#pls eND MY SUFFERING BY REQUESTS

[definetelynotavampire]

Silly doodle request: Fyodor taunting half body Bram stuck in his coffin now that we know they have previous history. If it so inspires you please and thank you 🙏💜

Fyodor was playing the long game...

[pathologicalreid]

omg consider this a request to bury reader again lol. imagine having to go through that again…imagine SPENCER knowing you’re experiencing it again…….margot pLS IM BEGGING🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🙏🙏

black hole | s.r.

in which the BAU has to race against the clock to find you after you've been buried alive, again

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: spoilery content warning at the end of the post. lol. claustrophobia, being buried alive, death. reader does NOT die, spencer reid crashout, kids/pregnancy, blood, hospitals, spencer's addiction, being drugged, the replicator, i probably missed something!!!! word count: 5.35k a/n: guys can u believe my first fic on here was buried alive. and here we are. doing it again?

Spencer was surrounded by people who cared about him, and yet, the only person he genuinely wanted to see was nowhere to be found. He’d sent you home from the office, passing the car keys along and swiping the incomplete files from your desk.

You’d kissed his cheek the same way you’d done it thousands of times before, and he’d taken it for granted. He should’ve turned his head to kiss your lips. He should’ve left the files to finish tomorrow and gone home with you. He shouldn’t be looking over his shoulder right now, searching for something that wasn’t coming. You weren’t coming.

He’d sent you home, only to find himself standing in your kitchen hours later, surrounded by evidence of a struggle. There had been blood smeared across the floor, a nauseating pattern that, in his professional opinion, looked like someone had been dragged. Without enough time to DNA test the blood, he couldn’t be sure, but once the crime scene unit had typed the blood and it came back as your type, he felt comfortable in his assumption. You had been taken.

Abducted right from the home that the two of you had created for each other, a safe haven to retreat to when the world felt too cramped, too dark.

Remnants of fear lingered in every corner of the house, skylights built into the ceiling for optimum light and nightlights in every room. Spencer had designed the house for you, and Derek arranged the construction. To the average bystander, the open floor plan looked like a modernization of the original structure. To you, each wall was placed purposefully so that you’d never feel like they were closing in on you.

The first person he called was Alex. Part of him wondered if he’d chosen her because she was the only member of the team who hadn’t been around to witness this the first time. The first time Spencer had been standing in a room and had been told you were missing; it felt as though time had completely stopped. This time, it felt like a jackknife to the chest, stabbing him continuously until his legs went out from under him, leaving him gasping on the phone to his friend. The rational side of his brain tried to tell him it was because Blake lived closest, but the irrational portion of Spencer Reid was the only part of him that ever had second thoughts.

That irrational side of him was the side that was in love with you, and he couldn’t justify the probability of this happening again. The math couldn’t be completed, and Spencer was once again left in fragments, nothing more than a shattered mirror that bore the reflection of someone who had it all.

Now, back at the BAU, he stared at the confidential FBI folder that had been abandoned on the kitchen counter by your abductor. It had been dusted, only to find no sign of fingerprints. The evidence was laid out on the roundtable; each page, each horrifying photo served as a memory of what had happened to you two years ago. Left on top of the folder was a piece of paper torn from the journal your therapist had instructed you to keep. Scrawled in unfamiliar penmanship, the note read: He who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears.

He wasn’t concerned with the origin of the quote; he’d recognize Michel de Montaigne as surely as he would his own work. No, Spencer’s concern laid solely with the implications of the quote, and there was only one outcome he could come to. After all, suffering and your name were synonymous in his mind, even after all of this time.

You kept your eyes closed, grounding yourself just as your therapist had taught you in your hundreds of sessions. Soon enough, Spencer would wake up to your soft whimpers, and he’d coax you out of your paralysis. His hands would find their way to your shoulders, skimming his palms over the cotton of your sleep shirt, and he’d pull you up.

Any minute, Spencer would use the fader to illuminate your bedroom, providing you with the light that you needed as proof that everything was going to be fine. You’d anticipated this; the second anniversary of you being buried alive was just around the corner, and with it, the trauma bubbled to the surface. Even still, you found yourself frowning at the things your senses picked up—the smell of the dirt, the hard surface you were lying on, and the eerie silence of your surroundings. It took you a moment to realize that Spencer wasn’t cooing your name, trying to get you out of your nightmare without scaring you too much.

Clenching your fists, you found yourself missing the familiar pressure of your wedding ring on your left hand, and you told yourself that this had to be a dream. Since you’d gotten it, you only ever took it off if it was absolutely necessary. You’d missed the band so much that you’d gotten a cheaper one to replace it while you had the two pieces soldered together.

You took a deep breath, immediately overwhelmed by the rich earth that flooded your senses, the scent so pungent that you could almost taste it. Against your better judgment, you opened your eyes, letting the lids flutter open while you tried to adjust to the all too familiar darkness. A wave of nausea ran through you, churning your stomach while you tried to swallow it down—not wanting to lay in a puddle of your own sick. “No,” you breathed, having half a mind to sit up and look around, but as your eyes adjusted, you estimated there were only a few inches from the tip of your nose to the roof of your enclosure.

Tentatively, you felt around, grazing your fingertips across the interior surface of your newfound prison. Opposed to the smooth silk of the casket, you were met with a rough wooden surface that grated against your skin, tugging and pulling at the ridges of your fingerprints while you tried to bury your panic.

Denial only got a person so far, and there was nowhere else for you to go except to accept it. This was happening to you again.

This time, it seemed as though you were trapped within the confines of a wooden box, a collection of old two-by-fours haphazardly connected with various nails and screws. You could smell the age of the wood, damp and mildew only served to nauseate you further when mixed with the smell of the dirt.

He’d been put in time-out. Not that Hotch would ever use such layman’s terminology to describe the action taken but being told to sit in the roundtable room and stay there until they knew something felt like a child’s punishment. A flash out of the corner of his eyes signaled that JJ and Rossi had returned from checking the house, meaning Spencer had some explaining to do.

“What did you see?” Hotch asked as soon as they walked into the room. Spencer turned his head to gaze out the windows, watching the cacophony of the joint task force as it entered the next hour. He avoided JJ’s curious eyes, knowing that she knew.

Rossi’s leather boot tapped at the worn carpet in the doorway. “There was a cup of what looked like water on the kitchen counter,” he responded, nodding at the rest of the team as they all filed into the room. “The crime scene techs took a sample of it for testing. The field test came back positive for narcotics, but we won’t have an exact makeup until it comes back from the lab.”

A test that you didn’t have time for, but Spencer felt it was unnecessary. Hearing what they knew from the scene was enough to turn his stomach inside out, the kind of information that gets delivered and then all of a sudden, your ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton. He’d subconsciously tuned out any other news to protect himself while he looked at the data on the form that Rossi had given him. For a long time, Spencer had accepted that his brain was one that worked with figures and reason, but looking at the numbers in front of him—nothing processed. Every number seemed foreign to him, and nothing made any sense to him.

He stood up suddenly, sending his office chair flying behind him, the aged wheels clattering within themselves as he looked around. Horrified looks were sent to him from everyone in the room. It only took one glance at your picture on the screen for him to grab the paper from the polished wood table. “I have to… I need to…” He rambled aimlessly, staring at the paper while he blindly tried to find his way out of the roundtable room and down the ramp.

Practically bolting out of the bullpen, Spencer sought the fresh air that the campus would bring, but Hotch had told him to stay put, so he settled for the more or less abandoned interview room that neighbored Morgan’s office. The room sat unused most of the time, a fine layer of dust coating everything in plain sight.

Gracelessly pulling at the strap of his watch, he flung it across the room, each faint tick of the seconds a haunting reminder that you were rapidly running out of air.  He lowered himself to the ground, sitting down before his legs had a chance to give out beneath him. If he had shut down the first time, he was nothing more than a shell of himself right now, merely a pile of skin and bones that concealed organs—like a heart that was breaking. Pulsatile tinnitus made it seem like his heart was pounding in every area of his body, causing him to pull his legs to his chest, condensing himself so he didn’t take up so much space.

A soft knocking saved him from his own pit of despair, a familiar curtain of brown hair on narrow shoulders greeted his eyes, and the soft smile that Blake gave him dripped with pity. “Do you mind?” She asked rhetorically, gesturing to a chair in front of him before taking a seat. “What is it?”

Spencer’s brows furrowed, too stressed to deduce the meaning of her question. “What is what?” Dropping his hands, he thumbed the hem of his slacks, fiddling with a loose thread to occupy his busy mind. He tried to act as if there weren’t tornado sirens going off in his head, cluing him to an impending storm—one where he was bound to be swept up.

“There’s more to this thank you’re letting on,” Blake nudged the toe of her boot against Spencer’s sneaker. “Hotch wouldn’t have taken you out of the field if there weren’t exigent circumstances.”

Sometimes, he had to remind himself that even though she hadn’t been a profiler for very long, Alex had plenty of experience in the bureau. She had a knack for reading people and reaching conclusions, and, at this moment, Spencer despised her for it. He turned his head, resting his cheek on his knee, the displacement of his face causing one of his eyes to close. “She’s pregnant,” he confessed, the weight of the secret crumbling from the air around him.

He shut his other eye to avoid the look of shock that had inevitably taken place on Alex’s face. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen; you were supposed to be able to wait three more weeks until the second trimester and be able to tell everyone. It was supposed to be a joyous moment, not a secret choked out when there were no other options. “Hotch knows?”

Blinded by his eyelids, Spencer nodded. Hotch was the first person he’d told once that little plus sign popped up. Before you’d told any friends and family, Spencer knew he had to tell Hotch about the baby; he had to keep you safe. What a waste that had been.

Just last week, you’d gone to see the baby for the first time, the sonogram had been gleefully posted on your refrigerator that same day. He knew the chances that JJ and Rossi hadn’t seen it were next to none, so really, there was no more secret to keep.

You were just barely nine weeks along, the last few days had been spent debating whether or not you wanted to do a blood test to find out the sex, and now you might never know. He’d thought you’d be better off at home. He’d thought getting away from the office at a normal time would be healthy for you, but instead his well-meaning gesture had placed you under the radar of someone who wanted to hurt you. What was worse was this person undoubtedly knew who you were and what you were afraid of, they’d probably been watching you for a while.

Guilt burrowed deep inside of his gut when he lifted his eyelids, looking at the paper he’d taken from the roundtable room. Mixed in with whatever they’d given you to knock you out had been an unlisted narcotic. The field test hadn’t been precise enough to name the drug, but in the end, Spencer found he didn’t really care about the specifics. He only cared about what he knew. Narcotics were known to cause miscarriages, and when you combined that with whatever had knocked you out—GHB, Rohypnol, whatever—it only killed more hope. It brought Spencer to a place of desolation.

He was miserable as he handed the paper off to Blake, vaguely aware of the people passing by in the hallway, rubbernecking near the door to try and get a glimpse of him. “Did the UnSub just take whatever was left over in your medicine cabinet and give it to her?”

The question was innocent enough. Maybe in another lifetime, you’d have a few pills left over from various hospital trips, but that wasn’t the case in this timeline. “We don’t keep narcotics in the house,” he answered a tad too quickly.

Interrupting his thought process, JJ poked her head into the interrogation room, “Uh, Hotch wants everyone in the roundtable room.” Her sorrowful blue eyes pierced through Spencer, with him sitting on the floor, everyone felt so much bigger than him. “The Replicator sent us a message.”

You gasped a sob, trying to rein in your emotions so you wouldn’t use as much of your limited air supply, but with every passing moment, you found it that much more difficult to hold yourself together. Reaching up a hand, you pressed your palm at the ceiling above you, pushing up at the roof of your enclosure to no avail. Paranoia was beginning to creep in, telling you that the things you were hearing were the worms in the soil preparing to return you to the earth.

Swiping your hand on the wood, you repeated the motion until you were clawing at the rotting material, attempting to burrow yourself out of confinement. The split grains tugged and pulled at your fingertips, leaving splinters to interrupt the fine lines of your prints. You were on the verge of throwing a tantrum, kicking and scratching at your confines, until one of the boards broke, bringing you to a screeching halt.

You’d kicked one of the boards loose, breaking it and leaving the void to fill with dirt. Lowering your shaky hands, you took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regulate your breathing through techniques you’d learned over the years. You’d spent countless hours in therapy trying to help your claustrophobia, but you’d used that time to navigate things like elevator rides and tiny bathroom stalls. You never thought you would need to prepare for this to happen to you a second time.

You couldn’t halt the tears when they finally came. Part of you knew that crying would use up what little oxygen you had at a fast rate, but the other part of you, the despondent part, didn’t have the energy to care. You tried for a moment, covering your mouth with your bleeding palm to contain the volume of air you were taking in, to no avail. You had finally lost control, and the fuzzy feeling in your brain was only exacerbated by the scent of the dirt that coated your hands.

It just wasn’t fair. Subconsciously, you knew the concept of fairness should’ve been something you’d given up on years ago, but as the air surrounding you grew stale, it was all you could think about. The idea that you’d spent your morning with Spencer trying to prove to you that your bump was showing, giggling while using the false name you’d assigned to your unborn child as you insisted you were just bloated.

Slowly, you dragged your bleeding fingertips down your torso, leaving them resting hesitantly on your lower belly, the exact spot that Spencer had insisted was protruding just that morning. Bile rose in your throat as you feared what your day of turmoil meant for your baby. You had no idea how long you’d been in the ground, and you had no idea how much time you had left. Spencer would’ve figured it out—he had last time. One sleepless night, you’d made him explain tidal volume to you, and he’d let you comb your fingers through your hair while he told you the story of the last time he came to your rescue.

As you lay there, paranoid, wondering if you were imagining the pain in your head and stomach, it occurred to you that you never should have come back to the BAU the first time. The sleepless nights you’d spent combing through the trauma of your teammates, convincing yourself that what you’d been through was nothing in comparison to their scars, had been entirely unnecessary. You kept a tally of the flights of stairs you’d taken when one elevator ride would’ve sufficed, wearing the count as a badge of honor. You could count on one hand the number of elevator rides you’ve taken in the last two years—they were usually spent with your head in your hands and Spencer’s hand on your back.

You’d always compared yourself to Emily, who’d lost her life, and Hotch, who’d lost his love, and you decided that if they could return to the field after those events, then there was no reason for you to lag behind. You forced yourself to play a part you didn’t belong in, and you could never forgive yourself for it. It’s part of the reason you let your eyes fall shut when the air grows thin, wondering if there was any point in coming back to a life you weren’t mean to be living.

He'd run out of things to throw, eyeing the books that he’d left scattered on the ground, his watch still discarded somewhere in the interview room. His tie was loosened to the point that it was almost slipping off of his neck while he desperately tried to catch his breath. Each time he settled down, he remembered you were suffocating, and the cycle continued.

The Replicator had all but taken responsibility for your abduction, and the world around him had begun to spin. Quickly, everything began to make sense, repeating a crime that had been committed against you and using narcotics to knock you out.

His addiction had never been officially documented in any FBI files, but that didn’t stop Spencer from placing fault on himself. There were easier ways to incapacitate someone, and somehow, the Replicator had chosen the method that was likely to do the most harm. Spencer put his trembling hands over his head, knowing that if he’d never taken that vial off of Tobias Hankel’s corpse, you wouldn’t be in this situation now. His mind that had been previously praised for genius drew convoluted lines between the dots, making connections that he never should’ve considered.

In the doorway, Alex came to his rescue once more, holding a Kevlar vest in her hand while smiling at him kindly, “We found her.”

The distance between Quantico and the cemetery was no more than a blur to him. He had no idea when it had started to rain, but he found each pelt of a raindrop to be soothing, welcoming the constant drumming that occupied his minds, keeping him away from catastrophizing.

Rossi, Hotch, and Emily had arrived only moments before the second SUV, but they’d wasted no time in getting the cemetery staff to dig at the coordinates Penelope had found in the message sent by the Replicator. The rain made the soil move like sludge off of the makeshift casket that contained the love of his life, and he took his first step toward you when he saw the broken pieces of wood.

A familiar arm went out in front of him, blocking his path to you with a sense of fraternal protection, but Spencer tried to push Morgan away. He was the weaker of the two, exhausted by his own emotions as he shoved his way through to you. Distantly, he heard himself asking to be let through, but it wasn’t until the lid of the casket was popped that Blake spoke up for him, “Derek.”

Immediately, Derek’s arm dropped, releasing the hold he had on Spencer and allowing him to run to you. The sopping ground sept into his shoes as he ran, falling into the mud while Emily and Hotch precariously pulled you out of your enclosure. Morgan’s intention had been to shield Spencer from the harsh reality of your death, but even if you were gone, he still felt an otherworldly pull to you. After all, what was the point of promising ‘til death do us part if he wasn’t with you when you went?

Mud coated every spare inch of his clothes, but he couldn’t care less as he scrambled to take your hand in his, gently pressing his fingers to your wrist and waiting for something—anything. “Baby, please.” He couldn’t tell, the radial pulse could be undependable, so he moved his hand to your neck and crouched his head over your face, immediately comforted when he heard the faint whistle of air flowing through your nostrils.

Relief flooded his senses, inclining his head to rest his forehead against yours and nodding profusely when Emily asked him if you were alive. His chest shook with a sob as he pulled back, tugging his FBI jacket off and laying it over you to try and warm you up, the rest of the team following suit while JJ and Hotch tried to flag down the ambulance. He tuned out the frantic discussion of the team and the loud blare of the emergency vehicles.

Shifting so he was sitting on the ground, he gingerly placed your head in his lap, using his fingertips to deftly wipe away the dirt and blood that covered your marred skin. He noted a scratch on your head, and a quick scan of your body didn’t show him any visible injuries, though your hands displayed a nauseating portrait of your time in the ground, torn apart with dozens of splinters. “I’ve got you,” he cooed to your unconscious body. He looked up to see a team of EMTs running towards you, decked out in rain gear and medical supplies, “She’s pregnant.”

His words elicited a stare from one of the rain-soaked paramedics, telling him he had reached the same conclusion that Spencer had already resolved himself to. “We’ve gotta get her out of this rain,” he said, loading you onto a spine board and lifting you to the gurney so they could easily roll you to the ambulance, leaving Spencer scrambling to catch up with you. He practically threw himself into the ambulance, refusing to separate himself from you.

Spencer squeezed your hand, hoping you’d squeeze back, staying as far back as he could from the paramedics while keeping his fingers intertwined with yours.

Nothing hurt when you came to, but you could feel the familiar pressure of a bandage around your leg. Sensation traveled up to your hands, each of your fingertips precariously wrapped with cause, initiating the healing of your cuts from when you’d tried to scratch your way to freedom. Slowly, you took a deep breath, letting the antiseptic air of the hospital flood your senses.

Through your eyelids, you could see that the room around you was bright, and a soft smile tugged at your lips despite yourself—Spencer was here. You felt him now, the soft touch of his hand on your arm, the imprint of a hand you knew as well as your own. The warmth of his palm served as a brief distraction before your brain registered a dull ache in your stomach, and somehow, you just knew. A low keening sound slipped from your throat, more from the compressed escape of air than a complaint of any pain you felt.

“I love you,” Spencer whispered gently, his voice hoarse with emotion, “So, so much.” He took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your battered knuckles. “Oh, honey,” he sighed, gently squeezing your hand, minding your wounds.

He was so gentle with you—he always had been. His fingertips drifted over your arm with an attention to detail that rivaled a medical doctor, minding the IV in your arm when he moved past it. You tried to mumble an I love you in return, but the words came out unintelligibly.

Spencer’s ministrations came to a halting stop at this first sign of life, “Hey,” he cooed, “What was that?” You felt the side of your mattress dip as he took a seat on your bedside, he hushed you gently, dragging a knuckle up and down your cheek while silently pleading for you to speak.

He was testing you, that much you knew. He wanted to know if being deprived of air had cost you your ability to speak. You shook your head at him, denying the implication as you cleared your throat determinedly, “I love you, too.” Your voice was gravelly, likely from all of the screaming you had done in the tomb, but it was there, and it was coherent.

The hospital sheets scratched at your skin while you tried to coax yourself into opening your eyes, the promise of seeing Spencer providing an incentive. Taking a deep breath, your eyelids fluttered open, looking up at his sorrowful eyes. Even so, he smiled at you softly, just happy to see you awake, “There’s my girl.”

The tear tracks on his face were like daggers to your heart, bringing with them a terrible reminder of whatever fear he felt when you had gone missing. You blinked additional sleep out of your eyes, focusing on him and his exhaustion, “How long?” You asked, watching him reach over for a glass of water, guiding the straw to your mouth.

He waited until you’d taken a few sips before answering your questions, “You’ve been asleep for two days.” He said, setting the cup to the side—close enough that you could grab it on your own if need be.

You made a face—two days was a long time—and sighed, relaxing back into the pillows while you tried to find the right words to say. “How’s…. Am I…?” You stumbled through the question, tears welling in your waterline before you even had the chance to ask. Swallowing thickly, you could only hope Spencer understood when you were getting at before you had to force the words out.

Your husband shook his head softly, “There’s no heartbeat.” His voice was tight, but he maintained his position as a pillar for you to lean on, keeping your hand in his just in case you needed additional support.

It didn’t hurt, not right now. You were sure the grief would hit you at some point in the near future when the sun hit your face just right or a blue car passed you by. Some inexplicable harbinger of grief would enter and exit your life just as quickly as your child had. “Okay,” you breathed, gazing at Spencer, hoping your eyes would have the ability to convey how you felt.

“They haven’t pinpointed a cause; it could’ve been any number of things, but it’s not… Are you in any pain?” He cut himself off to check in on you; he studied your expression with a stoicism that rivaled your boss.

You shook your head, “No.” The achiness you felt wasn’t strong enough to fully qualify as pain, and anything that was there, your body had already gotten used to. You were sure there was something in your IV that was assisting the numbness in your limbs.

Spencer raised his eyebrows doubtfully, “Would you tell me if you were?” He asked you, giving you a look that reminded you he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Will you just… not tell anyone I woke up yet?” You shifted uncomfortably on the bed, “I’m not ready.” You needed time to prepare for the prying eyes and barrage of questions that were bound to come with the BAU.

His head bobbed, “Anything. Anything you want,” he promised, dragging his knuckle up and down your cheek. Subconsciously, you leaned into his touch, prompting him to cup the cold skin in his warm palm. “You could go back to sleep if you wanted to.”

You hummed woefully, “Not yet. I missed the light.” Besides that, you wanted to enjoy your sedated mind before it became overwhelmed with a flurry of emotions. Right now, you felt peace, and you deserved to have that kind of silence. Surely the dam would break, but as long as you could hold it off, you just wanted to lay in bed with Spencer. “’m cold,” you mumbled thoughtlessly, thinking of it as a throwaway comment before you remembered who you married.

Spencer had a pile of blankets to his left, and he deftly pulled the top one from the pile and got to work placing it over you. “Is this better?” He asked, timidly tucking the blanket under your side and making sure you were well-covered.

Wincing, you slid your hand beneath the blanket and lifted the side, creating an opening for him to slip into. Your silent invitation was accepted when Spencer kicked his shoes off and joined you in the crowded hospital bed, “Much better.” You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, “Spence?”

“What is it, honey?” He asked, skimming the pad of his thumb over your side, his large hand splayed against your back.

Clenching your left hand into a fist, you sighed, trying to ignore the tears that were pricking your eyes. “Did you find my ring?” You remembered missing it in the ground, but you’d forgotten until just now, your finger once again intolerably bare.

A gentle kiss was pressed to the crown of your head, “Yes.” He twisted back, plucking the familiar ring off of your bedside table and returning it to its rightful home on your ring finger. “It was on the back of your sink in the bathroom,” he explained, twisting the band so the gem was facing out.

Small, sad tears trickled from your ducts. You sniffled, and Spencer’s grip on you changed—not tighter, but firmer as if he had anticipated this moment. The moment when what you had been avoiding finally caught up with you.

“I’ve got you,” he reassured you. You didn’t even have to ask for him to rub small circles on your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. As it had been for years now, Spencer was the only reason you felt safe enough to let your eyes fall shut, and even the darkness of sleep didn’t seem so intimidating when you knew you had him near.

spoiler content warning: miscarriage

[akiranzee]

IF U TAKE MUZAN REQUESTS CAN I PLS REQUEST LOVESICK HUSBAND MUZAN WITH HIS S/O PLEASSEE 😩😩

if u need more context then it’s still demon au and canon compliant but the only difference is that he’s Sooo soft around his wife. like absolute mush, worships her, says she’s his equal, blah blah. headcannons r fine!!!! whatever u wanna do w it, doesn’t matter if it’s demon or human reader

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ LOVESICK HUSBAND MUZAN WITH WIFE S/O!!

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𖹭 it was love at first sight, no matter how many times he and you doubt it.

𖹭 his love language? physical touch ‘cause he’s so bad at words of affirmation. 𖹭 he’s still the same, evil man you met, the only difference is that he was never evil with you. no matter how many times his demons — especially douma tell you that he’s just putting up a loving facade to mingle with the human world. 𖹭 but douma is so wrong. dead wrong. if only you saw the look on his face when he heard muzan’s voice from your shared room, “darling, don’t believe what that demon says, okay? he’s nothing but a lowly scowl, he doesn’t even equal up to you — hell, maybe you even equal with me.” 𖹭 a lovesick fool. douma concludes. because, 𖹭 one, he follows you everywhere, touches every part of your body, but he touches your stomach most, saying he’s gonna put his heir in their one day. 𖹭 two, he listens to every word you say, like that one moment where muzan was about to flick douma’s head off for the ninety-forth time, you stepped in bravely and told him he was too harsh with douma, so as for douma’s next punishment, he just flicked off half his head. 𖹭 three, last but not the least, muzan hates it so much when you spend time with his male demons, or just ordinary male humans. despite you reassuring him literally almost every night, his jealousy would still bubble up and get all protective over you, sending death glares all over to the poor male. 𖹭 yes. that’s how much power you hold over the most powerful demon in existence. 𖹭 it doesn’t even end there, he’s gotten even more handsy on you when you undergo fever three consecutive times, trying to persuade you in becoming a demon so that you don’t have to suffer, but of course, you reject. 𖹭 in your first fever, he was just a little bit calm on it, just constantly checking you from time to time, making sure you eat all your meals and herbs/medicines, and leaves you when you’re asleep. 𖹭 but, poor man got confused when just a day you’ve gotten better, you got fever again the day after, so he’s by your side for the next three days taking care of you, observing you. 𖹭 then, at the third time, he finally panics, sending all his demons, also akaza who’s on a ‘special mission’ to look for the blue spider lily, to gather all the best herbs and best doctors all around town. this is where he also just acts like your shadow. you wanna go to the bathroom? he’ll assist you alright. you’re smelling and sweaty? he doesn’t care and changes you gently (he’s trying). you don’t like the food or herbs or medicines? he’ll nastily put it in his mouth and kisses you as he makes sure the food or herbs goes down your throat. 𖹭 yes. that’s how unexpected this man could be. 𖹭 and yes, this is you having him wrapped around your fingers.

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a/n: help this is soo bad i just can’t imagine a lovesick muzan😭😭 that’d be the end of the world alright.

© akiranzee || do not steal, plagiarize, or repost my works without my permission.

[giannaln4]

I'm Sorry

lando norris x fem reader

summary: A moment of frustration made Lando react the way you never thought he would, and boy, would he regret it.  (1.6k words)

warnings: angst, swearing, argument, mean lando,  fluffy ending

a/n: ok so for this, i decided to go back to Baku and put the quali result in a totally different perspective than my last fic. i guess i kinda like it but i'm not very good at describing arguments 😭 anyway pls let me know what you think!!

ALSO i have an announcement to make and i'm really excited for it :)

check out the original request here!

↺ back to navigation — send me a request!

The qualifying this weekend was an absolute mess, to say the least. Lando was hard on himself no matter the result he got. Even if it was good, he would always find something to criticise himself, but P17? Everyone was in for a treat, you thought.

The worst part is that it wasn’t even his fault; it was a stupid mistake by the marshals, and he was not to blame for it. A yellow flag interrupted his lap, and he was immediately kicked out in Q1. 

Seeing the first qualifying session being over with his name in red was not something anyone wanted to see, especially not him, and now that every point was essential, you knew it crushed him.

He came back to the garage to see the rest of the qualifying with his team, and as soon as he got out of the car, you saw how frustrated he was. You understood him, of course, it sucked that this is how the weekend was going, but you would be there for him no matter what.

Once Lando took off his helmet, he headed straight to his driver’s room, and he didn’t even look at you when he walked past. That meant he wanted to be alone, but oh silly you, you decided to follow him.

He let out a loud sight when he heard the door open and close behind him, not really in the mood to hear what you had to say. He knew for a fact you were going to tell him he did well and it wasn’t his fault, which he greatly appreciated, but right now, he just wanted to suffer in peace.

“Baby?” You called him out, just testing the waters, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he hummed in annoyance. “I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but-”

“You are right, I don’t want to hear it,” he interrupted you, not even turning around to face you. He placed his hands on the desk and leaned into it, taking a deep breath. 

That should have been your cue to leave the small room and leave him alone, but for some reason you didn’t. “Lando, don't beat yourself up over this. It wasn’t your fault, and I’m sure things will be better tomorrow. We all know what you can do and you still have the race-“

“This is MY job, Y/N. I probably know better than you do,” he snapped, raising his voice and finally turning around. “This is what I’m fighting for, we all are. Do you know what’s at stake here? I finally have the chance to compete for a championship, and I just blew it.”

To say you were astonished was an understatement; this was the first time he ever snapped at you that way and you didn’t know how to react. “I’m sorry, I just-”

“Every point counts, and not even starting in the top 10 tomorrow- fuck, not even top 15, there is not much I can do.” Now, he looked more mad at you than frustrated at himself, and that crushed you. “I came here to be alone for a bit, I was hoping you would at least respect that." You stayed silent, knowing a single sound would make you cry, and you didn’t want to piss him off more than he already was. “I know you are trying to help, but you are not, you can’t.”

You just stared at him, tears threatening to leave your eyes; he had never raised his voice at you in a heated moment, and it hurt like hell. You definitely should have stayed outside. 

He walked towards the door and stepped out of the room without uttering another word, leaving you alone to deal with your own feelings. 

As soon as the door was closed, you started crying. It was your own fault, really; you could always read him like a book, even today, and you knew better than to disturb him when you weren’t supposed to, but today for some reason you just couldn't keep your mouth shut. Idiot.

You tried to calm yourself down; the last thing Lando needed was to see you cry on top of his result, but it was harder than you expected. This being the first time an argument got so out of hand made you feel absolutely terrible, especially because it was your fault. Deep down, you knew he didn’t mean it, you knew it was his feelings talking, but that didn’t make it any less painful.

A few minutes went by and you could still hear the cars out on track, the mumbling of the team, and people constantly working out there, so you tried to use that as a distraction. Anything to take your mind off what just happened. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t help, but at least you ran out of tears, and now you were just staring at a blank wall, thinking how you could begin to apologise for earlier, if he would even give you the chance to. 

Truth is, you weren’t sure if bringing it up again would be a good idea; you wanted to apologise for disrupting his cooldown moment, but what if hearing that made him mad again? Or worse, what if you didn’t apologise and made the situation even bigger? Your spiralling made you lose track of time, and a knock on the door pulled you out of your thoughts. 

“The car is about to leave, Y/N, they are waiting for you,” you heard someone say on the other side of the door. You were at least hoping Lando would come and get you once it was time to go back to the hotel, but he didn’t.

“Thanks, I will be there in a minute,” you replied, grabbing your things and Lando’s before sprinting outside. 

The car ride was hell. Lando didn’t look at you the entire time; he was just staring at his phone, texting who knows who, his face as neutral as ever. It felt longer than it actually was, and when you finally got there, he just stepped out of the car and didn’t look back. You let out a sigh and followed him, leaving a prudent distance between the two of you. 

Once you were in the hotel room, you both started to get ready for bed, like you usually did, except this time, you didn’t acknowledge each other. 

That was until you were already on your side of the bed and he came out of the bathroom, taking the spot next to you and burying his face on his phone again. The entire time you were building up the courage to say something, anything, now that you decided that apologising was the right thing to do.

“Lando?” You called for him, but again, he just hummed in response. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You were right, I shouldn’t have said anything, and I should have respected that you just wanted to be alone.”

That’s when it hit him. How could he get so mad at you for trying to make him feel better? 

He dropped his phone and turned to face you, and noticing your sad expression and teary eyes broke him. His eyes softened as guilt washed over him. Why were you apologising when he was the one who reacted like that? But as soon as you looked down at your hands to avoid eye contact and tears started falling down your face again, he felt even worse. 

“Y/N… Baby, I’m so sorry.” He got closer to you, softly taking your cheeks in his hands to get you to look at him. “Please don’t cry, I’m sorry I acted like a dick and raised my voice at you,” he stared, wiping your tears away, carefully thinking about what else he could say. 

You, on the other hand, didn’t know how to react. Your plan was to apologise and hopefully move on, but now that he was apologising, you didn’t know what to say; you didn’t want him to feel guilty, even though it was his fault you were in that position right now. If only he took a different approach. 

“It wasn’t your fault, okay? You were just trying to help, and I should have appreciated that, you know that I do, I just... I don’t know, there is no excuse for what I did.” But you were still silent and trying to avoid eye contact. “Baby, say something.” 

“Lando, you yelled at me.” You finally replied, your voice a bit muffled by your tears.

“I know, I shouldn’t have done that, and I promise I’ll never do it again.”

After a minute of silence, you just nodded, which made him let out a sigh of relief. “Okay.”

“Okay? I’m sorry, my love.” He pulled you into a hug, your head on his chest as he placed a soft kiss on your head. “I know I was a dick, and I really wish I was nicer about it.”

“It’s okay, I get it; you were frustrated with your result, and I should’ve known better than to interfere with what you were feeling.”

“No, it’s not okay. I was frustrated, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” Lando was rubbing your back softly, trying to bring you the comfort you tried to give him earlier. “I love you, and I can’t describe how much I appreciate everything you do for me; I know having to deal with my shit is not easy, so thank you.”

“It’s fine, I mean it.” You looked up at him, locking eyes finally in the entire day. “Just... don’t push me away, okay? And if you do need to be alone, just say it, and I promise I will listen next time.”

“Okay, sounds good.”

He gently placed a hand on your check, rubbing small circles before leaning in for a kiss, one both of you much needed. And with one final ‘I love you’, you feel asleep in his arms.

[httpsserene]

first off, CONGRATS ON 3k!!!! I’m so proud of you!!!! I have a couple requests pls don’t think you have to do all of them. My first one is from the kink list rating and it’s Daniel Ric, Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Oscah Pastry, and Franco Colapnto with the orgasm control kink :)

#3k vday celly

🧽🪣 would you like a complimentary car wash? — send me any five (5) drivers and one (1) kink from this list, and i will rank the drivers in order of who i think is most to least likely to participate/avoid, or love/hate that kink !!! each driver will have a small blurb written xxx

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. tysm for the love ash !!! would've liked this to be out on monday but my flu has made me incredibly delusional :) anyways, you already know i'm going to do all of your requests ;p

⌕ 3k v-day celly nav | all 3k requests | main nav | table of contents ↻

𝐦𝐭𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤 fem!bipoc!reader x mv. 1 | dr. 3 | cl. 16 | fc. 43 | op. 81 cw under the cut.

explicit language. oral and vaginal sex. light bdsm & d/s dynamics. the mildest blasphemous phrase used at the end of charles' blurb.

𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭

Oscar knows that his quiet, polite, and kind personality tricked you into thinking he’d behave similarly in bed. It surprises him too; his desire—his ego, truthfully—growing uncharacteristically insatiable as he watches you sob and beg for a release you know he’s not going to allow. Is it the way your expression twists in frustration when he intentionally keeps his well-practiced fingers away from your clit? Is it the way your body trembles in mourning of the little death that disappears when he pulls his mouth away from devouring your pussy to paint the bronze skin of your inner thighs with the imprint of his teeth? He doesn’t know if it heightens his satisfaction, or if it becomes the entirety of his satisfaction. It matters little to him, he thinks, as he forcefully thrusts into you to feel your desperate walls squeeze and flutter tightly around him, to hear your gasping moans transform into needy whimpers. He pulls out on the precipice of your shared peak, and his guttural moan drowns out your shattered wail as he deprives you both. His dick throbs sharply as it bobs against his abdomen, a dribble of precum jutting from the slit against his sweat-slicked, pink-flushed skin. He continues to ignore the aching of his cock, leaning down to murmur his apology against your lips while he brushes away your tears with gentle thumbs. Oscar is genuinely apologetic for denying you in such a cruel manner, but he’s going to do it a couple more times before he lets either of you cum.

You’ve turned Charles into a masochist. When you made him suffer through a thirty-minute blowjob and didn’t let him cum until he almost hyperventilated—he thought it was a one-time thing. Two weeks after that, you woke him up with a handjob, releasing him as soon as his muscles started jumping, an obvious sign that he was nearing his climax, ignoring his brain screaming, “that’s hot.” He reached down, attempting to finish the job, but you slapped his hand away, tutting disapprovingly and telling him that you decide when he gets off. He nervously giggled the statement aside at first, thinking you were joking. In hindsight, he’s delighted to know that you were serious. He doesn’t know how long you’ve had his hands tied behind the back of the desk chair you pushed him down on, nor can he remember how many times you’ve brought him close to the edge before ripping it away. If it were up to him to choose when he gets to cum, he’d make himself wait until morning. But, it’s your decision. And, you remind him just how cruel you can be when you overwhelmingly focus your attention on the head of his cock, rapidly working him toward completion. You pull away at the last moment and through blurry eyes he sees your smile widening as the streaks of his spend shoot across his chest, the orgasm simultaneously unsatisfying and substance-less—he loves it. Charles chokes on his breath as he pleads for you to give him a real orgasm, his dick still erect and pulsating, begging you for more. He cries when you inform him that he doesn’t get to cum for another three days. He can’t suppress the desperation that starts to tingle at the base of his skull—but God, does it feel heavenly.

Daniel is aware that he plays too much, and you’ve told him so multiple times. He’s a jokester, his personality light-hearted and bright, always searching for opportunities to make you laugh. It seems like those traits were slightly mistranslated when it comes to how he acts in bed. He’s an unrelenting tease, his grin sharper and wider as he dangles your climax in front of you like a carrot tied to a stick. Something about watching you realize that he controls your pleasure is immensely gratifying. It helps that he knows you’re only pretending to hate when he edges you; you can’t hide how the dripping wetness of your cunt has stained his mouth with your flavor and how the dregs of anything he couldn’t greedily swallow puddled on the bed sheets beneath your ass. That doesn’t mean he likes it when you flip the script on him. He can admit that he finds it hot as hell when you use him for your satisfaction, but he thought he was having a stroke the first time you got yourself off by riding him and leaving him high and dry. Admittedly, he does understand that it made the handjob you gave him (not even five minutes later, by the way) exponentially better, but damn. You didn’t have to give him a taste of his own medicine if you wanted to retaliate against his endless teasing. Daniel’s fine with you occasionally edging him if he eventually gets to cum during one of the rounds you have; however, don’t even think about leaving him with blue balls for more than a few hours. He’s a sensitive man at his core—you’ll make him cry. You don’t want that, do you?

Max is certain that his purpose on Earth is to drive fast and to fulfill all of your intimate needs (sexual or not).  So, when you suggested trying out orgasm control, he agreed to give it a chance for you. And, to put it bluntly, he doesn’t get it. He’d rather have you screaming, sobbing, and shaking under him because he’s pushed you to the point of overstimulation from making you cum too many times and not too few times. He’s driven to satisfy you; he���s not motivated by torturing you with denial, he wants to hear you slur your words as you beg for him to give you a break when he’s fucked out the feeling from your legs and all rational thought out of your head. However, that doesn’t mean he has the same opinion when you’ve been acting bratty; edging you until you remember your manners sounds like the perfect punishment, in that case. Thankfully, he puts quite a lot of work in to make sure you don’t have the opportunity to be a brat—he happily spends most of his time pampering and treating you like a princess. If you really wanted Max to edge you or ruin your orgasms, he’d do it—but, personally, he thinks overwhelming you with pleasure is much more enjoyable for both you and him. He’s a service dom, not a monster.

Yeah, Franco is going to need you to leave your bullshit at the door. It makes absolutely zero sense to him; why should he waste his time holding back one orgasm when he can at least do it twice? Three times, if he’s horny enough. Four times, if you’re going to keep making eye contact with him. You get the point. It’s an insult when you really think about it: are you trying to say that he’s not capable of making you climax multiple times? Is that a challenge? That’s fine, he’ll prove it to you. The first round will be in the car, then against the front door, then on the kitchen island, then on the dining room table, then against the living room windows—fuck it, he’d find a way to fuck you on the ceiling. Franco’s young, he has the libido and stamina for multiple rounds of varying lengths. There’s no need to force each other to last longer when he has a battery in his back like The Energizer Bunny. It would seriously piss him off if you tried to kick him away from between your legs as he was about to make you cum on his tongue. He will sit up and cuss you out for it, but not for long—he has to return to finish his meal that you so rudely interrupted him from right as he was going to lick the plate clean.

𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

© httpsserene — do not reupload. photos in header from pinterest. mdni divider by @cafekitsune.

[modanisgf]

Hey pookie! can i request megan x fem reader story where megan starts getting attracted to reader and questioning her sexuality, so she distances herself from her and things get awkward between them, and when confronted about it she ends up confessing?

(can u tell the delusions are getting into my head lol)

— GOOD LUCK, BABE! , MEGAN SKIENDIEL

“YOU’D HAVE STOP THE WORLD, JUST TO STOP THE FEELING.”

✎ SYNOPSIS — in which megan doesn’t understand her feelings for you, causing her to act on them stupidly.

✎ PAIRING(S) — katseye!megan x 7th member!reader

✎ WARNING(S) — megan and reader are stupid asf, kissing, pacing is weird pls dont crucify me. 😓😓, and not proof read..

KATSEYE MASTERLIST

it all started in the dance practice room one day where you felt like you were about to die. you were ranting to daniela about how you needed to hit the gym more, making the girl laugh at you.

“y/n you’re fine, i’m sure practice will come a bit easier to you soon.” daniela says, the encouraging words making you smile.

you stretched and thanked the girl, your stretch causing your shirt to rise up a little. you didn’t even notice, but the ginger girl on the other side of the room did. a little too much.

megan could feel her cheeks heat up at the sight of you, making her mumble curses under her breath. she had no idea why you made her feel so nervous, it had only started happening recently once the two of you got closer.

sure megan could recognize your beauty even in the dream academy days, but it never stood out to her as much as it did now. the way your smile never failed to brighten her day, the way your eyes shine whenever someone mentioned your interests, or even the way your eyebrows furrowed in anger whenever you messed up in a game were enough to make her feel attracted to you. wait— what was she even thinking? she doesn’t like girls, right?

lara was concerned about her ginger roommate as the girl seemed heavily lost in fault, “megan hello?” she says placing a hand on the girls shoulder.

“oh sorry.” megan says, finally being taken out of her thoughts.

“are you okay?” lara asks, to which megan nods.

"i just got distracted." megan says, giving lara a nervous smile. she knew lara wouldn't judge her for whatever she felt for you, but she still wanted to keep it under wraps for a bit.

"mmmhmm." lara says dragging out the word, making megan groan.

"i'm not telling you lara."

"you're so fake!"

—

the next instance was actually how lara figured out why megan had been acting so weirdly. it was in the evening and the katz were all eating dinner together around their kitchen. everyone seemed to be enjoying their time, while you were actually kind of upset, megan had been pretty much ignoring you all day.

you tried to talk to her but no matter what you did she would just slowly walk away, and talk to another one of your members. you knew it shouldn’t bother you this much, but you couldn’t help but feel jealous when you saw megan and lara together laughing. you wanted that to be you and megan together, just like it used to be.

little did you know, the two were actually deep in conversation about you. megan was ranting about how she felt around you recently, making lara laugh.

“so you like her?” lara asks, to which megan nods not thinking.

she only realized once the girl beside her gasped, making her backtrack on her words.

"i meant like! as a friend, or— i don't even know." megan sighs, giving up on trying to explain herself.

"she just makes me feel so nervous, and it's so confusing. i have no idea if i'm in love with her or she intimidates me." megan says, holding her head in hands out of stress. she moves quickly though to take a bite of her food, she was too focused on her conversation though missing the small mess she made.

"those are pretty different feelings girl." lara says, making megan glare at her.

"i'm actually gonna fight you." megan deadpans, making lara laugh again. (she found megan's suffering a little too funny.)

megan was too busy glaring at lara who was now on the floor dying to notice that you were now right next to her, the sound of your voice making her yelp.

"oh my god sorry megan." you apologize quickly, raising your hands up in front of you as if you were defending yourself.

"it's okay y/n." megan says, sighing in relief.

"can you look at me?" you say abrutly, confusing megan.

"um okay?" she replies, turning towards you.

you held up a napkin to her face, carefully wiping it making sure to not startle her.

"okay thank you." you say smiling, "it was bothering me sorry." you say sheepishly, somehow not noticing how red the girl in front of you was.

the close proximity between you two in that moment made megan feel like heart was going to stop with how fast it was beating. megan stared into your eyes for a moment letting herself admire you before she shook her head mentally, coming back to present time.

“it’s fine, thank you.” megan says, finally replying to you.

she gave you a small smile that melted your heart, you made an effort to return it before being cut off by megan herself. she moved away from you to put her dish in the washer, speaking up soon after.

“i think i’m gonna go to bed early, goodnight guys!” megan announces, waving to her members before heading down the hallway to her room.

all of your members waved back, calling out goodnight to her except you. you stood there dumbfounded, and once again you felt upset. did you do something wrong? why was she being so distant?

you needed an answer. you ran towards the hallway not even wasting a second to explain anything to your members, leaving confused expressions of all of their faces except lara.

“is everything okay?” sophia asks, getting shrugs from all of her members.

she turned to lara to see an unreadable expression on the girls face, it finally making sense once she spoke up.

“something is about to go down.” lara says simply, leaving a concerned expression on sophia’s face.

meanwhile you knocked on megan’s door, a bit too hard making the girl jump.

“i’m trying to sleep!” megan shouts, she was confused as to who was bothering her. she knew it couldn’t be lara she wouldn’t have knocked.

all of her confusion was wiped away once she heard your voice, her heart dropping to her ass.

“it’s me megan.” you respond.

“i-“

“can i please come in?”

megan sat up on her bed before speaking, “yeah.” she states, beginning to prepare herself to see your face again.

you open the door almost seconds after her response, the look on your face making megan’s heart break.

you looked so unbelievably upset, it looked like you hadn’t gotten much sleep lately either dark circles now lining your eyes that she failed to notice earlier. was this her fault? or who were you mad at? a thousand questions ran through her brain, before you interrupted her train of thought.

“megan.” you deadpan, your ominous tone made megan nervous looking everywhere but you.

“look at me please.” you say, looking at her softly now. you knew you couldn’t be angry with her for long, her pretty face always drew you in.

megan looked at you like you asked, the intimacy of the moment making her cheeks heat up again. it was a sweet moment until you spoke again, all of megans previous feelings disappearing almost instantly.

“why have you been ignoring me?” you ask, failing to mask the hurt look on your face from the ginger girl in front of you.

“what?” megan says, she didn’t know why she was acting dumb but it felt like an easier escape in her mind.

“why have you been ignoring me megan? i can’t ever talk to you without you walking away or making some dumb excuse.” you say firmly, you needed her to listen to your words and not just neglect them anymore.

“y/n i—“ megan starts, stopping herself for a moment.

she felt so nauseous, regardless of her getting confronted by her crush right now you were also so close to her. it seemed wrong to say in the time but you looked so pretty in that moment, the way your brows furrowed in frustration and how your hands were clutching her blanket tightly and— wait. megan scolded herself mentally, straightening her posture as she remembered you were waiting for an answer.

megan had no idea how to explain the truth though, how was she supposed to tell you the reason she avoided you was because she had a huge crush on you? a crush so bad that every time you got close to her, made any sweet gestures towards her, or even something as small as smiling at her she wanted to curl up in a ball and die out of happiness.

“megan, hellooo?” you say, shaking her gently.

“oh sorry.” megan mumbles quietly, just loud enough for you to hear.

“i just.” megan starts, looking down and then back at up at you. your eyes locked, making her even more anxious.

“y/n i really like you. like in a romantic way, and it’s okay if you don’t feel the same you know cause i wouldn’t wanna ruin our friendship! youhavetoseemeeverydaytooican’timagine—!” megan says so fast you can barely understand what she was saying.

“megan.” you say, a smile growing across your face.

you took her hand into yours, not missing the way her eyes lit up.

“i like you too, a lot actually.” you say sheepishly, looking away from megan in embarrassment.

“oh.” was all that megan could muster out, her voice wavering even after just trying to say one word.

you giggle at your crush or whatever you two were, her nervous state making you rub circles onto her thumb. there were a couple beats of silence before your thoughts got the best of you.

“can i kiss you?” you blurt, your hand instantly going to cover you mouth. you attempted to apologize, quickly being cut off by megan.

“yeah.” she stated simply, her eyes locked onto your lips.

you gave the girl a quick peck, before she pulled you in for more wrapping her arms around your waist. you put your arms around her neck, deepening the kiss. it went on for a bit longer, before you both pulled away for air.

you placed a hand on megan’s cheek, laughing at how stupid you two were. she tightened her grip on your waist, making you smile.

“i should’ve known, i saw you staring at me during practice you know?” you say, your laugh growing louder at the shocked expression on megan’s face.

“huh?!” she yelps, turning away from you in embarrassment.

“you aren’t as subtle as you think pretty girl.” you say, running your hands through megan’s hair.

“shut up…” megan mumbles.

“so… does this mean we’re girlfriends now?” megan asks, trying to smoothly change the topic giving you a bright smile.

“megan, we just sat here and kissed for five minutes?”

“is that a no?..”

“oh my god.”

[zayneslady]

hey!! loved that angst fic you wrote xx can i request the boys reaction to when the reader/mc and them are in an argument, and they accidentally said something extremely hurtful and it made reader cry. make the boys regret it so much pls hehe😼 thank you 💗

warnings: angst, open ending again hehe and again, reader is not MC

characters: Zayn, Xavier, Rafayel x reader (separately)

a/n: my first request *-* thank you so much! This exact trope is one of my favorites. I hope you enjoy it! Get your tissues ready! Also thank you to everyone's support in my first post! I'm so happy! ❤️

Classification: scenarios

ZAYNE ❄️

You didn't want to admit it, but you were sick. During the day you felt a little sore in your throat and your nose was stuffy. Arriving at Zayne's house after work, it was more than obvious that you had a fever. Your face was red and the chills running through your body made you shiver. 

There was nothing else to do, you would miss work tomorrow to fully recover. Furthermore, with the care of your loving doctor, you knew you'd be fine in no time. So you quickly took a shower and after drying your hair, you grabbed a blanket and curled up on the couch with a cold patch on your forehead, waiting for Zayne patiently. 

To your surprise, he arrived at a normal time and your heart vibrated with joy when you saw him enter. He had his head low as he stepped out of his shoes and closed the door behind him. 

"Zayne! Welcome back! How was your day?” You greeted him as he shrugged his coat off. “Guess what," you said, giggling softly because it was quite obvious by your funny voice that you were sick. "I got a little sick after yesterday's ra- 

You jumped a little when Zayne suddenly groaned, whipping his head up to look at you. “Oh my Lord,” he said, annoyed. “Can't you see I'm fucking tired? You do not know when you shut your damned mouth? I can't stand you! Why are you so clingy?” 

Your eyes widened and your face turned bright red. Your mind went blank and you didn't notice the tears streaming down your face until Zayne's face changed from complete anger to guilt. He looked at you from the door as if he didn't know what had happened just now. He didn't recognize himself. How did he dare to talk to you like that when you-

He gasped softly, “you're sick.”

You tried to clean your tears with your hands as you got up from the couch. Zayne made an attempt to come close to you, but you quickly ran to the bedroom only to come back after a couple of minutes with your shoes and coat on. 

“Excuse me,” you said, as you approached the door. 

“What? Where are you going like this? You need to rest.”

You nodded, trying to keep some distance from him. “I know. I'll rest back home. So please move.”

“Stay here. I'll take care of you,” he grabbed your hand and more tears fell down. How could he talk so sweetly right now after what he said. 

You shook your head, pulling your hand away and pushing him aside so you could open the door. “I don't need you, Zayne. Not when you can't stand me.”

“I was wrong, please.”

“I was wrong too. Goodbye, Zayne.”

XAVIER ⭐

“My poor Xavier,” you mumbled, gently cleaning a wound in Xavier's side. You winced when he did and your heart broke. You knew perfectly well that this could happen because of his line of work, but you felt terrible every time he came home hurt. “Oh, Xav, is it too painful?” You asked as you started to bandage him. 

He shook his head, breathing heavily and resting his head against the pillow on his bed. “It could be worse. Thank you for helping out.” 

“No need to thank me,” you said, smiling at him as you placed a tender and loving hand over his now bandaged wound. “I wish you didn't have to do this. It's so dangerous.” 

Your words had no poison. You clearly didn't want Xavier to suffer in any way. Why couldn't he have a regular, safe job? Maybe he's just strong because he has to protect everyone. You said those words from the bottom of your warm heart, so you were more than surprised to hear Xavier's response:

“What? Are you saying I'm weak?” He spat and you blinked. 

“N-No! I'm just saying that I wish you had another job because- 

“Is that so? So you rather have a bunch of wanderers attacking innocent people? Just because you don't want me to get hurt?” 

“It's- It's not like that! I never said that. I just get worried sick for you and-

“Maybe I should really stop, huh? Just turn a blind eye to everything that's happening like egoist people like you di.”

He just kept vomiting out words, one harsher than the last. Every time you tried to speak and fix this misunderstanding, his irrational words drowned out your voice and it made something heavy and nauseating settle in your stomach. This was not going to end well in any way. 

“Xavier, my love, please listen to me. I do not- 

“Maybe one day a wanderer will actually kill you. And believe me, I won't even bat an eye at you,” he said, crossing his arms and turning his head away from you. 

Your eyes had never filled with tears as quickly as that moment. Your body began to shake with suppressed sobs as you felt heat and disappointment throughout your body. Did Xavier just... wish for your death? And in the hands of a creature as horrible as a wanderer? 

“Oh no,” he suddenly said and you flinched when you felt his touch against your cheek. “I am so, so sorry.” You cried a little harder before getting up from his bed. “W-Wait, my star. Please, I'm sorry.”

No words came out. You simply grabbed your bag and left the room.

He called your name and then groaned in pain as he tried to move. “Pl-please, come back! Where-

You couldn't hear more of his words as you closed the door of his apartment. Did this mean the end? You truly thought so. 

Rafayel 🐠

"Ah, welcome back, Rafayel!" The amount of excitement that rushed through your body whenever your eyes landed on him was almost overwhelming. It wasn't that you hadn't seen him in a long time, but a second without him felt like a century. 

His eyes, usually warm and sparkling, looked cold and even angry at seeing you in his house. "Hello," he said dryly as he closed the door behind him. You frowned slightly. "What are you doing here?" 

"Hmm, nothing much. I just wanted to visit you. Is that alright?" 

He sighed, placing a paper bag on the table. "Yeah, sure. I gave you a key after all."

You cleared your throat, nodding awkwardly. "Did... you have a good day?" 

He sighed again and shook his head as he stepped out of his shoes. "I didn't. It was terrible for the very first moment I opened my eyes. You see," he started and you nodded, listening carefully. "I overslept so I lost precious time for my painting. Then I didn't have time to eat so I didn't eat anything but a piece of bread."

You immediately got up to make dinner for him, maybe after eating he'd feel better? 

"And the worst thing was," he said, collapsing onto his couch. "I couldn't find my emerald green paint so I had to go all the way to the art store and get a new one! Ugh!" 

You blinked, frowning a little. "Your emerald green?" 

"That's what I said."

"Hmm, I'm very sure I put it in all of your greens?" You left the ingredients aside as you walked to the paints. "Here it is." 

He got up and looked at you with an astonished expression. Confusion quickly turned into anger and he was yelling at you in a second. "Why didn't you tell me?!"

"You saw me last night!" You explained, carefully leaving the paint back in place. "You said you wanted your paints to be more organized and I asked you if I could help you out! You even told me you liked how I organized it by colors!" 

Rafayel let out a frustrated sigh as a hand carded through his hair. "I can't believe I just lost all of that precious time because of your stupid mistake!"

"Excuse me?"

"Every time you try to help, you just mess things up! Can't you keep your little hands to yourself for once? I was just stupid for letting you help me out! You are way too much, I can't stand you sometimes.”

You were stunned. He had never said anything like that about you, you couldn't even remember other times when you wanted to help him and you ruined it. Besides, it wasn't your fault. The green paint was there all along and he just hadn't taken the time to look for it properly.

You knew it wasn't your fault, but his harsh words and the anger and hatred in his eyes were too much. Tears quickly filled your eyes and began to fall down your reddened cheeks. 

Rafayel realized his mistake a bit too late. Letting out a gasp as he watched the first tear fall, he hurriedly approached you, but you backed away, putting space between the two of you. He couldn't say anything, too surprised by his own words.

What was just a moment seemed like minutes, endless hours with deafening silence. Only your sobs echoed around the entire house, until your voice, small and trembling, made him jump. 

“I won't touch your stuff again, Rafayel,” you said softly, avoiding his eyes. 

“N-No, I didn't mean-

You nod, “if you don't mind, I'll sleep in your guest room. Goodnight, Rafayel.”

Deep inside you so desperately wanted him to stop you, but he watched you disappear into the hall and never called you back.

You knew it was going to be a very cold night.

[whitechocolate355]

full court press

part - 4

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd (pazzi)

word count - 4.5k

c/w - language

hey y'all... wanted to make this chapter extra juicy to make up for the heartbreak from last chap and now i can finally push out new chaps for u guys and appear under tags!! hope y'all enjoy the surprise at the end as much as i enjoyed writing it 😈😈😈 (defo more to come!!!)

and as always, anons pls send me oneshot requests (i'm begging atp)

chapter 4: breaking point 

---------------

Azzi -

Azzi sat cross-legged on her stiff hotel bed. Still damp from the shower, the city lights of Vegas bled through the room's curtains.

She shouldn’t care this much. It was a random day. A random plane ride. A few touches and almost-kisses wrapped in tension and hope. But somehow, Paige had settled in her system like an echo she couldn’t mute. Every time she blinked, it was Paige’s face she saw — proud, beautiful, pissed.

Blinking herself out of her tears, her thumb hovered over her phone, debating whether to phone Nailyssa or not, until finally she hit FaceTime.

The screen rang, sending echoes across her silent hotel room. Then Nailyssa’s face popped up, flushed and grinning, with party lights swirling behind her.

"AZZIIIIIIII!! How you been girl?" Nailyssa screamed over the speaker, which was blasting PND like it was the last day on earth. She stayed laughing as a couple of girls danced behind her, shoving each other playfully. “Dude, we miss you! Wait—hold up—everybody say hi to my girl!”

A chorus of voices filled the screen: Azzi! Miss you! When you coming back? She forced a small, tight smile. She loved her friends back in Virginia, and she had missed them a heck of a lot. But in that moment, all she could muster was a quiet, “Hey, y’all.”

As Nai was about to say something, Matt popped into frame and shouted something Azzi couldn’t hear. Her chest tightened. Seeing her boyfriend had made her suffering worse. Like, way worse.

Nailyssa rolled her eyes, laughing. “Chill, Matt! I’m talking to the wife!”

Nailyssa leaned closer to the screen, squinting. Then her face dropped. “Oh, shit—sorry, Az. You good?”

Azzi’s face had given her away.

She quickly shook her head, tightening the hoodie around her frame like it could hide the crack splitting down her chest.

 “I’m fine,” she said sweetly, her voice steadier than she felt. Seeing Nailyssa in her element, it pained Azzi to force her issues on her. Especially when it shouldn’t be affecting her this much. “Just tired. You’re good, though. Looks fun.”

Nailyssa’s face crumpled a little, but Azzi added quickly, “Really, go have fun. You deserve it.”

“Az—”

“Go, have fun. Love you.” Azzi cut in gently, and ended the call.

The screen went black, and the quiet of the room suddenly felt like a blanket too heavy to move under.

Azzi let the phone slip from her fingers, rolling onto her side with a heavy exhale. Her arms ached for something to hold, someone to pull her out of the knot in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry over a girl who barely even knew her.

A knock at the door startled her. She hesitated, glancing at the time. 10:46.

Azzi sat up fast, wiping her face even though she hadn't cried—yet. She cracked the door open to find Caroline standing there in baggy sweats, hair damp from the shower.

“Hey, just checking on you," Caroline said, her voice soft. "You good?”

She softened immediately under the warmth of Carol's gaze and forced a small smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Carol raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Tired… or tired of Paige?”

Azzi froze, her hand still on the door.

Caroline laughed, misreading the silence. She shouldered into the room, plopping down on Azzi's bed like she owned the place. “C’mon, Az. It’s obvious. She’s trying to get in your head. It’s, like, her whole thing.” Azzi’s heart twisted, but she stayed quiet.

"You’re one of the best players I’ve ever known," Caroline said, voice turning serious. "So tomorrow? I want you to walk in there with that signature Azzi charm. Make sure to bring that pretty little jump shot of yours. Show Paige who’s actually running the court."

Azzi nodded, biting the inside of her cheek. The words made her eyes sting. She didn’t deserve that kind of faith tonight. Not when she’d been unraveling for hours over a girl who looked at her like she'd ripped out her heart.

But Caroline's words grounded her, forced her to remember why she came. This wasn’t about Paige. Or whatever lived and died between them.

This was about the team. The dream. Her future.

She exhaled slowly, feeling something tighten back into place. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

Azzi smiled, for real this time. “You’re right.”

Caroline grinned, already kicking her feet up like the conversation was settled. “Damn right I’m right. Now go to sleep, hooper. Big day tomorrow.”

Azzi nodded, tugging the covers up and sliding into bed. She stared at the ceiling long after Caroline slipped out, a fierce determination hardening in her chest.

Tomorrow, she’d show up for herself. And if Paige wanted war on the court?

Then fine. She’d bring the fire.

---------------

Paige -

Paige sat in her bed, her head softly thudding against the headboard when her alarm rang. 6:00. 

She hadn’t even realised she had stayed up the whole night, ruminating over the ‘people’s princess’ of basketball. 

Shocked she hadn’t seen Azzi on the internet before, she had taken the liberty to check Instagram. And when she was met with no profile photo and posts, she resorted to scrolling endlessly through Azzi’s tagged posts, mouth agape. 

Damn. Paige thought as she scrolled through Nailyssa’s posts, seeing photos of Azzi at a party dressed in a tight tube top and a miniskirt that hugged her waist and ass in just the right places.

Realising what she was doing, she threw her phone across the bed and screamed into her pillow. What was she thinking?

Picking herself up, Paige threw on her #5 jersey, grabbing her backpack before rushing out to the gym. Even though every inch of her wanted to destroy her in practice, she desperately wanted to see the face she had been thinking about all night.  

.

.

.

The gym doors gave a hollow squeak as Paige stepped inside. For a second, it looked empty. She inhaled deeply, shoulders relaxing. Good. She had time. Time to cool her head. Time to run drills. Time to not think about the way Azzi’s skirt clung to her hips in that tagged photo.

But then, the sound of dribbling. 

Paige’s head tilted. Again—

Dribble. One-two. Rise, then swoosh.

She followed the sound and squinted. There, at the far end of the court — already drenched in sweat and rhythm — was Azzi.

6:20? Paige blinked at the wall clock. Warm-ups didn’t start until 7:15. She grunted, half in annoyance, half in awe. She turned dramatically, and made her way to the opposite end of the court. Dropping her duffel with a thud, she turned her back to Azzi like a petty act of self-preservation. If she couldn’t see her, maybe her brain would finally shut up.

She started her free throws, slipping her headphones on, but it didn’t help.

The sound of the ball landing in the hoop had become a constant, as if replaying the same song over and over again. 

A tempo. Clean. No backboard. Barely a rattle. Just net.

Paige turned, unable to help herself.

Azzi was a vision — legs planted firm, elbow tucked, each release identical to the last. Her hair was pinned up, but a few curls had escaped and stuck to her jaw. Her form was perfect. Paige swallowed.

No wonder they called her the Steph Curry prodigy. From Paige’s tireless hours of doom scrolling across Azzi’s feed, she had been surprised at how many accomplishments the girl had. Named National Gatorade high school player of the year, winning countless Steph Curry shoot-out competitions. She knew now. Azzi was that girl.

And as if sensing the stare — Azzi turned.

Their eyes locked.

Caught off guard that Azzi had caught her staring, Paige hurried her mind to come up with a snarky remark to shake Azzi’s confidence —and maybe enjoy the flirting again — until she realised Azzi was staring straight into her eyes. 

But this time, it wasn’t the same soft-eyed gaze from the plane. Not the warm curiosity from across the aisle, or the flirtatious look when Paige had caught up to her at the airport. This was steel. A dare. A challenge.

Azzi’s hands moved like muscle memory. Her eyes staying on Paige's as she shot another 3 pointer, with a straight trajectory —swish.

As soon as the ball left Azzi’s hands, she fully turned to Paige, then winked. And without much effort, the ball hit nothing but net.

God, she was so fucking annoying.

Azzi turned back to the rack like nothing happened, grabbing another ball, cool and unbothered. Paige stood frozen, lips parted, heart punching through her chest like it wanted to launch itself across the court.

She couldn’t tell what pissed her off more — the fact that Azzi had stared her down and made that shot like it was nothing, or the fact that Paige was so pathetically, painfully into it.

She was half a second from storming across the court and kissing her senseless—

Until a bunch of other girls walked into the gym, their sneakers squeaking the court, causing Paige to retract from Azzi (who had made it to half court) and continue her shooting drills in silence.

“Morning, queens!” KK burst in, the sound of Sexxyred blaring through her JBL speakers. Sarah and Nika were trailing behind her, fixing their shoes and stretching out their hamstrings.

Azzi jogged casually to half-court, towel slung over her shoulder like nothing had happened back there. Paige cursed under her breath and forced herself back into motion, returning to her shooting drills with mechanical precision.

“Yo Az…!!!” KK grinned. “We've been meaning to ask… what was it like to learn from the Steph Curry?”

Sarah came up from behind KK. “It’s giving MVP energy. You cooked yesterday.”

“I can tell he didn’t skip cardio with you,” Nika added, shaking her head. “Are you even tired?”

Azzi chuckled softly, then turned her head — slowly, but deliberately — to Paige.

Her voice carried, loud enough to echo across the stadium. “Felt like barely anything.”

Paige froze.

Azzi tilted her head a notch, eyes glinting.

“Paige looks pretty tired though,” Azzi continued, as if talking to herself, but not really. “Last night wear you out, Paigey?”

Paige scoffed, dribbling the ball between her legs as an attempt to stay calm.

"Don't be shy, I can see those dark circles under your eyes" Azzi continued to tease.

Damn her for stalking Azzi last night.

Collecting herself, Paige huffed before directing her attention in Azzi's way. “Hey princess” she replied, plastering on a falsely confident grin. “Maybe you should worry less about my stamina and more about your spot on the roster.”

A few oohs from the girls echoed, slapping each other playfully as they entertained themselves with this newfound rivalry, but Azzi didn’t flinch.

Instead, she smirked, like Paige’s fire was kindling her own.

And maybe it was.

Because whatever the hell this was — the tension, flirtation, full-blown basketball warfare — it was only just getting started.

---------------

Azzi -

As more players trickled in to warm up, Azzi stood to the side of the court, running occasional plays with Carol. She was locked in. Unlike the fan-girling, soft Azzi she had been yesterday, she was not going to go easy on Paige anymore. Screw the tingling she had to swallow every time Paige looked her way. Screw the stolen glances when Paige wasn’t watching, and the sharp twist in her gut when she caught that flicker of betrayal on Paige’s face. She wasn’t in Vegas for this — not for hookups, not to gamble away her feelings. And definitely not to fall for some girl she’d met days ago… only to let her win because her damn heart went soft.

No, she was here to play ball. The same game she had been playing since she was a toddler. The same game that comforted her despite whatever was going on in her life. The same game she was so darn good at.

So as the girls finished up their warm ups, and huddled up into teams as instructed, Azzi knew she was going to make the most of it. The group had only 30 girls now, meaning 18 of them were to be cut. And realising Paige was staring across from her, on the opposite team, a smirk appeared on her face. Azzi was going to give what Paige had so desperately wanted: a fucking war. 

Coach blew the whistle sharp through the gym, signaling tip-off.

Everyone shuffled into position. The sound of sneakers squeaking across the hardwood echoed beneath the bright overhead lights. Azzi stepped into the centre circle, eyes locked dead ahead. And there she was — Paige.

She stepped up across from her, confidence painted all over her face like she hadn’t spent the night spiralling into Instagram Azzi rabbit holes. But Azzi saw the stiffness in her shoulders. The split-second delay before she adjusted her stance. She wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Ready?” the ref asked, holding the ball between them.

Paige didn’t answer. She just tilted her head slightly and offered Azzi a slow, smug smile.

Azzi didn’t flinch.

She bent her knees, eyes sharp and still. It didn’t matter that Paige looked like every internet’s blonde dream or that Azzi had once admired that smirk.

Today, that smirk was the target.

The whistle blew, and the ball soared into the air.

Azzi exploded upward.

They both did.

Arms outstretched, hands fighting for inches. But Azzi’s timing was perfect. Her fingertips reached the ball first, swatting it clean to Carol who caught it and took off down the lane.

Game on.

Azzi landed lightly and already sprinted downcourt, her movements automatic. Paige trailed her, right on her heels, but something in her expression had shifted — the games, the snark, the seduction — they were gone now.

This wasn’t for show anymore.

Azzi hit the wing, caught Carol’s pass, and — with one fluid motion — pivoted, stepped back, and released.

Swish.

No backboard. No hesitation.

Paige’s jaw tensed.

As she jogged backward on defense, Azzi didn’t look her way. Not even once.

Because this time? She wasn’t playing with Paige.

She was playing against her.

And she was just getting started.

---------------

Paige -

Paige felt the sting of Azzi’s jumper like it hit her, not the net.

She gritted her teeth and turned, jogging back into position, fists clenched at her sides. Okay. Cool. So we’re doing this now.

She’d walked into the gym hoping for a look, maybe a smile, maybe a breathless hey. Instead, she got a highlight reel — and a front-row seat to her own humiliation.

And the worst part?

She was into it.

Azzi was faster than yesterday. Sharper. Her handles were tighter, her cuts cleaner. It wasn’t just that she was showing off — no, this wasn’t about show. This was personal. Every move screamed I’m over it. I don’t care anymore. Every shot felt like a slap across Paige’s ego. Across her chest.

She was punishing her.

And it was working.

Paige’s team brought the ball up the court. She waved off a screen, opting to go iso — and she knew exactly who she wanted.

Azzi switched onto her without hesitation.

For a beat, neither of them moved.

Just two girls, five feet apart, pretending this was still about basketball.

Then Paige made her move. Hard crossover to the left. Azzi bit — barely — but recovered quick. Paige spun back to the right, rose up for a jumper.

Azzi’s hand was right there.

Paige released anyway — forced it — and it clanged off the rim.

“Shit,” she hissed under her breath, turning on her heel as Azzi snagged the rebound like she’d known it was coming.

Of course she had.

The game went on like that. Paige trying to find a rhythm, to remind herself that she was Paige Fucking Bueckers — but Azzi was everywhere. Gliding. Shooting. Locking in on defense. Like she’d been designed for moments like this.

And Paige?

She couldn’t stop watching her.

Every shot Azzi sank tightened the knot in Paige’s stomach. Every time Azzi laughed with Carol or bumped fists with KK, Paige felt like she was watching someone she used to know — someone who’d shared a red-eye flight, and empty feelings and a moment that had felt stupidly, ridiculously real.

But maybe she’d imagined that.

Maybe the smirk, the foot nudges, the almost-kisses — maybe it had all been games to Azzi.

And that’s what pissed her off the most.

Midway through the scrimmage, Paige finally managed to drive past Azzi, finishing with a slick underhand layup that rolled off her fingers and kissed the glass.

“And one,” she muttered to herself, turning just in time to meet Azzi’s eyes.

Azzi didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t care.

She just jogged away, lifting her shirt ever so slightly to wipe her forehead, hands already calling for the ball again.

And Paige — panting, hands on her knees — realised with a jolt of panic:

She wants to beat me.

Not flirt. Not test the waters. Not even hate me.

She just wants to win.

Azzi caught a pass at the top of the arc. Paige stepped out on her, squared her shoulders. Azzi jabbed once, twice, pulled back, then — like it was nothing — rose into a three-pointer.

Paige got a hand up. Too late.

Swish.

Azzi landed softly, eyes on Paige as she backpedaled.

And this time?

No smirk.

No wink.

Just that same, steady look — direct, ice-cold, dangerous.

Paige swallowed hard.

It should’ve made her angry.

But all it did was make her want her more.

---------------

Azzi -

Azzi was in the zone.

She had just sunk her third three-pointer in a row, and the rush of it filled her chest like rocket fuel. Every swish added a new brick to the wall she was building — one that kept Paige out. One that reminded her she didn’t need anyone, especially not some smug blonde who played with people’s feelings like it was just another game.

But even through the armour, Azzi could feel Paige’s eyes.

She always could.

There was something magnetic about the way Paige watched her — intense, hungry, impossible to ignore. And even now, even with all her fire pointed squarely at her, Azzi felt it. The heat of it. The weight.

Still, she didn’t let it shake her.

Not until she heard it.

A sickening thud. Then a gasp. Then a pause — that split-second silence only athletes recognise, the one that means something’s wrong.

Azzi turned on instinct.

Paige was on the floor.

Her body crumpled awkwardly, one leg twisted beneath her, clutching her ankle like it had betrayed her. The ball bounced away, aimless.

“Shit—Paige?”

Azzi’s feet moved before her brain did, sprinting across the court and dropping to her knees beside her before anyone else could. 

The smugness, the war, the flirty standoff — gone. All Azzi could see was the way Paige’s face twisted, her jaw clenched tight against the pain, trying not to cry. Trying not to look vulnerable.

Azzi’s heart did something violent.

“Don’t touch it,” Paige muttered, her voice breathless and sharp as the coach knelt beside them, shouting for a trainer.

Azzi froze. Her hand was already halfway to Paige’s wrist.

“I wasn’t going to,” she lied, softly.

Paige wouldn’t look at her. Not directly.

But her knuckles were white around her ankle, and her breathing was shallow, and Azzi could see it now — the fear.

Not just of the injury. But of what it might mean.

Missing the team. Missing the tournament. Falling short of something she'd wrapped her whole identity around.

Azzi knew that fear. More than she was willing to admit.

And still, she said nothing.

Because part of her — the part that had been burning since yesterday — whispered: This is what happens when you let people in.

Azzi rose slowly as the trainer arrived with an ice pack and a stretcher. She stepped back into the crowd of girls watching, all of them murmuring in soft concern. Her chest felt tight. Unsteady. Like something had just split open inside her.

And when Paige was finally helped off the court, limping, one arm thrown around a staff member’s shoulder for balance, Azzi didn’t follow.

She just watched.

And hated how much she cared.

.

.

.

The locker room was unusually quiet.

No laughter. No banter. Just the low hum of the air vents and the muffled thud of someone tossing their sneakers into a cubby.

Azzi sat on the bench, untying her shoes slowly, her fingers twitching from leftover adrenaline. Her back was to Paige, but she didn’t have to turn to know she was there — she could feel the heat of her frustration radiating from across the room.

Paige was leaning against her locker, ankle wrapped tightly in a compression bandage, jaw locked so hard Azzi thought it might snap.

The trainers had told her it probably wasn’t serious. Just a rolled ankle. A few days, maybe. But that word — probably — was like a blade to someone like Paige. Someone who lived in absolutes. Who needed certainty the way other people needed oxygen.

Azzi looked over at the blonde, hurting and furious. The locker room was long empty now, with all the girls whispering “You’ll get better” and false promises to Paige as they left. But Azzi stayed, sitting next to Paige. No words exchanged, only the sound of heavy breathing filling the room. 

---------------

Paige -

Paige couldn’t think.

The trainer's words kept running around in her skull — “We’ll need to monitor the swelling. Give it a few days. Could just be a sprain.” Probably. Possibly. Maybe.

Paige didn’t do maybe.

She did win or lose. In or out. Break or bounce. No limbo, no waiting, no grey area.

So she did the only thing that made sense in that moment — she slammed her fist into the locker.

The sharp clang slicing through the silence like a gunshot. Pain shot up her knuckles. But it was dull compared to the pressure building in her chest. Her eyes were glassy, but no tears fell. So, she just stood there, chest rising and falling, caged in by the weight of her own pride and panic.

She was furious. At her ankle. At the trainers. At this stupid scrimmage.

And at Azzi.

Azzi who had walked onto the court like she owned it. Azzi who didn’t just beat her — she undressed her in front of everyone with that goddamn jumper. Azzi who didn’t look at her the way she had on the plane anymore. No softness. Just fire. Just vengeance. And it was killing Paige — because somewhere between that hunger and that hurt, Paige had wanted her even more.

She turned her head, and there she was. Sitting quietly on the bench, unbothered. Almost glowing. Paige’s jaw clenched tighter.

Her hands moved before her mind did.

And before she knew it — she was right in front of Azzi, breath hitching in surprise as Paige grabbed her by the waist and shoved her against the locker.

The cold metal met Azzi’s back, but she didn’t flinch.

Paige didn’t even blink. She just leaned in — mouth crashing into hers like a wave she’d been holding back for days.

The kiss was hard. Messy. Her fingers dug into Azzi’s hip like she needed something to anchor her, to keep her from drowning in it. She kissed her like she wanted to erase the past three days. The stares. The taunts. The way Azzi’s jumper made her knees weak. The way she hated her, and wanted her, and couldn’t stop thinking about how it felt when Azzi touched her hand on the plane. 

Azzi kissed her back — at first. Briefly. Just long enough for Paige to feel the heat surge up her spine. But something about it scared her.

Because it wasn’t just chemistry.

It was something real.

So, just as quickly as it began, Paige pulled back.

Her breath hitched. Her eyes wide now, flooded with panic.

Breathless. Shaken. Her heart was pounding loud enough to echo through the whole locker room.

“Sorry,” she muttered, her voice cracking more than she wanted it to. “That was— I didn’t mean— I’ll go.”

“No, wait—”

Azzi reached for her wrist. Not harsh. Not needy. Just firm enough to say: don’t run from me again.

And this time — Azzi leaned in. Her lips brushing against Paige’s like they had all the time in the world.

Her kiss wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t angry. Instead, it was warm. Intentional. Like she had decided a long time ago that if this ever happened — really happened — it would be on her terms.

Paige’s breath caught again, but she didn’t pull away.

Not this time. As their heartbeats began to synchronise with each other, Paige’s eyes flicked down to Azzi’s lips, parted just slightly, her breath shallow. Tentative. Wanting.

Paige leaned in — slower this time — and skimmed her tongue along Azzi’s bottom lip, barely touching, just enough to ask a question without words. Can I?

Azzi didn’t move — not away.

Instead, she tilted her head back ever so slightly, a soft, whispered “mhm” ghosting past Paige’s mouth like a secret.

That was all she needed.

Paige deepened the kiss, her hands sliding from Azzi’s waist up to her ribs, thumbs grazing beneath the hem of her practice tee. Azzi inhaled sharply, her body instinctively arching toward her. Needing more. Needing to be closer.

Azzi’s legs shifted as she leaned back, propping herself against the locker behind her. Her head tilted up to meet Paige’s again, mouth parted, inviting. Her posture screamed confidence, like she wasn’t just letting this happen — she was in it.

And Paige — breath caught in her throat — leaned closer, her leg propped between her thighs, the fit of it too perfect, too magnetic. Her knee brushed against Azzi’s thigh and Azzi exhaled something between a gasp and a curse.

Their mouths crashed again, this time with a heat that had been building since the moment they locked eyes at tip-off.

It was passionate — yes — but not messy like before. It was more desperate now, but more certain, too. The kind of kiss that said I’ve wanted this. I’ve tried not to. I can’t anymore.

Azzi’s hands reached up, fingers slipping into the waistband of Paige’s jersey at the sides, pulling her closer. Paige groaned low into her mouth, the tension in her shoulders finally starting to melt.

She rolled her hips slightly forward, enough to close the last inch of space between them, and Azzi’s thighs tightened reflexively around her. The bench creaked under the shift, but neither of them noticed.

The only thing that existed in that locker room — under the dim fluorescent lights and the echo of distant voices outside — was the feel of each other.

The way Azzi tasted like sweat and adrenaline and something addicting. The way Paige kissed like she was still playing to win. The way they both knew this was messy and dangerous and real.

Azzi finally broke the kiss with a soft pant, her head falling back against the locker with a soft thud. She looked up at Paige, lips swollen, eyes hazy, voice low. Paige let her forehead fall against Azzi’s, both of them breathing heavily, hearts still slamming inside their chests as Paige’s hand still rested lightly on Azzi’s hip like it had never left.

“You gonna walk out on me again?”

Paige’s breath caught in her chest, and she almost laughed — from disbelief, from how good Azzi’s mouth still felt on hers, from the way this whole day had flipped on its head.

But all she said, hoarse and barely audible, was:

“Not unless you tell me to.”

And just like that, everything changed.

For Paige, this was scarier than any injury. Scarier than losing.

But it also felt more like winning than anything she’d ever known.

[lotusloong]

If you're cool with song fics, would you do one based on "Suffering "from Epic: The Musical? (It has a choke hold on me for the past few days...) I personally don't know which Wukong is most fitting, though...

Waiting

Relationship: Sun Wukong X Female Reader

AN: HHOOOOOO okay! So first off, I fucking love greek myth, and I love the take of Epic the Musical, amazing songs. 

So I really really really liked this request! I hope I did it justice, I like to think I did, at least the first half lol. 3k words in im like ‘some smut would pair really nice with this’ and another 4k words later here we are. I have more requests cooking, this one just ended up getting away from me a bit lololol! I also wasn’t sure which Wukong this prompt works best with so I left it up to personal preference! I hope you like it ♥

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, like...really horny smut, Violence, Wukong losing his temper, Wukong wanting to be a baba, Slight Pregnancy talk sprinkled throughout, I have a kink okay don't judge, Let me know if I missed any tags pls

Read it on AO3!

The wood of the long boat felt sturdy under his feet and the gentle breeze felt cool against his fur, but Wukong kept his gaze on the still water. The keeper of this valley had warned them of a shapeshifter in this lake, and the Monkey King was not willing to let his Master drown today. He had been tempted to take the group the long way around, through the mountain range, but the longer path would have meant more opportunities for other yaoguai to attack. In the end they agreed to take a short cut across the lake itself, his fellow disciples agreeing to surround the Tang Monk if trouble showed up and let Wukong handle the tricky nature of the shapeshifter.

The boat ride has been peaceful so far, and they were over halfway across the lake. And that's when he felt an unfamiliar magic probing at his mind. If he were a lesser demon, he probably wouldn't have noticed it.

“My darling?” The surface of the water broke with a gentle ripple, and suddenly Wukong was looking down at a familiar face. 

Your face. 

The creature dared to wear your skin, to use your voice, to trick him. 

“Don't you miss me?” Your voice sounded like music to his ears. It had been so long, too long, since he had last heard it…

He almost felt grateful to the yaoguai, for reminding him of how you sounded. That gratefulness wouldn't protect them from his simmering rage, however. It was insulting that they would dare try to use you against him, as if they had the right to try and imitate your beauty.

He leaned over the edge of the long boat just enough to show interest and quickly hit his tail against the wooden floorboards. His ear flicked at the sound of Bajie and Wujing moving closer to Tang Sanzang and Bai Long Ma.

He had to put on a show to distract the shapeshifter, and that's something the Monkey King was renowned for. 

“...More than you know.” He spoke, his voice soft. He didn't like being so obviously vulnerable about his feelings towards you to a stranger wearing your face, but they say all the best lies have sprinkles of truth in them. At his words the yaoguai moved closer, looking the picture of innocence. It wasn't you, and it was more obvious the closer Wukong looked. 

Your eyes, normally so bright and alive, looked shades darker than they were supposed to be, as if there was no distinguishable pupil. Your hair wasn't the same, the color was also the wrong shade and the texture didn't look right. Even your smell, the sweetest and most intoxicating scent he had ever had the pleasure of breathing in, wasn't right. This fake-you smelled of kelp and bad lake water.

It filled him with fury, an anger so strong he desperately wanted to give in to it, to let it control him as he beat this thing into the muck for daring to use your perfect image against him. 

“Then come in the water and kiss me~” Not-you purred, fluttering its eyelashes in a way that made his stomach churn. His tail twitched in irritation, and not-you’s eyes followed the movement. He had to keep playing along.

“My love I've told you this before-” He looked at the dark water before him, lifting a foot and taking a hesitant step back from the side of the boat. “You know I'm afraid of the water.” He wrapped his tail around his leg in an act of embarrassment and shame. Not-you's eyes widened, looking from him to the water with surprise. It was quickly covered up, confusion in their voice as they kept trying to soothe him.

“I'll make sure you're safe, love. This isn't nearly as deep as the Eastern Ocean, when you went to visit the Dragon King…?” They started hesitantly, watching his reaction to their words. Wukong gave them a pleading look, making up an excuse on the spot. 

“But his palace is at the bottom of the sea. It's not as…scary to sink in water when you have to go down that deep anyways…” For a moment he worries they won't believe him, their brow furrowing in disbelief. Then suddenly, their eyes light up, and they smile with a grin that is much too wide for your mouth.

“Oh! Y-yes, I had forgotten! Because of the stone you came from, you sink in water!”

“Yes, exactly, hehe…” Not exactly. He could swim no problem. He glanced over his shoulder to his companions, still huddled protectively around their Master as the distant shoreline grew closer and closer. Just a little more, and with his Master safe on dry land he would take great pleasure in tearing this yaoguai apart for their transgressions.

“Well, you don't have to worry about that here. I'll be with you! And…and you can come see our little ones! They miss you terribly, you know.” He felt a sting in his chest at the thought of his monkeys, at how they must be doing at home with you, slowly rebuilding from the damaged remains of your shared mountain. 

“I'd love that, but…” He shifted on his feet again, staring at the still water like it might bite him. He saw not-you stifle a roll of their eyes, swimming closer still. They looked at him then, and Wukong could feel that same gentle probing at his mind, matching the magic he felt earlier. He braced himself for what they would say next, biting his tongue until he tasted iron to keep his anger in check. The shore was right there-

“...Our daughter also misses you, love. Won't you come with me to see her?” 

The absolute fucking gall of this creature. 

The anger he pushed away comes flooding back full force, so intense and burning it feels like he's on fire. Perhaps he is, considering how the creature in front of him looks suddenly terrified, their face - not yours, it could never be as beautiful as yours - suddenly lit up by a vivid red glow from his eyes.

They try to swim away, but it's too late. He feels the boat lurch underneath him as Bajie drags it onto the sandy bank, and his hand shoots out to grip the forearm of the shapeshifter with enough strength to bruise. His claws dig into skin that's not as soft as yours as thin rivulets of blood leak down to their elbow, dripping into the water below. They immediately cry out, using their free hand to pull and hit at his own arm, for all the good it will do them. He catches another whiff of their scent and his nose crinkles in distaste, canines on display. 

“How dare you.” He growls. He didn’t have a daughter. He wasn’t allowed one, no matter how desperately he wanted such a thing. “You dare use magic to look at my inner desires!? To use them against me!?” The shapeshifter looks terrified, their shaking form slowly losing shape as their hold on their magic fails at their internal panic. 

He had wanted to start a family with you, since the beginning of your relationship. Many early days of your courtship had included the two of you spending time together, cloud watching and fruit picking on the lush mountain ridge of Mount Huaguo as you talked and talked for hours at a time. It was then he learned what love was, what a mate was, that he wanted you by his side forever. And during those months you talked about what you would want in the future, and the topic of families and children came up.

He had loved the idea from the beginning, seeing you surrounded by little ones with his fur color and your eyes, or your smile and his laugh. It was a far-off daydream the two of you shared in whispered breaths, foreheads pressed together as you lay side by side under a cloudy sky and imagined what your kids would be like, who they would grow into.

But those dreams had never had a chance to start.

He had grown worried for the future, the concept of mortality weighing heavily on his mind. He didn't want to say goodbye to his people, to you or your possible children. So he set off with the promise to find immortality and return to share it with you and your subjects. That was the start of it all, his quest leading to him wanting to better defend his home, to get a proper weapon to protect those closest to him, and eventually…the Celestial Realm taking notice of him.

For over 500 years your shared desire to have a family had been put on hold as he dug himself deeper and deeper into trouble with the other gods. You had stayed by his side through it all, until he was trapped away by the Buddha. When Tang monk finally released him, he rushed to where the Jade Emperor held you captive and freed you with a desperate kiss.

Now you were back home, trying to rebuild a kingdom from the ground up without him, because he had to be ‘redeemed’ in the eyes of heaven.

Wukong knew it had been painful for you. It had been painful for him.

Now his only goal was to deliver his new Master across the continent and back so he could finally fly back into your waiting arms and live happily with you. And this time, he would stay. Stay, and start that family you both so desperately wanted.

How dare this vile thing try to use that against him.

“I should kill you now, you pathetic wretch.” He hissed, dragging the shapeshifter up and out of the water to be closer to him, the surface of the lake splashing. Fear filled its eyes, and it whimpered in fright. It was still your voice, however poorly imitated, and it made him hesitate for just a moment. The yaoguai noticed, and immediately tried to take advantage.

“M-my love, you’re hurting me! Please, please stop!” It cried, and tears gathered in its too dark eyes. Wukong huffed, trying to ignore the instinct to not hurt his mate, knowing it wasn’t really you. He dragged the shapeshifter closer, gripping them by the neck with his free hand, delighted by the choked gasp they released.

“How many of you are there?” He growled, voice raspy and dark with promises of harm. Not-you shook in his grasp, throat bobbing under his palm as they tried to breathe. Their voice changed when they next spoke, the illusion falling further apart.

“I-I’m sorr-y-! Mercy, m-mercy puh-please!” They cried, real tears of distress running down their cheeks, which were slowly growing scales and changing color. Not satisfied, Wukong loosened his grip just enough for the wretch to stop choking and answer his question.

“Tell me! How many of you are there?” He gave it a good shake to get his urgency across, and the creature wailed further at this treatment. “Tell me or I’ll drain this entire lake and kill every living thing I find!” He hissed. He heard his Master on the shore, a displeased noise at the threat.

“M-my pack! My pack is here b-bu-but they won’t-! Please, pl-ease! I-I am s-s-so s-sorr-yy!” Wukong snorted in response, his breath billowing from his nose in a steamy cloud, framing his face. His glowing eyes looked like hot coals as he glared at the yaoguai. Bajie and Wujing looked over the surface of the lake from where they stood on the sand, wary and waiting for another shapeshifter to burst from the water. The one Wukong held by the throat thrashed and whimpered some more.

“I-I’ll tell them to-! Huughh-to le-eave-! I-! I just wanted immortality! The m-monk-!” Wukong gave the creature another shake at their words.

“So you think to take my Master!? To use the face of my wife!? You dare look through my mind and use my desires against me!?” He was heating up, smoke billowing from his mouth as the desire to burn this creature to a crisp festered inside him. Or perhaps a shock of lighting to permanently scar it? His eyes glowed a deeper red, and the faint smell of urine hit his nose.

The wretch had wet themselves.

Disgusted, Wukong threw it back into the water, snarling as he did so and stepping on to the sandy bank himself. The creature scrambled and fumbled with trembling limbs in the shallows to get into a frantic kowtow. More of its true form was on display now, a thick fishy tail and claws on display.

“Pl-please, let us go Great Sage-! I’ll-! You’ll never see us again, we won’t ever attack any other travelers!” They pleaded. Wukong growled low in his throat, the desire to kill this wretch screaming at him to finish the job, but a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. He jolted, looking behind him to see his Master.

“I believe they have learned their lesson. Why not show mercy?” The Tang monk smiled, a pleading look in his eyes. Wukong snorted, clenching and unclenching his fists. He stalked forward, giving the yaoguai a swift kick to the side that sent it sprawling.

“By the grace of my Master, you live. Get out of my sight.” The words had hardly been spoken before the shapeshifter fled, disappearing in a puff of mist. Wukong turned away from the sullied lake water, to the approving gaze of his Master. Tang Sanzang lifted a hand, intending to place it on his head.

“I am very proud of you, my student-” The monkey ducked away from his touch, furious still. His tail thrashed behind his every step as he walked.

“I should have killed the damn creature. Pretending to be my beloved, the fucking gall they have-!” He stalked past Bajie, who side-stepped away from him and his anger, sending a panicked look to their other companions as Wukong jumped into the trees. Tang monk held up a hand to his students, a sign to leave the monkey be, his eyes concerned.

“Why don’t we camp near the area for tonight? Wujing, Bai Long Ma, would you start setting up? Bajie, accompany me as I look for mushrooms? I have a craving for them tonight.” The others nodded at the words of their Master.

Wukong did not return until the sun was sinking towards the horizon in the late afternoon.

He did not speak to anyone, simply walking through their camp and jumping into the lower branches of a tree, sitting and staring out into the wilderness. His tail hung low beneath the branch, flicking back and forth, showing how agitated his thoughts still were. Sanzang waited a few minutes before standing, making his way to the base of the tree and sitting comfortably under it. Wukong’s tail continued to flick by his head.

“This area seems rather safe.” The monk spoke.

“Hmph.” Was the only response he got. The monk took a deep breath, trying to keep the smile off his face as he spoke again.

“I think it would be fine to settle here for a couple days. To let us rest before moving on. The mountain range ahead will be quite challenging to cross.” Wukong sat in silence still. “I would also think…it would be safe for you to leave us for those couple days.”

The tail stopped its twitching, freezing in place.

“You travel so far and so fast with no issue, it wouldn’t surprise me if you jumped all the way back to your mountain and came back within the span of three days! It wouldn’t be a challenge for you, in any case.” There was shifting on the branch above him, a single leaf fell and landed on his lap.

“...Are you sure, Master?” The Monkey King’s voice was soft, a whisper filled with hope. The monk couldn’t fight the urge to smile anymore.

“Be back before sunset three days from now.” Is all he said. The rustling of the trees and the sound of the wind was his only response. When the Tang monk opened his eyes and looked up, the tree was empty.

~~~~~~~

You push your arms high over your head as you stretch your back, spine popping as muscles pulled in a satisfying way that had you sighing in relief. After another long day of work; expanding the fruit tree grove, listening to your subject’s worries and struggles, checking over storage supplies, and any tasks brought to your attention, you were desperate for a good rest. Your chamber in the stone palace of Water Curtain Cave was exactly the place to do that, with your favorite night robes and comfiest blanket waiting for you to snuggle into for the night.

You shut the door behind you, the chattering of your subjects still awake at this time muffled by the thick wood and stone walls. No doubt the guards were transitioning, fellow monkeys making sure they ate their fair share after the large dinner you all had together. That was something you always appreciated about your dear husband’s people, they had a deep sense of community and always chose to dine and share things with each other. It felt…loving.

You glance at your marriage bed, your half still a little messy from your rush to get up this morning, the other half still kept and clean. Cold. The same as it has been for over 500 years now…

Your own half had been the same since the war on the Celestials, but after your release you had made the space your own again. Your husband however…

You looked to the side doors of your balcony, an opening in the side of the mountain that let you see to the distant horizon. The sun was creeping closer to the far-off mountain range, turning the sky an orange and purple hue, the faintest twinkle of stars far above. 

He was somewhere out there, doing a good job, you're certain. Wukong wasn’t the type to give up, and he certainly wouldn’t abandon you and your people. He would come back, someday. You had to be certain of that, if nothing else. If he…if he didn’t come back then you…and your people…

You didn’t like to think about what would happen. It made your heart ache.

You step closer to the balcony doors, gripping the handles and slowly pushing them closed for your privacy. The view was beautiful, but you wanted solitude for tonight. 

Before the doors fully shut, you whispered into the wind like you did every night, hoping that somehow Wukong would hear and know you were thinking of him.

“Goodnight my love…stay safe and protected.” And as the doors finally slid shut, you didn’t notice the tiny golden cicada that slipped in through the crack above you. You turned away and began undressing, removing layer after layer of your hanfu to be washed another day.

“Well, this is certainly a beautiful sight to come home to. Tell me gorgeous, do you welcome everyone this way or am I special?” The voice made you freeze, your under-blouse half untied, leaving your chest exposed. You turned frantically, looking around your bedroom and seeing nothing out of place. Furniture still covered in scrolls and important documents, your vanity covered in hair ornaments and jewelry, your bed in its still half made state.

But that voice…

“W-Wukong?” You whispered, not believing your ears. It must be a trick of your tired mind, exhaustion and heart ache making you hallucinate the voice of your mate.

You were proven wrong as a cicada zipped past your nose and startled you, circling multiple times in the air before flashing with golden light. And there, in all his glory, your darling husband stood.

“Please continue. I was enjoying the show~” He purred. 

He looked tired. His eyes still had that same inner fire to them, but it was dim. His fur and clothing were clean but simple, no extravagant gold decals or jewelry like he used to enjoy wearing. You knew that monks chose to wear plain and simple clothes, but seeing your husband follow the practice, however unwilling, was something you never thought you’d see. The only gold to be seen on him was the fillet on his head, and the sight of the band sent a flash of anger through you. You hated that damn thing.

His frame looked lighter, constant travelling combined with meager meals from campsites and begging from strangers not suiting your husband’s needs. Where he used to have a healthy layer of fat over his chest, tummy, and thighs, the muscle looked more lean. Clearly still strong, but not getting as much nutrients as he needed. Despite your own exhaustion you were overcome with the need to rush downstairs and grab everything edible, to prepare a feast for your lover that he deserved, anything for him to look like his old healthy weight.

At your silence, his clawed hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking over the edge of your cheekbone. He stepped closer, and the feel of his warmth so close to you once again had your breath shuddering.

“Oh peaches…you look exhausted, my sweetheart. Have you been sleeping?” Wukong bumped his forehead to yours, golden eyes staring into yours. It was like a damn burst at his words, and you sniffled, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

“I could say the same-…about you.” You mumbled, eyes fluttering as he continued to stroke your cheek, his other hand wrapping tight around your waist and pulling you closer to him. Remembering your own hands could move, you wasted no time gripping his shoulders, digging your fingers into the fur exposed from his collar. Wukong sighed at your touch, his tail circling tight around one of your legs as he nuzzled his forehead against yours.

“I’ve missed you…” You whispered. He shuddered under your touch, and suddenly his lips were on yours in a desperate kiss that had you whimpering against him. His lips were still soft, the imprint of his sharp canines against your own lips a familiar and welcome feeling. You kissed back, letting your tongue peek out to lick along his lips. He opened for you with a heady groan from deep in his chest, letting his tongue meet yours.

You were pushed backwards towards the wall, his arm around your waist moving to your ass and gripping the flesh tight, pulling your hips towards his. You followed his movements, letting your leg hike up to curl around his hips, your already half undone clothing falling further apart. The threads tying your blouse together slipped away to reveal your chest, your breasts squished against the firm plane of Wukong’s own. The rough fabric of his robes felt like too much against your sensitive nipples, drawing whines from you as your hips bucked against his. You wanted his soft fur, his hot skin, against you.

You both broke away from the kiss, heaving gulps of air. Thick tendrils of drool snapped as you separated, your lips already growing swollen from the kiss. With shaking hands you pulled at his tiger skin sash, trying to undo all the knots holding his clothing together that were just too complicated for your lust filled mind to focus on. You had only managed to get one undone before his mouth was on yours again, his tongue forcing its way inside and turning your brain into jelly. You pushed your aching core against the hard length hidden by his clothes, the leg you were still standing on shaking with the effort to hold you up.

His own hands left your body to join yours at his clothing, roughly pulling at the fabric so you could get your hands tangled in all that glorious fur. You bit his bottom lip in encouragement, rewarded with a hiss and sharp buck of his hips against your own. Sash undone, his hands slammed into the wall you were pressed against as he broke the kiss again, staring at you with wide blown pupils. 

“I’ve missed you too, my beautiful mate…” He growled, voice rough and raspy with lust. He bent towards your neck, suckling at the soft skin he found. Your back arched as you moaned, pressing your heaving chest closer to his. With no knots in the way your hands were free to pull and tug at his clothing, his hands leaving their rooted position on the wall just long enough to slip his arms from the cloth. Finally, warm fur under your hands, strong muscle holding you close as you humped against your mate’s hardening cock.

Wukong growled in response to your touch, trailing kisses and bites from your abused neck to your collar bones, and further down still to your chest. One hand leaves the wall to grope at your left tit, his thumb and forefinger pinching the sensitive nipple. You squeak and jolt, and he grins in response.

“Still so sensitive~” He purrs. You blush but don’t ask him to stop. 

His grinning mouth envelopes your tit, sucking the soft skin and nipping it with his sharp teeth. You moan at the feeling, throwing your head back against the wall with a solid ‘thunk’ that you don’t even feel, too focused on the heat of Wukong’s mouth working wonders to your body. Wukong is clearly bothered by the sound though, as his hands suddenly move back to your ass and hike your standing leg up to join the other around his hips. You latch onto his head, keeping it pressed against your soft tits as he suckles away, and the support of the wall leaves your back.

Distantly you’re aware that your husband is walking across the bedroom, but you focus instead on pressing kisses to the crown of his head.

“F-feels so good my love, fuck-” You moan, his mouth trailing kisses across the expanse of your chest to play with your other nipple. Your pussy is throbbing where it’s pressed against Wukong, fluid leaking into the cloth still worn over your legs. A sudden feeling of weightlessness hits you as Wukong’s arms drop you, and the soft feel of your bed hits your back, the plush mattress making you bounce as you land. You squeal in surprise before looking up at him, to see your king staring down at you with a fiery hunger in his eyes. He stands tall and imposing, and you ache to be filled.

His gaze doesn’t leave you as his claws grip the waistband of his pants, pulling the last few ties keeping it in place and letting it drop to the floor.

Your breath leaves in a rush, your mouth suddenly drooling at the feast of a demon standing before you. His chest, littered with scars, heaves with his breath, his tail lashes to and fro behind him, the muscle of his arms and thighs on full display for you. Between his legs his engorged cock leaks prefluid, a prominent vein on the underside throbbing in time with his heartbeat. You want it in you, in whatever way you can get. Mouth, cunt, ass, it doesn’t matter you just want to worship the body in front of you to make up for the many centuries of separation.

Without hesitation you lean forward on the bed, folding your legs under you so you’re on your knees. Your hands grip the thick muscle of Wukong’s thighs, fur tickling your palms, as you bring your face closer to his throbbing dick. 

“Love-” He starts but doesn’t finish, your cute tongue peeking out to lick a solid stripe up his length. He chokes on his words, hands immediately tangling in your hair. He doesn’t push you away or pull you closer, he simply holds you as you worship him. You press your lips against the fat vein you spotted, delighted by the way Wukong’s abdomen jumps in response. More fluid leaks from his pink tip, drooling a steady stream onto your cheek, and you lap it up eagerly, the salty taste making you shudder. Fuck, you missed that flavor.

Desperate for more you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, giggling in your throat at the cute jerk his hips gave at the feel of your warm, wet mouth. You fluttered your lashes and looked up at him, his claws still tangled in your hair and his cock stretching your lips, a trail of drool and precum leaking from the corner of your mouth. He moaned above you, golden eyes bright and pupils blown wide. Satisfied, you swirl your tongue around the sensitive head, suckling sweetly before pulling your lips off with a lewd ‘pop’.

“Shit-such a good girl for me, my beautiful mate…” He purrs as you move your head lower. You bite your bottom lip, eyeing the thick, heavy ballsack hanging between your mate’s thighs. You can catch the faintest whiff of his natural musk, and you decide you want more. Before you can second guess yourself or be embarrassed by what you’re about to do, you shove your nose right into the fat balls hanging in front of you. Wukong jerks in surprise, but your fingers grip the fur of his thighs tighter, preventing him from moving away.

You nuzzle against the heavy globes, warm skin tickling the bridge of your nose and cheeks. You can feel the weight of his cock above you, resting against the crown of your head where his claws still massage your skull. The balls resting on your face feel so full…it’s clear your mate has been pent up on the length of his journey. Tonight you aim to drain him completely, and the thought sends a shiver down your spine that has your pussy clenching hard on nothing as a moan leaves your throat.

You take a deep breath in through your nose, mind flooded by the musky smell of your mate in its strongest form. It’s enough to make you feel drunk, your mouth opening to suck on a single ball, rolling the sensitive flesh around with your tongue. You suckle it like it’s candy, the heady taste more intoxicating than anything you’ve had before.

“P-peaches, fuck-! F-filthy girl, you’re bold tonight, h-huh?” Wukong gives a breathy chuckle above you as you move onto his other ball, suckling it with the same care as the first one. 

“You’re fucking filthy when d-desperate aren’t you? F-fuuuck~...” You moan in response, wiggling your hips happily at his words. You are, you’re so desperate, over 500 years since you’ve been able to play around like this with your chosen mate, you don’t care if it's unbecoming. You want your husband and you’ll damn well enjoy yourself, even if others would call you a whore for it. 

With that in mind you take one hand off your mate’s thigh, bringing it low between your own thighs to press against the ache you feel. The thin material of your undergarment is soaked through, and the pressure of your fingers has you gasping desperately around the soft skin still in your mouth. Wukong notices where your hand has gone, groaning in need as he bites his bottom lip.

“Sweet girl, lay back-...lay back and let me see you-” Now his hands push at your head, gently encouraging you to release him from your mouth. You whine, not wanting to stop but also desperate for some attention yourself. Wukong chuckles above you, his grin soft at your needy behavior.

“I know love, I know. We have plenty of time though, the next three days in fact.” Suddenly eager for more than just his touch, you lay back against the pillows of your bed. Wukong's claws tail down your chest and tummy to your hips, gripping the waistband of your under clothes and slipping them off. 

“Three days!? We actually have three days with you at home!?” At his nod, you squeal, kicking your feet before grabbing him by his shoulders and dragging him on top of you with a kiss. He follows your pull willingly, his knees settling down between your thighs and his hands gripping the soft flesh of your waist. His tail loops around one of your thighs as he settles between them, moaning into your kiss. He suckles your tongue before pulling away, sitting on his knees and watching his hands caress your skin. Every mark, every curve, his gaze takes it all in with reverence and it’s now you suddenly feel shy. Your body has changed a bit over the centuries, stress and challenges you faced with and without your husband leaving their mark. You cover your face with your hands even as he pushes your thighs further apart to reveal your dripping opening.

“Oh, darling…” He growls, claws moving closer. You jump at the feel of his calloused skin on your inner thigh, and blush even further. Your skin is soaked, the slick drooling from your pussy reaching mid-thigh and coating your husband’s hands as they massage over you. 

“P-please don’t stare-” You whimper, wiggling to close your thighs once again as embarrassment takes over. Wukong’s claws dig into the meat of your thighs, keeping them open despite your trembling muscles pushing against him.

“And why not? A sight like this should be enjoyed and savored…Such a pretty pussy making a mess for me? I’m honored.” You feel your cunt flutter at his words, and you squeak in response. A feather light touch of his fingers against your lips has your hips bucking off the mattress, seeking more pressure to grind against. Wukong chuckles darkly at the movement and you peek through your fingers just in time to see his mischievous grin before he leans down and buries it into your slick folds.

You scream, hands leaving your face to tangle into the sheet of your bed, you back arching as Wukong’s arms lock around your waist, preventing your hips from leaving the hot, wet torture that is his mouth. His tongue bullies its way past the ring of muscle for your entrance and presses up, immediately looking for the sensitive spot in your gummy walls that makes you cry for him. His teeth feel sharp where they sit against your sensitive skin, and despite knowing he would never hurt you more than you ask, the perceived danger of such sharp canines against you has your adrenaline racing. 

He pulls his tongue out of your cunt with a slurp, and presses a sloppy, wet kiss against your swollen clit. 

“Fuck! Wukong!” You sit straight up, hands gripping and pulling at the fur on top of his head. He gives a pleased growl at the motion, encouraging you to pull harder. With you watching, he buries his nose against your folds, and takes a deep inhale of your scent.

Oh. 

Liquid heat pools in your belly at the action, and you tug desperately at his fur again.

“Please love, please just-” His tongue traces a pattern through your folds again, and you feel a sudden sting as he playfully nips your engorged clit. “500 years Wukong-! Please, don’t tease me anymore-!”

He laughs low in his belly at your words, but does lift himself up to slot his hips against yours. You bite your lip at the feel of his cock pressing against you, hot and heavy as it leaks fluid over your mound, mixing with your own slick.

“Alright, alright peaches…Not so shy now-” You buck your hips up, delighted by the brief friction of grinding against him. “Dammit, okay! Settle down, I don’t want to hurt you sweet one.” He shushes you, waiting for you to lay your hips back onto the mattress. You groan in frustration, watching with rapt attention as his hand grabs the length of his cock, rubbing the pink tip through your folds and gathering more slick. You hold your breath, waiting in anticipation for him to move.

His cock presses against your opening, the tight muscle immediately giving way as your mate pushes himself into you. You both gasp at the feeling, his cock twitching in response and you can feel it. You pull desperately at his shoulders and he follows, leaning on his hands above you as you pull him into a desperate kiss. His hips push forward achingly slow, spreading your soft walls at an agonizing pace. You need him now, dammit. Need him to bully his way inside you and break you on his cock like a bitch in heat.

You wrap your legs around his hips, and with one sharp tug and a jerk up of your own, he sinks fully into you. Wukong shudders and groans deep in his chest, his arms trembling under his weight as he sags against you, lips never leaving yours. You keen loudly at the feeling of being so full so fast, your walls squeezing tight around him. You pull away from the kiss, panting desperately as you fall back into the pillows surrounding you.

“...S-Sweet one, so tight-” He hisses, burying his face in your neck. You need him to move.

“Wu-Wukong…fucking move…” You whimper, your body shaking with overstimulation. Your king hisses between grit teeth, shifting into a better position on his knees. Your cunt refuses to give at first, clamped down tight around him before he pulls harder, and a lewd ‘squelch’ echoes between you both. It’s followed by another, and another, as Wukong builds a slow rhythm, grinding his hips in shallow circles against you. You cup his jaw and make him look up at you, breathing each other’s air before he kisses you again. His tongue still tastes like you, and you moan as the pressure in your belly increases.

His thrusts pick up speed as you kiss, his breath coming out in hot puffs from his nose against your cheek. You aren’t doing much better, your lungs feel entirely too empty as your body burns, heat making your toes curl and your legs lock tight around his hips. It’s been so long for the both of you, you aren’t surprised you didn’t last very long, but you truly don’t care. Wukong is in your arms again, he’s kissing you again, your bed smells like him again.

His thumb makes its way to your mound, finding your clit and rubbing harsh, sloppy circles around it that make you cry into your shared kiss. He nips your lips in response, his tail thrashing where it curls high in the air above you both. You feel your peak rising, and pull away just enough to look into his eyes when you cum.

“I-I love you…” Your shaking voice manages to get out before the pressure inside you snaps. You bury your face into his warm neck, biting down, uncaring of the fur getting in your mouth. Wukong moans, his hips stuttering their rhythm as you clamp down tight, your pussy milking him for everything he has. He follows you over the peak, pressing his lips to your ear to whisper back.

“I love y-you-...too-” He shudders, and you feel the liquid heat of his release inside you, flooding your cunt. Your spasming walls take it greedily, until it's too much, and thick globs of white cum leak back out your spasming pussy, mixing with the mess of fluid already painted across your thighs. You both shudder and shake, the glow of orgasm leaving you gradually as you lay in each other’s arms. Wukong practically collapses on the bed next to you, wrapping his arms tight around your back to drag you with him. You adjust yourself, keeping your legs tight around him as he flips onto his back and lays you along his chest. 

The rise and fall of his breathing soothes you, growing slower and deeper as you both come down from your high. You move, lifting yourself up enough to press a kiss to his pectoral, right above his stone heart. When you look up, he’s staring at you, a very soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks…upset.

Doubt wiggles its way into your mind, wondering if he’s upset by what just happened.

“Everything okay?” You whisper. He startles, the unease in his gaze clearing up as he watches you. One of his clawed hands comes up to brush through your hair, playing with the strands. After a moment, he speaks.

“There was…a shapeshifter, today. Trying to steal Master’s flesh.” You lean into his hand, the feeling of his fingers playing with your hair, a feeling you have missed over the years. You keep your eyes locked with his to show you’re still listening.

“They wore your face.” Wukong mumbles. You freeze, eyes widening in shock. “They wore your face, and they used some…some kind of magic to see what I-...see what we-” He growls, glaring off the side of your bedroom at some unseen enemy. “They brought up how we don’t have little ones of our own yet. Still.”

You aren’t sure what to say, so you grab his hand that's frozen in your hair, bringing his palm low enough for you to press a kiss against his pulse point. He smiles at you, the familiar warmth you adore coming back to his eyes.

“It upset me quite a bit, everyone could tell. Master…took pity on me I suppose, said I could leave them for a few days to see you.” His thumb strokes over your cheek, trailing down to your jaw and curving around the length of your neck, fingers back in the thick of your hair once more.

“Well, I suppose I’m grateful for that, at least.” You begin, a touch of bitterness to your tone. “Not that I think it’s right I haven't been able to see, touch, or properly talk to my husband in seven years-!” His brow furrows, a sad expression making its way onto his handsome face. You take a deep breath, shoving those feelings aside. 

It’s just for a few more years.

You can handle a few more years of letters and talks through magic portals and dreams as you wait for Wukong to come back to you. And if you’re lucky, maybe more nights where he’s able to actually visit you like this. 

You shift a little, sucking in a sharp breath at the feel of his softening cock still inside you, but now close enough to his face you can press a kiss to his furry chin. He jerks at the feeling of you moving as well, but neither of you makes to actually get up and clean yourselves off. If your gut feeling is correct, which it usually is, your mate will be rested and ready to go again in a few minutes, and for the rest of the night.

“I’m sorry my love, I’m just…frustrated by the distance between us. I miss having you with me every day.” Wukong sighs underneath you, pressing a kiss of his own to the crown of your head.

“I know. Believe me, peaches, I know.” He sighs, and you rise and fall with his chest as he does so. “It’ll be over soon. We’re immortal. Time is…it’ll pass before we even realize it.” You know his words are true, and you can’t help but smile up at him when you next speak.

“And then we could…finally try for that family?” You offer. His eyes widen, but a grin follows soon after.

“I’d love nothing more.” He seals his promise with a kiss.

[aspenmissing]

Hiii Aspen! I hope you having a lovely evening 😊 Thank you so much for the hard work you put in every single request. You truly have my biggest support 🫶

I just love the idea of Reader beeing best friends and also lab partners with Jayce and Viktor. And I'd love to see, how their friendship grow over the time.

So I have a little request for you: Reader loves to capture moments or bigger achievements with her camcorder. At first, Jayce and Viktor were a little....sceptical about it. But over the time, both of them started to warm up with it; They're teasing each other in front of the camera, annoying each other to the point, that they can't stop laughing or even emberassing each other in front of the camera.

Between Reader and Jayce blossoms a sibling-like relationship, but between Reader and Viktor was always a certain kind of tension. Jayce always teased those two about it, but didn't pushed them.

On a late night Viktor watched a few of Reader's records and started to realize, that he was in love for her for a really long time. So he wants to confess to her and even asks Jayce for some advice.

If you have any questions about the request, pls ask me! Sometimes I'm talking or writing without taking a single breath 🥹

ᴀ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴀ

ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ꜰᴇᴀᴛ. ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ) || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 6038 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:ɴ/ᴀ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴀʜʜʜ ʙᴀᴋᴀɪ!! ꜱᴏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ʏᴇᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ! ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴡᴇʟʟ!! ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜᴛᴇꜱᴛ ɪᴅᴇᴀ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ (ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ɪᴛ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ᴘᴛ 2 ɪꜰ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴇʜᴇʜᴇ). ʙᴜᴜᴜᴛᴛ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ!!!!! <3 <3 <3 <3

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ

At first, Jayce and Viktor were hesitant, even slightly annoyed by your insistence on capturing every moment in the lab. Jayce would groan and hide his face behind a book. Viktor would lean away, feigning irritation, though you could always see the small smirk threatening to break free.

=

"Do you really have to record everything?"

Jayce groaned dramatically, shielding his face behind a heavy textbook as you zoomed in on him. He peeked over the top, squinting as if the camera might blind him. "I'm pretty sure no one wants to watch hours of us fiddling with wires and muttering equations under our breath."

You grinned from behind the camcorder, adjusting the focus. "Correction: I want to watch it. This is history in the making, Jayce. You and Viktor are going to change the world, and I intend to capture every step of it."

Jayce let out an exaggerated sigh, dropping the book onto the table with a thud. "And what if I don’t want my sleep-deprived, underpaid suffering immortalized on film?"

"Then you shouldn’t have befriended me," you teased, panning the camera slightly to catch Viktor, who sat at the opposite end of the cluttered workbench, cradling a cup of tea between his fingers. He had been pretending to ignore the exchange, but at the sound of his name, he flicked his gaze toward you, unimpressed yet faintly amused.

"And what if I do not wish to be recorded?" Viktor asked, arching a brow, voice as dry as parchment. He didn’t make any exaggerated movements like Jayce, no flailing hands or dramatic groans. Just a slow sip of tea and an unreadable expression.

You turned the camera on him, grinning. "Then I'll just have to catch you when you're not paying attention."

Viktor sighed, lowering his cup with a small clink onto the desk. "So… a violation of my privacy, then?"

"Exactly."

Jayce barked a laugh. "She doesn’t even try to deny it."

"Why should I? The footage speaks for itself," you said proudly, giving the camcorder a little shake.

Jayce rolled his eyes but leaned in, squinting at the tiny screen in your hands. "You better not have any footage of me sleep-deprived and ranting at the wall," he muttered.

"Oh, I absolutely do."

"You—! That was one time! And Viktor was doing it too!"

You turned the camera back on Viktor, who merely took another calm sip of his tea before saying, "If I do not remember, then it did not happen."

Jayce pointed an accusing finger at him. "That’s a lie and you know it!" Viktor only smirked.

You giggled, adjusting the angle slightly. "Come on, you guys act like I’m out to ruin your reputations. Think of it as… preserving your journey. One day, when you’re both successful and Hextech is changing the world, you’ll look back at all of this and be grateful I was here to document it."

Jayce snorted. "Yeah, I can’t wait to rewatch clips of us looking like absolute disasters at three in the morning."

"Exactly," you quipped. "That’s the charm."

Viktor hummed, setting his cup aside. "I suppose there is no stopping you, then?"

"None at all."

That was how it all started.

Jayce was the first to break. The first to stop resisting, to lean into the chaos and make the camera his. He would wave grandly whenever you pointed it at him, throwing on his most ridiculous, over-the-top expressions.

=

"Ah-ha! Witness greatness in the making!" he’d declare, dramatically flipping his hair like some high-society noble. "A mind unlike any other, here in this very room!"

You’d zoom in on his smug face, deadpan. "A mind that just spilled acid all over the counter?"

Jayce immediately panicked, whirling around to find a growing sizzle on the surface of the workstation. "Shit—where’s the rag?!"

You cackled as the camera jostled, capturing the chaos in real-time.

Jayce quickly realized the best way to handle your constant filming was to own it. He started playing into it at every opportunity, making grand proclamations and giving dramatic monologues as if he were the star of some academy-funded documentary.

And much to your delight, he made sure to rope Viktor into his antics.

"Say something to the lovely audience, Vik!" Jayce beamed, spinning the camera onto his partner-in-crime.

Viktor, as always, sighed like a man burdened by the weight of existence itself.

"Jayce," he muttered, glancing up from his work with a patient sort of exasperation. "I am in the middle of something important."

Jayce nudged his arm. "C’mon, give them something."

Viktor sighed dramatically but, to your surprise, actually played along. "I fear that whatever I say may be used against me in future blackmail attempts."

Jayce threw his head back and laughed while you grinned, mentally bookmarking that clip for later.

Over time, the teasing evolved into something else—into a rhythm, into something natural. It wasn’t just that they tolerated the camera now. It was part of your dynamic.

Jayce would annoy Viktor just enough to make him react on film, poking fun at the way he muttered under his breath when he was deep in thought, or the way his brow furrowed whenever an equation refused to cooperate.

=

"And here we have The Thinker in his natural habitat," Jayce whispered conspiratorially into the camera, zooming in on Viktor’s concentrated scowl.

You bit back a laugh as Viktor merely raised a hand and flipped Jayce off without looking up.

Jayce cackled.

Even Viktor, despite himself, started to lean into the presence of the camera. He never went out of his way to acknowledge it the way Jayce did, but he allowed himself to be recorded now.

And sometimes—sometimes—he’d even return the favor.

=

One night, when you left your camera unattended on your desk, Viktor picked it up and turned it on you.

You barely registered the red blinking light before his voice filled the space.

"Tell me, how does it feel to have the tables turned?"

You whipped around, eyes wide. "You did not just turn that thing on—"

"I believe I did," Viktor said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Jayce, overhearing this from across the lab, immediately shot up from his chair. "Oh, this I have to see."

Before you could snatch the camera back, Jayce had already launched into the most ridiculous impression of you.

He clutched the invisible camera in his hands, widening his eyes dramatically. "Jayce, Jayce, how does it feel to be a tortured genius?" he mocked in a high-pitched voice. "Viktor, say something to the audience, Viktor, don’t you think you look so handsome today, Viktor—"

You gasped. "I do not sound like that!"

Jayce spun around, still holding his fake camera. "And this is the moment our dear friend Y/N realizes she absolutely does sound like that—"

"You’re so lucky this isn’t recording right now," you grumbled.

"But it is," Viktor murmured, his tone almost smug. Your head snapped back toward him in horror.

Jayce screamed laughing.

It became something of a game, then. If you were going to document their lives, then it was only fair they got a few shots of you too.

You’d catch Jayce trying to record you half-asleep at your desk. Viktor would snatch the camera while you were mid-rant about some botched experiment and zoom in dramatically on your flailing hands.

The teasing, the laughter, the absurd little moments that filled your days—it all became a part of the fabric of your friendship. The camera, once an outsider, was now an extension of your dynamic.

What started as a personal project soon became something more—a living record of the life you shared with Jayce and Viktor.

Through late-night brainstorming sessions, failed prototypes, and triumphant breakthroughs, the camcorder became a silent fourth member of your little trio, always present, always recording.

Over the years, you collected it all.

=

The first real milestone you caught on film was when you, Jayce, and Viktor successfully stabilized a Hextech crystal.

The recording was shaky—because you were screaming.

Jayce had thrown his hands up in triumph, knocking over a pile of blueprints in his excitement. Viktor, though more reserved, was still grinning like a fool, his fingers pressing against the bridge of his nose as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

"We did it!" Jayce shouted at the camera, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you. "We did it! Viktor, tell the camera how smart we are!"

Viktor chuckled breathlessly, leaning against the workbench. "We are very smart. That much is obvious."

You zoomed in on his face. "Viktor, smile."

He rolled his eyes but relented, giving the camera a rare, boyish grin.

That was the first of many victories.

=

Every time you hit a major breakthrough—whether it was refining the Hextech gauntlets, perfecting the gemstones, or securing research funding—you made sure to document the celebrations.

There was one video of Jayce standing on a desk after a successful presentation, dramatically giving a speech about how you were all scientific revolutionaries.

"And with my two brilliant partners—" he gestured wildly at you and Viktor, "—we will change Piltover forever!"

Viktor, off-camera, could be heard saying, "You are going to fall."

Seconds later, Jayce tripped over a stack of books and crashed to the floor.

You never let him live that one down.

The lab was rarely quiet, and your ever-present camera captured every bit of the nonsense that unfolded between your two best friends.

Jayce and Viktor had a talent—no, a gift—for annoying each other in the most ridiculous ways.

One particularly memorable late-night recording featured Viktor hunched over his desk, his sharp eyes scanning over blueprints as he methodically jotted down calculations. His teacup rested beside him, steam curling lazily into the dimly lit air.

Meanwhile, just a few feet away, Jayce had decided that the best use of his time was attempting to balance a wrench on his forehead.

Viktor, predictably unimpressed, didn’t even look up when he muttered, "Jayce, you could be helping me."

From behind the camera, you watched as Jayce grinned. "I am helping."

"Oh?" Viktor hummed, still focused on his work.

"I’m stress-testing gravity," Jayce said proudly, as if he had just solved an unsolvable theorem.

That earned Viktor’s attention. He finally glanced up, blinking at Jayce in exhaustion. "Gravity is not our primary concern right now—"

Right on cue, the wrench slipped from Jayce’s forehead, tumbling off and landing with a loud clang against the metal worktable.

Viktor slowly, slowly, turned his head to stare at Jayce, utterly expressionless.

"It appears gravity is working just fine," he said dryly.

The camera shook as you broke into laughter, Jayce glaring at you with mock offense.

"I was this close to a breakthrough," he huffed, pinching his fingers together dramatically.

"Yes, and yet, I am the one actually making progress tonight," Viktor replied, turning back to his work.

Jayce groaned, waving a hand in dismissal. "I hate both of you."

"And yet," you grinned, zooming in on his sulking face, "you love the camera." Jayce glared but didn’t argue.

=

Another favourite recording showed both of them in frame, their usual bickering escalating into full-blown academic warfare.

The scene opened with Viktor rubbing his temple in clear frustration. "I am simply saying, Jayce, that if you had followed the exact instructions—"

"Oh my God, Viktor, I don’t need another lecture—"

"Clearly, you do," Viktor snapped, gesturing toward the sparking contraption between them. "Because now it is broken."

"It’s not broken!" Jayce insisted, puffing out his chest. "It just needs a little—"

Before he could finish, he confidently reached out and prodded the device. It promptly exploded in a puff of blue smoke.

You coughed through the haze, the camera capturing every second of Jayce’s stunned face as the acrid smell of burning metal filled the lab.

You zoomed in on Viktor’s unimpressed stare.

"I am going to enjoy watching this back later," you muttered behind the camera, barely holding back laughter.

Viktor exhaled slowly. "I told you."

Jayce, still coughing, waved a hand in front of his face. "Don’t you dare save that video."

You saved it.

=

Another recording showed the three of you during a rare lull in work, sitting on the lab floor surrounded by crumpled notes, spare wires, and half-eaten sandwiches.

"This is it," Jayce mumbled, his head resting against a pile of books. "This is where we die."

"You are being dramatic," Viktor murmured, half-asleep, his head tilted back against the leg of a workbench.

"No, really," Jayce continued, gesturing lazily with his sandwich. "We’re going to be remembered as the scientists who worked themselves to death before even finishing their damn research."

You giggled from behind the camera, adjusting the focus. "At least my camera will tell our story."

"Lovely," Viktor muttered. "Please turn it off before I am caught with soy sauce on my face for eternity."

Jayce perked up. "Wait, you have soy sauce on your face?"

"I do not," Viktor grumbled, wiping his sleeve over his chin just in case.

Jayce grinned. "You totally do."

"I hate you," Viktor sighed.

"Oh, please," Jayce smirked, "you would be lost without me."

Viktor rolled his eyes, and you caught the smallest, faintest twitch of a smile before he leaned back and let exhaustion win.

The camera clicked off, preserving yet another night of quiet brilliance and banter in the heart of your lab.

Some of your most treasured recordings weren’t of grand achievements or the endless teasing between your two best friends.

They were the quiet moments. The exhausted, half-delirious hours spent together when no one else was watching—when the only audience was the soft hum of the camcorder, the faint crackle of cooling machinery, and the quiet breaths of three people too stubborn to quit.

The camera captured nights when the three of you were slumped over your desks, running on fumes and bad decisions, fuelled by caffeine, stale sandwiches, and the sheer refusal to give up.

=

One particular recording showed Viktor, still gripping a pencil, his fingers twitching slightly as he scrawled something onto a blueprint. His eyes were half-lidded, blinking sluggishly as he tried—and failed—to stay conscious.

His head dipped lower, then lower—until, finally, he started tipping forward entirely.

Jayce, just as exhausted, instinctively reached out, catching Viktor’s shoulder before he could faceplant into his own notes.

"You need sleep," Jayce mumbled, his words slurred with fatigue.

Viktor barely lifted his head, waving him off lazily. "Sleep is for the weak."

"You are the weak," you teased from behind the camera, your voice thick with amusement and exhaustion.

Viktor cracked one eye open just enough to glare at you. "Betrayal," he muttered.

You zoomed in on his face, trying not to giggle as he made a dramatic effort to straighten himself, only to slump back down seconds later.

Jayce sighed, still holding onto Viktor’s shoulder to keep him from slipping forward again. "You should go home."

"You should go home," Viktor shot back, words slightly muffled against his arm.

"That’s not even a real comeback," Jayce grumbled.

"It is if I win," Viktor murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jayce rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he adjusted his grip, shifting slightly so Viktor wouldn’t completely collapse onto the desk.

The camera recorded all of it—the exhaustion, the stubbornness, the unspoken care that neither of them would ever fully acknowledge.

The camera had captured everything—celebrations, failures, exhausted nights, and endless teasing. But at some point, without you even realizing it, the lens had turned toward something else.

Toward you and Viktor.

It started subtly, so gradually that you barely noticed it at first.

A lingering glance across the lab. The way Viktor’s voice softened ever so slightly when he spoke to you, even in exasperation. The way you always adjusted the camera just a little when he was in frame, as if making sure he looked just right in the shot.

And Jayce?

Jayce noticed all of it.

And because he was Jayce, he did the only reasonable thing: he started recording you.

=

One evening, you were hunched over a set of blueprints, deep in thought, your camera set aside on the table. Viktor leaned over your shoulder, pointing at one of your notes.

"That equation is slightly off," he murmured, tapping the paper lightly with his pen. "If you adjust the coefficient here—"

"Viktor," you interrupted, turning your head slightly to look at him, your faces very close now. "Do you ever compliment my work before fixing it?"

Viktor blinked at you, clearly caught off guard.

From behind his workbench, unseen, Jayce held up your camcorder, quietly zooming in.

"I—" Viktor hesitated, and for a fraction of a second, his composure wavered. Then, clearing his throat, he offered a small, amused smirk. "Your calculations are—acceptable. For the most part."

You gasped in mock offense. "Viktor!"

"What?" he said, feigning innocence, though his eyes were glinting with amusement. "Would you rather I lie?"

"Maybe just once!"

Jayce, still recording, was silently dying behind the camera, mouthing to himself, Oh my God, just kiss already.

You huffed, scribbling over your notes. "Fine, next time I’ll just run my calculations by Jayce. At least he tells me I’m a genius."

Viktor made a soft scoffing noise. "Jayce tells everyone they are a genius. He has the scientific standards of a Labrador."

"Hey!" Jayce whispered from behind the camera, nearly giving himself away.

You snorted, shaking your head. "And what about you?"

Viktor tilted his head. "What about me?"

"If Jayce is the golden retriever of the lab, what does that make you?"

Viktor considered this for a long moment, eyes flickering with amusement. "The cat that does not wish to be here," he finally said. You burst out laughing.

"And me?" you asked, wiping a tear from your eye.

Viktor tilted his head slightly, studying you, his gaze warm in the dim lab light. "You are…" His voice slowed, as if considering his words carefully. Then, quietly, "The one who always keeps us together."

Jayce, watching through the viewfinder, nearly choked. Okay, he thought, now you two are doing this on purpose.

And yet, when Viktor looked at you then—his eyes lingering, his posture subtly leaning toward you—it didn’t feel like teasing.

It felt like something real.

And Jayce got all of it on tape.

=

At some point, Jayce stopped being subtle about it.

He had an entire folder on your camcorder labeled “Y/N & Vik: The Slow Burn of the Century”, and it was gold.

Clip #1: You handing Viktor a cup of tea without asking, already knowing exactly how he liked it. Clip #2: Viktor automatically reaching out to steady you when you leaned too far over the worktable. Clip #3: The way he smirked every time you rolled your eyes at him. Clip #4: The way you stared at him when you thought no one was watching. Clip #5: Jayce whispering dramatically into the camera, “The tension is unbearable. Just date already.”

Jayce was thriving.

You, however, had no idea you were slowly being documented in the greatest romantic slow-burn documentary of all time.

Until, one day, you found the folder.

=

It happened by accident. You had picked up your camcorder to transfer old footage and noticed the file.

Curious, you clicked on it.

The first video that played was a close-up of Jayce’s face.

"Hello, future Y/N," he whispered conspiratorially. "If you’re watching this, congratulations! You have finally realized that you and Viktor have been making goo-goo eyes at each other for years."

Your mouth dropped open.

The next clip?

Viktor watching you from across the lab, his expression soft, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. The way his gaze flickered to your hands, to the way your fingers moved as you wrote, as if he found something endlessly fascinating about the way you worked.

The next clip?

You, doing the exact same thing. Staring at Viktor like he hung the damn stars in the sky. By the time you got to a clip of Jayce literally narrating one of your interactions in a whisper—“And here we see the two idiots, completely in love but too dense to admit it…”—you stormed across the lab, camcorder in hand.

"JAYCE!"

Jayce, hearing the anger in your voice, immediately jumped up, hands raised in surrender. "I can explain!"

"Oh, I’d love to hear it!" You held up the camera accusingly. "This? THIS WHOLE FILE?!"

Jayce coughed. "Would you believe me if I said it was for scientific purposes?"

"JAYCE TALIS!"

Viktor, looking up from his work, blinked in confusion. "What is happening—" Before he could finish, Jayce bolted for the door.

You chased after him, yelling something about deleting footage while Jayce cackled like a madman. Viktor, now alone, frowned. Then, with curiosity, he turned to the computer screen where you had left the folder open.

He clicked on a random clip. And then he saw it.

Himself. Watching you.

The way his fingers lingered whenever he handed you a tool. The way his smirk softened into something fond when you bickered. The way his gaze followed you, his voice quiet and patient in ways he never was with anyone else.

Viktor, for the first time, realized— Jayce hadn’t been exaggerating.

And he had all of it on tape.

Jayce had never been more proud of himself. Not because of Hextech. Not because of his position in Piltover.

But because his magnum opus, the slow-burn-to-lovers documentary of Y/N & Vik: The Slow Burn of the Century”, and it was gold., had finally entered its next phase.

And oh, he wasn’t stopping now.

Now that you and Viktor were officially together, he had so much new material to work with.

=

The first few weeks of your relationship were surprisingly subtle. There were no grand announcements, no awkward shifts in dynamic—just small, quiet changes that Jayce immediately caught onto.

Like the way your hands lingered together just a little longer than necessary when passing tools.

Or the way Viktor’s normally dry tone softened just slightly when he spoke to you.

Or, Jayce’s personal favorite, the way you two thought you were being discreet but were absolutely not.

Cue video evidence:

Clip #1: You and Viktor working at separate desks, completely focused on your respective projects… until you both subtly glance at each other at the exact same time, then immediately look away. Clip #2: Viktor handing you a screwdriver, fingers brushing yours. You pause, smiling softly at him. Jayce zooms in dramatically. Clip #3: You absentmindedly running your fingers through Viktor’s hair while reading a blueprint. Viktor, utterly content, leaning into your touch like a satisfied cat. Jayce whispering into the mic: “They’re so soft for each other, I’m gonna be sick.”

=

The camera footage started with a slow, steady zoom.

Viktor was sprawled on the worn-out couch in the corner of the lab, his cane propped up against the armrest, one arm draped over his stomach, the other resting against the cushions.

And then there was you—completely draped over him.

Your head was tucked under his chin, one of your arms lazily draped across his torso, your legs tangled with his. Viktor’s fingers had unconsciously curled around your wrist, holding onto you like a lifeline even in sleep.

Jayce silently lost his mind behind the camera.

The sheer romance of it. The cinematic excellence. The fact that neither of you realized how disgustingly in love you looked at that very moment.

He recorded for a full two minutes, zooming in on your synchronized breathing, the way Viktor’s lips parted slightly as he exhaled, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your head.

Then, movement.

You stirred first, shifting slightly against Viktor’s chest, a soft sigh escaping your lips. Your fingers flexed against the fabric of his vest, gripping it just a little tighter before your eyes fluttered open.

For a second, you were too groggy to process anything.

Then, Viktor made a soft noise of protest as you moved, his own eyes barely opening, hazy with sleep.

"Mm… Y/N?" he murmured, voice rough and quiet, half-conscious.

"Mm?" you echoed blearily, barely awake yourself.

Viktor blinked slowly, his brows furrowing. His gaze flickered over your face before his expression settled into something very neutral.

"You’re… on top of me," he mumbled. You stared at him. Then down at your position. Then back up at him.

Cue instant flustered panic.

"Oh my god, Viktor, I—" You immediately started trying to sit up, heat rushing to your face. "I didn’t mean to— I must have— I was just—"

"You are warm," Viktor muttered, already closing his eyes again. He barely shifted, his grip on your wrist tightening slightly before he let out a soft sigh. "Do not move."

You froze.

Jayce, witnessing this through the camera lens, had to physically bite his hand to stop from making a sound.

You opened your mouth, as if to protest, but Viktor was already drifting back into sleep, his expression peaceful, completely unbothered by the fact that you were still half on top of him.

And you? You were losing your mind internally.

But… he was warm. And comfortable. And he had just asked you to stay in that quiet, sleepy voice of his, so… maybe just a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt?

Slowly, hesitantly, you relaxed against him again.

Jayce clutched his chest in silent victory, zooming in one last time before sneaking away like a thief in the night.

This?

This was going in the highlight reel.

Jayce had done many questionable things in his life.

But this?

This was probably the most questionable.

Because right now, at this very moment, he was crouched inside a bush outside one of Piltover’s nicer restaurants, camera lens poking through the leaves like some kind of deranged documentarian.

And why, you ask?

Because Y/N and Viktor were on their first official date, and there was no way in hell he was missing this.

=

It had all started when you and Viktor, after weeks (years) of obvious tension, had finally, finally decided to go on a real date.

Jayce, of course, had tried to be normal about it.

He really had.

But when you walked into the lab that morning in a stunning outfit, looking way too excited (and nervous) for what was supposed to be a simple dinner, and Viktor—who was normally so put-together—actually fumbled his tools upon seeing you?

Jayce knew this was going to be big.

And like hell was he going to let such an important moment go undocumented.

So, after dramatically announcing that he had “prior engagements tonight” (a lie) and wishing you both the absolute worst (a bigger lie), he booked it to the restaurant ahead of time.

And that was how he ended up hiding in a bush, with your camcorder, ready to capture history.

=

The video opens with a slightly shaky zoom through the restaurant’s large windows.

You and Viktor sit across from each other at a small, candlelit table, surrounded by the soft glow of lanterns and the quiet murmur of conversations.

Jayce barely contains his squeal of excitement.

"Alright, folks," he whispers dramatically into the mic, "we are currently witnessing the rare and elusive Viktor Kiramman on an actual date. This is not a drill."

The camera zooms in, focusing on you as you smile at Viktor from across the table. You’re saying something, hands gesturing lightly as you speak, and Viktor—Viktor—is actually smiling.

Not the usual smirk, not the sarcastic little huff he gives Jayce when he’s being an idiot, but a real, warm, genuine smile.

Jayce nearly drops the camera in shock.

"Oh my god," he breathes. "She makes him soft."

He adjusts the focus just in time to catch Viktor reaching across the table, his fingers grazing over yours before carefully taking your hand in his.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have contact," Jayce whispers, shaking with suppressed excitement.

On screen, you blink in mild surprise at the sudden touch, then your expression softens as you gently squeeze Viktor’s hand in return.

Jayce makes an actual fist pump in the bush.

=

The audio is muffled from outside, but Jayce manages to pick up snippets of your conversation.

"Are you alright?" you ask, head tilting slightly. "You look… nervous."

Viktor exhales a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "I suppose I am. I am… unused to this."

"Dinner?" you tease lightly.

"No," Viktor says softly. "Being with you like this."

Jayce silently screams into his fist.

Viktor continues, "You are—" he hesitates, then clears his throat, "—exceptional. And I suppose there is a part of me that still does not quite believe you are here, with me, in this way."

You smile at him, your fingers tightening around his. "Viktor, I’ve been here this whole time. You just had to notice."

Jayce clutches his chest, actually feeling faint.

"I am going to pass out, oh my god," he whispers to himself, shaking as he zooms in dramatically.

On screen, Viktor exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head before looking at you with so much unspoken affection that Jayce actually punches the bush in excitement.

Which turns out to be a mistake. Because the next sound that comes from the footage is a loud, very distinct rustling of leaves. Followed by your voice.

"Jayce."

Jayce freezes.

On camera, Viktor’s brow furrows slightly as he turns his head toward the window. "…Did you hear something?"

"Yeah," you say, staring directly at the bush. "I think I did."

Jayce internally panics.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit—"

He tries to move backwards, but his foot catches on a damn tree root, and suddenly—

The camera footage swings wildly as Jayce falls out of the bush, straight onto the cobblestone.

=

The next thing captured is you and Viktor standing over him, arms crossed, unimpressed. Jayce, still on the ground, slowly tilts the camera up toward your faces.

"Uh… hey," he says weakly.

"Jayce," you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Me? Oh, nothing, just, uh—bird watching."

Viktor raises a brow. "In a bush?"

"Yes!" Jayce says quickly. "Very rare species around here. You wouldn’t believe it."

You look down at him, unimpressed. "You were recording us, weren’t you?"

Jayce grins nervously. "Define ‘recording’."

Viktor sighs, shaking his head. "You are truly the worst, Jayce."

"Okay, but like—" Jayce starts, still filming as you and Viktor exchange exasperated looks, "—to be fair, I got some amazing shots of you two being disgustingly in love. You’ll thank me someday—"

You groan. "Give me the camera."

"Absolutely not—"

Cue you lunging at him.

The video ends with pure chaos—Jayce scrambling to his feet, you chasing him down the street, Viktor sighing as he slowly follows behind. And yet, despite all the painful consequences, Jayce still thinks to himself—

Totally worth it.

At some point, things had shifted.

You and Viktor had always been comfortable together—always lingering in each other’s space, always sharing touches that neither of you thought twice about.

But over the years, that comfort had grown into something deeper. Something undeniable.

And of course, Jayce recorded all of it.

=

The video opens with the warm morning glow of the lab windows. Papers are scattered across the tables, machines hum softly in the background, and Viktor is leaning into your touch as you run your fingers through his hair.

He’s seated at his desk, eyes half-lidded, clearly still waking up as you stand behind him, absentmindedly combing your fingers through his curls.

Jayce, smirking behind the camera, zooms in.

"Wow," he whispers dramatically. "Look at this. True domesticity in the lab. Can you believe it, folks?"

Viktor mumbles something unintelligible, clearly too tired to be annoyed.

"Oh?" Jayce laughs. "What was that, Vik? You love Y/N? You’re completely whipped?"

Viktor, eyes still closed, lazily flips Jayce off.

You chuckle, placing a soft kiss on Viktor’s temple. "Don’t bully him so early in the morning, Jayce."

Viktor hums in agreement, tilting his head up toward you. "You are the only one I trust in this room."

Jayce scoffs dramatically. "Unbelievable. I bring the camera, I bring the content, and this is the thanks I get?"

You laugh. Viktor smirks against your touch.

Jayce shakes his head at the camera. "This man used to act like he hated romance. Look at him now. Look at him now."

=

The video is quiet, filled only with the gentle patter of rain against the windows.

You and Viktor are curled up together on the old couch in the corner, a blanket draped over the two of you. Your head is resting against his chest, his arm lazily wrapped around you, the slow rise and fall of his breathing visible beneath your cheek.

Jayce pans the camera slowly, taking in the absolute softness of the moment.

Then, from behind the lens—

"So, uh… should I just leave you two here?"

Viktor opens one eye, glaring half-heartedly. "Yes."

You smirk, nuzzling against Viktor’s chest. "You could go home, you know?"

Jayce sighs dramatically. "And let you two be sickeningly in love without me? Absolutely not."

Viktor groans, pulling the blanket higher over both of you as a clear dismissal.

The last thing caught on camera is Jayce muttering, "I hate how cute they are."

=

Jayce hadn’t known what he was filming at first.

It had started as just another routine recording—another late night in the lab, another moment he wanted to capture. He hadn’t thought much of it when he picked up the camcorder, idly panning across the workspace as you and Viktor worked on opposite ends of the room.

But then, Viktor stood up.

And something about the way he did it—slow, deliberate—made Jayce pause.

Through the lens, he watched as Viktor carefully slid something into his pocket, his fingers curling around it briefly before he took a deep breath and turned toward you.

"Y/N," Viktor called, voice softer than usual. "Come here for a moment?"

Jayce froze.

He zoomed in immediately.

You, blissfully unaware of the gravity of the situation, set your notes aside and walked over to him. "What’s up?"

Viktor hesitated for a fraction of a second, as if steadying himself. Then, with careful precision, he pulled a small velvet box from his pocket.

You stilled.

Jayce? Jayce stopped breathing.

"Oh my god," he whispered behind the camera. "It’s happening. IT’S HAPPENING."

You blinked, your gaze flickering between Viktor’s face and the box in his hands. "Viktor?"

Viktor exhaled shakily, his grip tightening slightly around the box. "I had a whole speech prepared," he admitted, voice touched with amusement, but also something deeply vulnerable. "But suddenly… none of it seems quite right."

Your heart pounded in your chest.

Viktor’s fingers brushed over the lid of the box, his amber eyes meeting yours. "You have always been there," he murmured, "always beside me. Through the victories, through the failures—through every long night in this lab."

He inhaled deeply, then let out a quiet, almost breathless chuckle. "And somehow, after all this time, you still look at me like I am worth something more than just my mind."

Your throat tightened, emotion swelling in your chest.

Viktor shifted slightly, adjusting his stance, his cane steady in one hand as he carefully lowered himself just enough—not onto one knee, but just enough that it still held meaning.

The world stilled.

His hand trembled as he slowly opened the box, revealing a delicate, simple ring—the kind that was perfectly you, perfectly right.

"Y/N," Viktor murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Will you—" he swallowed, blinking once before his expression softened into something so, so full of love—"—marry me?"

[makeyoumine69]

valentines with patrick pls but it ends with patrick being miserable 🙏

Perfect

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔��𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Can love truly conquer inner demons, or does walking away become the bravest Valentine’s gift of all?

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Implied smut and a lot of angst.

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: [MASTERLIST]; [MY IMAGINES AND SHORT REQUESTS].

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐄𝐂: My Darkest Days—Perfect💌

𝐀/𝐍: I want to wish everyone a happy Valentine's Day! Never stop believing in love! And thank you so much for this request because it fits my current mood a lot!💔

The more Patrick got to know you, the more he realized how pure-hearted and kind you were, literally perfect. And at some point he couldn't stand it anymore, because how could you be so perfect? Even the way you laughed was perfect and your smile was as bright as a summer day in New York. The very day the two of you met. And somehow, Bateman knew from the beginning that your presence in his life would change everything, including himself, and he was not ready or happy for that.

But the moment you opened the window in the dark room, you couldn't blame the light coming in and eliminating everything around you, because that's how things work in our world. Simple physical laws against which we are all helpless. And every single second that Patrick was thinking about why he couldn't hurt you physically or mentally, he was suffering from the stabbing pain in his chest, as if his heart was locked in the chains of molten iron.

The man was trying to find an answer that simply didn't exist.

Finally, in desperation, Bateman even considered asking you this question—what was so special about you? Besides the fact that you were just perfect for him? And maybe for the world? But every time he tried to question you, the two of you ended up lost in the fire of passion that you couldn't control, not that you really wanted to control it. Those raw, vivid emotions soon became his most addictive drug because he could finally feel himself alive. The intimacy he despised became a need he couldn't live without, and he was so damn grateful to you that you didn't see it as his weakness. You were just being yourself, accepting him as he was.

But when the woman loved a man and the man loved a woman, but in his twisted way, it couldn't be easy, even though Patrick really tried to make it work. He just knew that one day his own rage would take over and he'd kill you—never in his life did he feel so disgusted than when he imagined your blood on his hands. And it was weird as hell.

"...and we are going to have a little kitten," you murmured, sitting next to Patrick on the warm carpet by the fireplace. "Oh God, I never asked if you even like cats..."

Trapped in his thoughts, Patrick didn't seem to notice your small talk, but when you put your head on his shoulder, he flinched a little, but didn't push you away. "I, uh, never really thought about it," he replied, looking at you. "Tell me something, darling. Are you happy here?"

With a broad smile, you giggled and hugged his arm. "Of course I am happy! Spending Valentine's Day not anywhere but in Aspen seems like a dream!"

"Dream?"

"Yes, very much like a dream," you added, glancing back at him with your doe eyes, where the fire sparks were glimmering. "I know it doesn't seem like much to you. But to me it's like a winter fairytale come true."

Bateman hummed and instinctively pecked your forehead, then your temple, until his warm lips found yours; you didn't hesitate and kissed him back, hugging his strong neck and brushing his slicked-back hair a little. There was something desperate about the way the man held you in his embrace, but you overlooked it, unable to think of anything but the heat radiating from his sturdy body.

"I must say, you always have the best way with words," he whispered into your neck before nipping at your sensitive skin, sending little shivers through your slightly trembling form. "And I like it."

You couldn't stop yourself from laughing when Patrick rubbed his nose against your neck and unintentionally tickled you. "Uh, Patrick!" You snickered and turned away from him. "Too many compliments from you today. Did something happen?"

Silence fell over the spacious room, only the faint ticking of the fireplace could be heard for a while before Bateman pulled you onto his lap and pressed you against his chest so you could hear his steady heartbeat—the soft material of his sweater felt so comforting you thought you were going to burst into tears from how much you loved this man. 

"No, nothing happened," he finally replied, stroking the top of your head. "Just a little nervous about the main surprise I prepared for you."

"Huh?"

"After we're done with our planned events, I'd like to present it to you," Bateman cupped your face, his lips curled into that classic boy-next-door smile that always had the most charming effect on you. "So, have you ever been to the hot springs?"

Before heading out to the best springs in Colorado, not far from Aspen, the two of you made snowmen and played snowball before you decided to compete with Patrick in strength, trying to knock him down only to end up being pushed into the big pile of snow. After laughing for a while, Bateman noticed your slightly offended look, and the next thing you knew, the man turned around and fell on his back next to you, leaving you both giggling at how silly you both looked. But you didn't care because you were lying together in the snow, holding hands and looking up at the sky, which was so clean and white, as if it was covered with snow as well. 

Was this even real?

Later, in Glenwood Springs, you found out that there were almost only two of you, and that privacy helped a lot when you were swimming naked in the hot springs, exhaling the white steam because the temperature around you was quite low. 

Skin against skin, his eager lips on yours, drowning out all the little moans that tried to escape your trembling throat as he rubbed your swollen folds while you were both still submerged in the water. You wanted to claw at his skin, leaning on his shoulders and throwing your head back to give him more space as he kissed you here and there. 

Patrick, mmhm, please, don’t stop.

The man longed to etch those words into his mind, along with the intoxicating sensation of owning you in every possible way. And if your soul could be touched, he could swear he would touch it with a tenderness he had never known before. Because finding someone with a pure soul was something so rare these days. Something almost surreal. Something Bateman secretly thirsted for, but realized too late.

When you came back to Aspen to the luxurious winter house he rented, you spent a dear hour reading The Great Gatsby and even though Patrick kept commenting on how stupid and pathetic it was of Gatsby to try to impress an arrogant bitch like Daisy, you both enjoyed the evening anyway because you could listen to him read the passages forever—his voice was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. Still, you never really confessed it to him, thinking he would call you silly and... too romantic? Too emotional?

Emotions, emotions, emotions.

Having sex with someone doesn't mean you have feelings for them. Loving someone doesn't always mean it will last forever. Only losing someone feels like something permanent. And Patrick couldn't let that happen.

When you were busy cooking something for dinner, Bateman literally came out of nowhere, hugged you from behind, and inhaled your scent with his eyes closed. Every little detail of you mattered, every little thing—the way you exhaled in surprise, almost jumping up, and the way you were embarrassed when he slipped his hands under your top to tease your nipples, making them hard and sensitive. And as the pot slowly simmered on the small fire, you both worshipped each other, giving everything you had, until Patrick reached his limit and lifted you up only to place you on the kitchen counter, wiping everything from its surface. Almost immediately, without wasting a second, the man began to undo your pants, kneading your breasts and leaving wet trails of kisses along your belly, and when he reached your mound, he nuzzled against it and you could swear you saw his eyes shimmer, but not from fire or anything. 

Were those tears?

…

You kept asking yourself the same question a month later. 

How many times did you read the notebook he gave you as his "main suprise" for Valentine's Day? The gift that unintentionally broke your heart and made you doubt if you could ever fall in love again. Holding a small notebook in your hands, you opened it and traced a finger along his somewhat chaotic handwriting, then the little doodles he made, until you turned several pages and stopped on the last one, where a beautiful doodle of your little figure was drawn. And that short phrase written in the top right corner that said 'I love you', that always made you cry, but after reading it so many times now, all you felt was a void. As if everything that made you feel alive had been erased from you in the most brutal way.

Why did he leave you like this? Why couldn't he just tell you that he had met someone else? Probably someone more beautiful by today's standards. Someone he would be proud to show off in public. Why did he choose to use the fear of hurting you as an excuse? Why?

You would never believe it. It was just impossible to believe that the man who treated you like his treasure could leave you because he was afraid of hurting you, because he thought you would find someone "better", because he thought he didn't deserve you at all. Covering your face in your hands, you closed your eyes and cried, the notebook falling to your feet. But the words written inside had already left deep scars on your mind.

"...all those days when I thought about losing you, I realized that I was so selfish, thinking only of myself and never of you. So now I'm finally thinking about you, my love. Please don't cry, I hate to see you cry. And please forgive me for everything I've done. There won't be a single day that I don't think about the time we spent together. I just want you to be happy and ALIVE. With me...that wouldn't be possible. I love you...I'm sorry. I really am."

The rain fell in a steady rhythm, tapping against the windowpane like a melancholy melody. Patrick stood in the shadows, just beyond the glow of the streetlamp, his coat damp and clinging to his shoulders. From here he could see you through the frosted glass of the café, sitting alone at a corner table, a book in your hands. You looked the same, but different. 

Concentrating on reading, you laughed at something in the book, and the sound carried through the glass, piercing his chest like a blade. Bateman wanted to go inside, to sit across from you and tell you everything—how he had never stopped loving you, how he had watched you from afar, how he had spent every day since he left you trying to become someone worthy of you. But he didn't move. He couldn't.

Because he knew that even now, after all this time, he still wasn't enough.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my writing community to know when I update!💞

[blueberrypancakesworld]

hiiiii …. I am a freak for ur Frollo x readers … age gap 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 Pls u are so talented, please never stop writing. I wish nothing but the best for you! ^_^

- 🐇📿

Frollo in a relationship~Age gap

Frollo x fem!reader

warning : age gap (Frollo is in his 50s, reader in her 20s), kissing, obsession, religion fanatic, Frollo is Frollo

info : Thank you so much dear anon, nice that our freaks match up especially when it comes to Frollo. This disgusting, sweet, sexy judge is simply irresistible. Your words mean so much to me thank you...I hope you like this little extra here and I'm glad you like my writting so much ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was a man of the public eye and had to leave his estate for every festival and get out of the carriage to present himself to the masses.

It was an activity of his profession that he despised with every fibre of his body, even in court when he used the gavel to get some peace and quiet and pronounce his judgement he felt only partially comfortable.

The miserable pleading and weeping, the protestations of innocence...no one was innocent, no one in this sin-ridden city could be innocent.

No one but himself and she, the blossoming Paris, a blossoming woman worthy of his gaze and recognition, ,,Paris blossoms anew every day because he has taken care of you, my lady" he had once complimented her after he had intercepted her from the church.

She was innocent, so innocent that she averted her eyes, looking down to the ground in embarrassment, ,,It is your righteous actions Judge Frollo that keep us...and me safe" she replied and he offered her a hand to help her down the steps.

The dress a dark purple, a shade of his favourite colours, she had to know, had to wear it especially to get his attention.

Ever since they had met at Notre Dame, ever since he had seen her devotion and kindness, especially to a man of his rank and age, he was sure it was God's reward.

A life seemed to lie between them, he had seen times of loathing and disgust when she didn't even seem to walk this earth, but she was in her flower.

It was she who was completely delighted and kissed by life, a beauty, gentleness, softness, an innocence that still lingered, an unopened bud that turned towards the sun of his gaze.

He was her sun and her moon, he was her judge and fascinator, he would be her future, her husband and captor and he knew she had no choice.

Such a beautiful single young woman, no mother, siblings or relatives, her father fallen in a war, ,,I will personally take care of your protection, in my prayers by day and by night" he assured her again and again.

The payments for her small flat were a minor matter, a matter for which she only had to accompany him when he requested it, to the finest tailors, painters and blacksmiths.

She held on to his arm so as not to fall through the uneven ground, feeling her soft breast press against his arm every now and then, ,,It is God's providence and my legal enforcement that I take special care of my protégés...a flower like you should not suffer" he took away her fear that she was taking advantage of him or even insulting him when she showed herself with him

She was a young single woman and he was the judge of the city, a man almost three times her age, yet he treated her like a princess in the poems.

Why would he lie?

Why would a man of his goodness lie?

Frollo only seemed to want the best for her and the image of him seemed to blur more and more in her thoughts, nights and dreams.

An acquaintance, a friend, a father figure or a brother, a saint, her personal judge and at the end of the summer he had become her husband under the ringing bells of Notre Dame, he had made her his.

When his lips were able to kiss her end, the life of sin and lust seemed to have penetrated him.

His age, the weight of his life washed away by the sight of her, evaporated with the words, ,,My wife" as he was granted the right of God to desire her.

He now had every right to desire her publicly in front of all others and in his estate where he would bring this beauty.

It would be a sin to share her innocence and beauty with others, ,,By accepting the ring you have become mine" he reminded her as he opened the bedroom door.

But in the flickering of the candles, the moon shining through the windows, nothing mattered between them, how could a man resist such innocence?

To see her lying in the bed surrounded by pillows and blankets, an innocence as the blood stained her that night...as it was not her husband who bedded her but the devil who took her to get her innocence for himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@spamtonsjc , @angelfromacostumestore , @lovelycemeterymistress

[theonottsbxtch]

SAVING HER | CL16

an: chat this is a short one but she’s been sat in my drafts unedited for a while SO PLS DONT JUDGE IVE BEEN BUSY WITH WORK also im about to close my requests for the next month or so because i am very busy

wc: 2.3k

THE ALLEYWAY WAS A THEATRE OF SHADOWS, the high walls narrowing like an unfinished thought. Rain clung to the cobblestones, slick and shimmering under the muted glow of a nearby streetlamp. Charles slumped against the cold stone, his breath a ragged symphony of pain he didn’t feel. The wound on his arm—a careful cut he’d made himself—bled just enough to convince anyone, though the blood seeping into his sleeve was nothing compared to the weight in his chest.

He’d been told she would come this way.

The princess of Monaco was known for walking among the people, her kindness spoken of like an old fable passed from lip to lip. A woman with a crown yet no walls, they said. A woman who saw everyone as a person worth saving. It was that softness—her fatal flaw, his boss had said—that made her the perfect target. Charles knew how to exploit such softness. He had done it a thousand times before, slipping into lives just long enough to end them.

And so he waited.

The footsteps came as if conjured from the night itself, light yet steady, moving towards him without hesitation. He pressed his hand against his wound for effect, his jaw tightening, his body folding into the pose of a man undone. When he raised his eyes, there she was.

“Sir, are you hurt?” Her voice was warm, unguarded, each syllable woven with concern. She knelt before him, her coat already sliding from her shoulders to wrap around his trembling form.

“I—yes,” Charles stammered, surprised by how natural the lie felt on his tongue. “It’s nothing. Just… had uh. You shouldn’t—”

“Hush,” she interrupted, her hands already seeking the source of his injury. “You’re bleeding. We need to get you help.”

Her touch was feather-light, and for a moment, Charles forgot the blade hidden at his hip, the kill he had rehearsed in his mind a dozen times. She didn’t flinch at the blood or the grime, her hands steady, her face calm, her eyes impossibly gentle.

It would be easy, he told himself. The knife would be quick. She wouldn’t even see it coming.

But as she looked at him, her gaze a pool of unguarded kindness, something unfamiliar twisted in his chest. It wasn’t guilt—Charles had never known guilt—but a hesitation, like a string pulling him back just as he prepared to strike. He gritted his teeth, forcing the thought away.

Not here. Not now. Next time.

Instead, he let her lift him to his feet, her shoulder under his as she guided him away from the shadows. And for the first time, Charles wondered if he had underestimated her. Not her kindness—that was as plain as the moon overhead—but its weight, its gravity.

And it terrified him.

Her flat wasn’t far—she said as much while helping him along the cobbled streets—but Charles found himself biting back questions. A princess who lived alone, away from the safety of royal walls? Who brought strangers into her home on nothing more than blind trust? It was absurd. Foolish, even. And yet, there she was, walking him through her unlocked door, her arm steadying him as though his weight was nothing.

The space was modest—unexpectedly so for someone of her stature. The furniture was worn, each piece arranged with a care that spoke of practicality over opulence. A collection of books leaned precariously on the edge of a small shelf, and the air smelled faintly of lavender. It was too… human for a woman who should have been untouchable.

“You’re lucky I found you,” she said softly, easing him onto the edge of a worn armchair. “I don’t usually take this route home.” She offered him a small smile, as though his suffering were a strange twist of fate they should both be grateful for.

“Lucky,” Charles echoed, his voice gruff.

If only she knew.

She disappeared into another room, her movements light and unhurried, returning moments later with a first aid kit. “This might sting,” she warned, already dabbing at the wound on his arm. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and for the first time, Charles could see the weight of her kindness—a heaviness in her eyes, as though she carried the burdens of every person she helped.

He clenched his fists. The knife was still there, tucked against his hip. All it would take was a single motion—a flick of the blade and she’d be gone. The mission would be over. His boss would be satisfied, and Charles could leave this city behind.

Do it, he told himself. You’ve done worse to better people.

But his hand remained where it was, resting on the arm of the chair, his fingers curling into the fabric instead of the hilt.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, her voice breaking the silence. “Are you in pain?”

Charles shook his head. “No. Just… thinking.”

���About?”

He looked at her—really looked at her. Her hands were stained with his blood, yet her touch was careful, precise. Her face, so close to his, was unguarded, open in a way that unsettled him. No one ever looked at him like that. No one dared.

“Why did you stop?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

She blinked, surprised by the question. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you don’t know me. For all you know, I could be dangerous.”

Her smile returned, small but unshaken. “Everyone deserves help when they need it. Even if they’re dangerous.”

Something inside him twisted again, tighter this time. He averted his gaze, fixing it on the floor. The blade felt heavier now, its presence burning against his skin.

He could do it. He should do it. But as she worked, humming softly under her breath, Charles realised something with chilling clarity.

He wasn’t hesitating because of guilt. He was hesitating because, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure he could go through with it.

Not yet.

Not now.

“You shouldn’t walk home alone at night,” Charles muttered as she tied off the bandage on his arm. “It’s not safe.”

She tilted her head, studying him with a faint smile. “I imagine most people would say the same about bringing a stranger home, yet here we are.”

He couldn’t argue with that. She had no guards, no locks worth mentioning, not even a dog to bark at the wrong sort of man. Yet there she was, unshaken, as though kindness itself were a shield.

“Stay the night,” she said, rising to her feet. “I’ve a spare room you can use. You shouldn’t be moving around much anyway.”

Every instinct Charles had told him to refuse. He should leave, disappear into the night, and finish the job another time. But the offer was tempting, and not for the reasons she thought. Staying close to her would give him the perfect opportunity. No more alleyways, no more waiting. If he stayed, he could end this before morning.

“Alright,” he said, his voice measured. “Just for tonight.”

She nodded, satisfied. “I’ll get you some blankets.”

The spare room was small but comfortable, a single bed tucked into the corner with neatly folded linens at its foot. Charles lay down fully clothed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as the silence pressed in. His work phone sat heavy in his pocket, the messages from his boss unanswered.

He would do it tonight, he told himself. It was cleaner this way, simpler. No witnesses, no complications.

But the hours slipped by, the house silent save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the soft rhythm of her breathing in the next room. Charles stared at the faint light leaking through the curtains, his body taut with tension, his mind unwilling to rest.

Finally, he rose.

The knife felt familiar in his hand as he moved through the darkened hall, his steps silent. Her door was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of light from the streetlamp outside falling across her sleeping form. She lay curled on her side, one arm tucked beneath her head, her chest rising and falling in an unguarded rhythm.

It would be easy.

Charles stood there for what felt like an eternity, his shadow stretching across the floor as he tightened his grip on the blade. But the longer he watched, the harder it became to move. Her face, serene and untroubled, was unreasonably small in the pale light. There was nothing regal about her now, nothing untouchable. Just a person who had opened her home to a stranger and asked for nothing in return.

He thought of the blood on her hands—not hers, but his, from patching him up without hesitation. He thought of her smile, that maddening softness that made no sense in a world like his.

The knife dropped to his side, his fingers loosening until it slipped from his grip entirely.

He couldn’t do it.

Charles stepped back into the hall, his breath sharp and uneven. His work phone burned in his pocket like a brand, its presence unbearable. He reached for it, his fingers moving mechanically as he scrolled through the messages. The last one was simple, a single word: Update?

His jaw tightened. He moved to the nearest window, pushed it open, and hurled the phone into the night. It clattered onto the cobblestones below, its screen shattering on impact.

For the first time, the weight in his chest lifted.

He closed the window quietly and turned back to the room. The knife lay abandoned on the floor, but he didn’t pick it up. Instead, he returned to the spare room and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

The mission was over.

It wasn’t enough to walk away now, not with his boss’s reach and the consequences that would follow. If Charles couldn’t kill her, there was only one other option: protect her.

His lips curled into a faint, humourless smile.

He didn’t know what had possessed him to make this choice, but it was too late to turn back.

Now, he was on her side.

Charles woke to the smell of coffee and the soft murmur of a voice carrying through the thin walls. He stretched, his muscles stiff from a restless night, and rubbed his face as he sat up. For a moment, he stared at the unfamiliar room, piecing together where he was and why.

The princess. The knife. The phone thrown out the window.

He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. There was no turning back now.

The voice grew louder as he approached the kitchen, and he paused in the doorway to take in the scene. She was pacing the small space, a mug in one hand and her phone pressed to her ear with the other. Her hair was pulled back, though loose strands framed her face, and her bare feet padded softly across the tiles.

“No, I understand,” she was saying, her tone brisk but tinged with worry. “But I can’t wait two weeks for a replacement. I need someone now.”

She turned and saw him standing there, and her lips curved into a faint, distracted smile. “I’ll call you back,” she murmured into the phone before ending the call.

“Good morning,” she said, setting her mug down on the counter. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” Charles replied, though his gaze lingered on her tense shoulders. “What’s going on?”

Her smile faltered, and for the first time, he saw unease in her expression. “It’s nothing,” she said quickly, then sighed as if realising the futility of her deflection. “Actually, it’s… something. I found a knife outside my bedroom door this morning.”

Charles froze, the words striking like a blow. She wasn’t accusing him—her tone was too uncertain, too trusting for that—but the implications made his stomach twist.

“I assume it was a warning,” she continued, crossing her arms. “I’ve had threats before, but nothing this… direct. I was on the phone with my head of security. Unfortunately, my current detail is out of commission, and replacements take time. More time than I’m comfortable with, frankly.”

Charles’s mind raced, the weight of her words settling like lead in his chest. If she knew how close she had come to real danger, would she be this calm? Or would she have already called the authorities?

He straightened, forcing his voice into a calm he didn’t feel. “That’s… troubling,” he said. Then, after a pause, the lie slipped out as easily as breathing: “You’re lucky. That’s my line of work.”

She blinked, clearly taken aback. “Your line of work?”

“Private security,” Charles clarified smoothly, slipping into the persona as if it had always been his own. “Before… well, before things went sideways.” He gestured to his arm, still wrapped in her bandage. “It’s what I do.”

She tilted her head, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and cautious hope. “You’re serious?”

“Serious enough to know you shouldn’t be pacing around without someone watching your back,” he said. “If you want, I can help. Just until your new detail is sorted.”

The words hung in the air, and Charles braced himself for her to refuse. It would be safer for her, he realised, if she did. But instead, her shoulders relaxed, and a faint smile touched her lips.

“Really?” she asked, her tone laced with relief.

“Really,” Charles said.

She hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Alright. Thank you, truly. I… I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

The irony of her words wasn’t lost on him. He was the threat she feared, yet now he stood between her and the danger she didn’t even know existed.

Charles watched as she moved to pour him a cup of coffee, her back turned to him, her trust laid bare. The knife she’d mentioned hadn’t been a warning; it had been his own. Yet now, instead of finishing the job, he was stepping into a role he’d never imagined for himself.

Protector.

He wasn’t sure what would come next, but one thing was clear: there was no going back.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow

[reissancesstuff]

OMGMGMG IM SO IN LOVE WITH U PLS MARRY ME ILY SMMLMLL. NAIDHJZLALAISUDHZKALLZKDYD *fangirl* I NEED A DRABBLE WITH BONTEN RINDOU, FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS ! LET ME EXPLAIN :

Rindou and Yn have been friends for a long time but since rindou entered the bonten they've started sleeping together, yn knows that rindou has other girls on the side, she's jealous of this as she's been in love with rindou since the tenjiku days. when she tells him about her insecurities and that she'd like him to stop seeing other women he ends up arguing. When she tells him about her insecurities and that she'd like him to stop seeing other women, he ends up arguing ( with or without smut and a happy ending bby, as you wish).

🌸 A/N: OMG THANK YOU FOR THE LOVELY REQUEST!! 😭💕 ILY TOO, YOU SWEET FANGIRL ENERGY ICON LMAO.

✨ English isn’t my first language either, so I totally get the struggle, but don’t worry—we’re in this together. Let’s simp and suffer with style 💘

"Mixed Signals"

You know Rindou isn’t yours.

Not officially. Not really.

There’s no label on what you are to each other—not even when you started sleeping together after he joined Bonten.

At first, you told yourself it was just comfort. Something physical. A distraction.

But somewhere along the way—between tangled sheets and half-asleep murmurs—you started to feel.

Started to hope.

Started to fall.

You’ve loved him since Tenjiku, even when you shouldn’t have.

And now, sitting at the bar, watching him walk in with another woman draped over his arm—some model with sharp heels and fake smiles—it stings like a slap to the face.

You don’t wait for him to notice you. You turn away, drink something bitter, and pretend like your heart isn’t cracking in your chest.

He shows up at your place hours later like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just spend the night wrapped around someone else.

“Hey,” he says casually, tossing his keys on your counter, already reaching for you. “Miss me?”

You don’t respond. You let him kiss you. Let him press you against the wall—but something in you doesn’t respond this time.

You flinch when his mouth grazes your neck.

“Y/N?” he asks, pulling back. “What’s wrong with you?”

You push him away. “Stop.”

“What?” He scoffs. “Thought this was what you wanted.”

“I did,” you whisper. “I don’t know anymore.”

His expression darkens. “What the hell does that mean?”

Your voice trembles. “I saw you. At the club. With her. And I just—I can’t do this anymore, Rindou.”

He stares, silent.

“I’m tired of pretending,” you continue, eyes glassy. “Pretending this means nothing. Pretending I’m okay being just… one of many.”

“You knew what this was from the start,” he says, but there’s a flicker of guilt in his voice.

“Yeah, I did.” You laugh bitterly. “But I didn’t expect it to hurt this much.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “So what, now you want me to cut everyone else off? Just like that?”

You look at him, heart thudding in your chest. “I want you to want to. I want to be enough.”

Silence settles in the room like dust.

Finally, he mutters, “This is why I don’t do relationships.”

Your throat tightens. “Because someone might actually care about you?”

“Because someone might ruin what we had,” he snaps.

You blink, hurt. “What we had broke the moment you touched someone else.”

He looks like you just punched him. “Y/N…”

You shake your head, tears welling. “If you don’t feel the same way I do, just say it. I’ll stop hoping.”

He steps toward you. Gently touches your face. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“Well, now you do.”

“I’m not good at this,” he confesses, voice low. “I don’t know how to be what you need.”

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “Just choose me.”

His thumb brushes along your jaw. His kiss this time is softer—slow and uncertain. Like he’s scared to break you.

When he pulls you into bed, it’s different. It’s not rough or rushed.

It’s intimate. Intentional.

Fingers threading through hair. Warm skin. Shaky breaths. His lips ghosting over yours again and again like he’s trying to memorize them.

No dirty words. No games. Just whispered apologies. Hesitant promises. Real touch.

After, you lay tangled in sheets, your head on his chest, his fingers playing with yours.

He speaks quietly into the silence. “I’ll end it. With the others.”

You freeze.

“If you still want me,” he adds.

You lift your head to meet his eyes. “I do.”

His hand squeezes yours.

“…Then I’m yours.”

---

A/N:

😖💞 I hope this hits you right in the soft, jealous, emotionally-devastated Rindou-loving heart!! Thank you again for the request! If you ever want a part 2 or a spicy alt ending, I GOTCHU. 🥹💋 Stay delulu—it’s the Bonten way 😭🖤

[httpsserene]

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 '𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐰𝐨 | 𝐬𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐜𝐬. 𝟓𝟓 & 𝐥𝐧. 𝟒

summary: have you worked every shift possible for a chance of running into carlos and lando? yes. are you mad that you have a month of summer left and you still haven’t stumbled upon them? yes.

content warning: 18+. mdni. explicit sexual content. plot with porn. summer fling/vacation romance. fluff. light angst. light angst with a happy ending. banter. attempt at humor. explicit language. for extended tags, open in ao3.

pairing: poly! carlos sainz jr x lando norris x phd-student! fem!black!reader

word count: 18k words. (new record!)

from, serene: i am extremely proud of what i created. i hope it was worth waiting for, and i can't wait for the next episode !!! my next upload might be an alex albon smau series, for those that requested it. pls pls pls, send me asks and leave comments on this if you'd like! i'd love to hear your thoughts on sip of sunshine, and how it's building so far xxx thank you so much, my loves :) (50 more followers until 3k :o)

this has also been uploaded on my AO3 for anybody who finds it easier to read a fic of this length on there (looking out for those on mobile x)

⌕ prev | join taglist | feedback & requests | upcoming chapters | table of contents | sip of sunshine | next ↻

Studying for a doctorate does not directly correlate to a person’s brilliance. If you were smart, you wouldn’t have returned to the golf club for another summer with the sole hope of reuniting with the two stunningly fine men you shared a ten-minute conversation with. However, you chose to beat intelligence in a foot race, and here you are: driving the same beverage cart while sweating off your sunscreen for the fifth year in a row; furthermore, you have not crossed paths with Carlos and Lando once in the two months you’ve been working.

It’s difficult to believe that Lando had told the truth when he mentioned that they’ve been attending Club La Moraleja consistently for the past four years. You want to believe him, but the evidence against him is overwhelming. You’ve worked every possible shift this season, at every possible time, on every possible course, without a single spotting of the duo from the beginning of June. 

It’s August. If you allow yourself to think maniacally, you would infer that they’re avoiding you on purpose.

Previously, you were under the assumption that they were obviously flirting with you. The sexual innuendos, double-entendres, calling you a “sip of sunshine,” and the eighty euro tip Carlos left you (which had to be a mistake)—from which you deduced that they were making a move on you. You would even say that their instance in convincing you to return to the green was the smoking gun you needed to seal their fate in the case of you catching their interest. 

Nonetheless, they are nowhere to be found. 

You cope by entertaining the aspect of you suffering from heat stroke or heat exhaustion, and you created Carlos and Lando as a figment of your delusions during your compromised mental state. On the other hand, there’s also a chance that they took your joking threat—of never returning if you had to put up with their subpar pick-up lines—seriously. You didn’t consider that they would misunderstand your teasing banter but, you haven’t seen them a single time this summer.  

It’s unsettling. You’ve never been this disappointed about men not taking the clear hint. 

Obviously, you’d be relieved if any of the sleazy, rude, and archaic golfers stopped bothering you after their first attempt. But, Carlos and Lando? They’re the exact opposite of the men you described. They’re young, polite, funny, charming, and attractive. It’s not outlandish for you to say that there was some budding chemistry between you three.

It’s regrettably characteristic of you to develop crushes on men you haven’t shared more than one conversation with. Too bad you’re never going to see them again. And, screw them! Who do they think they are? It’s not like they’re anybody special—they probably delighted in filling your mind with false hope. 

The next time you see them, you’re running them over with the bev cart. All gas, no breaks.

The motor whirs loudly as you drive over a hill to the last hole of Course Four—and, you’ll be damned.

“Well, look at you! You stayed!”

You can’t tell if this is the universe blessing you or sending you a curse in disguise. 

Lando’s words ring in your ears as your brain fails to compute the sight of him and Carlos smiling at you from across the green, down in a bunker. 

Lando’s…matured beautifully, over the year you haven’t seen him. He was attractive before, but as you direct the cart closer, you can tell he’s grown into himself. There’s a broadness to his shoulders, a sharpness to his eyes, and a hollowness to his cheekbones that certainly makes it impossible for anybody to deny that he’s beautiful. 

Carlos is angeringly more handsome than he was before, somehow. You blame it on the backwards cap and his stupidly wide, warm, beautiful, brown eyes. You cut the engine off, scratching fiendishly at the back of your neck to dispel your thoughts about his nose and lips, how you would pay to see his brown eyes darkened between your thighs.

“Obviously,” you state dryly, roughly tucking the curls that slipped from your ponytail behind your ear, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Their grins falter at your biting tone and they glance at each other in surprise at your irritated response. They climb out of the bunker and walk to meet you at the side of the cart. You’ve turned your back to them, hearing their footsteps approach but you continue to mindlessly organize any cups that shifted out of place as you drove.

“It was just an observation,” the Brit continues, you can hear him still smiling around his words, “A conversation starter, I guess.”

You put on an impassive expression before turning around and staring at the two with your arms crossed, “Mm. Who’s the one who’s bad enough at golf to land in the bunker? Wait—don’t tell me! You’re both probably stuck in the sand trap.” 

Lando’s mouth audibly drops open with an insulted gasp and Carlos’s brow furrows in confusion.

You wave a dismissive hand through the air before they can reply, “What do you want to drink?”

“Uh…What?” Carlos fumbles, lost at your deviation.

“What, ‘what?’” You snap, annoyed at his feigned innocence, like he’s unaware that they lead you on for the entirety of a summer that they just appeared in, “What do you want to drink? As in a refreshment? ¿Una bebida? I know you’re familiar with ordering from the cart as I served you last year—and since you both have been coming here for five years!” [A drink?]

The two stare at you in blatant terror as your voice echoes in the air. Their stunned silence at your “unfounded” anger only serves to exasperate you further.

“Make it quick,” your voice trembles infuriatingly, “What would you like to drink?”

“Did we do something wrong? If we upset you, we have no idea what we did,” Carlos rambles pleadingly. You almost buy it.

“Yeah, what’s with the attitude?” Lando gracefully ruins their chances of being acquitted, “We haven’t seen you in nearly a year; What could we have done wrong?”

“Attitude��are you serious!?” You scoff, insulted at the very idea, before continuing mockingly “Whatever—it’s a beer and a lime mocktail, right? Or, would you prefer a sip of sunshine?”

The men don’t have a chance to edit their orders as you sharply throw open the beer cooler, all three of you flinching as the lid slams into the cart and the bottles and cans clamoring together worryingly. You don’t let the fear of damaged property interrupt your fury as you brandish the beer towards Carlos, snatching your hand away as soon as his closes around the neck of the bottle. 

He murmurs his thanks in his native tongue but the curl of his accent—no matter how alluring it sounds—incenses you further, and you huffily turn your back towards them as you craft Lando’s drink.

The thought of them being truthful about their confusion about your annoyance flares in your mind as you shovel ice into the plastic cup. It’s possible that there has been some miscommunication…but, that would be embarrassing for you to admit. You’ve already acted incredibly rude and like a total brat to them—to customers, at that! Ohmygod, you’ve let your personal emotions affect your work; they could report you to your manager and have you fired. 

Your breath stutters as your overcome with a chill that feels like you’ve dumped ice down your own shirt. The drink is quickly assembled, and you find yourself wishing for a painless death as you fasten an orange slice as garnish on the rim of the cup instead of a lime. A slice of sunshine, if you will.

Meekly, this time around, you offer the cup to Lando. He looks increasingly disturbed at the sudden switch of your demeanor. You watch the Brit glance at his companion, his look clearly communicating that he’s checking if Carlos agrees that you’ve lost your mind, most likely.

The Spaniard must have agreed because Lando giggles nervously, the sound glaringly revealing his discomfort, “You didn’t poison my drink, did you?”

Your brain starts to self-destruct in embarrassment. Carlos hides his face in his free hand, but the sound of pain that escapes him at the ill-timed joke is clear. To be fair, Lando looked like he regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth, but the damage was done. 

Your cheeks burn furiously, you’re simultaneously angry and disappointed in yourself. How could you allow yourself to become overrun by your emotions on the clock? It’s unprofessional and uncharacteristic of you. 

You excuse yourself shakily, “I-I am so sorry. Perdóname. I was rude to you both for no reason. I apologize sincerely for my behavior. Do not worry about paying, your drinks are on me. I hope you both enjoy yourself on the green—Buenas tardes.” [Forgive me; Good afternoon.]

Carlos and Lando are silent as you scamper into the driver’s seat, tail figuratively tucked between your legs. The ride back to the clubhouse is silent as you berate yourself for your stupidity. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to forget the way you ruined your chances with them. You already know your subconscious will play this on repeat every time you try to sleep. The cart beeps as you reverse into its assigned spot. Isabel, one of the fellow cart girls—and your best friend—waves at you with a smile as she walks over towards you. She must be the next on shift.

“You look like you’ve just been fired,” Isa’s smile has transformed into a look of concern, “¿Estás bien?” [Are you okay?]

Grabbing your belongings, you slide out of the driver's seat with a haunted look in your eyes. “You remember the two guys I told you about? From last summer? I think I just scared them away.”

“No,” Isa exhales in denial, pulling you into a hug, “There’s no way. What happened?”

“I yelled at them and insulted them for being bad at golf,” you mumble, yelping sharply as she  communicates her displeasure by slapping at your arm, “I was mad at them, okay! They were pretending to be innocent, like they had no clue they avoided me for the entire summer! They’re going to complain to the Club and get me fired because I was unprofessional and rude!”

“Ay! You don’t know that! You still served them, and apologized right?” Isa brightens further when you mention you served them for free, she ignores your pout as you rub your hand against the stinging skin of your bicep, “Then, it’s probably nothing. If they do complain, this is your first complaint ever. You won’t get fired—you will just have to wash the carts for the rest of the summer.”

You fall to your knees on the hot concrete in despair and Isa snorts at your dramatics, bending to pluck the cart keys from your pocket. 

“I’m just going to quit, inmediamente!” [Immediately!]

“If you quit, I quit,” Isa reminds you, “And, out of the two of us, I need this job. I’m broke. So, you can’t quit, unless you want me to suffer.”

“I would take care of you,” you beg, “I have my office job back in the States. You could marry me and get a green card! Let me quit!”

Isa cackles at the concept, “You hate your office job. Anyway, quitting won’t save you from your colleagues here. Don’t forget we’re all going out tomorrow night! You can’t escape this time, you promised me.”

You groan in indignation, “Is it a crime to not like clubbing every night?”

“¡Sí, lo es!,” She frowns, “It’s clubbing every night in Madrid! And, I need moral support if I have to watch Lucas flirt with Sofia. I don’t know what he sees in her.” [Yes, it is!]

Grumbling fitfully, you wish her a good shift before dragging yourself into the Clubhouse. You’re still quitting. There’s not a chance in hell that you’re coming back next summer—there is nothing worth staying for anymore. Sorry, Isa.

Out of all the shifts you’ve worked, the 8 A.M. to 3 P.M. is your least favorite. You blink blearily as you hang up your belongings in the same locker you chose four years ago, fighting the urge to rub at your eyes, with the thought of not smearing your mascara. Pinning your nametag on your pressed shirt is muscle memory, and you slide on a club-branded visor to protect your face because the UV index is concerningly high today. 

You pause to stare at the photos pinned to the inside of your locker door—they date from your very first summer till now, with familiar faces and some you haven’t seen in a while. It’s heartwarming. You haven’t posted a single one of these photos in here; your friends do it on their own (the password to your locker is apparently community knowledge—you could change it, but then you’d stop collecting them), taping Polaroids from moments on the course to shenanigans off the course to nights out in the city, with captions and notes written on the back. 

The sense of belonging and community you found here is why it was so difficult to come to a decision about leaving this place and its people behind. Your lips tilt up at a photo of you and the cart team covering your boss’s car in sticky notes two summers ago—he made you all collect the stray golf balls from the putting green that night in retaliation. And, he laughed deeply as the sprinklers drenched all of you, which is another few snapshots commemorated in your locker. 

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to leave.

“Mami,” Lilia, the receptionist on duty this morning, calls you from the locker room door, “The two really hot Formula One drivers are asking for you?”

You shoot a look of confusion her way, “huh—why me? I don’t know them?”

“Umm, yes you do?” Lilia mirrors your bafflement, “They say you’ve served them before. And that they want to apologize for something?”

“¿Qué?”

“I don’t know! I’m just repeating what they told me—” The brunette woman cuts herself short, and her eyes narrow after a moment, “Hey, if they’re bothering you, I’ll get them banned. I didn’t tell them that you were here, I just said I’d check to see if you had come in. Did they bother you? Don’t lie to me! I’ll call security and get them gone!”

“What, no! I don’t know them, or even know what Formula One is! I haven’t had a bad interaction or served any drivers—oh.” Your stomach sinks as your eyes shut woefully, “I fucked up.”

Lilia threatens to get them banned again when she sees the bronze skin of your face lose its luster. You tell her to let them know you’ll be out in a moment and to not threaten them. You step to the full-length mirror to check your appearance and adjust your uniform. Centering yourself with a few deep breaths, you turn the door handle and make your way out to the reception desk.

The squeaking of your sneakers on the tile floor only adds to your anticipation. A small part of you hopes that Carlos and Lando aren’t the Formula One drivers asking for you, and that this is all some misunderstanding. You feel your soul die inside of you as your eyes meet theirs. Their expressions look determined and apologetic, and your palms feel sweaty as you come to terms with them preparing to file a formal complaint. 

Lilia clears her throat abruptly from where she’s pretending to organize membership files. You see a blush bloom on Carlos and Lando’s cheeks as they realize that they’ve been staring at you without saying anything for longer than what’s politely appropriate, but you beat them to the chase.

“Buenos días. U-umm,” you anxiously scratch at the nape of your neck, “…Is this about yesterday? Or the tip you left last summer? It was too generous to not be an accident. It’s past our refund period, but I can reach out to the manager on duty to see if we can work something out.” [Good morning.]

“I gave you eighty euros on purpose,” Carlos states without doubt, and you feel Lilia’s stare piercing your side profile.

“Oh.”

“I wanted to speak to you about yesterday—”

You cut in, “Yesterday was my fault! I think I misunderstood you both and I overreacted. It was nothing personal—”

Lando clasps his hands together, interrupting you with an imploring tone, “It was personal, though. Which is fine, I think we deserved it. Especially if there was a misunderstanding on our part. We would’ve communicated with you clearer if we were sure that you were on the same page as us. We would appreciate it if you would allow us to make it up to you.”

Lilia kicks your ankle underneath the desk, doing enough freaking out for the both of you as you struggle to keep your face calm.

“I feel like I’m still the one at fault for the miscommunication. But—how were you planning to…smooth things over, I guess?” You ask.

“Allow us to take you to dinner tonight, and explain,” Carlos finishes, weaponizing those eyes of his, helped by Lando softening his own at you desperately for a chance.

“Oh—um, I would love to, really, but I already have plans tonight—,” You’re getting tired of being interrupted, but Lilia is quick to clear your schedule.

“No!” The raven-haired woman jumps up from her seat, slapping her hand on the counter forcefully, causing the three of you to jump. “She’s free tonight!” She smiles scaringly wide at Carlos and Lando.

Lilia turns to you and her smile and voice quiets to something genuine, “I will explain to the others about why you could not make it. Isa will understand as long as you remember to keep us both updated, yes?”

You roll your eyes, resigned , “Yes.”

You’re surprised at the tentative happiness growing in the boys’ appearances, “I guess I can do dinner tonight. What’s the plan?”

Phone numbers are exchanged and they agree to pick you up from your house at seven. They linger through their goodbyes, clearly not wanting to end the conversation. It’s flattering that they're willingly exposing their obsession with you so soon. You shoo them away with the reminder of seeing each other tonight and the fact that you are, in fact, on the clock. Lilia slaps you on the arm repeatedly as you watch them exit through the front doors with a dreamy sigh.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Lilia lets out a scream of excitement and pulls you into a hug, the two of you jumping up and down overwhelmed with joy. You’re caught by your boss Marco, who takes one glance before he turns around to head back into his office, forcing the two of you into hysterical giggles. 

You pull back from her, and you can’t quiet the large grin dancing on your lips, “I have no idea what to wear!”

Carlos texted you twenty minutes ago alerting you that they’re on the way to pick you up. Lando added that they can’t wait to see you a minute later. You were ready thirty minutes before they started heading your way. Ten minutes ago you decided to change your entire outfit. You settled on a linen cropped tank and matching maxi skirt with a pair of sandals. You fiddle with your accessories endlessly, and you do the same with a few stray curls that refuse to sit where you want them.

Grabbing your purse and phone, you rush out of your room and down the stairs to find your parents in the kitchen adding the finishing touches to their own dinner.

“¡Mija—qué bonita!” your mom gasps, wiping her hands on a towel before she pulls you closer to look at you, “Where have you been hiding this outfit?” [My daughter, how beautiful she is!]

“Má, I’ve had it for a while,” you subject yourself to her cooing and prodding as she spins you around, looking at your dad for help, who only offers you a shrug, “—I just have not had anywhere to wear it.”

“Hm? Then, what’s so special about tonight? I thought you were clubbing with your friends, no?” You avoid meeting her prying eyes, pretending to find interest in what’s simmering on the stove.

“Eh, why is there a Ferrari outside of my house?” your dad asks, drawing your attention to the front window. The sleek black convertible is parked by the curb, and your phone buzzes in your hands. Lando has informed you of their arrival, and you quickly tell them you’ll be right out to avoid them coming to the door. You don’t know if they’re “meet the parents” caliber yet, Ferrari or not.

“Don’t worry about it, Papà. I’ll text you when I’m on my way back tonight,” you press kisses to both of your parents’ cheeks, “Save some food for me to take to work tomorrow, please?”

Your mom pinches your ear, “Ay! You are going on a date? Finally! Is he handsome on top of being rich? A Ferrari is okay as long as he is as beautiful as the car, you know?”

Your dad makes a noise of complaint as he follows you both towards the door, “A Ferrari is more than okay as long as he respects you and treats you well. And, if he buys me a Ferrari too—ask him for me.” 

You fuss at them, flustered but smug as you ignore your dad’s request, and you turn to smirk at your mom, “Papà, I plan to find outfit they treat me well tonight. Mamá. They’re both gorgeous.”

Your dad blinks in confusion as your mom crows in delight, “¡Mija! I knew I raised you properly! ¡Vas, vas! Have fun and you have to tell me everything when you get back, yes?” [My girl!; Go, go!]

“Sí, Mamá. ¡Muchos besos, te quiero!” You slip out of the door, the sound of your mother explaining that you’ve garnered the interest of two men to your father fading behind you as you walk to the car. [Yes, mom. Kisses, I love you!]

Carlos and Lando are waiting for you on the curb, the engine purring lowly behind them. Your gait slows as you near, and the Spaniard reaches out to press his lips to the back of your hand fleetingly. 

They’ve dressed well; Lando in a light gray, short-sleeved, collared, v-neck that rests untucked over white chinos and a pair of gray sneakers to match. He’s sprinkled with bracelets, a few of them decorate his toned forearms on both wrists, and there’s a singular silver chain peeking from the cut of his shirt. Carlos is dressed similarly with the white chinos, yet he’s chosen a light blue button-up with the first few buttons undone, and a pair of dress shoes. His outfit is complimented by a dazzling watch. 

You murmur a greeting to both men, unable to hold eye contact with either of them for long. It’s one thing to fantasize that you have a chance with men clearly out of your league, and it’s another thing to have to muster up the confidence to speak to them outside of your uniform. 

Lando impatiently shifts on his feet as the older man keeps hold of your hand for longer than necessary. When you’re released, Lando takes it a step further and pulls you into a hug, his body heated and solid against yours. A shiver runs down your spine when his hand rests on the exposed skin of the small of your back. You hum, pleased as you inhale the velvety scent of his cologne, missing the closeness as he pulls away from you a beat later.

You step back, your heart thudding as you quip, “I didn’t know we were on hugging terms already.”

“I’m sorry,” Lando flushes easily, and Carlos chuckles, “I should’ve asked if it was okay.”

“I liked it,” you smile at him, pretending as if your heart isn’t pounding forcefully from the brief embrace, “I-I mean, it was fine, don’t worry.”

The Brit hums at your response, his eyes drifting along your form before meeting yours again with a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips. His blush recedes as yours strengthens, now apparent on your darker skin. 

“Lovely house,” he withdraws, and you’re thankful he avoided commenting on the evident flush he invoked with nothing more than a hug and a pass of his eyes.

“Thank you, my parents bought it and moved here after I started university,” you explain needlessly, “They’re pretty great. They were the ones who made me apply for the position at La Moraleja. So, really, it’s them you have to credit with us meeting, I suppose.”

“We also have to thank them for having a beautiful daughter,” Carlos alleges smoothly.

You fluster, “I-I’ll pass the message along. Both of you are very handsome, but I think you guys hear that often.”.

“Don’t worry. It sounds sweeter coming from you,” Lando edits his point with an impish grin, “—and from Carlos too, sometimes.”

“Don’t be a brat, Lando,” the Spaniard’s voice is light as he entertains the younger, “Unfortunately, I think we will be late if we continue to stand here and flirt in the street,” Carlos says, and his eyes shift to look past you and at your house, “—And, I think your dad might come outside and kill us. Which would not be very pleasant, in my opinion.”

You spin around, chagrined at the sight of your dad watching the three of you with a harsh stare. 

“Yes! Let’s get going, I would hate to be late. Ignore him, please.” Lando waves at your dad anyways, endearing himself to you further, “And, you won’t have to worry about being murdered as long as you get him a Ferrari.”

The two men startle into laughter at that, and you hold your hands up candidly, “What? His words, not mine!”

You didn’t account for the oddness of one of you sitting in the backseat, but Lando assigns himself to the back, claiming that you have “passenger princess” rights. 

The wind ruffles through your curls aimlessly as Carlos drives towards your destination. The ride is filled with endless chatter and flirting. A smile is constantly on your face as the three of you speak through topics easily. There’s not a single time you feel like an outsider, even though it’s clear how familiar they are with each other. 

The restaurant you find yourself in isn’t screaming its extravagance at you, which is surprising. While it’s dimly lit, and you can hear live music thrumming through the air from somewhere deeper inside over the lively chatter—it feels like a classic restaurant, intimate and comfortable. Like somewhere you could go for a nice dinner often.

The hostess straightens upwards with recognition when she spots Carlos and she greets the three of you good naturedly before disappearing to check if your table is ready. 

The Spaniard notices the surprise on your face, “My family and I have dined here since I was young. You have never come here before? ”

You shake your head, “I’m a little jealous, if I’m being honest,” Carlos tilts his head, listening, “I’m mad I didn’t discover this place sooner. The atmosphere is amazing!”

The hostess returns, gesturing for you all to follow after her and Lando grasps your hand to catch your attention as you walk, “If you think the vibe is amazing, just wait until you try the food.”

The table is not in direct sight of anyone besides the kitchen, clearly a spot meant for privacy. Your hidden behind a half wall and a screen overgrown with plants, and the volume of the restaurant seems quieter through the barrier. You lean back in your chair as the three of you wrap up the discussion about yesterday’s conflict.

“I feel incredibly stupid now,” you chuckle, embarrassed. The brown skin of your face burns hot. You focus on the empty wine glass in front of you, avoiding their eyes plainly.

“No,” Carlos’s voice is stern, the serious tone shocking you into looking at him, “Do not be rude to yourself—you are not stupid.”

You stare, dumbfounded, reeling as you process the manner in which he shut down your negative self-talk. If his words totally dissolved your mortification over your immature reaction to seeing them again, you might have thought harder about how that was kind of hot of him to do.

“Aren’t you studying for a PhD?” Lando asks rhetorically, “I think that literally means you’re not stupid.”

You scoff lightly—feeling humored instead of humiliated—at how easily he swept away the tension with a light-hearted comment. The Brit doesn’t know how many people have enlightened you with the knowledge that common sense is, unfortunately, uncommon in post-grad. But, you’ll let his words wash away your self-deprecation lest this turns into an unsolicited therapy session instead of a date an apology dinner.

“Fine. I’m not stupid—but, you can’t deny that it wasn’t a little dumb of me to assume that you guys had lied to me about visiting the golf club every year. And, it was a little more dumb of me to make my decision about working here for another season just because there was a chance that I could see you guys—never mind.” Your teeth clack together forcefully as you slam your mouth shut.

The duo straighten up at the sudden end to your sentence, brains quickly filling in the blanks for them. Lando’s poorly attempting to hide his satisfied smile behind his hand and Carlos’s eyes are bright with understanding. You’ve learned your lesson about making hasty assumptions but you don’t think it’s foolish to deduce this means that they’re actually interested in you too, this time around.

“Ah. Well, we should not have assumed that you knew we were Formula One drivers, which maybe was obvious from how you spoke to us,” Carlos shrugs his shoulders, leveling the blame, “And, I think it’s sweet that you were hoping to run into us again.”

“Mmm,” you hum nervously, “I think it’s delusional.”

One of their shoes knocks against yours underneath the table and you jump in surprise. Carlos’s chest shakes with a silent laugh and his eyebrow raises at you pressingly.

“We should’ve asked for your number last summer,” Lando adds nonchalantly. 

You rattle at his boldness, and you’re given a moment to ponder that as the waiter stops to pour you and Carlos a glass of white wine (Lando refused). You take a brief sip, humming pleasantly at the light and easy flavor, the live music and easy conversation floating through the air providing you a reprieve from your immersion in the two men. 

Your attention is recaptured as you watch Carlos offer Lando a chance to taste from his glass. 

Earlier, the Brit had told you he dislikes the taste of most alcohols when the waiter stepped away to grab the bottle Carlos requested. Yet, Lando accepts, not without making his distaste apparent with an adorable frown. He takes the tiniest sip possible with a look of apprehension and recoils from the glass as he swallows, his nose scrunching in disgust as he shakes his head to further sell his distate. 

Carlos rolls his eyes and laughs, revealing to you how used he is to Lando’s dramatics. He raises a hand to rub at the short hair on the nape of the younger’s neck in comfort.

The look on your face must be cloyingly sweet if the light dust of pink that rises to the Brit’s cheeks when he realizes you’ve watched the entire interaction, is meaningful. Carlos’s eyes become intense when he spots how Lando curls into himself shyly under your eyes. The Spaniard whispers, his volume low enough for only Lando to hear and you wish you knew exactly what was said, because it deepens the tint of his cheeks to a furious red. 

You figure you’ll save him from his torment by bringing up the important stuff.

“So, you only have a month of summer vacation,” you start, fingers fiddling with the edge of a fan-folded napkin, “Which is in August. That’s…so short. My fall semester starts the first week of September.”

Silence falls as they digest the underlying meaning of your sentence. Is it in everyone’s best interest to start something that has to end so soon? Is it in your best interest to risk catching feelings for two athletes (celebrity-athletes, at that) during the last month of your break? 

“A month is a long time,” the younger man starts, his blue-green eyes intent, “We’ll just have to make the most out of it, right? I want to get to know you more, and I have a feeling that the three of us will have a fun time together—If you want to give it a try.”

“A ‘fun time’? Like—like a fling?” Your expression remains indifferent as you ask. You need them to clarify what they want out of this without revealing your emotions. It’s only proper for you to prevent any future miscommunication or misunderstanding about this; you learned from your earlier mistake.

Lando’s earnest gaze has lost some of its shine, and Carlos’s eyes now seem guarded.

“Calling it a fling is harsh,” the Spaniard responds, “It’s more of a summer romance, no?”

Your laugh isn’t genuine, but they don’t know you well enough to discern that, “Alright, I’ll give our ‘summer romance’ a chance. Using a synonym doesn’t change the definition, you know?” 

Lando cocks his head at you, staring deeply. It feels like he’s trying to puzzle you out, and you stare back in feigned confusion.

“It’s nothing,” He relaxes, leaning back in his chair and moving Carlos’s glass out of the way as he sees the waiter nearing the table with your appetizers, “I just find it odd that you called yourself stupid earlier.” You don’t know what to make of that, but it’s forgotten as the starters are devoured and the conversation shifts into them getting to know you and vice versa.

The older man with them at the golf course last year was Carlos’s father, who is a two-time Rally World Champion. You’re surprised to learn that they’ve only been dating for around a year. Lando says he developed a crush on Carlos when they were teammates at Mclaren, but he was afraid of ruining their relationship and potentially, his career, if he confessed–so he kept quiet. Carlos didn’t realize he was romantically interested in Lando until he signed his contract with Ferrari. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” you interrupt, “If you guys have only been together for a year, did you get together before or after you saw me at the golf course for the first time?”

“A year and three months,” the Spaniard corrects with a serene smile, “Our anniversary was in May.”

The Brit continues for him, “—Which means we started dating about three months before we saw you. Give or take a few weeks.”

You gave a low whistle of surprise—three months into their relationship and they were on the same page about chasing after you. Since then, they had several serious conversations about adding a third to their relationship but hadn’t found or looked for anybody they’d consider to try with. Besides you.

Obviously, they like playing golf; Lando is abysmal, and Carlos is not bad at it. Carlos has two sisters, Lando has a brother and two sisters. Both of them are middle children. Lando is a picky eater, and hates fish and seafood. Carlos will eat anything Lando doesn’t. Lando founded a company with his best friend. Carlos is a Real Madrid fanatic. Lando occasionally streams on Twitch. Carlos enjoys surfing and cycling.

“I’m sorry for saying that you guys sucked at golf yesterday,” you apologize sheepishly.

“It’s okay,” the Brit says, unperturbed, “I do suck at golf. I just wasn’t expecting to hear it come from you.”

“I suck less at golf,” the older man states, “But, if I was good, I would not have been in the sand pit in the first place, no?”

They visit Spain often because family is important to Carlos. Lando’s loved like another son by Carlos’s family and Carlos is loved the same by Lando’s family. Lando is needy. Carlos likes being needed. Carlos is mildly possessive. Lando is too self-critical. Carlos makes the best pancakes. Lando wants to build a beautiful vintage car collection.

They want to see you again. You enjoyed dinner more than you thought was possible. 

They defrosted your nerves and allowed your personality to shine through. It helps that they were actively listening as you complained and gushed over your studies, told anecdotes of the shenanigans you and the others got up to on the golf course, and spoke about your future outlooks. They didn’t mind your lack of knowledge about Formula One and explained the sport in detail to you. They were determined to figure out what made you mad, what made you happy, what made you laugh, what made you shy—and, what made you go pink.

It didn’t take them long to discern that staring at your lips is the trick. When they made that discovery, they weaponized it the entire night. While one of them played with the rings on your fingers or tucked a curl behind your ear, the other managed to fluster you by letting their eyes wander for a few seconds before meeting yours again with increasing intensity. You experienced heart failure several times, and had to ask them to repeat themselves more frequently thanks to their psychological warfare.

Your heart feels like it may cease to function again as they walk you to your doorstep. The lights inside the house are off, you returned later than you thought you would. Your parents left the porch light on for you and it casts an amber warmth. Carlos and Lando don’t invite themselves into your space as you dig your house keys out of your purse, ever the polite men. The sound of your keys jingling harmonizes with your triumphant hum as you pull them out. 

You face the boys, placing your hand on the doorknob behind you, waiting for them to speak. 

“Are we forgiven for unintentionally leading you to believe that we led you on and wasted your time?” Lando blurts out.

You knock your head back against the doorframe, abashed, shutting your eyes to dispel the HD playback your brain gifts you with. “If you both agree to never bring it up again, I’ll forgive you.”

“I suddenly do not know what we’re talking about,” Carlos nods seriously, and Lando echoes the sentiment.

You release the doorknob and take the few steps towards them. As you expected, their eyes simultaneously drift to stare at your mouth. You lightly place a hand on Carlos’s shoulder before leaning up and brushing your lips across his cheek in the lightest ghost of a kiss, before moving to Lando and doing the same.

You carefully backpedal to the door turning to insert your key into the lock, before you look back at them. Your heart flutters at the sight of Carlos, who’s frozen, standing all wide-eyed and pressing his fingers to his cheek like he’s unsure if he imagined the kiss. Lando however, looks hungry. His eyes are the darkest you’ve seen tonight, and they’re locked on how you teasingly flick your tongue across your bottom lip.

“While we may only have a month to spend together—it doesn’t mean I’m easy. I, at least!—need a second date before I let you do anything more than stare at my lips and hold my hand. It might take three dates before I even let you kiss my cheek,” you tease with a joking shrug of your shoulders.

“It’s a good thing that you have my phone number,” the lock clicks open, and you push the door open, “If you don’t use it to set up another date, I think I’ll have no choice but to never forgive you guys.”

“We’ll be using it,” Carlos asserts, recovered from the daze you left him in.

“Hm, good. Text me when you get home.” You step in your entryway, waving your fingers at the two of them leisurely, “Buenas noches.” [Goodnight.]

They mimic your goodbye and you shut the door, clicking the lock. You nosily peek through the peephole to spy on their reactions. Carlos tugs Lando into a bear hug, their wide smiles hidden as they press into each other and the sharpest pitch squeal you’ve heard from Lando travels through the front door. You cover your own giggle with a hand as you watch the two of them kiss and almost skip down your driveway back to the car. You press your back to the door with a deep sigh, a lovestruck smile painting your face while you lay limp to let your heartbeat slow to a normal speed.

The hallway light flicks on and you shriek as your mom stares at you with a deranged smile on her lips, “Tell me everything!”

“Mamá! What are you doing up? It’s late!” You exclaim, straightening upwards with your hands on your hips, failing at distracting her from how you were weak in the knees a couple of seconds ago. “It’s okay, mija! I’ll start a fresh pot of coffee for us and you can tell me all about your date!” She rushes forward, grabbing your hand to pull you into the kitchen.

Ironically, the second date ends up being late night mini golf. Even better, you destroy them at it. It wasn’t an easy feat, they made plenty of attempts to sabotage and distract you; whether it was yelling, spooking, poking, or prodding at you as you readied your putt, but it wasn’t enough to give them a chance of catching up. 

You figure more of your mistakes were from being unable to stop laughing as the two performed atrociously. Carlos ended up polluting every water feature with golf balls and Lando couldn’t manage to finish a single hole in under 8 strokes—the highest par was 6. You patted Lando on the back consolingly, telling him to find comfort in the fact that they’re equally terrible at putt-putt golf.

The two seemed surprised at your finesse with a club, almost like they’d forgotten you work on a golf course. You may not be a caddy, but you’ve had plenty of time to work on perfecting your technique. You did well enough to place sixth on the leaderboard, the employees said that Carlos’ score might be the worst they’ve ever seen.

With their egos severely bruised, you convinced them to soothe the loss over with ice cream at a neighboring parlor. Lando was satisfied with plain vanilla and Carlos with a scoop of dulce de leche. You elected for cookies and cream, but found yourself being fed their flavors as well. 

The sugary treats were delicious. Watching them stare at your lips pursed around a spoonful of ice cream was far more delectable. Lando broke the fourth time you managed to dot a bit of vanilla above your upper lip. He choked on a whine before leaning into your space. He hesitated a hair’s width away from your lips, his shuddering exhales mixing with yours, his eyes searching for approval. Your eyes fluttered shut and Lando closed the gap. 

His lips were soft and chilled, a result of the ice cream. Warmth blossomed in your chest as you leaned into the kiss, the taste of vanilla lingering in the embrace. His hand raised to cradle your cheek as your lips brushed together languidly, the sound of your heart racing within your chest fading out as you become absorbed by the kiss. 

Lando pulls away, falling back into his seat with his chest heaving. You stare after him with wide eyes, jolting out of it when you notice you’ve dropped your spoon into your lap, Carlos’s dulce de leche ice cream spilling onto your thigh. 

“Do I get to lick this off your thigh since Lando got to kiss it off your lips?” Carlos asks, his tone half genuine, half facetious.

You kick at his ankle underneath the booth and he throws his hands up placatingly. 

“Wait–,” you anxiously flit your eyes around the parlor, “—you shouldn’t have kissed me here Lando. Out in public? Aren’t people going to recognize—”

“We’ve been the only people in here for the past thirty minutes or so,” Lando interrupts, gathering the near-empty dishes and balled-up napkins, “They’ve also been closed for twenty minutes. When you went to the bathroom when we came in, Carlos and I signed something for the owner who was more than happy to keep things quiet for his second favorite Spanish Formula One driver.”

“Second favorite?” Carlos furrows his eyebrows at his boyfriend, his umber eyes adorably confused.

“Mate,” the Brit scoffs, “I might be in love with you ‘n all but we're not going to act like Fernando isn’t the best thing that came out of Spain, besides churros.”

The unfavored Spaniard holds his hand to his chest in betrayal before his eyes narrow and he moves to assault Lando with a pinch to his chest. While you’d love to continue watching this disguised act of foreplay, you would rather be a participant than a voyeur.

“¡Cabrónes!” The two freeze, heads snapping to look at you as your voice cuts through the catfight.

“I think the owner would be even happier if you licked the ice cream off my thigh outside of his parlor so he could finally lock up, sí?”

How Lando kisses with a desperate hunger, Carlos kisses with a ravaging heat. Like he wants to roast your nerve endings with every brush of his lips against yours.

The fiery press of his mouth stokes the arousal building in your navel. His hand tangles in your hair as he directs the tilt of your head. A stuttered whimper slips from your mouth into his as your tongues glide together, a buzzing sensation tingling down your spine as his other hand squeezes your waist tightly.

He walks you backward towards the bed, his lips devouring yours as you wrap your arms around his neck, attempting to pull your bodies even closer than they are. You stumble, gasping when his hand palms your ass and it’s the first time your lips have separated since Carlos claimed them in the hallway.  He tumbles into you as his feet stumble around yours, the darkness of the bedroom not bettering the situation. He nearly sends you both to the floor instead of the plush mattress if not for Lando catching your body and a hand firmly pressed to Carlos’s chest to hold him upright, expletives falling from your mouths until balance is restored.

You rest your forehead on the older man’s collarbone as you abruptly giggle at being so kiss drunk you forgot how to backpedal. The two drivers have no choice but to laugh at the sound of your amusement, Lando cackling and Carlos’s chest shaking with his laughter. 

“I’m not against fucking on the floor,” Lando voices, the sound of his grin loud enough for you to visualize, “But—can we at least have our first time with you on this extremely comfortable bed?”

“First time?” You raise a brow jokingly, nonchalantly pulling your shirt over your head and letting it fall to the floor, “That implies you’re thinking there’s gonna be a second.”

The Spaniard steps away to click the nightstand lamp on, the room partially bathed in warm yellow light. Your eyes adjust seamlessly to the low lighting, allowing you to revel in the sight of him appreciating your exposed skin, even when covered with a plain black bra—you’ve never been more thankful to be wearing a matching pair of panties.

The younger man unclasps the latch of the garment, dragging the straps down your arms, goosebumps rising in the wake of his fingertips, and the bra lands atop your shirt. You feel his breath cascade heatedly along your left shoulder before his lips purse delicately against the brown skin. 

He nips closer to the crook of your neck, lowly murmuring, “I know we’ll be having you for more than a third time.”

Surely feeling left out, Carlos unzips your skirt, tugging it down your hips and offering a hand for you to hold as you step free of it, “Many more times. But for tonight,” the older man pauses, toying with the band of your panties, looking at you with a smirk, “We must settle on saving the floor for round two. After we have caused you to ruin the sheets.”

Internally, you scream in elation. Two men eager to fuck you stupid, for the rest of your summer—you pray they’re not bluffing. You can’t remember the last time you’ve had sex good enough for a repeat performance. Externally, you shimmy out of your panties and tug at the hem of Carlos’ button-up once you’re bare. 

“If you want me to ruin your sheets, I’m pretty sure that requires you both to be less clothed.”

Lando’s free of everything but his briefs in a handful of seconds while Carlos struggles to unbutton his shirt. The younger pulls you into bed, guiding you to lay on your back as he holds himself over you, dipping to kiss you messily, unafraid to let his moans knit with yours. By the time the older man has lost his clothes and joined the two of you on the bed, the Brit’s focus has traveled down the length of your neck to your chest. Reddened marks bloom on your bronzed skin, mottled across your decolletage in a pattern only known as desire. 

He laves his tongue against a pebbled nipple, his teeth scraping the sensitive bud, delighting in the way your body arches upwards into his mouth. Your hand pulls tightly at brunette curls, his resulting whimper at the burn of his scalp muffled around your breast, his eyes screwing shut. You loosen your grasp, unable to determine if that was a positive reaction and you’re pleased to see his eyes fly open, his gaze demanding more. His large hand envelopes your wrist, attempting to have you further mess up his hair, but the motion is halted when Carlos cocks Lando’s head backward with an unrelenting fist. 

The younger man shudders, his eyes rolling at the rough treatment. He rises to lessen the pressure of his boyfriend’s grasp, settling into a kneel between your legs with Carlos pressed to his back. The burn of his scalp subsides when the hold weakens, the tension leaving the younger man in a breath and his head droops back on a broad shoulder.

The Spaniard captivates your attention as he presses a kiss to Lando’s jaw, moving the same hand that was in his boyfriend’s hair to splay against his abdomen, a finger dipping to poke at his bellybutton, causing Lando to jolt with a whine. Carlos coos, calming the man with a rub of hand along his torso.  

“Don’t let him fool you. He likes a bit of pain,” Carlos tweaks Lando’s nipple demonstratively, letting the sight of the younger man’s arousal jumping underneath his briefs accompanied by a strangled moan speak for itself. “He’s a brat, even if he likes to pretend otherwise. A little sting is enough to remind him how to act…most times. Right, Landito?”

The man moves to hide his face in Carlos’s neck as if it’ll hide the sight of him nodding in confirmation. It doesn’t help that the meek “yes” he breathes into the muscle isn’t muffled at all.

“And because he wants to be good,” Carlos continues, pulling at Lando’s waistband and releasing it to snap against flushed, pink skin, “He’s going to keep himself busy with you while I see if I can still taste the dulce on your thigh. Is that okay with you?”

You gulp, anticipatory. “M-more than okay.”

The younger man's eyes are all pupil, ringed with stormy-colored irises as he’s lowered by your side. You were contemplating teasing him about his brat complex—but the haze of his eyes causes you to reconsider.

The gap of his teeth remains adorable even as he bites his lips, the plush skin reddened and raw from where he’s already scraped the skin off. Prolonged eye contact from him seems impossible—his gaze flits away from yours after a handful of seconds. He struggles to decide where to look, happening upon your lips, zoning out with a yearning pout. Lando is clueless to the effect of his fixation; he reignites the redness on your cheeks and the skipping of your heartbeat.

Frightened by Carlos’s spit-slicked lips brushing along the bone of your ankle, you twitch, breaking Lando’s trance. 

The Brit’s blush deepens when he notices you’ve been watching him stare without saying a word. He muffles a mortified whimper into a pillow, smushing his face so deeply into the fabric you worry he may strangle himself. You glance at Carlos for assistance and the man only nods in the younger’s direction, continuing to drag his mouth up your legs, pausing to suckle the skin of your thighs and smirking when he feels the muscles flex underneath his lips.

“Lando, chico,” you croon, petting a hand through the curls at the crown of his head, “Look at me.”

He peeks an eye at you shyly, turning to face you fully, reassured at the enamored look you cover him with.

“Besamé,” you murmur, knowing it’s something Lando’s heard plenty of times from the man nestled between your legs. [Kiss me.] 

The younger understood, rushing to press his lips to yours filthly. The frantic energy is winsome, your chest tightening at the sounds of him whining and mewling needily into your mouth. He licks into your mouth insistently, his attention devoted to tasting the remaining sweetness of ice cream on your tongue. From below, Carlos hums as his tongue polishes off the remaining stickiness on your bronzed skin.

The sounds they rip from you are muffled by the younger man, but the grunt of annoyance Carlos makes as the lingering dulce de leche flavoring of your thigh disappears is clear. He drags his tongue against your labia in one firm stroke, your abdomen undulating at the unexpected attention to your cunt. He smacks his lips, savoring, before a moan rumbles through his chest.

“Better than the ice cream,” he announces, the brown of his iris darkened with greed. 

Lando frees your lips to look at his boyfriend pleadingly, and you take the time to breathe. He left you lightheaded as he kissed every ounce of oxygen from your lungs.

“ ‘wanna taste, ” Lando begs, and Carlos pulls up to meld their lips together, and you're briefly hypnotized by the muscles of his arms contracting through the movement.

The most reedy whine escapes the curly-haired man as Carlos shares the taste of your arousal with him. Your head is filled with the sound of blood rushing through your ears, buffering at the sight of the two men feasting on your essence—what were you thinking when you agreed to be a summer romance? You’re never going to be able to recover from this, and they haven’t even fucked you yet.

They separate, Lando’s chest heaving as he licks along his lips in search of any faint traces of your taste. Carlos resituates himself between your thighs, his voice carrying a firm edge, “Wait your turn, cariño. Keep being good for me—for us, yes?”

The younger man seems small as he nods, appearing a little empty-headed at the command, but he obeys. Turning back to peck your lips sweetly, Lando trails downward to leave a few marks of his own along the column of your neck.

You grab his jaw lightly, “No marks—,” the light in his eyes dulls slightly, “—that high up.” He brightens and lowers his mouth to your collarbone, nipping at your skin, energized by your nails scratching along his scalp.

Your mouth parts in a silent gasp as Carlos joins in. He laps between your folds sloppily, his nose knocking your clit with every bob pf his head. The hand that isn’t buried in brunette curls fists in Carlos’s locks of hair, holding him steady while he prods at your entrance with the tip of his tongue.

Your brain buzzes, toes curling as the older man eats you out, the sounds of him enjoying his meal reverberating through the air, harmonizing with your cries and Lando’s snuffles as he toys with your nipples.

Carlos presses a finger inside, thrusting shallowly against your fluttering walls and his mouth purses around your bud, the suckle of his lips puppeteering your spine into arching and your hips into bucking. His stubble scratches your thighs, the scrape searing but adding to your gratification.

He curls upwards, dragging roughly through the clenching of your cunt, adding a second finger that your walls swallow voraciously. The ache of the stretch is calmed quickly by the ample leaking of your arousal and the constant attention of a tongue on your clit as Carlos steadfastly hunts for your sweet spot.

Your mewls are ragged, forced from your lungs with every press of his fingers. Your eyes flutter as pleasure singes your skin, you find the strength to hold them open as you lock gazes with the man between your legs. His eyes are characteristically wide, but they scream his commitment to making you scream.

There’s no fighting. Your head falls back when his fingers graze near that pleasure point and your eyes screw shut when he perfects the angle and massages your sweet spot with his fingertips. 

A shrill shriek leaves your lips as the penetration becomes unrelenting. He constantly presses on the button that has your thighs tightening around his head, but the temptation of taking his final breath between your legs has him doubling down, suckling at your clit forcefully as he prods a third finger inside of you.

Lando chokes, crying out loudly as your hand yanks at his curls, his hips jumping to grind along your hip, his briefs damp from where he’s been leaking. Carlos’s laugh as he watches his boyfriend desperately hump in search of friction, vibrates around your swollen bud, forcing out a squeal nearly loud enough to drown out the sound of your slick squelching around his fingers.

Abruptly, he pulls away. His digits slip from your walls, your entrance left to pucker hungrily around air. Carlos’s stare is loud as he fights the urge to press inside of you again.

The lack of stimulation is maddening. You free your hold on Lando, and he collapses onto you, body pinning yours to the bed—his weight steadying as you restrain your anger at the sudden halt.

You blink deliriously at the sight of Carlos tearing a condom wrapper open with his teeth. The slowing rhythm of your heart speeds up as you revel at the image of his hand rolling the condom down his hardened length, flushed and throbbing with arousal. 

It’s daunting. It’s been a long time since you’ve last had sex. At some point, you decided to prioritize protecting your peace rather than dealing with men who aren’t going to do anything other than ruin your PH and fail to make you cum. It doesn’t help that Carlos is well-endowed; you need to come to terms that you’re going to have a limp after this.

Lando sits upwards to watch his boyfriend drag his length through your folds, moaning in unison with you as Carlos’s tip brushes along your pulsing clit. The Spaniard grunts at the heated slide before resting at the gape of your entrance, but he looks up to you for your go ahead. 

“I-it’s been a while,” you admit tensely, covering your eyes with the back of your hand as anxiety builds in your navel.

“How long is ‘a while?’” Carlos asks, without a single hint of judgment. Lando pulls your hand off your face tenderly, revealing their compassionate expressions.

“You remember how I joked about not kissing you guys until a second date?” You toy with Lando’s fingers distractedly, and they confirm their recollection, “Well—there hasn’t been anybody that’s made it past a second date in a long time.”

“Carlos is gentle,” Lando reassures you, halting your play with his fingers to hold your hand comfortingly, “I promise. And he listens very well, and pays attention, and goes at your pace. If he doesn’t, I’ll beat his ass.”

You giggle at that, your nerves fading as Carlos yelps at the threat. This exact kind of behavior is the kind you can see yourself falling in love with.

“Ay! Yes—Lando has permission to knock some sense into me if I hurt you,” Carlos jokes, pausing momentarily before his tone becomes hopeful, “And, we would really like to be the ones who make it to a third date—I’ll follow your pace, I swear.”

The knot in your stomach tightens for another reason besides arousal.

“I believe you,” you murmur, relaxing back into the bed, raising your’s and Lando’s joined hands to press a kiss to his wrist. Lando hums sweetly at you, laying at your side again, his free hand cradling your waist, thumb brushing calmingly on your rich brown skin. 

Carlos breaches you softly—gently, as Lando said he would. The three fingers he stretched you with was a safe play. If it were only two, you would be feeling a sharp pain instead of an ache. The burn is delicious, your inhale stutters as the head of his cock pops into you.

“Joder,” Carlos curses, his jaw clenched tightly, his grip tight on your thighs, as he inches deeper. His eyes trace your complexion attentively for any sign that it’s too much. “Relax, mi corázon—let me in.”

The sweet endearment encourages you to pant through a tiny whimper. Lando’s hand pets along your navel as he sweeps a kiss across your brow bone.

“‘s big isn’t he?” He murmurs, voice breathy, “Fuck—it’s gonna be worth it when he’s all the way inside you, yeah? Stretching you out just right, touching spots you didn’t know existed. It hurts a little, I know, love. But, it hurts so good, doesn’t it? I don’t know how that fits inside me every time I take it, but it’s worth it.”

You whimper fitfully—you want to watch Carlos make him take it.

The discomfort twisting your brows lightens slightly, and Carlos pulls out before he sinks another inch in. The shallow stroke sends an appealing rush of sharp pleasure skittering up your spine and it pools at the back of your head.

A real moan is forced from your chest, and your eyes open to see Lando tucking a curl behind your ear, smiling knowingly.

“Yeah, that felt good didn’t it, baby?” You can’t solely credit the burst of pleasure behind your eyes to Carlos’s barely there thrusts as he works deeper. The praise and pet names Lando seems keen to utilize should be accounted for as well. The Brit presses down on your navel with an astoundingly large palm.

His lips graze your ear as he whispers, “Don’t you wanna feel him here? All deep inside of you?” He pauses briefly, letting your imagination work before continuing. “I feel him there when he fucks me. Like he’s making room for himself, yeah? Gonna open up for him? For me? Gonna let yourself feel good, sunshine?”

Carlos’s hips meet the backs of your thighs as he bottoms out.

Choked gasps leave you and Carlos. Your skin alight, your pores flaring raw. His calloused hands rub over your hips and thighs, one settling where Lando’s was previously holding at your waist and the other amply squeezing the curve of your ass.

Behind your closed eyes, you see the white flare of heat zinging through every nerve ending, your body overstimulated at receiving pleasure in the highest, unfiltered form. Lando was right—it feels like he made room for himself. The weight of him is searing, your walls fluttering frantically as they adjust.

Your most conscious thought is realizing why orgasms are referred to as “little deaths.” Because, if him fucking into you for the first time is this good? Cumming around him has to feel akin to ascending to heaven.

The younger man turns your head towards him with a gentle nudge of your cheek. His eyes peer into you searchingly. You don’t know what he’s trying to find. You’re more concerned with coaxing him into another kiss.

You raise up with an unsteady arm, toppling forward to press your lips to his, but you miss and land near the corner of his mouth. At your disappointed grown, Lando moves to kiss you chastely, before he looks at Carlos.

The older man’s eyes are silken as they dance between you and his boyfriend. It takes Lando tugging him forward with a hand on his bicep for him to understand that you’re pining for a kiss from him as well.

The Spaniard catches the strangled mewl you make with his lips, the change in angle as he hovers over you amplifying the pressure of him within you tenfold. Delicately, he leads the dance of tongues, using the lip lock to distract you from the barely there roll of his hips.

It works, the nervous tension that had gathered in your core unraveling completely at the sensual rock. The grinds remain tender as he gradually works you up to weightier strokes and a quicker rhythm.

Your lips uncouple when your head lulls backwards, a drawn-out purr rolling underneath your chest. With your knees bending to cradle Carlos’s hips, you cast lidded eyes to the Spaniard, bathing underneath his appreciative gaze and the blissful twist to his brows as he rolls into you.

“Carlitos, fóllame,” you murmur, watching his eyes widen in surprise, “I said it’s been a long time, not that I’m going to break.” [Fuck me.]

Lando grins beside you, quieting his laughter by pressing his face into your hair. The older man flusters, a red flush spreading across his chest, and he reminds you that he’d promised to be gentle.

His dedication to his word is attractive and you’re thankful he followed through. You tell him as such, but not without another teasing jab, “Thank you for being gentle. However, I think continuing to be gentle when I ask for more might decrease your chances at a third date.”

Lando jerks upwards to gape at the two of you, frazzled, “That’s not even funny! Babe—do better!”

The brown-eyed man doesn’t entertain either of you with a verbal response.

A bitten-off shout is punched from your chest as his hips slam into you with vigor, your vision crossing as the older man settles into a hard pace. His cock threatens to slip out of you with every stroke out and your body jolts with every ruthless thrust inside, the maddening force turning your mind syrupy with arousal and lightning-hot pleasure.

Endless praise is voiced by Carlos between every rough grunting pant he releases. Your brain is filled with seductive words; bien chica, so tight, you sound so pretty, you can take it. 

You can only hope he hears your gratitude through your repeated moans. You dig your nails into his muscled back as he grazes your sweet spot every couple of thrusts. The sharp pain only has Carlos’s hips stuttering for a moment. He growls, his grip turns bruising as he fucks into you with abandon. Your lungs burn and your legs shake. You squirm beneath him fruitlessly, attempting to buck away from the overwhelming grind, but you're pinned underneath his body weight. Your escape attempt is noticed by both men.

Lando tuts, pressing you down into the mattress with an arm around your waist to prevent any future attempt of you shifting. “Don’t run from it, sunshine.”

Carlos laughs sardonically, and you squeal as shame crawls along your synapses at the noise. He changes the angle of his thrusts to bully that spongy spot inside of you relentlessly, “It’s not too much, no? I thought you said you didn’t want me to be gentle?”

Your body curls in distress, mouth-parted wide at the excruciating attention paid to your most nirvanic point . You try to squeeze your walls tighter around him, to afflict a hint of the unbearable pleasure he’s wreaked upon you. Your shocked to discover that he’s fucked you open so well that your cunt can’t do much more than take what he gives you.

Your wetness squelches with his motions, a thin layer of sweat accumulates on your skin and steams the air around you. The scent of sex and aftertaste of ice cream permeates your mind as your orgasm peaks. 

It bursts through you, the intensity slamming through you like a train. Your body falls limp as the pleasure overrides your control, the unrestrained screams of their names are piercing as the waves brutally crash over you. 

Carlos slams his lips to yours, your teeth clacking together painfully and you can only pant into his mouth as he messily kisses you through your orgasm and steamrolls into his own with his strongest pounding thrusts.

Spanish curses are hidden by your mouth as he lays into you, like he’s not quite done molding you to his shape. He fucks you both through it, the vigor of his grinds wearing as the spurts of his spend slows within the condom. 

His arms buckle, pushing an umphf from your chest as he falls onto you. The heaviness is grounding and you wrap your arms around him, shuddering through the aftershocks.

Lando shifts needily at your side, but doesn’t speak. He pulls the arm on your waist from underneath his Carlos’s torso and drags a finger along the reddened scores your nails carved into his boyfriend’s back, with a look in your eyes you can’t place. Is it envy? Quietly, you contemplate the ache you feel between your legs. 

“Get naked, cariño,” you rasp, finding a second wind at the younger man doing as you asked, “It wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t get a turn, too.”

Carlos nuzzles deeper into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, his lips and eyelashes tickling your cooling skin. He misses the sight of his boyfriend wildly flinging his briefs to an unknown corner of the bedroom.

Sitting on his haunches, the Brit’s reaches to grab his cock. It’s leaking and (concerningly) redder than the skin of his cheeks from the lack of attention paid to it. He yanks his hand back as if slapped, and digs his nails into the meat of his thighs.

Oh, you think, is it too much for him or is he not supposed to touch?

You reach to close your palm around his poor, dripping length, only managing a single, loose stroke when a pained hiss is ripped from Lando’s teeth. His hips jerk back, freeing himself from barely there hold of your hand. The toned muscles of his abdomen jump as his cock flares and a stream of precum dribbles from his swollen tip.

“Fu-uck,” he shakes, “— ‘can’t. Too sensitive, ‘ll cum.”

The green and blue pools of his eyes are wet with moisture, and his chest—dotted with moles and patches of flushed skin—trembles with every inhale. The man laying on your chest shifts to trail his eyes over Lando’s form. The corner of his lips tilts into a smirk as his boyfriend attempts to hide his arousal behind a hand.

“Sol,” Carlos says to you as his eyes remain piercing into the Brit, “You should ride him—if you are able to, of course.” [Sunshine/Sun]

“Uhh…” you stutter, your attention bouncing between the two as you refrain from answering. 

The numbness settling within your cunt can be ignored if it means you get to have the younger man underneath you. Except, it looks like he’s about to cry, and you don’t want to pressure him into agreeing with your answer if he honestly can’t handle it. The teary-eyed man whimpers thinly, splaying himself on his back next to you, looking past you to meet Carlos’s eyes meekly, his voice tiny as he responds, “—won’t last.”

The Spaniard pulls out of you slowly, murmuring apologies and kissing your cheekbone when your brow twinges in discomfort. He helps you straddle the younger man’s hips, careful to support you as your legs haven’t stopped quivering.

His hand drifts between your pelvises, dragging a nail along the underside of Lando’s cock and you can’t deny the buzz of electricity that sings in your gut at the younger man’s wounded cry. The tears spill over his waterline, though he’s squeezed his eyes shut to try to stop them from falling. Carlos tuts at the man patronizingly.

“Too much, Landito?” Carlos pouts at him, “It is fine if you cannot take it. If you don’t want to cum tonight that’s—“

Lando’s eyelids spring open, looking at Carlos desperately as he babbles, “No,no,no,no—‘wanna cum. Please, ‘los.”

The seconds Carlos spends rolling protection over Lando’s cock are filled with choked gasps as the younger man cries, overwhelmed at the lightest touch of fingertips. You lower around his cock smoothly, walls clenching around him greedily, vision tunneling on the soundless bliss of his expression when your ass meets his skin.

You hum at the fullness, your mind settling at how right it feels. The first circle of your hips has Lando’s hands clawing at your hips, adding his own marks on your skin to compliment his boyfriend’s. He wriggles, overwhelmed, but bucks to meet your rolling body regardless.

He’s flushed from head to waist, fresh tears painting tracks of salt down his face before they drip off his jawline to splash on the bed sheets. Your pace remains tantric, and you don’t move more than an inch upwards to avoid testing his limits. The suckling, hot, drag is more than enough for him, if the pulsing of his cock is any telling. Your own sensitivity begins to bite at the base of your spine, your brain exhausted at the feeling of Lando pressing into the rawness that Carlos carved out.

The Spaniard must notice the way the two of you are tiring of chasing euphoria. Lando’s grinds weaken as the precipice of ecstasy is dangled in front of him, hoarse sobs racking through him as he fails to reach it on his own. Carlos splays his hand across Lando’s throat. The Brit’s whimpers pleadingly, and his mouth parts roundly as his boyfriend applies a light pressure to the sides of his neck. 

Lando shakes apart underneath you with uneven thrusts, his helpless gasps echoing through the room as you continue the grind of your hips to coax him through the bliss of release. He bodily restricts your movements when you edge him towards too-much, pulling you off of him with a single hand underneath your thigh. 

Your knees buckle, pitching over to lie face down next to the British man, who mewls sharply as Carlos pulls the soiled condom off. The heat of the Spaniard disappears, the sheets ruffling as he leaves the bed, causing Lando to make a noise of confusion.

“Water, mi amor,” Carlos chuckles, and you’re happy your face is hidden as you can’t contain your expression of envy at the endearment. He maneuvers Lando’s arms to curl around you, “I am getting us water. I will be quick.”

The younger man, as fucked-out as he is, uses a surprising amount of force to pull you into his chest as he buries his nose in your frazzled nest of hair. He uses his other hand to pull your leg around his hip and hums happily when your bodies press together without an ounce of space to spare. He squeezes you tightly, your dejected frown disappearing as you bask in his embrace, uncaring of the layer of sweat pooling on your cooling skin and the stickiness of your thighs.

There’s three cups with straws in Carlos’s hands as he rejoins the two of you on the bed. He sets one on the nightstand and holds the other two while you and Lando untangle your limbs. Once Carlos is satisfied by the slow sips you two take, he slinks into the bathroom and returns with a warm, soaked cloth to wipe the grime from everyone’s bodies. 

He’s careful about the press of the rag, paying attention to every muscle that tenses in sensitivity and tries to do the job as painless as possible. He nods in content once finished, scooping his glass up to rehydrate himself as well.

Lando bites at the metal straw, the gap of his teeth ridiculously cute even as his eyes brighten with mischief, “So…five minutes and we go again?”

“¡Que te jodan!” You cast a look of disbelief at him, “Lando you just cried through an entire orgasm and you want to go again? Already?” [Fuck you!]

The Brit shrugs loftily, slurping through the last bit of water in his cup and toothily smiling as he blinks at you in feigned innocence. His softened length twitches to attention, and you rest your head in your hand, shutting your eyes briefly for strength.

“Oh, what the hell,” you mumble, before clearing your throat, speaking louder, “I need like 15 minutes—or, until I can feel my legs again. Whichever comes first.”

Carlos collects the empty cup from Lando and sets it on the nightstand with his own. “Would you like to watch him fall apart around me while you wait?”

You choke on the sip of water in your mouth, coughing desperately to clear your throat as your eyes water from the burn. The worried look in the Spaniard’s eyes has an amused tinge to it, even as he pats you on the back in aid—you have a feeling he timed his question with your swallow on purpose.

“That’s a stupid question,” you croak, strangled, “Of course, I want to watch.”

You snuffle against a warmed patch of skin annoyed. The heat of sunlight paints your face golden, and you shift to burrow further into the warmth of limbs around you to drowsily slip back into sleep. You find yourself nodding off, but your ears become alert to the sounds of birds calling and chirping outside. 

Your body reacts before your brain as you fly upwards into a seated position. Shit! You have to go to work!

A pained whimper is exhaled as your lower body aches, sore from last night’s activities. The tangle of tanned arms fall limply around your waist at your change in position, the snores of the two men beside you uninterrupted. You carefully pry their arms away, and slip from the bed, digging through the pile of clothes on the floor, grinding your teeth at the numbness of your legs underneath you.

You dress yourself quickly, closing your eyes in thanks for Carlos forcing you into the shower before you passed out. Hopping across the bedroom to tug your skirt up, you stumble into the bathroom to examine the state you're in, pulling your shirt over your head all the while. 

Your curls are a mess, but that can be fixed at work. Lando respected your wishes of keeping his marks below the collar, but you can spot a few of the bruises on your thighs that their fingertips left. 

You curse briefly, unsure if you have a skirt long enough that would hide the mottled skin before remembering that you have a pair of biker shorts that you can slide on underneath that will get the job done. Pressing a thumb into the shape of Carlos’s thumb, you shiver at the glance of pain that sparks up your spine, swallowing tightly as you recall how it was left there.

With a shake of your head to expel the unseemly thoughts, you turn the faucet on to splash water on  your face. You need to call an Uber to get to work. Rushing out of the en-suite, you frantically search for your phone, trying to remain silent to avoid waking up the boys tucked in that ridiculously plush mattress.

“¿Qué estas buscando?” You screech frightfully at the rough timber of Carlos’ voice, spinning around to look at him. [What are you looking for?]

He’s preciously ruffled; his hair sticks up wildly, the comforter draped around his waist as he leans upwards, the planes of his tanned skin sharp in the morning hours, his eyes squinted in your direction under the brightness of the room—the curtains are wide open. 

Did you have sex—illuminated with a single lamp—with the curtains wide open? That’s a problem to fixate over later, you need your phone.

“Have you seen my phone? I can’t find it,” you straighten your shirt, your volume quieting near the end of your sentence as Lando shifts in the bed with a displeased pout that softens when he settles.

“I plugged it in here for you,” Carlos whispers, rolling to take it off the charger, flashing the marks your nails etched into his back. 

He lifts himself out of bed with a rough groan, your mouth drying as you watch him walk to you, clad in a pair of boxers that leave little (it’s not little at all, actually) to the imagination. Carlos’s hand cushions your cheek as he brushes his lips on yours softly, the delicate rhythm washing away your concerns about being late. 

Your lips break apart with a soft pop and he laughs at the discontented sigh you exhale, offering a languid press of lips to your forehead in apology. You reluctantly take the phone from his hand, your eyes bugging out as you realize that you needed to leave five minutes ago to have plenty of time to fix your appearance before you clock in.

“¡Puta madre!” you exclaim, “I’m fucked. I’m going to be so late ‘cause I have to wait for an car.”

“ —Wait for a car?” Carlos’s eyebrows twist in confusion, scratching at his stubble, “Where are you going? You are not staying?”

You throw him a soft look, turning away to figure out where your socks disappeared to, “I’m late for work, Carlitos. I can’t stay—even though I really want to.”

Carlos ah’s in understanding, assisting you in the search for your socks, his voice still croaky with disuse as he talks, “I can drive you? We are only twenty minutes away if you follow the road laws.”

You huff a laugh at his insinuation, tugging your socks on and patting at his arm softly, before gesturing to Lando in the bed, “You don’t have to. I don’t want to inconvenience you, you should be in bed with him. It’s my fault for not having my alarm properly set.”

Carlos shakes his head, rooting through his dresser for a pair of sweatpants that he pulls on, “You are not inconveniencing me. It would be rude if I let you be late to work after last night. I’m not that kind of man. Neither of us are.”

You give in as you watch him pull a plain white tee over his head—he’s too sweet for a fleeting romance. He ambles over to Lando, brushing the unruly curls off his forehead and pressing a kiss to his temple. He tucks the blankets around his boyfriend and a lick of jealousy blooms in your subconscious before you pluck it. 

Carlos grabs his own phone off another charger and stands, speaking to you warmly, “Your shoes and purse are downstairs, yes? There’s some protein bars in the kitchen pantry, grab as many as you want. I should have treated you to a proper breakfast but you do not have the time. I’m going to use the bathroom quickly, if that’s okay?”

You nod, and Carlos quietly shuts the bathroom door behind him. You breathe deeply at the situation you’ve found yourself in, and you scramble to send a quick text to the group chat telling them to cover for you and promising to cover a shift for anybody who does in the future. 

Your phone buzzes almost instantly after with an influx of messages and you click the screen off. They’re probably freaking out at the uncharacteristic vagueness of your whereabouts, but you put off responding to press your own kiss to Lando’s temple before heading downstairs, tenderly stepping to minimize the unsteadiness of your walk.

You appreciate the decor you didn’t get to see last night, the vacation home vibes blatant as you walk through; a modern twist of Spanish style decor. There’s even a fireplace you spot on your way past a sitting room.

You lace up your sneakers, grabbing your purse from the console table in the entryway before searching for the kitchen to grab a protein bar to hold you over until your lunch break. The kitchen is artful, modern in the sense of the new appliances but the colors and details of the tiled walls, clutter, and cabinets gives it a soul. It feels lived in.

You dryly swallow an ibuprofen—you always carry a few in your purse—hoping it will relieve your soreness before work. You open the pantry door, finding an assortment of protein bars and taking your time to read the labels as you hear a door open which means Carlos is heading down. You grab two bars that fit your taste and softly shut the door, unwrapping one to take a bite of now.

“Ah, I knew I would see you again,” Carlos Sr. smiles at you from the kitchen entry, chuckling at the way you jump and nearly drop the bars in your hands, “I will not lie to you, I thought it would be at the golf club and not here.”

Your lips part and seal as you search for a polite answer, but he continues speaking.

“Let me tell you a secret,” he clasps his hands delightfully, “Did my son tell you that he’s been asking me about you every time I am on the course? Papá, did you see her? Papá, when are you going back to Madrid? Aye, they’re smitten over you, mija?”

“¿En serio?” you relax at his mellow tone, enlightened by the new information. [Really?]

“¡Sí!” The older man exclaims, passing by you to start a pot of coffee, “To be honest, I thought you were out of their league last summer,” you laugh, knowing it’s definitely the other way around, “—Honestly!” He insists, turning to face you as the coffee starts to drip.

“I mean, you are in university, getting a further degree,” he shakes his head in respect of your commitment, “Those two just drive in circles for a living! I couldn’t even convince my son to drive rally like I did, ese cabrón.” [That bastard.]

You laugh a little harder at the jab on his own son, muffling it behind a hand, and he continues, “—And, when they told me they did not get your number! Ay! I was so mad at them. I told them to drop everything and go after you, but by the time they made their way up there you were already gone.”

You feel like shit about your outburst on the green. Your expression shutters, and he pats at your shoulder in comfort, “Oh. I-I didn’t know—“

“How could you?” He hums in question, “It is not your fault, if that’s what you are—“

“Mi sol, have you seen my wallet—” Carlos Jr. steps into the kitchen, words cutting off as he balks at the sight of his father, and he shouts, “Papá! ¿Qué hace aquí?” [My sunshine; Dad! What are you doing here?]

“¿Qué estoy haciendo en la casa que compré?” His dad fires back, amused at his son’s stunned question. [What am I doing in the house I bought?]

Carlos blinks at his dad before turning to you, slipping his hand into yours and tugging you out of the kitchen softly, “Let’s go; you’re going to be late, no?”

Sr. chortles as he grabs a mug from the cabinet, “¡Mijo! Hiding a woman from me?! It is okay, Lando will tell me everything. That is why he’s my favorite son!”

Carlos throws his head back with an exasperated groan, but it doesn’t hide the redness of his ears from his father’s teasing.

You stifle your smile, squeezing his hand pacifyingly, “Your wallet is in the bowl at the front. Um, if it’s possible,” you tuck a curl behind your ear shyly, “Do you have another car besides the Ferrari? I love it, but I cannot show up stepping out of that.”

Carlos snorts, shoving his wallet into his pocket and leading you to the garage, “Is a Porsche fine?”

“It’ll work.”

He gets you there in thirteen minutes, slowing the car to a crawl as you direct him to the employee entrance. You grab your purse, awkwardly pausing as you pop the door open. 

You face him with a sheepish grin, “Thank you for the ride. Tell Lando I said good morning.”

Carlos drags his eyes over your form languidly, before he nods imperceptibly, “Do you have enough time to get ready?”

“You’ve made up a few extra minutes for me with your skilled driving on the way here,” Carlos huffs a laugh at that, “So, I should be okay.”

The two of you fall back into silence, unsure of what else to say. You take the leap of faith this time around, it’s the most you can do after learning the way they tried to catch you before you left last summer.

“It wouldn’t be overstepping if I kissed you, right?”

“Ven aquí,” Carlos exhales, unbuckling his seatbelt and leaning over the console to meet you halfway. [Come here.]

His lips are swollen and textured from your’s and Lando’s combined attention, but the kiss is the sweetest and most tender one you’ve ever experienced. The soft exhale of breath from his nose stokes the butterflies in your stomach, who flutter awake as adoration pumps through your veins. The two of you part, eyes fluttering open to stare softly. He settles back into his seat, looking at your lips longingly, his line of sight broken as you exit the vehicle.

You clear your throat, “Um, I’ll text you guys when I get home later, okay? Adiós, te qu—hasta luego.” [Bye, I l—see you later.]

You shut the door and speed walk into the building before he could say anything about how you nearly exposed how down bad you are already. You hope he doesn’t bring it up, for the sake of your mental stability. The moment you step into the employee locker room, you're accosted by your friends, Isa, Lucas, and Stephanie. 

“Damn,” Lucas snaps, “I was really hoping you’d be late. I need my shift on Tuesday covered.”

You shrug, sliding past the girls to walk to your locker. “Sucks to suck.”

“¡Oye, pequeña!” Isa and Stephanie box you in at your locker as you grab your spare uniform and sport shorts, Isa stresses, “You cannot, walk in here and act like nothing happened! You show up wearing the outfit I picked out for you yesterday? Your hair is a mess! You sent the vaguest text about possibly showing up late? And, you get dropped off in a Porsche!?” [Hey, girly(i guess, idrk how to explain it)!]

Stephanie’s eyes blow wide and you rest your head into the cool metal of your locker door as she bursts, “Girl—did you get laid?!”

“Thank you for that, Steph,” you bite out, turning to look at them with the politest grimace you can muster, “Now, everyone will know exactly what I got up to last night because Lucas—,” you point behind you with a thumb, speaking loudly to drive your words in, “—Is physically incapable of keeping his mouth shut.”

He raises his hands up and backs out of the locker room with a devious smile. 

Turning to Isa, you shake your head, “I do not know why you like him. He’s such a chismosa.” [Gossip.]

She rolls her eyes at you, following you as you make your way into the bathroom, “It’s not a bad thing. He tells me all of the gossip I miss out on–why are there bruises on your thigh—holy fuck! He must have big hands. Which means he has a big—”

“Okay!” You screech, running into a stall and locking the door shut behind you, “I will tell you and the girls every single detail as soon as we finish today!”

She makes a triumphant noise, her steps fading as she exits the restroom, “You better! Or, I’ll force you to listen to me wax poetic about Lucas’s eyes for hours!”

Scoffing, you tug your shirt over your head and yell back, “You already do that anyways!”

The slicked-back ponytail you gelled your hair into, has already sprung flyaways since you didn’t have enough time to set your hair with a wrap before you had to drive out onto the course. You’re almost three hours into your shift, and the sun feels like it’s at its strongest even though you have a few more hours of it burning hotter. Only twenty minutes until lunch, you remind yourself, then you can fix your hair and cool down in the restaurant's walk-in freezer.

You’ve just finished serving a bachelor party, a group of ten men who didn’t give you a hard time. You talked loosely with them, engaging in small talk because connections are everything and you never know who you might run into on the green.

Like Carlos and Lando, case in point.

The groom-to-be actually met his fiancé here. She was a bartender in the clubhouse about seven years ago, and on complete chance she ended up being the one to serve him. He was starry-eyed as he explained to you that he fell in love with her as soon as he saw her. He ordered an unbelievably expensive amount of drinks for him and his boys (the same group of men in the bachelor party), and when she slid the bill over to him, he said, “For this price, you could’ve bought me for the night.”

You called bullshit, and he looked at his friends who backed up his words; they all heard it when he said it. You watched as he took a sip from his beer bottle with a reverent shake of his head, “Now, we’re getting married next week. On August 12th, or 8/12. Which was the price of the tab that night, $812.”

You made a joke about him needing to strengthen his self-esteem if he would consider selling his body for a measly $800, and to attend an A.A. meeting because that’s a ridiculous amount of money to spend on drinks that leave your system quicker than you ingested them. 

The men crowed in laughter at your ribbing of the groom-to-be, but you did seriously congratulate him on his engagement and wished him a long, happy marriage.

And currently, you’ve parked your cart for a few minutes to get over the urge you feel to cry. You're jealous of a woman you’ve never met before because she gets to love a man who’s devoting the rest of his life to her. She gets to marry him, and you’ve agreed to be nothing more than a summer romance to the men you could see yourself falling in love with.

You thank the universe for allowing you to cross paths with the groom-to-be. It reminded you of your place with the Formula One drivers and it’s a temporary one.

Your walkie-talkie crackles with the sound of your name and you sniffle deeply, blinking your eyes quickly to rid the moisture. 

“What’s up?” You chirp cheerily into the voice box, waiting for a response.

“By chance, are you missing your earrings? Over.” It’s Ryan, he takes his radio messages seriously. You tug at your earlobes, and damn, you feel naked.

“I am. Did I leave them in the dressing room?”

“You have to say ‘over’ at the end of your messages, you know that. Over.”

“Ryan...” you hold the line open to annoy him a little bit before you give in, “Did I leave them in the dressing room? O-v-e-r, over.”

“I was going to be nice to you but you lost that chance. Over.” 

You snort, intrigued to hear how he’s going to ‘retaliate.’ The two of you started here at the same time and Ryan has become like a little brother to you, against your will. 

“I just wanted to let you know that two objectively handsome men turned in your earrings to the front desk,” you shout in surprise, firing up the golf cart and slamming the pedal down to head back to the clubhouse, “Hmm…I think they said you left them at their house last night. Overrrrr.” He draws the ‘over’ out teasingly and the walkie-talkie squeals with static and screams of surprise from the other employees on the channel.

“TWO? YOU FREAK!!!” Lucas.

Incoherent screaming. Isa.

“Nobody here can call me a slut anymore!” Rob.

“Is that why you couldn’t sit comfortably at the morning meeting?!” Sofia.

Ryan’s voice crackles through, “Oh! I forgot to mention—don’t worry about stealing food from the restaurant for lunch; they dropped off a meal for you. Over.”

The walkie-talkie explodes with noise and you turn the volume to zero. You’re reporting them all to HR.

You tune out the jeers in the break room as you devour a croquetade jamón and chase it with a spoonful of rice. You send a photo of the food with a thumbs-up in the frame, to Carlos and Lando. You type out your thanks for the jewelry return and lunch. There’s no hesitation as you press send on message inquiring about when the third date is going to happen.

The third date is private cooking lesson where you’re coached through making a few classic Spanish tapas. Lando immersed too deeply and only responded to ‘Chef Lando’ during the class. Carlos ate all of the chorizo he was supposed to use on his flatbread. You terrify the actual chef with your less than savory cutting technique. Your torn apart on their fingers that night, as they take turns coaxing you over the cliff.

You decrease the amount hours you’re able to work at the golf course. You’re only on the schedule during the middle of the week–Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday—leaving you with a four day weekend to frolic around Madrid with your boyfr—with Carlos and Lando.

The fourth date is dinner and a show. It’s your first time watching a ballet, and your lucky enough to be watching the performance at Teatro Real, one of the most prestigious opera houses in Europe. It’s also the first time you get railed in a women’s bathroom stall at Teatro Real, one of the most prestigious opera houses in Europe.

Lando pants raggedly as he fucks into you from behind, “Ah—shit, sunshine, you’re so tight.”

Your moan is muffled around Carlos’s cock and he hisses at the vibration, knocking his head against the stall door loudy. 

When Lando climaxes, he whimpers out a, “te quiero.” You pretend to miss it as you concentrate on sucking Carlos to completion. Carlos licks his spend from your tongue, babbling his te quiero’s into your mouth. You don’t say it back. [Te quiero means I love you, but it’s more casual, less serious in nature.]

The fifth date is pottery and you ride Carlos’s face to the image of Lando’s hands coning down his clay on the wheel. The sixth date is driving around the outskirts of Madrd’s city limits and passing the phone around to queue a song to play as you three switch between talking and enjoying the tunes. 

The seventh date is painting the mugs you made; you made two, one for Carlos and one for Lando—they each made you one as well. You’ve painted Carlos’s as a lemon and Lando’s as an orange—and homage to the sip of sunshine line they pulled on you. Lando painted a field of sunflowers for you. Carlos painted a sun with rays spilling from it, the words ‘my sunshine’ scripted into the middle of the sun.

Somewhere between the fifth and seventh date, they became comfortable with saying te quiero  to you outside of sex. 

It’s said as you serve them drinks on the course, as they drop you of at home after dates, as they cuddle with you without wanting more, as they wake you up between them in the morning. 

You give in somewhere beewen the sixth and seventh date. But, you only allow yourself to say te quiero during or after sex.

And, you stifle your sobs of anguish into your pillow at home, dreading the day you return to school and they return to racing.

Your dad enjoys the mobile car show of priceless automobiles that appear in his driveway to pick you up. Your mom eagerly awaits your renditions of your dates every night and you’re careful to edit around the explicit parts. 

The dates progress to you spending your four days off at their  Carlos Sr. 's vacation home, packing a bag with your necessities so you don’t have to risk wasting time away from them by stopping at your house. They take the time to explain to you just how much of a goat Lewis Hamilton is. Lando helps with your wash day, soaking up your tidbits of advice for his own curls. Carlos lets you soundboard ideas for your dissertation off of him without complaining, iterjecting every once in a while with a viewpoint you hadn’t considered. 

Your craving for intimacy is satiated. They twirl you around in the kitchen to Spanish ballads they sing terribly at the top of their lungs. They terrorize you on the green, choosing increasingly difficult cocktails for you to make so you have to spend more time with them instead of doing your job. You and Carlos terrorize Lando with a football games of keep away. You and Lando terrorize Carlos by hiding his shirts from him so he has to walk around topless. They don’t terrorize you in retaliation—if you don’t count their constant te quiero’s as terrorizing acts.They pick you up at some ridiculous hours when you’ve gone clubbing with your friends; making sure you chug a glass of water, helping you rinse off in the shower and moisturizing your skin before dressing you in their clothes, doing your skincare for you before putting you to bed. 

They drag their feet through helping you repack your belongings on the morning of your last day in Spain. You let Lando get away with tugging garments out of your bag every time you turn your back to him, hiding your smile as you see Carlos assist him by stuffing it at the bottom of the pile of clothes that doesn’t seem to shrink.

Eventually, they give up. Their eyes trace your form as you do your last walkaround to make sure you haven’t left anything behind. Your check ends at the front door, grabbing your keys from the bowl on the entryway table.

You sigh heavily, “Well, don’t just stand there.”

They gravitate towards you, hugging you tightly and peppering an endless amount of bittersweet kisses along any patch of skin they can reach. Lando hunches down to hide his face in your neck, and Carlos rests his forehead against yours.

“¡Chicos, calmaté!” Your giggly exclamation sounds watery, “I am coming back next year, remember?”

“That’s too longgg,” Lando complains into your neck, his voice sounding as pitiful as yours. You step backwards to cradle his face between your hands. His cheeks are ruddy and his eyes are dejected even as he smiles shakily under your touch.

“Date us.” Carlos blurts out desperately, “Ay, perdóname—May we date you, please?” [Forgive me.]

You gape at the older man, struggling to ascertain what he’s asked of you. 

Stumbling gracelessly, your hands fall from Lando’s face, who makes a hurt noise at the loss. “Date me? I thought you both said this was just a fling?”

The Brit twists his hands together at your words, his face saddening further as he corrects you, “Summer romance—fling is too harsh.”

“Too casual?” You shout, “I thought this was supposed to be casual! I felt like shit whenever I didn’t say te quiero back! I wanted more the moment we sat down at that restaurant a month ago, but I thought I couldn’t have it because that’s not what we agreed on!”

“You want more?” Carlos clarifies, his tone optimistic. 

“¡Cabrón!”  You laugh, hurtling forward to throw your arms around his neck. Relieved tears spill over your waterline, soaking into the Spaniard’s shirt. “I’m damn near in love with you guys–yes,yes,yes, I want more.”

Lando glows, blubbering incoherently with happiness and you shush him with your lips.

“I wish you had asked me days ago,” you sniffle cutely, smiling crookedly as you continue, “—’cause I really do have to leave, or I won’t have enough time to pack my things into my suitcases at home.”

You groan as you find yourself with an armful of two Formula One drivers bemoaning the unfairness of being separated from you even though they just got you.

“Mis amores, escúchame—you had me the entire time,” you coo, “We all know how phones work. We can communicate speedily with texts, and video calls, and send voice messages, and even regular calls. If we’re doing this we have to have a serious talk about it when I land in the States, yeah? Long distance is difficult, but I’m willing to put in the effort to make it work, if you two do the same.” [My loves, listen to me.]

“Phone sex isn’t the worst thing in the world,” Lando quips, smiling as he watches you and Carlos chortle at the unexpected comment.

The laughter ringing through the air fizzles out. You bite your lip, shaking your head slightly as their stares fixate on your mouth. They haven’t managed to stop ogling at your lips over the course of the month.

“Te quiero,” you state. Lando repeats it back instantly, Carlos kisses you before doing the same.

You pick up your bag from the floor, “Promise me that you’ll do your best to make this relationship work.”

Their confirmations are swift, even taking turns crossing their pinkies with yours and with themselves. Your heart sings with love. They walk you to your car. Carlos takes the bag from your hand and places it in your backseat, Lando holds your door open, making sure you don’t hit your head as you sit in the driver’s seat. 

He shuts the door smoothly, and you roll down the window to exchange your last goodbyes. 

“See you next summer.”

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[strlingsav]

Obey

- Keegan P. Russ x Female!Reader

- (Medieval AU) Your husband and yourself have an argument.

Requested: @mykneeshurt forgive me it's taken so long but pls enjoy ❤️ trigger warning Keegan is an asshole lol

Explicit sexual content warning- read at your own risk. *DUBCON*

Sparing a glance over your shoulder, your eyes caught his figure. You couldn't tell if it was dread or excitement that flooded your body, but the warmth of his presence was practically suffocating you even while you were steps ahead.

Your patience had peaked; you tried to appreciate the sacrifices he made, the sacrifices of his position. Keegan was the King's most trusted Knight, but his attention to you and your marriage strayed during the conflict of war. Rather than the loving, forward-thinking man you'd married, he'd quickly turned into a rigid soldier with no regard for your feelings.

The last few months were filled with nothing but a cold bed, passing touches of mere necessity that left you feeling emptier than your bedchamber. His words were curt and hollow. You'd already suffered through his years of service to the King; though now you'd reached your limit.

Flickering torches illuminated the hall, allowing him to keep on your tail as you wrenched open your chamber doors and attempted to slam them behind you. Keegan's hand caught the oak door before it could shut, pushing past your weak force.

He was pursuing you; unlike him in the last few months, but he'd finally had enough of your snide remarks and sour attitude. Your lack of appreciation for the gruelling and life-threatening work he did, and the comfortable life it afforded, had tipped him over the edge.

"You're following me," You announced, displeased, as he closed the doors behind him.

His face remained stoic; he could recognize the neglect you felt. His time was most always spent with the King and his advisors; he hardly had time to eat, let alone give his wife the attention she wanted. Though he wanted to remedy it, he had grown tired of your flippant regard for his oath to his country- and his King.

He said your name, boldly, as if it was obvious. "You're running from me," He said, moving himself into your personal space.

Your hackles raised along your spine, hair standing on its end as he stepped closer. Your stomach twisted itself, nerves shooting flutters of adrenaline through your body. You didn't want to appear frightened- you couldn't ever believe he'd raise a hand to you- but you'd lost sight of who he truly was.

It was an unusual combination of arousal and fear- not for your safety but for the words to come out of his mouth. His demeanour had changed since your country had descended into war, it made him colder than usual.

"For good reason," You replied, holding your ground as he neared. "For many good reasons. None of which seem to be enough to force you to care."

"I don't answer to you," He replied. "I am bound to my duty."

"I thought you'd also bound yourself to me," You snapped. "Suppose I'm just good enough to warm your bed- though that hasn't happened in months."

The hearth illuminating the room glowed across his face; a scowl drenched in apathy.

"Is that what you think?" He asked. It sounded genuine, though he knew what your answer would be. "I have been fighting in carnage for our King, our country, and your concern is our marriage?"

He stepped toward you again, forcing your back against the wall. A chill forced you to flinch as he leaned in, a hand against the wall to allow himself as close to you as possible without touching you.

Your jaw clenched. The cool stone wall brought goosebumps over your skin, though watching his eyes rake up and down your body left you feeling warm. Your mind was at odds, conflicting feelings leaving you filled with a sense of sorrow opposing your arousal.

"I beg your forgiveness for wanting my husband to behave as such." Sarcasm dripped from your mouth. "I am not one of your soldiers."

"You want me to behave as your husband?" His question was rhetorical, and it made your stomach turn when his spiteful tone hit you.

He began removing the baldric from his waist, letting it clatter against the floor. Your brows furrowed, confusion filling your face. He roughly turned you against the wall, your cheek pressed against it as his hand suddenly gathered your skirts above your backside.

Your brows furrowed with disapproval, you struggled against his full body weight trapping you. "Stop," You spat. "Keegan-"

Anger aside, his sudden course of action made your stomach flutter. Instead of panic, you felt yearning, anticipation.

"This is what you wanted," His lips brushed your ear, chest warm against your back. "What you've been so desperate for. You want to bear me a child? I'll give it to you."

You breathed in deeply, trying your best to fight your body's traitorous reaction to feeling him against you again; his hands on you, his deep voice vibrating against your back and through your chest. Your eyes shut momentarily as you concentrated- attempting to let go of all arousal and speak with conviction.

"Get off of me- let me go," You breathed out, trying to remain rigid against him.

He felt a familiarity of burning desire in his gut; he recognized the arousal in your eyes. Though his frustration reached its end, he couldn't help but remember the way you feel, sound. It nearly made him shiver. He'd forgotten you and himself in his oath to the King.

"Your cunt says otherwise," He mocked you, as his hand slid beneath your undergarments, fingers moving gently to slide between your folds. He gathered the slickness of arousal on his fingertips, teasing your clit slowly.

You whimpered softly, lips pressed together to muffle any and all sounds of pleasure. You didn't want to give him the satisfaction. He pressed himself against you, lips hovering over the skin of your neck.

"So starved for attention, you're dripping," He whispered. "How badly do you want my cock?"

"You're a prick," You spat. "Is this what you want?" You said, stiffening in his grasp, hands clasped in fists against the wall, pushing back. "To take me against my will?"

"You like when I touch you this way, I remember," He breathed against your cheek, nearly panting with desire. "And you and I both know I couldn't force you."

He was breathing heavily as he placed soft lips against your neck, his hands ruffling your skirts up your hips again.

Your head fell forward against the stone wall when his finger slid inside you, gently at first, allowing you to enjoy them curving inside you. It had been so long- feeling so empty and pent-up like you could burst at the first sign of pleasure. His thumb played at your clit, soft strokes that matched that of his fingers, drenching them with arousal.

"Were you not so wet already, I'd be inclined to punish you- rightly so, sweetheart," He moved to speak into your ear.

You shuddered at his vague threat, though you'd be lying if you denied that it sent a warmth to your womb, a pulsating void of need.

"Keegan," You whispered.

"Spread your legs," He ordered, a calloused hand gliding along the softness of your ass, gripping your skirts in his hand.

His hand moved to lift your thigh, the head of his cock barely penetration your pussy before he spoke again.

"Beg me," He ordered. "Beg me to take you right here, just the way you deserve."

You nearly whimpered, nearly crumbled in his grasp. Instead, you inhaled sharply and did as he asked, moaning softly as he relieved your suffering and plunged inside you.

He let out a loan grown once he was buried to the hilt- warmth and softness, slick with arousal. He placed a hand under your thigh, fondling the soft muscle of your ass, and the other on the wall, reaching your neck with his lips.

The smoothness of his mouth on your neck made your knees quiver, and his hand lifting your thigh to allow his cock deeper inside you left you speechless. Goosebumps erupted over your skin, and his free hand moved to pull your gown off your shoulders, groping at your breasts.

You were panting, mouth open in gasps as his cock glided in and out of you, poignant thrusts and groans of exertion from him.

"You like being fucked like a whore, don't you?" He said between heavy breaths. His hand reached your throat, squeezing softly with calloused hands.

Your head turned, mouth agape in a a moan, and he caught your lips with his. His tongue slid against yours, warm and comforting; it both deeply saddened and aroused you. You squeaked out a whine, especially as his hand pressed against the back of your head, pinning your cheek on the wall.

You barely made out his name, as he groaned to himself with satisfaction; his free hand gripped your arm, bending and moulding you into a position that allowed him to penetrate even deeper. You gasped- your breath was warm against your face, almost too much with the heat between your bodies and the fabric still covering your body.

"Please-" You whispered, hardly coherent amongst moans and heavy pants.

A series of short groans left your lips before he removed himself from against you, the sudden loss of being so full and satisfied made you grunt.

"Undress yourself."

It wasn't a request; you knew better. He missed all of you. He wanted to watch your face while he slid in and out of you, when his thumb would graze your sensitive clit. He wanted to feel your skin and hold you closer. He hadn't entirely realized how much he'd missed being so close to you.

His hands stripped the work shirt from his chest while yours unlaced your bodice. You worked your skirts down your hips, hardly stepping out of them before he pulled you to his lap, taking a seat on the ornate ottoman at the foot of your bed.

His calloused hands gripped your waist as you reached for his shoulders, eyes staring into his. He pulled you forward, moving his cock to your entrance before helping you ease onto it. He shut his eyes briefly, jaw clenching once he was submerged again in your soft, tight walls.

"You feel so goddamn good," He breathed against your chest, voice hoarse. "Christ," He gritted his teeth.

His hands grabbed and pulled at any part they could reach, sweat now glistening on his pectorals, hair sticking to his forehead. He was desperate to get closer, your soft skin was irresistible in his sensitive state, and the smell of your sweat-induced pheromones made his cock even harder.

You drove your hips forward, the underside of your thighs sliding against his lap. You were panting, moans matching the rhythm of your thrusts. His hand dropped to your clit, roughly rubbing circles over it with the lubrication leaking from you.

Your body jerked, fighting the over stimulation yet forced to endure it in his hold. He grinned to himself briefly, a flash of pride at the sight of you unraveling and nearly sobbing for more. His soft lips attached themselves to your neck, breasts, anywhere just to hear the sounds of your moans.

He heard your shallow breaths began to grow more frequent, your hips jerking as you anticipated your climax. Your eyes squeezed shut, whimpering and whining, fingers nearly drawing blood as you dragged them over his back and shoulders.

"That's it, sweetheart," He huffed. "Cum for me- I want to see you let go."

Your eyes nearly rolled back, body shivering and quaking until pure and instant pleasure descended over you, wrapping your womb in warmth. You held him even closer, lifting and dropping yourself on his cock until the pleasure began to subside from the sudden outpour.

His body lifted you, practically slamming you on your back without missing a beat. His hips met yours as he dove deep inside you, nearly pushing the breath from your lungs.

His hand reached for yours with sincerity, and a quiet reminder of affection. He leaned down to press his lips to yours, slow and firm, but gentle as he matched your pace. You exhaled softly through your nose, relishing in the connection between you. He paused, catching a breath within a grunt.

"I'm sorry," He breathed. "Forgive me." He met your gaze.

Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing at his. Your brain could hardly focus on his words between the grinding of his pelvis against yours and his cock massaging your walls.

You nodded. "I do," You nodded again.

He shuddered, painfully close to his own end, cock throbbing inside you as he inched toward orgasm. He lifted your legs to his hips, white-knuckles holding onto your flesh. You clung to his shoulders, your eyes poring into his.

"I'm-" he hardly finished his sentence before you nodded.

"Please," You whispered, nodding again. A silent agreement, an understanding of what was about to come and what it meant.

Within moments, a few short thrusts between jerks, he released inside you. He grunted harshly, his hips snapping against yours as his cock twitched, warmth pooling inside you.

He breathed out, heavy and almost healing; he collapsed beside you, pulling you against him with a content sigh.

You knew it wouldn't be long before he had to leave again. Before he'd saunter back to stand by the King's side and put his life on the line in defence of his country.

"You're worrying," He said aloud, eyes staring at the wood-carved ceiling above.

"You'll be leaving soon," You said quietly.

"I'll be back, sweetheart. I always will."

You tilted your head to find him staring at you, a finger pushing hair from your eyes. You couldn't be sure if it was the truth or not- so many variables meant even he couldn't be certain. But you decided to believe him, anyway, in the vain hope that he'd one day love you as much as he did his King and country.