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femmeftal · 1 month ago

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﹒`₊ 01 ┆︎ EMPEROR.

. ݁pairings : emperor!mark x reader

. ݁warnings : 18+ soft sex, pet names, biting, fem!reader, breeding, ( p in v ) mating press

EMPEROR!MARK who is bigger than all those years you have been together, muscles outlined in the new outfit that he is acquired to wear His new look made many viltrums look up to him finally claiming the title emperor finally successfully conquering

EMPEROR!MARK who is so much different behind those closed doors of your shared adorned bedroom, colors reminding you both of your old apartment you both had before all of the events placed. barely seeing that place from being booked with so much places to save, helping others, etc .

EMPEROR!MARK that is seen as a big scary ruler but truly is just a man who wants to protect his woman, to make her proud, make her worries go away just like how any other man would feel about theirs. of course he would want to make his queen safe .

EMPEROR!MARK that is always seen with his beautiful smaller mate, you looked so smaller than him when you guys stood next to each other. you didn’t mind one bit and sort of finding it attractive, your red tinted cheeks appearing every time that his arm wrapped around your waist to shield you.

EMPEROR!MARK whose libido starts to rise, brushing it off as just an hormonal thing and not bothering to take care of it. he didn’t want to bother his precious queen for stupid issues like this, when there could be more worse problems to take care of than just sex

EMPEROR!MARK that offers to take his queen to a space trip, wanting her to see how beautiful this galaxy truly is. smiling every time you guys star gaze at the multicolored sky, tinted with purples, blues, and harsh pinks. if he could store the galaxy in a jar for you he’d have done it so many times just to make you oh so happy.

EMPEROR!MARK who gets you a pet, chuckling when the puppy like creature jumps into your arms and licks your face covering it with sticky saliva. finally coming up with a name for the red creature, gaéya.

EMPEROR!MARK that goes away for atleast a day, handling missions to expand the planet viltrum. sending his wife messages on how much he misses her every single second, minute and hour and has a big surprise for her when he returns back to her.

EMPEROR!MARK when coming back has a big bouquet of flowers for you, exotic looking flowers being different color patterns than each others the wild colors colliding with the others. the scenery of the flowers being beautiful soon placing them into a decorated glass vase for flowers.

EMPEROR!MARK who wants to start a family with you, no matter how much children you give to him he would be so grateful for what he receives, being hesitant to bring up the subject he waits until the time is extremely perfect when your hormones are acting up again. he knows when too.

EMPEROR!MARK who finally talks to you about it in bed, your Lacey night gown revealing your soft beautiful skin. caressing your glowing face those eyes even looking up at him while he speaks his mind, you looked so.. sexy to him he couldn’t help but to release his stress onto you everything unwinding when your lips collide kissing.

“ my beautiful women.. my queen “ speaking between the breath taking kisses your tongues fought each other for dominance the taste of you reminding him back of your guys first time with each other, flipping you over to be on top of him he finally broke the kiss. the trail of saliva following you both soon seeing you lick your plump lips, the lewd scene made his soft member start growing erect under you. your sultry giggle egged him on the feeling on your nails massaging his chest “ oh emperor, if you were this hungry for me why wouldn’t you just take me then and there? “ your words were like a porn scene, you could feel your husbands hands trailing underneath your night gown raising it up to access your rear.

“ mm i’ve waited so long~ “ slowly reaching to the curve of his neck you began to place your kisses against the muscle of his neck, the remaining saliva that had sat on your lips smeared against his skin. softly sucking on the desired area you choose, you knew it wouldn’t do anything but the thought had count and that was all that matters. “ tell me when you want to do to me emperor “ whispering in his ear and tempting him, his grip on your ass slightly tightened and so did his pants he wore for sleeping, the space between you and your soulmate faltered soon only being entangled into each others body “ i want to do so much to you, give you my kids so little me’s would be running around “ hooking his rough fingers around the hem of your panties, wiggling your hips to help him achieve his goal of removing your panties. finally you felt the air hit your bare glistening cunt, gasping from the cold sudden air mark began his attacking on your neck making it his payback for yours. mewling the sensation had distracted you from the rustling of pants being undone, biting your bottom lip you’d slowly rock your hips against marks

“ mm..please emperor i need you to fill me”

the slap of his hard member had surprised you, feeling the skin on skin contact with his fat cock against your sopping pussy had you shying away. eyes slightly squinting from the sensational feeling of mark’s member sliding between your wet pussy lips making soft audible wet sounds, you and mark haven’t had intercourse in forever. so the exercises and yoga you’ve been doing in your free time when your lovely ruler was away has tightened you up, pressing your hips down to at least inter tip inside you could feel marks hand pulling you right back up trying to pry you away from his cock

“ wait for me princess, you can wait for me yea? “ his question sent you overboard trying to wiggle your hips back down, no way in hell you were gonna get blue balled from him trying to be all patient with you.

getting flipped over again on your back, the soft cushions bouncing you up and down vaguely. watching him stroke his cock made your patients fly out the window your eyes following the movement of his hand. precum trailing down his tip and sliding down all the way down to his base where he was slightly trimmed. “ mark.. do not tease me like this pleaase.. need you so badly my king “ your eyes were filled with desperation and lust.

he knew what he was doing making you watch him jack off to atleast prep himself before entering you, after what felt like minutes you could see him reach for your legs pulling them back to your shoulders you could feel your muscles stretch making it be slightly uncomfortable, you and mark

had made eye contact except his eyes had dominance filled in them his cock being painfully hard, every single time his member had pulsed it slapped against his lower abdomen. “ tell me you’re ready and prepared for me. “ he said softly the glimse in your eyes said everything, trying to stutter out a response oh so quickly “ m ready! just put it in please.. i want to mother your kids! “

grabbing onto the base of his cock and leading the tip between your folds, it had took multiple times to at least enter his tip inside of you. mark knew he was above average from the moment you told him he was, squealing when you guys last had sex.

you were already a moaning panting mess just from the tip, so when mark had started pushing his cock into your gummy velvet walls you were lost and brain dead. mouth opened to be agape into a “ O “ like shape preparing to mewl even more mark finally pushed in the most he could, not trying to break you from entering all if his inches into your small pussy. it was so nasty how he just stared down at your messy face, you could already feel the swell of tears blinding your eyes. “ ohh.. fuck it feels shoo good “

seeing you pant like a dog in heat had flipped a switch in mark like something told him to start pounding into you, and so he did grabbing onto your delicate frame giving it a grip that would atleast help with keeping you in place. pulling his hips out to atleast get his cock all the way out until the tip, he slowly but steadily pushed himself back in, grabbing anything he could that was on your body. caressing your soft plump breasts and imagining how soft and round they would look when your milk would produce for your heir that you’ll give him.

his hips would roll in a circular motion to hit all the spots he could find, it was effortlessly the best sex you’d ever had with him. he would ruin you for every man but him breaking you down just to build you up .

“ mm.. markk ouu mhm keep going.. “ your small mains and pleads encouraged him to continue his slow yet hard pounds, his sack meeting your wet plump cheeks. being covered in your messy arousal, marks torso bent down making your mating press get deeper. all for him to latch your nipples into his hungry mouth, sucking them like he was trying to pry milk from them. giving both of your breasts attention he left your legs hanging up to you, using his hand to tease and twirl your nipples in his fingers sometimes even squeezing then while he focused on pounding your pussy. “ mark m gonna cumm.. please god “ this was true love making, feeling your the middle of your chest having a wet patch of saliva getting licked all the way to your neck also sucking on it leaving small red marks that’d would be there for weeks. “ cum for me.. we will both … hughh fuck we will both cum “ he said groans and whimpers catching up to his words, the thrusts of his hips speeding up to chase you and his orgasm. quickly pulling you into a kiss he would grab your arms holding your delicate wrists, practically feeling the way his cock was getting squeezed by your tightening walls had indicated you were close. taking the opportunity to make you cum, the continuation of his hips circling made the band in your stomach snap and so did his, moaning into each other’s mouth you both came. mark still thrusting from his stuttering hips “ ohh.. markk “ his heavy body slightly collapsing onto yours to give each other a break.

all work owned by @femmeftal , requests open

#໒꒰ྀི＾་།＾ ꒱ྀིა #𝓇𝖺𝖾’𝗌．𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗌 #invincible #smut #mark grayson #emperor mark #mark x you #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #breeding k1nk #soft sex

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eowynstwin · 3 months ago

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peristalsis - iii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." cunnilingus. analingus. spitting. piv. doggy. missionary. rough sex. size kink. breeding kink. biting. mean soap. manipulative soap. smut. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

The ocean calls the seal to return, and you finally heed the growing chill you’ve been ignoring, as well as the complaints of your nearly-empty stomach.

Starvation is not on your list of preferred ways to end your own life, so you check the fridge Johnny said he had stocked. What you find is disconcerting—hoping for snack foods, pre-packaged conveniences, you instead find a carton of eggs, hard cheeses, condiment bottles. Milk in a jug, green herb bundles, sticks of butter, and an unopened package of bacon.

The freezer is much the same. Bags of vegetables and meats like shrimp or scallops. Frozen loaves of bread. Not even a single carton of ice cream. When the pantry also yields nothing more ready to eat—no chips, no cup ramen, no cans of soup—you give up.

There’s a hierarchy of action you’re willing to take to preserve yourself, organized around a precept of energy expenditure—eating spends less than cooking, so you focus on the former and do not practice the latter anymore.

Even though most food has lost its taste by now.

So you lay down on the couch. Sulking, maybe, but it’s the only halfway satisfying thing left to you. You angle yourself toward the shelf of books it faces in place of a TV; it’s mostly romance novels. Bright pink or blue or violet or red spines facing outward, most of them already cracked and creased down through their titles.

Did Johnny stock those for you too—emptying the shelves of a thrift book store for a woman he knew would be alone—or are they just set dressing for his dream of a honeymoon getaway?

You start thinking about the cliffs by the cove.

They’re not very tall. Maybe three stories. You would feel the impact—and it might not even work. You would lay there at the bottom, in the packed sand, broken. But alive to feel every consequence of it.

You might still die, but it would be slow. Someone could find you, and save you. Probably Johnny. You might be permanently broken—worse off than when you began.

It’s not an option.

You could have just bought a gun if you stayed home. It would have been cheaper, and faster—

Anxious energy needles at your legs and prickles along the insides of your palms; you sit up, agitated. Your stomach bubbles as the acid inside slides around with nothing to eat into. You scowl at yourself and retrieve Johnny’s jacket from the floor.

It’s colder outside than before, when you leave the cottage for the third time that day for the walk to Vatersay village. You can see it from the front door of the cottage, only about a mile away, and as you get going, you find a walking trail cutting through the machair grass leading in its direction.

The sky darkens far earlier than you expect, on the way. You hadn’t thought you were far enough north for that. Absent of city lights, the Hebridean starscape peeks through gaps in the moonlit clouds overhead, winking to life as the sun retreats around the earth’s curve. You pause—even your ennui is no match for the cosmos—looking to see if you can find the arm of the Milky Way, but the autumn sky does not seem inclined to show it to you.

By the time you reach the village outskirts, warm rectangles of yellow light are already brightening the windows against a heavy blue night. You get directions to the pub from an older man walking his dog—Last Cull, it’s called. You find it with a carved wooden sign, adorned with the silhouette of a lounging seal, hanging by the door at the front, and walk in.

Johnny said that less than a hundred people populate the island; when you walk in, at least a third of them must be here, and their collective chatter, along with the sounds of drinking glasses clinking or hitting tables, and the warble of classic rock music, all rush at you at once when you open the door, carried on a wave of orangey lamplight and the smell of hops and a burst of thick, hot air.

It’s more life—more sound—than you were remotely prepared for, and you freeze in the threshold. You stand there long enough that, worse, several heads turn to look at you—

The outsider.

You duck your head, and look at the floor as you direct yourself at an empty stool at the bar. Your purse beats against your leg with every quick step, heavy with a tourist’s excess preparation, and following eyes lance you like pins through a butterfly’s wing.

A man in a beanie and mutton chops is wiping a glass dry behind the counter; he looks at you drolly when you sit down.

“W’can I get you?” he asks, surprising you with a distinctly un-Scottish accent.

You blink several times. “Um…”

The bartender is immediately unimpressed. “Liverpool, love. You drinking or eating?”

You flush. “I’m sorry—um—both?”

He nods. He does not offer a menu. “Right.”

He disappears with the same abruptness of manner behind a swinging door, leaking greenish fluorescent kitchen light around the edges and through the circular window set up in the middle.

Whatever waves you made upon your arrival already seem to have dissipated, ineffectual in the long-term; conversation in heavy Scots flows around you, relaxed and indistinct. The pub is warm with body heat, little groups of islanders pulled in close together around pints and tankards and easy conversation.

These people likely have known each other for years; seen each other grow up. Watched time etch lines across one another’s faces. You can’t really understand the words being exchanged between any of them, but the tenor is familiar. None of it is especially important to say to one another, you know—it’s the back and forth that’s the point. The sway and rock of practiced call and answer. Of knowing, when they say something, that a response will be given, even if the response is something that’s been said a thousand times before.

You run your fingers along the dented surface of the old bar. Shift in your stool. Pick at a sliver of skin coming up from one cuticle. A single drop of oil in the middle of an ocean.

The bartender returns to you from the kitchen, no food in hand. Instead, there’s a new expression on his face—a hammer aimed at your protruding nail. His eyes are narrowed; his brows are drawn together.

“You’re Soap’s tourist,” he says.

“Um,” you say, pinned under the intensity of his stare, “no?”

He rolls his eyes. “Johnny MacTavish. Everyone else calls him Soap.”

“Oh.” You cannot guess at all where this conversation might be going. “Yes?”

“He cooks for me some nights,” the bartender says. “He’s in the kitchen right now. He says dinner is on him, and he’ll bring it out soon.”

“He’s here?” you demand, jaw dropping.

“Some nights,” the man repeats. He picks his drying rag back up, and gets to work on another glass. Your association with Johnny—Soap—seems to have unlocked in him a geniality that would otherwise be inaccessible to you. “Lad was right chuffed when you rented out the croft. Hadn’t seen him that excited in ages. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

He hasn’t offered you a drink and doesn’t seem inclined to. Still intimidated, you don’t ask.

“He told me I was his first guest,” you say, worrying at your cuticle.

“Mm-hm,” responds. Then he eyes you. “See why he was so worked up now.”

You stop your jaw from dropping for a second time, but only just—the weight of Johnny’s hand ghosts down your back, aided by his scent radiating from his jacket, released from the fibers it’s seeped into by your body heat.

“How—um, how do you know Johnny—Soap?” you ask, awkwardly.

“If he told you to call him Johnny, call him Johnny,” the man says. “Was his captain, once upon a time. Served together in the SAS. Name’s John Price.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” you say.

He grunts. “John’s fine. He been behaving?”

“Um,” you say, entirely unsure how to answer that, when the kitchen door flings open.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims, apron-clad, rosy-faced, and grinning wide.

He’s exchanged his heavy sweater for a lighter, cream-colored henley, sleeves rolled up his broad forearms. Combined with the cinch of the apron strings around his middle, it highlights and flatters the athletic build of his silhouette. The hem of his kilt flutters around his knees as he hurries over.

“Hi, Johnny,” you sigh.

He balances a steaming dish on one hand and carries some silverware wrapped in a napkin in the other. The plate tilts precariously as he directs himself at you, but the food survives as he slides it in onto the bar in front of you.

“Shoulda told me you were comin’ down, or I’d’ve had somethin’ better ready to make!” he scolds, though he’s clearly too pleased to mean it.

On top of a ceramic plate, the glaze spiderwebbed with cracks from age and constant use, three oblong triangles of fried fish rest atop checked wax paper, attended by a large stainless still cup of large wedge fries that you remember are referred to as “chips.” Beside that is a small cup of some white condiment you don’t recognize. Everything looks fresh from the fryer, as if Johnny could not wait one second to long to bring it to you.

“Oy, lad, how come I don’t get that kinda table service?” someone yells out behind you. “M’ I not pretty enough for you?”

A chorus of laughter answers the teasing. You hunch into yourself.

“Go back to your pint, Angus, ya weapon!” Johnny returns grandly. Then, to you, “Here, this is the best thing for it—”

John Price has already stepped far aside; you and he watch as Johnny retrieves a long-stemmed glass from a shelf, and then pulls a bottle of wine from a low fridge. He sets the glass beside your plate and uncorks the bottle—bicep quivering as he works the screw—and then, thumb in the punt, he pours out a stream of white wine one-handed.

“Tossers over there’ll call me mad but Sav Blanc with a fish an’ chips is pure class,” says Johnny. Then, to your horror, he sets his elbows on the counter in front of you. “Go on, have us a bite.”

You stare at him agog. His cheeks are flushed red, and you’re not sure it’s from the heat of the kitchen or—his gaze flicks to your mouth and back��something far less comforting. He stares back at you, grin unmoving—eyes bright and vibrant and too intense to hold contact with for long.

You look down at the meal again. The fish looks crunchy and thick with golden brown crust; the chips are sharp at the edges and dusted with salt and some sort of green seasoning. The smell is impossible to ignore—hot and floury and oily.

You take a chip and dip it tentatively into the white sauce. Johnny’s eyes dance with excitement as they follow the movement. When you take a bite, the bitter tang of tartar meets your tongue and mixes with the mild potato as you chew.

It is only just shy of hot enough to burn but—it’s good. It’s delicious. It’s the best thing, you realize, that you’ve tasted in you’re not sure how long.

You do your absolute utmost to prevent that from showing on your face.

“It’s good,” you say, and take another bite.

“Barry!” Johnny enthuses. “Now have a dram, go on.”

Rather than allow you to pick up the glass like a normal person, Soap lifts it in one large hand—knuckles and wrist peppered with dark hair—and brings the rim to your mouth. You have no choice but to take a sip as he tilts it toward you, or else end up dribbling white wine everywhere.

You must begrudgingly agree, as it passes across your tongue, that it pairs very well with what you’ve eaten.

You nod at him in lieu of another response; the corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets the glass down and slaps the counter with both palms, pushing himself away from it.

“Enjoy that an’ I’ll be back for ya in a mo,’” he says. With a bounce in his step, he disappears back into the kitchen.

John Price throws you another droll look. “You’re never getting rid of him now.”

When he turns away to address another patron, you scowl at his back.

Johnny comes in and out of the kitchen several times, as you pick at the food. Whatever his usual habits as the pub cook, it seems he’s in a magnanimous mood this evening, bringing orders to every table and chatting with anyone who catches his attention.

And a lot of people catch his attention. Island native or not, it seems that Johnny is everyone’s favorite boy—and it’s hard not to see why. He throws bright smiles at everyone who speaks to him, pats shoulders, trades good-natured Scottish ribbing with anyone who throws it his way. He’s familiar, it seems, with everyone he talks to—or he’s good at making it seem that way.

And the effect it has on everyone he talks to is obvious. Weathered faces, the kind that seem to rest at a permanent, severe frown, rise to beam as brightly as the sun after Johnny spends a minute or two checking in on them. Fond eyes follow him around the pub; the conversations at tables he visits keeps a lively tenor even after he leaves it.

You reach for your wineglass and drink deep.

“There we go!” Johnny exclaims, noticing.

He does not leave you neglected, of course—he keeps circling around, looking at your plate, and then at you, and filling your glass when you empty it. It strikes you as rather sweet until he starts availing himself of a mouthful every time—turning the glass so that his lips cover the marks yours have made on it.

When about half of your plate has been cleared, and Johnny is returning from delivering a tray of sandwiches to another table, he comes up behind you and leans in close, hands curling around your shoulders. Mouth brushing your ear.

“Dinner rush is almost done, bonnie,” he murmurs, butter-smooth and low as banked embers. “Then I’m all yours.”

A tremor runs up the nerves in your spine; you sit up straighter when he pulls away, the fine hairs on the back of your neck reaching toward him as if statically charged.

You catch John Price eyeing you again, expression blasé. You flush up to the roots of your hair and avoid looking at him again.

Eventually, the pub begins to vacate, somewhere close to ten in the evening. No city bar, this one, even on a Friday night. You finish three-quarters of the bottle of wine in between turning the fish and chips into mush and crumbs, finally pushing everything away from you as the last stragglers jingle the bell above the door.

Then it’s just John Price, pulling on a coat, Johnny doing dishes in the kitchen, and you, alone, sneakers hooked to a rung on the barstool.

John Price sticks his head through the swinging door. “We still doing Sunday, Soap? Or d’you have new plans?”

“Course doin’ Sunday!” Johnny yells. “Canny wait!”

“Alright. I’m leaving, lock up when you go.”

And with that, John Price gives you a cursory nod, and makes his exit.

Soon after, Johnny exits the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, the motions making his pectorals twitch and flex. His apron is gone, the little v of his shirt collar exposing dark, curling chest hair.

The odd pelt—you realize, from your experience this morning, that it’s a seal’s—still hangs around another plaid kilt.

Your heartbeat is hot and heavy in your ears. You stare at him, lips pressed together tightly, a tremor working its way between your shoulders.

He tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded. When you meet his gaze again, his smile is set at an expectant angle.

“Drive me home, Johnny,” you finally say, wine and humiliation pulsing through your veins.

He drives you home in silence, and rests his hand on your thigh the whole way there.

You don’t move it. You don’t react, either—even when his pinky flicks against the seam of your leggings, right where it lays against your pussy. He roves his spread fingers and heavy palm all across the length and breadth of your thigh, cresting down over your knee and back up again, squeezing and massaging the fat of your quad.

You don’t say anything. He does not prompt you to do so. The corner of his mouth, when you look to him at your side, catching his profile, is curled.

The silence continues when he pulls up to the cottage—even the wind is light and quiet, as you unlock the door to let the both of you in. The night sky is cobbled with clouds that pass over slowly, letting only slivers of moonlight reach the earth, so inside the croft is dark and murky.

You don’t move to switch any lights on. Nor does Johnny, following close behind you.

Out of sight, it seems your body forgets who—or what, even—is following you. He is only a presence at your back, a body taking up space, and in the darkness, with only your hindbrain to rely on, he could be anyone.

Anything.

You stop in the middle of the living room. He hovers behind you. Not quite touching—but close enough to feel the gravity of him, strong enough to pull you in.

You drop your purse on the couch, and make to shuck his jacket—his hands take hold of the shoulders, allowing you to slide out of it. The deep, even pulse of his breathing is right there at the shell of your ear.

“Bonnie,” he murmurs, husky.

“I’m,” you say, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

A pause. Then—“Alright,” he purrs.

You escape.

In the mirror above the sink, you look yourself in the eye. What you see is nothing you haven’t seen before—pitiable, needy, pathetic—and it’s nothing you have any desire to confront now. If you think too hard about it—if you ask yourself what you should be asking—there will be no coming back from it.

He’s been dangling this in front of you this whole time. It’s no fault of yours for taking it. This once, you aren’t to blame for what happens next. This once.

You run the cold tap over a washcloth and dab cool water across your face and down your neck. It does little to regulate the heat flushing through you.

If you don’t go out there now, he might leave.

You throw the cloth into the sink basin and open the door.

And Johnny is there, standing right there in front of it, leaning casually against the opposite wall—

Completely naked.

You stop dead.

Gray moonlight falls across his body in a thin haze. The bulky, sculpted planes of it roll with dense muscle and dark hair, which is thick and curly across rounded pectorals and joins in a broad stream down his abdomen. Twisting into a nest at his groin, they cushion a long, wide cock, uncut, half-hard—

That jumps at your appearance.

He meets your eyes. They are silvery and sharp, even in the gloam. Drags his gaze down—leveling it with your tightening nipples. Then he reaches to his side and twists the doorknob to the bedroom.

It swings open. Empty bed in the doorframe.

His cock jumps again. A diamond-drop of moisture beads at the tip.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

You walk in, barely aware of your own footsteps. His bare feet cross the floor behind you, and then the door shuts again.

He does not say another word as he approaches you; you do not turn to face him. You stand as if restrained in place as large, warm hands skim the dip of your waist, slope easily down your hips and up again; he pinches the hem of your sweater and lifts. You raise your arms, lost in the fugue of your pounding heart; he brings it over your head, and tosses it to the side.

Rough hands smoothing over your bare skin, almost like sweeping away dust. He unhooks your bra with startling dexterity—fingers slide beneath the straps and loosen them down your shoulders. Hands dipping down your chest, edging under and replacing the cups around your breasts.

His thumbs press your nipples in, circle around them; you gasp, flinch back against him, and feel his cock, fully erect, nestle in the cleft of your ass. He huffs a laugh into your hair.

His hands return to your waist, and they slide down, pressed open against your sides, as Johnny goes to his knees behind you. He grasps the waistbands of both panties and leggings and—face centimeters away from the globe of one ass cheek—pulls both down in one smooth, soft sweep.

It feels like being skinned. Your heart beats a hammer in the arteries against your throat. You nearly lose your balance, tilting when you lift one foot out of your clothes, before one of Soap’s hands return to your waist to give you ballast. Holding you up like it’s nothing. He squeezes the meat of your hip tenderly, massages the give of it with the tips of his fingers, skin warm and rough against yours.

The moment you’d first caught sight of Johnny in the airport, he’d slotted cleanly into a certain taxon of manhood; one need only to examine his morphology briefly—the mohawk, the muscles, stubborn refusal to cover his knees even as winter fast approaches—to understand that his is the lifestyle of the fast-living. He leers. He gropes. He runs down what he sets his eyes on whether his prey likes it or not.

An organism with cheap pleasure on its mind, and nothing more. Johnny’s bull-focused intentions had stunk acrid and obvious the moment they’d fallen upon you—aimed, you thought unceremoniously, between your legs and nowhere else.

So why, as his hands drag up the backs of your thighs, is he touching you so tenderly? Teasing you open, rather than prising you apart. Touching you as if he’s in no hurry to do anything else.

It feels like an insult. It feels like mercy you didn’t ask for. Without thinking, without knowing you’re going to do it—you slap his hand away.

“Is this going to take all night, or are you going to get around to fucking me sometime soon?” you snap, galled.

An indrawn breath. His or yours, you’re not entirely sure.

Then he rises up, shoves a hand hard between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward onto the bed, flailing, landing face-first, as Johnny knees up behind you.

“So that’s how you want it, then,” he says. Nonchalant. “Aye, I can do that. Come here.”

You don’t have time to scramble away before rough hands grab your hips and yank them back, pulling you up onto your knees, and with no more preamble Johnny shoves his face into your naked pussy from behind. Immediately hot and star-bright; thumbs hook into your outer folds to spread you open moments before his tongue burns a stripe from clit to perineum, no slow build, no warm-up, before he starts eating you out like he’s starving.

You shriek from the sudden contact, hips jerking, but his hold is iron, and the more you resist the more he tightens his grasp, fingertips digging down near to bone. He licks at your folds, at the dips between them, as if he’s pulling swipes of you away on every taste bud, imprecise, mouthing your cleft as if he means to swallow it whole.

When you reach back with one hand to grab his hair—to hold him where he is or shove him away, you’re not sure—he releases one hip and shackles your wrist in his fingers, bending your arm at the elbow and pinning it to your lower back.

“You asked for it,” he growls against you, “and now you’re gettin’ it,” another dig of his tongue around your entrance, “so don’ fuckin’ complain.”

He pulls away and abruptly spits on your asshole before diving back in. With the thumb of the same hand around your wrist, he smears it around, dipping just inside at the same time his tongue breaches your cunt; you feel teeth press against your perineum for a breathless moment before he lets up, and then he prods your clitoris with little jabbing licks, forcing his way up under the hood that fails to protect it from his onslaught.

You have a free hand—you reach back to slap at him again. The theory of insanity proves true; one wrist joins the other, and Johnny uses his own weight to move you as he likes, arms curled over your hips, rocking your entire body against his mouth, lips smacking against you as he alternates between licking up the slick that abruptly starts welling around your entrance and sucking your labia between his teeth.

He grunts and snarls after every brief surfacing for air, every time his tongue touches you again, as if every new taste of you in his mouth is better than the last. His hands tighten into vices around your wrists as he buries in deeper, groaning, shoving his face against you so hard it thrusts your hips forward, which he greedily drags back, and then he flutters his tongue against your clit as if to punish you for his own forcefulness.

“Johnny—” you cry, “Johnny, slow down, slow down—!”

A climax swells within you before you have any time to prepare for it, a closeout curling in so fast that it hits you before you can brace. Johnny thumbs your ass again and suctions his lips closed around your clitoris, tearing a scream from your throat, ripping your orgasm even further out of you as you suddenly, violently convulse.

It jerks you in his grasp, as if whipping you, and then, as fast as it came at you, it recedes; you sag, dizzy and gulping air, but Johnny’s mouth opens around your pussy again as if nothing happened, tongue and lips losing none of their frantic voracity.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, I came, you can stop—”

“Don’t give half a shite, am no’ done,” he snarls, accent thicker than you’ve heard it before.

Your breath shudders out of you as he runs the edges of his teeth up your folds, and then, briefly, the flat of his tongue circles your asshole, before dipping back down into the heat of your cunt. He catches your clit again in a quick succession of sucking kisses, loud and wet and pulling at it so hard that tugs at nerves all the way down your legs, spasming through your calves.

Your breath thins in your lungs, escaping you in high, reedy whines, and finally, he pulls his mouth away—only to replace it with his hand. He transfers your crossed wrists into one grasp, wedging all four fingers between the split of your cleft and shaking it vigorously, like a dog might with a small animal clamped in its jaws. He follows this with several rapid slaps against flesh that is already screaming with overstimulation—

And then the head of something hot and hard parts you, circling to find its target, and with as little preamble as he began Johnny shoves his fat, rock-hard cock into you, all the way to the base in one harsh thrust.

It shoves the air from your lungs in one go, leaves you no room to breathe in before he grabs your wrists again, like reins, pulls halfway out, and rams back in again, setting a brutal pace, his thighs slamming against the fat of your ass at a rapid staccato that shakes the old bedframe on its creaky legs.

He barely pulls out as he fucks you this way, thrusting short and hard, your face crushed against the bedsheets as he uses your arms to pull you back against him to meet every thrust. The fattest part of his cock catches your g-spot over and over, bright and hot as iron pulled from a fire, and you can’t even get enough breath in your lungs to do more than whimper every time his hips meet yours.

“This is wha’ she fuckin’ needed, hen, aye?” Johnny snarls. “Hissin’ an’ spittin’ like a stray cat, didnae know wha’s good fer it, jus’ needed a big cock in ‘er wet cunt, didnae she?”

A long, shaky moan is the only response you can give. Fast, fast and hard—he bucks against you wildly, violently, sending shockwaves up your body that jounce your breast and ripple across your blazing cheeks. Your mouth hangs open at a loose angle—if you try to close your teeth, you might accidentally bite into your tongue—

He releases your wrists, and your arms fall hard to the bedspread. Then he bends over your back, planting his hands in the spaces over your shoulders, making a cage with his his body. It changes the angle of his thrusts, lets him force his way in even deeper, kissing the head of your cervix. You climb your hands up the bedspread, claw at his wrists with your nails, but you might as well be a curl of wind trying to knock over a pillar of stone.

“You can bitch an’ whine all you wan’ at me, bonnie,” he says, a nasty thread in his tone, “but I know mean pussy just needs some pettin’ to make it nice again, don’ I, now?”

You try to struggle under him, search for some sort of purchase in the sheets beneath you, and for a moment you think he’s making space to let you; his weight retreats as you rise to all fours, but then one solid, beefy arm closes around your neck in a chokehold. He brings the both of you up, settling you over the cradle of his thighs as he sits back on his heels, clamping your back against his chest.

His free hand snakes down between your thighs, finding your clitoris again with rough, abrading calluses. A hard, grinding roll of his hips, upward and forward, pushes it up into his touch, like the crest of a wave, but gravity gives you no escape on the downwell; he pushes and pulls you as he likes, heel of his hand digging hard into the sensitive edge of your mons.

You scrabble with your hands for something to hold onto—you find the brackets of his wide thighs, wiry with dark hair, and dig your nails into hard, tensed muscle. He only laughs in your ear, speeds the rhythm of his hips, pinches your clitoris between his fingers and drags it around.

“Told ya, bonnie,” he gloats, taking the lobe briefly between his lips, “she wants it—” and he pushes his cock in deep, shaking his hips “—bad as he does.”

He reaches further inward and splits his fingers around his own girth, pressing upward—as if he intends to shove them in too, and choking for air as you are you think deliriously that they might just slip in, no resistance, aided by the wetness free-flowing now around him, dripping in long streams down the inside of your thighs.

Inescable—no matter what you do, it’s nothing to him. You thrash against him, whining through gritted teeth in frustration, but he only moves with you, anticipating every direction you might blindly throw yourself in to get away. You cry out in wordless fury, slapping whatever parts of him you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. There is no purchase for you anywhere, nothing you can use to grab back any sort of control.

He’s too big. Too strong. You finally begin to comprehend it in a way that had been impossible before. Looking at him from a few paces, Johnny is easy to take in; easy to summarize and dismiss when you can see the whole of him at once.

But now, at your back—he feels vast. Enormous. An undulating wall of a hard body flexing against you, mooring you to it, all heat and sweat and sharp, animalistic grunting as it pistons into you from behind. The hand manipulating your clit is wide enough to cover your pussy entirely; the pillar of his body doesn’t so much as shudder as you struggle, instinct overriding desire as you try to escape the lightning-streaks of pleasure he carelessly sends through you.

You are too primed from your earlier climax to possibly last, and Johnny seems to feel it—you flutter and clutch around him, the sensation almost painful, but when both your hands fly to the one between your legs he only increases the pressure.

“You gonna come again, bonnie?” he sneers into your ear. “Jus’ tiring yourself out, poor baby. Fightin’ it so hard, an’ it’s gonna happen anyway.”

It does—he starts slapping your pussy again, right above where his cock stretches you to your limit, quick and sharp, and you break with ragged scream, arms flailing out uselessly, nails finding his forearm around your throat.

“Johnny—” you cry out, “Johnny!”

“Fuck,” he groans in your ear, “steamin’ Jesus, fuck—”

Suddenly he pushes you away from him, and you flail again as you land face-first into the pillows. His cock slips out of you entirely, even as you’re still clenching around your orgasm, but you have no time to react, either to mourn it or be relieved, because Johnny grabs you by the thighs, flips you over in one motion, and drives back in again before it ends.

“Fuck, bonnie, so good, fuck, do it again—”

He throws your legs open, leaving your calves to shake in the air as he fucks you faster. You nearly fold in half under the force of his thrusts, knees hovering nearer and nearer to your ears. Each slap of his hips against yours ricochets up your body, and, with nowhere else to go, back down—you ring like a bell, shaking all the way into your marrow.

“Soap,” you whine, “Soap, it—I—I can’t—”

Suddenly he grabs your face in his hand, so tightly he squeezes your cheeks together, pushing out your lips, and he lurches forward to get in your face. Fury blazes from him.

“I told you,” he snarls, “to call me Johnny.”

It shocks you so much that freeze up, going completely blank. The dark, sharp lines of his brows arch dangerously over flashing eyes.

He shakes your face. “Say it.”

“J—” you slur, unable to shape it in your lips properly, “Johnny.”

His nostrils flare wide. Fury is replaced by triumph. “Good fucking girl.”

He slams his mouth against yours.

The first time he’s kissed you, and he gives you no chance to participate in it. He purses your lips with the pressure of his hand to meld with his, opening your jaw wide enough to thrust his tongue behind your teeth. The force of it presses your head back into the pillow. It’s an attack; it’s an onslaught. And—if the grunts and groans Johnny makes in his throat as he does what he likes with your mouth are any indication—

It’s what he’s really wanted this whole time.

Everything else, he’s enjoyed. But this—his mouth on yours, lips moving together, saliva pooling and seeping between the seams—is the prize he’s aimed for all along.

It touches something inside of you. Something tiny and ugly. A thing that you’ve wrapped up in nacreous layers of shame and guilt, lodged in your soft tissues, and tried to forget about.

It sends your arms to wrap around Johnny’s neck, fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulders. You close your thighs around his waist, crossing your ankles, and roll yourself up into every meeting of his hips with yours.

He moans, higher, and drops his full weight over you. His belly meets yours; his chest crushes your breasts under his. He uses the full brunt of his weight to rut into you, crashing his hips against you, stealing the breath from your lungs—

It’s an old trick you’ve learned from small experience, inhaling when you feel the rush coming—as if climax blooms in the lungs rather than the clitoral head, and filling your alveoli gives it no place to expand. It’s useful to prolong satisfaction, to stave off the end.

Johnny does not give you opportunity try. The only thing he allows you to occupy your mouth with is his, and as hypoxia thins out your bloodstream—as you begin to struggle for air—you go rigid with your third climax beneath him.

However long it lasts, you don’t know. It freezes you in place, in time. It wrenches your head back, arching your spine, tears one long, broken cry from your throat.

“Fuck yes,” Johnny gasps, feeling you clamp down so hard around him it seems you may never release him. He moves to bury his face in your throat. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck—yes—”

His tempo falters, signaling the end—

Realization—“Wait!” you find some presence of mind to cry out—“a condom! We didn’t use—”

“It’s got a’go somewhere hen, an’ I’m no’ wastin’ it on yer belly,” he snarls, “just—just—yes—fuck—”

Then his teeth come down on your neck, hard, as his hips beat against yours, and then he buries himself to the root with one final, full-body thrust. He shakes his hips flush against yours as he groans long and loud, cock pulsing inside you, wet heat flooding you in jets, so full that it spills back out to drip down between you.

He pants hard into your shoulder. Your own breath labors, vision swimming.

A cloud covers the moon outside. Johnny makes no move to pull away from you—instead his arms wedge beneath you, banding around your back, and he rolls you both to your sides. You feel him kissing the sting his teeth left on your neck, as you lay there together, sweat cooling on your naked bodies.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you. You have no time to arrange your expression, no idea even what you might want to present to him; whatever he sees on your face makes him smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“There’s my bonnie,” he murmurs, and the next kiss he gives you is soft and very sweet.

Your lips rise to meet his without you thinking about it.

He strokes your back very gently. Sooner than yours, his breathing evens out. Even as he softens inside of you, he keeps his hips against yours.

“Johnny,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just a little while longer. Can you do that for me? Aye, you can, I know it.”

You should say something about spermicide. Plan B. But the look in his eyes is so soft, so content, that you put it away for later. You just hold his gaze as he looks at you like you’re everything that could ever make him happy.

He kisses you again. Soon, the heaving of your chest abates. Exhaustion pours through you in one drenching wave; you turn your head to yawn.

“Go to sleep, bonnie,” Johnny croons, pressing his fingers into the soft part of your lower back. “I’ll clean us up, aye? You just sleep.”

You don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Soon, you’re slipping away—you’re aware for long enough to feel it when he finally pulls away from you, when he runs a warm washcloth between your legs, and then when he slides back into bed beside you and pulls up the covers.

Then you’re gone.

Sometime after midnight, you half-wake.

The moon has moved far enough across the sky that its light floods the bedroom through its one window, casting everything in silver. Your eyes open slowly, blurred with sleep; Johnny is still beside you.

He’s sitting up against the headboard; eye-level with you is his waist, covered by the thin bedsheet. You draw your eyes up his body slowly—there, his navel, dark hair curling around it. There, his chest, full pectorals rising and falling slowly with calm, even breath.

When you reach his face, you find him looking down at you, corners of his mouth curled. You meet his eyes—

The moon reflects in them. Disks of shifting light in both pupils.

Some part of you, buried in your hindbrain, shouts with alarm. It’s far away, cottoned with sleep. Muffled enough by the soreness of three full-body orgasms to be ignored.

Johnny reaches out and drags the back of one finger along the wounded part of your neck. Touch feather-light.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Vaguely, you remember that you’ve answered this question before, but that doesn’t feel consequential. Any part of you that could protest is still lost to sleep.

As is any ability to dissemble. The truth—the thing you attempted to abandon, that has followed you regardless—slips out.

“Nobody wants me,” you whisper.

So quiet you fear he won’t hear you, and ask you to repeat it.

But Johnny tilts his head. The curl of his mouth softens to something almost kind.

It doesn’t quite get there, because a gleam of satisfaction that you cannot name colors his shining gaze.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

His broad hand covers the crown of your head, and he strokes your hair. The tide of sleep comes back in, and you know nothing more.

chapter 4 early access

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #mwritessoap #madi writes #selkie soap #peristalsis #remember that hot chef who went viral recently? that's who i'm trying to evoke with pub cook soap

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harrysfolklore · 4 months ago

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carlos sainz being hopelessly in love: a compilation

GIF by sainzprix

summary: carlos sainz can't help but talk about his girlfriend all the time, fans make compilation videos about it

folkie radio: compilation blurbs are back! honestly i have so much fun doing these and i was dying to do it for carlitossss, hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Carlos Sainz might be known as Formula 1's Smooth Operator, but there's one thing that makes him completely lose his cool: his girlfriend.

While most drivers keep their private lives under wraps, Carlos can't seem to help himself from turning into a lovesick puppy whenever she is mentioned. His teammates often tease him about how his usual composed demeanor melts away at the mere sight of her.

Fan compilations began flooding social media, showing every endearing moment of Carlos being completely smitten. The most popular one, titled "Carlos Sainz Being Hopelessly In Love: A Compilation," gained millions of views across platforms.

The video opens with Carlos walking to the Ferrari garage during media day. "Favorite meal after a race?" the social media guy asks for the team's instagram stories.

"Well, my girlfriend makes this amazing risotto," Carlos grins, adjusting his Ferrari cap, "I used to prefer paella but now… don't tell my mother, but her risotto is unbeatable."

In another clip, Carlos is doing a Ferrari team challenge, asked about his most used emoji.

"The chili emoji," Carlos laughs, "Because that's what I call my girlfriend. My little chili. She's small but spicy."

During a post-race interview after a podium finish: "This one's special because my girlfriend is here today. She couldn't come to many races this season so having her here for a podium means everything."

Another clip shows Carlos arriving at the paddock, his girlfriend walking slightly behind him. A fan calls out asking for a photo, and Carlos immediately reaches back to take her hand, pulling her into the frame with him.

"No no," he says when she tries to step away, "You're part of the photo cariño."

The fans melted, getting the entire interaction on camera.

There's a moment captured by F1TV during a rain delay. Carlos is in the garage, and the camera catches him FaceTiming with his girlfriend who couldn't make it to that race.

"See? It's properly wet," he shows her the track, "But don't worry, I'll be careful. Yes, yes, I promise."

A clip from Ferrari's social media games shows Carlos doing a "Rate or Hate" segment. When shown a picture of breakfast in bed:

"Rate, obviously. My girlfriend makes the best breakfast," he pauses, "Actually, she's going to watch this and know I'm lying. I make breakfast most mornings because she's terrible at waking up early. But she makes great coffee once she's actually awake."

"Mate, don't roast her like that," Charles laughed from beside him.

"She loves me, she doesn't mind." Carlos shrugged

There's footage from a fan in Monaco, catching Carlos and his girl walking their dogs. They don't notice they're being filmed, and Carlos is gesturing animatedly while she laughs, reaching up to wipe something from his face. The natural, unguarded moment became a fan favorite.

During another Ferrari social media video, Carlos is asked about his most played song.

"Oh no," he laughs, "My girlfriend's going to kill me but it's that Taylor Swift song she keeps playing. It's been stuck in my head for weeks. She converted me into a Swiftie, I can't believe it."

A paddock moment caught on camera shows her helping Carlos with his sunscreen before a hot race.

"I burn easily!" Carlos defends when Charles teases him, "She's is just taking care of me. Unlike some teammates…"

During a radio interview, Carlos is asked about living in Monaco.

"The best part is having my girlfriend there," he says, "She's made our house a home. Though she insists on having plants everywhere. I think we have about fifty now? She names them all too."

A casual moment caught by Sky Sports shows Carlos talking to his trainer between sessions. His girlfriend appears with his water bottle, and without interrupting his conversation, Carlos automatically lifts his arm so she can fit against his side.

During a Ferrari team challenge about "Who knows Carlos better?", Charles vs his girlfriend:

"His biggest fear?" the interviewer asks.

"Spiders," she answers immediately.

"That was supposed to be a secret!" Carlos protests.

"Mi amor, everyone knows since you made me catch that spider in the motorhome while you stood on a chair."

There's a sweet moment from Carlos' birthday celebration at a race weekend. The Ferrari team surprises him with a cake, and the camera catches his girlfriend helping him blow out the candles.

"What did you wish for?" someone asks.

"I already have everything I need," Carlos responds, his arm around her.

The compilation includes a clip where Carlos is doing simulator work, completely focused, until his girlfriend brings him coffee. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he reaches for her hand and kisses it in thanks.

One of the most shared clips shows Carlos after a difficult race where he DNF'd. He's clearly frustrated in the garage, but the camera catches his girlfriend quietly approaching him. She doesn't say anything, just takes his hand, and you can see his shoulders immediately relax.

The final clip shows Carlos at a racing podcast, responding to a question about handling public attention as a couple.

"We try to keep things private, but it's natural to want to share your happiness sometimes. She understands this world, she supports me unconditionally, and that makes everything easier. Though she does make fun of me when I take too long choosing my race day outfit."

The compilation ends with text reading: "Find someone who's hopelessly in love with you as Carlos is with his girlfriend."

#carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz fanfiction #carlos sainz blurb #carlos sainz smau #carlos sainz x yn #carlos sainz angst #f1 x reader #f1 fanfiction #cs55 x reader #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 reader #carlos sainz imagine #harrysfolklore #cs55 fic #carlos sainz fic #f1 fic #f1 grid x reader #carlos sainz fluff #cs55 x you

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solxamber · 2 months ago

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Malleus, Romantic (but no established relationship), "Usually, I'm all by myself" (From Treehouse - Alex G)

"Usually, I'm all by myself" || Malleus Draconia

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: Treehouse by Alex G

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 710

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Pre-Relationship, Pining

Malleus has always been alone.

He is powerful—one of the strongest beings in the world—but power does not keep the loneliness at bay. He has Lilia, Sebek, Silver, loyal in their own ways, but even they remind him, in their reverence, in their unwavering devotion, that he is above them. That he is a prince. That he has no equals.

It is lonely at the top.

But then, one night, he meets you outside Ramshackle, and his world changes.

You're standing beneath the broken lantern light, frowning up at the flickering bulb as if sheer determination could will it to stay on. The moment you notice him, your face brightens—not with fear, not with the stiff politeness he is so accustomed to, but with familiarity.

“Oh, hey, Tsunotaro!” you call, as if he is not a prince, as if he is not a creature that could level the ground beneath your feet with a single thought.

And just like that, his world shifts.

Even when you learn who he is—when the whispers of his title reach your ears—you do not change. You still call him Tsunotaro. You still take his hand and pull him along when you find something new, something interesting, something you want to share.

“Have you ever been to a festival?” you ask, and when he hesitates, you grin. “Then let’s go.”

“Do you know how to carve a pumpkin?”

“Have you ever tried finger painting? No magic, just your hands.”

His world, once so vast yet so unbearably small, expands with you in it.

You take him to places he has never thought to visit, show him things he has never looked at closely before. A stray cat napping in a sunbeam, the way the stars ripple in the lake at night, the warmth of a hand reaching for his without hesitation.

He has never known this kind of belonging.

He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

He does not say it. Not yet. But when you pat the spot beside you, when you lean your head against his shoulder and sigh as if he has always belonged here—he thinks, maybe he does.

You once told Malleus about a place you go when the world becomes too much.

It wasn’t a secret, not exactly. But it was yours—your solace, your sanctuary. A space untouched by expectations or prying eyes. He never asked where it was. He never wanted to intrude.

So he does not look for it.

But one evening, as he wanders beyond the usual paths outside Ramshackle, he stumbles into a small clearing. Fireflies drift lazily between the branches, their glow flickering in the dim twilight. A fallen log sits nestled beneath an ancient tree, and upon it—you.

You are sitting with your legs tucked to your chest, gazing at the sky as if the stars are speaking just to you. There is something delicate about the moment, like stepping into a dream not meant to be disturbed.

Malleus realizes, with a start, that he has intruded.

His first instinct is to leave—to vanish into the night as silently as he arrived. But before he can turn away, you shift, catching sight of him in the dim glow.

Instead of surprise, instead of irritation, you smile.

“You found it,” you say, like it was always inevitable. Then, you pat the spot beside you. “Come sit.”

Malleus hesitates. This place is yours, your retreat, your shelter. But you are looking at him like you want him here.

Slowly, he moves to sit beside you.

The silence is comfortable. The sounds of the night weave between you—the whisper of the wind, the distant hoot of an owl, the rhythmic chorus of crickets. It is peaceful. It is warm.

He has always been alone.

Even in a castle filled with voices, even with Lilia’s watchful care, with Silver’s quiet respect, with Sebek’s relentless devotion—he has been alone. A prince with no equals. A king with no friends.

But here, in this place that belongs to you, where you let him stay—

He is just Malleus.

And Malleus loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

#ˋ°•*⁀➷ valentine's event #twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #malleus x reader #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia #twst malleus #malleus

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nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

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and for us, it won't be long | joaquin torres x fem!reader | chapter one

summary: after joaquin's accident, you reconnect with your childhood friend

warnings: hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff, eventual smut, spoilers for captain america: brave new world, swearing, use of she/her pronouns, friends to lovers

word count: 2.7k

a/n: so i think this is a small cute mini series of exactly 3 parts. i haven't written a fic in a while so this is wild but i'm happy to be here. the title of this fic is from baynk's song, grin.

read chapter two here

You watch him fall out of the sky on national television, the footage juxtaposed with an exterior shot of the Walter Reed Military Medical Center that’s got been stock footage, resulting in the world’s worst case of emotional whiplash. The news anchor’s voice is clear—reassuring, even—as he explains the situation:

An accident involving the Falcon.

In critical condition.

The new Captain America at his side.

Hopeful.

It’s the word he keeps repeating.

The doctors are hopeful.

But his words are lost on you, traveling in through one ear and out through another. In a state of shock, you’re only able to comprehend bits and pieces because watching the man you’ve known for most of your life soar through the air—not to mention, in flames—and plummet straight into the Indian Ocean, makes you feel like you’re going to pass out.

It’s not like you expect for him to pick up—but you’re calling Joaquin’s phone, your heart practically beating out of your chest like he could—because there isn’t much else you feel like you can do. Besides, if, when he wakes up, you want him to know that you’ll be there.

You get his voicemail.

Of course.

But you can’t sit with this alone.

So you call your mom. And then his. And then three of you hold each other through the phone like he held your father all five years through The Blip.

And when all is said and done, after days of agonizing nothingness, you get a text from his mother saying:

He’s going to be okay.

It’s the seventh time in the last ten minutes that Sam sees the screen of Joaquin’s phone flash upwards toward the hospital ceiling, signaling that he’s got yet another notification.

“You should give ‘em a call,” Sam encourages.

Joaquin shoots a quizzical look to the man he’s looked up to his whole life, as Sam nods towards the cell phone once again, clarifying his previous statement with: “Your family, Torres. And whoever else’s been blowin’ your phone all day.”

His face falls.

The doctors had called to let his family know that he had made it through a successful surgery, and that he was going to be okay, but he hadn’t reached out just yet. Hell, he was almost grateful that his phone had been dead for days, crossing his fingers that the hospital wouldn’t find a spare charger. But then Sam came in this morning, brand new phone charger in hand, forcing Joaquin to return to reality: an overwhelm of missed calls and texts.

“I don’t-, I… I don’t want to worry them,” Joaquin hesitates, the disappointment in himself evident in how cautious he is. It’s why he’s been putting it off. He can’t seem to beat the nagging feeling that he should’ve done some differently—something so he didn’t have to make this kind of call.

But he knows he’ll have to face the music sooner or later.

“What-? What do I say? What am I supposed to tell them?” he asks earnestly, searching the face of his mentor for any kind of guidance.

“Tell ‘em you’re gonna be okay,” Sam replies gently, the reassurance in his words allowing the obvious to land a little softer than it would had he chosen a different path. Joaquin nods slowly in response, reaching for the phone on his hospital bedside table.

With a sigh and a heaviness he can’t yet name, Joaquin begins to scroll through the notifications. While he expects to see calls and texts from his parents, extended family members he hasn’t spoken to in years, he doesn’t expect to see 5 missed calls and 3 texts from you.

Sam watches carefully as a look of surprise washes over his friend, colleague, and wingman’s face, and there’s something different about his reaction when his thumb hovers over your messages.

“I’ll give you a few minutes, man,” Sam bows out, respectfully.

When Joaquin finally texts you, it’s just a stupid GIF of a zombie rising from the grave. You’re less than amused by his humor at a time like this, but your heart feels like it’s going to jump out of your chest as you see that the notification is from him. 2:08 pm

You: Not funny, asshole! We’ve all been worried sick. 2:10 pm

Joaquin: 😣You talked to my mom?!

2:15 pm

You: 🖕Fuck off. You know Lydia likes me more than you.

2:16 pm

Joaquin: 💔

Savage.

2:16 pm

I’m jk. Mom told me how wonderful you’ve been with her and Dad. Thank you. 🙏

2:22 pm

You: I’m just glad you’re okay.

2:30 pm

Joaquin: 😅

2:30 pm

You: Can I call you later?

2:31 pm

Joaquin: Yeah :)

You’ve never been this girl: the girl that waits by the phone for some guy to text her.

But in the days following Joaquin’s accident, you have to remind yourself that the fact that you’re practically glued to your phone waiting for updates is just a result of the fact that you could’ve lost him.

Besides, he’s not just some guy. It’s Joaquin: he’s the neighborhood kid you grew up with, the sweet seventeen year-old boy who took you to your senior prom, and the man that both of your mothers still swear to this day that you’ll marry.

It’s Captain America—Sam, he insists that you call him—who eventually puts you out of your misery by inviting you to see Joaquin, when he notices his wingman’s recovery is going better and better all thanks to his mysterious pen pal.

“I know kids these days can’t get off their phones, but something’s telling me there’s a cute girl on the other end, Buck,” Sam mentions over the phone one day, when the latter asks him about Joaquin’s recovery. “Hey, I’m not mad at it! Seems like it’s helping him.”

“Kid’s gotta girl?” Bucky asks from somewhere along the campaign trail, a hint of curiosity in his voice as he inquires further. “There’s only one way to find out,” Sam shrugs with a little mischief in his voice.

It’s not hard to swipe Joaquin’s phone, considering his recovery still requires lots and lots of rest. The last thing you had expected that day was a call from Captain America himself—from Joaquin’s phone, no less—asking you to come to DC to reunite with your childhood friend.

What’s even more shocking is the fact that it’s Sam Wilson himself, who’s there to meet you at the hospital. You try to keep your cool as you introduce yourself, but you can’t shake the giddy feeling of excitement that fills you upon meeting the Avenger you and Joaquin used to see on TV. He leads you down the long hospital hallways, warning you quietly that Joaquin was pretty badly injured, and he may have a little more wear and tear than you expected.

You don’t mean to gasp, but your sharp intake of breath upon seeing him in his hospital bed isn’t exactly subtle. Your eyes trace over him worriedly, as you take in the burn scars on his neck and the still-healing cuts and scrapes on his face. It’s the moment you realize that, since making the choice to join The Avengers, your superhero friend is not so invincible.

“What’re you-?” Joaquin balks, speechless at the sight of you. He looks from you to Sam, then back to you, before returning to Sam once more, his eyes landing on the man like he’s Benedict Arnold. “Sam, you didn’t-. How did you-? You called her?!”

“Wasn’t hard to swipe your phone when you need a nap every 2 hours,” Sam replies casually, as if he isn’t acting like the world’s most embarrassing dad right now. “And I got tired of watching you wait by the phone all day for your girl to finally text you.”

“Oh my god!” Joaquin groans, at the very same time you let out a:

“Oh he’s not my-!”

“Dude, we’re not-,” Joaquin gestures towards you in a panic, as he searches for the right words, saying a silent prayer that he can get out at least one full-finished sentence. “I’m not like, waiting by the phone but It’s not like I can go anywhere right now, man!” Sam chuckles only to be met with a very dramatic eye roll from Joaquin as he tries to defend himself.

“Listen, we’re old friends. We’ve just been catching up,” he tries to explain again, gesturing towards you once more.

Sam smirks, uttering an unconvinced, “Sure. Well, whoever she is or isn’t to you… seems like she’s been helping your recovery. Thought it couldn’t hurt.”

You laugh, exchanging a look with Joaquin.

“I still can’t believe you called her,” Joaquin shakes his head, still trying his best to process this.

“Well, of course he called me, Torres, considering you’ve always been shit at asking for help,” you finally chime in, with a ball-busting attitude he’s missed.

“Oh shit,” Sam says, looking from you back to Joaquin as he waits for a reaction.

Joaquin grins, gearing up to explain: “When she feels threatened, she has a tendency to lash out.”

Sam chuckles.

“Feisty. I like it," he smirks with a nod of approval. And he knows that this that’s his cue. It’s time to give you kids some time alone. “Imma step out for a second. You guys… catch up. Or whatever.”

You press your lips together, stifling another laugh, and waiting a beat as Sam disappears.

“Dude,” you start, taking a few steps closer to Joaquin, with a look of disbelief.

“Dude,” Joaquin mimics you, unable to hide the smile on his face upon seeing you.

“That’s like… Captain America,” you nod towards the hallway as you take a few more steps forward.

“I know,” Joaquin says back, an excitement between the two of you.

“Captain fucking America,” you emphasize..

You’ve really been doing the best to keep your cool, but you’re not sure you can contain it any longer.

“I know!” he fanboys with you this time, because Joaquin still can’t believe this is real either.

That he works with Sam Wilson. That he’s Captain America’s wingman. That you’re here, in DC, with him.

It’s as if a piece of home has joined him for the first time in a long time in this new chapter of his life.

The two of you exchange another smile and a wave of relief washes over you.

You take a beat and one step closer to him, sitting down in the chair next to his hospital bed. You shake your head and this time, the expression on your face goes from soft to a much more hardened and worried look.

“Joaquin,” you start, the tone of your voice a warning enough.

“Oh God,” he sighs, recognizing that tone.

“I could kill you,” you threaten, the next part reinforcing his more than accurate evaluation of you from earlier. “But clearly you don’t need my help.”

“Well, I did technically die,” he parries, light heartedly.

“Joaquin!” You interject, your voice going up in pitch as you cut him off.

“What? You scared you’d miss me or something?” he teases, meeting your fire with his.

“Oh fuck off,” you scoff, with a shake of your head. “It’s not-, don’t joke about that! It’s not funny!”

“Didn’t you just threaten me with-?” he continues, knowing all the buttons to press.

“Yeah, but it’s different when I-. Didn’t you just say that I have a tendency of lashing out when I feel threatened?” you snap, the worry in your voice enough to get him to stop.

You sigh, your eyes scanning him once more, because maybe it would be easier if he really were invincible.

You take a beat, and the two of you share a full silence between you. It’s comfortable, yet filled with ‘what ifs’ neither of you want to acknowledge.

“I can’t believe Sam stole my phone and called you,” Joaquin shakes his head this time, groaning again because Captain America really should be renamed to America’s Most Embarrassing Dad for this. “How did you get here so fast, anyway? My parents won’t even arrive till tomorrow.”

“Oh I uh-. Well, you’ve been busy saving the world so I haven’t exactly been able to tell you,” you reply, realizing that it hadn’t even come up in conversation via text yet. “I moved to Philly a few months ago.”

“Philly?” Joaquin asks, a little surprised, because he’s not sure he could picture you anywhere that has a properly cold Winter season. “Yeah,” you chuckle, immediately recognizing his look. “I had to buy my first Winter coat this year but… the trade off is that I’m only an hour train ride away from you now.”

His face lights up as soon as you spell it out for him.

“Well, my parents are coming in tomorrow. Are you-, think you’ll be around?” he asks, hopefully.

“Do you want me to be?” you ask in return.

He nods, “Yeah. Think they’d like to see you.” “Okay,” you agree softly. “I’ll stay.”

A beat.

And another silence between the two of you, one that feels much heavier than the last.

“You could’ve died, Joaquin,” you state quietly.

“I know,” he replies, the guilt evident in his voice.

You could’ve-,” you begin to repeat, your voice breaking this time.

“I know,” he says again, much firmer as he reassures you. “But I didn’t. And we’re here now.”

He reaches for your hand, and you’re almost angry with the way your body betrays you. With tears in your eyes you look back at him, shaking your head.

“Goddamit,” you swear with a small laugh. “You’re the one who gets hurt yet you’re here comforting me.”

He shakes his head this time, squeezing your hand as he smiles, “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re here.” A beat. “But I’m still gonna kill Sam.”

You laugh, wiping a few tears out of your eyes with your free hand.

“And yeah. I would,” you finally admit, your voice soft.

“Hm?” Joaquin asks, his lashes heavy as he blinks, taking you in.

“I would really, really miss you,” you answer, a vulnerability in your voice this time that you’re quick to put an end to. “So don’t fucking do this shit again!”

Joaquin laughs as he squeezes your hand once more, knowing it’s not a promise he can make to either of you.

9:45 am

Joaquin: Mom and Dad left yesterday and Mom told me to tell you that she misses you already.

10:01 am

You: You can just admit that you miss me already.

10:03 am

Joaquin: 🤐

Thanks though. I think they’re a little less worried now that they know you’re close by.

10:08 am

You: How’s it going?

10:13 am

Joaquin: Good! I got discharged a few days ago and am heading to Wakanda in a few weeks.

New suit! 🦸

The last time you see me can’t be in a hospital gown.

10:15 am

You: I don’t know why you’d say that! It’s a great look for you.

10:20 am

Joaquin: 🙄

Guess I should’ve swiped one from the hospital to wear all the time.

What’re you doing next weekend?

10:21 am

You: Nothing. What’s up?

10:30 am

Joaquin: What do you think about me coming to Philly?

10:31 am

You: To visit me? Or just because?

10:32 am Joaquin: Yes to visit you 😆

Thought we could hang out before I go.

10:33 am

You: Yeah! I know it’s only an hour train ride in and out, but I’ve got a super comfy couch you can crash on if you want.

So that’s an option.

The next text you receive is a selfie of him, wearing a plain grey crewneck sweater.

You laugh. The guy loves a good selfie.

10:40 am

Joaquin: 1 photo attached

Rocky ain’t ready for this

10:43 am

You: LOL

Please don’t tell me you’re coming to Philly so you can recreate the Rocky training montage.

And if you’re wondering, I will not be partaking. You’re on your own with that one.

But yeah, I’d be happy to host you!

10:48 am

Joaquin: Deal.

I’ll call you later. We can work out the details :)

11:00 am

You: Deal :)

#joaquin torres x reader #captain america brave new world #danny ramirez #joaquin torres #marvel mcu #mcu fandom #marvel fanfiction #marvel cinematic universe #the falcon #the new falcon

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withahappyrefrain · 7 months ago

Note

“Stop wiggling around, I’m trying to sleep! Wait… what’s tha… oh!”

Forced proximity with best friend Bob?

A chance to do friends to lovers with Bob? Say no more!

"Remind me to never let Javy book the Air B&B again."

Bob chuckled at your comment, despite agreeing, "Well at least we have an actual bed. Reuben and Mickey have bunk beds."

"So all the single people have to suffer?" You scoffed, continuing to shuffle through your luggage.

The annual lake trip was going well, until the room arrangements were revealed. It wasn't that you minded sharing a room with Bob.

It was the lack of a second bed.

Twenty years ago, when you were both eight, this wouldn't have been a problem. But then puberty, high school, and base camp occurred, which brought to light the crush you had been harboring on your best friend.

"We'll make it work. And if it's that bad, I can take the floor," he offered, always the considerate one. It was one of the many traits you adored about Bob.

"Robert James Floyd, absolutely not!" You scolded, eliciting a chuckle out of him. It was deep and low, just like his voice and you didn't want to admit how it made your knees nearly shake.

"I've slept in barracks before, it's the same thing."

The comment would have gotten a laugh out of you. In fact, you would have even made a remark back, probably about how you've also slept in truck beds and underneath a wide open sky.

But then Bob Floyd took his shirt off.

It wasn't even your first time seeing him shirtless, far from it. But now he had filled out, with muscle and a dusting of hair that trailed down from his chest, past his stomach.

God, was he always this hot? Had to be and somehow you just didn't notice it until later. Perhaps that was the worst part; you fell for him because of who he was. It wasn't as if he had some type of glowup over summer break, like you'd see so often in those stupid teen movies you'd watch to feel better about yourself. No, Bob Floyd was always a beautiful soul, inside and out.

And he wasn't yours. Couldn't be. The risk of him not reciprocating was too high. Plus, your family was friends with his'. That meant Thanksgiving, Christmas, Fourth of July, hell, even fucking Memorial Day gatherings would be tainted. All thanks to you.

The pressure was too high, the risk was too great.

But you could look, right?

"Sunshine?"

Bob's childhood now turned adult nickname for you broke the spell. Your wide eyes met his oceanic's. His hair, which had gotten darker over the years and now had threads of early greys, was mussed from taking off his shirt, some curls over the front of his forehead, others to the side. White shirt in hand, highlighting how massive they were when clutching the alabaster fabric. Brow's knitted together, combined with his narrow eyes and titled head created a downright adorable look of confusion.

"You,,,," he briefly turned around, to see if there was something on the wall behind him and that's why you wouldn't look at him, "You okay?"

You nodded eagerly, probably too eagerly, "Yeah sorry....I uh spaced out. Probably thinking of ways to get back at Javy."

Bob smiled, despite it never reaching his eyes when he nodded. You had turned around so quickly, unable to make such an observation.

"I'm going to go take a shower," grabbing the top and bottom you could find the quickest in your suitcase. You avoided eye contact with him, too busy feeling shame for getting caught doing something so lewd.

Rushing, you turned the water on in the showers. Focusing on ensuring you grabbed the correct products. Get the water to the perfect temperature and pressure, it exists, it has to exist because if it doesn't then you'll think about the dark body hair that went past the waistband of his jeans.

For about twenty minutes, it worked. You did your skincare routine, brushed your teeth for nearly two minutes, even blow dried your hair. Applied a lip mask, that stupid lash and brow serum the worker at Sephora conned you into buying. Moisturize every inch of your body, even though it was the dead of summer and you would sweat it all off before sunrise. That stupid reusable eye mask that you got because it was on clearance. Have you done the Wordle today, you should do the Wordle. You should do anything other than thinking about sharing a bed with your shirtless best friend.

It worked. Even put on some music, not too loud, just enough to hear and hum along.

It worked. For a while. But then you had used nearly every product in your cosmetics bag and it was time to get dressed.

Fuck.

You could never match a pair of socks, not even if your life depended on it. But tonight, fucking tonight of all nights, you had to grab a whole matching set.

The pale pink lace trimmed cami, paired with joggers. An oversized T-shirt that went further down than the pair of matching satin shorts.

You had brought the set when you were talking to a guy and thought you would be able to move on from the wonder that is Bob Floyd. What a fucking joke.

Maybe you could wear them, run back out to grab something else and run back in to change. No, why would anyone do that? If anything, it'll just make it more obvious that you didn't want to wear it in front of him. But what if you didn't change and Bob thought you had worn essentially casual lingerie on purpose? What if he found that weird? What if-

"You okay in there Sunny?" His voice always calmed you, always able to break you out of whatever self inflicted spiral you were on.

Taking a deep breath, you nodded despite Bob being unable to see you, "Yeah, I'm good. Just developed a more extensive skincare routine."

A short burst of laughter was released on the other side of the door, "You don't need all that. Already pretty."

"Bob Floyd, you are....." Charming. Amazing. Too good to be true. The love of my life,

"....too kind."

"Just telling the truth," his feet audibly stepped away. The butterflies in your chest were still exploding from his words. He made you feel safe, that this was Bob you were talking about. He'd never think you'd do something lewd or negative on purpose. Bob knew your intentions to be good. After all, he was your Bobby.

Just not in the way you want.

Your head cleared long enough to walk out the door, into the well lit bedroom. When he first made eye contact with you, you didn't even falter, simply smiling at him.

But Bob didn't say anything at first. Usually he'd make a teasing but well meaning comment about you taking so long. His thin pink lips parted, yet no words came through.

"Are you okay Bobby?"

The concern in your voice broke the trance. His features soften, his lips quirking into a half smile, "Yeah, I'm good. Just gonna shower and then head to bed."

Tension had left the room. Flopping down onto the bed, you scrolled through social media, watching all the videos and photos the squad had posted today.

"Uh, Sunshine?" You turned and lost your breath. Bob's hair was freshly washed, ends beginning to curl. A white shirt that was barely translucent and grey sweatpants that hung low on his lithe hips.

Bob Floyd had downright slutty hips.

"I don't think the bed is big enough for both of us to lay down."

Your brow crumpled in confusion, "Javy said this was a queen."

"Javy thinks anything that isn't a single is a Queen." Bob explained, not phased at all by this mistake.

Clearly it wasn't the first time. But you were still going to kill Javy Machado tomorrow morning.

"Here, if we both sleep on our sides, it'll be good."

"Like spooning?"

"Uh yeah," a hand came up to rub the back of his neck, "That's one way to think about it."

You supposed it was better than feeling his ass against yours, "Alright, well....come on in, the water's fine."

It took some time to figure out the arrangement. What was one supposed to do with their other hand? The final agreement consisted of your hips flushed against Bob's, his arm slung over your waist.

Zero awkwardness in the air. It felt....natural.

"Night Bobby."

"Night Sunshine."

Things were looking up. There was no way this would change your friendship or threaten to reveal your well kept secret. Sleep was well within your reach.

Then Bob moved. And kept moving. Due to his closeness, you felt every maneuver, no matter how subtle.

"Floyd, do you mind?"

His movements continued, as if he was trying to avoid your body while somehow simultaneously hang onto it.

A loud huff left your lips, "Stop wiggling around, I'm trying to sleep! Wait, what's that...."

Oh.

Your hips were flushed against his, your ass perfectly fitting the space formed by his thigh meeting his hip. Right against his hardened groin.

The sweatpants were thin. He didn't have anything underneath. Thanks to the flimsy fabric of your shorts, you could feel him greatly.

You were in bed with Bob Floyd. Bob Floyd was in bed with you, rocking an erection. You were being held by Bob Floyd, in bed. Bob Floyd had a huge cock, a grower.

Silence filled the room, tension thick enough to be cut with a butter knife. Neither one wanting to move, for fear of making it worse.

He let out a shaky breath. He developed a rhythm, almost imitating one sleeping.

You shifted, just enough for your thigh to rise, but subtle enough to play off as nothing.

His breath hitched.

Inch by inch, your hips began to gyrate, rubbing against his clothed cock.

"B-Bobby," you were panting, as if having run a marathon. His fingers sank into your hips, gripping the plush flesh as he flipped you onto your back, towering over you.

You moved to sit on your elbows, to raise yourself up to argue. From years of play fighting, he was fast as lightning, pinning your hands above your head.

Bob slowly lowered himself down until his nose brushed against your, his soft hair brushing your forehead.

"Twelve years." Was all he said, gritting through his teeth, squeezing your hands in hopes it would tethered him to Earth.

All that came out of your mouth was a hum of confusion. In the moonlit light, you searched for his eyes, trying to read them.

"Stuart Hendricks asked you to prom. You had been hoping all month he would ask you. Hell, I even helped him. Told him your favorite musical and which song to sing. I was excited for ya. And then you said yes to him and I wanted to punch him. I never had thought about fighting someone until then. Took me a week to realize why I was so angry."

Oh my God.

"Eight to ten years ago," you confessed. It was Bob's turn to knit his eyebrows together.

"Eight to ten?" He repeated, "Why is there a range?"

"I remember feeling....funny when you came back from boot camp. You had filled out a bit and had on those adorable military issued glasses. But it took me some time to accept what I was feeling," you explained.

How you found those glasses endearing was beyond Bob's understanding. But it didn't agitate him, it was just one of the many things he loved about you.

"That's a lot of time lost," his voice was barely a whisper.

You nodded, "Can we.....can we start making up for it?"

"Yes," he nodded, dropping his head lower, "one hundred percent yes."

His lips were like heaven. He molded his body to yours, chests flushed together, limbs tangled within one another. A hand that spanned the entirety of his neck, his thumb guiding your chin upwards so he could deeper explore your mouth.

"Heard you singing....and it just felt....felt like we were living together," he confessed in between kisses, "felt so right, like that's what it's supposed to be like."

Nodding feverishly, your hands found purchase in his thick hair. Tugging on the sun kissed locks, earning a groan from Bob that made your thighs clench.

"Can....can I touch you?" Always the gentlemen, your Bobby.

"As long as you don't stop."

"Wouldn't dream of it sunshine," his mouth latched onto your neck, leaving open mouth kisses along the side, teeth gently grazing your sensitive skin. A hand grabbed your leg, hitching it to wrap around his waist.

Bob Floyd was fucking heaven.

#my writing #bob floyd smut #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #bob floyd #bob floyd fanfiction #bob floyd fic #bob Floyd fluff #robert bob floyd #robert bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd x you #bob top gun #robert bob floyd imagine #robert bob floyd fanfiction #robert bob floyd fluff #robert bob floyd fic #drabble weekend

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alinathinkstoomuch · 1 month ago

Text

BEST WORST DATE EVER

pairing: aaron hotchner x fake!fiancee!reader summary: you finally score a date with your favourite FBI agent but none of it goes to plan. warnings | an: everything that could possibly go wrong goes wrong, reader wears dress, heels & makeup, reader also has hair rollers in for a sec, fluff, the usual romcom feels, kissing in the rain, two fools falling in love. word count: 4.2k

✧ masterlist | pt. one pt. two pt. three

Finally, after literal weeks, the stars – or, more accurately, the schedules – had aligned, and you had a date booked in your diary, with the only FBI agent who had ever made you forget how to spell your own name. Aaron Hotchner. The man who singlehandedly caused your brain to malfunction whenever he so much as breathed in your direction, or replied to your texts with perfect punctuation and no smiley faces.

This was it.

Date of the year. Date of the century. There would be bubbles, stolen glances, banter so electric it could power a small city or the entire FBI headquarters. Delicious food you wouldn’t even taste because, let’s be honest, who could chew in the presence of Aaron Hotchner looking at you like that?

All you had to do was get ready.

And you had. For three hours.

The dress was flawless – not even out on the racks yet – paired with colour-coordinated heels (obviously). Your feel-good playlist was echoing through the apartment, every song making your soul shimmy a little harder. You were glowing – literally, thanks to a brand-new highlighter and the sheer power of giddy excitement.

The evening itself? Divine. A soft summer night, the sky painted in dreamy strokes of orange and lavender. The breeze was so perfect, you had opened every window just so it could slip and wrap around your apartment. It was giving beach house in the Hamptons – if the Hamptons had rush-hour traffic and someone aggressively yelling downstairs. Still, you’d take what you could get.

The night had started out on such a high that you chose to completely ignore the literal kink in your hair from a rogue roller that, for the first time ever, had gotten stuck. Like, really stuck. You had pulled. You had pleaded. You had given it a stern talking-to. Nothing worked.

So you yanked it free, wincing at the small collection of sacrificed strands now floating to the floor like sad little snowflakes. Whatever, you had told yourself, fluffing the misbehaving section. This just gave you an excuse to finally try that overpriced hair mask hiding at the back of your vanity. Self-care, right?

Crisis managed (ish), you turned to your dress – still hanging like royalty on its satin hanger, just waiting to be slipped into. It slid on like a dream, hugging every curve like it had been custom-made for your body and your body only. Which, technically, it had. A little tailoring here, a few adjustments there – you’d poured hours into making sure it was the dress. All that was left now? Zip. It. Up.

Which would’ve been a total breeze if you weren’t doing this solo.

“If you were a little taller, Gus, you’d be able to put those paws to good use,” you sighed, glancing down at your dachshund, who blinked up at you like you were insane.

With Gus officially out of the running for Most Helpful Roommate, you took matters into your own hands. You twisted, reached and arched your back like a ballerina in The Nutcracker attempting an interpretive piece titled Why Am I Alone on Zipper Night? You even tried the shimmy-and-zip method that had worked exactly once in college when your roommate had bailed on you before formal.

No luck.

You huffed, shaking out the upcoming cramp in both of your arms. “Alright. We’re doing this the old-fashioned way.”

Marching into your office-slash-design-studio, you grabbed a roll of ribbon from the supply shelf and snipped a decent length off. Back at the mirror, you looped the ribbon through the zipper pull. Once it was securely hooked, you angled your body just right and gave the ribbon a gentle tug upward.

Your go-to method. She had never let you down before.

It moved and you felt it glide smoothly up your back, the zipper obeying like it knew who was in charge. You kept going – slowly, carefully – completely unaware you were holding your breath until –

Snap.

You froze. Ribbon in hand. Soul temporarily exiting the premises.

Eyes squeezed shut, you stood there in absolute silence. You needed a moment, maybe two and possibly a drink.

You opened one eye.

Then the other.

You turned yourself to face the mirror and catch a glimpse of the back of the dress.

There it was, lodged three quarters of the way up your spine like a passive-aggressive ex refusing to leave. The pull? Gone. Vanished. Probably sipping a margarita in the Bahamas with your last bobby pin.

You stared at your reflection. Stared at the zipper. Stared at yourself staring at the zipper.

And then – you smiled.

Because you were not just any woman. You were a woman well-acquainted with last minute fashion emergencies. It’s what you did for a living. You’d made Halloween costumes of out duct tape and dreams. You’d hemmed dresses fifteen minutes before walking out the door. You’d once fixed a broken strap with a paperclip and a prayer – and it had held through a full night of dancing.

A snapped zipper? Please.

Back in your mini home studio, you slipped your arms out of the dress and rotated the back to the front so you could get to work. It wasn’t elegant nor graceful and there was a brief moment where you may or may not have used your teeth. But five minutes later?

The zipper had a new pull.

Was it technically a vintage charm from a bracelet you hadn’t worn since sophomore year? Yes.

Did it match the dress perfectly and look like it belonged there? Also yes.

You put the dress back on like it was made of glass and you were the belle of a very last-minute ball. The zipper held, the charm glinting in the mirror like a little badge of honour – or maybe the reason for your first grey hair.

Crisis: officially handled.

With your heels and clutch within reach, you made sure Gus was all set for the night. A little blanket nest on the couch with his favourite chew toy (the one that somehow still squeaked despite being mauled within an inch of its life). Your feel-good playlist had also been swapped out for classical music because apparently, according to the internet, dogs appreciated it. You weren't totally sure Gus cared, but you liked the ambiance.

“You good, little man?” you asked, scratching behind his ears.

He let out a dramatic yawn, turned in a slow, sleepy circle, and flopped onto his blanket like he had also just survived a zipper-induced emotional rollercoaster.

You grinned. “Same, honestly.”

And then – a knock at the door.

Your heart fluttered. Not dramatically, but enough to make you pause. You smoothed your dress one last time and gave Gus a look. “This is it,” you whispered. “Wish me luck.”

He blinked at you. Supportive, if slightly bored.

You crossed the room, lifted your chin, and opened the door.

There he was.

Aaron Hotchner.

Suit perfectly pressed, hair slightly wind-swept and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. For a moment, he didn’t say a word. He just looked at you, eyes warm and fixed on you like you had just walked straight out of a dream and into his reality.

His gaze moved slowly, drinking in the details like you were the best top-shelf wine he’d ever been offered – the kind you don’t rush, the kind you remember. When his eyes met yours again, something in his expression softened.

“…Wow,” he said, voice low.

“Careful, Aaron Hotch Hotchner. You keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you missed me.”

That earned a smile – not the tight-lipped professional one, not the guarded BAU version. No, this one was real. It reached his eyes, it crinkled at the corners and it felt like something just for you. “I did,” he replied simply.

Your smile widened. “Good answer.”

He held out the bouquet. “These are for you – though, I have to say, they feel a little underwhelming after seeing you.”

“Wow. Look at you being all smooth.”

“I had a whole line prepared,” he admitted. “You kind of ruined it by looking like that.”

“Guess I’ll try to tone it down next time.”

“Don’t,” he said, already a little too soft again.

You took the flowers, their stems cool against your fingers and stepped aside. “Let me get these in water, and you can meet the most important man in my life.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow.

You gestured toward the living room. “Gus.”

Right on cue, the little dachshund trotted in, ears perked, tail wagging.

Hotch crouched down immediately, like the well-trained guest he was. “Hey, buddy.”

Gus sniffed his palm, then turned and padded right past him, deeming the man neither a threat… nor particularly impressive.

From the kitchen, you laughed. “Don’t take it personally. He’s playing hard to get.”

“I’m familiar with the type,” Aaron called back.

“Really? Who?” You reached for your tallest vase – the one that only ever saw the light of day when something mildly romantic happened. “Because it definitely can’t be me,” you continued, “I’ve been practically sending smoke signals.”

You turned on the tap, the water rushing out as you tried – and failed – to bite back your smile. You had light grip on the vase, distracted by the sound of Aaron chuckling behind you. The vase filled faster than expected and before you could react, it slipped right of your hands, clattered loudly in the sink, and half its contents splashed right onto your dress, the countertop and the floor.

“…That sounded expensive.”

“It was,” you said flatly, staring down at the soaked fabric of your dress. “It also doubles as a statement piece and apparently, a hazard.”

Aaron was at your side in a second, gently picking up the vase from where it was now sitting crooked in the sink. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, totally.” You grabbed the nearest dish towel and dabbed at your dress. “I only spent three hours getting ready, survived a zipper mutiny, and now I’m just casually being waterboarded by a flower arrangement. It’s fine.”

Hotch’s lips twitched. “Want to reschedule?”

You shot him a look. “If I put on another dress, I might start charging emotional labour.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Fair.”

You kept dabbing at your dress, pretending to ignore the fact that this was the second wardrobe-related crisis of the evening, while Aaron rescued the bouquet, reassembling it like it hadn’t just committed a minor act of sabotage.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, glancing down at the damp patches, “I still look cute, right?”

Hotch looked up, dead serious. “You look incredible.”

The words landed somewhere in your chest, like he wasn’t just saying it to flatter you, but simply stating a fact. “Well,” you exhaled, fluffing your hair like that might buy you back a sliver of composure, “I’m not changing again, so I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

You grabbed your clutch, slipped on your heels and gave your apartment one last once-over before turning to Aaron. “Alright. Let’s try this again.”

He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

You looped your arm through his. “We shall.”

You made it downstairs without incident and Aaron, ever the gentleman, opened the passenger side door of his car, and you slipped in without doing some ridiculous like flashing him your underwear.

Once he was settled in the driver’s seat, he started the engine, sparing you a glance. “Seatbelt?”

You clicked it into place. “What kind of date do you think this is?”

“The kind where I don’t want to fill out paperwork after.”

You grinned, turning slightly. “You’re funnier than I expected.”

“I’m told it’s my most surprising quality.”

“You are full of surprises, Hotchner.”

Just as he pulled out of the lot, the universe – ever the drama queen – decided it had been too quiet for too long. The GPS, unprompted and in the loudest possible volume setting, blared: “Turn left in twenty feet!”

You both flinched.

“Wow. Okay. Was she… yelling at us?”

Hotch reached forward to lower the volume. “She gets a little aggressive when I don’t use her often.”

“Hm,” you hummed. “Sounds familiar.”

“Is this your way of telling me I’ve been ignoring you?”

“I would never be that passive-aggressive.”

The GPS interrupted again, louder. “Turn left now!”

You jumped. “Okay, well she would.”

“I think she’s siding with you.”

“As she should.”

Things finally settled as Aaron pulled away from the curb, the GPS now speaking in something resembling an inside voice. You stole a glance at him. Then another. It wasn’t your fault. The way his hands gripped the wheel? Illegal.

And God, he smelled good. Not cologne-overkill good – the kind of good that was understated and wildly unfair. Like expensive soap, confidence and something distinctively manly. You shifted in your seat, trying to look not as flustered as you felt.

“This is fine,” you muttered to yourself, staring out the window. “Totally normal. Just a casual date with the FBI’s finest.”

“What was that?” Aaron asked, glancing at you.

You smiled sweetly. “Just talking to the GPS. Making sure she knows who’s in charge now.”

He smirked – and that should be illegal too. “Let me know how that goes for you.”

You were just about to fire back a quick, witty response (something equal parts charming and slightly unhinged), when the car made a new sound. Not a thud. Not a rattle. More like a… dramatic wheeze, a mechanical sigh of defeat.

Your head snapped toward him. “Oh no.”

Aaron frowned and pulled the car over. “It’s probably nothing. Just a –”

The engine sputtered again, the lights flickered once, then everything died.

“That felt like something.”

Aaron tried the ignition once, then twice and was met with nothing but an empty click. He sighed, finally admitting what you could already see written all over his face.

Defeat.

You leaned back in your seat, trying not to laugh. “So… what’s the verdict Hotch Hotchner?”

“It’s not the battery, not the alternator…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m not a mechanic.”

“I thought you were the FBI,” you teased. “You’re telling me you can dismantle a semi-automatic in ten seconds, but you can’t hotwire your own car?”

“I could hotwire a car,” he corrected - and, okay, that was absolutely a visual you were going to revisit later. “But I’m pretty sure it’s frowned upon when it’s your own.” He undid his seatbelt and added, “I’ll take a look under the hood.”

You slid out of the passenger seat and followed, heels clicking as you caught up with him. He had already shrugged off his suit jacket by the time you reached him, revealing a fitted black dress shirt that was doing far too much damage to your eyes, brain and heart.

“Here,” you offered, extending your hand. He glanced over, momentarily surprised, then handed the jacket to you with a grateful nod. You folded the jacket over your arm, watching him roll up his sleeves. Wow, even more damage. It felt like you were in some kind of fighting video game, watching all your health bars flash red in every area marked vulnerable to manly forearms.

He leaned into the engine compartment, brows furrowed, sleeves pushed back, giving you a front-row seat to the this-shouldn’t-be-so-attractive show.

“So,” you began conversationally, “did you always want to catch bad guys or was FBI agent your backup plan after professional modelling fell through?”

"I think you might have me confused with someone else."

“Nope.” You shook your head. “I’ve seen those arms. Definitely modelling material. Like, trench coat on a rooftop, smouldering into the sunset kind of thing.”

“Flattery isn’t going to restart the engine.”

“Maybe not, but it’s certainly improving the situation for me,” you shot back with a grin. “Besides you haven’t answered my question.”

He straightened up, eyes on you now instead of the uncooperative car. "I was actually a lawyer first."

"A lawyer too? That's no fair. Is there anything you can’t do?"

He glanced down at his watch, then back at you with a half-smile. “Get us to dinner on time, apparently.” His line of sight then briefly shifted to your shoes. “Think those heels of yours can survive a walk? The restaurant isn’t much further from here.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. You know what they say – give a woman the right pair of shoes and she can conquer the world.”

He shut the hood of the car with a thump, then looked at you again, eyes lingering a little longer this time. “Is that what you’re doing tonight? Conquering the world?”

“Absolutely,” you confirmed, sweeping the hand that wasn’t holding his jacket down your still-slightly-damp outfit. “One malfunctioning car, soggy dress, broken zipper and FBI agent at a time.”

His smile deepened. “You know…most people wouldn’t be laughing through all of this.”

“Are you calling me most people? Because I can give you your jacket back right now, no problem.”

He shook his head slowly, his gaze still on you. “No. I’m saying you’re beautiful, and I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite like you.”

That stopped you cold. The words catching you off guard completely, so much so that you dropped your eyes down to the pavement. You couldn’t remember the last time someone made you feel so…seen. So genuinely appreciated.

Considering you track record – dating, even being engaged to nothing but jerks – it was hard not to feel like all you’d ever known were bad eggs. But standing here, it finally felt like maybe, just maybe… Aaron Hotchner was one of the good ones.

“You’re not going shy on me now, are you?” he asked and you felt his hand brush against yours as he gently took back his jacket.

You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just trying really hard not to picture you as an egg.”

He moved behind you then, and before your brain could catch up, he was carefully draping the jacket over your shoulders – warm from where it had rested on your arm, smelling like him in a way that made your heart stutter.

“Do I even want to know?” he murmured near your ear.

You turned your head just enough to catch his eye over your shoulder, your voice quieter now. “Just that you’re a good one.”

“A good egg?”

You grinned. “The best.”

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you to that lava cake.”

Within seconds his car was locked and left behind on the side of the road – forgotten in favour of the glow ahead. His jacket was too big on you, but it was warm. And for some reason you couldn’t quite explain, it made you feel safe. Every time the fabric shifted, brushing lightly against your arm, it reminded you he was still there, walking beside you.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t quite done with you yet, a few stray raindrops tapped against your cheek, the kind of drizzle that made everything smell like damp concrete and slow evenings.

You glanced up toward the sky, then over at him. “Seriously?”

Aaron looked up too, lips twitching. “We can call a cab.”

“It’s fine. I put on waterproof mascara, might as well see if it lives up to the hype.”

He gave you a sidelong glance, like he was trying to decide if you were serious, then just nodded once – like a man who didn’t quite know what waterproof mascara was, but respected the commitment – and kept walking.

You followed, doing your best runway walk despite the slick pavement and the extra weight of his jacket. It actually looked like the two of you might make it to dinner on time.

Until your heel caught.

It was subtle at first – a shift in your step, a little tug – until you stopped walking completely and looked down to find your heel wedged neatly into the crack between the curb and the sidewalk.

You sighed, long and theatrical. “Oh, come on.”

Aaron paused, turned back, and took in the situation as you gestured dramatically at your trapped shoe. “I’m telling you, the universe is sending a message.”

He walked back toward you, crouched without a word, and gently wrapped a hand around your ankle – because of course he knew how to rescue people from their own footwear.

“I’ve had crime scenes less complicated than this,” he said, voice dry.

“Are you calling my shoe a crime scene?”

“Not yet,” he muttered, and with one swift motion, freed your heel from the crack like it was second nature.

“Wow. That was… weirdly attractive.”

He stood and handed you your balance back with one steady hand. “Try not to fall for me again.”

You shoved lightly at his chest. “Okay, absolutely not the time or place to be charming.”

His brows lifted, but he didn’t argue.

“I’m serious,” you went on, gesturing wildly. “A broken zipper, a chunk of my hair lost to a stupid roller, an almost shattered vase that somehow exploded all over me anyway, a dead car, mascara that’s probably migrated to my chin – I don’t know, I can’t see – and now the sidewalk is trying to eat my vintage Dior heels? Aaron, these are all signs.”

He tiled his head slightly. “Signs of what, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught – not because of the word, but because of the timing. He said it so gently, like it wasn’t the thousand-pound weight you were already carrying.

“Don’t sweetheart me,” you said quickly, your voice wobbling. “Not when my heart is already starting to hurt. These are signs that you need to run. Far. Like sprint away from me and this whole fake fiancé pyramid scheme I’ve roped you into. The universe is practically screaming at you to get out and I think, at this point, you really ought to listen.”

Aaron didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you. The rain had flattened his hair, darkened his clothes, but he stood there like it didn’t matter. Like you were the only thing he was aware of.

“Are you done?”

“Excuse me?”

“The speech, the spiral, the dramatic monologue,” he continued, stepping closer. “Was that the end, or should I expect an encore?”

You opened your mouth, whether to defend yourself or double down, you weren’t even sure, but he was already there, just a foot away, the rain closing in around you both like a curtain.

“You think I haven’t seen chaos before? You really think I’d be here if I needed to run?” He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t trying to fix you. He was just there. Standing in the middle of the mess you were trying to warn him away from… and not moving.

“I’m a walking disaster tonight.”

“You’re soaked and dramatic,” he corrected. “Not the same thing.”

“I’ve done everything I can to prove this is a bad idea.”

“And I’m still here.”

You stared at him, rain blurring your lashes. “Why?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

That stopped the noise in your head – the overthinking, the spiralling, the guilt, the sheer panic of letting yourself want something that wasn’t wrapped in self-protection.

And then the rain really came.

No longer a gentle drizzle, but a full-on downpour.

You gasped as it hit, cold and immediate. Rain clung to your lashes, soaked through your hair, slid down your neck in rivulets. Your dress plastered to your skin and Aaron’s jacket felt ten times heavier as it soaked up the water.

The street around you emptied in an instant as people scattered for shelter. But neither of you moved, frozen in the middle of the sidewalk like the storm had carved out a private world just for this moment.

Aaron didn’t flinch. Didn’t suggest shelter. He just watched you through the rain, like the sight of you standing there – drenched, dramatic, furious at fate – was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“You still don’t think this is a sign?” you asked, breathless, rain slipping over your lips like punctuation.

“I do actually,” he answered the same time his hand moved to cradle your cheek. “I think it’s a sign for me to do this.”

His lips were on yours before you could even process it. There was no hesitation, no searching for the right moment because this was the moment. You kissed him back, tasting the rain, your fingers fisting into the damp fabric of his shirt as if that would help with the dizziness you felt. The kiss wasn’t perfect, not by movie standards – it was messy and soaked and your teeth bumped slightly when you smiled against his mouth.

But it was real.

It was the kind of kiss you felt everywhere. In your knees. In your ribs. In all the places you’d spent years protecting.

When he finally pulled back, you almost winced at the loss of him, like your body hadn’t quite agreed to let go. You stood there, blinking up at him through rain-slick lashes, barely breathing.

“You’re smiling,” he murmured, his thumb brushing across your cheek, as if to make sure it was still really you.

“You make it incredibly hard not to.”

He gave a small nod, then leaned in to press a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good,” he said softly against your skin. “We can still make the reservation.”

You groaned, tipping your head back. “I’m soaked, I can feel mascara on my collarbone, and I’m pretty sure my heels would make a squidge noise with every step.”

He said nothing, just waited because of course he knew there was more.

You looked back at him, a little hesitant now. “Would you kill me if I said…we skip the reservation, grab takeout and spend the night with Gus instead?”

He shook his head again. “We could spend the rest of the night standing out here in the rain and I wouldn’t have many complaints.”

tags - @fandomscombine @dohmeti @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner one shot #criminal minds #hotch #ssa aaron hotchner #Spotify #mine🌟

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defmaybe · 1 month ago

Text

Be Sweet

TWICE’s Myoi Mina x Male Reader

5.1k words

Part Two of Untitled Mina Series

Talk Too Much | Be Sweet

Title Inspired by Japanese Breakfast’s Be Sweet

You, like Rome, weren’t built in a day.

But you sure can collapse in an hour.

—

Anything for your mommy.

The room is filled with the scent of sweat and fading air purifier. The evening sunlight drapes over, casting orange hues on the wall. Silence takes over.

It’s serene.

It’s calming.

But this is not the end of the road.

Your body twitches against Mina’s, face lying next to the spit-soaked cock you just sucked mere minutes ago. The saliva drips down to the floor, adding more to the filth puddle. You’re voiceless, throat ravaged by her thrusts. Mina’s hand rests on your face, thumb swiping at your temple fondly. Warmth ripples through your body with each touch. The entire world disappears. It’s just you and her. You feel so secure.

“You’ve been such a good boy for mommy, you know that?” Mina coos, kneeling down to face you. She’s just so immaculate—sharp eyeliner, soft cheeks, red lips. She’s the opposite of what you are—tired eyes, drool-slicked mouth, debauched face. Her thumb rubs on your cheek lovingly, so gentle. “One more hole for mommy, can you do that?”

Your expression melts, nuzzling against her palm, whimpering.

You’re just beyond saving.

“Yes, mommy.”

Mina smiles, planting a tender kiss on your forehead. It’s gentle. It’s compassionate. You just close your eyes, letting her love flood your heart. The same love that wrecked your mouth, broke you into pieces.

She stands up, giving you her hand. Her poise is still as confident as ever. You’re lost in every movement of hers.

“Come on, I wanna show you something,” she says, smiling.

You reach for her hand, slowly getting up from your knees. Not a single idea where she’ll take you.

But you trust her.

Your legs are sore as you try to stand up. It hurts, but you’re on your feet, upright, eventually. You gain back the only thing you have against her, your height. She gives you an approving look, and you just smile weakly as a reply.

Mina takes a step, leading you away from the desk. Her hand pulls you towards her. You follow her trail, making sure not to place your feet in the pool of your saliva. Each step feels heavy, ache and all.

She guides you to the window, letting you take in everything outside. You stand by her side, watching the sunset cast an orange hue all over the sky. The skyline is gorgeous—skyscrapers intercut with the mountain far away. People are going back to their homes—so chaotic, so bustling. Cars are stuck in traffic; red lights are everywhere. Birds are flying back to their nests. You take in the view.

And it’s just a sight for sore eyes.

Suddenly, you feel hands at your belt—Mina’s. It comes off so easily. Her face is focused—eyes trained on your crotch, lips pressed together. She’s cold. She’s competent. She’s a professional. In a second, the zipper is pulled down, and your pants pool on the floor.

Your erection pokes the fabric of your boxers—a tent, to describe. It twitches. A dark spot has already formed at the peak. The waistline strains, creating that small window for somebody to peer inside.

“Looks big,” Mina scoffs. “Shame that it won’t be inside me soon.”

Oh, it’s happening again. The humiliation. The roughness. The punishment.

You say nothing. Your voice isn't a parameter here, anyway. Mina grabs the edge of your boxers, pulling it down with ease. Your cock springs free from its fabric cage, leaving you exposed—to her, to the city. A free demo from Mina’s window, maybe some in-app purchases for the full experience.

“Hands on the window,” she orders—sleek, direct. Mina circles around, positioning herself behind you. Once again, dread blights your blood. Your body quivers uncontrollably. Still, you press your hands against the window, eyes taking in the view down below. Everybody has their duties—work, chores, family. They’re anchored to something. They’re worthy of something.

And for you?

It’s being your boss’ slut.

“Ooh, nice view,” Mina sings, before stepping away. You remain still, though, waiting for that punishment to crash on you. You hear a rustling sound of fabric behind you, and in confusion, you look back.

Mina is holding her phone.

She can do so many things with it, but oh, you’re so sure what she’s going to do.

“I love sunsets,” Mina hums, stepping towards you again. You watch as she holds the bottom corner of her screen for a second, before lifting the phone towards you.

Off-PDF documentation, JPEG format.

Or worse, MOV.

You feel her free hand grab your waist. You flinch; that warmth is not comforting anymore. “Look outside,” she says, and you just comply. Once again, you’re met with the peaceful chaos of the city—people walking, stuck cars, tree branches swaying with the wind. The tip of her wet cock ghosts near your cheeks. You can see her reflection in the window, aiming her weapons at you.

“Oh” — she moves her camera down slightly — “did I mention that I also love backshots?”

No response returned, just a whimper against the window.

“Wait a second, gotta compose this a bit,” Mina muses, and you watch her angling the camera—from the top, face-level, from below. She ponders, dragging that dread storming inside you. It’s probably the mood she’s going for, though. Looks good in black and white.

“There we go.”

Her phone hovers near your head-level, a few steps back. You’re probably slightly off-center—artistic choice. She’s in the frame too. Director-actor vibes. The shiver won’t make it blurry; the shutter speed will be high enough with the sun still up. Portrait, not landscape, makes the edge line up with the window.

“One. Two. Three!”

Click.

That’s it.

That’s your legacy—an overtime whore.

She hums, “Pretty good, love the light. I’ll send it to you after you finish cumming.”

Now, that’s some levity. You get to cum.

“Oh, I need another photo before I put it in. Do you mind?” Mina asks—so casually, like borrowing a pen.

The possibilities reel through your mind. A selfie? A couple photo? Another backshot? It’s not your business. You’re just an actor here—just follow the script.

“No, mommy.”

Mina giggles softly. “Good boy. Now, spread your legs just a little for me, please. Need some negative space here.”

Shaken, you take a deep breath and part your legs slightly. Your sneakers rustle. The clothes between your ankles stretch. Cold air teases the gap. You shiver.

“A triangle, gorgeous.”

In the reflection, you watch her kneel, pointing her camera at your exposed ass. Her breath brushes against your cheeks—warm, terrifying. Your legs quiver. Again, it probably won’t mess with the photo. The sun’s still up. The shutter speed’s high.

“One. Two. Three.”

Click.

Second picture of the album—should look good when her iPhone decides to create a memory for today.

“Those little stretch marks really add to the texture. You look more human with it,” Mina coos, standing back up behind you, looking as immaculate as ever. It’s an honor that she chose you as a subject for this disciplinary procedure. Hell, you get money for this.

She finds grips on your back, her phone still in hand. The warmth of her skin emanates against your body. She begins to close in. Her cock presses between your cheeks—still soaked with your filth. Her thighs blend into yours. Her sneakers nudge your legs wider. Oh, it’s happening.

Heterosexual masculinity has taught you to avoid putting phallic objects into your anus—dismissing the idea as an Achillean activity. Growing up, you and your friends have threaded on this topic not as anything more than a punchline—reinforcing harmful stereotypes, alienating queer people, and further pushing society backwards in time. Sure, you’ve become one of the kinder—accepting, loving. Still, the disease lingers.

And today, you’ll be cured.

At the instant her slick tip touches the rim of your snug hole, you squirm, shriek, contort in a way you’ve never done. Your nails are pushed against the glass. Your eyes flutter uncontrollably. Your mouth opens wide, freeing that deep, animalistic groan from your lungs. Drool leaks. Your entire body spasms.

Then she pushes.

Her head breaks through the opening, stretching you wide for the first time in your life. It’s unravelling, an identity rebuild, a dictum you’ve always rejected. A whorish, grotesque moan leaves your lips, lighting the room up brighter than the setting sun. Your body crumbles in her grips. Deeper. Another whimper slips out. Tears fall. Deeper. Your legs almost give in, thighs pressing together, hoping to relieve some of this sensation. It doesn’t subside. Deeper. It hits the spot you’ve never known existed, sending that lightning through your nerves, and a whine slips. Her thighs press into yours. She’s at the hilt.

Another of your virginity taken—stolen not by a goddess, just a thief.

A woman with a cock.

Never have you challenged traditional, and somehow still contemporary, masculinity like this. It feels full. Her cock feels full. She’s spreading you open with ease, with your own spit. Natural-based lube. Her phone lies on your back idly, held by her hands gripping your back. Her breathing is calm, so unfazed by the fact that she’s taking the virginity of someone who’s on overtime pay. Not even a moan. Her thighs blend into yours, fused into one—a corporate recondition. She stays just there—letting you feel how her cock finds its home, letting you feel how small you are, letting you feel that high-end harlot experience.

“Do you think they’ll see me through the window?”

That’s all Mina asks, after putting an entire cock inside you. She dismantled you. She manipulated you. She rebooted you, and that’s all she just asked.

“I have an image to keep, just gotta make sure that I look good if the photos are leaked,” she continues, sweeping her hair up as she looks at the window. Her forehead would look better covered in bangs, you think, but it’s like an A and A+ situation, The-Road-to-El-Dorado-both-are-good styling. You say nothing, just let your ass warm her fake cock helplessly. That shock from the first nudge of your prostate fades, replaced by the small spasms in your body—lips, arms, legs. Aftershocks from the epicenter, in other words.

“Oh, yeah, I totally forgot about this,” Mina muses, picking up her phone from your back. She points the camera at the window, with you, with her reflection.

Click.

No countdown this time. You don’t smile, still twitching with her cock mashing your core—eyelids, toes, cock (and its dripping precum). Your ass warms her cock nicely, being molded in real time, after all. Breathless huffs leak out of your lips onto the window—foggy. She holds her finger on the screen, and you hear a moan from the back.

It’s yours, captured in JPEG plus MOV—a live photo.

“I’ll favorite it.” Friends, family, maybe her pet. Then there’s you getting bottomed out in the folder. Oh, to belong among those she cherishes. It’s difficult to find something this authentic in adulthood. So, be grateful for it.

“Can I pull out now?”

You gulp, tears falling down your cheeks. It’s stretching you out so badly, and you don’t think you can take it for a second longer before you collapse. “Yes, mommy. Please.”

Mina chortles, reaching forward for another hair ruffle. “Since you asked so nicely.”

The pressure fades. You let out a breath you didn’t realize that you’ve been holding. Another whine escapes your lips. Her cock rubs against your walls. You tremble—legs sore, toes curl—and she drags it out until only the tip remains. It feels hollow inside you, as if her cock was sculpted to fulfill the space. It’s not freedom. It’s not a relief. It’s emptiness.

She lets it rest, holding you in place against the window, against the evening sun. Orange light drapes over you, being a spotlight for the still-ignorant public eyes. Silence makes room for your gasps for air. The scent of your bodies lingers, blending with the decaying air purifier. Your frame strains—not violent, but the tension in your muscles persists. You don’t dare look back. Your cock gushes precum out of the slit. Your heart races, and your mind collapses.

“You waited for me, didn’t you? Saving yourself for my cock,” Mina coos, tracing circles lazily on your back.

Weakly, breathless, “Yes, mommy.”

Mina smiles in the reflection, clearly satisfied with your answer. “Aw, I’m very proud of you! I just know that you’ll wait for my cock,” she praises, and your heart floats once more. It’s a façade, you are aware, but with how vulnerable you are, every word is sweet.

“Thanks, mommy,” you murmur, fogging the window.

“Mommy’s gonna fuck you properly now, alright? I’m gonna make you gape by the time we’re done. How does that sound?” Mina asks, gripping your waist harsher. Her phone gets buried in your skin.

You stammer, “Okay, mommy.”

She chuckles. It looks sincere enough. “Alright, mommy will push it in again.” Not a request, rather a declaration, and you can only nod.

It’s not as mind-breaking as the first time—virginity already gone, hole already loose. Her cock violates you with a little more ease. Not that your responses are anything less, though. Another set of your stuttered moans fill the room. Your back arches. Breathing becomes harder. Your nails are pressed against the window. Standing upright is a privilege. Your face contorts.

She pushes in deeper. It begins to crush your prostate again. Your moans become a loud gasp—eyes flutter, mouth hanging open. Your legs can’t bear your weight anymore. Air is knocked out of your lungs—empty. Your feet twist at the sensation. Another lightning strikes through your body, and you’re sure that you’ll become ashes by the time this ends.

Your body is collapsing—a befitting end along with your dignity.

She pulls back. Your prostate relaxes. Her cock grazes your walls, ruining your nerves with ease, with your own spit. You get to breathe once more. Your vision becomes clearer.

But that’s just the beginning of the loop.

She thrusts back into you—harsh, unyielding. She moans as the other end starts to hit her G-spot. You moan under the concoction of pain and pleasure. Her grips tremble softly as a flash of ecstasy shines in front of her. Your body spasms as her cock sends another ripple to yours—a request for orgasm. She drags back—slow, deliberate. You relax.

And another thrust. You whimper. A pull. You sigh. And another thrust. Your body melts.

Mina starts to find her tempo on you—a vicious cycle of pulling and pushing. Your responses become periodic—a moan, an eye flutter, a squirm. The sound of your thighs clapping together reverberates through the room—ugly, debased, corrupt. Her phone claps against your waist. Your cock swings helplessly, spreading precum everywhere. Your prostate gets attacked in a rhythm; the need for orgasm ascends. She lets out a soft moan every time she bottoms out your ass. She’s enjoying this as much as you do. She can collapse just like you do. But a complete rewrite? Of course not. She’s the one who writes you—fixing that buggy source code.

Suddenly, Mina picks up her phone. Another hold at the bottom corner—not a flashlight. One more JPEG. The thrusts remain precise, consistent, barraging on your prostate with no relent. She tilts her head away slightly before setting the front camera in front of her. Her obsession with digital permanence is a wonder, and you don’t have a say in it. You’re just her object—to be archived, to be favorited, to be fucked.

“And we’re going live in three, two, one.”

Oh, wait.

Oh.

It’s a motion picture, a documentary of your identity loss. She presses record. The tape rolls.

“Hi, this is Myoi Mina from BBC, live from inside my office,” she says, moans leaking out, greeting her zero audiences at home (number may fluctuate later, directly varying with the number of shares), smiling oh-so-casually to her camera.

“Oh,” and she laughs, so full of charisma. It’d look much better if her cock isn’t rearranging your guts like this, “not that BBC, that one’s inside him right now.”

Yes and no. Ones and zeroes. Compressed into pixels. Labeled with a file name. That’s you.

“Today, we’re going to do an interview with a UX plus UI designer with multiple projects under his wings,” Mina narrates, showing no signs of slowing down her thrusts, “plus an overtime asset for his boss. You need more than one job in this economy.”

Her phone flips, camera back at you. Streams of bits enter her phone, all organized into visuals of your ass being pounded into oblivion, and the audio of your whorish moans.

“Good evening!” Mina greets you with a lilt that belonged to the graduation party. Good times. Still in contention for the third place alongside this boycunt-reshaping session.

Feebly, airy, not at all broadcast-ready, “Good evening, Miss Myoi.”

Mina chuckles, before landing a slap on your ass. Pain, you yelp—a spike on the decibel graph. “What a forward young man you are! Calling me by my name like this.”

A lesson on air, available for studying later in case you didn’t catch it in class. Her thrusts become harsher, making your stomach churn from the intensity. Your moans grow louder, so are hers. There’s a difference to them, though—a squeak and a roar. Your breath quickens. Your legs are giving in. Your cock twitches with every punch, squirting precum onto the floor. You’re losing without putting up any fight.

“You can’t just go around and call women like that! And to my audiences at home, I’m deeply sorry for his behavior. I’ll discipline him,” Mina says, putting up an apologetic face to the camera. “Now, I’ll give you another chance. Please refer to me with respect, or I would have to halt this backend rewrite.”

The camera is still rolling, capturing your impertinence. It’s a part of a hero’s journey, really—challenges and temptations to transform you into something else. A patriarchy’s practitioner to a cockslut. Great arc. A story worth telling through generations.

“The audiences are waiting,” Mina hurries you, the hand on your waist squeezing it. The ethics professors are going to eat it up, using it as a case study: The Usage of Trauma for Engagements.

The media has desensitized people to these images—grief, wrath, mania—and you’ve befallen to become another subject of it. A spectacle, the kind that doesn’t dare to retaliate.

(See: Jordan Peele’s Nope, for the punishment of the obsessed, those who let spectacle consume them—mostly literally.)

“Good evening, mommy.”

Her smile brightens, patting your waist softly. “Good boy. Now, let’s ask you a few questions.”

The first interview of your life and you’re getting your ass railed against the window. A great core memory.

“First question, let’s start … mmm … simple. How do you handle multiple jobs? UX designer, UI designer, and the head of the stress relief department! It’s just really fascinating to me,” Mina asks.

You grit your teeth, trying to stabilize your thoughts under the tremors. Managing the first two isn’t difficult, lots of overlaps: Figma, prototyping, system software design. The third one, now that’s new: no computer, just having a cock inside you for an hour, fifty percent increase in hourly rate. University didn’t teach you how to handle this edge case.

“It’s–It’s a little difficult sometimes, Miss … mommy,” you answer, trying to stay true to yourself. “But I–I believe in lifelong learning, and–and I always try to improve.”

“Ooh, that’s a really good answer. Lifelong learning is important these days,” Mina adds with an approving smile, her rhythm not wavering. “Now, for the second question, how does it feel like to get an overhaul, both frontend and backend?”

“I feel,” and you pause, searching for the definition in your blown-out mind right now. It’s helpless how she penetrates your ass without any relent. It’s embarrassing how you’ve become a sequence of zeros and ones inside her internal storage. It’s terrifying, how she talks, questions, and comforts you. But the most important of all? It’s ecstatic how your prostate is getting ravaged against the mirror, each jab sending synapses-shattering sensation through you, and to resist it is just an outdated protocol.

“Good. I feel good, mommy.”

She squints, as if to press more from you. “Would you kindly elaborate more on ‘good’? Let’s say how does it feel having your mouth busy? Or how does it feel when your organs are being rearranged?”

Faint, “I–I love it, mommy. I love your cock in my mouth. I love having your cock fucking my boypussy.”

Mina chuckles, clearly satisfied with your collapse. “Wow, he has come so far in thirty minutes! From a macho, foul-mouthed man to an overtime asset.”

The Oscars judges are going to eat this arc up. Definitely going to be nominated for Best Hole. A pioneer for the new award category. The stunts category truthers are going to weep when you’re on the stage before them.

“Alright, next question. Would you say that having your mouth shut … wow, this question is long … can be a substitute for the lack of humanity-related subjects within your engineering faculty?”

Well, that’s harsh, but true. The closest thing you’ve had to a proper study on the human condition was your law class. You got a B-plus. What the hell. Sure. Great. Congratulations, but you’re no match for the complex, ever-evolving human behavior. Too busy buried in Figma and sexually harassing your boss.

“I–I agree with that, Miss … mommy,” you mutter.

Mina nods, still undoing your insides so methodically. “Mmm, this elective course must’ve been worth a lot of credits!” she muses. Her rhythm quickens, escalating the prostate onslaught, chasing her precipice. Your tongue hangs out of your mouth lifelessly, shaking along with the motion of your body. Your eyes blur; colors blend into hazy hues under the evening sun. Your nerves heat up, vibrating with each of her strikes, so goddamn close to overdrive.

“Fourth question,” Mina says, spreading your ass wide with her free hand before letting them go. It jiggles slightly against her cock. Your body bends to the side. “Would you be open to a corporate-wide testing session on you? You’ll get paid for this, don’t worry.”

Another company benefit for women—menstruation rest, maternity leave, and a high-end sex worker who happens to know JS. Everything’s covered by the company. They deserve it, really.

And it’s like you can say no to spending your hole’s tightness away for this salary, plus overtime. “I’d–I’d be open to that, mommy.”

“Well, I don’t think he’ll be needed in front of his computer anymore, to care is to share,” and she laughs—a boomer-seeing-a-Facebook-post laugh, so content with herself. Your orgasm almost catches up to you. Her cock keeps pounding you recklessly. The tension in your stomach coils up, ready to spring free. It’s heavy, and you’re not so certain if you can hold it for any longer.

“And … last question!” Mina utters, her moans growing louder as her movement reaches its precipice. Her hand grips on your ass tighter. The softness in her thrusts is long gone, making your prostate cry out, begging for release. It’s fascinating how she can keep her composure at this point.

“With everything I’ve done to you—your mouth, your ass, and your male brain—would you still consider yourself a man?”

Your breath hitches. And the day reels—from the flirty words, to your eyes locking on her strap, black, to you gagging on it, to her cumming on your mouth, to the photos, to her first thrust, virginity gone. It’s an undoing. It’s a cleansing of your masculinity. It’s a rewriting from the source code. And you’re only a spectator of it.

“I’m–I’m—”

Your cable is yanked off the back of your head. A kidnapping from artificial paradise. Or freedom. Your choice.

You gasp, and you’re awake for the first time.

The first white of your cum paints the window—a streak, a taint, a stroke of brush. A single color, countless meanings. You are overloaded with this unfamiliar sensation under your old shell, and utterly dumbfounded still isn’t enough to describe this explosion. Your tongue hangs off your mouth mindlessly. Your eyes roll into the back of your head. A corporate-aided ahegao. You used to shame women for doing that. Then another spurt off your cock, hitting just below the first, another master stroke from Mina’s length. She continues to spread you open, squeezing ivory out of your slit. The window is being painted with your filth. Third, softer, still beautiful. Then fourth. Then fifth. Then you lost count. Not so used to this new brain yet.

Oh, Deakins is going to love this—your shaking legs, the glass, your cum, under the sunset.

You slow down. It drips off your cock down to the floor. Your forehead presses against the glass, stamping it with a layer of sweat. Your fingers spread out. The window fogs up with your breath. Your chest heaves. Your legs wobble.

But Mina’s not done.

One hand is on her phone, capturing your rebirth; another is on your ass, gripping it so tightly. Oversensitivity begins to crash over you. Pain blights your nerves. You groan. Mina is chasing her orgasm, and she’s not going to leave your ass right now.

And she yelps, and you can feel her hand tremble on your cheek. She’s cumming, not as violent as the first, but it’s there. You hear her voice crack. You can see her head falling back slightly—a fracture, one that isn’t meant to be exploited. It’s reminding you of how you’re dominated by a mortal—neither a deity nor a machine—and it’s much, much more terrifying this way.

“And–And this is Myoi Mina from BBC reporting. Thanks for watching,” Mina rasps, head still hanging off her neck behind you.

Cut.

She straightens her head back, eyes all coated with desire. Her cock rests inside you. She’s smiling, satisfied with her product—an obliterated soul in the shell of a fucked-out man. You’re just not sure who you are anymore.

Weakly, “Mommy.”

Mina chuckles, slowly dragging her shaft out of your needy hole. Wet sounds can be heard from the back, and finally, the tip leaves you with a quiet pop. You can feel your tightness heaving, missing its filling.

Her cock is made for your ass

To penetrate. To mold. To destroy.

She kneels down, aiming her phone through your legs. They wobble under your crushing weight, but the sun hasn’t gone. The shutter speed will be sufficient for a nice photo.

“One. Two. Three.”

Click.

You watch Mina smiling on the reflection as she looks at her screen. Whatever it is, she’s satisfied.

“You can sit now,” Mina orders, eyes still on her phone.

You collapse, sitting on the floor, face barely touching the cum dripping down the glass. Your back hunches; that's bad posture. You breathe feebly, fogging the painted window—an unorthodox masterpiece. The smell of sex and sweat fills your nostrils. Mina kneels beside you, examining your face, and she just smiles. You’re a soul reconstructed by another soul into something else, and you’re horrified by the fact that you can’t just make sense of what you’ve become.

“Wanna see the before-after photos?” Mina asks, voice shaken slightly, just enough to remind you of her humanity, not enough to show any weakness. You don’t answer, and she knows you won’t. Mina shoves her phone in front of your face. “This is before.”

You, your legs, to be exact, are spreading slightly for the sun to set between them, joined by the city’s skyline. Orange is all over the frame—so serene, so gorgeous. Favorited.

“And this is after.”

Your legs’ positions are a little different, but still spreading slightly for the sun to set between them. It’s a little lower than before. Orange is all over the frame, but with the white of your cum painted on the window. Orange and white—so serene, so gorgeous, so harmonious. Favorited.

Mom, dad, friends, then your legs in front of the sunset, then another one, tinted with cum. Glorious.

“Let’s see if Pam will still say that they’re the same picture.”

Mina then swipes down, revealing the screen full of your debauched face—eyes barely opening, drool dripping down to the floor. You just stare at it, letting the image of your skin linger in your barely functional brain.

Is this really who you are?

“Alright, smile!” Mina sings, her free hand pushing the edge of your lips up on one side. You’re too fucked-out to work on the other side, though.

“That’ll work,” she says with a shrug. “One. Two. Three.”

Click.

That’s you—ruined, astounded, conflicted, permanent.

Mina pulls her phone back, navigating through it with her fingers. “Overtime … whore,” she mumbles, before tapping her screen a few more times. Suddenly, you feel a buzz in your pocket, your phone.

Again, she shoves her phone in front of you, showing what seems to be your general Slack channel. Everybody in your department is there, and they can see—

Oh.

You’re the most recent message. Or, to be exact, your ruined, slick face is the most recent message.

As a fucking custom emoji.

Mina taps on it. The information pops up.

:overtimeWhore:

Fuck, it’s even in camel case.

:overtimeWhore:

Another one from someone else, shit.

:overtimeWhore:

Fuck.

Mina just chuckles as your co-workers begin to type.

“Now, everyone can use you, even if it’s just on Slack,” Mina says, before pulling her phone back and working on it a little more. You’re permanent, at least until Mina decides to delete it (which is definitely going to be never).

And again, you feel buzzes in your pocket, your phone. Your body twitches, as if being shocked.

“I sent the photos in case you wanna keep it. I don’t mind, either way,” Mina muses.

Here you are, an artifact to be preserved—your shell, at least. Your mind is shattered into pieces by a single piece of plastic, and your body seems to respond well, as seen on the window, so Pollock-esque. Blacking out is a better fate than this, better than a loss of identity, better than having your manliness dissolved, better than being hung between other tailored Slack emojis. You’re being reduced to an object, being archived, being used, being transformed. Your body has never been yours since the start. It’s hers. It’s all hers.

With your collected breath, “Mommy.”

“Don’t–Don’t fucking ‘mommy’ me. Just because you’re favorited doesn’t–doesn’t mean I accept you,” Mina scoffs with a slight tremble. “All of this is just a disciplinary measure.”

Oh.

It has always been a lie, hasn’t it?

Oh my god.

And the most outrageous part of all this?

You just can’t call yourself a man anymore.

“Looking spicy today, baby. I’m burning because of ya.”

—

#mina #twice #mina smut #twice smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

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yzzart · 1 month ago

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⋆˙⟡ BOYFRIEND!VERGIL ── HEADCANONS!

── content warnings: F!reader, references to games and anime, mention of Eva, Sparda and Dante, light, stable and a little mature content and Vergil being a boyfriend we all need and part two is here!

── word count: 713!

⭑.ᐟ Sparda's eldest son is meticulous,— not unduly so, perhaps,—systematic in all matters, occurrences, and duties; a classic and admirable trait of Vergil. —Something he points out as a peculiarity, a virtue; something he inherited from his father.

⤷ Therefore, Vergil would not avoid — or dare — to act, or behave differently, with you; the woman he loves, adores in that life. — The half-demon would be, exceptionally, delicate, susceptible and so dedicated to all the tiny, minimal and charming details existing in you; allowing Vergil to know you like the back of his hand.

⭑.ᐟ Hands? — Vergil loves to give kisses, seals full of love, respect and voluptuousness on the back of your hands; also demonstrating a gesture of pure grace and chivalry. — A good son learned from his mother. — It is one of the most beautiful ways to demonstrate your passion.

⤷ At random moments, without uttering or directing any words, Vergil will reach for your hand and give you a long kiss, accompanied by his sky-blue orbs contemplating you.

“Vergil?” — You called out to him, not sounding like a scolding, almost asking if something had happened or if he was going to leave for one of his duties. — “My love?” — Vergil intertwined your hand with his.

“I'm so grateful to have you.”

⭑.ᐟ Vergil always, always, referred to you as his wife. — Since the day, the moment that the emotional bond between you became stronger — more than your pride —, intense and true. — He claimed you by that title before all beings, human or demonic, or of another species.

⤷ And he declares, with all reason, bravery and honor, too, you as his queen.

“My wife.” — His deep, gravelly voice, so full of devotion, pleased your ears; you would never get used to or stop the shivers, the tremors you felt when hearing those words. — “My beautiful wife.” — Vergil detailed the statement with a touch of delicacy.

⭑.ᐟ Vergil is a man, half demon, of words and even a grunt, something a little incomprehensible to the ears, is worthy of attention to him. — Always enchanted by poems, and almost memorizing every line, you never failed to ask Vergil to say one for you. — And he never failed to fulfill your wish.

⤷ He remembered, even though it caused an unbearable and painful pain in his chest, the nights when his mother told stories and recited poems; after many insistences and beggings from him and his brother, Eva would never say “no” to her children. — Vergil wished she had the chance, the opportunity to have met you. — Although he had a little regret about her, he knew she would love you.

⭑.ᐟ During his departures, destined to resolve duties, to compromise with underworld matters — or, simply, to go after Dante and for them to enter into combat, as always — Vergil writes letters to you. — Yes, the eldest son of Sparda loves to write letters to you.

⤷ In his writings, he tries his best not to mention the misfortunes and disastrous situations that have come his way, but Vergil doesn't hide them from you. — You have a broad notion, wisdom about what happens in hell and with those miserable demons. — Reporting things, memories about his brother and, sometimes, testifying about how much he misses his mother; and declaring how many times he thought about you before writing that letter.

⤷ And you keep all the ones that were forwarded in a small chest. — They were all safe, protected, and could be witnesses of Vergil's love for, perhaps, your future child.

After some time, i surprisingly met Dante. It wasn't a planned, gentle or peaceful meeting, as you might imagine, of course. — But even in the midst of the usual chaos that surrounds our lives, there was a moment when i realized something i hadn't expected: i missed the presence of my incapable, irrelevant brother.

"Every time i close my eyes, it's you i see. Your gaze, your strength, your presence that somehow always knew how to find and touch the most hidden parts of who i am. — My desire for you is uncontrollable, my love. It grows every day, consuming me like a fire that cannot be put out. — You’re my beginning and my end."

"... know that even in the midst of the storm, you're the light that guides my path."

#vergil #vergil sparda #vergil dmc #devil may cry #devil may cry netflix #dmc #vergil x reader #vergil sparda x reader #vergil x you

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favefandomimagines · 1 month ago

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But Daddy I Love Him (f.l)

Summary: being in a secret relationship with Frank Langdon isn’t all it’s cracked up to be

AN: I really hope this is well received lol after a deep analysis of ‘But Daddy I Love Him’ I felt like that title could work for a secret relationship

And obviously I’m not a medical professional so take what I wrote with a grain of salt lol

TW: mentions of infertility, miscarriage, death

They never meant to keep it a secret.

At first, it wasn’t even a thing—just the occasional coffee shared in the break room, conversations that stretched too long at the nurses’ station, inside jokes that no one else quite understood. They had always worked well together, had a natural rhythm that made even the worst nights feel a little less suffocating.

Frank had always liked Y/N. She was sharp, fast on her feet, and knew how to handle even the most chaotic situations with a level of calm that put everyone else at ease. But it wasn’t just that. She challenged him, called him out when he needed it, made him want to be better.

And maybe that was why, on that particular night after a brutal shift, he had found himself lingering in the parking lot instead of heading home.

He hadn’t expected to see her standing by her car, scrolling through her phone, her expression tired but soft under the glow of the streetlights.

“You okay?” he had asked, his voice rough from exhaustion.

She had looked up, blinking as if she hadn’t even realized he was there. “Yeah. Just… long day.”

He had huffed out a humorless laugh, stretching his neck. “Aren’t they all?”

And then, for a moment, neither of them moved.

The hospital loomed behind them, a quiet giant that never truly slept. The air was thick with the lingering weight of the shift, the kind of exhaustion that settled deep in their bones. But standing there, in the stillness of the night, something shifted.

“I don’t feel like going home,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to say it out loud.

Frank hadn’t expected her to say it, but the moment she did, something inside him clicked into place.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked, tilting his head toward his car.

It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a thing.

But she nodded.

And that was it.

They had ended up at a diner just outside of town, the kind that stayed open 24 hours and served the kind of coffee that could wake the dead. They had slid into a booth in the back, the vinyl seats sticking to their scrubs, and ordered enough food to feed a small army.

For the first time that day, they had breathed.

They talked about everything and nothing—hospital gossip, the worst cafeteria food they’d ever had, the absurdity of working a job where people expected them to be superheroes but still had to fight insurance companies to do their jobs.

At some point, Frank had noticed the way she kept pushing her hair behind her ear when she laughed, the way she stirred her coffee absentmindedly even when she wasn’t going to drink it.

He liked it.

He liked her.

And maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the fact that he had spent the last few months pretending not to notice the way his pulse quickened whenever she was around, but when she caught him staring, something in the air shifted.

She didn’t look away.

And neither did he.

By the time they left the diner, the sky was starting to lighten, a soft shade of blue creeping over the horizon.

“I should get some sleep,” Y/N had said, even as she lingered by his car.

“Yeah,” Frank agreed, but he didn’t move to get in.

She hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, pressing her lips to his. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t fueled by adrenaline or desperation—it was slow, steady, a quiet question with an answer neither of them spoke out loud.

When she pulled back, he was already reaching for her hand.

One night turned into two, then a week, then a month.

It wasn’t just about the late nights spent tangled in each other anymore. It was the way he made her coffee exactly how she liked it, the way she kept extra granola bars in her locker because she knew he always forgot to eat, the way they could sit in comfortable silence after the kind of days that left them shattered.

They weren’t just together. They were something.

But when it came to the hospital, Frank had been the one to suggest they keep it quiet.

“You know how people talk,” he had said one night, tracing lazy circles on her bare shoulder. “I don’t want anyone thinking I’m paging you for consults just because we’re together.”

She had agreed, even though a small part of her hated the idea of hiding him. She was good at her job—damn good. She didn’t need anyone whispering that she only got called to consult because of Dr. Langdon.

So, they kept it a secret.

And most days, it was fine.

But some days, it was damn near unbearable.

Frank learned very quickly that keeping their relationship hidden was harder than he expected.

At first, it had seemed like a good idea. They both had careers to protect, reputations they had worked too damn hard to build. It wasn’t that dating a colleague was forbidden—plenty of doctors in the hospital were involved with each other—but when it came to the ER and OB, lines could get blurred.

He didn’t want people assuming that Y/N got special treatment just because they were together. And more than that, he didn’t want anyone questioning her abilities.

She was a damn good doctor, one of the best OBs he’d ever worked with. He never wanted anyone to look at her and think she had an advantage because she was with Dr. Langdon.

So, they kept it a secret.

But some days, it was damn near unbearable.

Like when Y/N had a bad night in OB, and he could see it all over her face. She never brought her emotions into her work, but Frank knew her well enough to spot the small signs—the way she held her pen just a little too tight, the way her jaw clenched when she was trying to hold it together.

He had seen her filling out a chart at the nurses' station one night, her hands trembling just slightly, and he had wanted to reach out, to brush his fingers over hers, to remind her that she wasn’t carrying it alone.

But all he could do was meet her eyes for a fleeting second before turning away.

Or the time Frank had lost a patient in the ER—a teenage boy who had come in with a gunshot wound. Frank had done everything right. He had worked fast, his team had been sharp, but sometimes, it just wasn’t enough.

The boy had bled out on the table, and Frank had been left standing in the trauma room, hands covered in blood, staring at the ceiling like maybe this time, God would give him a damn answer.

He had walked through the hospital in a daze that night, needing something—anything—to ground him. And then he had seen Y/N in the cafeteria, laughing at something one of the nurses had said.

For a moment, all he had wanted to do was walk up to her, hear her voice, let her pull him out of his own head the way only she could.

But instead, he had kept walking.

Because they weren’t supposed to be that for each other. Not here.

And yet, the second they were alone in one of their apartments, it was different.

On the nights they made it home at the same time, they collapsed into each other like the world outside didn’t exist. Some nights, they didn’t even talk—just sat in silence, breathing each other in, feeling the weight of the day settle between them.

Other nights, Frank would cook something half-decent, and they would sit on the couch, their feet tangled together, pretending for just a little while that they weren’t exhausted, that the hospital wasn’t still living under their skin.

And then there were the nights when it was all too much, when the weight of what they did—the lives they saved, the ones they couldn’t—felt suffocating.

Those were the nights he would find her sitting on his kitchen counter, his sweatshirt hanging off her shoulders, her fingers wrapped around a glass of wine she hadn’t even touched.

And without a word, he would step between her legs, his hands bracing against the counter on either side of her, his forehead resting against hers.

No titles. No rules. Just them.

And it was so good.

But then morning would come, and they would slip back into the roles they had chosen.

And pretending was exhausting.

Some losses were harder than others.

Y/N had dealt with heartbreak before. She had delivered stillborn babies, had placed tiny, unmoving bodies in the arms of devastated parents. She had held grieving mothers’ hands, had whispered reassurances that felt hollow even as they left her lips. She had been through it all.

But this one hurt.

Maybe because the mother had fought so hard for this baby.

She had struggled with infertility for years—failed IVF cycles, miscarriages, loss after loss after loss. And then, finally, after one last desperate round of treatment, she had gotten pregnant. It had been a miracle, a victory, the kind of thing that made Y/N believe in hope again.

And then it was gone.

Seven weeks.

The bleeding had started suddenly. The mother had rushed to the ER, clutching her stomach, praying, begging for this not to be another loss.

But there was nothing Y/N could do.

She had held the ultrasound probe over the woman’s abdomen, had searched desperately for a flicker of life. But the screen had stayed still. Silent.

No heartbeat.

And Y/N had had to look into that mother’s eyes and tell her that she had lost another one.

That her body had betrayed her again.

That she was leaving the hospital with empty arms.

The woman had sobbed, had clutched her hands like Y/N could somehow change the outcome. And Y/N had wanted to. God, she had wanted to.

But she couldn’t.

So instead, she had held it together.

Had finished the paperwork.

Had walked the mother and her husband through their options.

Had done everything right.

And then, when it was all over, when the couple had left the hospital with nothing but a pamphlet on pregnancy loss and eyes red-rimmed with grief—Y/N had walked into an empty hallway, slid down against the wall, and broken.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, her breaths coming fast, uneven. The walls felt too close, the air too thick. Her chest ached, the kind of ache that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with helplessness.

She had done everything right, and it still wasn’t enough.

She wasn’t enough.

A shadow moved in front of her, and before she could look up, a familiar voice cut through the haze.

“Y/N.”

She didn’t need to see his face to know who it was.

Frank.

He hesitated for only a second before lowering himself to the ground beside her, his knee bumping against hers.

She knew they weren’t supposed to do this. Not here. Not like this.

But when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest, she let him.

Let herself fall apart in the only place that had ever felt safe.

She clutched the front of his scrubs, her fingers curling into the fabric as a sob tore through her. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to fix it or tell her it was okay—because they both knew it wasn’t.

He just held her.

And for the first time since she had walked into that trauma bay, she let herself feel it.

Frank saw him first.

Dr. Robby, his boss—his friend—was watching them, eyes filled with something unreadable. For a long moment, no one moved.

Frank didn’t let go of Y/N.

Didn’t pull away.

Instead, he met Robby’s gaze and silently pleaded: Not now. Please, just let us have this.

And maybe it was the look in his eyes, or maybe it was the way Y/N was still clinging to him, but Dr. Robby just nodded once.

Then he turned and walked away.

The fallout was inevitable.

By the time their shifts started the next morning, the whispers had already spread. Nurses, techs, even a few attendings—they all had something to say about it.

"Did you hear?"

"Frank and Y/N."

"Secretly dating."

"How long do you think it’s been going on?"

Frank had heard all of it as he walked through the ER, but he kept his head down, pretending not to notice the lingering looks. He was used to being the center of attention in the ER—but for his work, not his personal life.

When he finally spotted Y/N in the hallway near the OB wing, he could tell she’d heard the rumors, too.

She looked up from the tablet in her hands, her lips pressed into a tight line. “So, I guess we’re officially the hospital’s latest scandal.”

Frank sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

She leaned against the nurses' station, folding her arms. “Are you okay?”

He wanted to laugh at that. She was the one who had broken down the night before, who had let herself unravel in his arms. She was the one who had been dealing with the grief of losing that patient’s baby.

And yet, she was still thinking about him.

“Yeah,” he said, softer this time. “I just… I didn’t think it would spread this fast.”

“Hospital gossip moves at the speed of light,” she muttered.

One of the nurses walked by, giving them a knowing glance before disappearing into a patient’s room. Y/N sighed.

“Maybe we should just get ahead of it,” she said. “Tell people the truth instead of letting them make up their own stories.”

Frank hesitated. A part of him wanted to say yes—to finally stop hiding. But another part of him, the part that had fought to keep their relationship private for so long, still felt uneasy.

Before he could say anything, Dr. Robby’s voice cut through the hallway.

“Langdon. Break room. Now.”

Y/N shot him a look, and he exhaled slowly. “Well. That was fast.”

Dr. Robby was waiting for him, leaning against a table with his arms crossed. The moment Frank walked in, he gestured for him to shut the door.

Frank obeyed but didn’t speak.

Robby let the silence stretch for a few long seconds before finally shaking his head. “You could’ve just told me, you know.”

Frank crossed his arms. “I didn’t want—”

“For people to think she was getting special treatment?” Robby finished for him. “Yeah, I figured. And I get it. But come on, man. You really thought no one would notice? The way you two look at each other?”

Frank clenched his jaw. He hadn’t realized they’d been that obvious.

Robby sighed. “Look, I don’t care who you date. You’re a good doctor. She’s a good doctor. You think I’m gonna start questioning your judgment just because you’re together?”

Frank didn’t answer.

Robby pushed off the desk and clapped him on the shoulder. “Just do me a favor—next time, don’t make me find out because I caught you two.”

Frank let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “So, you’re not mad?”

“I’m annoyed you thought you had to sneak around. But no, I’m not mad.”

Frank gave a small nod. He turned to leave, but before he could open the door, Robby added, “Now go find your girlfriend before she has another existential crisis in the hallway.”

Frank smirked, shaking his head as he walked out.

He found Y/N in an on call room, sitting on a bed, staring at her hands like they might hold the meaning of life.

She looked up when he walked in. “Are we in trouble?”

“No,” he said, dropping to sit next to her. “Robby basically just called me an idiot for keeping it a secret.”

She snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Frank studied her, taking in the exhaustion still lingering in her eyes. He reached over gently, covering her hand with his.

“No more secrets?” she asked.

He squeezed her fingers. “No more secrets.”

She smiled, relief washing over her face.

And just like that, everything they had been hiding was finally out in the open.

#imagine #imagines #the pitt imagine #the pitt #frank langdon imagine #frank langdon x reader #frank langdon #dr frank langdon #dr frank langdon x reader #dr frank langdon imagine

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yandere-daydreams · 9 months ago

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Title: Honeysuckle.

Pairing: Butterfly!Fae!OC x Reader.

Word Count: 4.2k.

Written For A Very Lovely Anonymous Commissioner.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Aphrodisiacs, Dehumanization, Unhealthy Relationships, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, and Borderline Monster-Fucking.

The moment you saw her, you knew that she had to be the most beautiful creature that you would ever see.

Her wings were what struck you first – about ten feet tall and five across, the upper arch curved downward to better complement the large, black splotches currently prying into you through the shadows of the unlit garden. Swirling patterns of orange and red danced across a rich, dusty sort of brown, while white framed the outer perimeter, standing out sharply against the dull foliage. Although you’d initially mistaken her for one of the large, nocturnal birds that’d taken to crashing into your sugar water dispensers in the early hours of the morning, it was clear that she was more or less a woman – her long, sculpted legs bent and tucked against her chest, the arch of her back clear even in the dim light of your lantern. What seemed like hundreds of thousands of braids cast in the same shades as her wings hung to her waist, a pair of furred antennae tangled among them, and domed eyes larger than your fist and blacker than the night sky stared you down, unblinking. It was only when your eyes met hers that you realized your own gaze must’ve been just as invasive, and found the will to turn your attention to more important things than her (admittedly, extremely strange) appearance.

Instead, you poured your energy into the only other thing you could think to do: speaking. Or, attempting to, at least. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” And then, after a sharp inhale, a steadying breath, “I—I’m staying in the cottage this garden belongs to. Are you hurt, or injured, or—god, do you even speak English?”

If she had any intention of responding, she didn’t plan to do so vocally. The creature—the woman remained where she was, utterly motionless, utterly silent. It was only when you hazarded a step towards her that she reacted at all, her wings fanning to either side as she—

Ah.

So she was hurt.

The position of her wings had hidden it before, but you could make out the cause of her distress clearly, now. From the uppermost tip of her left wing to the lowest curve stretched a jagged tear, as if someone had taken a knife to it. Instantly, a new irritation blended with your prior concern, but you forced yourself not to dwell. There were more important things to focus on, at the moment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you repeated, edging that much closer. When she curled further into herself, you paused, lowering yourself onto your knees and placing your lantern on the ground in front of you. “I understand, you’re hurt, and there’s not much I can do to help you, but—” Holding up one hand, you shoved the other into a pocket of your apron, fishing out a single, palm-sized peach. You picked it earlier, planning on eating it yourself, but you’d never been so glad to have forgotten a meal. “You… You like sweet things, right? Are you hungry?”

Tentatively, you held the peach out to her, and before you had time to process that she’d moved at all, a hand had lashed out and snatched it away. You watched with rapt interest as her lips slit apart and a pair of pointed fangs (her maxillary palps, you figured, although you couldn’t be sure) dug into the peach’s tender flesh, her curling tongue lashing out to lap at the flesh and lick up the juice dripping down her fingers. While she was distracted, you moved closer, kneeling less than a full arm’s length from her wings to better admire the way they fluttered with every little movement, seemingly indifferent to her injury. There were more details you hadn’t noticed – she wasn’t wearing any clothes, but her entire body was covered in a fine, brown setae that grew thicker around her neck and chest and thinned as it reached her face and hands. She had an extra pair of arms, too, currently crossed over her chest, tucked so neatly underneath their more expected counterparts that you hadn’t been able to see them at all from a distance. Despite everything, you found yourself smiling. “If you’re in any pain, I can help with that. And—And, if you’re sensitive to temperature, you’re more than welcome to spend the night inside, but only if you’d like—”

Your attention drifted back to her face, and immediately, you cut yourself off. Her gaze was trained not on you, but on the space behind you – more accurately, on your lantern, still where you’d left it on the grass. “Oh,” you muttered, laughing to yourself. She must’ve been more moth-like than you’d realized.

Taking it by the handle, you offered it up to her as well. “I know it’s not much, but there’s enough oil in it to last until morning. If you get cold, I can bring out some blankets, too.”

It was obvious she didn’t understand a thing you were saying, but still, she eyed the lantern wearily. After a moment, she raised the lower of her right hands, angling her fingers and flicking her wrist. As if by magic (most likely because it was, probably, by magic), a perfect ball of light appeared in her palm, stagnant for a moment before rising a few inches into the open air. Wordlessly, she held it out in your direction.

For a long moment, you were silent.

In the even longer moment following, you were also silent.

Finally, when you started to think she might lose interest in you entirely, you managed to spit something out. “C-can you do that again?”

For the first time since you’d stumbled onto her, you saw the corner of her lips quirk upward.

You spent the rest of that night watching a strange, ten-foot-tall butterfly woman conjure strings of light until the sun rose and you fell asleep in the grass.

And at the time, you didn’t know to be anything but relieved that, upon waking, she was still by your side.

She healed remarkably quickly – a near-transparent chitin film appearing over the missing portion of her skin within twenty-four hours of her initial appearance. Still, Leo (as you’d started calling her when you realized she could only express her own name through a series of swirling patterns of light and borderline inaudible clicking sounds) seemed to have little interest in leaving your cottage and even less in leaving your line of sight. It took her less than a full two days to start trailing after you as you did your daily work around your garden and the forest that surrounded it, less than a week to start knocking on your windows at night, pouting when you tried to explain the concept of sleep through a language barrier, and today, on your one month anniversary, you’d finally gotten her to come inside properly. Currently, she was poking through your bedroom while you worked at your desk, transferring a never-ending list of borderline meaningless statistics from your roughly handled field journal to more appropriate sheets and charts. Or, trying to work, anyway. Admittedly, it was difficult to take your eyes off of her.

And, as you heard something large and fragile hit the floor and shatter, you were forced to give up any pretense of attempting to. Sighing, you twisted around your seat and immediately found Leo, standing next to your bedside table, what used to be a lamp sitting in shattered pieces at her feet as she stared down at it with a hawk-like sort of vigilance. Her wings were tucked cautiously against her back, lips pursed in concentration. You could only shake your head, grinning as you sighed. She was smart, but curious, and painfully unfamiliar with anything remotely human. It was cute – just how little she seemed to know about you.

(You were aware, somewhere in the back of your mind, that your judgement around Leo was skewed. Mostly, you could chalk it up to scientific curiosity, not wanting to disturb a live specimen as it would act in its natural habitat and all, but even you knew there must’ve been something else to it, something more selfish. It might’ve just been her naivety. It was hard to get mad at someone who didn’t know she was doing anything wrong.)

Eventually, her gaze shifted to you. “Broken,” she said, assertively.

You couldn’t stop yourself from chuckling. She was getting better at your language, even if the words still sounded somewhat awkward on her inhuman tongue. “Very broken,” you agreed, waving her over to you. “I’ll clean it up later – have a look at this for me, first.”

Turning away from her, you fished a thick, leather-bound book out of the chaos that was your desk and opened it to a marked page. “I think you might be one of these,” you said, pointing to an illustration of a half-moth, half-man type creature. Admittedly, the written description lacked many her more other-worldly traits, but there were only so many types of butterfly people to choose from. “They’re supposed to be—uh, extra-dimensional, I think, which would explain your more supernatural abilities, but they’re kind of, um—”

“Hideous. Very hideous.”

“Yeah,” you chuckled. “That.”

She reached over you, one left hand resting on your shoulder while the other flipped through yellowed pages. She’d only been searching for a minute or so when she seemed to find what she was looking for, pointing decisively to an illustration of an extremely beautiful woman kneeling in front of a disemboweled man’s body, her mouth dripping with blood and one of her hands still buried inside of his torn-open chest. The caption underneath it read ‘Fae, neighbors, folk of the air’ in golden illuminated manuscript.

You pursed your lips. Fairies weren’t real, but this illustration did look a lot more like Leo than yours had.

By the time you looked towards her, she’d lost interest entirely, instead fiddling with a picture frame that’d previously been on the corner of your desk. In an instant, you felt your blood run cold. You could’ve sworn you’d hidden all your framed samples before inviting her inside, found every single pinned-up dragonfly, moth, and butterfly and stuffed them all into the deepest, darkest closet you could find. You couldn’t imagine how you would’ve felt – stumbling into an alien creature home only to find a miniature version of your own carcass nailed down behind a pane of glass. She must’ve been so afr—

The frame tilted towards you, and you managed to pull yourself out of your panicked spiral long enough to realize that she was not looking at a preserved insect, but a picture of your housecat – a cute one, too, taken while she was leashed on your patio, sunbathing on her back. You sighed, sinking into your chair and smiling up at her. “That’s Missy. I thought about bringing her, but she’d be a terror on the local wildlife.” And then, more hesitantly, “Do you have any pets?”

You couldn’t imagine Leo taking care of anything, but she seemed fond enough of birds ‘and other insects. Plus, if she did have a pet, it’d tell you something about where she came from – if she had a house, or migratory season, or there were other people with wings and antenna and a spare set of limbs lurking just outside of your peripheral. It was a good place to start, but she didn’t seem to understand the question – only pursing her lips. “…Pet?”

“Like, an animal that you take care of, that you love,” you started, gesturing vaguely, as if that’d make your point any more clear. “Most people have cats and dogs, but—”

“No cats.” Her wings fluttered, her gaze narrowing at the picture. “Big teeth. Sharp claws. Violent.”

“Got it, no cats.” You slung an arm over the back of your chair. “It’s too bad. Missy was a good girl. You two would’ve gotten along.”

She seemed to think for a long moment, considering. Finally, as one of her free hands came to rest on the top of your head, she glanced towards you. “You are… pet?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “No, no, I’m a friend. Do you know what that is?”

If she wanted to answer, she didn’t seem to think of it as a priority. Her hand fell to your chin, another rising to cup your face entirely. Her thumbs traced over your cheeks as she smiled down at you, and with an airy laugh, you melted into her palms. “Good girl,” she cooed, her voice saccharine, her tony sappy. “Very good girl.”

It would’ve been a sweeter moment if you hadn’t heard the familiar sound of glass shattering at your feet, your picture frame dropped and discarded with just as little thought.

As far as you could tell, her wings were necessary for flight, but not actively a part of it. As the chitin film healed over entirely, the shape and color of her wings seemed to shift, taking on a luminescent green overtone, the eyes on the upper segments fading as their lower counterparts sprouted a pair of long, curling tails. Her fur and hair followed suit, and by the time she was able to get her feet off the ground, she was practically unrecognizable as the creature you’d first taken in. You were proud of her, even if you doubted she needed your support. Or, you wanted to be, at least.

Even after Leo had all-but recovered, she stayed nearby – rarely leaving your sight for longer than an hour. If you hadn’t been so curious, you might’ve been concerned. Butterflies were short-lived, migratory creatures. It wasn’t normal for them to stay in a single place for so long, not unless they were looking for a ma—

You were drawn out of your thoughts as you felt something light hit the top of your head – flower petals, you realized, as pieces of shredded coneflower and button bush trickled down into your lap. You tilted your head back, immediately finding Leo hovering about ten feet above you; tearing apart a handful of flowers petal-by-petal. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to – grinning as she motioned for you to follow her. You didn’t bother trying to resist, only pushing yourself to your feet and trailing after her.

She landed on the very outskirts of your property – where your garden met the forest proper. It took a few minutes of wading through foliage, but eventually, you managed to join her in her makeshift clearing.

The smell of iron hit you, first.

Not rot, but blood – fresh and metallic, strong enough to make you reel back. You almost stumbled, almost tripped, but a larger hand caught your wrist, trapping you where you were. You made no attempt to pull away. No, you were too focused on the—on the corpse in front of you, all blood-soaked feathers and broken bones and spilled viscera. It must’ve been a hawk, or a falcon, something with an absolutely massive wingspan and claws to match. Any other identifying features had been crushed, bent out of shape, or reduced to a fine, liquid pulp that was slowly soaking into the ground.

Your gaze flickered back to Leo, her grin just a touch more satisfied than it’d seemed, before. “Leo,” you started, forcing an unsteady smile. “I know we talked about pets, but—”

“Not a pet.” The correction was as swift as it was sugary. “A treat. A gift.”

Huh.

You didn’t remember teaching her that one.

It was more startling than you would’ve expected – waking up to the feeling of feather soft hands.

You guessed that wasn’t entirely true. They weren’t feather soft, and you should’ve known better than to say they were. Velvet would’ve been more a more accurate comparison, or satin – anything soft and rich that seemed to melt where it touched your skin. You couldn’t have been waking up, either, because that would’ve meant you were asleep, and there was no way you could’ve been asleep and staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom, feeling more exhausted than you ever had before. You would’ve liked to sit up, to see what was going on, but you couldn’t seem to move.

Leo was above you, straddling your waist. In her new form, she was practically iridescent – her wings reflecting the dull moonlight as if she was the one glowing. She was summoning her lights, again – drawing strings of silver drew drops with one hang while the other shaped them absentmindedly into a ring, one large enough to fit around your thigh. Or your neck.

For whatever reason, your mind was unwilling to linger on the thought.

She lifted her head every so slightly, her inky gaze settling on you. She was already touching you, one hand cupping your cheek while another brushed through your hair, but it took you longer than it should’ve to recognize just how warm your face felt, to put a name to knotted tension resting heavy in the pit of your stomach. You wanted to push her away, but your arms felt like lead at your sides, and— oh, she was already dipping down to your height, nuzzling gently against the top of your head before her hand found your chin, raising your head as her lips found yours.

It was less of a kiss and more of a prolonged collision, her tongue slipping easily past your parted lips, raking over your own with a measured kind of slowness. Her taste was as sweet as her voice, as her touch – all honeyed nectar and syrupy ambrosia and pure, liquidized sugar. It was beyond overwhelming. It was beyond euphoric. You were melting into her before you could so much as think about stopping yourself, letting out a fractured whine as you moved her lips sloppily against hers, as the tapered tip of her tongue hit the back of your throat and—

And you drew back with a sharp gasp, shuddering as you pressed yourself into your mattress. You shouldn’t be doing this. You couldn’t do this. She wasn’t an animal but god, she wasn’t far off.

“Leo,” you managed, trying to keep your tone gentle, soothing. If she heard, you couldn’t tell – her attention only falling to the crook of your neck, then the dip of your shoulder. “I—I’m not really sure we should be doing this, and I really wish you wouldn’t touch me, and—”

“Quiet.” Just like that, your jaw went slack, that sugar sweet scent intensifying and dulling any coherent thought you might’ve had to a numb, blank static. A deep, rumbling sort of reverberation sparked in her through as she nuzzled into your chest, her body slotted against yours. While one of her hands remained on your cheek, another found the hem of your dress, toying with the fabric for a moment before moving her attention to your neckline, instead. The first tug was gentle, experimental, but her impatience must’ve won over her curiosity; the sound of tearing material filling your quiet bedroom as a single, pointed claw traced a jagged line from the base of your throat to your midriff, the ruined fabric falling away without resistance. “Useless,” she muttered, half-under her breath. “In the way.”

It was an awkward position, her back arched, her wings clasped tightly against one another, but she didn’t seem to mind – her lips trailing over your collarbone, then the curve of your breast. You shut your eyes, but it would’ve been impossible not to feel her tongue lapping shallowly over your nipple. Your hands balled around the sheets as her lips wrapped around the sensitive bud, more of whatever awful substance she produced dripping down your skin, pooling on the flat plain between your breast, spreading a terrible sort of heat to everything it touched. She rotated between sucking and laving, a hand coming up to knead at the unassulted side of your chest with just a touch too much force to be for the sake of your pleasure.

You didn’t want to feel anything. You didn’t want to react. You didn’t want to, and yet, you couldn’t seem to swallow back the low, cracked moans and hitched whimpers spilling past your lips. Leo’s purring grew louder, her spare set of hands finding your hips as they bucked pathetically against nothing. It was almost a relief when she pulled away, lifting her head. Through your eyelashes, you watched her eyes narrow, lips pursing. If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought she looked disappointed.

You tried to call out again, to tell her to stop, but your voice remained despondent as Leo repositioned herself, slipping into the space between your open legs. What was left of your nightgown as done away with entirely, and with a hand wrapped around either of your thighs, she bowed her head, her tongue dragging over the length of your clothed slit. Instantly, her expression brightened, and for the first time, you were forced to acknowledge the slow, viscous heat slowly leaking out from between your thighs, forced to listen as she hummed in delight and tore through your panties, the silk as easily defeated as your nightgown had been. Tears formed in the corners of your eyes as her tongue dragged over your now-exposed pussy, lapping up the slick staining the inside of your thighs. Her nose ground against your overly sensitive clit as she buried herself in your cunt, less focused on your pleasure and more dedicated to eating you alive – pointed teeth scraping against tender flesh as she ran the flat of her tongue over your entrance, refusing to let a single part of you go uncared for. Because she was caring for you, like a lover, like a nurse.

Like an owner.

You dug your teeth into the inside of your cheek with enough force to draw blood. She was not a lover, or an owner, and she wasn’t taking care of you – nothing about this could be called caring. You tried to snap your thighs shut, to pull yourself up, but the blunt tip of her prolonged tongue dipped into your entrance and it was all you could do to scream – the noise tearing out of your throat as something pathetic and miserable. If Leo noticed your agony, she wasn’t in a place to care, too busy curling her tongue inside of you, grinding against the clenching walls of your cunt and abusing every spot that made you shake and moan and drip. It wasn’t hard to see what she was motivated by, what she was chasing after, but knowing why she was doing this didn’t make it any easier to endure. You’d never be able to look at her again, after this. You wouldn’t be able to let her stay with you, anymore. You’d have to make her leave.

That was, if you ever found a way to.

You managed to get an arm underneath you, but it didn’t matter. Her unoccupied pair of hands clamped down around your hips, your thighs forced onto her shoulders as she straightened her back and threatened to fold you in half, all-but devouring your cunt with a renewed gluttony. Fuck. Fuck. Her tongue was too fast, too flexible; twisting inside of you, filling you entirely. The pressure on your clit, while not deliberate, wasn’t helping, and it was only a matter of time until you could feel your legs twitching where they were propped on her shoulders, until your vocalizations turned form moans to whines to muttering – all ‘stop’ and ‘no, don’t’ and ‘not there’, hasty and incoherent and humiliating. You couldn’t stop yourself, though.

You were starting to think you’d never be able to do much of anything ever again.

She didn’t stop when you came. You doubted she even noticed; her purring only growing louder, the movement of her tongue taking on a more wild sort of pattern. No, she drew back after you’d gone limp underneath her, your voice dying until those little, keening nothings were the only noise you could make. Distantly, you could feel your body being lowered back onto your bed, Leo shifting above you, then two fingers swiping over your cunt. You felt something prodding against your lips, and too exhausted to resist, opened your mouth. “Good girl,” Leo cooed, her inflection mimicking that of someone talking down to something smaller, something lesser. The taste of your own slick mixed with her saliva flooded your senses, as vile as it was saccharine. “Sweet, and pretty, and good. My good girl.”

Her head dipped, her lips finding yourself. This kiss was softer than her first, tender rather than hungry, lingering rather than desperate. As she held you there, you felt something wrap around your throat – cold as ice and soft as velvet. When you found the will to open your eyes, you looked not towards Leo’s expression, her dazzling smile, but to her right hand and the beaded silver cord tangled around it.

You didn’t have to guess what the other end was connected to.

“All mine.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere monster #yandere monster x reader #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere oc

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reilemon · 6 months ago

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♥︎Amore Immortale♥︎ Ch. 1

Chapter Title ♥︎ Down The Rabbit Hole ♥︎ ch.2 𓂂 ch.3

♡︎ synopsis: A simple foraging trip takes an unexpected turn when you wake up in a mansion hidden deep in the forest. Now four captivating men are nursing you back to health, but their intentions—and identities—are a mystery.

♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus x fem!reader (separately and together)

♡︎ cw: depictions of head injury and fever

♡︎ tags: vampire au, slow burn (-ish), eventual romance, eventual smut, eventual polyamory

♡︎ word count: 4.3k

♡︎ a/n: the first chapter of the sixth and final story for kinktober 2024. I wanted to finish off kinktober with a gang bang, but I got carried away and now this is going to be a multi chapter story. I hope you'll like this one.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @cafekitsune

"Poor little bunny." The blue eyed man coos as he find the source of the sudden loud noise - you. The clumsy human probably slipped and fell when the sky opened and heavy rainfall started. He carefully scoops you in his arms, with your head resting on his shoulder.

A small whine barely hits his ears and he catches the moment you briefly gain consciousness. He softly chuckles when he hears your silly question before passing out again. He ignores how a little of your blood is mixing with the rain on the fabric of his coat and starts walking away.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Your eyes flutter open, heavy and bleary. You adjust slowly to the dimness around you, the fireplace in front of your bed the only source of light. The ceiling looms high - a ceiling you don’t recognize. The walls are covered in wallpaper, worn and peeling in places. You don’t recognize that wallpaper either. The royal purple catches the dim firelight, a color you could never possibly afford.

You shift against the bed beneath you, the silk sheets cool and smooth against your skin. Over you is a heavy wool blanket, its weight like a comforting presence. A low groan escapes your lips as you rise and rest on your elbow. The room is beautiful, with expensive furniture, but there is this dormant energy to it.

You glance at the thick velvet curtains covering the window. The sliver peeking in the corner shows you a glimpse of the outside world. It’s nighttime, the downpour relentless, drops thrumming against the glass.

‘The rain!’

You sit up abruptly, a sharp pang of pain zapping through your skull, making you wince and press your fingers to your temple. Your fingers try to rub the pain away as you lean on your other arm to rest. Right, the rain. After closing up the bookstore, you've gone to the forest to search for some mushrooms and sweet chestnuts. A hearty dinner and sweet dessert would be a great start of your two week long vacation. The last visitor commented how their elbow hurt which meant a thunderstorm is coming. You politely smiled and packed up their books. You should've listened to their elbow.

Now, staring around this unfamiliar room, unease twists in your stomach.

‘Where the hell am I?’

Right on cue, the door creaks open, and a tall, raven haired man steps into the room. He pauses in the doorway as his eyes meet yours.

“Hello,” he says, his voice smooth and deep. “How are you feeling?”

You swallow, his presence suddenly making you aware of the mess you must look. Embarrassment prickles your skin, and you rub your temple, trying to compose yourself, only to see his brows knit with concern.

“Um, I’ve been better,” you manage, forcing a chuckle. The grogginess in your voice doesn’t help the embarrassment. You smooth a hand over the blanket, feeling a little exposed. “Why am I here?”

“My friend found you,” he explains, “Out in the forest, just before the storm. You most likely slipped on the mud and hit your head.”

He nods towards your forehead, then reaches for a small, gold hand-mirror resting on the bedside table. The antique metal glints softly as he holds it, and you take it with a hesitant hand. As you lift it to inspect your reflection, you catch a small bruise just above your brow, the skin tender and slightly swollen. Considering the circumstances, you think, it could’ve been much worse.

The man, whose name you still haven’t learned, clears his throat. “I was the one who changed you into dry clothes,” he shifts in his seat, averting his gaze briefly before meeting your eyes again. “For that, I apologize. I wouldn’t have done it if there were any other choice.”

You shake your head with a small, reassuring smile. “It’s fine, really. If you hadn’t, I’d probably be shivering with pneumonia right now.”

His expression softens with relief. “I’m glad you understand. I would still like to listen to your lungs, Would you be comfortable with me examining you?” then he adds, “I’ve been in the medical field for quite some time, I assure you.”

Something about his demeanor, calm and controlled, makes him look trustworthy. And considering how thoroughly he must have tended to you—removing every speck of mud, leaving you dry and warm in a comfortable bed—it’s clear he has your wellbeing in mind. You nod. “Of course.”

He gives a curt nod and shifts closer to the bed. “You don’t need to do much, just sit as comfortably as you can,” he murmurs, the calm, low timbre of his voice steadies you. The shirt you wear—a loose button-up clearly meant for a man—hangs loosely over your shoulders, open at the collar. Suddenly, you feel the pulse of your own heartbeat, wondering if he might hear it already. His hand moves lightly over the fabric, as he leans closer, and then he places his ear gently against your chest, just above your heart.

The moment feels both entirely professional and so intimate. You tell yourself that this is completely normal, this is the usual routine. But he is not your doctor, and you can’t shun the butterflies you feel from having a handsome stranger resting his head on your chest. His hair, thick and dark, grazes your collarbone as he listens, his breath warm against your skin. Your heartbeat, which you’re certain must be thudding wildly beneath his ear, betrays you, a deep flush creeping up your cheeks as you try to steady yourself.

“Breathe in deeply for me,” his voice a soft murmur, his cheek brushing against you.

You comply, feeling his presence with every rise and fall of your chest. When he shifts, his head moves closer to your collarbone, the tickling brush of his hair sending a wave of goosebumps along your chest. You’re conscious of every small movement, every slight intake of his breath.

He shifts back a little, his hand grazing your shoulder as he adjusts to press his ear against your back. “One more time,” his tone is still composed, though you’re unsure if you catch a hint of restraint.

You breathe in, slowly, deeply, feeling the warmth of his palm on your shoulder. He holds still for a moment longer, listening intently. Then, he slowly pulls back, settling into his seat with a neutral expression.

“You do have a small fever,” he calmly states. “Although, there are no signs of anything serious.” He offers a faint, almost apologetic smile. “You should lie back down and rest.”

Your cheeks are warm, and not just from the fever. You nod and do as you’re told, sinking under the comforting weight of the blanket. The man briefly explains that you were unconscious for around two hours, and that your clothes are being washed.

You nod again, processing the details. “Thank you… that’s all very considerate of you.”

He offers you a faint smile. “It’s the least we could do.”

He rises from his seat and steps toward the door, his hand resting on the brass knob. “I need to check on my friend in the kitchen. There may be a fire to manage. And I’ll bring you some herbal tea.”

You chuckle. “Well, thank you, Dr…?”

A flicker of amusement lights his eyes as he opens the door, pausing for a moment. “Just call me Zayne.”

You tell him your name in return, and with that, he’s gone with the soft click of the door.

After Zayne leaves, the room slips into an almost eerie quiet. You prop yourself up against the plush pillows, trying to get comfortable despite the persistent ache in your muscles and the dull throb in your head. The room feels larger now that you’re alone. Every detail catches your attention—the thick velvet drapes, the intricate patterns on the worn wallpaper, the faint smell of stale air. You’d get up to investigate the room or try to figure out more about where exactly you are, but your body protests with every small movement. So you have to settle for gazing around the space instead, picking out details you hadn’t noticed before. The furniture is old but well-kept, the kind that belongs in a property far grander than any home you’ve ever been in. This place—it’s not like the humble cottages back in your village. No, this is different. Larger. More isolated. Somewhere far from the familiar streets you walk every day.

A shiver crawls down your spine at the thought of how far away you could be from your home. You’ve never ventured beyond the edge of the forest. You’ve heard stories about the other side. It was always whispered between older folk who’d lived through enough strange events to keep their superstitions alive. Vampires, werewolves, creatures of the night. They’d mention them, always in passing, as though acknowledging them would draw something out of the shadows.

At first, you’d dismissed it. What else could it be but old folklore? Some scary tales to spice up their lives, stories passed down from generation to generation. Something for them to talk about when the nights grew long and dark, to keep the children from misbehaving. Those creatures don’t exist. You were certain of that.

Or, at least, you had been.

You replay the events in your mind, trying to make sense of it all. Zayne said that his friend found you unconscious in the woods. They’d brought you here, tended to your injuries, and kept you warm. His behavior had been nothing but kind, gentlemanly even.

But then, why does your skin prickle as you think of him?

What if he is one of them? The pale complexion, the unnerving quiet, the way he’d moved with such elegant grace. And those eyes... there was something about the way he looked at you. Your pulse quickens. You try to reason with yourself—if this man, Zayne, were a vampire, wouldn’t he have done something by now? You were unconscious and vulnerable. He could have easily taken advantage of that moment, but he hadn’t. He’d taken care of you.

But what if... what if this is all part of some darker plan? You swallow hard, trying to silence the growing paranoia. What if they want to keep you here? What if, right now, they’re simply playing a long game, to coax you to be their little blood doll—

‘Stop.’ You force yourself to take a deep breath, trying to calm your spiraling thoughts. There’s no proof, no reason to believe that Zayne—or anyone else—is anything other than a human.

You glance toward the window. Your body feels like lead at the moment, but tomorrow you will probably be well enough to leave. The storm can’t go on forever.

A sharp knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts.

"Come in," you manage, your voice wavering just a little.

Zayne steps in, balancing a tray of a delicate ceramic tea set. The gentle clink of porcelain against porcelain brings comfort to your senses. Behind him, another figure slips into the room—a man with handsome, soft features. His tousled, blonde-gray hair looks like it would be soft to the touch. And his eyes, though shadowed by the dim lighting, have a dreamy quality, like someone lost in thought.

A faint smell of something burnt drifts into the room, cutting through the soothing scent of the herbal tea. You can’t help but frown a bit at the scent, but neither man acknowledges it. Zayne places the tray on the small bedside table, the teapot steaming. The air feels warmer now, not just from the tea.

The second man steps forward, offering you a polite nod, “Hello.” he says, his voice silky and mellow. “I’m Xavier, the one who found you.”

His soft smile makes your heart stir. It takes you a beat to find your voice to introduce yourself.

“Thank you… for, well, rescuing me,” you say with a shy smile.

Xavier gives a gentle shake of his head, his smile widening. “Why were you so deep into the forest with a storm on the way?” he asks, his tone feels almost like teasing.

You chuckle nervously as you feel the faintest flush of embarrassment creep up your cheeks. “I – Well, I wanted to gather some things for dinner,” you admit. “It’s my first real break from work, and I may have gotten a little too excited.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, as if he’s trying to fully take you in.

“You’re lucky he was done fishing at the time.” Zayne adds as he hands you a cup of tea. His fingers brush lightly against yours as you accept it, deepening the flush on your cheeks. You are lucky to be here. Even though you’re sitting in a room with two men who are strangers, they still have cared for you with such tenderness. You could feel their warmth in every gesture, in every word. It’s hard to hold onto fear when faced with such care. Even now, you can feel yourself relaxing, the tension in your shoulders unwinding.

You take a sip of tea slowly, trying to mask the strange tide of emotions flooding through you. You had been so afraid, so convinced of something dark lurking beneath the surface. But now, in this quiet moment, with the warm tea in your hands and their watchful eyes on you, you feel strangely safe.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The clock on the mantel ticks softly, the brass hands showing it’s almost 1 a.m. The fire burns low, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room. Your eyelids feel heavy now, the weight of exhaustion settling deep in your bones. You turn onto your side, pulling the duvet tighter, forming a cocoon around you. The warmth, the softness—everything lulls you closer to sleep. But your mind drifts, recalling the conversation with Xavier after he’d brought you dinner.

He’d placed the bed tray gently over your lap, making sure everything was within reach. Before he turned to leave, the sound of your voice stopped him.

“Did you manage to catch anything?” you asked, your voice quiet but curious.

Xavier had looked confused for a moment, then his face lit up with a soft smile. “I did. Fried a few, but Zayne didn’t let me serve it to you.” He chuckled. “Said he didn’t want you choking on a bone.”

You laughed too, the sound easing the leftover tension you’ve been holding. That explained the faint burnt smell that had lingered earlier, and why Zayne had to rush to the kitchen.

“And don’t worry,” he added. “I brought back your basket too. Everything’s intact.”

You were about to thank him, but then an image flashed in your mind—a fleeting memory of him, his hair wet and clinging to his face. The moment felt so vivid, so real, that it stopped you mid-thought. You stared at him, squinting slightly.

“What’s wrong?” His voice softened with concern, his brows furrowing.

You shook your head quickly, flustered for being caught staring. “Nothing… it’s just—did I say something to you? When you found me?”

Xavier hesitated, his lips twitching as though trying to suppress a grin. He glanced to the side, his hand coming up to cover his mouth, but his eyes gave him away. “Oh no…” you said, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. “Was it something embarrassing?”

“No,” he replied, though the gleam in his eye said otherwise. “It was cute.” He paused, then looked back to you, “You opened your eyes for a moment, and asked me, ‘Are you my prince?’ Then you passed out again.”

Your heart practically leapt into your throat, your face instantly flushing. “Oh, that’s definitely embarrassing,” you groaned.

Xavier laughed then, his voice soothing. “Don’t worry, I’ve been called worse.”

And just as you wished for the shadows to come alive and swallow you, Zayne entered, saving you from further humiliation. He brought you a bowl filled with ice and a cloth. You thanked both of them, adding that you planned to leave in the morning.

Their faces changed for a heartbeat when you said that, though you didn’t miss it. It wasn’t worry exactly, more like hesitation, as though they weren’t entirely convinced you would be gone by morning. Or perhaps… that they didn’t want you to be.

That thought lingered now, swirling in your mind as your body sank deeper into the mattress. Their kindness, their calmness—they made you feel safe, soothed the fears that had gripped you earlier. Yet, there was something unspoken between the three of you.

A sigh escapes your lips. You can feel sleep creeping over you, warm and heavy, pulling you under. The memory of Xavier’s reassuring smile and Zayne’s attentive gaze lingers in your mind, their faces blurring at the edges as your thoughts dissolve into a haze.

They are both so kind. And so handsome.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

A low whine escapes your lips before you even open your eyes. The ache in your body is heavy and relentless. Every muscle protests as you shift, but you force your eyelids open. The room is warm, the fire crackling faintly in the hearth. Someone must’ve light it while you were still asleep.

‘I said I’d leave in the morning.’ You glance over at the clock—it’s 11 a.m. That’s not really morning, but it is time for you to leave. If only you felt better.

You wince as you slowly, painfully, push yourself out of bed. Your legs feel weak, your body sluggish, like you’re moving through water. Every movement sends a wave of soreness through your bones, but you grit your teeth and push through. You don’t want to linger here any longer than you have to.

Grumbling under your breath, you stagger toward the door, your feet barely shuffling across the hardwood. You’re still dressed in the warm clothes Zayne gave you, though they feel a little too big now. You’ll just ask for your things and be on your way. You’ll return their clothes once you fully recover.

Goosebumps spread all over your skin as you open the door, the chill air of the hallway shocking your senses. It is completely quiet, only the soft creak of the floorboards under your slippers breaking the silence. More doors sit along the hallway, likely bedrooms as well. You glance at them briefly, but you step towards the staircase ahead. The polished mahogany wood gleams faintly, and you internally groan at the thought of making it down the steps in your current state.

You’re about to take your first step when—

“Hey!”

The voice comes out of nowhere, stopping you in your tracks. You freeze, your heart jumping in your chest as footsteps echo from above, growing louder as they approach. Turning, you find yourself face-to-face with a man descending the stairs. He’s tall and moves with an almost feline grace. His hair is gorgeous - messy curls of muted violet and his eyes, an unusual blend of blue and pink, are sharp and full of curiosity. His plump lips are pulled in an amused smirk.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is teasing, though there’s a touch of disapproval in it. His arms cross over his chest, as he takes in your disheveled state.

You blink at him, still trying to shake off the fog in your head. “I - I need to leave.”

He narrows his eyes, looking you up and down. “You should stay in bed,” he says firmly, stepping closer. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”

He is right, you do feel like you’re about to collapse, yet you can’t help but notice how striking he is. His hair, his eyes, even the way he moves—it’s all captivating. But you force those thoughts away, shaking your head slightly. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

He uncrosses his arms, offering a small smile that’s both charming and a little smug. “Oh, right. I’m Rafayel.” His voice dips slightly, your name falling from his lips. “I’m staying here too. Zayne told me what happened.”

You blink again, taken aback by how easily he says your name. You hadn’t expected to meet another guest in the house. “Rafayel,” you repeat.

He nods, brushing a hand through his unruly curls. “Yeah. I took care of your clothes. They’re drying in my room,” he adds. “It’s still raining, though, so they might take a while.”

At his words, you pause and listen. Sure enough, you hear the soft, steady patter of rain against the windows. You’d been so focused on leaving that you hadn’t even thought to check the weather. ‘Of course it’s still raining.’ You sigh inwardly, frustration and weariness settling in your chest.

“What about Zayne and Xavier?” you ask, hoping to at least get some help from them.

Rafayel smirks, shaking his head. “They’re sleeping.”

You frown. “Sleeping?”

“Yup,” he says with a shrug, almost dismissive.

Your mind races. You know why you are up so late, but why are they still sleeping. Your mind is about to wander to that corner again, but you stop yourself. ‘They must’ve been exhausted from taking care of an injured stranger.’

Still, the unease lingers. Rafayel’s gaze flickers over you, his eyes softening slightly as if sensing your discomfort. “Look,” he says, his voice gentler now, “you really don’t look like you’re in any shape to leave. Why don’t you rest a bit longer?”

You hesitate, your body aching with every breath, the fatigue weighing you down with each second. He’s right. You’re not ready to leave yet.

Rafayel’s eyes hold yours for a moment. “You’re safe here,” he adds softly.

Just as Rafayel is about to steer you back toward the bedroom, another voice cuts through the air, deep and teasing, with a velvety edge that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Is that the lost kitten?”

You look down the stairs, and there he is. The man who appears next makes the very air around you seem heavier. He’s taller than the other men, with strikingly sharp features. His white hair is tousled yet elegant, and his eyes - a deep, mesmerizing wine-red, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

Before you can even react, the man is standing right in front of you, his height towering over you. You can’t help but gawk, unable to stop yourself from tracing every detail of his sharp jawline, the way his lower lip looks so plump and soft.

Rafayel’s voice, sharp with annoyance, snaps you out of the trance. “You know her name, Sylus.”

But Sylus just smirks. He takes your hand, his fingers long and strong, enveloping yours completely. Your breath catches in your throat as the warmth from his touch sends heat rippling through your body. His hand is so much larger than yours, making you feel almost fragile in his grip.

“My name is Sylus. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Your name drips from his lips, and he bends forward and presses a tender kiss to the back of your hand. The sensation of his cool lips against your flushed skin sends tingles across your arm. You can’t help but blush under the attention.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rafayel roll his eyes, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips. “You’re shameless.” he mutters, though there’s a playful lilt to his voice.

Sylus simply laughs, a low, rich sound, before releasing your hand. With a light touch on your back, Rafayel guides you back toward the bedroom, his hand steady and firm against you. Sylus trails behind, watching with an amused expression.

When you’re back in the bedroom, Rafayel’s hands gently but insistently push you down by the shoulders, guiding you to sit back on the edge of the bed. “Seriously,” you protest, exasperated, “I feel better already! I don’t want to be a burden.”

Sylus leans lazily against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a smirk dancing on his lips as he watches the scene unfold. "You look much too cute to be any kind of burden, kitten," he says, his eyes fixed on you.

Before you can say anything else, Rafayel presses you back into the blankets, his firm but gentle insistence impossible to resist. As you sink back into the bed, Sylus pushes off from the door and approaches with an almost predatory grace. The teasing glint in his eyes fades slightly as he crouches beside the bed, his expression softening as his hand reaches out to press against your forehead. His touch is cool—no wonder, since the rest of the mansion is freezing—and the sensation sends a refreshing chill through your heated skin.

“You still have a fever.” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly against your temple.

Rafayel shakes his head, giving you a disapproving look. “See? You’re in no condition to leave. I’ll prepare you tea and breakfast.”

Your protests die on your lips as Sylus pulls away, his touch lingering on your skin. Both men turn around and leave before you can say anything else.

The door shuts softly behind them, leaving you alone once again. You sink deeper into the bed, your body heavy with exhaustion. Your thoughts swirl, still caught in the lingering effect of their presence. You turn on your side, facing the window, staring at the thick velvet curtains that block out the view of raindrops racing down the tall windows. As much as you want to leave, as much as you should leave, you know your body isn’t ready. The fever might not be severe, but it’s enough to weaken you. Slipping away now—especially into the woods with no clear path—feels like a death wish.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips. For now, the best option is to rest and regain your strength. You can’t deny how safe their presence makes you feel, even if you don’t fully understand why. Something about them pulls you in, something more than just their looks.

You close your eyes, letting the exhaustion pull you under.

#love and deepspace #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #zayne love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #xavier smut #zayne smut #sylus smut #rafayel smut #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader

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