single one of their ragtag bunch runs to in their own ways because steve's strong in his own way and can take away bits of their pain and fear and hide it behind his armor so it can't hurt them anymore.
but he's different for eddie. he's more quiet, more sturdy. what would be smiles for el and a crass joke for dustin and a carefully crafted hug for robin is soft silence for eddie. maybe it's because he's the tiniest bit younger than eddie, maybe it's because he's newer, maybe it's because he put eddie back together with strong hands and an even stronger will and saw the quivering underbelly that he hides away from everyone with wide grins and overwhelming flair.
everyone except steve, apparently.
whatever it is, eddie searches for it with every chance he can. he slides closer to steve when crowds get too loud looking between their feet to make sure he isn't too close but can still feel the heat radiating off of his bare arms. he looks up to see steve's eyes on him when eddie's gone quiet, throwing him a small smile and hoping it catches. he holds onto steve's quiet acceptance of a shitty mixtape in the car when eddie needs loud, needs angry, because he feels loud, feels angry.
but then it changes.
whatever they used to be isn't a factor anymore. whatever they used to be starts to bleed into steve's fingertips against bare skin, feeling his heartbeat through paper thin veins like he's trying to remind himself that eddie made it. that he himself made sure that eddie made it.
eddie does know when that change happens, though. knows when they go from never touching to always touching. knows when it changes from the steve and eddie that are two separate thoughts to the steveandeddie that can only ever be said within the same breath.
it's just that he was so tired and steve was sitting on his ratty little twin bed in his ratty big city apartment and steve was safe. steve meant safe. steve was the hands that held him together in a nightmare world and the air in his lungs when he couldn't breathe on his own.
so it all seemed to make sense for him to crawl onto the bed, rucking up the well worn quilt that he stole from wayne under his bony knees, and settle his head onto the legs that carried him out of the upside down into a world where steve was a security blanket in and of himself.
and as eddie stared up at the ceiling with his curls draped over steve's lap, he felt when it all clicked. felt the thighs he was laying on tense and then fall, felt the hand holding crumpled magazine pages come to rest gently on his chest, palm covering his racing heart. but most of all he felt when steve looked at him, gaze landing on his face and covering him like a balm over a burn.
he looked back, because eddie always looks when steve needs him, and quickly realized he was steve's safe, too. eddie might not be sure when steve becomes a synonym for safe, but that doesn't matter. not anymore. not when eddie can be that for him, too. not when he can learn what steve needs and when he needs it. he's a joke when steve's mind starts spiraling. he's the loud of a shitty mixtape to make him smile as he sings off key when they drive. he's a hand in his hair, pulling him in to rest against his chest when there's bats and russian doctors and max's broken body clouding his vision.
eddie still crawls into his lap when he feels that bone tiredness pulling at his limbs. steve still shoves his face into eddie's chest when he has to clear away the ghosts hiding in his eyes. they still let their fingertips brush over pulse points when they need little reminders. and when they need to be wrapped up by each other, held together with hands that are gentle and unspoken promises, eddie knows they'll both go with open arms.
because they make each other feel loved, make each other feel real, make each other feel safe.
#been feeling an insane amount of anxiety recently and hoped that writing would help#fun fact: it didn't#my writing#steddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#steddie drabble#steddie fluff#steddie fic#really hope there aren't any glaring typos in this cause im not going back to reread it l o l
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ೃ⁀➷ TONGUE PIERCINGS 🔞 — rafayel, xavier, zayne x fem!reader
ೃ⁀➷ request: can you write a snippet of l&ds boys having tongue piercings 😛🤭🔞? Please and thanks also I love all your snippets!
it’s pleasing to the merman when he licks your lips with a scintillating gaze. rafayel’s eyes sharpening in the light of the moon as he presses his lips against yours. the silver piercing on his tongue glides against the pink muscle in your mouth. a rough grunt elicits from his mouth and you can feel your knees grow weak.
your back is pressed against the wall, trapped by muscular arms. he chooses when you breathe again as you find yourself drowning in the heat from his mouth. his knee slots nicely in between your legs giving your clothed pussy something to grind against.
he pulls away finally. a lewd string of saliva attaching your lips for a mere second before he moves to pin you further against the wall. his piercing grazing against the sweet spot on your neck. you whine out something about being late but he only responds by sucking a hickey on your collarbone. “don’t wanna go,” he mumbles out, “just wanna fuck you.”
it’s a little surprising to learn that such a stoic and stern doctor like zayne could possibly have such an accessory. but he brushes the college dare off with such elegance that it entirely counterposes the way he’s got you reeling. your shirt is pulled up and dangling by your teeth, allowing him access to your pretty tits.
he pulls you closer to the edge of the desk. strong hands hold down your waist and inner thigh. he chuckles maliciously as the cold steel makes contact with your nipple. a shiver crawls through your spine and your body trembles in his grasp. his tongue expertly navigates your pleasure, grazing over the sensitive skin.
his hand dips down further to press against the seat of your panties. through the sheer fabric, he lazily rolls your clit. a gasp escapes you causing you to release the end of your shirt. it tumbles down, covering you back up. zayne clucks his tongue, peering up at you with keen eyes, pulling your shirt back up and slipping it back in between your teeth. “don’t drop it again,” he whispers, “you promised to stay quiet tonight.”
you don’t even have time to catch your breath when xavier’s tongue meets your melting pussy again. the little piercing ball on his tongue glides alluringly over your clit. an obscene amount of cum and saliva drip down your ass. inquiring about such a curious little piece of metal had been your downfall the moment the light in his eyes shifted.
his hands pin your legs against your chest allowing him perfect access to your constricting hole. another swipe over your clit with that godforsaken piercing has you seeing stars. a filthy squelch incurs when he pushes a little deeper. your thighs quiver but he steadies you once more with a rough grip. nothing is left in the darkening room save for desperation and pornographic pants.
your hands search helplessly for something to root you back to reality but you find your fantasies entangled in the way he pulls away. his mouth is slick with your sweetness but the hunger in his eyes is ever-present. you have to catch your breath, clit throbbing achingly so when he grinds a heavy cock against you. “please let me put it in,” he pants, “i can’t take it anymore.”
#ੈ♡˳ aurora's writing#love and deepspace#zayne love and deepspace#xavier love and deepspace#xavier x reader#zayne x reader#rafayel love and deepspace#rafayel x y/n#rafayel x reader#l&ds x reader#love and deepspace x reader
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Aisle 8A [Yandere L Lawliet x Reader]
Title: Aisle 8A [Yandere L Lawliet x Reader]
Synopsis: You're on your period, and your captor sits you down for a very special talk.
Word count: 1500ish
notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, reader has their period, misogyny, lots of period talk, L being a weirdo
It’s rare that you let your kidnapper see you squirm. Mostly because he’s admitting to enjoying the sight of you fidgeting on the couch or bed; apparently, all of your little body tics in such stressful moments are just absolutely fascinating.
So, whenever possible, you make your body sit (almost) perfectly still. You keep your face neutral. You bite back responses, swallow insults, and wait until you’re alone in the bathroom to cry. (Though you have speculated he may have a camera in there, despite the lack of proof, and his cagey denial.)
It works, most of the time.
Except for now--for several reasons.
One being, you’re on your period.
It’s not something you looked forward to pre-kidnapping, and it’s something that you dread intensely, post-kidnapping. Sitting in front of your captor while you bleed into one of the standard-issue pads you found in the bathroom--the thin, generic kind that are often stocked at public bathrooms--is certainly not the highlight of your day.
Two, and two is the primary reason for the way your body is currently shifting on the chair: L, your kidnapper, the person you hate most in the world, has presented you with a tray of assorted period products. Pads, of several sizes and materials. Tampons, the same. Period underwear. And a silicone menstrual cup, fresh out of a plastic wrapper.
Behind this tray, he sits on his own chair, knees pulled up, a small smile on his face.
He gnaws on the end of his thumb and looks at you with something akin to gleeful hope, and you’d like nothing more than to punch him in the face.
“Well?” He asks, voice lilting. “Aren’t you going to ask why I put these here?”
You’d like to ask him where he gets the nerve. But that would only feed his ego, you think. So you breathe in and out through your nose, slowly, carefully. You flex your fingertips and press your hands together on your lap.
“Why,” you say, slowly, carefully neutral, “do you have a tray full of period products in front of me?”
L beams. “Glad you asked!” He gestures across the tray, like you haven’t been staring at it for what feels like five full minutes. “I’ve been monitoring your last seven menstrual cycles--your menstrual bleeding cycles, in particular--and I have come to the conclusion…”
He leans forward, eyes wide, eager. “… that you are not adequately handling your period every month.”
You have put up with a lot of things during your months of captivity. The loss of freedom, of course. The lack of autonomy. L’s incessant, creepy staring. His tendency towards over-analyzing you. His love for mental games that leave you wanting to tear your hair out.
But this?
This is too much. Too far.
Especially right now, with the awkward feeling of blood pressing between yourself and the pad, and a dull ache of cramps sitting low in your belly.
The snort that comes out of your nose would be fire, if it reflected how angry you’re getting.
“And how, exactly, am I not--handling my period adequately every month?” Even though you know he’ll get some special entertainment from your mockery, you can’t bite it back.
L grins again. “I’m happy to tell you my conclusions.” He reaches over to a side table, and retrieves a stack of papers. Your eyes go wide. No way. No fucking way. He didn’t--
He did.
He taps the stack of papers on the tray in front of him.
“I’ve calculated that during your active menstrual bleeding, you are 57% more irritable than on days without bleeding. Although there are many ways to reduce your stress hormones during these days, you refuse to do anything except mope around.”
Your mouth opens, lips sticking to your teeth, but he puts up a hand before you can tell him that being fucking kidnapped is the reason you’re “moping around.”
“And yes, I have taken into account your… unhappiness with your current situation. While that should account for certain levels of your stress hormones, it doesn’t account for all of them, nor does it negate the distinct rise in your stress levels on these specific days.”
Your eye twitches. It actually twitches.
“What else,” you bite out, teeth grinding, “have you calculated in that report of yours?”
He tilts his head, still smiling. He might look cute, if you didn’t want to knock his teeth out.
“Would you really like to know more? I don’t want to bore you. Ah, but if you insist…” He flips through the pages, until he lands on something he’d apparently love to share. “I’ve also discovered that your current pad use is simply inadequate for the flow and consistency of your menstrual bleeding.”
He can’t be serious. Nope. He can’t be. You must be dreaming.
“Stop,” you mutter, cheeks blazing hot, chest almost equally so. “Just--”
“I think this is important,” he says, blinking innocently at you. “I’ve noticed that you’ve stained your clothing--undergarments included--several times, and when Watari had the sheets laundered, we spotted some--”
Nope. You’re not doing this.
You stand up, body shaking, skin hot and flushed with embarrassment.
“I’m not having this conversation,” you say, voice stilted, teeth grinding on the inside of your cheek to keep you from screaming. “This is weird. You are weird.” Your hand points at him, vaguely, accusingly, but you drop it without fanfare.
His smile tilts into the smallest of pout.
“It’s not weird to be concerned with your inadequate usage of menstrual products. That’s why I’ve arranged some samples for you,” he says simply enough. “So you can see which menstrual product is best suited to your size and flow. Personally,” he adds, looking down at the tray with mild fascination, “I’m interested to see if the overnight pads are really more absorbent than the daytime heavy flow. Shall we conduct an experiment to compare?”
“No!” The words come out practically shrieked, and you grab one of the cushions from the sofa and hug it close. Calm yourself, you think. Calm down. Don’t let him see you get mad. It’s what he wants. It’s probably the entire reason for all this---well, this.
“I don’t need you to tell me what products to use. Or how to manage my stress. Or--whatever else it is you have in there.”
L pulls out another sheet of paper. “Well, I have also considered the effectiveness of your using microwaved towels versus a proper heating pad--which you could ask me for, but haven’t--and--”
It’s your turn to raise your hand and, to your surprise, he stops talking.
“I’ve had my period every month since I was 11.” The inside of your cheek hurts--there will be a blister, and blood, soon enough. “You really, really think I don’t know how to handle my own period?”
Maybe this is your attempt at giving him an out--a chance to apologize for being so unbelievably awful.To admit he’s wrong, in some small measure. Your hands tighten around the pillow, in hope--in anticipation?
His eyebrow raises; there’s a quirk of a smile on his lips.
“That’s the strangest thing about all this. I calculated that you’ve had…” And the bastard actually recites the estimated number of periods you’ve had since you started puberty. “… in your life.” He taps the paper in front of him with one short, gnawed-on fingernail. “You really should have had a more logical plan for this by now.”
The cushion bonks off the side of his head with unsatisfying softness, and you stalk away, intent on going into the only room in the house where you get any semblance of privacy--the bathroom.
“I forgive you,” he calls out, even as you walk away. “I know you’re only overreacting with this level of aggression due to the elevated level of hormones in your bloodstream!”
You can hear the smile in his voice as you slam the bathroom door. The mirror rattles. Your breath comes out in awful huffs, and angry tears prick at your eyes. Stupid asshole. Smarmy bastard. It’s like there’s no part of your life he won’t dissect, won’t turn impossibly irritating, and he’s just--
Your eyes land on the box of pads you’d found on the day of your first period here. It was a larger, plain brown box with a bar-code in it--he probably got it from some bulk place, hence the low quality.
Only now…
The box is empty. There are no more pads, thin, shitty as they were. And you know you’re about to be finished with the current pad resting in your underwear from the feel of it.
There’s a soft, playful knock on the door. He knew--he must have known the whole time it was empty. Probably knew you’d wind up storming off in here, too.
“Did you decide which of these you liked best?” Even with his voice muffled by the door, the sticky self-assurance rings loud and clear. “I’m guessing you’ll need them sooner rather than later…”
Before you start looking for any object you might throw in his direction if he opens the door, he calls out again--
"If you've chosen the menstrual cup and you're worried about the insertion process, I watched the tutorial video and it's really very--"
You don't hear what he says in the end over your own muffled shriek into the nearest towel.
#yandere#yandere l lawliet#yandere death note#afterwitch writes#yes this is named after the king of the hill episode
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𝑹𝑨𝑭𝑨𝒀𝑬𝑳, 001.
"𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘮 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐'𝘮 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯, 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘐𝘧 𝘐 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘐'𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘯, 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦."
★: please don't tell me that this would suit zayne more i realized that it was too late and i felt too lazy to change it. besides rafayels growing on me so i had to write him. i also got lazy by the end and didn't proofread this so don't expect much T_T reblogs and any possible thoughts are appreciated!!!! <3
★ oral (f. receiving) + body worshipping + whiny couple + fingering + aftercare mentioned + doing it while being sick may not be the best idea but who cares!
An act of kindness is what has started it all, really. He often times thinks of you as a thick-skulled, naive girl thanks to your thinking mechanism that pushes you to go above and beyond just to lend a helping hand—but how can he blame you, really? It's not some grand gesture for a spotlight; it's just you being yourself. A courageous heart, pulsating with an urgent need to make a difference. Regardless of the timeline, the universe, or the body you inhabit, your soul always manages to peek through the cracks in the shell. Unaware that you leave an imprint with every breath, he worries that your innocence and tender heart may be a permanent fixture.
Rafayel should have realized you were trouble from the start.
Once you catch wind of someone in need, nothing else seems to register in that mind of yours.
He should have steered clear of you, or perhaps he should have wished for selective memory loss, anything to rid himself of the torment that plagued his every moment at the thought of you. Whether it's a curse or a blessing, he can't be certain, and the uncertainty gnaws at him. Memories of his days submerged in the depths of despair, yearning for you like a man starved... Truly, a memory loss would have spared him those endless, restless nights haunted by your memory. He vividly recalls the relentless hunger for the connection between his mind and yours. He used to believe that waiting for the one you love should be painless, like a fairy tale reunion. However, reality was far from enchanting, his days consumed by torment. Your radiant face invaded his thoughts every time he closed his eyes, and sometimes, he didn't even have to delve into the realm of closed eyelids. Whether it was his mind playing tricks or a disconcerting desperation for you, there were moments he found solace in the dreams of you, right before his wide-open eyes.
In those dreams, your hair took on a darker hue underwater, the waves cradling you warmly, dispelling any fear. He was convinced the ocean would hold you dear, intimately familiar with your name. Your every movement, the way your hair framed your face, the melody of your voice—these elements combined, making it impossible not to be captivated. If he had known the outside world held you, he would never have considered leaving the comfort of his home. Yet, that's the hand of fate, a concept you humans often label as destiny.
Rafayel remains baffled by the mysterious workings of this thing called fate. Is it akin to a magnetic force, or does it mirror the intricate patterns of the ocean? The idea of one's entire life being meticulously planned before even opening one's eyes, waiting for the precise moments when everything aligns, isn't a matter of him being unable to grasp the logic. It's more about the undeniable sense that everything in his life, leading up to the moment he encountered you, felt purposefully directed to bring him to you, and you to him. Love, as it turns out, was a weighty burden he had never anticipated carrying around.
That's likely the reason his gaze carries a tinge of sorrow today. Seated on the vacant space of the couch while you rest, your once radiant eyes now only half-open, your lips slightly parted to ease your breathing. He appears and sounds concerned, though he understands that your fever prevents you from recognizing the emotional turmoil he currently grapples with.
"You're already playing the hero as a Hunter," he remarks, his fingertips registering the warmth of your skin—feverish, and he can't help but check it persistently. "What more do you need to offer as a hero? Was it really necessary?"
You remain silent, the weight of your breath filling his expansive studio, visibly swallowing. No regrets about your actions, but a nagging thought that perhaps a bit more contemplation would have been wiser.
"Hey, don't doze off on me now, answer me."
His tone is insistent, almost desperate, a hint of anger present, though directed more at the ceaseless need within you to be helpful all the time.
"What do you want me to say?" you reply, your chapped lips stinging with each uttered word. "I couldn't have said no, not when it was clear they needed help."
"You could!" Rafayel counters like a petulant child, his selfish side revolving entirely around you resurfacing. "You know you could have! Work and favors are different, and you weren't tasked with assisting a nerdy sociopath in retrieving… what was it again?"
"Rafayel," his name escapes your lips softly, a reminder of the unintentional power you hold over him. The mere sound of his name from you stirs something within him, and Rafayel can't help but feel a bit flustered. "I really don't want to talk about this."
"Fine," he snorts, still clearly irritated but acknowledging your lack of stamina for this conversation. "Go to sleep, then. I'll see what I can do for you."
"Not invading my personal space and laying off the nagging would be more than enough, highly appreciated, really."
A soft, breathy laugh accompanies your words. Despite the occasional sharpness of your comments, both of you understand they're lighthearted, devoid of any malicious intent.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just close your eyes. This is my house, and personal space is a non-existing concept here. Take it or leave it."
"I can't leave; I'm sick," you murmur, your voice huskier than ever due to the severe cold. "Looks like I might have to take it."
"Such a smart girl," he teases, a hint of mockery in his voice, his gaze fixed on your slightly red face. "Wish you could use that pretty brain of yours in situations like this. I feel sorry for you sometimes."
"I feel sorry for myself, too. Your sassiness doesn't spare me even when I'm sick. Plus, this is the worst cold I've ever had. Feels like I'm on my death bed with you right next to me, nagging and scolding."
He's well aware it's just a passing moment, that you'll bounce back from this illness soon enough. Yet, even the casual mention of it in a lighthearted and trivial sentence makes Rafayel squirm uncomfortably beside you.
"Shut up, don't exaggerate."
"Guess who I learned that from?"
"You're insufferable," he declares, finally rising to search for his phone, cast somewhere in his room.
"You won't believe what I'm about to say, yet again," he marvels at your knack for matching his energy, finding himself increasingly addicted to this dynamic.
"Let's get you somewhere more comfortable, maybe you'll actually manage to fall asleep and spare me the constant nagging."
"You're the one who brought me to your place when you found out I was sick!"
You stifle a laugh, resisting the urge to appreciate his caregiver side a bit more. However, your expression gives you away; the corners of your mouth twitch, a smile reaching your eyes before gracing your face.
"Ha-ha, very funny. So funny that I can't even bring myself to laugh, fearing I might never find anything else amusing ever again."
The studio carries a subdued ambiance today, courtesy of the gray clouds and dismal weather outside. Despite the apparent disorder, there's an inherent harmony within its chaotic appearance. Unfinished paintings scatter around, some paints meticulously organized by tone and hue, while others haphazardly rest on a small table in the corner. Curtains drawn wide, tall windows invite as much natural light as possible, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of pressing a seashell against your ear—faint waves hitting the shore.
With a single effortless motion, Rafayel lifts your weakened body, his concern palpable as he carries you to his bedroom. Surprisingly, you feel lighter in his arms, despite your condition, as he carefully settles you onto his bed. Profoundly sweating, you've lost count of the shirts Rafayel has helped you change into. He's already arranged for a doctor to examine you, initially fearing the worst, only to discover it's a severe cold exacerbated by exhaustion. With medication in hand, Rafayel diligently ensures you take your doses, managing the situation with utmost care.
Except for his own sanity.
Seeing you in such a vulnerable state for the first time, you appear unlike the confident Hunter he knows—or perhaps it's his own perception, magnified by witnessing your illness firsthand.
Compared to the rest of the house, Rafayel's bedroom feels refreshingly cool, providing a welcome relief to your feverish skin.
"This feels nice," you murmur as he lays you gently on the bed, the softness of the mattress embracing you instantly, coaxing your eyes closed. "Like being hugged by the sea on a hot summer day. Cool and comforting."
Your words, uttered innocently, send a shiver down Rafayel's spine.
Being hugged by the sea… comforting…
Suddenly, he's overwhelmed by an urge to hold you even closer, to let you feel the steady rhythm of his heart, to assure you that the embrace of the water is always within reach.
"That's probably because your fever hasn't gone down; just get some rest."
"Will you stay here?"
You weakly tug on the hem of his shirt, your eyes opening a bit more, almost peering into his soul.
"I will," Rafayel responds, immediately sensing he can't leave you alone even for a second, though he refrains from showing it. "If you ask nicely enough."
"Oh, shut it," you laugh, covering your eyes with the back of your hand. You stay like that for a while, eyes closed and hand resting on your face, when you feel his warm breath gently caressing your skin. A sudden urge to gulp overtakes you, your heart pounding so rapidly it feels as if it's not a heart but a bird begging to be set free.
"Come on," Rafayel murmurs, every puff of breath warming your face and body, as if you haven't fallen victim to a fever. "Just ask, it won't hurt, right?"
"I've changed my mind."
"Don't spoil the fun now."
His slender fingers wrap gently around your wrist, and to your surprise, his skin is cold against yours. Despite the fever that makes you feel like you're boiling from the inside, your body craves that cool touch. Rafayel lifts your hand, slowly and carefully, pinning it against the soft pillow under your head. Now, you have no choice but to look at him, your clouded eyes meeting his shining ones as both of you let the silence linger. It's not awkward, but neither is it fully comforting—there's a subtle tension you can feel, adding to your fever, and tears well up in your eyes as you stare at him.
Rafayel feels like there's a dagger stabbed right into his chest, turning and turning like a fallen leaf on an autumn day—he shivers the more he gazes into your widened eyes and parted lips. He can't be sure if it's just your fever that's bringing a sweet tint of red to your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and even the tips of your ears. All he can do is hope that, regardless of the circumstances, he's able to make you a bit flustered.
Without much thought, Rafayel presses his palm against the burning skin of your red cheek. You feel soft to the touch, and his hand is cold enough to elicit a calm, sharp breath from you. A thick fog envelops your mind and thoughts due to the fever. While it was worse a few hours ago, it still clouds your basic thinking skills. Your body is burning, but you're sure it's not that feverish. Knowing you're sick adds a psychological discomfort—you subconsciously nuzzle against his big, cool palm. A soft whimper escapes your parted lips as you lean into Rafayel's touch, his palm covering your cheek as your eyes flutter closed in a seemingly calm manner. He doesn't dare utter a word, fearing he might disrupt the moment. It feels intimate and vulnerable; he's offering a simple act born from his feelings for you, and you're fitting into his hands like the matching piece of a puzzle.
"If you could touch me all over with these cold hands, I think this fever would just disappear," you murmur against his palm, resembling a cat seeking affection. Ironically, he doesn't even like cats, but it's not about them—it's about the vulnerability of the act. You may not realize what you're saying, but Rafayel's head spins with thoughts he dare not speak. His fingertips ache to reach and tug on the hem of his shirt you're wearing. He could get you out of it in seconds, exploring every inch of you, leaving nothing untouched.
He releases a shaky breath as his other hand lets go of yours, beginning to touch your face and neck. His breath comes out shaky as his fingertips explore the softness of your face before descending to your neck—a sacred area. He senses you gulp as his palm presses against the front of your neck. The pressure is almost nonexistent as he gently caresses your skin. You don't feel brave enough to open your eyes; his touch alone is intense, and you're uncertain of the intensity awaiting you in his gaze.
"What if I accidentally make you feel hotter than before?" Rafayel breathes out the words, his voice low and hesitant as he whispers. You gulp again, making him feel the movement against his palm as he takes another sharp breath. "We wouldn't want that now, would we?"
Summoning courage, you slowly open your eyes to gauge Rafayel's expression. The moment your eyes meet his, Rafayel swallows back a desperate whimper. He wasn't prepared for your heavy gaze, feeling crushed under its weight, as if there's a demand he might not be able to satisfy even with his all.
Both of you remain awfully quiet as Rafayel's fingers slightly wrap around your neck, fitting like a perfect necklace. He gently gives the faintest squeeze, leaving you lightheaded. Your eyes get even glossier—you're like a doll, spread out in his bed, wearing his clothes. It's impossible not to be overwhelmed.
"I don't think your cold hands would betray me like that," you whisper, still feeling a bit dizzy from the gentle squeeze around your neck. Does he even realize the effect he has on you? It seems like he's testing the waters for both of you, exploring your reactions and his own feelings. The sensation is dizzying for him as well.
Remembering that this isn't the right time for something like this, Rafayel reluctantly pulls his hands back, though he yearns to have them pressed against you. It doesn't matter where he touches you; all he needs is to feel you under his touch.
"No," you whine, eyebrows furrowed. Your hand slowly reaches up, grabbing him by the sleeve of his shirt to bring his hands back to your face and neck. "Keep them, it feels nice."
"You have no idea what you're asking for," Rafayel murmurs. "Just because the waters are cold doesn't mean they won't swallow you whole, silly girl."
"Don't care," you shrug.
Rafayel hums in response, his fingertips trailing down to the hem of the t-shirt you're wearing before his hands sneak under the thin fabric after you give him an affirming nod. "If only you could be good and listen to me," he gently caresses your torso, your skin feeling soft and warm as he can't stop himself from traveling higher. His fingertips touch the fabric of your bra this time, and both of you feel yourselves shaken to your cores; a soft whimper falls from your lips unlike Rafayel, who's giving his all to keep it quiet for now. "Do I have to tire you out to make you sleep?"
You cannot give an answer, you're already feeling high on the feeling as his cold fingertips slip under your bra too, causing your nipples to get hard and perk up immediately. You slightly arch your back to signal him that you want it off, and Rafayel is quick to pick up on that; with a skilled and swift movement of his fingers, he unclasps your bra.
You should've checked the weather forecast more carefully, really—well, you don't feel as feverish as before, but your body feels heavy. Maybe it's because Rafayel is so adept at kneading you into the state he desires you in, who knows? With your lips slightly parted and heavy eyelids veiling the intensity of your eyes, you accept Rafayel's touch as if it's the only thing that can help you now. He pushes the hem of the t-shirt up, and you feel him tapping the side of your body. You sit up slightly to give him the access he asks for, and Rafayel doesn't waste any time. He quickly gets rid of the t-shirt and bra. Now, even the air feels cold against your skin—his hands are comforting, but the air in his bedroom causes shivers to run down your spine.
All that can be heard from Rafayel is his heavy panting as he changes his position, seating himself between your legs and slowly hovering over you as he leans in. You want to tell him that he's going to get sick after all this, but you don't have the heart to mess this moment up by bringing up such an obvious and silly thing. The sound of Rafayel's first kiss right on between your breasts echoes in the room, or that's how it sounds to you, loud and exciting—the kiss makes you breathlessly moan as you grip the sheets underneath your hands. You know what to expect, you know what's to come, but still you can't help that slight shaking of your body when Rafayel's hot mouth takes in your nipple. You try your best to hold yourself back from tugging on his hair, pressing yourself more to him, or any possible desperate act of this neediness that you have for everything that he can possibly give to you. However, as if you've lost control of your movements, your hands softly find their place in Rafayel's soft hair—experimentally tugging on, just to get a muffled deep groan against your skin.
His head moves slightly, his tongue lazily twirling around your nipple as you're withering underneath him—with one hand, palm pressing against the inner side of your thigh, Rafayel makes you spread your legs further so that he can get into a position that's also comfortable for him. Your fever feels as if it's turned into a bonfire, crackling and ready to swallow both of you whole as soft noises of yours fill Rafayel's ears. He breathlessly gulps before teasingly taking the sensitive nipple between his teeth—the act is enough to send jolts throughout your weak body, you tug on his hair harder than before.
"You enjoy that," he whispers, amused and amazed by your reaction as he tilts his head up slightly to stare into your glossy eyes, only to lean in and repeat the same action. You cry out, feeling like you're melting in his hands as he keeps teasing you. He's not doing much, but you're embarrassingly wet as he continues the act. Your panties immediately get damp, and it feels uncomfortable at some point. "Don't get ideas," you say with a huff of air escaping from your parted lips. They feel dry because of the level of heat embracing your trembling body.
"Don't you think that you're a bit late to say that?" He whispers against your skin, his hands resting on the sides of your body, fingers gently caressing the skin accessible to his touch. His mouth keeps pressing kisses all over your chest between each word. "You've given me quite a lot of ideas. I might push the limits to their fullest if you keep making those pretty noises."
"Rafayel," a gulp, loud enough to shake him to his core. "Don't play, please."
He groans in defeat, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly—how can he say no? How can he possibly say no when your heartbeat is loud and fast enough to be heard? He sits on his knees first, freeing you from your sweatpants and your embarrassingly soaked panties—the sight of your glistening folds immediately gets a reaction from him; a desperate whimper as he throws the pieces of clothing somewhere in his room. His fingers move down as he lays on his torso on the bed, sliding down, supporting your legs by grabbing the back of your thighs and pushing your legs to your chest—the position has you all red, the blush spreading down to your chest as you're now fully exposed to him. To ease off the unnecessary tension you feel, Rafayel presses a wet kiss to your inner thigh. His hot breath hits your sensitive skin, and it feels like this has meant to happen at some point, and this was the perfect time.
"You've got to tell me to stop now if you're not sure," Rafayel's whisper intensifies the sensations, and you feel a hot wave hitting you, making you jolt as your knees almost touch your chest. "Because once I get a taste, I know that I won't be able to stop."
His voice sounds much deeper, and you feel almost threatened by the tone alone—possible thoughts related to what he can do to you run havoc in your mind as you stare at him with empty eyes. All you have in your mind is that you need him; you crave whatever he can give you—of course, you're not going to tell him to stop at any point.
So you stay quiet, your eyes locked with his in an intense gaze as he looks up at you from between your legs. With your fingertips gently playing with his hair, you keep your silence, hoping that it'll be enough of an answer. Yet, it turns out that it's not enough of an answer.
"You need to use your words," Rafayel desperately murmurs this time, pressing wet and open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs as he breaths sharply. "Please, tell me that you want it, I need to hear it from you."
He looks so pretty from this angle—well, it's a well-known fact that he is undoubtedly a pretty boy, but the way he's looking up at you with those expecting eyes and that expression of raw need on his face makes something in you snap suddenly. You part your lips, but it suddenly feels kind of embarrassing to say it out loud. Rafayel moves up and closer to your face, his hand cupping your cheek, and you immediately lean into his touch with your eyes closed. "Look at me, baby, say it."
Your lips part apart slightly as you open your eyes slowly, your dry lips press the lightest kiss to his thumb—and it makes him absentmindedly push his finger into your mouth. Ironically, this act gives you the push that you need. Before wrapping your lips around his thumb, you give him what he wants, you say what he needs to hear.
"I want it," just three words, uttered lowly and slowly, and coming out all muffled because of his finger exploring the warmth of your mouth—and it pushes him over the edge. "Fuck," breathlessly falls from his lips, drawn out in a long way. Rafayel pulls his hand back, his thumb staying close to the side of your mouth as he kisses you—the kiss is sloppy and it shakes you to your core. His thumb lightly gets in the way but none of you seem to care about that, the hunger you both have for each other feels insatiable as Rafayel licks into your mouth. Wet sounds of your lips moving hungrily against each other fill his room as Rafayel takes his time with tasting your lips, savouring the taste of your long gone lip gloss as you moan into his mouth, in turn, he happily drinks in all your pretty noises.
You lazily throw your arms over his shoulders, his messy and soft hair meeting the gentle touch of your hands as you two share a desperate kiss. Suddenly, you can't even remember the reason you're here in the first place—all you can think about is the way Rafayel is so, so into you. The way his one hand stays pressed against your cheek while the other pushes your hair out of the way before traveling down to the side of your waist and caressing the skin feels intimate and arousing at the same time. You try to break the kiss, to take a much-needed breath, but Rafayel doesn't let go of you. His hand holds your head in place, his lips getting more eager and hungrier as his body tenses under your skillful hands softly caressing his hair.
"Can't breathe," you finally manage to get the words out when you push him gently by pressing your hands against his chest. His skin feels as hot as your feverish one, but you can still feel the subtle chill to his hands. "Rafayel, wait—let me, ah, breathe a second."
He is long gone, lost in the whirl of primal emotions that he has fallen victim to. His lips are relentless, his head seeking a feeling that he can only expect from you in the crook of your neck—his kisses trail a wet line along the side of your neck. "Okay, okay," he whispers, visibly trying to calm himself down. "I just—ah, shit, I just need to feel you somehow, taste you."
The way his words come from a feeling that is unfiltered and genuine has you succumbing to his desires. You feel the need to give your all to him, to offer yourself in any way possible, in the way he wants you. As you throw your head back to give him more room, a breathless "yeah," falls from your lips. "Yeah, okay, go on."
Rafayel becomes unstoppable once he gets your consent, once he realizes that you're okay with this. And that's really all he has to get from you to feel something snap in himself—a whiny whimper falling from his lips etches itself into the soft and hot skin of your neck as his kisses follow each other all the way to your shoulder.
"I'll be so good to you," he breathlessly reassures you, even though you don't need any reassurance because you know that he will. You know that he will be such a good boy for you—he will be able to tame that burning desire in you in such a way that you'll get hooked on the feeling. "I know," you, too, reassure him, letting him know what he does to you with little to no effort. Just by following an instinctive feeling, he has the power to rule your body and your mind.
His cold fingertips trail down on your body, finding their place in between your legs. The feeling of his fingertips ghosting over your slick folds make both of you moan, your back arches, your body begging to get the best of this feeling. Even though he's peppering your body with open-mouthed kisses, you still feel embarassingly empty somehow—even this thought alone is enough to get you all flustered and shy.
For some time, it's probably minutes but feels like an eternity, none of you speak; just enjoying the feeling of your bodies pressed against each other. Your hands are as mindless as usual, you don't know what to do with them as Rafayel rubs your aching clit in a teasing way; you feel yourself growing impatient, desperately needing him to make you feel full, it doesn't matter how he does it, but he has to do it.
"Rafayel", you whine, impatiently tugging on his hair as your body feels like shattering into million pieces and being kneaded into this desireful shell from the scratch. He hums in response as his kisses start to trail down further down to your torso, it kind of tickles—your body jolts forward when he playfully bites the side of your waist. Swallowing down all the shyness, you try to push his head down a bit more, leading him to your weeping cunt—the sheets underneath you and your inner thighs are damp with your wetness. The way Rafayel manages to get you this turned on and this wet makes both of you gasp when you feel his fingers gathering the slick and smearing it to your folds as if you're not wet enough. The swift movement of his fingers against your folds make you suck in a sharp breath, your body feels like it's about the explode if he makes you wait for it any more than this moment.
"What is it, Miss Bodyguard?" He taunts you, or you think that he does so, it really doesn't matter at this point. "Running low on patience?" His voice is deep, and you feel him finally adjusting his position as his lips press a kiss right to your cunt. You immediately cry out, the movement feeling as intense as it can be. You tug on his hair again, needing the feeling again, and you hear him chuckle. To your relief, he does it again, again and again—teasingly sucking on your clit between the kisses.
"Maybe you should've listened to me," Rafayels pants between the kisses. "I told you to go to sleep, didn't I? You wouldn't be begging like this if you could've just listened to me in the first place."
You cannot find the right piece of your mind to answer him, he's good at making you unable to think properly. Your only answer to him is another low moan—making him get al the answers he needs. You want to tell him to stop the teasing, but the feeling is so good that you can't even acknowledge his words. Rafayel looks pretty from where you're looking at him, his hair doesn't do any justice since it hides his eyes but you're sure that you won't be able to bear the intensity in them if he ever looks into your eyes. His shoulders look broader when he's buried between your trembling legs, the way his biceps flex while his arms are hooked around your legs to keep you in place makes you suck in a shaky breath.
His head moves up and down, his tongue deliberately exploring and tasting you. You grind against his hot mouth, and he groans in response—loving the way you're demanding more from him. It's almost like he exists to serve you; Rafayel has always been attentive to your wants, and to give you what you want now is nothing but pleasure to him. His tongue moves skillfully and also hungrily, you think that you might cum at any given moment—and the thought is a bit embarassing, really, because you want to enjoy the feeling a bit more.
Just as you part your lips to say something, Rafayel slowly pushes a finger inside your cunt—eliciting the most delicious moan from you. You're burning up now from the inside, feeling your body becaoming helpless and succumbing to his mercy as he starts to finger you slowly at first. When your walls stop clencing around him, Rafayel adds the second finger—this is even more dizzying, and you feel yourself getting suffocated by the feeling alone. It'll never measure up to the way his cock stretches you out, but he manages to satisfy you no matter how.
"Hag—ah, Rafayel," you breathlessly mumble, your heavy eyes falling to his broad shoulders again. He's still fully clothed, so you tug on the sleeve of his shirt, that's when he tilts his head up to look into your eyes directly. The sight of him makes you dumb; his chin is wet, his lips glisten, and his eyes carry such intensity and adoration that you stumble upon your own words. Stuttering, you say, "take it off," but Rafayel chuckles as a whisper before leaning down again to suck on your clit while also moving his fingers faster than before.
"No."
"No?"
"No. This is about you feeling good, not about me. Just enjoy it, don't think of anything else."
You open your mouth to protest, but he doesn't even let you start.
"Well, I might be enjoying this more than you maybe, just to let you know. You sound pretty," he breathlessly murmurs, words coming out slurred as his lips presses kisses to your inner thighs. You feel yourself getting even closer, and your body slightly trembles—you can't help but press your legs to the both sides of his head, keeping him there, where he belongs prettily.
"Because you're a pretty girl, aren't you? Even when you're as stubborn as ever, even when you're crying underneath me, you're always a pretty girl, making pretty sounds," his fingers start to move even faster now, your legs shaking on both sides of his head as your chest heaves up and down with your erratic breaths.
Before you need to say it, Rafayel can feel that you're about to cum—your walls clenching around his wet fingers are enough to let him know. He doesn't stop nor does he slows down, on the contrary, in addition to his fingers he gets back to sucking on your clit. It doesn't take you long to cry out his name, or you think so, complete gibberish falls from your lips as you cum—thrashing around his fingers while your body is shaking. Rafayel keeps fingering you and eating you out through your orgasm, tasting you like a man starved as you hear the slick sounds of his fingers and his tongue. Feeling overly sensitive, you gently push his hand back, and he obliges—slowly pulling back to look at your face. Eyes heavy, cheeks tinted with red, chest heaving up and down... he's glad that he's able to paint you in any way in his memories. What would he do if he couldn't do that? Well, he might've had to make you cum again and again until it became impossible to not see you whenever he closed his eyes.
"Ssh, my pretty girl," he whisper as he gets on the same level as your face, there's the slightest smirk on his face as he carefully pays attention to every detail about your face, and your expression. "You good?" Rafayel asks.
"Yeah, yeah I just—uh, I think I just need to..."
"Sleep, maybe?"
"Yeah, that."
Rafayel laughs, low and genuine, soothing you as you listen to it. You want to kiss him, accepting the fact that you'll taste yourself if you do so, but your eyelids feel so heavy that you cannot resist against the drowsiness taking over you.
"Okay, do that then." Rafayel slowly gets up from the bed, and you can only guess how hard he is after all that—your hands ache to touch him, take his hardened cock out of his pants and help him relax, too.
"But you—"
"I told you that this is about you," Rafayel says, walking to the bathroom, You lay on his bed, feeling cold, immediately missing his warmth. He comes back with a wet towel, sitting next to you before he starts to clean you up.
"But, of course, this doesn't mean that I won't ask for what's rightfully mine," he softly chuckles. "But only when you're feeling all better, now sleep."
And you do as he tells you to do so, a slight smile forming on your lips as you close your eyes—realizing that you've needed this sleep really bad, but still had Rafayel to serve you like a true devotee.
#🩰.ela writes#love and deepspace#l&ds#love and deep space rafayel#rafayel smut#rafayel x reader#rafayel imagine#l&ds x reader#l&ds smut#l&ds rafayel#love and deep space x reader#love and deep space x you
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hi pook!
you should write an opposites attract with chris. (i would say matt but i feel like this is more of a chris thing)
like, the reader is calm, patient, and quiet while we all know how chris is.
love youuuu 😽
'LOUD' - C.S
Synopsis - "Can you be quieter?" "Can you be louder?"
Warnings! - profanity, kissing, secret dating.
A/N - literally wrote all of this in class. i get to meet my baby brother today! (5th) by the time this comes out, he'll already be home. Thank you for requesting this pook! love you all ! synopsis sentence not used in story !!
I huff and look out the window of the van as Chris cuts me off, yet again.
“Chris, let her talk!”
“No! Nothing she’s saying is important!”
“And why is that?” Matt looks back at me before looking back at Chris.
“She’s not loud enough to really get her point across.” He’s too loud. He makes an emphasizing gesture with his arms, throwing them out in front of him.
“Chris, just stop being a dick!” Nick smacks his arm, and it sounds like it hurts.
“Ow Nick! What the fuck?!” Chris grabs his arm and attempts to bend back to the backseat to hit Nick back, but he ends up hitting me instead, and I am furious, and I think he can tell.
His eyes widen quickly, and his face goes pale.
“Oh shit. Sorry ba- Y/N” I have to try and refrain from showing any emotion to his almost slip-up. I nail him with a look for a beat before returning to my scowl.
“You asshole.” I can see the genuine apology in his eyes, and with that, I become a little less mad and kind of just slump back in the seat, looking back out the window.
I hear multiple sighs.
“Now look what you’ve done. Great going Chris.” Nick’s voice is laced with sarcasm, and anger.
“My bad, wasn’t trying to hit her.” He sits back into his seat.
---
A few minutes pass and the subject has changed and Chris has gotten a little quieter.
I feel my phone vibrate from my pocket and I take it out to see a text from Chris.
Baby♡: i’m so sorry babe, i seriously did not mean to hit you
Me: it’s fine. You can kiss it better later (kissy emoji)
A small grin forms on my face as I hear Chris chuckle quietly from the front seat.
“What? What’re you laughing at?” Nick asks as he leans over to try and get a peek at Chris’s phone, but thankfully Chris shuts his phone off in time.
“Nothing dipshit.”
---
After filming, which took over two hours by the way, we finally head back to the triplets house, and just as we pull out of the parking lot, my phone vibrates again, and I already know who it is.
Baby♡: you alright? You’re quiet back there.
Me: i’m always quiet. :)
Baby♡: true…
Baby♡: are you staying over tonight?
Me: idk yet
Baby♡: pleaseeeee
I let out a huff of air and roll my eyes.
“Hey guys, is it cool if I stay over tonight? I don’t feel like driving tonight.”
“Yeah that’s fine with me.” Nick turns his head to me and smiles.
“I don’t mind.” I can see Matt shrug from the driver’s seat.
Chris is silent, probably for the best.
“Alright.” I look back down at my phone and grab my headphones from my pocket, putting them in and press play on my playlist as my phone buzzes again.
Baby♡: yay! couch then my room? (context: Y/N 'sleeps' on the couch until matt and nick go to bed, then she moves to chris’s room)
Me: like always (kissy emoji)
I hear a chuckle from the front seat before Chris and Matt start talking.
---
I plop down on the chase of the couch with a groan and a fake snore.
I open my eyes just in time to see Chris Nick and Matt bidding goodnight to each other before they separate, all going their own directions.
Chris looks at me as he walks down the stairs to his room.
I huff and wait for Matt to turn off his music before I grab one of the blankets from the couch and walk downstairs to Chris’s room, knocking softly.
“Come in!” I crack the door open to see him sitting at his desk, phone in one hand looking down to it, and the other on the mouse. I smile softly and walk into the room, closing the door behind me.
He snaps his head to me, concern etched on his face.
“I didn’t hurt you earlier, did I?” I shake my head softly, tossing the blanket I brought down on his bed and walking over to him.
“No. It only hurt for a second, but it’s fine now.” I place my hands on his cheeks, gliding my thumbs over the smooth skin.
Swiftly, he stands up, picks me up, and tosses me on the bed before plopping down next to me, enveloping me in a great big bear hug, and I melt into it.
“Good. Don’t want you to be mad at me.” He kisses my forehead, nose, and cheeks before giving me a kiss.
“Never.” I smile and lean up to give him another kiss.
Tags ! ✮
@dwntwn-strnlo ✮ @ssturniolo ✮ @strniolo ✮ @20nugs ✮ @prettysturniolo ✮ @mxqdii ✮ @thetriplets3 ✮ @slaysturniolo ✮ @gwenlore ✮ @opheliaofficial07 ✮ @gabbylovesreading ✮
If you want to be added to the list, all you have to do is ask ! ✮
I love you all !
And I hope you all have a good day and / or night ✮
#l writes!#matt sturniolo#chris sturniolo#nick sturniolo#sturniolo triplets#chris sturniolo imagine#chris sturniolo x reader#christopher sturniolo#lee and lily
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Etho cannot deny that in some way, the ocean is messing with his friends, and that he noticed far too late.
It targets Gem first, long before it goes after anyone else, so subtly it’s almost undetectable. Here’s the way he notices: her little boat is cute, but the mangrove wood on the trim seems old and rotten in some places, murky river water staining the paint that coats the sides. The lighthouse, when built, seems washed out, as if the color has been sucked from the stone that forms it. Etho finds this strange, but refuses to jump to conclusions- Gem is still his little sibling with the same warm smile, so he lets it be for now.
It’s really when the fishing craze begins where Etho starts having doubts about the normalcy of things. Grian is in no way an average person most of the time, but this level of dedication is new and sort of suspicious. It starts with the mending book, which is fine, since he’s decided to avoid villager trading this season. Etho comes over sometimes and jokes about the luck of the sea. Here is where it gets weird, though: when he comes over to make that joke again, Grian turns his head, oh so slowly, expression serious and eyes blank as he replies.
“The ocean will provide the book. It’s the next one, I know it.”
It takes a little more effort than it should for Etho to not turn tail and run. The tambre of his friend’s voice is off-kilter and strange, almost hollow in the way it echoes. And it’s the way he doesn’t say mending, he just says the book- Etho can’t help but feel like he isn’t fishing for enchantments anymore. The air smells of rot and slime. He swallows bile, gives a little uh-huh as a reply, and leaves as soon as he can.
Then there’s Pearl and Beef, obsessed with salmon, of all things. Pearl’s thing seems like a one-off, but Doc tells him that Beef has taken the joke about “big salmon” a little too far, claiming he’s gotten emails from them that have threatened the goat directly. Etho doesn’t really know what to make of that, or Pearl’s salmon head, or the continuous slapping of fish on noteblocks that’s driving him insane.
But he knows this: he’s never really liked fishing before, not for its intended use, anyway. It’s good to have in a death game, but not once has Etho found the monotonous motions of fishing appealing. Grian said it best himself: he used to think fishing was lame. And he did. Does. He thinks it’s lame. He thinks all of this stuff about the river and the boats and the ocean and the salmon and the rot is all really weird and not at all cool. He’s only here to make sure his friends are okay. Not to fish, because he doesn’t want to, just to keep Magic Mountain in line.
But Grian says it again: Etho walked up here and was like ‘this is lame’, now look at him! Etho, in turn, looks at his hands. When did he start fishing? Was the sun always that high in the sky? Did the ocean always sing like that? Was there always a magnetic force to the waves at the shore, pulling him closer with every lap of sea foam? Was the lighthouse always this beautiful?
No, no it wasn’t. He knows this. Something is very, very wrong. There’s something in the water that’s making his friends lose it, and there’s something supernatural that’s trying to pull him in. He needs to get out of here, back to the jungle, with its nice green grass and earthy smells-
To his right, Etho hears his death call. The bell rings, the swan sings, and the water keeps lapping at his feet. It’s too late, he knows it, in the way that his hands are gripping the fishing pole with white knuckles, in the way the lilypads seem to grow under his feet to get him closer to the great deep blue. The music continues, the serenade settling into his bones, giving him an eerie sense of calm.
In the magnetic pull of the moment, he doesn’t even realize he’s crying.
#woosh writes#hermitcraft#ethoslab#grian#geminitay#oceans calling au#<- that’s the tag I’m using for this- l will edit the other fics tag to have this later#anyways I’m So Fucking Normal about this
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I love the ugliness of love. Removing love from its socially accepted roots. Love as not a mere source of tragedy and sadness, but as an active corruptive power over those it mystifies. Love as the addiction without cure and the wound forever bleeding. I love seeing the beauty of something so coveted spun on its head.
#fiction tropes#gothic romance#dark romance#writing#hannigram#hannibal x will#hannibal the series#villaneve#villanelle#killing eve#lawlight#l x light#death note#sebaciel#madohomu#puella magi madoka magica#wuthering heights
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you can talk between my legs (raf x mc, nsfw)
wc: 3200
rating: E
warning: hand job, teasing, orgasm denial
“I could’ve sworn–” he mumbles, long eyelashes fluttering shut as he nuzzles into the curve of your palm. His lips are parted, two soft crescents pressing against your skin. He exhales, a rough, pained sound—you lean forward, trying to catch his gaze.
His eyes don’t seem bloodshot. His pupils are dilated, but not severely enough that you suspect he’s been drugged. Then he takes in another long, straggling breath with the tip of his nose skimming up the sensitive inner length of your wrist, and you start wondering if perhaps he is high after all.
“Could’ve sworn I’ve smelled this before,” Rafayel murmurs to himself. It’s as if you’re nothing more than a lifeless doll with what appears to be a devastatingly enticing scent. He fits the jut of your wrist bone between his lips—you flush, wondering if he can taste the desperate quickening of your heart rate or if that’s just all in your head—and he practically sags into your palm.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
Rafayel pays your words no mind. He closes his eyes, a delighted little sigh leaving his mouth. “You smell delicious,” he moans, a low, throaty sound that threatens to make your knees buckle.
That is—horribly unfair, you think to yourself, cheeks flushed all the way to high heaven. How can Rafayel stand there without a care in the world, making such sounds that should be enough to constitute public indecency. Isn’t he ashamed? Does he have no propriety?
You conveniently ignore how you’re not exactly putting up much resistance against this behaviour. It’s not your fault if Rafayel wants to act like a slut in his own house. If anything, you’re the victim here, so blatantly being used as a prop.
“Miss,” he groans, rubbing your palm against his cheek, as if he’s a cat that wants to be marked by your scent. “Can I—please, I need to—”
While he speaks, you reach out your other hand to cup his face. Whether you do this as a form of support or as another form of teasing (because you know damn well the bottle spilled on both your hands), that’s between you and God.
On his end, Rafayel cuts himself off before he finishes his sentence. He whines softly, reaching up to grab your wrist with his free hand. “You smell so fucking good,” he curses, and practically buries his face in your palms.
“We have places to be,” you say. Your mouth says one thing, but your fingers are cupping Rafayel’s cheeks, thumbs stroking over the smooth skin below his eyes as he mumbles nonsense into your hands. “It’s your party.”
Rafayel mutters something. The way his lips scratch against the sensitive surface of your palms is distracting; you drag your hand along his cheek and tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear.
“What did you say?”
“I said—” Rafayel says in a low, rolling voice—he looks up, eyes half-lidded and eyelashes sweeping over the breadth of his cheekbones. He knows how he looks when he looks up at you like this. You know he knows, because his lips spread in that slow, satisfied smile that reeks of a cat getting the cream, and his eyes are like two crystals glittering in the low light.
For a moment, you stare a little too long. The way the light catches on his eyelashes, the way it dips between shades in his eyes—were his pupils always so dilated?
“I said, fuck the party,” Rafayel rasps. His eyes are trained intently on you like a hunter locking onto its prey; he groans, a rough, too-loud sound as he presses his lips to the base of your palm.
You definitely don’t hallucinate the sudden sensation of wetness swiping over your wrist.
“Rafayel!” You jerk back from shock, eyes widening at the slip of tongue darting out of his mouth for another taste. Before you can wrench your hands out of his grip, he’s moving far faster than you ever thought him capable—
One hand drops one of your wrists. The other pulls back, forcing you forward—you stumble, too unbalanced far too quickly, and that free hand comes to wrap around the small of your waist to yank you fully into his embrace, shoulder to hip all lined up with a delicious, dizzying pressure.
Like a fisherman reeling in a catch. Snapped up in a second. You didn’t even know there was a reel line to begin with, but now Rafayel is rocking his hips insistently against you and your legs spread, of course they do, and you find his thigh in between yours, pressing up into the growing wetness there.
“Please,” Rafayel murmurs, burying his face in your neck. It’s—you don’t have the words to describe the way your head is filling up with hot air, the way your cheeks are rapidly turning red as you try to squirm out of his grasp. He’s never—you didn’t know he was this strong.
You’re not really trying to get out of the position you’re currently in, but you’re putting up enough resistance that it would have sent a normal civilian to his feet. Rafayel is… holding his own. Holding you to him as he makes these little desperate sounds, teeth scraping against your neck as he grinds his length on your thigh.
“Please, what?” You whisper. You don’t know why you’re whispering. The two of you are the only occupants in this gigantic house of his, and it isn’t like anyone will overhear. It isn’t like anyone will see.
But your voice is as quiet as a whisper, a soft exhalation of air from your taut lungs.
Your free hand is clinging uselessly to the front of Rafayel’s dress shirt. It’s a nice shirt. You find yourself trying to focus on the way the material feels, the way it slips between your fingers as you scrabble for some kind of hold that won’t crumple the shirt up beyond belief; better to think about how the silk feels against your skin rather than the growing hardness rubbing insistently against you—
He’s so desperate, you can’t help but think to yourself. Rafayel huffs, fingers tightening around your waist to bring you back down to earth.
“Stop drifting away,” he whines. His back is a long, curved line, like a drawn bow. “Help me.”
You—it’s not like you don’t know what he’s asking for, but you think you might pass out from embarrassment before you actually get your hands on him. It’s not everyday you get a criminally attractive man begging for your hands on him. In fact, today is day one. It’s never happened before.
You know what to do, but only in theory. In practice, it’s so disarming to have Rafayel hunched over you, sucking bruises into your neck that you know you’ll have to cover up before heading into work tomorrow.
As if sensing your hesitation, Rafayel jerks his hips against your thigh—once, twice, sliding along the groove of your leg with such intent that it makes your core clench.
“Be patient,” you say instinctively, all too familiar with a demanding Rafayel.
“Can’t,” he replies. His soft fringe brushes against your neck as he dips his head lower, his tongue lapping against your clavicle. The wet muscle drags across your collarbones, a feather-light, teasing touch that makes you shiver.
The whole world narrows down to this one point, you think dazedly. Rafayel’s hands on you: one hand occupied with squeezing your waist—as if insistently reminding himself that you can’t run away—the other has fingers entangled with yours, and you swear you can feel his fluttering heartbeat through his skin.
His lips on your neck, wandering lower with every pass of his tongue. All of a sudden, you recall what you’re wearing. A little slip of a dress, a long pool of cerulean silk, and the most daring plunge cut you’ve ever tried.
Rafayel didn’t buy this dress for you. But when the two of you had gone out the other day—for very above ground purposes, such as escorting him to a new gallery showcase—you had passed by a boutique and you had seen his eyes linger on this dress on the mannequin.
It had only been for a moment, but he had his eyes on the dress and you had your eyes on him.
And when you showed up today, fingers drenched with that weird perfume, you saw the way Rafayel’s lips parted with shock, eyes running over your figure with such greed that it made you want to press your thighs together to stave off the heat that suddenly flared up.
Then he tilted his head to the side, scented the air, and here you are.
“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” Rafayel mumbles in a daze to himself. He doesn’t look up at you for a response—it’s as if that statement was just a noncommittal comment and not something meant for you to hear—and continues to trace a thin line down your chest with his tongue.
Your hand unconsciously follows the path he takes. As he inches lower to that sliver of space between your tits, your fingers trace a similar route down the front of his chest, pressing through the fabric to feel the hard planes of his muscles.
When your fingers catch on his belt, you hear the way his breath audibly hitches.
“Ask nicely,” you murmur. You feel like your entire body’s been soaking for too long in an onsen. Your head is boiling up and you feel—you feel possessed.
Instead of asking nicely, Rafayel laughs against your skin and reaches for the belt himself. Before he touches the leather, you close your fingers around his wrist in a tight grip.
“Not very nice to be restrained, is it?” You ask teasingly. “Ask nicely for what you want, Raf.”
“I’ve been nothing but nice this whole time,” Rafayel groans, but obediently lets you lead his palm back to cupping your waist. “I’ve been saying please. I’ve been nice.”
“One more time,” you coax, squeezing his palm.
Rafayel grumbles, eyes flicking up to peer at you. But despite the petulance hanging from his lips, his eyes are dark with fervor.
“Please,” he murmurs, the word breathed out against your skin, the space where the dress slips a little too far down and reveals too much of your cleavage. “I’ve been so good.”
A lot of things happen in quick succession. He lets his tongue dart out, dipping down between your tits and licking a long line up your chest. Your fingers catch on his buckle and flick it open. He leans in closer, clearly intent on leaving a bruise the shape of his mouth right above your heart, marking you for the next few days.
You grab the belt by the silver buckle and yank.
Rafayel’s breath snaps in two. He glances up, lips parted in surprise as the belt falls to the ground with a clatter. “Miss—”
“What?” You ask breathlessly, fingers already fiddling with the button of his slacks. “You asked nicely.”
“I—” Suddenly, it’s as if the roles are reversed. You’re the hunter in the dark, your shadow stretching out so far it’s like a gaping maw that swallows everything in the evening light. Rafayel is the prey floundering for driftwood in the wide open sea.
Right before you undo his zipper, you pause. The tips of your fingers linger against the hardness straining through the fabric. You can feel it—there’s a heft to it you can’t ignore. It’s a dizzying thing, feeling the physical weight of someone’s arousal for you.
It feels scalding through his slacks. You swallow, wondering if you’re parched or your mouth just craves something to suck on.
Rafayel slants his hips into your fingers. He grinds along the flat of your palm—a long, insistent movement—and his voice comes out as a groan when he speaks.
“Please,” he begs. His fingers spasm around your waist and your hand, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. All he knows how to do is to rock along your hand, feeling the bite of the metal through the fabric of his briefs—he must crave it, you think, and it’s that thought that stays in the forefront of your mind as you finally drag the zipper down.
“You’ve stained the front,” you say dazedly, touching the tip of your index finger to the wet spot.
Immediately, Rafayel’s hips snap forward, chasing your touch. He makes this sound—as if he’s been wounded—and you feel—
“Don’t just touch it,” he pants, forehead pressed against your chest. He’s still bent over, as if your touch was enough to reduce him to shaky knees and he needs your body to hold himself upright.
You think he’s really in no position to be giving you orders, but you want to see the way his eyelashes flutter and his eyes roll back into his head, so you skate your fingers along the throbbing length of it.
“Harder,” Rafayel gasps, hips rolling into your grip. “Hard—ngh, hold it tighter—”
You can’t help it. Your fingers curl around the length cutting a visible outline in his briefs, but your thumb finds its way back to that wet spot. It’s damp with precum and the muscle there feels softer. You gently dig your thumbnail into that spot, and Rafayel stutters on his next sentence.
“Fu—ck,” he groans out, his breaths coming out in hot pants against your tits. He’s so out of it, eyes closed with bliss written all over his face as he ruts into your hand.
But even though he’s not sucking marks into your skin, even though he’s not feeling you up or dipping fingers into your drenched underwear—
This is really doing it for you, you realize. You’re rocking slowly along Rafayel’s thigh, instinctively chasing the friction against your stiff clit as you rub the pad of your thumb against the head of his dripping cock through his briefs.
“Fuck,” Rafayel exhales lowly. “That’s—mm, fuck, that’s good—harder, Miss, harder—”
“Can you cum like this?” You ask, pupils blown as you watch the way your sentence sends him into a full body shudder. You can feel the stickiness through his briefs, the jump of his cock when you tighten your grip—
Rafayel makes a broken sound. “You can’t just ask that!”
The laugh escapes your mouth before you can reel it back in. “You can, can’t you?”
Fuck, you think to yourself, lips curving up. He’s so cute. He’s so weak like this, whining as he ruts his hips into your palm, chasing the pleasure your fingers can give him.
He doesn’t deign that with a reply. Instead, he digs his fingers into your waist, hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave bruises that you know you’ll stare at in the mirror for the next few days. He drags you closer, higher on his thigh, and your breath catches when this small movement presses your clit even tighter against his leg.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Rafayel murmurs. “You’re soaked.”
“You’re one to talk,” you reply, rubbing your thumb against the underside of his cockhead and relishing in the hitched groan you draw from his mouth. “Harder?”
“Mm…” Rafayel nods, exhaling roughly into your chest when you slow your pace, dragging your fingers against his cock. “Feels—‘m close, feels—nngh, fuck, fuck—”
“Go on.” You hold him a little tighter, feeling the muscle twitch in your grip. His fingers spasm against your waist, tightening and loosening in random bursts as if he’s just kneading at your hips, trying to find purchase while he shivers through the heat slipping through him. “You gonna cum for me?”
“Don’t s—ay it like that,” Rafayel protests, voice cracking in the middle.
You squeeze your thighs around Rafayel’s leg, riding out the heat that flares up in your core whenever he says something in that whiny, pathetic voice of his. The fire in your abdomen grows, like embers catching at drywood and spreading throughout your body.
“I want to see it,” you say, swiping your thumb over the dampest part of his briefs, pressing down into the drooling slit at the head of his cock. “I want to see you cum.”
Your words must be the catalyst. He shudders, shoulders trembling as his hips jerk forward once, twice—he bites down, right above your heart, and you let out a quiet gasp at the sting.
Beneath your palm, beneath your fingers, you can feel the fabric grow even wetter than it already is. His cock twitches in your grip, pulsing frantically as Rafayel pants weakly, hips rolling of their own accord to drag out his pleasure.
“Miss—!” he groans in between kisses to your chest, tongue laving over the bruise he’s sucked into your skin. “Fuck, so fucking good, nngh…”
He goes back to being non-verbal as you stroke him off, fingers pulling at his cock to coax out every last drop of cum. It’s stickier than you expected, but it makes the slide smoother and Rafayel lets out this breathless, choked noise with every downward stroke.
And then, because you’re feeling a little brave after you just jerked him off through his briefs, you skate your fingers up and pull at the rim, trying to reach below the fabric.
A hand snaps to your wrist before you can get your fingers under.
“If you touch me again, we are definitely not turning up for the party,” Rafayel mutters.
You hum, twisting your wrist in a playful attempt to escape his grip. You try to stretch your fingers out, the nail of your middle finger scraping against something hot, and Rafayel’s hold on you tightens so abruptly that you almost burst into laughter. “I thought you didn’t care about the party?”
He gives you a considering look, then rolls his shoulders in a careless shrug. “True. I have more important things on my plate.”
Rafayel pauses. He straightens, leveraging the height he has over you as he looms, and then pointedly drops his gaze to where you’re practically seated on his flexed thigh, skirt tossed to the side as you unconsciously rock your hips along the muscle there.
You flush crimson. Before you can try to slide off and adjust yourself to a more presentable appearance, Rafayel ducks down.
He’s close. So close that you can still see the flecks of pink in his dilated eyes, the redness in his cheeks from his climax. So close that when he speaks, you can feel his breath against your lips.
“I owe you an orgasm,” he murmurs. “Hands, mouth, or something else?”
You can’t help the way you clench your thighs. What other reaction are you supposed to have?
“… All?” You say tentatively, and Rafayel’s eyes light up.
“That’s the right answer,” he proclaims excitedly. “We’ll start with my mouth. I’ve been dying to get between your legs.”
Before you can reply to that shocking sentence, he sweeps you up and over his shoulder like you weigh nothing at all.
==
© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed
#love and deepspace#love and deepspace rafayel#love and deepspace x reader#l&ds rafayel#rafayel#恋与深空#祁煜#러브앤딥스페이스#恋と深空#rin writes lds
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You have to let go of what could have been, how you should have acted and what you wish you would have said differently. You have to accept that you can’t change the past experiences, opinions of others at that moment in time or outcomes from their choices or yours. When you finally recognize that truth then you will understand the true meaning of forgiveness of yourself and others. From this point you will finally be free.
Shannon L. Alder
#Shannon L. Alder#motivation#quotes#poetry#literature#relationship quotes#writing#original#words#love#relationship#thoughts#lit#prose#spilled ink#inspiring quotes#life quotes#quoteoftheday#love quotes#poem#aesthetic
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You’re tied to a bench and gagged and being slowly fucked by a sex machine as several tall alien creatures surround you to watch. Then one of them turns the knob on the machine to make it go a little faster, making you moan and wiggle.
“As you can see, this particular human quite enjoys our machine. One similar to a machine on earth except I’ve brandished it with genitalia more shaped like ours. I’ve tested a few different shapes but this human seems to prefer ours.”
“You abducted it, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Have you administered the aphrodisiac? It seems… panicked?”
“I haven’t yet. I was observing its raw reactions to our particular genital shape. But we can administer some now. If you would just remove its gag.”
A large hand reached around your head and unbuckled the strap, lifting the gag from your face. You moaned and begged.
“P-please… no more… I c-can’t take anymore.” You begged as the machine continued to pump into your abused hole.
“Is it okay?” You heard one ask.
“Yes. It’s just been having orgasms for a few hours. It’s very sensitive is all. But after the aphrodisiac is administered it should calm down a bit more.“
The tall creature brought a tentacle shaped tube to your mouth and slipped it slowly down the back of your throat. You gagged a little then tasted a sugary liquid and couldn’t stop yourself from swallowing a couple mouthful, and then the tube was taken away.
“It shouldn’t take long before we see the effects. It will start to struggle a bit more but that’s just because it’s getting eager to climax.”
“It doesn’t need a break?”
“It does occasionally. But with this one I’m testing its boundaries.”
After a few more seconds you started panting and pulling at your restraints.
“It’s turning a bit red. I heard that means they’re sick.”
“That’s the aphrodisiac. It’s getting flustered. If you look at its vital signs you’ll see its heart rate is increasing and its arousal at the same rate. Here.” The creature handed another alien dildo to their friend. “Touch the tip of this to its lips.”
As the dildo reached your lips your tongue acted on its own and poked out of your mouth to lick the toy. Your mouth opened wider and you saw the one holding it look up to the experimenter for permission and they nodded. The toy was slowly pushed into your mouth and you eagerly sucked it down until you couldn’t anymore.
The experimenter turned the machine knob and watched as it fucked into you faster and your body writhed and arched and you moaned around the toy. Your moans got louder and longer and you felt another orgasm approaching. You noticed an “X-ray” cross section of your hole on a screen and saw it tightening.
“Interesting…”
“Isn’t it?”
“Is it going to climax soon? I’ve never seen a human orgasm.”
“It should in a few seconds.”
And they were right. You soon came and couldn’t help how your body jerked and twitched. The moans from your mouth were muffled by the alien toy. It was removed slowly, your saliva dripping from it.
“… m-more. Please…”
“Fascinating how easily the aphrodisiac can change its mind. Will you keep this one? It’s not as frightened or hostile as some other humans we’ve abducted.”
“I might have to. It’s a wonderful test subject.”
Part 2
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⚠︎ the stalker
sfw, mdni, beta read by @fluffula | tags ;; masc yandere x gn reader — stalking (duh), themes of self deprecation/lack of self worth, erotomania
hii im back from my unannounced hiatus bc i have more time on my hands :] ik vega didnt win the poll but fsr theyre the only one i could get myself to write sooo 🫶 i know im super rusty since I haven't written in ages so sorry if this is a lackluster return fic. it just be like that
vega just wasn’t the type of person that people liked. it was a fact, and he was well aware of it.
they were lanky and awkward, unkempt, and often didn’t know what to say or do in any given social situation. no one went out of their way to interact with them and vice versa. the few times he ended up around others anyway, he always found himself sidelined by the few people he could refer to as friends — they’d never be the focus, if they weren’t forgotten about entirely.
they weren’t anyone’s first choice. hell, they weren’t a second or third choice, either. it was a sad existence that he had accepted long ago — why bother trying to fit in if he wasn’t wanted? he was so boring, he wouldn’t wanna hang out with himself either, anyway. so every day and every night, they were alone.
then, he met you.
it started so simply. you started working at the same office as them, and they knew off the bat that it was your first time in a place like this. they expected nothing of you — maybe a lukewarm greeting as you passed each other during the workday, but not much more than that. so it surprised them when after your introduction, you rounded their desk and gently asked if they could show you around. maybe it was something about your tone, maybe it was that friendly look in your eye, maybe it was just you as a whole. but something about you just got them. they were out of their chair before they realized it.
they weren't the talkative type, but it didn't matter — you kept asking questions during the entire tour. what was that room for? how long had they been working there? did they like working there? you wanted their attention and they for the life of them couldn’t get why. even less so, they didn’t understand why they were so ready to give it to you. they couldn't help the way they stuttered out their answers to your questions, nor the way their face flushed after you laughed at the way they responded. but you did have to work, so you withdrew from them eventually to do just that.
well after you departed to your cubicle, you remained on their mind. your voice, the way you laughed, how you looked, it all swirled around in their mind as they sat in their desk. it remained that way the entire day, the following night, and the day after — they couldn't get you off their mind!
you chose him. you chose him, out of everyone else in the office. you were the only person that did that, and it made them feel so seen. so real, so… loved? was this what love was? the pounding in their chest and their flushed face would make him believe so. they couldn’t wait to see you again. just the thought of you returning the next day and every day after that bloomed butterflies in their tummy.
vega’s longing for you only grew more and more intense after every passing day. every day you came to work, they’d be the first to greet you and the last to bid you goodbye. they even changed their days off to match yours — going to work hardly seemed worth it if you weren’t there to make the day more bearable. every day they sat at their desk, daydreaming about spending time with you, going home with you, doing all the things they never imagined that they’d ever do before. and even though they were too awkward to seek you out during the work day, it didn’t stop them from staring at you every chance they got.
but after that first day, you paid less and less attention to them. you had work to do, after all, and no matter how hard they yearned for you, it grew harder to get you to notice them and harder for them to watch you. it was excruciating. for the first time in his life, vega wanted to be wanted — by you, specifically. he wanted your attention, your voice, your eyes on them again. but if they couldn’t have that, they needed to see you more to make up for it.
the stalking started small at first. occasionally following you when you got up from your desk to give a file to your supervisor or use the restroom, pretending to be distracted should you ever notice them (which you hardly did — they didn’t know if that bothered them or not). sometimes he ended his day at the same time yours ended so he could walk out with you, watching you leave from their car before they left themself. and eventually they started to follow you home directly. it was always from a distance. they wouldn’t want to frighten you, after all! it was okay as long as you weren’t bothered by it, he told himself.
he memorized your routine so he could base his own around it. you went to the store? he was going too. spending the day at the library? he was stalking after you from a different aisle. sometimes they’d leave little gifts on your doorstep just to see your bewildered reaction. watching you became his favorite pastime — they almost liked it more than talking to you directly. you somehow never noticed them lurking, staring at you from some shady hiding spot, panting and trembling just from the sheer excitement that your existence caused them. were you aware of just how cute you were when you thought no one was watching you? knowing all your bad habits, your mannerisms and all the things you did in private was exhilarating. it was like a secret for just the two of you. and whenever you came into work and talked to him like you usually did, it made him so fucking excited. did you know? maybe you did and you were fine with it. that had to be why you were so nice to them. they loved the idea of you liking their bad behavior.
vega had no plans of confessing to you anytime soon. he had so much fun stalking you, he saw no need to ruin it with his feelings. besides, you liked them back anyway — you had to have, why else would you let him get away with it for so long? he knew you wanted him, and he wanted you in return. all he had to do was wait for you.
#💌 vega l. ;; the stalker#i ;; the magician — my writing#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere oc#yandere x oc#yandere imagines#yandere headcanons#yandere nsft#male yandere x reader#yandere male#male yandere oc#nonbinary yandere#nb yandere#yandere boy#xvii ;; the star — my ocs
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