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tellingtell5 · 12 hours ago

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The Blood is the Life 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》

PetRemmick x witch femreader

Summary: So… some witches have black cats as pets. You? You’ve got a vampire who keeps showing up across eternity. Maybe he’s not just a clingy little pet after all?

A/N: This story was literally born on the bus and during dead hours at work lol. It’s not really a finished thing… I think? I just wanna keep writing little moments between the witch and the vampire who thinks he’s just her pet. Lmk if you’d wanna read more <3 Thanks for the love—every like and comment is a tiny blessing fr 🖤

I don't know just how it happened. I let down my guard. Swore I'd never fall in love again. But I fell hard

The air was heavy, tainted. As if the sky itself was bracing for something to fall from its heights. You’d felt it since the first light touched the canopy: a crawling tension beneath your skin, the breath of the forest caught in its throat. A warning.

Your instincts never failed you, not once in all the years you’d wandered the edges of ruin and rebirth. You didn’t cast a single spell that day. The cauldron remained cold, the runes untouched. Instead, you moved quietly through your home, gathering ingredients, moss for binding, root for clarity, ash leaves to ward what you couldn’t see.

You remembered the mother who had come to your threshold only a week before, trembling and tear-soaked, her hands clutching a locket with her child’s hair inside. The village healer’s leeches had done nothing. The sickness still clawed at the girl’s chest. The villagers whispered you spoke to the devil. Said your cabin breathed with the souls of the damned. And still, this woman crawled to your feet and begged you for mercy.

You’d taken nothing in return. Only handed her a balm to smear across her daughter’s brow, watched her vanish into the trees without promise or payment.

They always called it witchcraft when they couldn’t name it. Your tinctures. Your knowledge. Your hunger for what pulsed beneath the skin of things.

Men had come before. With torches, with blades, with the fury of the Church in their eyes. None remembered why they left without ever raising their weapons. They only remembered the nausea, the blood loss, the confusion. Some returned missing pieces of themselves.

Morning broke slowly, sunlight stretched thin and soft. You’d just fastened your cloak and were reaching for your satchel when you heard it: something collapsing against your door. Heavy. Human, maybe. Not quite.

Everything around you stilled. Even the wind seemed to withdraw. Birds vanished from the branches. Not a single leaf stirred. The forest leaned in, and waited.

Then came the knock. Weak. Hesitant.

You neared the door, fingers brushing the carved runes embedded in the frame. A pressure pushed through the wood—faint, fraying energy, like breath dragged through water. You heard it then, clearer this time: a voice.

"Please... help."

Every instinct screamed. But your curiosity had louder teeth. You cracked the door.

He was on his knees, body crumpled just beyond the threshold. Not quite man. His skin blistered in patches, flaking where the sun had licked him. Blood had dried across his arms in dark rivulets. Filth clung to every inch of him.

And yet—

The scent. It hit you like lightning to the chest. Rot, yes, but not decay. Death, but alive. Blood and lilacs and something darker. Dangerous.

You knew what he was.

He hadn’t looked at you yet. His face angled downward, as though listening to the forest behind him. Fingers buried in dirt, like it might anchor him.

When he did lift his head, you saw the cost. Hair stuck to skin, soaked in sweat and gore. His eyes, black wells. Bottomless. Empty of hunger, for now.

“Please...” he rasped, barely breathin’. “They were on me heels. They killed—fuck—please, a bit o’ mercy, yeah?”

You could taste his weakness. It made your magic hum. It would be so easy. Let him in. Drain him slow. You’d never tasted vampire blood. Not raw.

And he saw it. The shift in your gaze.

He straightened, almost imperceptibly. Took in your cottage now with fresh eyes, its markings, its warmth, its breath. You saw the moment he recognized it wasn’t just a home.

The house was alive. The forest too.

His lips parted. A bitter laugh, or maybe a prayer swallowed too late. His head fell forward again. He muttered something, nearly inaudible.

The hounds. You heard them then, far but closing fast.

He turned toward the sound, dread coating every inch of his broken body. He was deciding how to die. And who should do it.

His voice cracked like dry bark.

“If yer gonna end me,” he said, eyes dull and dark, “do it quicker than they would’ve.”

His voice was ragged, almost broken, as he looked up at you from the dirt. There was no strength left in his limbs, no fire in his glare. Only surrender. Only a plea.

You opened the door a little wider. Let him see you. He didn’t know how he’d missed it before, the way the power coiled in your limbs and shimmered just beneath your skin, the darkness that filled every breath you exhaled. His eyes caught yours, and something in his expression shifted. Curiosity, maybe. Or calculation.

Something twisted in your chest, a soft, unfamiliar ache that tugged at memory more than conscience. It had been decades since you’d felt anything like pity, since you’d allowed yourself to acknowledge that soft flicker inside you. You’d built this solitude to keep yourself safe, sealed your life off from the rot of the outside world. And still, it had crept in.

You remembered the panic of your own hunted nights, the sound of men’s boots crashing through the underbrush behind you, the smell of fire licking at the corners of your home. It had taken everything to survive. To grow roots here.

Your knuckles whitened against the doorframe. He looked so fragile now. Not quite man. Not quite beast. Something in between, curled on your threshold like a dying animal. You thought of the fox once caught in a trap near your garden, its leg mangled, its eyes bright with pain. You’d freed it. It had bitten you.

Would he do the same?

“You may enter,” you said at last, your voice low. And something deep in your chest hummed when you watched him crawl forward, dragging himself on his knees into your house. He didn’t even have the strength to stand. Not yet. The moment he crossed the threshold, the shadows closed around him like a second skin.

He collapsed just past your hearth, chest heaving, fingers clutching at his side. His eyes squeezed shut against whatever pain was devouring him from within. You stood above him and watched. Long enough to weigh your options. Long enough to consider if you should bind him, bleed him dry, and harvest the old magic that clung to the marrow of his bones.

But the forest shifted.

A murmur rolled through the roots and branches outside your home. You felt it in your bones. Intruders. Unwelcome. Boots slamming against wet earth, pushing into your sanctuary with reckless haste. The trees did not greet them. They punished them. Raking sharp branches across cheeks and arms, splitting open skin, drawing blood. Every drop that hit the forest floor was devoured. Given to you.

Your blood. Your earth.

You didn’t move at first. Just stood there, letting the forest whisper secrets into your skin. Letting it feed you.

He stirred on the ground behind you. Opened his eyes. You could feel him watching, not with fear, but with something else. Awe, perhaps. Reverence. Or just hunger. He drank in the sight of you as though he hadn’t seen light in years. As if your magic was the only warmth he’d known in centuries.

To him, you must have looked like a sunrise.

“Hide,” you said without turning. “I’ll deal with them.”

You heard him shift, dragging himself deeper into the house, into the breathless dark that waited beneath the floorboards. Into the place no one but you ever walked.

He only managed a nod, dragging himself deeper into the cabin on his knees, limbs trembling, the wooden floor groaning softly beneath him, like the place had begun to breathe again.

When you greeted the men who had followed him, something close to pity stirred inside you. You saw it instantly, the fury in their faces, laced with grief. You didn’t need to ask to know what had driven them. The creature you’d taken in had surely torn through many of them before they'd turned the tide. Their rage wasn’t baseless. You’d tasted it in the blood your forest had swallowed from their wounds, still pulsing in the soil beneath your bare feet.

You considered ending them. Letting the earth consume them whole, letting it feed for a few years on their bitterness and loss. It would have been easy. But then you brushed the edges of their thoughts, glimpsed the lives that waited for them beyond the trees, small children with wide eyes, wives whispering prayers at shuttered windows, brothers waiting with ale and silence. You’d never been cruel. You only took what was needed.

So instead, you whispered to them, soft words carried on your breath like smoke, slipped behind their ears like lullabies. They would forget the creature they had chased into the so-called cursed woods. Forget the hunt. Forget the fangs. They would remember deer, a rogue animal, a wound that bled more than they liked to admit. Close enough to the truth.

The magic cost you. Your head ached sharp and deep, exhaustion dragging at your limbs. Still, as you turned back toward your home, a sound caught you off guard, delicate, high-pitched. Glass.

You frowned, following the noise with slow, heavy steps, already suspecting something you didn’t want to confirm. When you reached your hearth room, the breath caught in your chest.

He was seated. Not collapsed or barely breathing like before—but reclined, sprawling, draped across your wooden chair as if he’d grown from it. Empty glass jars littered the table like careless footprints. His head lolled back, a nearly-finished jar tilted against his mouth, throat moving in a lazy rhythm. The sound—faint, obscene—was somewhere between a groan and a purr.

He drank like it was pleasure.

When the jar emptied, he blinked at you slowly, drunk on what he’d taken, eyelids heavy, mouth slack with satisfaction. His smile was languid and unapologetic—full of teeth. His chin and throat were smeared with blood, thick streaks of red glistening against skin that had already begun to heal. He looked alive again. Whole. Greedy.

You took a sharp step forward.

“Do you have any idea how long it takes me to gather that blood?” Your voice cut through the space like a blade. “And you just drink it, like it’s cheap ale in a tavern?”

He turned his gaze lazily away, as if the rebuke barely touched him. You noticed the difference instantly. The raw burns and open blisters were nearly gone. The sickly scent of decay had burned off his skin. That same energy that had come off him weak and broken before now surged, vibrant, electric, maddening. It pressed against your senses, thick and wild.

He reached for another jar.

Held it up to the firelight. Studied it like a connoisseur might a fine wine. When it met his approval, he uncorked it with a practiced flick and tossed the lid over his shoulder. It clattered against the floor, forgotten.

Then he dipped a single finger into the thick, dark red. Brought it to his mouth. His eyes never left yours.

The moment the blood touched his tongue, his lashes fluttered shut, breath hitching in the center of his chest. His entire body sagged into the chair, muscle by muscle, a visible ripple of ecstasy washing over him.

You didn’t breathe.

Not until he moaned.

A low, guttural sound that made something deep in your gut twist. Your whole body tensed, your fingers curling against your sides. And you knew—you knew—which jar he was holding before he spoke.

“This one's yers,” he murmurs, the rasp in his voice thick, vowels dragged like old secrets through dark earth. His eyes, now bled full crimson, never leave yours as he lifts the jar to his lips. You watch, helpless, as your blood meets his mouth. It’s like watching the ocean consume flame.

A sound rises from you, unbidden. Small. A gasp.

Because you felt it.You felt the way your own blood took hold inside him. How it surged through his veins, coiling like magic reborn. Your magic. His lips parted just slightly with the next breath he took, and it wasn’t a man who looked back at you now—it was something feral and worshipful all at once.

And you hated the way it made your chest flutter. You hated that your knees felt suddenly unsteady. You hated that it felt like power.

You cross your arms tight against your chest, pretending it’s anger, but really, you’re holding yourself together. Trying to silence the crawling heat beneath your skin, the pulse in your belly, sharp and slow and shameful.

He drinks like it’s the first thing he’s ever tasted. Slow. Reverent. Groaning now and then, low and guttural, like the act borders on prayer or pleasure. The kind of noise you shouldn’t be hearing from something half-dead. The kind that makes your thighs press together.

Part of you—the part that remembers restraint, reason—wants to rip the jar from his hands. Smack it against his head until he’s the one bleeding all over your stone floor.

But the other part. The old one. The one buried deep with roots and shadows and old tongues, she wants him fed.

He finishes, finally. Breath deep. Eyes heavy. He looks as if he might drift to sleep in the chair, but what’s in his gaze is something else. Recognition. As if some part of him has found home.

He rises. Slow, unhurried. Like a man approaching an altar. His feet drag, the floor creaks under his weight, until he stands before you.

You smell yourself on him.

And something inside you, something dark and feral, hums: He smells like mine.

He lifts his hands. Those clawed, bloodstained hands cradle your face with a gentleness that makes your breath catch.

“Seen it all, I have, Ban Draoid,” he murmurs, and his voice is wet peat and winter fire. “The loneliness ye wear like a second skin. Yer rites in moonlight tha' never answers. That hunger ye shove down, day after day, ‘cause yer afraid what’ll happen if it spills out.”

Your heart slams so hard it aches. His eyes dip to your chest, reverent.

No one’s ever spoken to you like that.

Ban Draoid.

The name lands like a blessing. No one has ever called you that, not like it meant something. You’ve hidden yourself for so long, convinced you didn’t belong to the witches, nor to anything else. But this creature, soaked in your blood, sees you. Knows you.

“So alone ye’ve been, mo chroi,” he says softly.

He presses his forehead to yours. You grip his wrists, claws and all, just to stay upright. His power hums through you, steady and warm and merciless.

Then, he lets go.

You nearly collapse with the loss. He turns, without a word, and walks to the door. You think he’s leaving. That he’s gotten what he needed. But the sun is high, and no matter how much witch’s blood burns in his veins, sunlight will still scorch him into ash.

He pauses at the doorframe, staring out. Then, slow and deliberate, he slashes his palm.

The scent of fresh blood curls through the cabin. He crouches low, still within the shade, and presses his bleeding hand into the dirt just beyond your threshold.

The sun kisses his skin. He shudders. Smokes. Flesh sizzles.

You see it happen, pain and rapture written into every tendon. His blood—his gift—seeps into your soil.

And you feel it.

Your roots wake. Hungry. Ancient. They drink. They know.

Your knees weaken. You feel yourself unraveling—split open by something older than lust.

The vampire’s hand trembles. The ground drinks more. The trees above hiss with delight.

And then, you feed. Not from his neck, but from the earth he’s blessed with his blood. Through your veins, his magic hums, like hot wind through hollow bone. The forest wants more. Demands more.

You almost let it.

But then your human mind claws back—stop.

You do.

He collapses backward, landing on the stone floor, bloodied arm cradled in his lap.

You stare at each other. No breath. Just pulse.

“Wha’…” you start.

He grins, mouth red as berries.

“Blood for blood, Ban Draoid,” he says, the words thick and reverent. “Ye gave me shelter. Fed me. This—” He nods toward the trembling trees. “—this is me repayin’ yer forest.”

You still feel it in your veins. The magic he gave back to your forest. The gift. His blood, seared into your roots, still pulsing beneath your feet like fire in the deep.

You hadn’t known anything could feel that overwhelming.

And then he stands. Rises slow from the floor like something ancient shaking off dust and death, and when his eyes find you again, there’s something else in them now. Awe. Hunger. Recognition. He watches you like he’s watching something sacred and forbidden all at once.

He steps closer—closer than you meant to allow—and lifts a hand to touch your cheek again. Fingers soft, reverent, like he’s trying to soothe the beast he’d just fed. There’s a murmur on his lips, low and lulling. A lullaby, maybe. You can’t tell if it’s in his tongue or yours.

And gods help you… you let him.

You, who haven’t let anyone lay hands on you in decades. Who’ve sworn that solitude is enough, that you don’t need soft words or warm skin or company that might see you.

But his touch doesn’t feel like possession. It feels like a memory. Like something you lost in a fire long ago.

Still, vulnerability leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, burns the sweetness out of the moment like rot in fruit.

You snap back. Break the contact like it scorches.

He blinks. His hand hovers in the air where your face was. Surprised. Maybe even… wounded.

“I hope you’ve had your fill,” you say, sharp. “You’ll leave when night falls.”

That stuns him. You see it.

Blood still binds you, yours in him, his in the soil—and it opens him to you for just a blink. In that heartbeat, you see it: the long years he’s wandered, alone and lost, dragging his hunger through cold earth and colder nights. You see how, for just a second, he thought he’d belonged somewhere. Here.

You turn your back before it can crack something deeper.

You crouch to gather the mess, glass jars sticky with drying blood, some shattered. Muttering curses under your breath. The air is thick with magic and spilled need.

“And if you touch anything of mine again,” you snap, without looking up, “I’ll skin you alive, leech.”

Your voice rings with something old. The house hears it. It shudders slightly in response, shadows curling tighter in the corners.

“I don’t keep pets for a reason.”

But of course—of course—you hear his footsteps draw close again.

Too close.

“Oh, but I’d be a good one, Ban draoid,” No bitin’ ‘less y’asked me to.”

His voice is a purr now. The kind that makes your bones itch and your skin hum.

He reaches out, slow, as if daring you to slap him, and brushes his fingers across your hand. They’re human again, warm and smooth.

“If y’feed me like that again,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, “I’ll be whatever y’want me to be. Pet. Acolyte. Demon. Ghost. I’ll bloody bark for ye, if that’s what gets me another taste.”

A shiver rides your spine, uninvited. You hate how easily his words slide into your bloodstream.

But you don’t show it.

You lift your chin, arms crossed, face a mask of disgust. “Disgusting.”

He grins like he’s won. Like he always does.

“And yet,” he says, leaning in, his breath brushing your neck, “here y’are. Still lookin’ at me like y’wanna bite.”

You scoff. Loud. Dismissive.

But your hands won’t stop trembling. And your mouth, goddess help you, is starting to water.

❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉

200 Years Later

You had forgotten what it felt like not to be cold. The ache in your bones had become so familiar it was almost part of you. Your feet throbbed, and you were so exhausted that lifting your legs felt like dragging iron weights. That’s why you didn’t think twice before stepping into the building that promised warmth.

The heat wrapped around you like a forgotten memory the moment you crossed the threshold. The scent of beer and some slow-cooked meal you couldn’t quite name filled the air, rich and inviting. And then came the heartbeat of the place — strong, too fast, stirred by laughter and the murmur of voices.

Your ears filled with the rushing blood of villagers who had offered you shelter. You had to breathe deeply, centre yourself, keep that thing inside you in check — the one that had been unleashed without your permission long ago, and had grown wilder since you’d been driven from your woods.

A sharp pain bloomed in your chest at the memory, flames licking your skin, the silent scream of your trees. You still hadn’t grown used to the grief. The rage boiled beneath your skin like a second bloodstream. You’d learned to live with it, but healing was still a distant, impossible thing.

You let yourself collapse into a chair, half-hidden by the cloak you wore — the same worn thing that shielded your face more often than not. You didn’t order anything. Not right away. You let the warmth gather around your limbs, let the sound of conversation ease the sting of solitude. You only looked up from the wooden bar when you sensed someone waiting for your attention.

When your eyes met those of the round-faced man drying a mug with a tattered rag, something in you stirred. A feeling you thought you’d buried. His expression shifted slightly, a flicker of recognition in his features. You were about to say you just needed to rest your feet, that maybe you’d order something later, when he opened his mouth and said it.

“Ban draoid.”

The breath caught in your throat. A shiver traced your spine. It wasn’t fear — it was hunger. Longing. That name awakened something in you that had been sleeping for far too long.

Decades. It had been decades since anyone had called you that. Only one person — one creature, ever had. And it was impossible for this man to know unless—

“He’s goin’ to be real glad to see ye, little witch.”

You didn’t need to ask who he meant. Your whole being screamed the answer. You could almost taste his blood again, call it up from memory. A soft sigh escaped your lips, like someone who had been lost for far too long and had finally found the way home.

“I’ll take ye to him.”

And despite the pain in your muscles, the weariness, the cold clinging to your skin like soaked cloth , you followed the man who had said only a handful of words.

You walked in silence through the village. You didn’t want to waste a single breath before you saw him. Before you knew this wasn’t some cruel trick.

He led you to the doors of a brothel. You huffed a laugh through your nose, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Of course.

The air inside changed the moment you stepped in — thick, heavy, warmer than the tavern had been. Eyes turned toward you. Breath held. You didn’t recognise a single one of them, yet they all looked at you like they’d known you once — like they remembered.

As you passed, some lifted their hands slightly, as if they might touch you, confirm you were real. By the time you reached the centre of the room, you felt… shy. Exposed. A young man stepped forward and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and you startled at the tenderness.

“Don’t be afraid, Ban draoid. We won't harm ye.”

A young woman touched your shoulder with the same careful reverence — a comfort you didn’t realise you needed. You didn’t know who they were, but all of them seemed to hum with the same energy — yours.

You’d heard whispers of hive minds, the kind some vampires could create. You hadn’t believed it. Not really. Not until now, surrounded by strangers who remembered things only he should have known.

“He’s missed you so much.”

The voice came from a velvet divan, soft, delicate, wrapped in nostalgia. And beneath the feminine tone, you heard him. As if the words had passed through her but came from him.

You were surrounded — by glances, hesitant touches, held breath. Somehow, in this strange twisted way, you felt worshipped. The beast inside you stretched, purring under the attention. Then the circle of people parted. A corridor opened in their midst , and there he was.

Unchanged.

Exactly as he had been when you’d let him into your home, let him feed on your forest, let him find shelter in the bones of your magic. Your heart stumbled at the memory of your grove, of what you had lost, and you nearly wept. The way emotions bloomed inside you in his presence… it was terrifying.

He looked delighted, a smile that lit his whole face. When he reached you, he took your cheeks in both hands and brought your forehead to his. You let yourself fall into the scent of him: death, blood, and uprooted lilacs.

“But just look at ye, Ban draoid.” His nose brushed against yours, gently, almost affectionately. You clung to his hands on your face, gripping him like an anchor. “Wearin’ eternity better than anyone I’ve ever known. Ye look older, love. It suits ye.”

You nearly sobbed, you’d been strong for too long. You hadn’t noticed the way time had settled on you until now. It hadn’t been much — just a few years — but you felt them. Your magic had suffered when your home burned, and it had marked you.

“What are ye doin’ so far from home, love?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. In his gaze: worry, yes. But also that steel you remembered. That fire.

“They burned it all.”

The words barely left your lips before the memory scorched its way through your mind again, flames devouring bark and bone, ash dancing like snow. You’d tried. Gods, you had tried. But all your power had done was delay the inevitable. The only thing you’d saved was the seed pressed tight to your chest now, the last breath of your forest, the final whisper of a home.

He was watching you. Not blinking. Not breathing. Your eyes darting, unsettled, not knowing where to land. You knew that if you met his gaze, really met it, the quiet strength you'd clung to for decades would shatter at your feet like glass.

A breath trembled past your lips. Quiet, but not quiet enough. It hit him like a strike to the ribs. You saw it, the way his shoulders pulled in, the way he flinched with your sorrow as if it lived inside his own body.

His hands still cupped your face. Rough palms, cold fingers. He lowered your head gently, just a few inches, and then, his lips brushed your forehead. Barely there. Barely real. But you felt it. The hush of his breath, the stillness of his mouth, the aching reverence in the way he lingered too long and inhaled the scent of your skin like it was holy.

You closed your eyes, locking every part of yourself down so you wouldn’t come undone in his arms.

And when he looked at you again, you let yourself look back.

Your lips trembled—traitorous, aching—and you pressed them together, hard, as if the pressure could keep you whole. His thumb was there in an instant, soothing, still. As if he could stop the quake beneath your skin with a single touch.

“Our poor witch,” came a second voice. Silken. Male. To your right.

You flinched. Eyes snapping sideways.

Remmick leaned toward your neck, the movement barely perceptible. You felt his breath just before his lips, soft and wet against the skin where your pulse betrayed you. Your head tilted without permission, baring your throat to him in a gesture that felt ancient.

“What did they do to ye…” the new voice hummed, a slow trace of a fingertip gliding down your arm.

“We’ll mend it,” came another, almost a whisper.

Heat stirred inside you, curling like smoke. The frost that had built a cathedral in your chest melted in an instant. What lived inside you—coiled and feral—woke at their words like it had been summoned. Magic pulsed, hot and slow, down through your chest, pooling low in your belly.

Remmick’s mouth climbed higher, over your cheekbone now, his breath catching ragged in his throat. You turned just slightly, just enough, and felt the cool kiss of his exhale against your lips. You leaned forward, barely an inch. A tease. He lunged.

You pulled back.

He missed, brushing your cheek, and let out a frustrated sound that was too close to a whine.

You smiled. Sharp and pleased.

At some point, his hands had locked around your hips. Possessive. Hungry. You barely noticed. You reached up, tangled your fingers in his thick, dark hair, and yanked his head back. Hard.

He didn’t fight.

His throat stretched before you, bare and waiting. You watched the bob of his swallow, the faint tremor in his breath, the thrum of something alive beneath his deathless skin. You lowered your mouth to him and scraped your teeth across the exposed flesh. He groaned, deep and guttural, a sound that vibrated through your spine.

You had held back for so long. Held yourself in, stitched yourself shut. But his blood—his scent—was too much. The restraint snapped.

“How are you gonna fix this, Sweetfangs?” you asked, teeth grazing his throat.

You knew you were no match for him. Not now. Not like this. But he didn’t push you off. Didn’t resist. His hand found the back of your neck and pulled you closer, pressing you into him like a lover offering his heart.

“We’ll make ye strong again,” he breathed. “Blood for blood, remember that, Ban draoid…”

The words echoed, from him… and others.

Murmurs threaded through your skull like silk-wrapped chains. You could feel them. Their presence, their will. Your mind began to fog.

No.

You narrowed your eyes and looked around. Faces, yes. All of them echoing Remmick’s desire. Mirrors of his ache.

You dragged a single fingertip across his throat. He hissed at the contact. And they all hissed with him, every one of them, exposed and waiting.

You swallowed.

"Do you control them?"

His grip in your hair softened, not letting go.

“Nah, lass,” he said low. “No one controls anyone here. They feel what I give ‘em. They remember what I remember. If they offer themselves to ye, it’s ‘cause they know what I felt… kneelin’ at yer feet that mornin’.”

“Yes, Ban draoid,” another voice whispered. “We want you strong.”

Almost. You almost let it take you.

But no. You’d felt his memories before. That never meant surrender.

And then his mouth—his goddamn mouth—was back on your face, tracing over your cheek with reverence.

"Don’t think so much, ban droid. Let yourself be cared for. I’ll handle the rest. We all will."

He pressed closer, breath ghosting over your skin as he whispered promises meant for your hatred, but they curled into your bones like comfort. You felt your thoughts blur again, thick and heavy as fog. His hand found the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he guided your mouth to his throat. You wet your lips without meaning to, instinct moving before thought, just a slow, teasing flick of your tongue against his skin.

Another sound tore from him, low and broken, and that was it.

Your heart stuttered, then surged. Control disintegrated. The second your lips found him, everything inside you caved. You tasted his skin, warm and strange, and when you finally sank your teeth into him, you expected relief—but the taste didn’t come. Not right away. That moment of absence left you nearly frantic. You considered drawing harder, faster—but the thought vanished the instant the first drop touched your tongue.

It was like drinking him.

Not his blood. Him. His essence. His being.

Thick and alive and ancient. His magic slammed into you like a tidal wave, unfurling in your chest, blooming in your veins. It took root, it spread, through your belly, your lungs, your throat. You could feel the trees again. The hum of the forest. The fluttering of leaves above you, the rustle of small lives moving in branches. You didn’t know if the tears spilling from your eyes were from shock or fever. Maybe both.

Your head spun, and you let go, let him hold you, press you against him. You thought you heard a lull, a soft murmur. You weren’t even sure when he'd lifted you, when your legs wrapped around his hips. Nothing was clear anymore. You couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. Every emotion inside you tangled with his—raw, starving—moaning into his neck as you drank something you hadn’t even known you craved.

You were just beginning to claw your way back to sense, remembering you could kill him if you didn’t stop, when you felt his mouth against your shoulder—his teeth this time. Real. Sharp. No longer hidden. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask. But you nodded anyway. You didn’t stop drinking.

Around you, you could hear sounds—moans, shudders—but the one that rippled through every nerve in your body came from him. It wasn’t pain. It was relief. Something like release. And it crawled into your brain, wrapped around your spine, and ignited everything. You couldn’t help it—you moved your hips, seeking contact, friction, anything that let you feel more of him.

When you were nearly full, when the heat of his blood and your magic crackled beneath your skin like lightning, you pulled back. Your tongue ran over the wound to keep a single drop from going to waste. Your hands slid over his shoulders, feeling the strength coiled beneath the layers of fabric, and you bit your lip as you felt him drinking.

And then, you felt it.

His heart. Beating.

Just faintly. A rhythm where there had been stillness. Life where there had been nothing. It hit you like joy, like always, and you grabbed his face, pulled him back so you could see him.

Colour floods his cheeks like a sunrise breaking through centuries of night. Not just a flush—life. His lips are parted, red and trembling, drawing in breath that fogs the air between you, hot and human.

You’ve never seen anything so terrible. So beautiful.

“I almost forgot what this felt like,” he murmured, voice slurred and dreamy, as if the tide had pulled him under and he was only now surfacing.

His lashes flutter. His eyes—those cold, endless eyes—now seem to flicker with something familiar. A glint. A hint of what once was. Who once was. It steals your voice. It steals your thoughts. All you can do is stare, mouth parted, the taste of him still on your tongue as if even your body doesn’t want to let him go.

And then he breathes.

A full breath.

One that shakes his chest and yours along with it, and it undoes you.

You leaned in, and he followed, thinking—hoping—you’d kiss him.

But you tilted your head and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of his nose instead. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, and for a second, you swore he purred.

“So, what do you say then, ban droid?” he whispered. “Will you let us care for you?”

Everything in you wanted to say yes. To surrender. To rest.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

“I’ll let you feed me, sweetfangs,” you rasped, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Just for now.”

You ran a finger along his still-glinting canines, wet with your blood, the touch somehow tender in its quiet savagery. And then,you let him kiss you.

Your breath hitched the moment your lips met, as if this was what you’d really been waiting for all along. As if the blood hadn’t been enough. As if you needed this, his mouth on yours, his hunger turned to fire, to need. You let him devour you, let him claim your mouth like he belonged there.

And for now… you let him believe that he did.

❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉

200 Years Later

You thought you might disintegrate the moment the fabric touched your skin.

It was almost laughable, how in all your long life, you’d never touched a cross before. You had no idea what would happen if your fingers curled around one of those amulets the acolytes liked to wear. Would your hands burst into flame? Would your magic recoil in disgust? Likely not. You were older than their god, after all.

Still, you hesitated.

You smoothed the coarse cloth of the novice’s habit over your body once more, fidgeting with the veil that pressed too tightly around your ears, muffling sound, pressing your face into modest obedience. Everything about it itched, physically and spiritually. You weren’t built for meekness, not anymore.

But you’d come too far to turn back now.

Six months ago, you had crossed paths with Lorenzo Priuli, the gilded Cardinal of Venice, a man whose robes dripped with vanity and the stink of ambition. You wanted to know what happened when you pulled the divine out of the devout. When you bled them dry, not just of life, but of the tether that bound them to their god. Acolytes, monks, whispered priests who hid behind gilded walls and velvet confessions. You sliced open their veins, drank their faith, and sifted through their memories for power.

The result had been disappointing.

The acolyte whose blood you'd taken had been just as dull as the city he came from, humid, grey, and stinking of rot. Their blood lacked depth, like wine left out in the sun. You could barely squeeze two spells from his veins before it turned sour in your mouth. He was riddled with what men like him called sin. Spoiled by guilt, riddled with shame. You called it waste.

But there had been something.

Buried in his memories, half-faded, soaked in candlelight and incense, were whispers. Quiet conversations about a beast caged in the bowels of a fortress they called the Vatican. You’d heard the name before, whispered behind burning pyres and sharpened swords. The seat of the little man who commanded wars in the name of the divine. They called him the hand of God.

But if what they held below ground was real, then they didn’t worship God. They feared the devil.

They hunted your kind mercilessly for centuries. Burned, bled, butchered, never understood. But this was new. A captured creature, not for execution but for "study." You could only imagine what that meant in the language of faith.

It could’ve been any monster. But the description chilled you to the bone.

A demon with an Irish tongue and black eyes. A throat-ripper. A blood-drinker.

You told yourself it couldn’t be him. There were others like him. Others who tore and drank and laughed in the dark. But something in you, the old thing he once touched and woke, quivered at the thought of him rotting in some damp holy tomb.

So your hunt began.

Acolyte after acolyte. You drained them, rifled through their memories like parchment, whispered spells until one of them unwittingly opened a door. You left no trace, only hollowed bodies and muddled prayers.

Eventually, the trail led to a Mother Superior.

She looked at you the first time like she already knew what you were. Her eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared. She sniffed out the blasphemy in your blood, the wrongness in your bones. She was stronger than the others—mentally, spiritually. She couldn't be bent easily.

So you didn’t bend her. You stayed close. You donned the veil. Played the penitent. A novice on the cusp of taking her vows, eyes lowered, lips always murmuring.

Night after night, you slipped into her mind. Not to break it, but to plant seeds, tender suggestions, dreams of purity and divine purpose, visions that always led to the same thing: that she must bring you below, down into the depths where the Church kept its greatest shame.

To him.

The creature who couldn’t walk in the daylight. The one whose blood once tasted like thunder and lilacs.

So when the Mother Superior whispered that they were here for more than just praising God, you forced your face into a mask of innocence and fear. You widened your eyes, lowered your gaze, and played the part of a naive girl devoting her body and soul to the divine.

She spoke of shadows. Of evil made flesh. She called it a war, not just a devotion. That by taking the vows, you were not only offering yourself to the Almighty but becoming His soldier. His blade against the dark things hiding beneath the world.

You nodded through it all. Pretended to tremble when she pressed the rosaries into your hands, tucked wooden stakes into your belt, strapped vials of holy water to your thighs. You whispered the sacred rites with dry lips, tasted ash in every vow. Not once did you feel the sting of power. The words were hollow. Magicless. Just sounds echoed into cold stone.

And when they gave you the blood of the so-called savior, when they placed his flesh on your tongue, nothing burned. Your skin did not blister. Your breath did not catch fire.

It should have scared you. That you could walk so deep into their temple, wear their habits, speak their sacred tongue, and remain untouched.

But it didn’t.

What scared you was the thing that had driven you here.

A beast.

Your beast.

It had started as nothing. A curiosity. A creature caged beneath your woods centuries ago, snarling and half-starved, the earth bleeding black beneath his feet. He should’ve been a pet, a passing fancy—a stain on your long, winding life. But now you were burning churches and gutting acolytes just to follow whispers of his name through corridors of marble and gold.

You kept telling yourself it wasn’t love. That you were only retrieving what was yours. You didn’t like when people touched what belonged to you, especially if they broke it.

The truth of it nested deep in your bones, rotting quietly. You’d dressed it up in possession, in revenge, but it reeked of something far more dangerous. Far more human.

When the day finally came, the nun laced your fingers with more beads and crosses. As if they would save you. As if they could save anyone. You remembered Remmick once idly twisting a rosary around his fingers, murmuring that the smooth beads calmed his nerves. It hadn’t saved the girl who wore it, not from him. The memory clung to you like perfume.

Now you stood at the gates of their Vatican. You, draped in holy robes, with a stake strapped to your thigh and murder in your heart. The Mother Superior repeated again and again what a privilege this was—to be allowed into the lower catacombs. To walk the path only chosen men were allowed to tread.

You didn’t say a word.

Every thought had vanished the moment the scent of his blood thickened the air. You had feared it, feared that you’d recognize it the instant it touched your lungs, and you had been right. Every suspicion, every whisper of dread clawing at your ribs had proven true. The monster they kept chained beneath the earth wasn’t just any beast, it was yours.

Magic crackled under your skin like a storm waiting to burst. You clenched your jaw, fighting the urge to bring this wretched place to the ground in a wave of fire and ash.

You reached the iron door of his cell. The nun—her voice sharp, shaking—warned you not to listen to him. “He’ll twist your mind with his viper tongue,” she muttered, clutching her rosary like a lifeline.

You nearly laughed.

She had no idea the things that tongue could do to you. Confusion was hardly the worst of it. You bit your lower lip, holding back the urge to say it aloud. Let her keep her ignorance. Let her die with it.

but you’d had enough of her. Months of pious instruction and venomous sermons against your kind. Months of hiding beneath linen and lies, swallowing down every urge to end her. So when she turned her back, you didn’t hesitate. You snapped her neck in silence. Her body hit the cold floor with a dull thud, and something deep in your belly purred with satisfaction.

Your fingers trembled as they touched the iron latch. Anticipation. Fear. Containment. You weren’t sure which feeling owned you anymore. When the door creaked open, your knees nearly gave out.

There he was.

They had him suspended by the wrists, iron cuffs scorched into his skin, the stink of burned flesh rising constantly from the wounds. His feet didn’t touch the floor, he was hanging, his entire weight yanked down by the chains. His body was ravaged with cuts and bruises, his skin a tapestry of cruelty. They’d stripped him of everything but the tattered cloth around his waist. His head hung low, hair soaked in sweat, plastered to his face. He hadn’t seen you. He didn’t have the strength to look up.

You didn’t know what to do. You’d seen him powerful, smirking, fanged, ruthless. Seeing him like this made something in you curl and break.

And then you saw it.

Around his neck, barely gleaming in the faint candlelight, still hung a golden chain. Your breath caught in your throat. That ridiculous little trinket, the one you had given him so long ago. They’d taken everything else from him. But not that. Why?

Your hand reached for the chains. The moment they clinked, he stirred. He lifted his head slowly, like it hurt to move. His eyes narrowed, straining to see through blood and haze. You didn’t stop working the shackles, your fingers desperate now, and that’s when you heard it, a rasp, more breath than voice, right at your ear.

“Ban draoid…”

Your heart clenched at the sound of it.

“Yes, sweetfangs. It’s me. I’ve come to take you home.”

He gave a hoarse, broken sound. Maybe it was a laugh, maybe a sob. It dissolved into a cough that wracked his body.

“F-fuckin’ hell… I’m sorry, mo chroí…” he mumbled, barely audible. One of his hands came free, and his entire body collapsed against you, limp as a corpse. You dropped to your knees to catch him, arms wrapping around his waist, his chin finding your shoulder, breath warm and incoherent against your skin.

“You shouldn’t… y’shouldn’t see me like this…” he whispered, words slurring. “I think they… they took it… took everythin’... I can’t…”

He buried his face in the curve of your neck, clinging to you with the last of his strength. One wrist still chained, body swaying like a broken puppet.

“Remmick?”

He stirred. Pulled back just enough to look at you, eyelids heavy but eyes searching. When your gaze met his, it was like something ancient ignited between you.

“You… called me by m’name.”

He looked stunned. As if he'd forgotten he had one.

“How else would I call you?”

“Leech. Pet. Sweetfangs. Never… Remmick.”

He wasn’t wrong. Even in your thoughts, you’d always called him the creature, the vampire, your beast. Never by name.

“Mmm. I like it,” he said, nuzzling back into your neck. He sounded drunk on you, disoriented, like a man clinging to the only thing that still made sense.

“Yeah? Then if you want me to say it again, you’ve gotta help me, sweetheart. I need you to stand.”

A low growl rumbled in his throat, a complaint, not a threat. He snuggled deeper, like a child refusing to rise from bed.

You tapped his side gently, coaxing. “Come on, love. I need you.”

He groaned but moved, feet hitting the stone floor, wobbling, but standing, barely.

While he leaned on you, you worked at the other cuff. His gaze was heavy on you, hungry. His face pressed against yours again, nose nuzzling into any exposed skin he could find. He mumbled nonsense, words from a fever dream.

The moment the last shackle fell, you both collapsed.

He didn’t let go.

Instead, he clung to you with both hands now free, roaming your body like he didn’t believe you were real. Like he had to memorize you with touch before the vision faded.

You try to lift him.

You brace your legs, plant your feet, dig your fingers into his arms and try with everything you have to pull him up. But his weight won’t shift. His body is too heavy with pain and time and everything they’ve taken from him. It’s like trying to carry a cathedral’s worth of ruin in your arms. His knees buckle the moment you try to straighten, and he drags you down with him.

You both end up on the cold floor again, stone biting into your knees, your shoulder, your ribs. His arms curl around you like instinct, and you can feel the tremble in him, buried deep in his bones.

“Why won’t you move?” you whisper, not angry. Just aching. Just desperate.

He lets out a sound like a breath caught on broken glass. Then laughs. Dry, too hollow to be real. “Because yer not real.”

Your breath catches.

He lifts his head, just enough to look at you again. “You’re in m’head, same as always. Dreamin’ y’ve come to fix me… that y’ve come to fuckin’ see me.”

“Remmick.”

“You never said my name like that, ban draoid. Not when it mattered.” His voice cracks, but he smiles like it’s all some grand joke he’s playing on himself. “I was always your pet,” he murmurs. “Wasn’t I? Your good little monster. Guarded the necklace, bit anyone who tried to take it off. They kept trying, y’know. Could smell your magic on it, and they didn’t like it one fuckin’ bit.”

Your stomach turns.

You look down, at the bruises on his wrists, at the necklace still hanging from his throat. That ridiculous little charm you gave him centuries ago, when you never thought you'd see him again. And he still has it. Worn and bent and bloodied.

“You bit them?” you whisper. “You fought for it?”

“Didn’t want ‘em to touch it.” His eyes flutter closed. “Didn’t want ‘em takin’ you off me. S’stupid, I know. You never belonged to me.”

“No.” Your voice cracks. “No, Remmick. I didn’t.

He flinches. “That’s what I said.”

Your hand goes to his face. Gentle. Real.

“I’m not a dream,” you say, your voice cracking on the edges. “Look at me, Remmick. Look at me.”

His gaze flickers, fogged and wavering, but it holds.

“I didn’t come for my pet. I didn’t come to leash my monster.” You press your forehead to his. “I came for you. For the only fucking thing that’s ever felt like home in this endless life of mine.”

He doesn’t say anything.

So you go on. “You think I’d wear these rags, swear vows to a god I don’t believe in, kneel for weeks beside their altars—bleed for it—if you were just some plaything to me?”

Still, nothing. His eyes glisten. His throat tightens. But he won’t speak.

“I’m not here because you’re mine,” you whisper. “I’m here because I’m yours.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His lips part. Still no sound.

You lift your hand, shaking ,and without hesitation, drag your fingernail across your palm. A clean, straight line. Blood wells up fast and dark, thick as molten iron. It smells of night and wild earth. Of every root you ever grew and every fire you ever lit. Of you.

His head jerks toward it. Not by choice. By need.

“I want you to drink,” you say, bringing your hand to his mouth. “No games. No servitude. This is a gift. I want you stronger. Because I need you alive. Because I can't—I won’t—lose you.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours.

Then, carefully, reverently, his mouth parts.

You place your bleeding hand, then, softly, reverently, his lips close over the wound.

The first pull is shallow, like he’s testing the edge of a dream. But when your blood hits his tongue, something shifts. His hands twitch. His breath hitches. His body jerks like it’s waking up after years of drowning. His eyes flutter shut, and a low sound escapes his throat, something between a growl and a sigh.

He drinks.

And drinks.

You hold your hand to him, even as your knees wobble, even as your head spins. His mouth is hot now, his breath warming. You feel his grip strengthening where it clings to your arm. His fingers dig into your waist like he's anchoring himself back to life.

You feel him coming back to you.

“Slow down,” you whisper, dizzy. “Take only what you need.”

But he growls softly, shakes his head. “I need you, mo ghrá. I need all of you.”

Your other hand cups his face.

“You’ve always had all of me,” you whisper. “Even when I wouldn’t admit it. Even when I tried to leave you behind.”

His lips slow, soften. His jaw slackens, but not in weakness, this is reverence now. When he finally pulls away, your blood stains his mouth like wine and war. His eyes open again, and they're no longer dulled by pain.

He rests his forehead against yours, both of you trembling from what just passed between you.

“We’ll find somewhere,” he murmurs. “A place with trees. Quiet. Hidden.”

Your breath catches.

“Somewhere y’don’t have to pretend to be anyone else.”

Your heart cracks wide open. For him. For everything that could still be.

You nod, barely able to speak.

He smiles, weak but real. “I’ll help y’put your roots down again, love. This time, I’ll guard the fuckin’ soil myself.”

#jack o'connell #remmick #sinners #angst #fem!reader #remmick x reader #vampire #fanfiction #sinners fic #sinners remmick #witch #remmick is a terrible pet #witchcraft and bad decisions #you says jump he bleeds #ban draoid

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aldryrththerainbowheart · 15 hours ago

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Lads guys with you in Ikea

Inspired by my very own trip to that place

Zayne

- Pre-Ikea Prep: He'd have meticuously organized list, possibly even a scaled-down floor plan he subtly memorized online to optimize your route.

- In the showroom: Zayne moves through the store with calm purpose. He's practical, checking the stability of furniture, anlyzing the materials, and considering the longevity. He'll quietly point out good deals or practical solutions you might miss.

- With you: He's incredibly attentive. "Are you getting tired? We can sit for a bit." He'll gently guide you through crowds, always keeping a hand on your lower back or shoulder. If you fall in love with a display, he'll immediately check its availability and dimensioning for you.

- The food court: Insists on proper meal. You're definitely getting the meatballs and lingonberry jam. He'll make sure you have enough water and perhaps a coffee for himself. He might share a subtle, knowing smile with you as he observes other overwhelmed couples.

- Assembly: This is where Dr. Zayne shines. His steady hands, patience, and ability to follow complex diagrams are unmatched. He'll lay out all the pieces, sort the screws, and work with surgical precision. He might let you do the easy parts, but he'll take lead on anything tricky.

"Efficiently done. Now, let's ensure your comfort is just as prioritized."

Rafayel

- Pre IKEA prep: "List? Nah, where's the fun in that? We'll just see what calls to us!" He's all about the experience, not the strict plan.

- In the showroom: This is his playground. He's trying out every couch {"Is this nap approved?"), pretending to hide in wardrobes, and teasing you by sitting on display toilets. He's probably terrible at navigating the maze and will happily get lost with you, finding it great excuse to hold your hand or pull you into a quiet corner for a quick kiss.

- With you: He's constantly making you laugh. "Look, a mini version of you!" (Holding a rat plushie). He'll encourage all your impulse buys. He might dissapear for a moment and then pop out from behind a bookshelf making you jump.

- The food court: He's trying a bit of everything and probably stealing your meatballs. He'll convince you to get a dessert you didn't plan on, then insist on sharing it. He'll lean across the table, whispering silly observations about other shoppers.

- A chaotic but suprisingly effective process. He'll skip ahead on instructions, use the wrong tool, then laughs it off. He's suprisingly good with his hands, but it's more intuition than instruction following. He'll definitely blame the extra screw on the manufacturer.

"Well...that was exhausting. How about we test the new couch cutie? You get the popcorn, I choose the movie."

Xavier

- Pre IKEA prep: He'd prefer a detailed mission brief, but the chaos of IKEA is a new kind of battlefield. He'd agree to go because you wanted to, but he's already bracing himself.

- In the showroom: He's overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people and choices, but he won't show it much. He walks with steady protective presence beside you, subtly shielding you from the crush of the crowd and making sure no one bumps into you. Eventually, he falls asleep on one of the couches or beds, you leave him there because it's easier to get things done.

- With you: He's quietly supportive. If you loook at something twice, he'll ask, "Do you like it? We can get it." He's not one for small talk with sales associates but will get straight to the point if you have a question. He'll offer his arm and hand in crowded areas, a firm, reassuring anchor.

- The food court: He'll make sure you're seated somewhere relatively quiet, away from main flow of the traffic. He might watch other families with quiet intensity, wondering about human domesticity.

- Assembly: He approaches it like a tactical exercise. He reads every single instruction, analyzes the diagrams and sorts pieces by shape. He might get frustrated if a piece doesn't fit or the diagram is too vague, grumbling the whole time, but he won't quit until it's done.

- Aftermath: A deep sigh of relief once the flat pack is conquered. He'll then insist on ordering takeout because you're too tired to cook after that.

(After successfully assembling a tricky piece) "It serves it's purpose. Are you happy?"

Sylus

- Pre-IKEA prep: He has no previous experiences with places like these, everything in his base was carpenter-made and ordered. The only thing he knows is that it's a furniture store. He's thoroughly unprepared what awaits him there.

- In the showroom: He's not looking at the furniture as much as he's studying the people. He observes the flow of people, the interactions of couples, the children screaming in play areas. He'll touch all the materials and analyzes the composition of the arrangements.

- With you: He's utterly fascinated by your reactions. He'll ask you to explain why a particular lamp sparks joy, or why you need exactly that type of cushion. He might subtly use his powers to glide through the crowds or locate a specific item you need without seeming to try. He might also accidentaly levitate an Allen key for a moment if he's thinking too hard.

- The food court: Nothing for his gourmet palate, but if you want to stuff your mouth full of meatballs then he'll buy you all of them. He buys you princess cake and smirks at your deadpan look you give him.

"You have a knack for turning a simple room into a cozy haven. Maybe I'll let you redecorate my base. Don't get so excited, I said maybe."

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace xavier #love and deepspace rafayel #love and deepspace zayne #lads #zayne x reader #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus fluff #zayne fluff #xavier fluff #rafayel fluff #love and deepspace domesticity

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oo-mariana-oo · 2 days ago

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Behind the Scenes (Tenna x Assistant!Reader) pt 3

Alright, here we go again. Also! I am opening my Ask Box! I'd love to start taking requests and do oneshots and headcannons!!!

Also, this one gets a bit spicy, so MINORS DNI 🔞🔞🔞!!!

The man stood in fear, a small bead of sweat rolling down his neck as he turned around, looking up at Mr. Tenna.

"W-we were just. Uh, talking." He says with a shakey voice.

"Then I would suggest that you get away from her." Mr. Tenna says coldly, yanking the man away from you by his shoulder.

David stumbles back, falling on his ass.

Mr. Tenna stands in front of you now, but with a different presence. He didn't seem as cold, as big as he was just a second ago. Looking down as you, his hand reaches forward towards your headset.

"May I? " he asks softly. You nod your head, unable to speak, clutching his coat to your chest.

His large hand brushes against your red tinted cheek as he removes your headset. Holding the mic down, he brings it up to his screen.

"Mike. Yeah, it's Tenna. We have one of the contestants causing some... issues. Yes, that one. West hallway, next to the Green Room. Alright. Thank you." He says. He turns the mic off.

"Are you ok (Y/N)? Did he hurt you? " he asks, with a concerned tone. " I dearly hope I got here in time..."

"Y-yeah, I'm fine. He didn't touch me, he was just saying some things that... rubbed me the wrong way is all." You explain, trembling slightly. " I'm just a bit shaken up is all... I'm fine."

" 'Fine' is not good enough. " he says, I bit more harshly then intended. "I want you to feel safe here... not being scared that some piece of shit is going to pull stunts like that."

Just as he said that, the door down the hall opened, with Darkners with shirts that said SECURITY on them stepping out. David saw them and immediately stood from the floor, trying to walk away past the two of you.

Without any warning, Mr. Tennas hand shot up, grabbing David by his collar, making him choke a bit in response.

"Why, hello, gentlemen! If you would be so kind and escort this man out of the building, thank you." Mr. Tenna says quickly, basically throwing David at Securtiy.

Placing a hand on your back, he guides you away from the scene, leading you down the hall to where his dressing room was. Holding the door open for you, you step through.

"Here, please, take a seat," he motions to the couch. You thank him, taking a seat, still holding his coat, as if you could hide away in it. (And with how big it was, you probably could)

"So, you ARE, ok, right? He didn't do anything else, right?" He asks, still clutching the headset in his hands.

"Yeah, he just said some stuff... really, I'm ok." You reassure him.

He sighs, rubbing his screen.

"Gosh, I'm so so SO sorry that this happened to you. I should have asked you to come to the dressing room sooner to avoid him... geez, and it's your first day here. You must think this place only brings sleaze bags to the shows! We DO try to keep them out, I promise, but I guess you can't win them all. I do understand that if you-"

You cut him off.

"Hey hey, who ever said that I thought that? One dude was getting weird with me. It happens. And besides, I'm very grateful that you intervened before anything else happened." You say, setting your hand on his arm. You could have sworn you saw his screen get a little red, but chose to ignore it.

"I-I still really like the job, most of the people are very nice. I can see myself staying here, working with you. This just happened to have happened on my first day. "

As you reassure him, you couldn't help but notice that he was getting taller? He had to bend his knees to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling.

He seemed to have noticed this because his screen was now a lovely shade of pink. "Oh! S-Sorry about tha- ouch!" He says, smaking his head on the ceiling. " sorry, t-this happens somet-times." He says shyly.

"You can change your height on command?" You ask. So it wasn't your imagination. Huh.

"Well- it just kinda uh...happens?" He says, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn't want to say how he was just overjoyed that you weren't going to quit, the real reason he was growing.

This makes you giggle a little bit. " Would it be easier if you had a seat? " You ask, scooting over and patting the seat next to you. He thanks you, sitting next to you, the cushions shifting with his weight, he loosens his tie while leaning back.

He reaches over to his vanity and grabs a wooden box, pulling out what looks like a Cuban cigar.

"Would you like one? " he asks. You politely decline.

You shuffle around in your pocket for your lighter. Striking until you got a flame, you hold it up to him. He smiles warmly, holding the cigar in between his teeth. Leaning down, he holds the tip of it to the flame. Taking a deep breath, you could see the embers begin to glow on his cigar. You look past your hands at him. Even though he didn't have visible eyes, you could tell they were on you. He doesn't look away this time. His screen seemed to brighten slightly.

He was busy taking in your facial features. The way your winged eyeliner looked, the makeup on your eyes, your black lipstick, the shape of your lips, how your hair perfectly framed your face, that gleam in your eyes...

A warm smile spreads across his face. "Geez... has anyone ever told you how pretty your eyes are?..." he says softly. Your cheeks burn, eyes widening a bit.

Is he flirting? With me???

He seems to have noticed your surprised look, pulling back.

"I-I mean, I'm sorry! That must have sounded weird to say! I mean, after what just happened, i- that was just weird for me to say imsorryforsayingthat..." he starts to ramble, screen red. As he's trying to laugh away his own awkwardness, he tries to casually take a drag of his cigar, to which he proceeds to inhale a bit too much and choke on the smoke.

You start laughing hard, having to brace yourself on your knees, snorting quietly between breaths. Meanwhile, he was practically fighting for his life, trying to stop coughing.

"You ok? " You ask between laughs, placing a hand on his thigh. Lucky for him, you were too busy giggling to notice him grow a bit more. How could he not? Your laughter was downright addictive, the way you leaned over with the top buttons of your blouse undone, your exposed cleavage practically hypnotic for him. And with your hand resting on his tight, your pointed nails lightly scratching the fabric of his pants. God, you don't even know what you're doing to him.

"Y-yeah i-*cough* I'm good. " he says, patting his chest, trying to catch his breath. At this point, he's just a mess. Comparing him now to how he was with David, you wouldn't even be able to tell that you were speaking with the same person!

"Well," you say, giggling." Thank you for saying I had pretty eyes sir. I've never been told that before. " You say sweetly, unable to hide your smile.

"You know..." he starts." You can just call me Tenna if you would like. " he says softly, almost mumbling.

You smile brightly at him. " I think I'd like that. " You say sweetly, patting his thigh. " Thank you, Tenna."

*beep beep beep*

It was your watch. Huh. That's odd, it only goes off at 9:30...

"Oh my! It's already 9:30! I'm so sorry. But I have to get going, " you say, standing up and setting his coat down on a nearby chair, making you bend over a little. " Do you need anything before I leave?" You ask sweetly.

"N-nope! I'll be ok (Y/N), thank you!!!" He says quickly, suddenly crossing his legs.

You don't think anything of it. "OK Tenna, I hope you have a lovely rest of your night!" You say, making your way towards the door. "Oh, and Tenna? " you say, pausing at the door.

"Y-yes? " he says, screen still a bit red.

"I just wanted to say that you're also very handsome~" you say, and before you could notice his reaction, you were out the door and off to the parking lot.

As Tenna sat there, he uncrosses his legs, looking down at the tightness in his pants, from when you bent over in front of him.

"God damnit... I'm such a pervert..." he says to himself, unzipping his pants with desperation.

You had no idea what you did to him.

#ant tenna #deltarune #deltarune chapter 3 #tenna deltarune #tenna x reader #tenna x you

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coconutjelly · 7 hours ago

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Crisis, Part 5b

Link to all parts

“I would apologize for his behavior, but that implies I have any control over it, whatsoever,” Tim drawls as he walks around the end of the couch like a normal person.

“Sounds like his regimen needs an update, then,” he replies, letting a crooked grin slide over his face. “We can only fall to the level of our training, ya know.”

Tim rolls his eyes and looks at them both kinda fondly, Kon would like to think. That’s when he realizes that Bernard is still wrapped around his side like a koala. He goes to release the TTK keeping him there so he can get down, but Bernard digs his fingers into his shoulders for a second and shakes his head petulantly.

“Mm-mn. Tim gets to see you like, all the time. If he wants a hug, he can share.” Personally, Kon wouldn’t describe how often he gets to see Tim, much less hug him, as “all the time”, especially compared to his actual boyfriend. Before he can consider that or respond to it, though, Tim is shaking his head and stepping right up into his space, and his other arm raises without him deciding to do it, and Tim is there, and then…

And then he’s just sort of… got both of them tucked into his sides, one under each arm. His brain flickers through all the other times he’s been between the two of them for kisses and sex stuff and even falling asleep cuddling the TTK versions of them, and decides that this is his favorite kind of between them that he’s been so far.

The other times, they were putting him between them, the same way Tim puts each piece of equipment in its proper place on the shelves in the training room, putting his things right where they’re supposed to be, so they’re ready for his next use. Standing in the rec area of the Tower though, it’s more like… like they’re placing themselves next to him, like ducking under an awning to stay out of the rain, somewhere to shelter from a storm. Like he’s somewhere comfy or safe or nice to be, he means.

They’re warm and he can hear their hearts beating together in that lovely way they do, and he can look down to see faint sparkles stuck to both their faces, even though the facepaint itself is gone. After a couple of seconds, Tim puts one arm around his back and the other around Bernard, and Kon sighs contentedly. He squeezes them both in closer for a second and inhales as subtly as he can, and they smell like home.

Which feels so fucking sappy for a second that he wonders where that thought came from, until he realizes - no, they literally smell like his home at the Tower. His laundry detergent, his soap, his bedroom, his–

“Did you use my shampoo?” he asks.

Tim winces just slightly, as though he thinks Kon could mind. “We did, I hope that’s okay. You have a bigger shower than mine, and I was just feeling overstimulated when we got back and–”

“Yeah, of course–” Kon starts to say.

“We didn’ fuck in it, I promise,” Bernard interrupts urgently, ensuring that Kon will be haunted by that image until the heat death of the universe.

“–that’s fine,” he finishes weakly, barely audible over Tim’s huffed, “Oh my god, Bernard.”

“Tim tried to put the moves on me, but I said that was a boundary of your violations,” Bernard tells him in a comically serious tone, and he doesn’t even need to be able to sense his heartbeat or adrenal system to know that he’s lying.

“That sounds completely believable and in-character,” Kon agrees in a matching tone. He looks down at Tim to ask him, “So, what’s the secret ingredient in the magic of Pride?”

Tim is already looking up at him and…pauses a bit before answering, just sort of staring back at him and…blinking in this long, slow blink that might be time dilation from how hard Kon is suddenly focused on the little specks of glitter dotted right along the part of Tim’s cheekbones that are freckled when he’s actually been out in the sun. A little peek of tongue at the corner of Tim’s mouth makes his breath hitch. Or maybe it’s that he suddenly realizes the thumb of Tim’s hand is looped through one of his belts like it fucking belongs there.

Before he can do or even think anything about it though, Bernard breaks through his thoughts by leaning back and tonelessly chanting, “Ba-da-da-da-da-da-dah. Tequila.”

It takes Kon a second or six to remember what question is being answered. He takes the first two to notice that there are some real freckles mixed in with the glitter on Tim’s cheeks, even though they’re probably too faint for human eyes to pick up after just one afternoon outside. The third second goes toward an automatic little laugh, because he can tell that’s the right response even without really hearing the words. Then two are spent processing the way Tim’s expression closes off before being replaced with a generic amused expression. Kon’s seen him give that face way too many times while talking themselves out of all kinds of trouble to believe it for even one last second.

“You can keep him, if you want,” Tim offers blithely, poking Bernard in the sternum with his free hand - the one not currently looped through his belt like it belongs there. “He’s very low-maintenance, house-trained and everything. Great cook, hardly ever gets kidnapped.”

“Mm, yeah, this feels very low-maintenance,” Kon replies sarcastically, pointedly shrugging the shoulder that Bernard is snuggling back into.

“Dude, are you even aware of my weight right now?” Kon makes a gesture of eh around him, and they all share a laugh, and things feel…mostly normal, he thinks. The intensity of that one moment is gone, and he can’t decide if he wants to live in that moment or never experience it again.

#crisis: think pink au #fellas is it gay to want to spend a lifetime doing good at your best friend's side #and is it more or less gay to have indeterminate feelings about his boyfriend #timberkon #inspired by think pink by suzukiblu #wip: think pink

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phasezeroo · 13 hours ago

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I DON’T LIKE DARKNESS

Sim Jake x f!reader

summary: Jake is comforting you, after you lost your dear childhood pet.

warnings: pet loss, crying, fluff, kissing, jake is a softie

song inspiration:

author’s note: I wrote this yesterday, crying like a baby during it, but I needed to get it off my chest. I miss my fur baby very much and the only way I can cope with it, is probably writing about it.

Please be kind :)

Jake stood in your apartment, unnanounced, still, not daring to breathe.

He must have figured it out, probably did your mom spilled something, the last time she saw him.

It wasn’t rare for Jake to visit your house, your parents were best friends after all, and you were friends since you were little kids. So he basically grew up with you and your cat, who sadly passed away a few weeks ago.

The pain still fresh, wound ripped open, the way Jake’s eyes were glassy, starring at you. You ignored the lump in your throat, building up, ready to burst over. It was your soulmate, but in a pet form. Your family had it since you were five, so you grew up with it.

It died a peaceful death and that is all you cared about when you asked your mom over the phone how it happened.

You were never good with feelings, or telling people how you felt. It was always easier to hide everything, rather than to admit to even have feelings. As soon as you ignore the problem, it would fade away eventually.

You were busy, cleaning up your kitchen, not trying to say anything that might make you break.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

A pause.

Your hands paused with cleaning the dishes, starting to shake. Sighing you leaned against the counter, not daring to look at him.

“I figured if I keep quite, it wouldn’t be real… and maybe it would hurt less.”

Your voice was barely there, a whisper, your apartment silent.

The only thing that was heard was Jake’s breathing combined with yours.

Before you knew it, he made his way around the counter, hugging your back, trying so hard to heal the broken pieces in your heart.

That was the moment you broke, tears falling uncontrollably, hitting the sink.

“Please, Y/N, you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here whenever you need me, never hide anything from me, especially when you feel sad.”

Jake’s voice was soft, gentle.

He turned you around, so he could look at your face. The make-up from today was ruined, mascara running down your face, puffy nose and your cheeks red.

You were trying so hard to keep it together, but his eyes showed nothing than care and love for you.

Sincerely meaning it.

You bit your lip, looking away, not used to crying so hard in front of anybody else than your mom or brother.

Your heart was still aching, but as soon as Jake wrapped his arms around your waist again, the world stopped for a minute.

It was warm, real, full of unspoken feelings.

His own eyes began to burn, imagining how you must have felt all these weeks without him knowing. You were still smiling, laughing at his dumb jokes, he didn’t even noticed the difference in your state.

Going home after you hung out with him and your friends, crying yourself to sleep, trying to cope with it all, alone.

Feeling horrible, he rubbed your back softly, hearing your breathing uncontrollably fast, fearing you might have a panic attack, but it wasn’t.

You just let it out for once, hugging him back, your arms hang loosley around his neck, trying not to drown in your own tears.

You were standing in your kitchen for a while, before you calmed down. Still embraced in his strong arms, you sniffled, wiping your nose with your long sleeve, leaving a mark.

Jake pulled back, holding your face in his hands, to really look at you.

His heart ached.

You wiped your cheeks, skin burning under your touch, soft even.

You coughed.

“Sorry. Just being dramatic. I’m fine.”

“Please, Y/N, don’t be like that”, he pleaded, eyes closed, shaking his head lightly.

“Don’t shut me out right now.”

Your heart raced at his words, almost begging you to stop doing this to him. You sighed, head falling forwards, leaning against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent.

The overwhelming feeling of being save whenever you were around him hit you hard.

He kissed your hair, his hand resting on your warm cheek, stroking it softly, afraid you will break like a doll if he put too much pressure on it.

“I hope you know, you can talk to me, or don’t, just enjoying the silence. You don’t need to talk, just let me be there for you, please.”

You couldn’t help it, you needed to look at him now.

Face so close, too close.

Jake’s warm breath hit your face, seeing how his chest lifted in uneven beats, being nervous that you were so near.

“I’m not gonna push you away again, I promise.”

That was all you said, before breaking the last centimeter your lips were apart, kissing him with such a softness, he might explode at the feeling.

Jake immediately pressed his lips against yours, not rushing it, just putting all his feelings into it.

Showing you, how much he cares and loves you.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer. Breaking apart after you couldn’t breathe anymore, forehead leaning against his.

“I’m glad you’re here now, Jake.”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Not now, not ever.”

#jake sim #books #fanfic #enhypen #sim jaeyun #enhypen x reader #enhypen fic #jake x reader #jake sim x reader #kpop #enhypen jake #oneshot #enhypen jaeyun #writing

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sylusgworl · 23 days ago

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WHAT THEY LOVE DOING WITH/TO YOU ft. love and deepspace

as the title says — sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, caleb x fem!reader

content: very fluffy, no stressy, no cws just love and affection, slightly suggestive in sylus's part

a/n: yup, another comforting piece. at first i only thought of writing xavier's part, but then it just came to me... i can write FIVE. so uh, enjoy <3. wc: 900 . rbs are very appreciated <3

m.list

if xavier could, he’d live with his head on your lap.

yes, exactly. especially after coming back home from being outside all day, your lap is his safe haven.

and you, you love seeing his tired form appear through the door, as he walks groggily towards you, flashing you a sheepish smile.

“how was your day baby?” you ask him, while he plops down on the sofa right next to you.

“‘twas good,” he answers simply, pecking your lips before lying down, his head resting on your lap.

you then start stroking his hair, gently, then hear soft snores coming from him. you love seeing his relaxed features and gentle sleeping face, you wish he could rest more.

sometimes as he’s resting on your lap, his arms would wrap around your abdomen, to bring you even closer, occasionally tickling you when he’s still awake, before slowly drifting to a peaceful sleep, your slow hums lulling him until his consciousness fades.

zayne holds your hand at any given chance. if he could, your fingers would stay entangled to his, forever.

yes, it’s that serious.

especially whenever the two of you go on walks, his hand will never leave yours, unless you’re the first to let go.

“wait zayne, i dropped my tissues,” you say while your hand momentarily leaves his.

those three seconds are for zayne like an eternity.

he doesn’t like how something feels amiss right away, but the emptiness is filled right away when your fingers find his again.

zayne loves your hands, the warmth of them, and just smothering the back with kisses, slowly and gently, all without averting his haze from yours.

and the simple hand holding escalates quickly into something more.

zayne peppers your hand in kisses, then your wrist, then your arm all the way up to your neck and chin. then, he presses gentle kisses against your lips.

most of the time, the two of you end up going further and further, craving each other like you are the missing part he needs, and vice versa. oh, and of course his hold on your hand is still safely tight.

it is now an essential activity in sylus’s life to lay in bed next to you and rest his face against your chest, his head cushioned by the softness of your breasts and lulled by your calm heartbeat.

yes, sylus couldn’t ask for more. if he could, he’d never leave that position.

you often remind him to let you breathe for a couple of minutes, but after that, he’s back at it again.

“you knew what you were getting into when you accepted to be with me, sweetie,” he teases you, pushing a stray lock of your hair behind your ear while looking at you, amused, as you slap back his hand, offended.

“the girls didn’t sign up to be pillows though,” you mutter, looking elsewhere. and sylus would just chuckle, closing his eyes while feeling your skin under his palm.

“sylus where are you touching!?” you yell startled, but he just ignores you, and keeps doing what he wants.

“i’m putting the girls to good use since they refuse to be just ‘pillows’, clearly,” and you just can’t stop him, no matter what. not that you mind, you’ll just see it as a free massage.

caleb is constantly wrapping an arm around your shoulders, sometimes both of them, while peppering kisses at your nape and neck. causing you to shiver as you gently attempt to move away.

yes, he loves having you in his arms, only then he’ll be 100% sure you are safe.

sometimes, he’d even bear-hug you while you’re laying down and just fall asleep in that position, causing you to giggle at his childishness.

“c’mon caleb, you’re pressing my rib,” you try to reason with him, but he’d just muffle some inaudible words and get back at snoring.

so, you resort to tickling his sides so that his strong hold mellows, and you just move his arm, feeling his strong bicep under your fingertips.

“please, just a bit more,” he groans and proceeds to hold you even closer.

well, the battle was already lost at the start.

you just leave him be and stay there, cradled by the big bear that is your boyfriend.

what rafayel enjoys most is pressing his hands against your cheeks and just causing your expression to scrunch, only to laugh at your funny look as your eyes shoot him daggers.

besides being a prankster, his hands cup your cheeks every time the two of you are kissing.

he believes it brings you even closer than you are.

sometimes, it just starts as something innocent.

his firm and focused gaze is locked into your eyes as he rests both hands at the sides of your cheeks, feeling the softness of your skin, as he causes you to look funny, yet again.

“rafahyl s-shtop…” you try to say while clutching his fingers

then, his eyes drop down, at your puckered lips and he just can’t stop himself from leaving a peck. then another one. then another.

until the two of you are slowly making out, his tongue swirling in search of yours while his hands gently bring your face closer.

“oh you’re so done,” and you start running around as he flees from you, noticing how enraged you are but still giggling like a five-year old boy.

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un-fwuit-un-fwog · 5 months ago

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The Rain is Especially Loud Tonight

Synopsis: The Prefect gets hurt due to Crowley's negligence.

TW: Injury, Stitches, Medical Stuff, Prefect gets caught under a collapsed Ramshackle

Part 1 (here), Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11 (coming soon), . . .

Tick Tick Tick Tick

The room would be completely silent were it not for the ticking of the clock on the wall.

The environment was more comfortable than your usual medical setting, but it still felt cold in a way.

The door creaked open and in stepped professor Crewel. "Hey, Pup." His voice lacked its usual stern tone one would hear in the classroom; instead, his voice was gentle and almost hoarse.

The hoarseness was no doubt a result of him screaming at the headmage in a roar you shiver even recalling. He had spent hours tearing into the man for his gross negligence and irresponsibility.

"Pup?" His voice became more worried when you failed to answer.

"Sorry." A meek, rasped voice leaves you throat. Your throat burns with dryness despite the 6 glasses of water you already drank, and it feels like every syllable echoes through your head and causes an intense, throbbing pain. You don't recognize the voice that claws its way out of your throat as your own.

You hear the soft scrape of a chair on the floor next to your bed. "No. Don't apologize, Pup." Rocking your gaze slowly over to him its clear to you, with the way his jaw clenches and unclenches while his eyes search the blanket covering you, that he wants to say something, but isn't sure what.

You slowly rock your head to look forward again. "Everyone's been in such a panic. . .and it's my fault, I-"

The man cuts you off as you choke on your words: "Pup. This is not your fault."

"But-" Your throat feels like its been given a massage with a thousand razor blades. The coughing your attempts to speak cause only make the pain worse.

Crewel quickly grabs another glass of water and holds it up to your lips for you to drink. "But nothing, Pup- Keep those arms down or you'll re-open the wounds. That old building was bound to collapse at some point. We all knew it. If the fault is on anyone it's on us staff. Crowley made you stay there, and we didn't stop him." The glass cup clinks slightly too harshly onto the nightstand as he sets it down.

Silence falls between the two of you.

Tick Tick Tick Tick

The ticking of the clock numbs your thoughts. You force your mind to stop focusing on the pain radiating from every inch of your body and instead listen to the steady ticking of the clock. The only other sound that can be herd is the occasional hurried footsteps outside the door as the other staff do their best to take care of the situation.

Your injuries have already been treated by a specialty team sent from STYX the moment the news got to them. They were the only ones aside from Grim, Leona, and the staff that had seen your mangled form before you were wrapped up like a mummy. You didn't have to ask how bad it was. Seeing Crowley throw up at the sight of you was enough to tell you it was bad.

The STYX team had spent nearly a whole 24 hours stitching you back together like some ragdoll and rearranging the many pieces of you that had been ripped and jostled out of place. If not for them. . .well, you don't want to think about it. If you looked like a mummy on the outside, you were sure that under the bandages you looked like Frankenstein's monster. There really wasn't a single bit of you that got out of that death trap unscathed.

You were kept in the school infirmary instead of being carted off to some high-tech STYX facility only because they needed to operate on you as soon as possible and didn't want to move you too much after the initial procedures. They made do by shipping a ton (literally speaking, more like 3 tons) of medical equipment to the school, most of which was now littered around the infirmary in a rushed yet professional way.

Despite your closeness to your friends, the only people who had come to see you were the staff. It's not that none of your friends wanted to see you, but that they weren't allowed to. The doctor's worried having them in so soon, when they were still full of hysteria from the news, wouldn't be the best idea. They weren't able to text you either as your phone had been crushed in the collapse.

"How's Grim?"

Professor Crewel hums: "Physically, he's pretty unscathed. He just has a few scrapes and bruises. Mentally, he's a bit traumatized."

You supposed that made sense. You didn't remember much, but what you did remember was Grim's voice. He had been returning to the dorm from after school detention when he found the building in shambles on the ground. He called out to you but your lungs were filled with debris and your torso was being crushed by layers of rubble. The dorm ghosts met Grim at the edge of the junk pile that used to be a dorm and confirmed that you were inside and that you needed help. The ghosts talked to you as you laid there, not being able to physically move anything off you themselves. They kept you awake and assured you that Grim was getting help.

Not long later you heard shouting. Two of the ghosts stayed with you while the third went out to meet the staff and fill them in. You were told after the fact that that's about the time they called up Leona to use his unique magic so they could get you out as soon as possible (that was the first time many saw the lion run).

You were blanking in and out of consciousness when they found you, but you remember them finding you. The feeling of the weight of the rubble lessening as it was methodically turned to sand and removed (in order to not end up crushing you with sand instead), the small grains dripping on your face, and eventually, the full force of the pouring rain battering your face as the last of the rubble was removed from above you. You remember Leona's manic eyes turning horrified, Crowley puking, and worst of all, Grim's face.

"STYX sent over a few trauma counselors. There are ones assigned specifically to Leona and Grim as well since they saw some of the worst of it." Crewel finally broke the silence again.

"And you? You and. . .the other teachers were there too. . .and Sam."

"Calm down, Pup. We've all had evaluations done to assess how we're handling it. We'll be fine.

"What about. . ." Your voice trails off, but from the look in your eyes, Crewel can tell what you were about to ask.

"What about the headmage?"

You nod, wincing slightly when the motion disturbs an injury on your neck.

"He's under investigation." Crewel responds after a brief pause. He knew that you surely couldn't be all that fond of the crow, but as you saw it, he was probably also your only ticket home. Crewel looked up to gauge your response, but your face remained neutral.

"And you, Pup? I obviously know you aren't doing particularly well physically right now, but what about mentally?"

"Hm?"

Crewel hesitated, not wanting to dig around in a mental wound and make it worse, "You were. . .under there for a while. I'm sure it must've been. . .scary."

You think for a moment before responding: "Was I really under there that long? It didn't feel like it. . .I think I passed out a few times." Your mumbled words put Crewel at ease in a way. He's not happy that you had been passing out, but he was at least glad that you weren't stuck under there fully conscious and feeling every second tick by as if it were an hour.

"Hmm. I see." Crewel nods. "I ought to let you rest now. A counselor will stop by tomorrow to talk to you about what happened." He stands up as he says this, his knuckles still white from how tightly he'd been gripping the fabric of his pants. "Rest well, Pup."

You simply nod, this time more carefully as to not disturb your wounds, and watch him walk out. When the door closes you swear you hear a choked sob.

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corkinavoid · 7 months ago

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DPxDC Alt Rock to the Rescue

[Inspired by this art]

"...Alright, I might have an idea," John Constantine, who was seemingly busy texting someone for the past ten - or twenty, no one really counted - minutes, puts his phone away and snaps his head up.

The room falls silent. Superman blinks in surprise, Diana frowns slightly, and Batman's mouth is pressed into a thin, stubborn line. Flash recovers first.

"You have an idea?" He huffs a short, disbelieving laugh, "No offense, but I'm not sure a magic trick can help us against, you know, an alien fleet." He gestures to one of the screens on the wall, where said fleet is approaching Earth on live.

The rest of the Leaguers present don't exactly agree with him, at least not verbally, but the mood in the room shifts from tense, anxious alarm to an almost palpable annoyance. To be honest, no one was even sure why or how John Constantine of all people ended up in the meeting. It's not like JLD could actually help with an ongoing, massive invasion that was about to happen in less than three- Correction, less than two and a half hours. Besides, it's John Constantine. The man that never shows up unless outright bullied into submission.

The magician winces briefly and starts rummaging through his pockets under the weight of everyone's attention.

"I said I might," he amends gruffly, getting a cigarette out of one of his pockets and sticking it in his mouth but not lighting it. Seems like it wasn't what he was looking for, though, because after that, the man keeps going through the various places on his coat, patting himself down. "I know someone who can deal with it. Granted, I already owe him a great deal, but he won't say no," he pauses and grimaces, "At least I hope he won't."

"I do not think it would be wise to call upon gods in our situation," Diana tries carefully, but John pays her little mind.

"Or demons," Green Arrow adds, crossing his arms on his chest, "I'm not selling my soul to get rid of some rocket ships or whatever they are."

Now, that makes the magician bark a laugh. Or, maybe it's the piece of lime green paper - a sticky note, actually - that he finally finds in the depths of his pockets.

"Oh, your soul's gonna stay where it is."

"Constantine-" Batman starts, but John cuts him off instantly.

"Mine will stay wherever it is as well," he reassures the man, "It's not that kind of entity." And with that, he promptly sets the green note on fire - green fire - and uses it as a lighter for his cigarette.

The next moment after the note is reduced to ash, there's a shift in the air in front of him, and, before any of the heroes have a split second to react, there are two people floating in the middle of the room, backs pressed to each other.

Two teenagers, to be exact. A girl and a boy, both of them so pale that their skin looks gray, and both dressed in grunge, like they just came from a rock concert. Yet, that's where the 'normal' parts of their looks end - the boy's hair is so white it looks blinding, and moves in the air slowly, undeterred by gravity, and the girl's hair is neon blue, her ponytail flickering up like a flaming torch.

The boy nearly topples over as the girl leans her back on him harder and kicks her feet up slightly. The movement is awkward, like both of them were taken by surprise by the sudden relocation, and maybe the guess about the rock concert was not so far from reality; there are drumsticks in the boy's hands, and the girl is holding an electric guitar in her hands.

"The fuck?.." The boy asks no one in particular, as the girl makes an annoyed groan and straightens up, still floating in the air. Her guitar makes an aborted sound. Meanwhile, the boy's eyes land on Constantine, and his whole face scrunches in disgust, "John, for the love of Ancients, I was in the middle of something."

The girl takes a look around while her friend is busy expressing his annoyance and elbows him in the side, "Oi, look, it's the whole Comic Con in the flesh here."

Green Arrow sputters. Flash makes a wordless but very offended sound. The floating boy looks around, taking stock of faces in the room, and the disgust on his face morphs into exasperation.

He turns back to Constantine, "Really? I thought I told you I want no part in your furry parade."

"Alien invasion," the magician decidedly doesn't address any of that, instead pointing his finger to the screen behind him. "Thought you ought to know," he adds, a bit of sarcasm bleeding into his tone.

"Ooh, is it my turn to be your world saving buddy, Phantom?" The girl perks up, turning around and draping herself over the boy's shoulders with a giddy laugh. Her guitar shifts to hang in the air on her side all by itself.

The boy - Phantom - rolls his eyes. Bright green, glowing eyes that definitely don't belong to a human being.

"If I had a nickel every time I had to save the world, I'd probably be able to buy myself my own guitar," he grumbles and looks back to Constantine. "Do I, like, have to? Right now? You know, I don't get paid for this bullshit, and the studio we rented for rehearsal has an hourly rate, so if we can postpone this for about an hour and a half, that'd be real nice."

"The fleet is only two hours away from Earth," Batman supplies suddenly, and, when both floating kids turn to look at him, adds, "I can pay for your next rehearsal. Or a few of them." Evidently, Phantom's comment about nickels struck a nerve. Or, maybe, the man just likes throwing money at any teenager he encounters. Who knows.

The boy blinks, taken aback by the proposition. But the girl grins, sharp and wicked, and shoves her drummer - if the drumsticks are to tell - in the side again.

"Hey, free studio. Better than the last time."

That snaps Phantom out of his stupor, and he groans, "Don't remind me." With a weary sigh, he runs a hand through his hair and leans back in the air, almost like reclining on it. "Okay, fine, sure. Do you want them, like, away from Earth- um, this is Earth, right?" He turns to Superman, surprisingly, looking for confirmation, and the man nods, thrown off guard. The boy nods back and continues, "Or you want them blasted into oblivion, or what?"

"Whatever suits your mood, kid," John waves his hand at the screen as if making a welcoming gesture, "But all the aliens gotta go."

Unexpectedly, that makes the girl's grin even wider, and she reaches for her guitar, floating around Phantom and looking him in the face. The look she gives him speaks of mischief, and the boy seems to understand what she's implying before she as much as opens her mouth.

"Ember, no," he pounts a drumstick at her.

"Ember, yes," she wiggles her eyebrows, "Come on, your wail is boring as fuck as it is, why not spice it up?"

"I'm not wailing," Phantom scrunches his nose, "My throat will hurt for weeks."

Ember runs her fingers over the strings of her guitar, and it makes a comparatively quiet, vibrating sound. A few cords shoot out of the bottom of her instrument, like ones used to plug an electric guitar to an amp. She raises her eyebrows, still looking at Phantom, a silent conversation between them.

Then, the boy huffs and rolls his eyes, twirling a drumstick in his fingers.

"Fine."

The cords fly at him like snakes, aiming at his neck. None of the Leaguers watching the encounter get to say even a word as the metal pins insert themselves into the boy's neck, acting like some twisted kind of collar. Phantom doesn't even flinch.

Ember's guitar, on the other hand, reacts to the connection quite violently: it makes a high-pitched sound all on its own and then changes color from black and blue to white and green, with lightning bolts instead of flames for design. The girl's ponytail flares up higher as she softly murmurs in delight.

Then, she turns to the people around them and smirks, "Which way is the evil alien fleet?"

Flash wordlessly points his finger to the right and up. The girl nods in satisfaction, turning in the air so her guitar is facing that way.

"You might want to cover your ears," Phantom advises, a sly smile on his face and a glimmer of anticipation to his eyes. John Constantine follows that direction immediately, and, taking his move as the best course of action, the other heroes follow as well. Except Batman, who only narrows his eyes and looks at both teens in the air apprehensively. Phantom shrugs, "Or don't, I don't hold any responsibility for your shattered eardrums."

"Pick up where we left off, then," Ember tells him, and the boy blinks:

"Wait, I thought you'd just-"

[For some wholesome experience, put your headphones in and listen to 'KULT' by Jisaiah, grandson, and Steve Aoki]

But the girl has already started a tune, nodding her head to the rhythm of it and slowly picking up the pace. Phantom huffs, but doesn't protest any further, floating up as much as the cords allow him and spinning a drumstick in his hand.

"Maybe I should join a cult

At least they'll tell me it's not my fault

That the world's a fucking circus

That my life feels fucking worthless," he spits the words out with a sneer, slowly rotating in the air until he is hanging upside down. His eyes are closed, and his voice becomes more and more staticky with every new sound. The volume of Ember's guitar gets up, higher and higher, until the walls and the floor of the room around them start to vibrate.

Then, Ember's voice joins Phantom's, and the boy brings his drumsticks down on thin air, mimicking the moves. Only, even with the actual drums not there, the air around him ripples like they are, and they all can hear the beat.

"Maybe I should join a cult

At least they'll tell me it's not my fault

When it all comes crashing down

We'll see who's laughing," both kids pause, just for a beat, and Ember uses that split second to spin the volume knob to the max before strumming her guitar in one wide, sharp move.

"NOW!"

The sound wave is not only palpable, it's visible. A wave of toxic green ripples through the air, knocking everyone present - sans the two kids in the air - to the ground, and goes beyond. The screens on the walls flicker and turn off, sending sparks in the air, and the comms give off loud, screeching noises, and-

The following silence feels almost deafening.

Batman, unsurprisingly, is the first one to stand back on his feet and see a few of the screens come back online.

Just in time to see that same green wave of... sound? energy? power?.. decimate the entire fleet like a wet cloth over a chalkboard. One moment, the spaceships were there, and the next they are gone, wiped out of existence.

Ember laughs, leaning back and almost doing a backflip in the air.

"That was nice, dipshit!" She shoves Phantom in the shoulder, and the boy snorts, plucking the cords out of his skin and grinning.

"Yeah," he agrees with a smile, not even looking at the screens around, "Maybe we should try rehearsing in space next time. Sing to the stars and all that crap."

"Sing to the stars?" Ember raises her eyebrows mockingly as the rest of the heroes scramble to their feet, bemoaning their ringing ears. "Na-ah," she clicks her tongue and turns to Batman, "You still up for paying for our studio?"

The man just grunts in a semblance of affirmation.

"Sweet," the girl grins and offers Phantom a hand for a high five, which he returns instantly. "Cheers to the world being saved once again!"

The boy just rolls his eyes and turns to Constantine, "Next time, be a dear and text me before summoning, or I'm going to sell your soul to Morpheus, and who knows what he'll do with you."

John Constantine grimaces. "I did," he offers grudgingly.

But both unearthly teenagers are already gone without a trace.

[Edit: I want everyone to know there's ART now!!!]

[Edit 2: There's more art!!!]

4K notes · View notes

meowdei · 6 months ago

Text

i adore you (can’t you see you’re meant for me?) — ft. sylus

sylus likes to sleep late in the mornings, and you like to admire him. the two are just a series of steps that bring you to where you are now: on top of him

word count. ❤︎ 4.7k words — it’s literally all pure filth with no plot idk what to say atp

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; established relationship ; sleepy sylus ; banter and teasing ; reader rides his abs (do not look at me) ; praise kink (it goes both ways tbh) ; blow jobs ; cum eating ; reader has an obsession with his veins (it is her not me okay?) ; sylus wraps his hand around her throat (but no choking) ; body worship + one clit kiss ; nipple play ; morning sex ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; do not be fooled it is all pretty soft i promise

commentary. ❤︎ i am new to this game and i haven’t gotten too far go easy on me for this one :( i dedicate this to all my sylus loving nonnies in my inbox thanks for helping me figure out this game LOL. and kass. ily kass

Sylus sleeps more when the sun is out than when it’s not. You don’t mind it so much—not when the view is what it is.

(He’s pretty, and so is the sun. The two combined make for an even prettier picture. You think, if you weigh your options, there are certainly worse things out there than sitting beside your sleeping boyfriend and waiting for him to wake up.)

It’s hard to keep your hands to yourself, though. His hair is too tempting not to brush away from his face. And while your hand is right there, it’s a little impossible not to cup his cheek for a moment. And, well, if you’re already touching him, you might as well let your hand slide down to his chest and rub circles against the skin. He leans into your touch subconsciously anyway—it’s not hurting him. It’s helping.

(You like telling yourself plenty of things to justify your hand and his skin having an early morning rendezvous.)

“Bored, sweetie?” His voice is always deeper when laced with sleep than it usually tends to be. You stiffen, moving to pull your hand away, an apology already prepared on your lips for waking him when he catches your wrist, eyes still closed. “I didn’t say to stop, did I?”

“You’re ridiculous,” you huff, letting him guide your hand back to his bare chest. It rises and falls slowly, so warm and firm under your palm that it’s a little dizzying.

“Am I?” He cracks an eye open, “I was just enjoying a little tenderness. I wonder why I can’t ever seem to receive something so sweet when I’m awake.”

“Precisely this reason,” you say flatly. He raises a smug brow. Just to humor him, you add, “Your ego can’t handle it when you’re awake.”

“What, that you find me too irresistible not to touch?”

“Sylus, go back to sleep,” you grumble, shuffling away from him with a face that feels unbearably hot under his half-lidded gaze. “You’re easier to get along with that way.”

“I don’t know,” he all but purrs. In a swift motion—swift enough that you let out a shrill squeal—his hand tugs at your arm and pulls you close enough that he can hoist your body to sit on his lower belly. “We get along pretty well when we’re wide awake, don’t you think?”

His hand hikes up your (well, technically his) shirt and rests on your hip, nothing but the thin fabric of your panties separating you from him as you’re seated on top of him. You shiver lightly when his thumb caresses your hip bone, a satisfied hum pulling from his throat at the feeling of goosebumps rising against your skin.

“Sylus,” you breathe, squirming over him—but you can’t say much else because you cut yourself off with a soft gasp when you hear the distinct sound of something tearing.

Fabric.

More specifically, your fabric. Your underwear—which was a rather nice pair too, you think woefully—is torn into two pieces, one held in Sylus’s hand like some form of victory, while the other falls against his belly with nothing holding it together around your hips.

You blink. He gives you a large Cheshire grin.

“Sorry, sweetie,” he says, not so apologetically, “They were just in the way.”

“I liked those!” You hiss, glaring at him, “They were nice!”

“What, you don’t think I can buy you more? I could buy them faster than I could rip them, I’m sure.”

You have your doubts about that last part—but it’s still persuasive enough that you’re no longer as mad as you were just a moment ago. But you’re still petulant, pouting as you huff, “You ruin everything.”

“Mmh,” he hums, closing his eyes, voice still a low drawl from sleep as he says, “Are you sure? Because I can feel you dripping already, sweetheart.”

Shame floods your system quickly, but lust is faster. Stronger, too, perhaps—because you don’t have it in you to be ashamed for too long before you grow impatient. With a deeper pout, you press your hands against his chest, leaning lower until your mouth hovers over his.

“Can you blame me?” You breathe against his lips. “Just look at you.”

He stiffens. Just barely, of course. Just enough that you can hardly even detect it, but you do. You do because you know him. And you know that when Sylus teases, it’s really just to deflect from his need to shift the attention to yours—like he doesn’t want you just as bad. Like he’s not just as hard as you are wet in his boxers. Like he doesn’t need to feel you just as badly as you need to feel him.

But he likes to keep the upper hand. It starts with two hands on your hips, firmly squeezing them before slowly rocking them against his abs. Your bare cunt (courtesy of him destroying a perfectly good pair of panties) glides along the ridges and indents of his muscle. Very well-defined ridges and indents of muscle, too. You tense, letting out a shaky gasp as your clit rubs against his hard-planed physique.

“If you like it so much, why stop at just a look?” He chuckles, “You’re more than welcome to feel, too, sweetheart.”

He’s so sickeningly proud of himself, you can’t help but think bitterly as soon as your hips start grinding against him of their own accord. He’s so pleased and amused and deeply content with the sight of you falling apart over him. His eyes are hungry, and they don’t stray away from you for a single second. They don’t miss a single twist in your expression, nor do they have the decency not to stare shamelessly at the image of where your pussy meets his midsection, where your slick pools and coats his skin and makes it glisten as you make a mess on him.

He hums, large hands leaving your waist buried in their frames as they guide you at a slow, steady pace. “Bet that feels good, doesn’t it?” He grins—and oh, he’s aggravatingly happy as he laughs breathlessly, “You look like you’re about to fall apart. Don’t worry, I’m right here. You can’t fall far.”

You would say something smart if you could. Maybe even reach back and palm over his crotch that’s rudely tight against his boxers. But you can’t. Not when your clit rubs against his warm, heated skin and leaves jolts along your spine. All you can manage is a pathetic, “S-Sylus, please—”

“Oh? Please what? Please more?” He coos.

Something of a dull ache builds into this deep, throbbing need to feel your walls hug around something. To constrict around and latch onto something warm and big and full—something like him. Something like the way he fucks you into the mattress and makes you feel like he’s so deep in you, you can feel him in your throat.

That’s what you want—but of course, you’re naive if you think that’s what he’ll give. For now, at least. For now, he’ll tease, and tease, and tease until he can watch you crumble just the way he wants to witness. And you’re close to that, too—you know it, and so does he. He can tell by the way your wetness drips onto him in a messy pool, making your cunt drag against him easier, smoother. He can tell because he can all but feel the quiver of your walls clenching around nothing, empty and desperate for some sort of building friction. And he can especially tell because of your face—that devastating look on your face when you’re so close to the edge you can just practically cling to it with the tips of your fingers as it dangles teasingly in front of you.

“More,” you plead, “Want you. Want to feel you.”

“Oh, but you’re almost there,” he says in faux sympathy, soothing you with a sleepy, smug little grin. “Surely, you can take it just like this, can’t you? You’re better than that—I know you are.”

His words take you to the edge. You plummet off of it, in fact, practically collapsing against his chest as he holds you upright with a firm, strong grip and guides you through your orgasm. You gush around nothing, making a wet, sticky mess on his skin as you cum against him, grinding your clit as much as you can along every indent along his hard, built muscle.

“Sylus,” you whimper, “oh—f-fuck.” Your body quivers for a few more moments before you slump against him, burying your nose into his neck. “You’re despicable,” you bite the skin lightly.

He laughs. It’s low from the sleep that’s still clinging to his voice but boyish enough that your heart skips a beat. “Am I? You seemed to enjoy it.”

You shuffle to curl into him more, but your leg brushes against the bulge in his underwear—a small, barely-there sound pulls from his throat. Something caught between a gasp and a moan that makes you pause before you grin against the crook of his neck.

“Guess I should pay you back, hm?”

He watches, pupils dilated and eyes half-lidded as you pull away and kiss from his collarbone to his pecs. A rise of goosebumps litters his skin, too—just like they did on your skin earlier. You silently revel in that victory, making your way lower, lower, lower. But it’s painfully, obnoxiously, ridiculously slow.

“Don’t be a tease, sweetie,” he hisses, grunting as you kiss down his torso, the well-defined muscle of his abs flexing under every touch of your lips.

“Who, me?” You blink, batting your lashes sweetly, “Oh, I’d never, baby.”

Your lips graze over the skin that’s still marked with your essence as you kiss and suck along his torso, a trail of marks left in your wake and declaring him yours. You can taste yourself from just a few moments ago—the moments when you rocked your hips into him and fell apart, when he held you through it with a sleepy smirk. The image of his smug face makes you glance up at him with a flustered look, and almost as if he already knows, his gaze is on you. Waiting. Smug here in person just as much as he was in your memories.

“What a naughty thing,” he drawls, teasing glint in his eyes. “Did you get a taste of yourself? I’m sure now you have an idea of why I find it so…addictive, don’t you?”

He’s filthy. Cocky, too. And more often than not, he’s absurdly prepared with smart comments. Just to even the playing field a little, you decide he could use a little relentless teasing of his own.

“Oh, I can think of a thing or two just as addictive,” you smile innocently—and just like that, you lean in to kiss against a pale, blue line across his porcelain skin, pulling away to admire the veins that mark his body. Something in you aches for him all over again—something that you don’t like to admit happens from just the sight of something like his veins. But you pay careful attention to them anyway, leaning down and pressing soft, feather-like kisses against his lower belly, feeling him stiffen tightly underneath you as his breath gets labored and slightly erratic.

He’s impatient. You glance down at him, cock hard and strained against his boxers, the beginnings of a wet patch dampening the skin from pre cum dribbling from his tip. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

“Don’t you ever get tired of your games?” He grits, involuntarily twitching his hips to chase some friction.

“I could ask you the same question,” you snort.

“Yet, it seems I’m always the one spoiling you,” he retorts.

There’s some bit of merit to that, you suppose. So you give in, humming as you kiss along his v-line, one finger looping under his waistband while giving a small tug downwards. He lifts his hips instantly, letting you pull off the offensive piece of clothing that separates him from your touch.

It’s flushed, his cock. Swollen, flushed with a pretty rosy shade at the tip, and glistening with leaking pre cum. You lean and give the thick vein along the underside a series of kisses tracing upwards before pressing a delicate one to his tip. He groans, and his cock twitches at the contact, his eyes fluttering closed as he bites his lip.

“Pretty,” you observe, smiling softly at the sight of him.

He scoffs, lips almost a pout as they curl into a frown. “Then do something about it,” he insists.

You think you’ve sufficiently teased him enough, so you do—you take him into your mouth slowly, inch by inch, as your tongue and the wet heat of your mouth envelop him and make him tense for a moment before his body goes slack. A deep, throaty groan rings through the room, the sound making something do a flip in your lower belly.

“Fuck,” he whispers, breathing heavily. “You…you’re so good at this.”

The praise does something to you that you’re not proud of. Some flash of an ache deep in your core that you don’t want to focus on, so you pay closer attention to him instead. Your tongue swirls over his tip as your head bobs up, tracing down that pretty vein of his as you take him down your throat once more. What you can’t fit in your mouth—because there is enough of him that you can’t fit in your mouth—you pump with your fist, wrapped around the base of his shaft.

Sylus has a lot of veins. You admire them long enough to know them all by heart. The ones along his hands that you love to trace when you hold them in yours. The ones along his arm that you love to eye when he’s working out. The ones along his abdomen that you trace every once in a while with the tip of your finger when you have him to yourself in private. And the long, pretty one along this inner thigh—the one you see only when you’re like this: between his spread-out legs with your mouth around his cock.

Your free hand moves to lay over this thigh, gently rubbing into the skin as if to anchor him as he throws his head back and groans. Your eyes are trained on him, staring up at the twists of pleasure in his expression and the crinkles in his eyes as he closes them tightly and moans. But you don’t have to look at your hand to know your thumb is tracing along that vein. You know it better than you know yourself, you think—his body is so easy to memorize. So easy to get to know and keep ingrained in your brain forever.

His thigh flexes under your touch, and you hum around him, the vibrations around his length making his breath hitch as he curses under his breath.

You pull away with nothing but a string of saliva connecting you to him, his eyes glancing down at you sharply for the interruption. But you smile, equal parts soft and equal parts smug. Gently, you press a wet kiss to his thigh, right over the same pale blue line you traced just moments ago, as you murmur, “You’re so pretty. You know that?”

“I’m flattered,” he says tightly, warily staring down at you with hungry, desperate eyes. “I’m sure you can save the flattery for later, though, can’t you?”

“But what if you think I’m just using you for your body?” You gasp dramatically, “Can’t have that, you know. I have to appreciate you more.”

“Teasing can easily be reciprocated, you know, sweetheart,” he grits, “Or have you forgotten that so quickly?”

“Oh, I’m aware. I’ll take my chances.” Your lips trail up his thigh until it reaches the base of his cock. You press another kiss against it, murmuring a quiet, “I love you.”

His cock twitches—it’s like it responds to every soft word of affection and every littlest bit of praise. For all the denying and for all the impatience, too, Sylus loves the attention. Thrives under it, even—it does something to his ego that you know you probably shouldn’t help stroke, but you can’t help it.

You press one more kiss to his swollen tip before murmuring, “Mine,” and then you take him down your throat once more—faster this time. Your head bobs up and down his length, lips wrapped around him as you swallow every now and then.

His hand flies to his hair, tugging at the soft, silvery strands as he groans deeply, hips pushing up to meet your pace and thrust deeper into your mouth.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses, “Just like that, sweetheart—shit.”

He spills down your throat not too long after. Warm, sticky ropes of cum that paint your mouth with every twitch of his cock, filling you enough that some spills from the corner of your mouth, dripping along your face and collecting at your chin. You swallow what you can, working him through his orgasm, listening to the sweet, lust-hazed sounds he makes as pleasure burns through every nerve of his body.

He slumps back when he’s finished, panting with an arm over his eyes while you wipe your chin and swallow before climbing up his body and slumping on top of him. He wraps an arm around your waist instantly, humming lowly as his large, warm hand rubs into your lower back.

“Had your fun?” He raises a brow.

You grin cheekily, kissing his jaw as you murmur, “I think you had more fun than me, but what do I know?”

He chuckles. It’s low, and the sound vibrates through his chest so that you can feel it under you. There’s a small bead of sweat along his temple, and his face is flushed a soft shade of scarlet that you admire—it brings out the deep crimson of his eyes even more from here.

“You’re so pretty,” you whisper.

“How many times will you remind me of that?” He asks, bringing a hand to your chin, tilting your face up, and inspecting you carefully. “You’re making me feel bad. I haven’t reminded you how stunning you are nearly enough times.”

“You could always start now,” you wink, “It’s never too late.” He laughs again. Deep, genuine, soft. Sylus is a lot of things. You think your favorite is in love.

“Do I really have to remind you?” He whispers, voice husky as he slowly shifts your body to lay under his, flipping you over as he hovers over you. “You don’t already know how beautiful you are—how you drive me insane?”

“A reminder wouldn’t hurt,” you blink innocently. “What if you’re secretly getting tired of me?”

His eyes flash with something dangerous at that. You only meant it as a joke, of course—he loves deeply. So deeply, you don’t think you’d escape him even if you wanted to. (Not that you do, of course. You’re quite happy knowing your place is beside him.) You know he’s never tired of you—quite the opposite, in fact.

But you like teasing him. Getting under his skin enough that his hand moves to your throat and wraps around it firmly—not quite tight enough to block your air flow, but enough to serve as a light warning.

“You think I would get tired of you?” He challenges. Offended. In disbelief. “Tired of this?”

Just like that, the familiar sound of fabric tearing rings through your ears again. It’s a sound you seem to be getting more and more used to the longer you date Sylus. And yet, every time, it pulls the same sound of disbelief from your throat as you gasp at his audacity. But before you can speak, before you can scold him for ripping your (his) favorite shirt straight off of your body, his hands curve around your tits, molding against them perfectly as if they were made to cup them. His thumbs roll over your nipples, humming in approval as you whine softly at the feeling.

“Sylus,” you pant. (Regretfully, you think that’s the only collection of syllables you can manage anymore on this fine morning.) “W-wait—”

“Wait?” He pretends to gasp in shock, “But we’re just getting started. I was just about to show you all my favorite parts of you—they never get old. Would you like to see?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he leans down, latching his lips around one pebbled nipple, sucking and nipping lightly at it as his thumb rolls over and pinches the other one. Your back arches into his touch, a soft moan spilling from your lips as he grins against your chest.

“Here’s a favorite, for starters,” he murmurs. “And here—” he kisses along your belly and makes his way to your hip bone, biting lightly at the flesh and making your breath hitch, “—this is certainly a memorable place too, isn’t it? Can’t keep my hands off of it.”

Finally, his hands slowly pull your legs apart, exposing the wet, dripping mess that is your cunt, folds puffy and waiting for him. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your clit, smiling at the small whimper you let out from the sensitive touch before he says through a low, breathy whisper, “This, however…this has to be my favorite part of all.”

“Okay,” you whine, pulling at his arms with a plea, “I get it, okay? I need it, please.”

“Well then,” he huffs out a soft laugh, “Who am I to deny?”

He’s level with you before you can blink—mouth on yours with a heavy, heated kiss that sends your brain into a fogged state as you kiss back. All you can register is soft flesh, pressure against your mouth, the taste of his tongue on yours, and hot and heavy breath seeping into your lungs while he inhales yours. It’s slow, the way he kisses you—but still undeniably needy. He chases after your mouth as soon as you pull away to breathe, a soft gasp pushing past his throat at the loss of contact. As if it might kill him. As if he might die without your breath down his throat, keeping him alive.

“Do you want it, sweetheart?” He breathes erratically, “Because I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

“I want it,” you practically beg, “I want you.”

He’s hard again—stiff between his legs and throbbing at your words enough that his cock does a little jerk on its own, like it’s responding to you itself. He drags it along your entrance, rolling slow circles against your folds and coating his tip in your slick, earning a sharp inhale from you as he groans at the teasing friction against the head of his cock.

“I always want you,” he breathes.

He pushes past your folds as he speaks the words against your mouth, letting you swallow up the low moan he lets out as your walls wrap around him little by little. It’s painstakingly slow. Inch after inch after inch until the blunt head of his length presses deep into you, nudging against a soft, sensitive spot in your walls that makes your whole body react with a quiver. He curves into you perfectly, thick and deep and so, so full.

“Ready?” He smiles tenderly, gripping the fat of your thighs and hooking them around his waist, leaning to kiss one of your knees as you melt into the mattress and nod.

“Please,” you whine, “Need it—need you.”

There’s a sharp thrust of his hips at that—he pulls out until he’s almost completely left your warm cunt before slamming back in past your folds, pressing mercilessly against your sensitive spot. It’s partly because he has your body memorized but mainly because his body is practically made to mold into you. It’s like he fits you perfectly, curves into the shape of your body like the shape of his was hand-made to pair with yours.

When Sylus fucks you is when you see past his exterior the most. When his eyes hold the most emotion, staring at you like he can’t believe you’re his. When his hands shake for once because he doesn’t know if he deserves the weight of you in his hold. When his breath is the most labored and uncontrolled because you steal every breath from his lungs, and selflessly, he gives up air for you. When sweat coats his skin and makes his hair cling to his forehead because when he loves you is when his body is most responsive, most affected.

When Sylus fucks you is when you love yourself most. Because how could you not when he pays such close attention to you? Thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles just the way he knows drives you crazy, watching your face closely for every reaction? How could you not when close is not nearly close enough, when he presses his chest against yours and buries his face into your neck to all but melt under your skin? It makes you feel desirable. Beautiful. Lovable.

So easy to want.

So easy to lose control to.

So easy to need.

“You feel that, don’t you?” He mumbles, panting harshly as he grunts when you squeeze around him at the sound of his labored voice. “Feel me? How badly I need you? How crazy you drive me? Feel how hard I am for you? Don’t tell me you think I’d ever get tired of that.”

“I know,” you whine, “I know, I know, baby—I promise.”

You let out a small squeal when he angles your leg higher, thrusting deeper into your cunt, pressing harshly where you need him most with his tip in a dizzyingly punishing pace and a harshly rough deepness that makes your vision blur. Almost go blank, even.

“Tell me you love me,” he demands.

“I love you!”

“Tell me you need me,” he adds, so selfish and needy for your approval. To know you’re nothing without him like he’s nothing without you.

“N-need…fuck, I need you,” you stumble over your words as your orgasm comes closer and closer, creeping up on you enough that you can’t catch your breath fast enough to keep up with him.

“Tell me you’re mine.” This time, it comes out as almost a plea.

“Yours,” you sob, body on the precipice of breaking all over again, “Yours, yours, yours.”

You cum as soon as you say it. Harder than maybe ever—it’s like being reminded that you’re his makes your body react tenfold. You fall apart with a shrill cry of his name, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a bruising kiss as your nails press indents into his skin.

He groans in pleasure at the slight pain, melting against your lips, an open-mouthed, wet kiss working him up to his own orgasm. His first one was a slow build-up—but this one happens quickly, coming out of nowhere and hitting him full force, his hips stuttering for a moment and losing rhythm as he sloppily thrusts into you.

Yours. Yours. Yours.

Your voice rings in his ears, aiding him through his pleasure as he fucks his thick, sticky release deep into your folds, sharp thrusts that match the harsh twitching of his cock.

“Ngh,” he grunts, “Sh-shit, sweetheart.”

Finally, when you’re both done, breaths frenzied and harsh as you try to make up for the lost air in your lungs, he slumps over your body and hides his face into the crook of your neck, practically purring as your shaky hand buries into his sweaty locks and strokes the soft, silvery strands.

It’s quiet, just the sound of your breathing eventually shifting from heavy to slowed as you finally catch it, the quivering of your body dissipating, too. Your fingers journey their way from his scalp to the back of his neck, lightly making a feather-soft trail along his bare back as he shivers from the touch.

“Don’t fall asleep after I showed you a good time,” you pout, “It’s rude.”

“You were the one that woke me for a good time,” he mumbles, amused. “That’s equally as rude.”

“I did not,” you huff, “You were the one who escalated it. I just wanted a peaceful morning.”

“I don’t know,” he grins against your skin, pressing a chaste, warm peck where it's closest to his lips, “I’m feeling pretty at peace, wouldn’t you agree?”

so uh..........basically i got the card where u measured him for clothes and i saw a vein in his abs and lost my mind. so. here is the product of that. i REFUSE to be told this is not a completely totally normal reaction. thank you!

#meowdei.writing #meowdei.longfics #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #sylus x you #sylus x y/n #sylus smut #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace x reader #lds x reader #lads x reader #l&ds x reader #lnds x reader #love and deepspace smut #lds smut #lads smut #l&ds smut #lnds smut #l&ds sylus

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honey-tongued-devil · 7 months ago

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[Arcane preference] reacting to a s/o falling asleep on their lap

The reason I have to post requests like this is because, for some reason, if I post them as Tumblr requests, I can’t find them again when I search for them. Making the masterlist was a real struggle. As usual, I’m using the headcanon to promote my longfic on Arcane, Everytime It Rains.

Jayce:

It often happens when he spends the evening working instead of giving you attention.

You know he doesn’t mean it in a bad way, so you settle for climbing onto his lap, letting your limbs dangle, and resting your face against his chest.

He stays focused on studying the documents in front of him, but one hand holds your head steady to keep you from losing your balance.

He strokes your hair absentmindedly.

When he notices you’ve fallen asleep, he feels a warmth, a tender sort of affection. He doesn’t want to wake you but wishes he had something to drape over your shoulders.

After a while, it becomes his signal that he’s pushed himself too far with work.

That’s the moment when he lifts your face to kiss you before carrying you to bed.

Viktor:

The classic "working on the couch" position, where you first sit next to him to avoid disturbing him, then drape one leg over his lap, and eventually both. By the end of the evening, you’re fully curled up in his arms.

He holds your side, resting his cheek against your head while continuing to read his notes, basking in the warmth of that shared intimacy.

He asks you several times if you’re tired, and when you don’t respond, he smiles softly, realizing exhaustion has won you over.

He pulls the blanket up to cover you both, and even when you grumble in annoyance at his movements, he chuckles and just says, “Just a second”

He works for another couple of hours but never stops stroking your side or giving you small kisses on the forehead.

Ekko:

“Aw, someone’s sleepy here,” is the first thing he says when you take the overboard from his hands, and let yourself plop into his lap, already wrapped in a blanket like a cape.

He doesn’t even try to go back to what he was doing. Instead, he pulls you close, rubbing his face against yours, taking in your scent.

He loves it—maybe even more than cuddling lying down. He enjoys the weight, the shape of your body, and being able to cradle you.

Because of this, he doesn’t ask if you’d rather lie down; he stays put, ensuring your rest is protected.

It’s only when you’re fully asleep and start shifting to find a more comfortable position that he decides to carry you to bed, staying there with you afterward.

Vander:

I’ll be honest, would.

The underground city is freezing due to the lack of light that filters in, all the glass and steel radiating cold from the outside. That’s why there’s no place more comfortable than this man’s laps.

You usually do it when the bar is still closed, and only a few close friends are inside. When you know he isn’t on the defensive and you won’t slow him down.

He laughs, keeping one hand on your back to support you, and points out to anyone around him that it’s good for you to get a little rest.

If you stay asleep even after the bar opens, he’ll grab a chair and sit it beside him so he can take care of the larger tasks first and then return to you in his lap.

But if it’s the weekend, when things can easily heat up, he’ll delay opening just to get you to bed, give you a kiss, and apologize for leaving you alone.

Silco:

Can we normalize this man as a piece of furniture?

It’s not even about being tired or wanting attention, sometimes it’s just the comfort the situation itself provides.

The way the swivel chair rocks, the vinyl on the record player, the intense, greenish light pouring through the window, and enjoying his delicate fingers in your hair while the entire city stretches out beneath you.

He doesn’t ask why you do it, nor if you want to move. He assumes that if you wanted something different, you would simply ask, so he continues to give you those small attentions endlessly.

He keeps you on the side of his good eye, so he doesn’t have to turn his head to check on you, but can discreetly notice if your expression changes or if you fall asleep.

These are the moments when Sevika knows that no one is supposed to enter his office, so you can have a bit of peace.

Jinx:

She’s always busy, always active, always too loud. Sitting in her lap sometimes seems almost like a necessity to keep her still and focused on just one thing.

“Awwww, my little bug is sleepy?”

She hums while holding you in her arms, one hand still trying to get her projects done.

If too much time passes, she’ll bend her knees and push herself forward, making the swivel chair move in the direction she wants so she can stay occupied while talking to you about whatever crosses her mind.

If she feels your breathing change, that you’re falling asleep, she suddenly freezes, as if to let you rest.

She pulls you closer, caresses you, kisses your temples, and carries you to her little couch.

Vi:

If manhandling were a woman

When you sit on her lap, she treats you like you’re a cat: fine. It will end there.

Does she need to pee? No, she doesn’t anymore.

She can’t disturb you, or you might get up and leave.

But when it starts to become a constant, she’ll cover your back and simply hold you while she does what she needs to do.

If you complain, she’ll kiss you, apologizing and reassuring you that you’ll be back on the sofa soon, asking you to hang on.

She enjoys that closeness, your breath on her skin, the trust in that action.

The moment she sits back down or rests, she’ll shower you with cuddles, even if you’re asleep or pretending to be.

Caytlin:

She’s the one to ask if you want to sit in her lap, worried that she’s neglecting you.

She keeps you with her, even if you’re asleep, supporting you to make sure you don’t hurt yourself or lose your balance.

Her biggest fear is not being able to express how much she cares for you, how happy she is to have you there.

The quickest way she knows to do that is through physical contact—the reassuring, warm kind.

“How was your day?” she asks, giving you space to talk and feel seen. She doesn’t want the things she has to do to take away from you, from the two of you.

If she still feels like she’s ignoring you, she’ll ask you to sit on the couch with her to watch a movie, or maybe in bed, cuddled up, just being close.

Mel:

I recognize mommy issues when I see them, and so does she. You’ve been caught.

She welcomes you into her arms almost playfully, gently caressing your hands and arms, speaking softly with her head turned toward you.

She knows it’s the easiest way for you to ask for attention, and she simply accepts it, letting you rest either in her arms or with your head on her lap.

She talks to you about her day, her plans, her worries as if telling you a lullaby, letting you rest on her concerns, including you in her mind so that you don’t feel like a burden.

If you fall asleep, she rests her chin on your shoulder and closes her eyes as well, enjoying a few minutes of peace, trying to sync your breathing together.

Sevika:

You live on the lap of this woman.

When she adjusts her arm, when you eat something on the couch, even at the bar while she plays cards or drinks, you’re always there.

The safest place in the underground city is on the massive legs of a woman with a mechanical arm, and that’s a fact.

Her initial fear, especially in public, was that someone might associate you with her and harm you.

But over time, it’s almost become a flex -you, pretty thing, are hers,

Every now and then, she checks to see if you’re okay, if you want to go to bed, if you’re comfortable, and with her healthy hand, she caresses your cheek while doing so.

At home, she always makes sure to cover you, to keep you close.

She doesn’t even go to bed unless you ask, enjoying the feeling of your body against hers.

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mintfullyyours · 5 months ago

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I don't know where this falls in the time line of ex-husband!simon but he's been brewing in my mind and I love him so much. You can read the first part here: patching up exhusband!simon and as always thank you for reading!!

& lmk what you guys think about ex-husband!simon.

thinking about the night of your first date out while "single." You sigh, putting the car in park and resting your forehead against the steering wheel. Jeff. That was his name, right? He wasn’t a bad guy—asked the right questions, paid for dinner, had a steady job that kept him local. A fine first date. Predictable. Safe.

Then why did it feel so… empty?

Rubbing your temples, you tell yourself this is for the best. Stability. Normalcy. That’s what you need. What you deserve, too. Maybe, in time, you’d even believe it. Sliding your key into the door, you frown. It doesn’t click. A chill slithers down your spine as you push it open, your stomach knotting at the sight of the dim light bleeding into the hallway from your bedroom.

You already know who’s inside.

Your breath hitches as you swing the door open, and there he is—Simon, sitting on the edge of your bed, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward. The faint gleam of metal catches your eye. Your engagement ring. It rolls fluidly between his fingers, like a an awful habit he never broke.

His gaze lifts, pinning you in place.

"Took it off, did ya?" His voice is eerily calm, but there’s something coiled beneath it, something ready to snap. "Wonder if he knows you still wear my name."

Your stomach tightens. You take a good look at him—really look at him—and the past five months apart have not been kind. His beard is thicker, his jaw sharper, his frame even larger than you remember. Like he’s been drowning in something darker than loneliness.

"Simon, I’m not in the mood. You can't be in here, shouldn't be in here." Your voice is firm, though your chest heaves with the effort to keep it that way. "Just because you refuse to sign the papers doesn’t mean we’re still together."

A slow, humorless chuckle rumbles from his chest. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and lets the ring settle in his palm before closing his fingers around it.

"That’s where you’re wrong, love."

He stands, and in an instant, he’s in front of you, so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body. His scent—familiar, overwhelming—wraps around you like a pretty string tied in a bow.

His hand trails up your arm, slow, deliberate, until his fingers ghost over your pulse. His eyes drop to your lips, then flick back up, dark and unreadable. The silence was deafening. It was as if he knew the power he still had over you, or at least your body. Simon wedges his muscular thigh between your legs, and your hips buck ever so slightly.

You whimper and he smirks, knowing your body would never betray his.

"You think a piece of paper makes you any less mine?" His grip tightens, not enough to hurt—but enough to remind you just how easy it would be.

"Any less of a Riley?"

You swallow hard. He leans in, lips a breath away from your ear.

"Tell me, dove— and he honest, because you know I hate liars, did he make you feel anything at all?"

tag list

@ebodebo @meheheasasa @thegirlintheshadows101

#ghost/reader #ghost x reader #ghost #cod x reader #cod x y/n #cod x you #simon riley x reader #mintfullywrites #thanks for reading #remember #toxic men in fics only!!

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bbokicidal · 9 months ago

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[REUPLOAD] skz + head [giving + receiving]

warnings : oral, obviously.

notes : if they prefer receiving or giving head, how they do it, etc!! a reupload from my old blog !!

chris : prefers giving

eats that pussy like it's his last fucking meal. gently, of course. but he's 100% going to be fucking his tongue into you until you're almost crying. it'll be the most blissful thing you've ever felt - and part of you prefers his mouth to his cock just because of how much passion he puts into it. of course, sex in general is great with him. he's just the type to put his full attention into making you feel good when he's got your hips pinned against the bed and his head is stuffed between your legs.

loves it when you suck his cock. his favorite place to have you do it is the studio, because he knows if he asks nicely you'll come running to him after a long day of working and you'll sit right under the desk while he works. it eases him, relaxes him some. he still may not sleep a whole lot those nights but he's feeling a lot better by the next day - especially if you wake him up with some banger head, too. (also the type to hold the back of your head and force your nose to his pelvis a few times just to feel your throat oops.)

minho : prefers receiving

he definitely likes eating you out. he's the type to like, sit up on his knees and drag your lower half up with him though, your shoulders pushed into the bed and neck cramping. the pain mixed with the pleasure from his tongue is perfect, either way. he loves seeing you unable to squirm, dark eyes staring down at you, lidded and warm with lust as you make a mess of his mouth.

he loooooves when you give him head though. give him head? let him use your head. he'll let you start off at your own pace while he sits on the couch and scrolls on his phone, one hand keeping your hair out of your face so you're comfortable. but it always, always ends with him fucking into your mouth and throat and holding your head with both hands to keep you still. he thrives off the wet noises that come from you.

changbin : prefers receiving

will absolutely wake you up by eating you out - with your explicit consent prior, of course. he adores waking up early mornings and seeing you all curled up and squirming because of a dream about him. he loves rolling you onto your back and letting you wake up to see him under the blankets, hands splayed over the soft warmth of your sides before one trails down to let his thumb brush over your clit. he's so gentle when he eats you out - he's there to worship, baby.

will melt when you give him head. will literally pool in his studio chair when you sit on the coffee table and lean in to take him in your mouth. his head'll drop back, he'll let his hands grip at the arms of the chair. he'll refuse to touch you because he knows you'll ruin him the way you want on your own. it's gold to see, truly. his ears getting all pink. ugh. he's a sucker for your mouth.

i'm also a firm believer that binnie shoots fucking ropes, so take that as you will. (will fill your throat with cum, absolutely.)

hyunjin : prefers giving

he thinks you're like the most beautiful piece of art on earth. you're so gorgeous when you're squirming and writhing on the dressing room couch, hips perched up on the arm of the sofa while he kneels nearby and buries his face in your pussy. he's weak for you, absolutely - so desperately weak. he loves hearing your sounds for him. he loves the idea of the others hearing you from the locked dressing room - he loves the idea of someone walking in and joining. yeah, he just wants them to see how he gets you whining.

not a huge fan of receiving head just because he'd much, much rather be eating you out instead. he thinks you're too pretty to be on your knees, but when you are you can bet he will absolutely be looking down at you with his hair falling over his eyes and sticking to his face. motherfucker is gonna be dripping sweat just from the way you make him feel.

jisung : prefers giving

lazy eater. not bad, by any means - just lazy. he likes to lay between your legs while the two of you are lounging watching a movie (probably HMC.) and just casually eat you out. you won't be squirming or whining or gasping for breath - you'll just be smiling, moaning here and there and combing your hand through his hair while his tongue slips over your folds just the way you like. he'll let his thumbs massage over your clit as his hands rest on your hips, breathing heavy and big eyes focused on the television. he just likes doing it so casually, but there's always a massive wet spot on the sofa after because he'll sit there for hours just doing it and letting spit drop.

another one who doesn't really like making you get on your knees for him - but the occasional blowjob won't upset him. he likes when you have him squirming in bed, holding his thighs open so he doesn't close them on your shoulders or choke you out - not that you'd complain about dying there. he's the type to get reaaaal loud and whimpery.

felix : prefers giving

messy, messy boy. i have a feeling he's the type to spit on your pussy and then lick it up or push it into you with his tongue, and he's the type to get you to squirt. he will not stop until you're making an absolute mess of your bedsheets, but he will of course take care of it all after and make sure you're comfortable immediately. he's the type to leave bruises on your hips from his rings digging in.

likes head every so often - another one, i know i know, who doesn't prefer it but doesn't mind. he's pretty casual about it, rocking his hips into your mouth and breathing hard when you take him into your throat. he likes to cum on your face, rather than in your mouth - because again, he likes the mess, and likes the image of you with his cum just painting your pink cheeks and puffy lips.

seungmin : prefers receiving

another one who just eats that pussy like it's his last meal. he prefers you giving him head instead but he's going to make this shit good, holding you down and sucking on your clit until you're actually crying. he's a bit mean in bed, slapping your ass and maybe even spanking your pussy when you get too wiggly on the bed.

is all too casual, sort of like minho. he'll sit there and just comb your hair back, let you lay on the sofa with your feet kicking while you keep him in your mouth. you're comfortable, he's comfortable - he's also taking a few short videos to send to the groupchat so the others know why he's a little late to practice. you're his main priority and he prefers being with you anyways. but yes, he's definitely got at least 30 different videos in an album of you sucking his cock in multiple locations.

jeongin : prefers giving

mo. ther. fucker. the ONLY one out of the boys to use his fingers when he eats you out - deserves to be in the hall of fame. have you seen his hands?? (guilty, oops.) he will absolutely be pushing two fingers into your cunt while he eats you out, sucking and nibbling and licking long stripes over your slit and clit until you're whining loud. he'll only eat you out in his bedroom - because he loves rubbing it in his hyung's faces that he can make you feel this way.

will only let you give him head IF you're in the car. roadhead. he figured out he reaaaaally liked it after you offered it up once when he got his license. he absolutely said yes, and at first was a bit shaky but now he's a pro at keeping a straight face. one hand'll be holding your hair back while the other grips at the wheel tight, white-knuckled and chewing on the inside of his lip as he drives. if you ask really nicely, he'll even let you do it while seungmin is in the backseat.

Taglist : @dwaekkicidal @jabmastersurpriseee @possum-playground @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie @vanillacupcakefrosting

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faestunna · 2 months ago

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remmick breeding kink :)

can you handle it?

PAIRING: remmick x fem!reader

WC: 829

WARNINGS: smut (18+), p in v, rough sex/pure porn with no plot, dom/sub vibes, slight size kink, dirty talk, creampie

A/N: anddddd my seat is wet thank you anon! thinking about this concept all day everyday cus remmick is a filthy little freak and i need him so bad

masterlist

likes, reblogs, and comments are always and greatly appreciated!

Your head leans back against the wall as your eyes squeeze shut, lips falling open just enough for him to see the point of your teeth.

“Just like that, darlin’,” Remmick cooes, holding back a moan. He moves his eyes down to where the two of you connected. About half of his length was hidden inside of you. “Christ, that’s good.” The other half was the only thing keeping his hips from fully pressing against yours.

When you were a little girl, you’d been told to never speak the Lord’s name in vain; the preacher hadn’t said anything about speaking it in pleasure.

For as long as you’d known Remmick, pleasure was all he seemed to know. You’d miss him for a month or so—a time during which your life was ever so drab—until he came lurking around your cottage again. All it took was one “Come inside” and Remmick knew you were his.

That and the way you managed to grip him the same every time he fucked you. “Miss me, honey?” He asks while maintaining the merciless speed of his hips.

You nod rapidly, nose crinkled and hands gripping the table below you. He couldn’t have even waited to get you into the bedroom to have his way with you. Remmick was a man who got what he wanted, and you were the girl who gave it to him.

“M-missed you so bad,” you stutter out. He was stronger than you—a lot—to the point where if you tried to move yourself or switch positions, he’d press your hips down, leaving bruises on the skin.

“I bet so, baby.” It’s unfair, really. Here you are, a trembling, sobbing mess with him between your legs, and he manages to pound into you like it’s nothing. Don’t be fooled—it’s one of the most heavenly things Remmick has felt. He grabs your face by your cheeks and leans in half way, pulling you to him. “Tell you what,” he whispers. “What if you don’t have to miss me no more?”

You peek your eyes open and look at him through heavy eyelids. “W-,” You’re cut off by a moan. “What?”

He angles his hips a certain way so you can feel the tip of him hitting a new spot inside you. As your toes curled, Remmick grinned. “I’ll leave a little piece of me with you. That way,” he caresses your chin with his thumb. His other hand acts as a weight on your stomach. “You won’t miss me when I’m gone. How’s that sound, darlin’?”

It only takes your foggy mind a second to process what he says, and you immediately nod your head. “Please,” you gripped onto his arms.

“I think you need it, honey,” he almost chuckles, and if you weren’t distracted by the warmth building up between your legs, you would’ve scolded him. You could feel every inch of him that drew in and out of you, kissing your cervix so gently but enough that your legs wrapped around him.

A devilish glare overcame your eyes. “I need it,” you confirm, taking his thumb from your chin in between your lips. Remmick’s jaw drops slack as he lets out a soft groan. His pace somehow quickens, leaving you whimpering around his digit.

“Oh, I knew you’d let me fuck you like this,” he says while his movements turn rougher. They’re ragged and sharp, and (from experience) you know he’s just as close as you are. “A sweet girl like you needs someone to take care of her like this. I know you can handle yourself…wasn’t sure if you could handle me.”

Your lips part open and he drops his hand. “Now,” he says into your ear with a small smirk. “I’m wondering if you can handle more.”

His forehead presses against yours. Your body nearly bounces with every snap of hips. There’s still a glorious sensation of yourself stretching open for him. Letting him in. Your legs twist around his frame as if begging him to fill you up with his promise.

When you finish, you crash. It’s a series of both of yours’ high-pitched moans and throaty groans, the feeling of a warmth spurting into you. “That’s it, darlin’, take it all. Every drop of me.” Remmick cooes as your chest rises and falls with desperate breaths. He doesn’t move out of you. His length, still unbelievably hard, plugs you to keep any of his release from dripping out.

A sheer layer of sweat creates a glisten over your face. You smile in a tired pleasure. “Gonna have a piece of you with me forever.” You say, taking his hand and placing it back over your lower stomach.

Remmick nods, rubbing the skin like he’s never felt something so soft. And as he moves forward to place a kiss on your lips—a perfect mixture of gentle and rough—he accidentally pushes himself even deeper into you.

A small moan escapes your throat…and he smirks into the kiss.

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moyazaika · 3 months ago

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housewife syndrome

yandere! rockstar x fem! reader

cw; possessive + obsessive behaviour, severe mental instability, paranoia, anxiety, violence, heavy nsfw themes, mdni 18+

genie's notes; commissioned piece by a very sweet anon ♡ thank you so much for trusting me with this absolutely stunning idea. i’ve always been a fan of domestic horror, especially of the spiralling housewife variety, so it was fun to explore a new dynamic and fresh writing style. <3

"welcome home, sweetheart!" the television runs on low volume in the background as you greet your husband with a knowing smile. you run through the motions as you always do, make sure to ask with the most innocence you can muster, "how was your day?"

feroze can make out the sound of gallant applause that indicates you'd been watching reruns of last night's award ceremony.

"such a fucking drag." your husband pulls you into his arms, buries his head into the crook of your neck with a long, satisfied sigh and takes his sweet, sweet time to breathe you in. "couldn't fucking wait to come home to you, meri jaan."

his answer remains the same as it is every other day, and you can't help but smile against his lips when he pulls you in to steal a little kiss; you sigh into his mouth, and feroze is so fucking overwhelmed by gratitude for the familiarity and comfort of this little routine the two of you have seemed to settle down into so well.

"i love when you call me that," you confess; my life.

you know just as well as him that, well—it wasn't always this easy.

"yeah," feroze hums. "i know you do, baby."

you weren't always so lovely for him, were you?

you're quiet.

though the two of you are sitting across from each other at the dining table, your attention is clearly elsewhere. conversation is slow, if not stagnant. it's a far cry from how talkative you usually are; and though he would never fucking admit it, least of all to you, he worries, for a fraction of a second, that things are slipping.

"meri jaan?" he sets down his fork very carefully, reaches for your hands over the table.

you blink, pulled away from wherever you'd been lost in your mind and back down to this moment that stretches on before you.

"oh, sorry, my love. what was that?"

feroze watches your eyes quietly track the movement of his fingers, sliding over your wrists, lingering, momentarily, on your pulse—nice and steady—before they intertwine with your own.

your gaze lands on him, then, expectant. he drags his thumb over your knuckles, glad to find they're soft; unmarred by any labour. he loves having you here, tucked away within the walls of this home he built just for you, away from the rest of the rotten world.

such a darling girl like you deserves to have everything taken care of for you. as far as he's concerned, the only thing on your mind should be him.

which is why the silence is beginning to irritate him, now. he's not really upset with you, doesn't have a reason to be, just yet—he's just wondering what it is you're so focused on. where do you keep going back to in that head of yours, and why aren't you here with him?

is this where it all falls apart?

—again?

"rosy?" you try. "is everything alright?"

"yeah," feroze's hazel eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, endearingly patient. "i just wanted to know how your day was."

"ugh, don't remind me." you stick your tongue out. "it was so boring. i woke up so late today and didn't really do anything interesting."

"shit, i'm sorry to hear that, baby."

your husband nods towards the television, still playing from inside the living room across the hall; the screen's bright colours reflect against the glass windows that take up half the wall. though the program is muted, he can still hear the echoes from the cacophony of applause ringing loud and true.

the four hour program's been running on loop on some of the smaller channels, and you really seem to enjoy tuning in, he's noticed.

it would be more difficult not to notice this new habit of yours, really. because if he's been counting right, this is the seventh time you've seen the whole thing through to the end.

"seems like you were at least watching the music thing again."

"well, when my stunning husband won half of the awards," you shrug coyly. "how could i not?"

"flattery won't get you anywhere," feroze deigns, though neither of you mention the involuntary curl to his lips as they lift into a small, self-satisfied smile.

"huh, that's strange," you frown, pull your hands away from his own and make a show of examining the elaborately stacked engagement ring and marital band wrapped around your finger. "if i seem to remember correctly, flattery is exactly what got me this ring."

"oh," he laughs. "is that so?"

"uhuh," you nod, still admiring the rings. they're big and they're flashy and there's no fucking chance anyone could ever miss the sight of them; make the mistake of misunderstanding what they mean. you're so obviously his, and fuck, it suits you so perfectly to belong to him.

i love you, he thinks fiercely. i fucking love you.

"you've got an ego, rosy." your knowing gaze flickers back to him, accompanied by a teasing smile. "bit of a praise kink, too."

"and yet, darling wife," he'll never tire of calling you that; never really overcome the thrill that overwhelms him when he sees you adorned in the markers of his devotion and tucked away all safe and sound. "you're the only person whose words mean anything to me."

"ohh, is that so?" you taunt, "whatever happened to 'flattery won't get you anywhere?'"

feroze takes in the sight of you. you're dressed casual, donned in a baggy old shirt and a pair of his softest sweats hanging low off your hips. comfortable in your own home, as you should fucking feel, you have no makeup on, and your hair is unkempt; overdue for a shower; but fuck if he cares.

feroze decides, within a moment, that he needs you—

now.

"come here, meri jaan. i'll show you."

"you greedy, greedy man," you chastise lightly, rising from your seat. "i've just fed you dinner and you're still salivating at my table."

feroze watches you make the small effort of pushing your chair in, before turning on your heel. you pause in the doorway for a second, spare him a knowing glance over your shoulder; "well? aren't you hungry, darling husband?"

he knows that none of it evades you; the nervous bob of his adam's apple as he swallows. the way his fingers are digging into the edge of the table to keep from sinking inside of you right here. his heart is racing; his pants are tight. though you're so willing to be his now, he remembers it wasn't always this easy.

"my love." feroze grits out, "i'm fucking starving."

you disappear into the hallway, mellifluous laughter like the loveliest song, echoing off the walls—inside of his head, for fuck's sake—as your husband follows faithfully behind you when you lead him into the bedroom.

dinner goes cold on the table. you never touched your plate.

upstairs, minutes later, your husband bottoms out inside of the welcoming warmth of your sweet cunt, just as your fingers brush against the butcher's knife tucked right underneath your pillow.

feroze gets you to come twice before he decides he has his fill. he's rummaging through your nightstand for the contraceptives he knows you keep in there. it's got less to do with what he wants and more to do with what he believes is best for the two of you.

it's not that he doesn't want children; he dreams of them often. a little baby swaddled in the softest fabrics, wrapping its entire hand around just one of his fingers. the sound of a second pair of footsteps excitedly running down the hall every time he comes home from the studio, from tour. something more to take care of. to keep you busy.

but your husband knows you.

and though he's always been selfish, he can't risk kids until—well, until he knows you won't try to kill them.

it's taken you years to accept him. he won't undo that.

feroze, so caught up in his thoughts, only really registers the blade until it's slicing into his skin, the sharp edge of it pressing against the side of his neck with just enough pressure to draw blood.

he is disappointed, though by no means surprised, to find you on the other end wielding the knife.

he turns to face you, abandoning his search. you're holding onto the hilt of your makeshift weapon with trembling hands, and though he's suddenly overcome by exhaustion—because, baby, how many more times are you going to pull this—an involuntary shiver runs down his spine at the sight nonetheless.

"jaan," he tries to reason with you in hushed tones; oh, love. "what are you doing?"

you dig the knife in just a little deeper, and he winces; "i hate you, feroze." the words sting, though the relative lack of conviction they’re laced with serves as a promising sign of reconciliation.

"i know, baby. can you please just put the knife down so we can talk like adults?"

he glimpses the almost imperceptible change immediately.

the lines of hesitation on your face; a flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. when your hold on the weapon looses just the tiniest fraction of an inch, he wastes no time in gently but firmly prying the knife from out of your trembling hands; tosses it underneath the bed where it lands out of your reach.

he’s getting better at this. gets through to you so much sooner than he used to.

you’re listening, now, aren’t you?

the thought of it makes him oddly proud.

"there we go," feroze says. you're still shaking, and though he wants so fucking desperately to pull you closer and console you—he's learnt to tread the waters carefully in times like these. you're evidently scared. obviously upset with him. he can give you a little room to breathe. “now do you want to use your words and talk to me properly?”

“i keep rewatching the awards show. every other winner had someone there with them. some girlfriend or wife they kissed before they went on stage. you’re the only one who—” you swallow, voice wavering. “i’m the only one who wasn’t there. i’m the only one who’s kept hidden away.”

“you don’t want to show me off.” the tears fall almost immediately. “you’re ashamed of me.”

there are millions of words in the english language, and millions more in his own. he’s put into words every fleeting feeling you’ve made him feel; spun both the most magnificent and mundane of emotions into beautiful songs and compelling lyrics and composed entire albums from nothing—and yet, somehow, in this moment all of it evades him.

"i spend all day stuck here w-waiting for you to come home, and when you do—i keep thinking about all those ceremonies and galas and parties you go to, rooms i can never follow you into—and i hate you. i hate you for how much you hate me—”

“i’m sorry,” feroze’s hands run up your spine, to lightly curl his fingers around the back of your neck. he tilts your head up so that you’re meeting his gaze; leaves you nowhere to look away, “meri jaan.”

his touch is so soft and so, so cold against your skin. you've always run warmer than him; but he thinks you might be burning up right now. maybe you've got a fever; or maybe you're just this delirious even without one. it doesn't fucking matter, doesn't change anything.

“i’m sorry for ever leaving you alone long enough to even think that. let me make it up to you. let me show you how much i adore you. let me build you back up again.”

“you can’t fix this,” you whisper.

he smiles, but it’s strange; doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “so you said the last time.”

hours later, you’re less of a sobbing wreck when he’s got you perched in his lap, and all curled up under his chin. “okay… then…” you sniff. your words are somewhat muffled as you bury your face into your husband’s chest. “i’m sorry, too. i didn’t mean to hurt you, rosy. i was just scared, i-i promise.”

"i know.” his knuckles wipe away the tears drying on your cheeks. “give me a kiss, please.”

and ever the sweet wife, you do; but your lips are trembling.

fuck, that’s—

shit.

—not going to work, is it?

with a gentle but firm hand, he pushes you down onto the bed and watches you land on your back amidst the dozens of pillows that decorate the bed. even then, the softest thing here is you. he forgets that, sometimes. let this be a lesson, he thinks to himself, to keep your fragility in mind. this is only further proof that you need him more than he'd even realised.

but you picked the right man, didn’t you? because none of that scares him.

the two of you have faced far more difficult times together; this is just a little hiccup in your life as a married couple. some story you’ll look back on and laugh about, when you’re all better.

so when you look up at him with wide, wet eyes and ask, "its just—can you promise me you still love me one more time?”

feroze regards you closely. you’re so beautiful. so fucking perfect that it overwhelms him. sometimes, he wishes you could see yourself the way that he sees you. though he’s always believed that may just scare you; knowing how deep his devotion really runs. things are fine as they are now.

well, mostly.

he has decided that he will retire from music completely, but the two of you can broach that topic when you’re in a better headspace for it. it’s been a long time coming. work keeps the money coming in, and he wants to spoil you but—he wants you to be happy, above all. you don’t really know what you’re asking for right now, but he has every intention of giving you exactly what it is you wished for.

he can’t give in when you beg to come along with him—but he can come and hide away next to you in this little pocket of the world that solely belongs to the two of you.

"you drive me to madness, my love. nothing about this life means anything if i can’t keep you happy.”

the two of you never had a white wedding; because he wanted to honour your union the right way and celebrate you as his culture deigned. so, yes, he never got to read you any vows, but he'd like to think you've come to know him well enough to understand he doesn't necessarily need to say something so sacred out loud for it to hold true.

"do you understand? i love you," he lowers his forehead against yours. “till death does us apart.”

you put your heart in his hands one more time, looking so small, so vulnerable beneath him. "you promise?"

"i promise," he closes his eyes and revels in the soft, sweeping feeling of your lashes fluttering against his own. "always and forever, meri jaan."

feroze loves you, of this he's certain.

he also knows that you fucking terrify him.

it's a small price to pay, if it means keeping you—

besides, he thinks, reaching once more for the contraceptive pills on the nightstand.

—marriage is all about compromise, is it not?

#feroze #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere male #male yandere #yandere male x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere x willing reader #male yandere x you #male yandere x y/n #male yandere x darling #yandere male x you #commission

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jungwnies · 3 months ago

Text

f1 grid (1/2) | sharing the cookie

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : your f1 boyfriend agrees to try the viral cookie challenge with your toddler… only to be hilariously betrayed (inspo: tiktok - click for reference)

୨ৎ : genre : comedy ୨ৎ : word count : 1792

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : this tiktok trend had me dying and then lawson and hadjar did it with their reserve driver im hollering T-T - also i am so so so sorry for missing my update for friday rip... but its okay ill be back on schedule fr (also the first part will now include lando and oscar because in part two i will be adding isack hadjar and liam lawson cus they were requested to be added and i just cant say no considering they are also on the grid >.<)

ʚ・max verstappen

"come on," you said, holding up the phone. "it's just a tiktok. she gets two cookies, you act like you didn’t get any, and we see if she shares.”

max crossed his arms. "she’s two. she doesn’t even share her toys with me."

"exactly," you grinned. "that’s why it’s funny."

he sighed dramatically. "fine. but if she betrays me, i’m eating both next time."

you set up the camera. max sat cross-legged on the living room floor, your daughter bouncing excitedly in front of him. you handed her two cookies. max? none.

"papa doesn’t get one?" she asked, blinking up at him.

max pouted like he was a contestant on survivor. "nope. they only gave you cookies."

she blinked again. looked at both cookies. looked at him.

and then.

she. ate. both.

BACK TO BACK.

max’s jaw dropped. "are you serious?!"

your daughter just licked the crumbs from her fingers and smiled. "yummy!"

you couldn’t stop laughing behind the camera.

max dramatically flopped back onto the carpet like he'd just lost a world championship.

"i gave her life. and she gave me nothing."

“she’s literally two,” you laughed.

"two ruthless," he corrected.

later that night, he snuck her another cookie while she sat in his lap, still chewing like she ran the place.

“you gonna share this one?” he asked hopefully.

she nodded, broke it in half… and gave both pieces to the dog.

max gasped. “this is targeted.”

you? filming from the corner, crying laughing.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

"just act like you don’t have any,” you whispered as you handed your daughter two cookies and lewis none.

he raised an eyebrow. "she always shares with me."

"alright then, let’s put that to the test," you grinned, hitting record.

lewis sat cross-legged on the rug, smiling softly at his daughter as she waddled over with a cookie in each tiny hand. she plopped down in front of him, cradling her cookies like they were ancient treasures.

“oh wow,” lewis said, peering at her plate. “they didn’t give me any…”

she blinked. then blinked again. the gears in her brain visibly turned.

and then—she took the biggest bite possible from one cookie, stared him down, and said through a full mouth, “that sucks.”

your hand flew to your mouth to keep from bursting out laughing. lewis sat there, stunned.

“did you just—”

she held up a tiny finger. “i need both. for balance.” (balance. you nearly dropped the phone.)

lewis tried not to laugh, but it cracked out of him anyway. “wow. that’s cold, little miss.”

“like you when i take your hoodie,” you chimed in from behind the camera.

“she’s my daughter alright,” lewis muttered, dramatically falling back into the pillows like he’d just been betrayed by his own bloodline. “i’m retiring from parenting,” lewis sighed.

ʚ・george russell

george was suspicious from the moment you handed him zero cookies.

“it’s a tiktok trend,” you whispered. “just pretend it’s normal. let’s see what he does.”

your son plopped down next to george, cradling his two little cookies like they were made of gold. he blinked at his dad. george gave him a soft smile and the most tragic sigh you’d ever heard.

“wow. i didn’t get one,” george said, all british melancholy. “guess i’ll just sit here… cookieless.”

his son looked at him.

then looked at the cookies.

then looked back at him.

and took a very slow bite, still holding eye contact.

george blinked. “right. okay. that’s… noted.”

he cleared his throat, visibly trying to stay composed. “are you sure you don’t want to share one with your dear father? the man who changes your nappies?”

another bite.

then your son tilted his head and said, “you can have one… if you say please.”

george’s jaw dropped. “are you—? i taught you that word!”

you had to cover your mouth to keep from snorting. george held his hand out, now looking genuinely betrayed.

“please,” he said slowly, dramatically. “may i have one cookie?”

your son stared at the remaining half of his cookie… and shoved it in his own mouth. then nodded. “you said please!”

george looked directly at the camera like he was on the office. “this is a test. i’m being tested.”

five minutes later, george was spotted making a second batch of cookies with your son sitting proudly on the counter beside him.

“because we believe in manners and equality in this household,” he muttered, flour on his shirt.

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos sat on the rug as your daughter waddled in with two chocolate chip cookies and the world’s biggest smile. her curls bounced with every step, and carlos was already melting before the challenge even began.

“hola, princesa,” he cooed, arms out.

she plopped down next to him and immediately held both cookies to her chest.

“oh, you got two?” he asked, pretending to pout. “they didn’t give any to papa.”

your daughter paused.

she stared at the cookies.

then stared at him.

then without a single ounce of hesitation, she picked up the bigger cookie and gently placed it in carlos’ hand.

“here, papa,” she said sweetly. “you can have mine.”

carlos blinked. like, literally stunned into silence.

“you’re giving me this one?” he asked, glancing down at the cookie like it was made of diamonds. “but it’s the bigger one.”

she just nodded and leaned into his chest with the other cookie in her hand. “because i love you big.”

you gasped behind the camera.

carlos’s entire soul left his body. “ay dios mío. you’re going to make me cry on tiktok.”

he immediately scooped her into his lap and kissed her cheek a thousand times while she giggled into her cookie.

“te amo, mi corazón,” he whispered. “you’re the best part of my life.”

then he looked at the camera and pointed. “you owe her a bakery.”

ʚ・charles leclerc

charles was already sitting on the rug, legs crossed, smiling like he had no idea what was coming. (he did. you prepped him. but he was ready to be dramatic.)

when she walked over and sat down with her cookies, he gasped.

“they gave you two?!” he said, eyes wide. “and none for me?” he held his hands up like he was being robbed. “nothing? pas un seul?”

your daughter blinked, looked down at her plate… then back up at him. then she frowned.

“…that’s not fair,” she whispered, clearly distressed.

you could almost hear the little gears turning in her brain. she looked between the cookies like she was about to do intense mathematical calculations.

charles tilted his head, still acting sad. “it’s okay. you don’t have to share. i’ll just… starve.”

“papa,” she gasped. “no starving!” then — and this was the most leclerc moment — she picked up one cookie and broke it perfectly in half like it was a fine art.

she handed him one full cookie… and then added half of the other one.

“there,” she said seriously. “now you have un et demi.”

charles looked at the cookie halves in his hands like he’d just been gifted the crown jewels.

“you gave me more than one?” he asked, visibly moved. “are you sure?”

she nodded proudly. “because i’m smart.”

you nearly dropped the phone from trying not to wheeze.

charles pulled her into his lap and kissed the top of her head, murmuring, “you are so smart, mon amour. and kind. i will never forget this act of generosity.”

she grinned. “you owe me a cookie later.”

charles blinked. “…fair.”

ʚ・lando norris

“this is going to be so easy,” lando whispered as you handed his child two cookies and him none.

you raised a brow. “confident.”

he flashed you a grin. “they’re obsessed with me. i’m definitely getting one.”

you pressed record.

lando sat down on the floor, stretching his legs out, watching as your toddler toddled over like they were on a very serious cookie delivery mission. two chocolate chip cookies, one in each fist. determined eyes. crumbs already forming and not a bite had been taken.

“those look so good,” lando said, dramatically clutching his chest. “but… they didn’t give me any. that’s a bit sad, huh?”

your child blinked at him. looked at the cookies. then back at him.

then smiled.

“oh, dada,” they said sweetly, holding up one cookie… only to immediately lick it and take the tiniest nibble ever.

lando stared. “did you just—?”

they held out the now-slightly-soggy cookie. “you can have this one.” big proud grin.

lando, who would’ve accepted literal dirt from this kid, took it with wide eyes. “wow… thank you… so much.”

then, as he brought it to his mouth, they shrieked:

“WAIT! NOT THAT ONE! THAT WAS MINE!”

they snatched it back. both cookies now secured.

lando looked into the camera like he was betrayed by his own flesh and blood. “what just happened to me?”

you nearly dropped the phone from laughing. “you got hustled by a toddler.”

“she literally baited me,” he muttered. “i respect it.”

later, he brought out a secret third cookie from the kitchen.

your toddler gasped. “dada! where’d you get that?!”

he winked. “the real cookie challenge is knowing where we hide the backups.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

“i really don’t think they’ll give me one,” oscar whispered as you handed your toddler two cookies and him none.

you raised an eyebrow. “why?”

he shrugged. “they like sharing with you more. they say i’m too quiet.”

you stifled a laugh and hit record.

oscar sat down on the rug, legs folded neatly, as your toddler waddled over proudly — one cookie in each chubby hand, already taking careful little bites out of the edges.

“oh,” oscar said softly. “they gave you two cookies?”

his kid blinked, wide-eyed. “yeah!”

oscar smiled. “wow. i didn’t get any…”

there was a beat of silence. your toddler looked at their cookies. then at oscar.

then back at the cookies.

then very slowly, they scooted closer, placed one cookie in his lap… and gently patted his knee.

“you can have this one. because i love you and i don’t want you to feel sad.”

oscar literally froze. like system shut down. the only movement was the slow widening of his eyes.

“wait,” he whispered, “are you trying to make me cry?”

your toddler beamed. “don’t cry! eat!”

you had to hide behind the kitchen counter to keep from audibly sobbing.

oscar looked straight at the camera, voice half-choked. “i wasn’t emotionally prepared for this challenge.”

he reached over, pulled them gently into his lap, and kissed the top of their head. “you’re too good for this world.”

later, you found the uneaten cookie in the fridge with a note (scribbled by oscar) taped to it:

“for my favourite teammate.”

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