#ugh just exquisite

[kristsune]

Well, after episode 40, I had to make a post for my new fave Heinrich Unheimlich, The Toymaker, who was absolutely delightful, and so very polite. How could I not when he simply wanted to offer a comfortable place to sit.

[anantaru]

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ how they kiss you — love and deepspace

including. zayne, xavier, rafayel, sylus, caleb

genre. fem! reader, making out (quite sexual), body fondling, established relationship

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ zayne

there's always a subtle silence before you happen to feel it— you know? the way zayne watches your lips like he's studying anatomy again— not clinically, silly! but reverently, like he might carve the shape of your mouth into his memory.

so precise, so devout, it borders on madness. soaked in tension and lust— quite obsessive, don't you agree? almost grotesque in how deeply he desired you.

the man leans in, close enough for his breath to ghost over your skin as he abruptly stops, catching himself in the same course of action he tends to take, every damn time.

zayne held himself back like the act of restraint was the only thing keeping him from collapsing into you completely, succumbing to those pretty, warm lips of yours as something deep inside of him broke that night.

he's going deeper before pressing into your lips at last— his psyche, his shadows, the way the hunger on his tongue felt different than anyone else's as he cups your face like he's afraid of shattering it, mouth crashing into yours.

not messy, not wild, instead, devastatingly precise— and every stroke of his warm muscle felt like it's been rehearsed in secret, fantasized about in sinful dreams as his hand slides down your throat, thumb resting on your pulse like he's checking it— not for medical reasons, but for control.

the kiss deepens and sharpens at the edges of each lap and suckle of your bottom lip between his teeth as his body presses you to the nearest surface with a force just edging on subtle bruising— and when your fingers suddenly thread into his hair to taste him more, when you pull him harder into you— he groans low, a sound rattling from somewhere hidden and forbidden, yes, like something sacred within him was being exposed.

and well, in that exposé, zayne finds a terrible, exquisite relief in each slip and slide of your tongues intertwining, bodies stroking each other as though this was the only way he's ever known how to feel alive.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ xavier

xavier touches you first— although not to grope, yet to ground himself with his palm on your shaking hip while his other hand brushes against your soft cheek, and that look on him which was revealed next haunted you— like he's seeing a future he doesn’t believe he deserves.

slow, searching, his lips coax across your bottom lip, the tension behind each suckle on it unbearable as he continues to trace yours like he's adamant to make it everlasting. your boyfriend grunted like restraint stretched thin inside his frame, like one more kiss might tip him over the edge into something more, well, feral? ugh, but he holds himself back of course. 

yet just barely.

those kisses you shared weren't just random pecks here and there, they felt like confessions, truly, like a collapse of two loving hearts forming a dance of possession— each movement sharpening to the truth of what this relationship meant to him, all of it rooted in desire and lust, shadowed with emotional gravity and physical intensity of hands squeezing your flesh.

and you felt it, all of it— the tremble in his fingers, the quiet threat of his teeth brushing just behind every soft tug at your lip, as though even the smallest motion could unravel him further.

you arch into him, obediently feeling the low, guttural sound that escaped his throat— a half moan, a sound so faint it could almost be mistaken for a prayer, whispered to no god at all, but to the madness he cannot escape.

your lips stay close at all times, breathing hard against each other with foreheads pressed together, "i don't want to hurt you," his voice, thick with restraint, was taken hostage somewhere between a confession and collapse, yet his hands disobey him at last— sliding beneath your shirt with a quiet desperation, mapping the ridges of your shape like he's meant to be.

truly, if you let him keep going with those addictive kisses, he'll worship you until he forgets where he ends and you begin.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ rafayel

hands in your hair, rafayel's lips were already open and panting, breath warm and uneven and jaw slacked, well, it's all then and there with no waiting, no warning— just the sudden, dizzying sensation of being devoured by the man you loved.

his tongue was everywhere on you— teasing you, curling and invading your mouth as he moans into your parted lips, pulling your lower lip between his teeth and laughing when you gasp out in slight shock— quite literally, the man loved to push you over the edge, he lived for the sweet, little responses you'd grace him with in return.

from being tangled in your hair to squeezed within your clothes, rafayel slides down further to cup your ass, squeezing the addicting mounds of flesh as you wince into his hold, "ugh, you taste like a bad decision," he smirks, whispering against your mouth, yet already leaning right back in.

before you could even response to him he kisses you harder, deeper, lapping and lapping and lapping his hefty tongue against your own as your hips were grinding against him just enough to make the room spin and your eyes roll back into your skull.

without a doubt, every second with him felt like falling and screaming and shattering all at once— fast at that, disoriented and inevitable when all you needed is for him to imbed you with his scent until there was nothing left of you to claim.

it's there when you realize that rafayel tasted like the sweetest sin that has ever existed, not kissing to seduce, but to ruin— and make sure you’re begging him for it.

for a slight second he pulls away just enough to look at your lips and what he's done to them— and would you look at that? your boyfriend adored the lusting sight of swollen, glistening, needy lips parted and puffed up, "baby, you're gonna be the death of me."

rafayel says it like it's a promise.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sylus

you can’t call this a kiss— no, not with the way sylus's mouth drags across yours like he's already lost the war against wanting you.

to call it a claim would be closer though, but even that sounds too civilized. there is nothing civil about the way his tongue parts your lips— wet, scorching, impatient, nothing gentle in the sting of his teeth catching your mouth, just enough to pull breath from your lungs and copper to your tongue.

he tastes it— even better, tastes you— and it makes something violent bloom in his chest as he growls out embarrassingly loud, not like an animal but like a man who's tasted divinity and was furious that he ever lived without it in the past.

his grip on your hips tighten as he drags you against him, feeling you up like shame didn't exist in his vocabulary, in fact, it quite literally didn't.

not a flicker of hesitation, not even the illusion of pause— only the dreadful inevitability of a hunger given form around his tongue, his lips moving with the certainty of something long premeditated, as if his body had been waiting its entire life for permission to devour you.

he doesn’t ask for allowance to be rougher, sylus knows he doesn’t need to.

his mouth licks into yours with a frenzied rhythm, like he’s trying to bury every unspeakable thought inside your throat as every shove, every bitten gasp, every ragged exhale that leaves his body was a hidden confession disguised as a dominating sin.

the man was not delicate. he was not kind. but he was true.

terrifyingly, brutally true.

furthermore, his tongue traces a wet line from your bottom lip, creeping toward your jaw, then dipping lower to your neck— infused with desperation and something dangerously raw.

his teeth find your skin at last— not out of need, no, but out of some dark impulse deep hidden beneath his heart, as if marking you up was the only act left that can prove he existed, that he's here, tethered to a body that's already unraveling.

"you have no fucking idea," he pants, his breath a jagged rhythm against your skin as if the act of inhaling and exhaling was the only thing that kept him secured— each exhalation a tremor, a faint admission of the madness threatening to spill over.

he smirks, "what you’ve done to me."

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ caleb

in the language of a yearning man, caleb doesn't speak— instead the silence clung to him like a second skin, as if words would shatter whatever fragile shell still held him upright.

as an alternative, his hands found your waist as he exhales deeply from his mouth when he feels your body— yet tentative at first, but with a pressure that deepens and sharpens, afterwards he leans in to kiss you.

not in a haste, no, not like a man chasing basic pleasure, but like a man aching with his mouth against yours— slow, burning, unbearably tender.

his lips taste of quiet torment, of years spent repressing the thing now trembling beneath his touch and the longer it goes on, the more unraveled he becomes— now here, his breath falters, his jaw tenses and when his tongue brushes up against your own needy one, it is with such aching slowness that it felt like a sin.

he grips your jaw softly, almost fearfully, as if he cannot believe you're letting him touch you as his other hand slips beneath the waistband of your pants— fingertips skimming over your bare flesh and squeezing at it like he's utterly worshipping you.

more and more, you want more but the kiss breaks open, becoming wet and open-mouthed, desperate and messy and ugh— caleb cannot stop and neither can you, even less when you whine at him all quietly and overstimulated, the kind of sound which made a man fall on his knees.

okay, he should pull away, correct? uh, before you'll both be unable to stop and take it further, you see the truth in that?

well, he doesn’t.

and neither do you.

©2025 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[pukefactory]

Dream BBQ Ena x reader who helps out with he job and stuff!! I think it’d be super interesting

Author’s Note

Keep the Ena requests coming, everyone! I’m having an absolute blast writing and exploring these characters. A new hyperfixation might be on the horizon!

-Rush

���☽────✧˖°˖ FALLEN DOWN ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcannons Featuring Salesperson Ena X Reader Who Helps Her Throughout Her Job In The Lonely Door

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcannons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @Joelg

☆ You’re not supposed to be here. The moment Ena lays eyes on you, her dual-colored gaze flickers with surprise and intrigue. She leans in too close, scrutinizing your existence like a puzzle with missing pieces. “Ah, a stray marble in the machine! An uninvited guest at the banquet of fate!” Her voice lilts between amusement and concern, but she doesn’t turn you away. Instead, she offers you her mitten-shaped hand. “Shall we make a mess of destiny together?”

☆ She narrates your presence like an unreliable tour guide. As you follow her through the casino and its labyrinth of surreal doors, she provides commentary. Not on the scenery, no—that would be too easy. Instead, she describes you, your expressions, your reactions to the bizarre world unfolding around you. “Look at them! A brave little duckling, waddling into the jaws of the absurd! Oh, how they hesitate at the sight of Dratula’s many, many claws… A performance of hesitation! Exquisite!”

☆ She’s weirdly protective in the most Ena way possible. If something dangerous lurks ahead, she doesn’t say, “Be careful.” No, she says, “Let’s see if your presence bends the laws of probability in our favor, shall we?” And if it doesn’t? If something lunges for you? She laughs, but it’s nervous, her red side flickering into something sharper. “Ooo, bad hand of cards, dear! Let’s reshuffle, quickly now!” And suddenly, she’s pulling you behind her, claws glinting.

☆ Ena insists you have a “role” in this world, even if you don’t understand it. She gestures wildly at you while speaking to Froggy. “What do you mean they don’t belong? Can’t you see? They’re the thread that keeps the whole tapestry from unraveling!” She winks at you. “Or maybe they are the unraveling! Delightful, no?”

☆ She tests the boundaries of your existence. At one point, she stops abruptly, twirling to face you with her usual grin. “Say, say—if I push you towards that door, will you clip through it? If I blink, will you cease to be?” She blinks dramatically. You don’t disappear. She pouts. “Ah, how disappointing. But reassuring!”

☆ Her moods shift like rolling dice, and you’re always there to catch the aftermath. There are moments where her pale yellow side takes over, and her voice dips into something quieter, more melancholic. “The boss… the boss… Do you think I’ll even reach them?” She shakes her head, forcing a grin. “Oh, but enough of that! We mustn’t let the blues—oh, or the reds—consume us!”

☆ You become her moral compass in the most absurd situations. “Should we accept a deal from the nice, floating hand offering us a reality-warping contract?” No, Ena. “Should we ride the mysterious conveyor belt labeled ‘certain doom’?” Absolutely not, Ena. She groans, exaggerated and theatrical. “Ugh, you’re such a buzzkill! …But a lovable one.”

☆ She starts incorporating you into her metaphors. “I’m the wandering performer, you’re my steadfast stagehand! I’m the rogue dice, and you’re the velvet-lined cup that keeps me from rolling off the table! I’m a fever dream, and you… you’re the cold rag against my forehead. How poetic!”

☆ The world recognizes you as an anomaly, and Ena revels in it. Characters you meet pause, staring at you with unreadable expressions. Some whisper, some laugh, some don’t acknowledge you at all, like you’re a half-rendered NPC. Ena waves her mitten hand dismissively. “Ignore them! They just love to fuss over continuity errors.”

☆ By the time you reach the Genie, she refuses to leave you behind. Even if you were never meant to follow her this far. Even if something in the world strains against your presence. “No, no, NO,” she argues, gripping your wrist. “We’ve come this far together! I REFUSE to be a solo act now! If the script demands separation, well—” She grins, sharp and unyielding. “Let’s improvise.”

[pseudowho]

"Oh, fuck-- Kento, stopstopstop-- go back--"

Kento grimaced, almost comedically, as you tried to push him back out through the coffee shop doorway, and into the freezing rain. The bell above you dinged, and dinged, and dingalingdingdinged as the two of you battled, and the door danced back and forth against it.

Kento wouldn't leave the promise of fresh bread without a fight.

"-- if they haven't got the casse croute left, I'll be perfectly happy with something else-" (he wouldn't) "--and I can come back later to grab one for lunch tomorrow--" (he couldn't) "--and I'd just prefer to get out of the rain--" (please)

"No," you hissed, urging, "no, it's not that, it's--"

Kento blinked, one long, slow blink, over your shoulder. He clocked a man-- a familiar man, one whose photos he had once seen you tear to shreds-- who was sat at a window table already. Ah. He understood.

"Don't worry," Kento murmured, slipping a discrete, strong hand around your waist to press you through the doorway, as you looked up at him in anguish, "he won't bother us. But if he does--" (no, Kento-- you shouldn't--")

By the time the inevitable occurred, and your ex approached to wipe the smile off your face, Kento had already calculated the sum of the man, and found he came up short.

Kento watched you from over the rim of his cup, concealing a smirk in foam as you cold-shouldered your ex with such exquisite vindictiveness that he felt himself twitch against his thigh. Kento pinched your thigh, softly, as you stalked past him to excuse yourself to the bathroom.

Your ex chewed on something Kento only hoped was gum, and sat on your chair (have to dry-clean her coat for her, shit) and regarded Kento's beige suit with a shit-eating grin. He held out his hand, which Kento shook, despite its filthy nails (ugh).

"New guy, are you?" Said your ex, kissing his teeth with a glint in his eye, "How do you like my sloppy seconds?"

Kento smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, "I find flowers stay fresh and thriving in new soil, actually. And anyway, things were rather fresh after the first, ah...four inches, was it?"

Your ex balked, and recoiled. As he leaned back against his chair, his face turned puce, and he opened his mouth to make a scene, which we can't have, Kento, oh no, so--

"I advise you move forwards again-- just a little more-- there. Perfect."

Your ex, stunned, had followed Kento's mellow instruction without questioning, and shuffled back forwards into the fresh sunlight. Kento smiled again.

"There we go. Things don't grow in the shade. Would you like the lamp on? I can reach it for you."

Your ex scoffed now, and scoffed some incoherent curses, and scoffed himself into standing and tripping over the leg of his chair. You arrived back from the bathroom, and regarded your soiled chair with disgust.

"--you can keep her--" Your ex spat, jostling his pockets for his car keys, "--of all the cheek-- I'm leaving--"

"In that?" Kento regarded a car outside the coffee shop, as its one working indicator flashed to life, "I didn't bring my jump cables. Will you be alright?"

You choked into your latte, clattering it down onto the table to turn away and cough into your sleeve. Your ex looked as though he may hit Kento (he can try), but remembered himself, and went to move to the cashier.

Kento piped up one last time, barely audible above the coffee shop din.

"I wouldn't worry. I paid your bill, when we arrived. Buy yourself something...nice."

Your ex scarpered, bursting out of the door like a cat out of its cage. You took a bite of cake through teary-eyed, muffled laughter. Kento smiled over at you, leaning on one hand to admire your blossoms and life.

"You're such a bitch, Kento, I knew I shouldn't have left you alone with him--"

(you're right; you shouldn't have)

[himasgod]

HII!!! Can I request a Leona x fem!reader (if possible) x Vil where Vil spoils the reader ROTTEN by buying them perfumes, so Leona can't PHYSICALLY approach reader bc of his sensitive sense of smell? I love the bickering btw these two and I LOVE them.... It would be nice if u could come up w/ something for Leona to fight Vil back but no pressure ofc (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)

LEONA AND VIL X READER

Where they fight over whose perfume you will wear

Vil, as always, spoiling you, gives you a perfume that Leona can't stand because of his highly sensitive nose. How would they act if Vil challenged him, and the two of them entered into a battle to see who gives you the best perfume?

The sweet and sophisticated scent of the new fragrance Vil had chosen for you wafted through the air filling the Pomefiore hallway.

The bottle of perfume, an exquisite blend of white flowers and woody notes, had been an unexpected gift from the model, who was particularly generous when it came to pampering you.

"It's a perfectly balanced scent, refined and elegant, just like you" Vil told you with a satisfied smile as he handed it to you.

Without much thought, you applied it, enjoying the scent that made you feel like a true queen.

However, you hadn't anticipated the imminent reaction of a certain lazy lion.

As soon as you entered Savanaclaw in his room, Leona, who was lying on his bed with his arm over his eyes, immediately frowned and groaned in disgust.

He quickly sat up and covered his nose with his arm.

"Ugh, what the hell are you wearing?" "He snorted, his tail whipping against the mattress.

"Huh? It's a new perfume Vil gave me,"

Leona let out an annoyed snort and took a couple of steps away from you, as if you were the bearer of a lethal curse.

"Damn, that stinks. I can't even get near you with that stench."

"Hey! It's not a stench, it's a luxury perfume."

"I don't care how much it cost, it smells too strong," he complained, crossing his arms with an annoyed expression.

"I can't even stand two meters away from you without wanting to sneeze."

Things got worse when Vil appeared the next day in class, perfectly composed and with a triumphant expression on his face.

“Ah, I see someone has too primitive a sense of smell to appreciate a quality fragrance,” he commented with a mocking smile.

Leona glared at him.

“Listen, cheap princess, if you keep dousing her in that perfumed garbage, I swear I’ll make you pay.”

“Please, Leona, don’t make me laugh. As if you’d be capable of doing anything against my good taste.”

The lion growled, visibly annoyed. Clearly, Vil was doing it on purpose, and the worst part was that you were in the middle of this ego war.

You looked down at your wrists, where you’d applied the perfume, and sighed.

“So what am I supposed to do? Can’t I smell nice just because your sense of smell is too sensitive?” you protested, crossing your arms.

Leona clicked his tongue and ruffled his hair in frustration.

"At least don't use the junk this guy gives you."

Vil smiled victorious.

"Oh, if it bothers you so much, why don't you buy something for her? Sure, if you know how to choose something with real glam."

Leona narrowed his eyes.

"Tsk, is that a challenge, peacock?"

"More like a chance to show you have some good taste. Which I doubt."

Leona let out a low and dangerous laugh.

"We'll see who laughs last, princess."

As the two of them glared at each other, you sighed, resigned.

Apparently, you'd now sparked a perfume war between Vil and Leona. And the worst part was that, no matter who won, you'd be the one who ended up receiving more gifts.

The next few days became a relentless battle.

First, Vil insisted on taking you shopping and selected a collection of exclusive perfumes for each occasion: a floral one for the day, one with oriental notes for the evening, and even a special one with enchanted rose extract that he claimed enhanced your natural beauty.

Leona, for his part, wasn't far behind. Though not the type to worry about such things, his wounded pride led him to search for something to counteract Vil's aromatic invasion. After a couple of days of disappearance, he returned with a small, dark glass bottle and handed it to you with a weary expression.

"Here. This at least doesn't stink as much as the peacock's mess."

As you opened it, a more subtle, warmer scent filled the air. Unlike Vil's perfumes, this one had earthy and spicy notes, with a hint of sandalwood and musk.

"Did you choose it?" you asked curiously.

Leona looked away and grunted.

"Who else do you think cares that I can approach you without feeling like my nose is being pierced?"

You smiled, feeling at the center of an absurd war.

Vil spoiled you like you were a princess, and Leona, even if he wouldn't admit it, wanted to make sure you were at least a "princess" he could hug without suffering a sensory meltdown.

"Hmmm, I think I'll have to try them all to decide which one I like best" you said with a wide smile.

The two of them looked at you suspiciously, and you knew this competition was far from over.

And you didn't complain, actually.

[loganspet]

𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓’𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘.

𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘 ♡ ૮ › ‹ ྀིა

. . . ─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ─── 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

. . . @loganspet

When Logan Howlett, your sugar daddy, finally gets his hands on you again, there’s no holding back.

Pairing:

Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader

Daddy Kink, Dom! Logan, Sub! Reader, Rough sex, Teasing, Banter, Age gap, Dirty talk, Fingering , Use of pet names, Bimboification, Reader has piercings, Minor Ass spanking, No control, Explicit language, Explicit sexual content, Dog tags, Unprotected Sex (p in v).

Cotton Candy is Readers Nickname meaning docile and approachable

Inspiration nsfw link :3

Half asleep, I can’t shake the thought of him slipping into my bed, so I wrote this .

. . .

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

╭──────────.★..─╮

[You:] I’m booooored.

[Lo:] And?

[You:] And you should entertain me, duh.

[Lo:] Ain’t my problem, princess.

You scowl at your screen.

╰─..★.──────────╯

You roll your eyes, sprawled across the plush sheets of your king-sized bed. Technically, it’s your bed, in your penthouse—but let’s be real. It’s all because of him.

Logan keeps you in luxury, a spoiled little thing in lace and diamonds. He likes you soft, pretty, with a closet full of designer and a credit card you still haven’t hit the limit on. But right now? He’s being a pain in the ass.

Your manicured fingers tap against your phone.

╭──────────.★..─╮

[You:] Umm, actually, it is. You signed up for this so fucking mean. Ugh.

[Lo:] That right? Ain’t mean. Just don’t cater to whiny brats.

You picture him now, probably kicked back in his Chevrolet, cigar clenched between his teeth, jaw tight. He’s never been much for texting—too impatient, too old. You giggle at the thought.

[You:] You literally do tho. My closet says otherwise. What’s wrong, old man?

He leaves you on read for a second, which makes you scowl. You hate when he does that—like he’s got something more important than you. So, naturally, you decide to push.

[Lo:] Keep runnin’ that mouth, Cotton Candy see what happens.

You roll onto your back, twirling a strand of hair around your finger.

[You:] Ooo, scary. What’re you gonna do, Lo? Ground me?

╰─..★.──────────╯

You smirk at your own sass, but when he doesn’t respond immediately, you pout. Logan’s such a grump. He doesn’t chase—not the way men your age do, falling over themselves for a chance with you. But that’s exactly why you love teasing him, making him snap.

A new idea.

You look in your vanity mirror. Your mirror is a dream—glossy lips, untidy hair, barely-there underwear, and something dangling between your tits. His dog tags. You bit your lip. Tits spill out. The cool metal rubs against your pierced nipples, barbell jewelry visible through the exquisite lace the lace he bought. Sliding your phone up, you angle the camera perfectly—pouty, teasing, tits pushed up, You make sure the tags are in focus, resting against your pierced nipples like they belong there. and attached it to a new message.

╭──────────.★..─╮

[You:] Ruin me, daddy. Please?

Delivered. Read.

You smirk.

Three dots appear. Vanish. Appear again. Oh, he’s pissed. The response takes seconds.

[Lo:] You wanna play that game, huh?

Your grin widens. Your stomach flips

[You:] Mmhmm. You get all growly ‘n’ bossy when you’re mad. So hot, Lo.

[Lo:] ‘Lo’? The fuck kinda name is that?

You giggle, twirling a strand of hair again.

[You:] Short for Logan. Duh.

[Lo:] Don’t call me that. I hate it

He loves it

[You:] Aww. Someone’s grumpy. Lemme guess—you’re sittin’ there, puffin’ on one of those nasty cigars, pretendin’ you’re not hard as hell right now.

Three dots appear. Vanish.

You’re kicking your feet.

[You:] C’mon, daddy. Bet you can’t handle me tonight.

Still nothing. Fine. You decide to push harder, slipping your fingers into your lace panties, dragging them low—just enough to tease. Another pic. Another message.

[You:] Bet you won’t do a thing about it.

Delivered. Read.

The response is immediate.

[Lo:] Bet your fuckin’ ass I will. Open the door.

Your breath catches.

Wait—

[You:] …You’re already here?!

[Lo:] Got in the car the second you sent that first pic. Ain’t in the mood for your games, bubs. Open the door, now.

Oh, shit.

You scramble up, heat pooling between your thighs, heart pounding. Your phone vibrates again.

[Lo:] And take those fuckin’ panties off before I get in there. If you’re gonna act like a needy little brat, you’re gonna learn what happens when daddy finally has enough.

Your whole body shivers.

You’re so in trouble.

╰─..★.──────────╯

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

You barely have time to process before there’s a heavy knock at your door. Sharp. Impatient.

Your pulse jumps.

Oh, you really did it this time.

Scrambling off the bed, you toss your phone aside and tug your panties down, just like he ordered. A rush of excitement floods through you—nerves and need tangled together. You love this part, the chase. Pushing him, testing the limits of that patience.

And now? You’re about to see what happens when you finally snap it.

You unlock the door with trembling fingers. The second it swings open.

Big hands. A rough grip. Logan grabs you, one hand fisting your hair, the other bracing against your jaw, forcing your head up to meet his glare.

He smells like cigar smoke and leather, like pine and something dangerous.

“Y’think you’re cute, huh?” His voice is low, thick with something darker than irritation.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

Logan’s eyes flick down, and fuck, you swear you see his jaw tighten when he sees his tags between your tits, resting against your soft skin like they were made to be there. back when their little arrangement was still just that—an arrangement. He paid for your apartment, your designer bags, diamond bracelets. You let him grab you by the waist, let him pull you into his lap when the two of you were alone, let him drink in the way you looked in all the things he bought. It was a game, a back-and-forth, push-and-pull. Spoiled you rotten, the perfect little doll for him.

But one night, You saw them. His dog tags. Hanging off the hook in his bedroom like they didn’t belong to him, like they weren’t something personal, something worn close to his heart.

You wanted them so you took them

“Y’just don’t know when to quit, do ya?” He mutters, stepping inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

You give him a slow, syrupy smile. “Not really.”

His nostrils flare.

Then he’s moving—shoving you back against the wall, pinning you there like you belong beneath him. His grip tightens around your chin, thumb pressing against your glossy bottom lip.

“Daddy asked you a question.” His voice is rough, a quiet rasp of warning.

You blink up at him, lashes fluttering. “Which one?”

His expression darkens.

“Brat.”

Oh, you love it when he gets like this—when his rough hands and mean mouth are too much for anyone else, but perfect for you.

“I missed you, Logan” you sigh, tilting your head, giving him a coy smile of yours that drives him wild.

His thumb drags against your lip, just barely dipping between your teeth.

“Yeah? That why you were sendin’ me filthy fuckin’ pictures while I was drivin’?” he growls, his breath hot against your skin. He always loves hearing his name from you—especially when it comes out so sweet, so innocent, even though he knows exactly what’s underneath that pretty, ditzy exterior.

Your grin widens. “Mhm.” you hum, drawing out the sound just enough to drive him wild. “I missed everything about you, Logan”

His thumb presses against your tongue, just enough to make you gasp.

“Everything, huh? Got no patience for your games tonight, sugar. Y’been beggin’ for my attention all fuckin’ week.” He leans in, breath hot against your cheek. “Now you got it.”

“I want you so bad,” you whisper against his lips, your breath coming faster, need building. “Do you want me, Lo?” You whimper, thighs pressing together. Of course he did if he didn’t he wouldn’t be here.

His lips brush against your ear. “What was it you said?” His voice is pure gravel, his grip sliding down your body, over soft curves, possessive and firm. “Bet I won’t do a thing about it?”

A sharp little gasp slips out before you can stop it.

Then his hand grips the inside of your bare thigh. Just enough to sting. Just enough to make you ache.

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

His voice is a growl against your ear, rough like gravel, thick like smoke.

“You really got no shame, do ya? Bubs”

You giggle, all soft and sweet, batting your lashes up at him. “Not when it comes to you, Lo”

Logan exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s trying to keep his shit together. You know that sound. It’s the same one he makes when he’s gripping the steering wheel too tight after you’ve spent the whole car ride teasing him with your pretty little mouth.

His hand is still on your thigh, big and hot, pressing in just enough to remind you who’s in charge. His other hand trails up, fingers catching on the chain of his dog tags—right where they sit between your tits.

You see it then, the way his eyes darken, locked on the cold metal resting against your warm skin.

He loves it.

He hates how much he loves it.

“You think just ‘cause you’re wearin’ these, you get to act like a fuckin’ menace?” His thumb brushes the tags, then trails down, grazing your nipple through the thin lace. The metal is cold against your skin.

You gasp, arching into him. “Mmm. Maybe.”

His grip tightens.

Maybe it’s the pout you give him. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re not wearing panties, just like he told you to. Maybe it’s the way your skin is warm and soft under his rough hands—so delicate compared to him.

Whatever it is, Logan’s patience snaps like a frayed wire.

He fists the chain and tugs. Not enough to hurt, just enough to pull you closer, to make you feel who you belong to.

“You got no fuckin’ idea what you just started, Cotton Candy.”

You shiver, looking up at him through heavy lashes. “Guess you’ll have to show me.”

His nostrils flare.

Then, without another word, he grabs you—lifts you like you weigh nothing and tosses you over his shoulder, one big hand landing a sharp slap against your bare ass.

You squeal, wiggling in his hold.

“Fuck Logan!”

Another spank, harder this time.

“What was that?”

You whimper, pressing your thighs together, breath shuddering. “Daddy.”

His smirk is damn near feral as he starts toward your bedroom.

“That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

Logan kicks the door shut behind him, the sharp click of the lock sliding into place making your stomach tighten.

You’re still slung over his broad shoulder, ass on display, his fingers kneading at your soft flesh like he’s debating whether to spank you again.

He takes his time.

Lets you feel every step—every shift of his powerful frame, every roll of his muscles under your body. It’s dizzying, being manhandled like this, thrown around like you weigh nothing. And fuck, you love it.

“Dunno if you deserve my time tonight, sugar.”

“Daddy,” you whine, squirming in his grip. “You’re being so mean.”

Logan flicks open his lighter with a practiced ease, the small flame illuminating his face for just a moment before he brings the cigar to his lips. The end glows ember-red as he takes a slow drag, cheeks hollowing, the scent of burning tobacco filling the air. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t break eye contact. Just watches you through the curling tendrils of smoke, that sharp-toothed smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A chuckle. Deep, throaty. Cruel.

“Yeah?” he drawls, voice thick and amused, the cigar bobbing between his teeth as he speaks. His palm finds your ass again, fingers kneading into soft flesh, teasing, taunting. “’Cause I ain’t the one sendin’ pictures, beggin’ to be ruined, huh?”

You pout, not that he can see it. “It was just a little tease.”

You swallow hard, heat curling in your stomach, but Logan just snorts, exhaling a sharp puff of smoke through his nose like he doesn’t believe a damn word out of your mouth.

“Yeah? Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

And then you’re falling.

Your back bounces against the bed as Logan drops you without an ounce of gentleness, and a little oof leaves your lips. But before you can complain, before you can even think about sitting up, he’s already on you—big, warm, and so much, caging you in with that solid body like you’re tiny beneath him.

His knees press into the mattress, one rough hand spreading your thigh open like it’s his to play with. His other arm braces beside your head, keeping you right where he wants you, making you so, so helpless under him. You’re not, of course—you know how to push his buttons, how to whine and get your way.

Logan knows better.

Knows you’re a spoiled, needy gorgeous thing. Knows you love pushing him to his limit just to see how far he’ll take it.

Tonight, you’re fucked.

“You like bein’ a whore, huh? Like makin’ me work for it? Huh, bub?”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can, his fingers dip between your thighs, sliding through your already-messy slick.

“Damn,” he mutters, voice low, guttural. The rasp in it sends a shiver down your spine. “Drenched for me already, huh?“

Your breath hitches when he slides a thick finger inside, slow at first, teasing. He watches your body react, watches the way you arch and whimper, all pretty and desperate under him.

Your hands curl into the sheets as you whine, bottom lip wobbles “M’not easy.”

Logan just chuckles, dark and knowing. His free hand grips your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at him.

“You sure about that, sweetie?” His fingers press a little deeper, his thumb circling your clit in lazy, unhurried strokes.

“This is mine”

You gasp, back arching, legs spreading instinctively. His touch is firm, practiced—he knows exactly how to unravel you, how to work your body until you’re shaking.

“I-" your voice squealing with delight, the more you cry for him.

“Yeah?” His thumb drags over your pouty bottom lip, like he’s thinking about stuffing it in your mouth.

And then—his fingers speed up.

The shift is sudden, brutal. From slow, teasing drags to deep, fast thrusts, curling just right, fucking you open with rough, unrelenting precision. His palm smacks against your soaked little cunt with every stroke, the sound loud, wet, filthy. The kind of sound that makes your cheeks burn. The kind of rhythm that makes you forget how to think.

Your back arches off the bed, legs trembling, hands fisting the sheets, desperate to grab onto something, anything.

“Oh,” you gasp, nodding eagerly, shivering when he fingers your swollen, desperate cunt. eyes going all glossy and unfocused. “Oh—Logan—” ..★ ..★

Your face burns, but you don’t deny it. Can’t. Not when he’s got you like this—pinned beneath him, fingers buried deep, dragging you toward the edge like it’s nothing.

“Daddy,” you whimper, hands flying to his shoulders, clinging tight, nails digging into muscle like you need to ground yourself.

He hums in approval, lips quirking into a smirk.

“That’s right, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, teasing. “Say it nice. Show me you deserve it.”

You’re already panting, thighs trembling as the pressure builds, but you force yourself to meet his gaze, batting your lashes. And then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not sweet. Not gentle. Logan kisses like he fights—rough, unrelenting, a clash of heat and dominance that steals the breath from your lungs. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, a sharp nip that sends a jolt of pleasure straight through you. You whimper against his mouth, but that only makes him bite harder, dragging his teeth along the plush curve before soothing the sting with his tongue.

The taste of copper blooms between you.

A growl rumbles from deep in his chest as he licks into your mouth, tasting the blood, tasting you. He groans when his tongue meets the cool metal of your piercing, rolling against it, sucking your tongue into his mouth like he’s starved for it. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low in your belly as the kiss deepens into something messy, desperate.

Your lips are swollen, slick, the faintest trace of blood smeared between them as he finally pulls back, panting, his grip on you still tight, still possessive. His thumb brushes against your bottom lip, smearing the crimson before he shoves his thumb past your lips, pressing down on your tongue.

“Look at you,”

“Please, Daddy,” you breathe, voice dripping with sweet desperation. “Please fuck me. Want you so bad—”

Your words cut off in a gasp when he pulls his fingers out, leaving you empty, aching.

Logan brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean, groaning low in his chest like he’s savoring you.

“Logan… Screw you” you whine, lifting your hips in an attempt to chase the pleasure you crave.

Wrong move.

His palm cracks against your ass, sharp and punishing.

“No,” he commands. “Stay still.”

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

The sound of his belt unbuckling makes your breath hitch. That sharp clink of metal, the slow drag of leather through the loops—it’s enough to have you clenching around nothing.

Logan knows it too. Knows exactly what that does to you.

He smirks, cigar between his teeth, letting his belt fall to the floor with a heavy thud. Then his hands go to his jeans, flicking the button open, dragging the zipper down slow—making you watch, making you wait.

You whimper, shifting under him, body already arching in silent desperation.

“Always so impatient,” he mutters, kicking his jeans off, watching you with those dark, heated eyes. “You know how this goes, sugar.”

Yeah. You do.

Because this isn’t the first time you’ve begged him like this, all messy and desperate, no teasing, no buildup—just pure, aching need.

And Logan’s never been the type to deny you.

You barely get the chance to breathe before he’s gripping your thighs, spreading you open, fitting himself between them.

No warning. No preparation. Just the blunt, thick head of his cock pressing against your slick, dripping entrance, pushing in deep.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, thighs trembling at the stretch.

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

You don’t remember exactly how it happened—how a night of harmless flirting turned into something permanent.

But somewhere between the stolen kisses in the dark and the way he fucked you, Logan decided you were his.

And you loved that.

You loved being spoiled.

Liked being taken care of.

Loved the feeling of his rough hands on your soft skin, the contrast of his calloused fingers slipping expensive jewelry onto you like you were some pretty little doll for him to dress up.

He made sure you had everything.

“You wanna act like a spoiled little thing—” he had rasped once, pinning you against the wall, cigar dangling from his lips.

You had just giggled, chewing your bubblegum, watching his eyes darken when your lips pouted around the pink sweetness.

“I am spoiled, daddy.”

Logan had exhaled, thick smoke curling around you both as he dragged his mouth up your neck, biting at your jaw, his voice a low growl—

“Yeah? Then I better make sure y’know who spoils ya.”

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

Now, with your legs wrapped around his waist, his dog tags bouncing between your tits, his teeth sinking into your neck.

You know.

It burns—God, it burns—but you don’t care. You love it. Love how rough he is, how he takes you, he owns you.

“Fuck,” Logan growls, head dropping to your shoulder, voice thick with need. “So goddamn tight Cotton Candy —”

You whimper, legs wrapping around him, heels digging into his back. “Daddy, please—”

That’s all it takes.

With a low, ragged growl, Logan pulls back—just enough to slam back in, burying himself to the hilt.

Your back arches off the bed, lips parting in a soundless gasp.

He sets a brutal pace, fast and deep, no softness, no hesitation—just pure, unrelenting need.

Each thrust punches the air from your lungs, leaves you gasping, whining, begging.

“Fuckin’ ruined for me,” Logan growls, voice thick with possession. “Ain’t no man ever gonna fuck you like this, baby. You know that, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, babbling out a breathless, “Yes, Daddy—only you, only you—”

Logan grunts in approval, pace punishing now, skin slapping against skin. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall, but you don’t care.

All you care about is him. His hands gripping your hips, his breath hot against

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

Logan shifts, gripping your hips, pulling you up until your legs wrap tight around his waist. The new angle makes you see stars ..★ ..★ —his cock pressing impossibly deep, stretching you wide, claiming every inch of you.

Your lingerie—what’s left of it—is already slipping off your shoulders, straps hanging loose, fabric bunched up around your ribs. Logan’s fingers roam up your torso, curling around the delicate lace, and with one sharp tug—

Riiip.

You gasp, eyes wide, body jerking from the sudden tear of fabric against your skin.

“Logan!” you gasp, half-scolding, half-turned on.

He just smirks, watching the shredded lace fall from your body, leaving you completely bare. His voice is rough, teasing as his thumbs skim your nipples. Click—the dog tags hanging between your tits clink together.

“I’ll buy you another one, Cotton Candy,” he murmurs, like it’s nothing. Like he’ll buy you a thousand more just to tear them off again.

Your head falls back against the pillows, shivering as his hands roam, feeling every inch of you like he owns it.

And he does.

Logan leans down, chest pressing flush against yours, his cock hitting deeper—making you gasp. His shirt’s still on, fabric rough against your bare skin, but it doesn’t last long.

One-handed, he tugs it over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him.

God, he’s huge.

Thick and broad, every inch of him veined and solid, muscles shifting beneath his scarred skin as he moves. The happy trail leads down to where he’s buried inside you, disappearing between your trembling thighs.

The cigar still hangs lazily from his lips, the ember burning low. A slow curl of smoke wafts up toward the ceiling.

Logan smirks down at you, rolling his hips slow, grinding against you—making you feel every inch of him.

“Needa fill ya to the brim, bub where you're already sweet and ready for me, is where my cock goes—where my dick belongs." he rasps, voice heavy with lust.

“Oh god…” You gasped, eyes wide, looking down at the way his cock was bulged inside of you.

Your lips part, a shuddering whimper slipping past. “Mm… Lo”

His smirk widens, hand sliding down to grip your throat, thumb brushing your jaw.

“Yeah, sugar,” he mutters, leaning in, breath hot against your lips. “Real deep. Make sure ya feel me all fuckin’ night.”

His mouth crashes against yours, the kiss sloppy, rough, all teeth.

His canines graze your lip before he bites, sharp and deep—just enough to sting, to bruise.

You whimper, fingers tangling in his thick hair, nails scraping against his scalp.

He groans at that, hips snapping forward, cock slamming into you so hard your back arches off the bed.

“That’s my fuckin’ girl,” he growls, licking the blood from your swollen lip.

Then he grabs your hips and fucks you stupid.

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

Your brain turns fuzzy, all soft and sweet, floating somewhere between pleasure and delirium.

Logan’s weight keeps you pinned, his body hot, muscles flexing, his hips slamming into you over and over until all you can do is take it.

His cock stretches you impossibly wide, dragging along that sensitive spot inside you with every brutal thrust. Your nails claw at his back, but you’re weak, barely able to hold onto him as your body trembles beneath him.

“D-Daddy—mm—s’too much…” Your voice is all breathy, slurred, almost drunk on him.

Logan just chuckles, that low, gravelly sound rolling through his chest. His cigar’s long gone now—probably crushed somewhere on the nightstand.

“Aww, what’s wrong, baby ?” he drawls, licking up the side of your throat. “My dumb lil’ candy can’t take it?”

Your head lolls back against the pillows, eyes glassy, lips parted. Every thrust punches another little whimper out of you, soft and broken, your thighs trembling around his waist.

He smirks at the way you’re gibbering now, no real words left—just babbling, whining, fists clenching and unclenching against his shoulders.

“C’mon, bubs,” he grunts, voice thick. “One more. Give me one more, yeah?”

You sob, shaking your head, but your body betrays you—your walls fluttering around him, sucking him deeper.

“Fuck—there ya go,” Logan groans, his rhythm stuttering, movements getting erratic. He’s close—real close.

His grip tightens on your hips, his pace turning sloppy, grinding deep until—

He pulls out at the last second, thick ropes of cum spilling across your chest, dripping down your belly.

You gasp, body twitching, still lost in the aftershocks.

Logan groans low in his throat, watching the mess he made, his fingers tracing through the pearly streaks painting your soft skin.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, half outta breath, voice wrecked.

You blink up at him, all fuzzy, pretty, lips swollen from his kisses, breath coming in little gasps.

Logan smirks, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

“Y’look real good like this, baby,”

…

[qlossytbh]

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 - 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 the time where you had just a little too much to drink after a party at rossis and spencer takes care of you

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 alcohol intoxication, drinking, reader gets sick, emetophobia, a bit of suggestiveness (?), lots of pet names, spencer’s a sweetheart.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 2.2k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 suffering a bit of a writers block but i am on a roll lately. it’s like ive got all these unfinished drafts and i can’t seem to finish them ugh. im going through my request, slowly but surely!

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Come on,” Spencer urged, wrapping a tight arm around you as you clung to his shoulder as if your life depended on it. God, your head was pounding and your own body felt like dead weight as you continued carrying yourself around.

You stumbled on your feet, too intoxicated to walk straight. The sharp stiletto heel that accompanied your dress was not working in your favor either, and they were frankly becoming quite painful.

“I need to sit down,” You slurred in a hushed yet collected manner.

“One second angel,” He whispered, reminding himself not to disrupt his neighbors.

It wasn’t your fault that Rossi's parties always consisted in a very sweet, very endless supply of the most exquisite cocktails you’d ever tasted. It’s not everyday you got to taste such bougie liquor and given your big sweet tooth, and Garcia’s pesky persistence to get you to follow along her alcohol tasting spree, all those free drinks were dangerous at your disposal.

Penelope had passed over this tart but perfectly sweetened strawberry drink she had encountered and you made the grave mistake of trying it. Just when the flavors melted in your mouth, you immediately made your way to the bar in search of your own, downing that one and three more in less than fifteen minutes.

In hindsight, that was a horrible decision. Spencer knew that if he had been glued to your hip, just like he usually was at these or any social event for that matter, he’d never let you drink as much and as fast as you did. He had nagged about something with rapid absorption and rapid increase in BAC— you were too drunk to remember any of the information he was dumping your way if you were being honest.

You began slowing down once the nausea and severe dizziness settled in. Usually, you knew your limits with alcohol. You knew how much got you drunk enough to loosen up, and you knew how much was too much, thanks to a few situations where you had to learn the hard way. However, something about the sweetness and the inability to taste any alcohol whatsoever threw you off your radar.

And here you are, dragging yourself against Spencer’s body and back into his apartment, too drunk to even walk and feeling like you were about to literally throw up any and every thing in your system.

Spencer pushed the door open, managing to balance you in his other arm as he unlocked the door swiftly. He walked in with you by his side, throwing the keys into the small metal dish by the door and now using both hands to keep you steady.

You remained quiet, trying desperately to focus on keeping the nausea down and not throwing up. “Spence,”

“What's wrong?” He asked, looking down at you as you dug your forehead into his chest, grappling at his shirt with a rough tug.

“I feel really sick,” The world around you was spinning and that pit in your stomach was getting harder to push down. He matted down the top of your tousled hair, tucking a few stray strands behind your ears.

“Do you need to throw up?” He asked, voice soft and comforting.

“I think so,” The nausea seemed to hit like a tidal wave, and all you needed was to lie down. You needed to lie down. Just the mention of puking was enough to get you to gag. Immediately freaked out and panicked, you gave a persistent nod, already pushing yourself off of him and making a very crooked B-line for the bathroom, knowing you were going to throw up.

Once past the bathroom door, you fell to your knees opening the lid of the toilet and hurling the contents of your stomach into it. You gagged, retching loudly while tears pricked the corners of your eyes and everything around you hurt.

Spencer followed closely behind, crouching beside you and pulling up your hair into a messy makeshift ponytail while his other came to rub comforting circles on your back, sitting through your discomfort by your side.

It was ironic really. Spencer had always been extremely opposed to anything germ related and this seemed to be his worst nightmare. If anyone knew about this, they’d probably not be able to believe how Spencer didn’t run in the opposite direction and quite literally ran right towards you and your germ related issues. Since he started dating you, he let certain things slide. He shared more of his personal space and didn’t mind if that included sharing things he wouldn’t tend to share around others.

He never thought twice about it if it brought you comfort. It came to him naturally, putting you and your comfort and happiness first.

You spit out the remaining acidic taste of bile into the toilet and groaned heavily. Your nostrils burned and so did the back of your throat, but all of the nausea was immediately alleviated from your system.

“Mhm, sexy,” You said, reaching over for a piece of toilet paper and wiping down your mouth. Spencer huffed a laugh through his nose, pressing a kiss to the back of your head. “This is embarrassing.”

“This?” He said, voice jumping into one of fake shock. You threw a glare over your shoulder and his face immediately melted into a sweet smile, rubbing your back with just a bit more clarity. “I’ve seen you in worse predicaments,”

“How do you feel?” You turned, resting your back against the toilet after flushing the contents away and turning towards him.

“I feel better,” You mumbled, screwing your eyes shut and attempting to blink away the tears and the burning sensation of your nose.. “But I probably look very disgusting.”

He tilted his head with a shrug, wholeheartedly answering. “You don’t look disgusting,”

“Liar,” You said with narrowed eyes, smiling playfully.

He shook his head with one of his signature smiles, those that tugged slightly to the right and crinkled the corner of his eyes just perfectly. He reached up, grabbing the empty glass cup that sat on the side of his sink, and was now filled with water. He handed you the glass which you took without complaint. “Drink,”

You drank down the whole glass, wanting to get the disgusting aftertaste out of your mouth. “Better?”

“Much,” You nodded, smiling up at him, feeling instantly better but still dizzy. “I feel like, rejuvenated or something,”

You reached back to push yourself up off the ground, only for Spencer to set a firm hand on your shoulder keeping you still.

“Give yourself a minute,” He told you. “You feel better after vomiting following excessive alcohol consumption mainly due to the removal of alcohol and its irritating effects on the stomach, but you need a few seconds.”

You hummed, picking at a rhinestone on your dress. “Does that mean I should expel all my stomach's contents everytime I overdrink to feel better?”

“No,” He narrowed his eyes at you. “You shouldn’t even drink enough to get to the point of having to throw up in the first place, love,”

“But those strawberry drinks were so good Spence,” You threw your head back with a pout.

“Yeah, yeah,” He dismissed with a playful tone. He hooked his fingers around your elbows. “Up,”

You steadied yourself with a tight grip on his shoulders and winced at the bright white light of the bathroom. He pushed you back, knocking the back of your knees into the toilet and forcing you to sit down on it with a soft thud. He crouched down and reached over to knead at the straps of your heel and promptly remove them.

He set them to the side and wordlessly moved into his room, grabbing one of his spare t-shirts and making his way back into the bathroom, where you watched him with weary eyes and a very sleepy but adoring smile.

Everything felt fuzzy but just seeing him work his way around you with such ease made your heart beat insanely.

“It’s not fair that you’re so pretty,” You voiced. Spencer opened his mouth to answer but could only mustered a stammered chuckle, blushing profusely but trying to resist laughing at the slurring in your voice.

“I’m pretty?” He asked. You nodded.

“Very,” He reached his hands out, grabbing yours and pulling you up.

“Is it okay if I take your dress off?” He asked, turning you around so your back was facing him. His fingers skimmed across your already exposed shoulders and back and everything felt so heightened that you shuddered at the ghost of his touch.

“Thought you’d never ask,” You said, shooting him a suggestive smile over your shoulder. He said your name with a warning, not faltering in the slightest.

“I’m kidding!” For the most part at least.

“Well, given since you can’t sleep in this dress,” His calloused fingers traced your shoulders in a soothing rhythm. “I brought you one of my shirts but I need to take off your dress in order to put it on,”

Your body seemed to feel magnetized to the floor, pulling your every movement down with a huge weight. Which was probably the alcohol having its effect on you. You felt stupefied but all you could think of was just how tired you were.

“That’s fine Spence,” You murmured, allowing his fingers to skim down your shoulders and towards the dress's zipper. Your eyes fluttered shut, trying to rest them while his hands moved around your back.

He pulled it down, all so gently and smoothly that you were growing even dizzier than you were with more than three cocktails in you.

“I love this dress,” You stated, watching as the sleeves loosened from your shoulders and began sliding down. The cold air hit your bare skin and you merely shivered as it fell and rested on the plush flesh of your hips.

“So do I,” He smiled, slipping his own shirt over your head. You huffed as he pushed the dress down your hips, allowing his shirt to fall over your upper body and cover you as best as it could while picking up the pool of fabric from the floor and laying it out against the toilet. “You looked very beautiful.”

You really did. The way that specific black sequined dress hugged your figure in every single angle and crease possible, flaunting off your body shape perfectly, made Spencer weak at his knees. He didn’t know how he didn’t drop everything the second he saw you to pull you elsewhere private and kiss you until neither of you could breathe.

“Looked? As in past tense?” You turned, facing him with a fake betrayal plastered across your features. “That’s rude,”

“You are insufferable,” He reached back, grabbing your spare toothbrush and putting a nice amount of toothpaste on it. “Now let me brush your teeth so I can kiss you,”

You surrendered your never ending teasing with a sigh, grabbing the hem of his shirt as he held your chin tenderly, brushing your teeth. Throughout the whole three minutes, you couldn’t hold back from allowing yourself to re-learn every single scratch and line on Spencer’s face, engraving its every detail and beauty into a small space in your brain.

Once he was finished and you had rinsed your mouth out with water, you were eternally grateful that the acidic taste in your mouth and lips had been replaced with a fresh minty one. “There,”

You hummed, pulling Spencer in by the said hem of his t-shirt and tilting your chin up towards him, smiling at him like an idiot. “Hi,”

“Hey,” His hands reached up, cradling your face tenderly in his palms, pouring any and every ounce of love he had in him onto you with a firm kiss.

“My legs are killing me,” You said, nuzzling your nose into his cheek and hugging his torso. He rubbed your back with a kiss on the top of your forehead. “I want to lay down,”

“I know but I need to get your makeup off, angel,” He murmured.

You groaned, needing to just get to bed or else you’d literally collapse “You specifically know that if you leave it on overnight, the buildup of makeup, along with dirt, oil, and pollutants that you collect on your skin throughout the day accumulates on its surface and can cause skin issues and breakouts.”

You narrowed a glare. “Yeah, yeah, I guess you’re right,”

“I always am,” He smiled proudly.

“Okay now you’re just pushing it,” He reached back, grabbing a makeup removing wipe from its respective package and dragging it very smoothly across your cheeks, lips, eyes and forehead— any part of your face he could get at. You shivered at the chilliness it gave your flared up cheeks.

Spencer was so gentle with you it made your heart swell in size at just how much attention and care he put into everything he did for you. If you weren’t as tired—and as out of it— as you were right now, you really would pull him down and kiss him anywhere (and everywhere) until your heart stopped beating as much as it was. Although realistically speaking the kissing would probably cause your palpitations to worsen.

He managed to get as much mascara off as he could but the waterproof substance stuck to the bottom of your eyes with a fierce grip. He tossed the wipe into the trashcan and quickly swiped his thumbs across the bottom of your eyes with a very docile brush.

“How do I look?” You said, narrowing your eyes with humor, knowing you probably looked absolutely disheveled. Spencer cocked a brow at you, reaching back and undoing the tie that held your hair into the gorgeous updo thing you had going on.

“Absolutely breathtaking,” He still said, pressing a chaste kiss to the bridge of your nose. His hands continued working at your hair, to which you let your eyes flicker close, resisting the uncontrollable urge to moan out loud as the pads of his fingers rubbed your irritated scalp soothingly.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice came out way more breathier than intended.

“What for?” He asked, letting his hands rest on the side of your neck.

“This,” It wasn’t exactly flattering— the state he had seen you in. And for some reason you felt embarrassed at the thought of him seeing you so exposed and in some shape or form. “I don’t know I feel like I made a fool of myself,”

He furrowed his brows. “I don’t know— I feel guilty that you have to take care of me.”

“But I love taking care of you,” He murmured, instilling such a delicate tone with you that it was impossible to feel uncertain about anything. “Don’t say sorry,”

He kissed you, perfectly, just like he always did. “If you say so,”

It was true. Spencer loved, absolutely treasured, moments where he could take care of you in his own special way. Be gentle and remind you just how much he absolutely loved you.

“Am I done now?” You huffed, slumping forward as all the bones in your body begged to sleep.

“Mhm,” He pulled back, scanning you entirely. “Good to go.”

[yuikira]

Kinich's birthday special!

ugh yall dont get it how much I love him. literally wrote this in between val matches😭🙏

warnings: nsfw, dirty talk, sex

"focus, i said focus baby"

"l-like i ca- uuuughh please ichi"

"hm? what's the matter?"

"this is!"

and it was. i mean, who could blame you really? he had you sat on his lap, teaching you how to play valorant just like he did. dont get him wrong, you're an excellent player, with diamond rank 1 last season, but "you can do better, yeah? lemme show you" those were his words. and now he has you sitting on his lap, his cock buried deeeep inside of you, one arm around your waist and one around your own palm resting on the mouse.

and fuck did he love it when you scored a kill? he'd thrust upwards, gently digging his fingers into your waist, that gets all the more better when you score an ace. it drove you to do more, to preform better, to get the reward you deserve, but also to go insane, to just toss away all your setup and bounce on his lap until you both can't help but moan shamelessly into each other's ears. he was such a menace, but you also loved this side of him.

"there you go, wasn't that hard was it?" he remarked as he saw +35 rr on your screen, ranking up to platinum 3.

"we still have a long way to go tho, I'm not leaving this until we reach radiant"

"radiant?! that's so far away!"

"that's the fun you wanted, didn't you baby?"

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY beautiful, pretty, adorable, cute, exquisite, attractive, gorgeous, alluring, captivating, bewitching, appealing, charming, lovely, delectable, enchanting, glorious, magnificent, angelic, sexy, stunning, superb, aesthetic, flawless, splendid, glamourous, seductive, luscious, enchanting, exceptional, first class, beckoninf, beguiling, bonny, breathtaking, dashing, divine, dreamy, exceptional, hot, ineffable, jaunty, mesmerizing, ravishing, scrumptious, PERFECT husband💗💗💗 I love you so much.

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Fellow Honest - Playful Dress Vignette

"My stars, a grave insult!"

[Scalding Sands – Silk City]

Fellow: Now, ladies and gentlemen!

Fellow: What you are about to see here is a one-of-a-kind wonder.

Fellow: This is truly a genuinely invaluable show you are about to witness.

[rabble, rabble]

Fellow: Nice, them people're finally startin' to gather…!

Fellow: If you're interested in what I have to show, please, drop a few madol in this can over here. Any amount is fine～!

Fellow: And now, feast your eyes…

Fellow: On this… A one-of-a-kind puppet that can walk on its own without strings!

Fellow: What do you think, Mister? Madam? Doesn't it look so life-like? Amazing, is it not!?

Fellow: This exquisite beastman doll is the only one of its kind.

Fellow: You all are fortunate indeed to see such a fantastical sight. If your interest was piqued, I implore you to leave a token of appreciation…

[rabble, rabble]

Fellow: …Eh? It's not a puppet? A normal living being?

Fellow: HOW RUDE! WHAT EVIDENCE HAVE YOU FOR YOUR ACCUSATION!?

Fellow: Please, look carefully. It might be able to move without strings, but even if I poke or tickle it, it won't even cry out or laugh.

Fellow: It is a beautifully crafted puppet. Yes, that's right, there can be no question.

[Gidel nods]

Fellow: Ah, stop, Gidel!

Fellow: …It moved? Oh no, it must have just been a trick of the eye.

Fellow: Or, are you perhaps trying to insinuate that I, Fellow Honest, am a liar?

Fellow: You didn't mean it…? Ahhh, oh, but you've hurt my feelings so～!

Fellow: I've been known as Honest John, a man of integrity, pure and innocent, and yet you would call me a liar…

Fellow: I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD SUFFER SUCH A DAY! MY STARS, A GRAVE INSULT!

Fellow: Hey now, Mister. Since you've damaged my pride like this, feels like you should provide me with a show of good faith and…

Gidel: [sneeze]

Fellow: AH!!

Fellow: U-Uhh… Ladies and gentlemen, I… Hm? You want your money and time back? …No need to get so angry… Hahaha…

Fellow: …Crap.

Fellow: RUN, GIDEL!!

Fellow: Haah… Pant, pant… Did we lose them?

Fellow: …YOU NITWIT! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO CHOOSE RIGHT THEN TO SNEEZE!?

Fellow: Just a little longer and we woulda gotten something extra on top of their spectator fees!

Gidel: …

Fellow: Ugh, whatever. ...All we got to show for that in the end was just a little bit of spare change…

Fellow: …And whatever small bits and bobs of jewelry they had on them.

Fellow: I stealthily swiped them with my magic while those idiots were all focused on you, but there's not much here. Shame.

Fellow: This dump ain't worth staying in. Time to move on, Gidel! Fwahaha!

[Fairest City – Crystal Galleria]

Fellow: Look carefully, fair people! What I have here is a magestone. However, this is no ordinary magestone.

Fellow: The date: 1000 years ago; the place: the depths leagues below the Coral Sea. This magestone was said to be sought even by the Great Seven!

Fellow: It may look like an ordinary pebble. So, what makes this an extraordinary find? Once you hear what I have to say, you'll never recover from the shock!

Fellow: Listen and be amazed! This is a miraculous stone where whosoever holds it becomes capable of using magic!

Gidel: ! [honks horn]

Fellow: For you, ladies and gentlemen, I risked life and limb searching high and low for this in the most secluded southern regions.

Fellow: There is only one of these gemstones in existence. We'll start the bidding at 50,000 madol (500 Thaumarks)! Come, come, all who are interested, please raise up a hand!

[silence]

Fellow: …Huh, no one wants to raise a hand? What, do I have before me a gaggle of broke spectators?

Fellow: Heh, gutless, all of you. Ah, but damn it all! Is there not a single one among you with the courage to reach out and grasp the miracle laid out before you!?

Fellow: With icy demeanors like that, even my fleas will laugh at me.

Fellow: …I'm sure you all are simply thinking there's no way you could trust vagabonds like us, isn't that right?

Fellow: You think I'm selling you a fake? You think you'll be wasting your money?

Fellow: Aah, that's no good, my dear fellows! If you mistrust me so fervently, it's not as fun...

Fellow: Don't worry. If you believe in what I tell you, there's nothing for you to be afraid of.

Fellow: COME ON TO THE THEATER!

Fellow: LIFE IS FUN

Fellow: …Ah, there we go, that was quick. 80,000 madol from the gent over there! And 100,000 madol from the one over here!

Fellow: A good call, everyone! With such wise decision-making skills, you all have a future scholar inside you!

Fellow: Fwahahaha! Look at 'em idiots believing at whatever stupid story I throw their way!

Fellow: A magestone that'll give you the ability to use magic～? If something like that really existed, I'd've used it myself.

Fellow: Even the guys who were the most skeptical leapt at the chance once I used my Unique Magic. I sure enjoy pulling the wool over idiots who try to look down on me.

Fellow: Hm, let's see how much we earned today…

Fellow: Two, four, six, eight… Oho, not a bad haul. Look, Gidel, we'll be feasting tonight!

[Gidel hops happily]

Fellow: Word's probably got around by now, especially after I raked in this much. This might be the end of the line for our earnings here…

Gidel: …

Fellow: What? You want to head south this time?

Fellow: Not a bad idea. How 'bout we target vacationers at them fancy resorts?

Fellow: Let's see if we can kindly crash their little enjoyable vacations.

Fellow: …Yeah, that's perfect. You're a genius, Gidel. This time, we'll be the fancy, rich folk out on vacation.

Fellow: We go where we want, when we want. We have nothing and no one tying us down.

Fellow: That's the least we deserve as free-spirited folk!

[Sunset Savanna – Sunrise City]

Fellow: EEEEP～～! I PROMISE, I WON'T DO ANYTHING BAD ANYMORE, I PROMISE!

Fellow: HELP～～～!

[Sunset Savanna – Sunrise City]

Fellow: SHIT! THAT MASSIVE CHEAPSKATE!

Fellow: They were carrying around a crazy fat wallet. They could've spared even a little bit and nothing woulda hurt their bottom line.

Fellow: Yet they caused a fuss just from me trying to swipe a few thousand madol… Ouuuch, it's still throbbing where they hit me.

[stomachs gurgle]

Fellow: Man, I'm starving. It's gonna suck to go another night without dinner.

Fellow: Ain't there something we can find to eat…?

[Gidel starts to drift away]

Fellow: …Hey, wait, Gidel! Don't open that can!

Fellow: Geez… Don'tcha see what it says right here? It's got OIL inside. You can't eat it, even if you open it.

Fellow: You do the same thing every time you're hungry. I've taught you dozens of times, can't you read what it says?

Gidel: …

Fellow: C'mon, squat here a little. I'll draw it out on the ground, so don't forget this time, 'kay?

Fellow: O is for Orange! It looks round and tasty, don't it?

Fellow: I is for Ice Cream! That thin, ice popsicle was pretty tasty the other day, wasn't it?

Fellow: L is for laugh! Don't it look like a smile when you look at it on it's side?

Fellow: …Why is L the only thing that's not food? I couldn't think of anything, so sue me.

Fellow: There's only so much I can teach you, too.

Fellow: Tch. If I had been able to go to school… By now I woulda been more…

[Gidel pats Fellow]

Gidel: …

Fellow: What? We don't need school to fill our bellies?

Fellow: Sigh, oh, Gidel. You know, you're…

Fellow: TOTALLY RIGHT!!

Fellow: That's right, we're living just fine even without going to school.

Fellow: Learning whatever with books and pencils is utter nonsense.

Fellow: We'll just clean out those suckers that went though their oh so lovely education, and just live a life that's even fuller.

Gidel: !

Fellow: That's right, leave it to me! Follow me, kid, and one day, you'll be a grand showstopper too.

Fellow: We'll get some halfwit students to dance for us on a stage for our own amusement!

Fellow: Now… What's more important right now is figuring out what we're going to eat tonight. I'll try to find something, so you start a fire.

Fellow: Just throw whatever you find into the fire, like wooden crates, or posters or… Hm?

Fellow: This job posting here… Oh, well, well!

Fellow: Look here, Gidel, That one prick is looking to hire someone. And this time, it's at an amusement park!

Fellow: I don't know what they're planning, but… Last time we did work for 'em, we made a killing.

Fellow: I can't stand how he looks down on us, but there's a lot more to gain out of it…

Fellow: Why don't we just go hear them out, Gidel? If we don't like it, we can just bail.

Fellow: We live only for today, never thinking about what tomorrow might bring. We do whatever work keeps our lives free and fun. 'Cause we can go and do whatever we want.

[Gidel nods, Fellow whistles as they go off]

Requested by @sakurakudo.

[lyn31]

Game on

Summary:

You asked for this. You wanted Zayne to push you past your limits, to use his Evol to make you feel everything—heat, cold, pleasure, pain. And as his icy touch clashes against your burning need, leaving you trembling and breathless, you realize just how dangerous that request was. He’s patient. Too patient. Keeping you teetering on the edge, never letting you fall—until you beg. Well, they do say a student always surpasses their teacher. You really should’ve seen this coming…

Ao3 link

Note:

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader

CW: Oral sex, Evol/ice play and a lot of teasing

As expected I got carried away again.... Another prompt from @chryssikyu

I was gonna make it short and sweet! Just yk MC coming and squishing Zayne's head with her thigh as the prompt says but then I was like "Here me out, Evol play" so yeah.....

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

You lean back against the sofa, sweat dampening your skin, fingers gripping the pillow beside you. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, your body burning—until a sudden, glacial bloom between your legs shocks you upright.

The chill spreads deep, numbing yet electric, clashing against the molten heat pooling inside you. Your muscles clench, helpless against the contrast—searing and freezing, unbearable and irresistible.

A whimper escapes as you clutch the pillow to your chest, desperate for something—anything—to anchor you against the exquisite torment of cold and pleasure.

"Don't cover yourself."

The pillow is ripped from your grasp before you can react. A startled gasp escapes as the exposure sharpens the cold. You tremble—not just from pleasure but from the frost still licking at your insides.

Dazed, you look down, lips parted. “Don’t talk when your mouth is on me,” you manage breathlessly.

He lifts a brow, amused, but doesn’t stop—his tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, each flick sending another wave of sensation through you. His grip tightens on your thighs, spreading you wider—leaving you bare, utterly at his mercy.

“Please—” His name breaks from your lips in a choked cry as his cool, wet tongue plunges into you again. The contrast is intoxicating—each stroke blurs the line between pleasure and pain, pulling you deeper into a dizzying haze. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, making a mess of the strands.

He hums against you, the vibration sending another shiver up your spine. “Please what?”

His tone is maddeningly casual, teasing, in stark contrast to the dark intent in his eyes. You asked him to use his Evol on you tonight, to push you further—but now, you can’t tell if you’re melting or freezing. Every stroke is a fresh contradiction, dragging you closer to the edge.

“You know what it is,” you gasp, pushing against his head, the ache between your legs sharpening into an unbearable need.

He chuckles, dark and amused. His cold breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, making you shudder. “Do I?”

Frustrated, you yank him up and crush your lips to his—not in protest, but in need. The taste of yourself on his tongue is intoxicating, like the sharp bite of winter. Your hands grip his neck, pulling him close, craving warmth, craving something solid to ground you against the frigid, euphoric haze he’s drowning you in.

His hands skim your hips, fingers pressing into your skin in slow, teasing circles—still ice-cold, still tormenting. You roll against him, desperate for friction, feeling his hard erection so close to your core. But it’s not enough. His grip tightens, controlling the pace even as you try to chase relief.

He trails kisses along your jaw, lips branding your skin with cold fire. “Can’t wait that long?”

“Ugh, you’re killing me! Please, I thought this was my gift,” you whine, gasping as his fingers pinch your nipple just enough to make you arch.

Zayne pulls back slightly, brow furrowing. His fingers hesitate, grip easing as if searching your expression. “You’re not enjoying it?”

His hesitation is brief, but you feel it like a loss, like warmth slipping away too soon. The chill of his touch fades slightly—his ability wavering as doubt creeps in.

Your breath catches—you can’t let him stop.

“I… I am,” you pant, rolling your hips, pressing into him. A gasp rips from your throat as his fingers brush over your swollen bud, the ice against your heat making you dizzy.

Your eyes flutter shut, but you force them open, locking onto his face. “But it’s been, what? An hour? I want to come. Please.”

Zayne glances at the digital clock on the end table, confirming your words.

You take advantage of the distraction. Your hand slips between his legs, fingers wrapping around his length. Just as you squeeze, his hand clamps around your wrist—his grip like iron. The cold surges back, sharper than before, like he’s reminding you exactly who’s in control.

He lifts your hand to his lips, kisses your palm, his breath cool against your skin. His gaze burns with hunger.

“This is your gift, remember?”

You groan. Stupid gift. Stupid boyfriend. Teaching him anything is a double-edged sword—once he learns, he perfects it, and you always end up paying the price.

His lips curve slightly, amused, as he pulls you in and steals your breath with another kiss.

Both hands slide down to your thighs, spreading them apart once more. The chill of his fingertips burns in the best way, making you shudder as his thumb presses against your sensitive bud. Your grip on his shoulders tightens.

His lips trail lower—your jaw, your collarbone. He lingers at your chest, biting and sucking, leaving tingling marks before moving downward. He doesn’t stop until he’s back where he started, kneeling before you, his tongue moving in slow, savoring strokes.

Your body trembles, nerves frayed from the push and pull of sensation. The cold was once a shock—now, it’s a slow, calculated torment.

Zayne is patient. Too patient. His mouth moves in lazy strokes, sometimes firm, sometimes featherlight—never enough, always keeping you teetering on the edge. Every time you start to climb higher, he pulls back, leaving you gasping, twitching, desperate.

“Still with me?” His voice is maddeningly casual, the cool press of his fingers idly tracing your inner thigh. The touch is light, almost ticklish, but the moment you try to push forward—chase more—he tightens his grip, pinning you down.

Frustration flares in your chest. “Zayne—”

A sharp breath cuts you off as his fingers slide lower, barely brushing over your aching bud. The touch is infuriatingly soft, just enough to spark pleasure but not enough to satisfy.

A groan bubbles up from your throat. “You’re—”

Whatever insult you were about to hurl dies as his fingers press harder, rubbing slow, devastating circles. The sensation is different now—more insistent, more deliberate. And just when you think he’s relenting, giving in, a fresh wave of ice blooms at his touch, sending a violent shudder through you.

You jerk against him with a strangled whimper. The cold is so sudden, so piercing, it borders on pain. It spreads deep, numbing yet electrifying, and just when you think you can’t take it—he stops.

A frustrated sob rips from your throat.

He hums, amused. “Too much?”

You glare down at him, panting, nails biting into the couch. “Too much teasing.”

His lips curve slightly. “You asked me to push you, didn’t you?”

“Not like this!” You try to wriggle free, but his grip is unrelenting.

A dark chuckle rumbles against your skin. “You’re the one who said you could last.”

Then his mouth is on you again, and this time, the cold isn’t gradual—it’s a plunge into ice, shocking and unbearable. You convulse, thighs shaking violently. It’s not just contrast anymore—it’s cruel, exquisite torment.

And then—warmth.

Not from him. From you. The slow throb of your own heat fighting back, melting into him, turning every touch into a battle of sensation. He alternates between extremes, dragging you to the brink, pulling you back, making you feel every second of this agonizing, intoxicating denial.

You don’t know how long it’s been anymore. Your body is hypersensitive, trembling, aching. The temperature war is driving you insane.

Then his fingers press against you again, slow but firm. No teasing this time. No hesitation.

A strangled cry rips from your lips as pleasure slams into you, biting cold, searing heat, too much and never enough.

And when you finally break, it’s violent, shattering—you barely register the way your thighs clamp around his head until he groans against you, voice muffled.

You barely manage a breathless, dazed whisper. “You deserved it.”

He chuckles against your skin, presses an icy kiss to your thigh. “Then maybe you should do it again.”

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

Note:

Yeahh... I don't think I'm capable of writing a short story now 😭, I keep telling myself below 1k below 1k, nope, impossible, anyway! This actually turns into a 3 chapter story..... I know! That's how much I got carried away.... Either way, chapter 2 is on AO3! The Aftercare is here tho :D

I was editing to add the rest of the series part but it was too long ahahaha so here's just the whole list: My Masterlist ✨

[angrythingstarlight]

How much stuff are the Barnes’ coming back with from Paris? Designer bags, expensive jewelry, custom clothes, priceless art, French snacks, all the toys Bee can carry

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader, daughter nicknamed Bumblebee.

CW: Fluff

AN: Unbetad.

You almost made it through the trip without Bucky and Bee splurging on jewelry, clothes, and toys. Almost.

You should have known the duo was plotting something when you caught them whispering over breakfast. You were biting into a warm, flaky croissant—that had no right being so delicious—when you saw Bee cup her hands around her mouth and say something to Bucky.

She giggled at your "what are you two talking about" and then wiggled off her chair and fled the breakfast table. You're pretty sure she mumbled 'It's a secret' on her way out.

Bucky was just as tight-lipped. Instead of giving you a hint, he pressed those sealed, soft lips of his into the curve of your neck and shrugged.

"Whatever you two are planning, the answer is no." You slid him a glare, no real heat in your gaze.

Bucky laughed, his rich baritone sent a shiver down your spine. "We'll see Malyshka."

"I mean it Bucky." All that got you another was kiss and a slap on your ass.

The rest of the day flew by, the luxurious itinerary packed with exclusive tours of museums, historic landmarks, and breathtaking sights.

Lunch was at a small restaurant that overlooked the river—Bucky ordered for you and Bee, his French flawlessly rolled off his tongue. He taught her a few phrases, you listened as her small, adorable voice stumbled over the words while you finished your meal.

Bee was still practicing when Bucky stopped in front of an upscale boutique. Your eyes narrowed in suspicion as you took in the name embossed on the sign above the door. A quick look around and you realize you're in the midst of Paris's high-end shopping district.

Before you could protest, Bee let out a sweet, soft "pwease Mommy."

Bucky followed, his handsome face the epitome of faux innocence. "Please Malyshka."

They could see your already weak resolve crumbling.

It's hard enough to say no when you're facing down one of them. Damn near impossible when you're gazing up at your husband and his mini-me. You sighed. Rolled your eyes. Tried your best to ignore their matching grins and the way Bee bounced with excitement, clapping her hands.

And you gave in because how could you not.

"Ugh. Fine. But you don't have to buy everything I look at Bucky."

A grin slid across his lips and he casually lifted one shoulder while opening the door for you. "I might be able to show some restraint."

He bought any and everything you looked at.

You showed a dress or a piece of jewelry interest for more than a few seconds and it was yours. Bucky knows you too well. He has your preferences memorized to the point he can pick out what you want better than you can.

Every time you turned your back on your husband, he was adding something else to the tab.

Bee was no better.

She is her father's daughter and she proved it when she swept through store after store.

She got three new friends for Mr. Tato because he needs them Mommy, several toys for herself, a stunning necklace for you, and a watch for her Papa. Some souvenirs for Frankie (Bucky tried to put those back, you gladly dropped them back into her little cart). A few keepsakes for her beloved Tataie and Bunica.

Bucky had the bags sent to the hotel after you left each store, so you couldn't keep track of how much he was spending. Although you couldn't really stop them, it was like watching a Barnes hurricane sweep through the shopping district, leaving empty stores and ecstatic shop owners in their wake.

You leave Paris with more than you came with. A dizzying number of bags filled with everything you and Bee could ever want. An exquisite painting Bucky is going to surprise you with once you land.

But its the priceless memories of an incredible vacation with your family that you'll cherish forever.

[4vlad]

My master

—summary: Alucard, the Vampire who proclaimed himself your servant, drinks your blood for the first time

—warnings: sexual content, master/servant relationship, non-consensual touching, dirty talk, blood drinking, human/vampire relationship

words: 1.468.

The day could not have been more exhausting, you had to work late because your boss didn't have more staff, it left you exhausted, very tired but you were finally able to get out of that hell, the bad thing is that it is very dark and cold at night, the London streets are eerily silent tonight.

"Scared dear?" He says a loud voice to which you scream and turn around throwing your bag towards the person behind you, the man catches the bag quickly "is this for me?" He laughs. "Ah! Alucard! You scared me, don't do that again!" You approach him and take his bag from him, "my sincere apologies, my master" you shudder at the dominant alias, Alucard is a vampire who had proclaimed himself as your servant months ago, you think he is crazy and you have certainly realized that he is, you were not a dominant person, much less someone of authority, you honestly don't know why he says you are his Mistress and you haven't asked him anyway. From the little you know about him is that he is a very strong, self-centered and prankster Vampire, you have even seen him in action a couple of times.

Alucard laughs at your ramblings while you both head to your apartment, even though the walk was long neither of them spoke much, as always Alucard only followed you because according to him it is to "protect you from danger" that you appreciated but you also don't want to abuse his goodness.

You enter your apartment and Alucard follows you by closing the door behind him "I must say that your area is very cozy Mistress" he takes off his hat and glasses before sitting on the sofa that he himself has claimed as "his", you Without giving it much importance go to your room and changes your clothes into more comfortable ones, minutes later You returns with the vampire "...I'm going to cook chicken and French fries, do you want?" You ask the vampire "No, dear human, I'm not a big fan of fried food." You thought for a moment whether to offer him a salad since he was a vampire, but he didn't seem to hate human food either, after all, he's eaten with you a few times, well, when you cook for him. .

You got down to work while the vampire just watched you as always, at first you were afraid of this monster, his energy was and is a little sinister, but over time you began to appreciate his company, he saved you a few times from some malefactors even, their presence still bothers you a little but you put up with it, Alucard has made it clear to you many times that he has no intention of harming you, that he is your servant and is here to obey your orders, whatever you ask of him. He's weird, you think.

In your rambling you get distracted and accidentally cut the skin on your hand, a sharp pain runs through you, thick blood falls from your hand to your elbow, you quickly turn off the stove "Ugh!" You groan in pain as you head towards the dishwasher to wash your wound.

The vampire, with his developed sense of smell, perceived a sweet and tempting aroma in the air, a fragrance that was familiar and irresistible at the same time. It was your smell of blood, a signal to his thirsty nature. However, there was something different about this smell, a subtle but unmistakable touch of sweetness, as if he belonged to a human being with a unique and exquisite blood. Alucard quickly stopped you, he appeared in front of you with a smile from ear to ear "Let me help you with that My Dear Mistress, it will be a pleasure to clean and heal your wound" you got a little scared, you were dripping blood with an extremely violent vampire, danger!

Alucard sensed your fear and quickly calmed you down or at least he tried to. "I won't bite you, I promise, you don't have to be scared, sweet human, I won't hurt you unless you give me those orders," he says with a deep but soft voice at the same time. While the vampire convinces you, he takes you to the couch and sits you on top of his legs. You are embarrassed but you still give in. You raise your hand to let the blood drip into your Vampire's mouth. Alucard opens his mouth, big as a beast, his fangs sharp, each one pointed, he sticks out his long, fat tongue, he is eager, salivating even before you will agree to feed him.

A heavy drop of blood falls on the vampire's tongue, his pupils dilate and his gaze becomes intense, the beautiful beast grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, his tongue was cold, the sensation of the wet and heavy tongue of Alucard slightly relieves your pain, he tastes your entire hand and your fingers, from top to bottom from one side to the other, his tongue moves gently enjoying the taste of your blood, he simply knows that he has never tasted a taste as sweet as it. Yours, it's the first time he's tasted your blood, he knew you were as tasty as he imagined.

Shadow hands appear around you to caress you, his hands are everywhere! On your abdomen, legs and thighs! How disrespectful!

You get embarrassed and try to take his hand away but he is stronger, his grip is firm on his food.

Alucard's hands caress you gently, kneading your skin over your clothes, he wants to taste everything about you.

once he finishes his meal, his eyes are fixed on you, his irises a bright red color, he smiles at you softly but with a dominant expression, he lets out a deep laugh as he brings you even closer to him "my mistress... You are a virgin..." He says with a deep voice, you move your hands away and put it to your chest, your cheeks turn red because of Alucard's words, did he know it just by tasting your blood? What does it have to do with you being a virgin? What a dirty pervert!

"So what...?"

He just laughs, he knew you were shy but you were also sweet and kind, always gentle and ready for anything, he couldn't believe that a little thing as pretty as you was still a virgin, he couldn't believe that even though you was so beautiful, so tasty, no one has corrupted you, well...it's not like any human can properly teach you what carnal pleasures are.

He purred, the taste and your aroma were overwhelming, his Master is as tasty as she looks.

"Mmm...wouldn't you like to feel what sexual pleasure is like, little human?" He doesn't care if you were a virgin or not but now? Oh...he wanted to corrupt you in every way possible, the smell of your embarrassment and excitement from the dirty talk invaded the vampire's senses.

You felt your panties stick to your lips because of the humidity "..." You remained silent, is this how this creature addresses his master? Did you know that he was insolent, what good is he proclaiming himself your servant if he doesn't respect you as such? Your eyebrows knit together in an expression of anger and embarrassment. He laughs at your reaction.

"My master..." he says with a suggestive voice, almost like a whisper, "it's been a long time since I gave myself to a Human," you don't respond. "You know that I am all yours, your servant, I am here to please your needs, to please you my beloved master..." Again he begins to purr. Your heart beats hard as you feel the hardness in the Vampire's crotch.

He was a burlesque and a pervert but he knew how to seduce a woman, using dirty words but at the same time being a gentleman.

He has never given himself this way to a master, not even his previous masters, but you? How could you be so delicious? So cute? He was willing to please you if you wanted, he just waited for you to say the words.

"You...you are not my servant Alucard" you get up from the couch "And I don't want...I don't want to do that..."

Alucard sighs disappointed but accepts "even if you don't want to be my mistress, I want you to know that I am here if you need to satisfy your needs, dear," he smiles.

"Please forgive my insolence, no matter how much I want you, I have to earn your affection and I will do it appropriately" he rises to his height and bends down again to kiss your hand in an act of chivalry.

Sorry if there are spelling mistakes, English is not my first language, I hope you enjoyed! You are free to leave me ideas by the way. AO3: rosemary06 (click)

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 4 — BODY WORSHIP

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — dr ratio, gallagher

— warnings. — fem! reader, body worship, fingering, constant praising <3 mating press

⚝ — DR RATIO

dr. ratio’s hands were careful, like a sculptor admiring his finest work, tracing the contours of your body with a clinical precision that gradually gives way to admiration— and his gaze moves over you with a power that makes you feel like the most exquisite specimen, every inch of your skin holding his full attention.

"perfection," the man glances down to your spread legs with your folds being on full display, the color in his tone rural, as though he’s cataloging every detail in his mind. his fingers glide between your folds, your glistening slit, before trailing up to your clit, taking in the softness of your pussy like he’s memorizing the map of your body.

veritas takes his time, always, touching you as though each movement holds the weight of discovery, as though you’re the answer to a question he’s been trying to solve his entire life.

"you have no idea how perfect you are, do you?" he whispers inserts a finger and wiggles it around— the sloppy, wet noises your pussy was making only added to the aching pain in his cock.

he admires the way your muscles constrict around a single finger, how he shifts inside your skin and curls his digit, the smooth lines of your wall being slippery and so hot.

his lips brush over your collarbone as he inserts a second finger, then lower as he groans softly. "i could study you for hours… every inch of you is a masterpiece," his hips begin to grinf into the mattress as he toys with your pussy, stuffing you with two digits and scissoring them inside your drenched insides before taking a tit in his mouth.

one good suckle sent you up against the wall and he sees it— more precisely it's your teeth dug into your lower lip and your fingers digging into his shoulders as your toes curl into the blankets, mind fuzzy with being so loved, so cherished and appreciated by the man you so desperately desired.

⚝ — GALLAGHER

gallagher had a way of being more on the direct side— if you catch my drill, unable to hide the awe in his gaze as his eyes roam across your form.

"damn, look at you," he breathes and smirks, the lust in his demeanor exuding the most intoxicating energy. his hands move immediately to your side, fingers tracing every curve, every line, like he’s trying to commit it all to memory, afraid he might miss something and needs to do it again— maybe then he should use his mouth to kiss every curve of your flesh.

there's a hunger in his eyes you were instantly deciphering, a hidden force to show just how much he adores every inch of you.

"you're… perfect," he brushes over your cheek.

gallagher tilts his head, eyes lingering on the smooth expanse of your stomach before his fingers side down to your thighs, making you wrap them around his waist.

his grip tenses slightly, his thumbs brushing the curve of your hips with an almost possessive severity as his cock stood erected and proudly between your folds.

"i don’t think you understand how beautiful you are," he takes his length before playfully slapping his tip against your pussy— once, twice, leaning down to press his lips to your shoulder as he opts to slide himself inside.

"fuck, ugh—always so tight," he rasps and rolls his eyes, biting into his lower lip to prevent his groan from coming out too loud as your hands find refuge in his disheveled hair, holding him in place.

his hips move forward with a deep rut, sliding in sloppily now while barely maintaining an even form— although that doesn't stop gallagher to fling your legs over his shoulders and press your thighs against your stomach to make you real tight for him, real messy and ugh, the view must be the most beautiful to him.

your face with tears bedding your lashes, your pouty lips being all bitten and pulsing, your pussy spread apart and fighting to keep him in as you squeeze and squeeze and squeeze him so dearly he notices a heart beat down there— while the sound of your juices were too distracting as well, gallagher might just need to take a taste of it first.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[neon-junkie]

How would TBB react to seeing the reader about to leave on a night out dressed up in a super hot outfit?

Gender-neutral reader, but feminine presenting. Words like 'beautiful' and 'pretty' are used!

Hunter - Even with half of his face tattooed, he still manages to blush through the thickness of the ink. - He's truly lost for words. - Hunter has an adorable stutter as he compliments, "wow, you look… nice- I mean, incredible. Good. Beautiful?" - Hunter then facepalms as he scolds himself for picking "nice" as his first compliment. Ugh, you look so much more than nice! - You'll both be giggling as Hunter takes a deep breath, and begins going into detail about how good you look, highlighting the specific parts that really stand out to him. - You're heading out with friends, but Hunter is quietly hinting that he wants to come along. Totally not because he's jealous or anything, but because he hopes to meet your friends, right? The friends that he's met several times before? Yeah! - Tell him that you'll still be looking this good when you come back home later tonight, and he'll get the hint. - However, he may need to leave a fresh mark or two on your neck, just to get the point across that you're taken.

Echo - This poor, poor man is going to turn the deepest shade of red when he finally sees you. - Why, just WHY did you have to wear that specific outfit that he loves so much?! And you're going out without him too?! Oh, what a tease! - Echo is lost for words as he gushes over you. He feels like it's his wedding day - How is he this lucky? How did he land an angel like you? - There's a tear in his eye as you smother him in kisses, reassuring him that you're all his, that you're the lucky one for being with him, that you can't wait to come home and snuggle up with him later. - Echo doesn't ask for much, but he would like to be kept in the loop on your whereabouts. Purely for your own safety! - "And when you reach the next bar, just comm me. Your friends have my comm number too, don't they? If anything goes wrong, and you want picking up-" blahblahblah. - One final smother in reassuring kisses, and you're good to hit the town!

Wrecker - His mouth instantly hangs open, his eyes turn wide, and his facial expression swiftly turns into a grin as he comments, "HOT!!" - You know in cartoons where the character's mouth drops open, and they begin howling and barking? Yeah, that's Wrecker. - Seriously, you look hot, and Wrecker's going to ensure that you know it. - "Look at you! I can't believe I got myself an angel as sweet as you!" - He'll mention how he's sad that he's not tagging along, but he'll assure you that it's important you spend your time with your friends. - Wrecker isn't as clingy as he seems. After all, he'll be right here, waiting for your return. - And when you do return, all your hangover needs will be met. A tall glass of water waiting for you, a midnight snack, breakfast in bed, and a big buff man to cuddle you back to health!

Tech - This will go one of two ways: - Option one: Tech eyes you up and down, and with a firm nod, he comments, "that is suitable attire for your evening. I hope you enjoy yourself." - Option two: Tech's brain short circuits. He can barely muster up a thought, let alone a comment. Radio silence, but his expression says it all. - Either way, Tech is more than impressed with your outfit choice, and how stunning you look. He just… struggles to find the words, like a deer in the headlights. - Give him a few moments, and you'll be met with suitable praise. "How exquisite you look, a truly elegant and radiant creature." - Tech can't pinpoint one specific word to describe how beautiful you look, so instead, he selects the most complex and in-depth ones. He doesn't want to rely on a 'standard compliment.' - A few kisses later, and you're off to meet your friends. All the while, Tech begins pacing around the Marauder like a lost puppy. He needs to keep himself occupied until you return!

Crosshair - He's instantly thirsty for you, smiling cheekily as he eyes you up, gawking at the sight of you. - Crosshair has a way with words, and spews out his praise, all whilst kneading at your waist, his hands trailing down to grab your ass whilst he steals a handful of kisses from you. - And then it dawns on him… - You're going out with your friends tonight, not him… - Jealousy swiftly takes over, and his compliment turn into teasing (yet petty) jabs. Nothing to hurt your feelings, though. - "Any reason why you're wearing this tonight? Do you need more attention? Am I not enough for you?" - Whilst his tone is teasing, there's a desperate need for validation. - Yes, he knows you'd never be stupid and hurt him, but… can you please remind him one more time? - Don't be surprised when you leave, and minutes later, Crosshair sends you a holotext. "Comm me if you need anything, Beautiful."

[s0lairee]

you can imagine how insane this made me when the blurb itself had me on the edge of my seat 😭❤️❤️

something to believe in

or: and i am crowned king, over all the lands of wonder.

gn!reader, warnings for yandere-typical obsession and mild stalking, sweet little warden’s what-could-have-been. i beg, i beg – do not leave me in this abyss, where i cannot find you! an AU of the AU – consider this an alternate origin story for the vega and warden of human nature, that’s a little less canon-compliant and a little more obsessive. inspired by turn around, look at me by the vogues and shakespeare’s sonnet 147, and forever indebted to the utter gorgeousness that comes from the wonderful @sincerelywhistler. don’t bother haunting me. warden getting a certain someone under their skin in 9000 words or less.

part of the skyside oops! all yandere! collab for halloween – do go and check that out to see all the spooky, creepy goodness that the server has to offer! there's some incredible talent on display in there, and i'm very very grateful to the lovely @angelicaether for masterminding it all -- thank you for letting me in to peddle my ridiculous fascination with vega and warden yet again 💕😅💫

series masterlist

main masterlist

(...wait, what do you mean, 'vega's not the yandere one here'? you couldn't possibly mean – no, you wouldn't dare...)

He's so beautiful.

Grey light flickers coldly across the wall, and the droning chatter of the radio fills the air. The room is more crowded than usual, dull footsteps muffled by thin carpet, and it’s almost uncomfortably warm.

How long has it been? You can’t really remember. Months, at least, perhaps even a year – and yet the same thought echoes through your head even now, all this time later.

It’s oddly reassuring, to think of his beauty. A comforting thought, a soothing refrain. A smooth, well-worn groove in your mind, familiar ease as it slides into place. There are so few things that you can be sure of, so few things you can rely upon, that it’s reassuring to have something to hold onto. Something that you know won’t ever change, something that couldn’t possibly leave you.

It’s reliable, a rare constant amid the habitual chaos. It’s calm, and it’s sweet, and it’s kind. It might even be true.

I hope it’s true.

You wouldn’t know. You’ve never actually seen him.

It's become habit now, whenever you have a moment. You’re almost surprised that they haven’t asked you to start paying rent, with how often you find yourself here. Ageing monitors flicker with blurry static, the monochrome shapes of prisoners reflected exactly in your eyes.

The human officers here in the security room don't like it, but there's not actually much they can say – you’ve got the clearance to be here, because your job requires you to have access to the inmate records that are kept in this room. And even when they do try to keep you out, you're not above a little harmless cloaking to sneak in here unnoticed. Hiding is second nature to someone like you, and you’re very, very good at it.

None of them are that good at magic anyway, but it wouldn't really matter if they were. No human, Department or otherwise, could find you in a million years, even if they wanted to.

You’d actually been right here in this room, standing over by the filing cabinet, when you’d first heard of him. The Stealth who’s normally in here was sitting at his desk opposite the door, filling out some sort of incident report, and you’d overheard him complaining about it to one of the Freelancer correctional officers nearby.

It’s not as though incident reports have ever been anything unusual at this facility, but your demon’s senses weren’t fooled. The smell of blood was thick in the air, unmistakable even as it was drowned out by a stinging wave of antiseptic, along with the persistent, unsettled tension bubbling in his core. It was unusually sour, but not bitter – you remember having to fight the urge to wrinkle your nose. Something must have happened.

The story, when you started paying attention to the conversation, wasn’t entirely routine – but it didn’t sound like anything too out of the ordinary. An altercation during the morning rounds, a mistake by one of the human wardens. Six injured, and two in critical condition. A prisoner being moved from the high-security corridor to the maximum-security block.

That sort of thing doesn’t exactly happen every day at the facility, but it’s to be expected when you’re dealing with so many dangerous inmates. That’s the whole reason why the maximum-security building even exists – this place, just like the countless other containment facilities scattered across the country, is more or less a dumping ground for whoever the Department can’t fix, and whatever they aren’t powerful enough to kill.

Mildly curious, you’d snuck a look down at his desk as you walked past, trying to nonchalantly peek at the report while the Stealth was looking away. Eyes darting across the page in a split second, greedily taking in as much as you could. He hadn’t filled much of it out, but right there, at the top of the page—

An identification number, and a prisoner’s name. Vega.

Vega.

The name hadn’t been immediately familiar, but that didn’t mean you hadn’t recognised it. You remember the familiar feeling of the sky stretching out inside your skull, how readily the slim shape of Lyra had revealed itself to you, its brightest star glittering in your mind’s eye.

An altercation, eight wounded. A demon prisoner, dangerous enough that the Department had wanted to put them away in one of the most highly-guarded containment facilities in the country… but who hadn’t killed a single human warden when the opportunity arose?

There had been no picture attached to the report, but all you really needed was the name. You’d looped back around to the records cabinet, gaze darting around the room to check that nobody was watching you, before opening the drawer where the high-security inmate records were kept – at the time, you didn’t have access to the maximum-security files, so you’d been hoping that his record hadn’t been moved yet.

A-E, F-J, K-O... The file separators had been put in rather haphazardly, but luckily they’d all been roughly in the right places. Yellow folders for humans, red ones for demons. Blessedly, the Department’s insistence on keeping paper records as well as digital ones meant that the file had still been there. Silently, you’d pulled the right one free and flipped the folder open, to find—

Oh…

With him being a demon, you knew that you didn’t really need to see a picture. As a matter of course, it’s rare for any of your kind to have a consistent appearance, unless you happen to be involved with long-term human affairs like the Department. A photograph of a demon is almost always useless – all it tells you is that a demon might have worn that face once, but that doesn’t mean that they’d ever worn it before, or would wear it again.

The photo was a little out of focus and slightly distorted, courtesy of the terrible quality that so often plagues photographs of demons. Arcana tends to show up poorly on camera, so demons who don’t bother to synthesise a tangible, physical skin surface usually end up looking blurrier than their surroundings. It’s infuriating for humans, unused to their complicated electrical technologies failing, but until they invent a better type of camera, there’s not actually much they can do about it.

Despite the dim, grainy quality of the photo, the face of the demon looking out at you was utterly striking. Sharp, handsome features, somehow delicate and cruel all at once. The shape of tall horns, cut off at the top by the edge of the frame. Long, dark hair falling down past his shoulders, the suggestion of a bitter smile. A cold, empty glare that seemed to slice right through the paper it was printed on.

He’s so beautiful.

You’d only been able to stare, somehow entranced. He’d looked so… so demonic, nothing filtered out or watered down, in a way you weren’t sure you’d ever seen on Elegy. You can remember how your own eyes ached to see his, sclera unashamedly black and shiny, how your head began to pound, suddenly all-too-aware of the pressure of keeping your horns cloaked.

You’d held an unnecessary breath as you brought the photo closer to your face, as if looking harder might reveal something new you’d missed. The picture showed so disappointingly little, and all you wanted was to know more. What else about him was demonic? Did he breathe? Did he blink? Would his claws be long, would his tongue be pointed – and if he bared his fangs, how many would there be?

His file wasn’t especially long or detailed, so you’d raced through it, soaking up all the information you could. A Sadism demon, imprisoned for experimenting on humans, captured after a fight with an incubus somewhere in downtown Dahlia. Unable or unwilling to speak out loud, broadly uncooperative when approached outside of feeding periods, generally passive but highly dangerous if provoked.

Skilled manipulator, known to use violence, intimidation, and coercion. Openly admits to significant history of human experimentation, with no signs of guilt or desire for repentance. Ambivalence towards human suffering and casual threats of violence strongly indicate potential to cause significant harm and/or fatal injury. Consider a possible threat to life.

More than anything else, he sounded fascinating.

Without really noticing, you’d stopped paying attention to the rest of the security room – you jumped at the sudden whine of the radio at your hip as it crackled to life, the voice of one of your superiors from upstairs calling you back. Hurriedly, you’d jammed all of the papers into the folder before slotting it back into the file organiser, re-locking the drawer, and scurrying out of the room without looking at anyone.

For the rest of the day it had been all you could think about, this mysterious demon locked away in the depths of Block E, the maybe-shape of his once-silhouette burned into your brain. What would he be like? Would his voice be high or low? What would his aura feel like, as it curved to fit against yours? Filling out paperwork, preparing for tomorrow’s rehabilitation sessions, trudging into meetings behind your supervisor – you might as well have been a million miles away, consumed with curiosity and the thought of a distant star.

Those thoughts never went away, only getting stronger and stronger as days began to pass, then weeks, then months. The shape of Lyra seemed to call to your unconscious mind, its sparkle almost as comforting as that of your own constellation, singing out through the blackness of space to grasp the glimmer of your namesake star. You began to come into work even earlier than before, finding ever more excuses to loiter in the security room and stare at the small, faded monitor that held the camera feed you were desperate to see.

It didn’t matter that the video was always blurry. It didn’t matter that there was no sound, or no colour, or that it would skip and stutter every few seconds. He never moved, except to shift his gaze minutely from the wall to the door – he never spoke, and even if he had it wouldn’t have been aloud. With no window for the sunlight to move across, even his shadow was still, painted black across the wall behind him.

Day after day, hour after hour, a perfect statue in the garden of your mind. You watched him endlessly, unblinking eyes swallowing up each grey pixel of his being. Every halting, crackling frame of his existence, precious treasure to be hoarded in the soft fats of your simulated body.

The world had changed, and yet nobody ever noticed. Your supervisor was thrilled that you were working more and talking less, eager to push even more of her responsibilities onto you than she already was. The rest of the office followed suit, the few that had ever spoken to you before now thoroughly disinterested in your new enthusiasm for work, hardly aware of the way your eyes would glaze over as soon as you could sit down at your desk and disappear into a daydream.

It had been a surprise, even to you. You never used to dream.

When you first came to Elegy, you didn’t know how to sleep. You’d been taught what it was, and that humans had to do it, but nobody had ever shown you how it worked. All you knew was that it was something that happened at night, and that a human who didn’t do it would die.

Gradually, you’d managed to figure out roughly what it was. A sort of unconsciousness to allow humans to replenish their energy, that happens in the dark on a soft sleeping pad. It takes hours and hours, and it can only start if they lie very, very still. Their bodies move while they sleep, but not on purpose, and occasionally they see bizarre visions that some say can predict the future.

They call happy visions dreams, and scary visions nightmares. Demons, along with a small number of magical humans, can manipulate these premonitions if they like, but it’s not very kind to do it without permission. If a human finds out that you’ve been secretly messing with their dreams, they’ll get really upset.

It sounded weird. You didn’t want to sleep. It wasn’t something your body would ever need to do, and it didn’t sound like something you’d be interested in. Wouldn’t it be boring, to lie there in the dark without moving for so long? Wouldn’t it be strange, to feel your body moving without your say-so?

You did want to dream, though. What sort of odd things might reveal themselves to you? Maybe it would feel like being one of those human Seers. Demons have always been exempt from the Sight, but you’d wondered if perhaps this would be another way to look into the future.

You’d opened up your work computer and gone on the human internet to see if you could find out more about it, and daydreams sounded like just the right thing. A dream that could happen during the daytime, without needing to waste time sleeping – but unfortunately, upon closer inspection it didn’t seem like quite what you were looking for. It was just a fancy name for being bored, for thinking about random things instead of whatever was going on in real life, and you’d been quite disappointed.

That hadn’t stopped you trying, though. And once you’d started, you’d been hooked.

The life of an Inchoate is nothing if not hungry. An Inchoate demon’s body burns through Arcana faster than any other, a sick sort of penance for being so greedy in its tastes. Nothing satisfies it, nothing can satisfy it. The great chasm inside, the yawning black hole in your core shrieks and wails endlessly, crying out for something to satiate its impossible need. It’s like a child or an animal, this wretched form, thinking of nothing but more, give me more, I need more!

There’s no proof, but you’ve always wondered if that’s why you’ve ended up the way you have. When your hunger can’t eat, it starts to eat you – is it that exhausted desperation, forever staggering and stumbling away from the beast inside, that’s driven you down this path? Open wide, open wide, open wide. When your own body punishes you for the crime of its own existence, what petty rules should you even care to follow?

It’s torture. The entire earth to feed you, and your eternal curse is to starve.

Not then, though. Not when you learnt how to dream. Suddenly, the world was opened to you, the concrete walls of the facility falling easily away. You didn’t have to think. You could let your thoughts drift on the breeze, falling through your fingers like a handful of sand, letting your body do the work as your head floated far away. Papers came and went, stamped and signed, the rhythmic tapping of keyboard clicks a lullaby that soothed you into blissful escapism.

You didn’t have to sit at that dreadful desk, you didn’t have to listen to those awful humans. You could go somewhere else, somewhere good and bright and kind, where the earth was sweet and the stars danced in the sky. It would be a place where you’d never need to be alone – the deep, aching loneliness of life on Elegy would fade into nothingness, and you’d finally have found what you were looking for.

People who would never leave you behind, who would notice when you weren’t there. Who would want to spend time with you, and who would want to talk to you because they liked you, not just because there was nobody else to talk to. Happy, funny, charming people who’d smile when they saw you and sigh when you left – and you’d be just as charming, just as funny, just as happy.

You wouldn’t be missing out, anymore. The special, secret place in your head was filled with sweets and cake and shiny glitter, and every day you dreamt of the same thing. The gnawing inchoate hunger would fade, and you’d finally be satisfied. Filled to the brim with good feelings, permeating every speck of your being, stuffed with happiness and joy and contentment until you could barely even move.

Each detail painted and polished in a thousand rainbow colours, a charmed life that only you could see. The very air would be golden, and the sea clear and warm. Friends, real friends, the sort that you’d always wished for but never really known. For the first time, you’d be someone’s first choice.

As pleasant as those daydreams were, you’d never been able to entirely ignore the quiet, nagging sensation that something was missing – something deep and vital, some unspoken absence right at the aching heart of it. Some feeling that you couldn’t quite place, one you only faintly recognised in the back of your mind. It was oddly raw, tender and bloody like a bite and a bruise all at once. A bitterness, a loneliness, a new sort of hunger that had no name.

No name, that is, until him.

Paper rustling as you flicked through his file, the song of the computer cables and the air conditioner and the CCTV. He was just so irresistibly, incredibly singular, a tantalising mystery. You couldn’t let it go – the perfect image of him, in bright and painful clarity, cutting through the distortion. You wanted him, you want him, in a way you can’t possibly hope to explain.

It’s like a disease. Your daydreams are filled with thoughts of Vega, outlined in passion and coloured with longing. How he’ll hold you like a lover, the smooth slide of his tail against yours, how he’ll smile as your horns knock softly against his when he kisses you. His fangs will surely be sharp as they carve their way into your soft neck, and his claws will surely sting as he takes your waiting hand in his. The saccharine fantasy is as beautiful as it is hazy, vague impressions of flowers and ribbons and sparkles stamped across the inside of your skull.

Perhaps your mind has been warped by the shallow trappings of human romance, the miserable weakness of their feelings – is it truly demonic to want those things, or have you just been on Elegy for too long? Even if you have, does it matter? It doesn’t make the cravings go away. He’s the answer to your prayers. Contentment, companionship, escape.

There’s another feeling, too, that seems to flicker to life when you think of him. Imagining him so close to you, his hands and his fangs and his voice, the drag of your fingers across his simulated skin. The quiet fizz of Arcana as you finally touch him, again and again, the eager harmony of the magic that makes you as it begins to sing with him. It’s dark and rich, settling somewhere deep in your body and making you feel all… all strange. This facsimile of a human body starts to rebel – your mouth suddenly seems too dry, your skin too hot and your heart too fast. You gasp for deep breaths you don’t need, unusually restless, struggling to push down the bubbly, sparkling sensation that crashes over you like a wave.

You don’t know what that feeling is, and it’s frightening and thrilling in equal measure. There’s something addictive about it, the way it drips and pools in the soft tissues of your body like honey, thick and warm and slow. Your body feels elastic, muscles stretching and contracting in the heat, and your eyes close without you even really noticing.

When you meet him, you’ll have to ask him what it is. He must know. Perhaps he’ll teach you.

The plan was always going to be tricky to pull off. Most of your work takes place with human prisoners, so you weren’t even allowed into his cell corridor before he was moved, but now that he’s being kept in the maximum-security block it’s even harder to get access. That place is so heavily surveilled and guarded that it’s practically impossible to get near it – you have to get signed approval from your department head, book in a timed entry window so they know when you’ll be there and for how long, then pass through several high-level security checks before you can go inside.

Even if you could fake your way through all of that, you wouldn’t be able to go in alone regardless. Nobody is allowed to enter unaccompanied, no matter the reason. It's a facility policy that technically applies in all the cell blocks, but in practice it’s only the maximum-security and demon-holding areas that enforce it. Those are the most dangerous places for officers to go alone, where the inmates are far too dangerous or powerful to be dealt with one-on-one, so it makes sense – but for your purposes, it’s an infuriating, insurmountable roadblock.

You’d need to find someone to go with you who wouldn’t mind what you’re going to do, and what are the odds of that? As far as you’re concerned, it’s basically impenetrable.

Unless you count Camelopardalis, that is.

He’s only a temporary fixture at the holding facility, on loan from the headquarters in Dahlia as part of the biennial staff training initiative, and he's so lovely. You'd never had the chance to really meet him before, seeing as this is the first year he’s been assigned to your department, but he’s just so effortlessly friendly that you can’t help but like him. He’s always saying hello to you in the corridors, or striking up a short but sweet conversation at your desk when he passes by, his quiet smile somehow infectious despite his understated nature.

Once, he even managed to miraculously convince your department head to let you take an extra half-hour’s break during lunch, and you’d spent it chatting away together in the cafeteria about all sorts of things. It turns out that he’s remarkably funny once you get him talking, all dry wit and wry observations – you’d almost cried laughing at his impression of the superintendent from upstairs, one hand clinging to his arm to keep yourself upright, and you can still remember the sparkle in his eyes as he lightly rested his free hand on top of yours in return.

The walk back to your desk together had been far too short. He’s such a gentleman, you’ve always thought, so charming and polite.

You find yourself bumping into Camelopardalis – or Cam, as he insists you call him – quite a lot these days, now that you come to think of it. Not that you’re complaining, of course. He makes for extremely pleasant company, kinder to you than you remember any of the humans who normally work here ever being. In fact, you’d probably say that he’s the closest thing to a real, proper friend that you’ve ever had.

It’s not his fault that he’s just a little bit too late.

If only it had been him, this would all be so much easier. In your mind’s eye, you can see it all now, as clearly as anything. He’d do it properly for you, you know he would – flowers and letters and kisses on the doorstep, a shy smile on his face every time he held your hand. Nothing would hurt, and nothing would go wrong. He’d be happy, and you’d be happy too. You would have loved to fall in love with Cam.

The great tragedy of the solar eclipse. In another life, perhaps he could have been something more. But here, now, the jagged shadow of your secret fascination looms too large for you to ever ignore, drowning the small shape of a lone Serenity daemon in its all-consuming darkness.

“After you.”

Harsh, white light bears down on both of you as Cam holds the door open, gesturing to you with his other hand. Dipping your head in thanks, you hurry through the doorway and into the screening room, permit papers in hand.

He’s told you before that he’s been trying to push for more focus on the treatment of demonic prisoners, especially considering how human-heavy the facility staff is, but the higher-ups are never willing to put enough resources into training to make any sort of meaningful difference. Apathy – or maybe just laziness, I guess, he’d said mournfully, over a paper cup of dreadful-tasting office coffee. All these years, and it's like they haven't realised how dangerous it is for humans to even attempt to incarcerate demons. Considering the state of this place, it's a miracle there hasn't been a riot already.

You'd just shrugged, resigned. It's not like they care about any of the inmates, anyway. What made you think they'd do anything special for the demons?

Wishful thinking, probably. But what else can I do?

It's not as if you disagree with him. He's entirely right, and the treatment of demons here needs to change before something goes horribly wrong. But if it just so happens that his attempts to increase staff development might overlap with your curiosity about a certain, very well-guarded demon, then can you really be blamed for what might unfold?

You’d asked him to bring you here as part of your training – a mostly made-up excuse about wanting to get better at working with demonic inmates, rather than being restricted to just human ones. You have clearance to speak to the human maximum-security inmates, and you've seen most of the areas where demonic inmates are kept, even if you can't speak to them. So, you’d managed to persuade Cam that you needed to see the difference between the human and demon restricted areas for yourself – that the only place it would be worth taking you would be the one place you've never been allowed to enter.

Fortunately, he seemed to swallow the excuse easily enough. He even said it wasn't that difficult to get your entry clearance temporarily modified upwards, so that he could take you – it seems like your recent industriousness has paid off with your supervisor. Cam says he thinks it's because she's recognising how efficient and obedient you are, but you suspect that she's hoping to promote you so you’ll be allowed to take on even more of her work. Useless, lazy idiot. All she does is complain about the work everyone else is doing, instead of actually doing anything herself. What do they even keep her around for?

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. You know what you’re here to do.

The security checks go quickly, the two of you ushered through a variety of metal detectors and aura scanners. It’s still kind of funny to you whenever they make you do biometric scans, considering how easy it is for you to fake your way through – you hadn’t even had fingerprints before you started working for DUMP – but it’s probably just so the process is the same for everyone who comes through here.

“Ready?”

Cam gives you a soft, kind smile as he waits by the door to the cell corridor, one hand already on the unlock mechanism. “You remember the plan, right?”

The air in this block is thick and sugary, so heavily saturated with magic that it feels like toffee sticking your teeth together. You nod, trying not to look as jittery as you feel.

“Right hand side, cell number 1028. You’re going to do the talking, and I’m just there to watch.”

Cam dips his head in acknowledgement. “And your panic switch?”

You push your sleeve up just a little, so he can see the flat, orange band around your wrist. It’s coded to your magical signature, just like your normal green one, but an ordinary bracelet wouldn’t be able to get through the intensity of the wards in this block. This one is specially made to work in such a high-saturation environment, and you can feel the powerful magic inside it resonating faintly through your wrist and making your fingers slightly numb.

“Very good,” he says, and the door swings silently open. “Let’s go.”

The cell corridor is wide and bleak, just like every other, all concrete and painted metal. It’s bright, as is standard, grim floodlights blasting the space with blindingly-white light, and the lack of windows makes it impossible to tell whether it’s night or day outside. There’s no breeze, but you grimace at how cold it is, any warmth you might have had leached away in an instant.

Following Cam down the corridor, it’s impossibly quiet. The warding magic in the air is so dense that your footsteps don't echo, layers and layers of energy folding over themselves and slowing your movements so much that it’s difficult to walk – you can imagine that a human would have a hard time even breathing normally. No wonder none of the human officers want to come here. You don’t know for sure, but you imagine that this is how it would feel to walk along the bottom of the sea, the unyielding, compressive power of all that water constricting your body as it bears down on you. Uncompromising force, inescapable pressure.

Your unwitting companion doesn’t know it, but you’ve come prepared. Thanks to your idiot supervisor, you’ve had access to the maximum-security prisoner files for weeks now, so you know exactly which cell you’re really looking for. You’re almost there, you’re almost there! As you pass by, you can’t help but hold your breath in giddy nervousness, the zing of adrenaline fizzing in your mouth as you fight to keep the excitement off your face.

Cam stops outside cell 1028, the reinforced door heavy and imposing, and you have to dig your nails into your palms to stop yourself from turning your head to the left. The cell door you want is so, so close, but you can’t give the game away just yet.

We’re here, he murmurs into your mind, seemingly unwilling to break the silence. Still feeling up to it?

Resolutely, you meet his eyes. Yeah. I’m ready.

He knocks softly on the door, probably out of habit – it’s not like the sound would be able to get through the wards on the cell, no matter how hard he knocked – and presses his palm to the unlock switch on the wall. His magic surges, swirling through his hand and into the mechanism, before the panel flashes green and the door unlocks.

“Regulus, yes?” he says to the prisoner inside, and you follow him into the cell before the door locks behind you. “My name is Camelopardalis. I’m here to speak with you about the events of last week, if that’s alright with you.”

The temporary ward that activated when the door released keeps the prisoner, Regulus, from actually reaching you, so he sits on the bed while you conjure two chairs for you and Cam to sit on. You already knew that he was an Empathy daemon before you came in, and that he’s not even meant to be in this block at all – that’s the only reason Cam had been allowed to bring you. He’s not actually very aggressive, so he’s normally in one of the lower-security areas, but apparently there was some incident a few days ago that means they’ve moved him in here for his own safety while his ordinary cell is being repaired.

Cam and Regulus talk for a while, but you don’t really take in much of the discussion, to be honest. You’re mostly just distracted by your own racing heartbeat, choking on the tension that nobody else can feel. Why does it matter, whatever it is they’re talking about? Why should you even care? There’s something much more important going on, something so deeply, intensely vital that you couldn’t possibly focus on anything else.

He’s here, he’s here. Right now, at this very moment, you’re just a few metres away from Vega. The object of your obsession, the mystery that you’re longing to solve. You might never get this chance again. In just a few minutes, you’ll see him – at last, you’ll see him with your own eyes, see all the things the cameras can’t show.

Oh, if only you could have come here alone. You could spend hours here, you’re sure, making up for all the days and nights spent looking at the poor facsimile of him that decorates the surveillance screens in the security office. How close will you be able to get? How long will you be able to look? If you’re lucky, you might even—

“Is there anything else you’d like to speak about while I’m here?”

Cam’s voice jolts you from your whirling thoughts, leaning forward slightly in his chair as he speaks to the prisoner, and you try your best to look like you’ve been paying attention.

…Yes.

His voice is faintly muffled, as if through glass, and it belatedly occurs to you why that is. You hadn’t really noticed, but you realise that Cam has been the only one speaking aloud, while Regulus has been using telepathy to project his words through the temporary ward. Perhaps it’s that he doesn’t know how to speak, or maybe that he just doesn’t like to.

You’ve often heard that Empathy daemons have trouble learning how to speak out loud, partly because they develop at a different rate to other demons, and partly because they’re not meant to be observed by humans who aren’t their charges. They’re taught to speak telepathically as much as they can, so that other humans nearby can’t hear their disembodied voices when they’re invisible, but that generally means that they have difficulty remembering how physical speech is meant to work.

In any case, he must say something to Cam that he doesn’t want you to hear. You feel a tiny burst of Serenity-flavoured magic bubble against your aura, a polite warning, and the conversation goes entirely silent as they continue to speak.

This is it – now or never. Catching Cam’s eye, you blink once and incline your head ever so slightly towards the door. He blinks in reply, and you can tell that he’s not entirely sure why you want to leave, but his aura seems to acquiesce. Gratefully, you stand up from your chair and hurry out of the cell, bracelet letting you slip easily through the door and the wards.

You’ll have to hurry. Cam shouldn’t technically have let you do that, seeing as it's facility policy for you to stay together at all times in the maximum-security areas, but you’re hoping that he thinks you’re just being polite to Regulus by not staying when he obviously doesn’t want you to overhear him. He doesn’t seem to pose much of a threat, so why would you need to worry? Even if he tried to break through the ward and do something to Cam, he’s got a panic bracelet just like you – and from what you can tell of Cam, he seems like he could hold his own if it really came down to it. He’ll be fine.

Steeling yourself, you turn your back to the door and cross over to the other side of the corridor, one door to the left. The small, metal plate above the door says 1025.

It’s such a short distance, yet it feels like a lifetime. Creeping closer and closer to the cell, your eyes are fixed on the small, rectangular viewing slot. It’s heavily warded, just like the rest of the door, so there’s no need for it to ever close – you’re told that it’s a security measure, installed so that prisoners can never know when they’re being directly observed. All they can see is a bright, clouded blur, regardless of whether someone’s looking through it or not.

Paranoia seeps through your brain, freezing water soaking through the back of your skull. You’ll surely be on camera right now, but nobody’s really watching, are they? Unless something happens, nobody ever really pays attention to the CCTV – and nothing’s going to happen, right? There’s nothing suspicious about just looking, is there?

Something moves, a trembling blur just at the edge of your vision. Your head snaps down, eyes instinctively searching for the danger, but it’s – ah.

Your hands are shaking. That’s never happened before.

How… human of you.

The crushing silence seems to clutch at your ankles as you come to a stop, terrifying in its totality. It feels wrong, somehow, for it to be so quiet. Like this place is somehow separate from the rest of the world, an unearthly space out of step with the rest of this plane.

Reinforced metal lines the walls, cell doors towering over you. The air feels even heavier in your chest than before, so thoroughly saturated with power that it seems to pop and crackle with each breath. Was the ceiling quite this low before? White light floods the corridor, and its reach is so complete that you cast no shadow.

It’s too late to back out. You’ve got to do this now, before Cam comes out of that cell and asks you what you’re doing. Your whole body feels on edge, pulse hammering in your throat and stomach all strange and fluttery, like a fizzy can of soft drink that’s been all shaken up. Careful of the ward alarm, you don’t touch the door, but you lean slowly towards the viewing slot, and—

and—

Oh…

You can’t move.

You can’t even think.

All you can do is stare.

Demonic bodies are inherently static, in a way that human bodies just can’t replicate. There’s no need to breathe or blink or swallow – there’s no real need to do anything, except feed, and you don’t have to move to do that. Behaviours like nodding or fidgeting are entirely cultivated, learned habits from an age-old history of human coexistence.

Stillness makes humans uncomfortable, so your species has learnt not to stand still. It’s half courtesy, half pragmatism. Skin changes colour to blush without blood, the hand pulls back from the flame half a second too late. At its core, it’s about survival. Codependence, long exposure. The mimicry of a predator.

Yes, a predator. The creature before you, utterly unmoving as he sits on the side of the bed, is something much, much worse.

No photo could have done him justice, no blurry camera footage could have captured him in enough delicate detail. You can only see his side profile, and yet you’re struck by how immensely, instantly handsome he is – you can’t explain exactly why, but something about his face is just so captivating that you can’t tear your eyes away.

He’s like a sculpture in a museum, all strong lines and clean angles. Sharp horns jut cruelly away from his face, starkly silhouetted by the bright light from above, and you briefly wonder if they’d draw blood if they were to touch your skin. They’re not glossy, as such, but they do seem to reflect the light slightly. Soft white illuminates the tiny ridges and curves in their surface, glinting off the vicious-looking points in a way you’ve never seen before on Elegy.

It’s like the light doesn’t quite know how to react to his magic, fracturing as it crashes over him, splintering and shattering like stained glass. Is it because of his form’s composition? It must be. You’ve never seen a demon able to do that – to take a physical, corporeal form in a way that permits existence on Elegy, but that still holds the qualities of the raw magic it’s composed of. It’s completely enchanting. You’re not sure a human would be able to see it.

His hair is long and smooth, parted just in front of his horns so a little of it frames his face on either side. The rest is gathered up high somehow at the crown of his head, before falling gracefully down his back. His stillness makes it impossible to tell, but you imagine how it might move if he were to turn his head, dark strays fluttering lightly in the nonexistent breeze. Your fingers ache to reach out and touch it, to brush your claws across his jaw and push his hair back behind his pointed ear.

The dull prisoner’s uniform he wears is in perfect shape, not a single crease or stain to mar the coarse, sand-coloured fabric. Your gaze drags across his form, searching eagerly for what few hints of his shape you can discern, but it’s not much. You can see that he’s tall, certainly taller than you – which, to be fair, you already knew from his file – and the apparent litheness of his frame does nothing to betray the strength that you know must hide there. The half-sleeves of his uniform finish just above the elbow, leaving his forearms bare where his hands are folded in his lap. His tail disappears as it curves around past the far side of his body, and the tips of his claws are lethally sharp as they catch the light from above, long and elegant.

However he does it, the illusion is incredible. If you really focus, you can just about see the delicate shimmer of Arcana across his skin through the wards, so subtle as to be almost imperceptible. Although you can’t feel his aura, he looks old. Powerful.

Greedily, you drink in every millimetre of Vega’s being that you can see. He’s entirely mesmerising in his stillness, smooth and perfect like a statue of an angel. So immediately, inexplicably fascinating – how does he do it? What is it about him that draws you in? Your core longs to reach out to him, to call him to you, aura pressed up against the surface of the ward like it might slip right through.

Your whole world, filtered through a few inches of missing metal. Everything narrows down to now – this one, most vital moment. Fire seems to surge through your body, the blind faith of your conviction forged into something new, something raw, something hungry. It’s the feeling of falling, the blistering heat of a tumbling star. There’s no doubt in your mind – you can already feel it, strong hands digging into your waist, and you’re sure he’ll catch you. The cold blackness of space. A new type of gravity, falling into orbit.

It’s so much. Without really noticing, you stagger back a few steps, eyes still locked on the door in front of you as your body tries to grapple with the immense weight of this strange new feeling. You’re breathing far too harshly, teeth rattling as you tremble, your physicality unable to keep up with the seismic shock of emotion that ripples through your core. You’re changing, the feelings that make your form melting and morphing like water as your mind struggles to reckon with itself, the world around you coming into a new sort of focus.

You’re mine.

Silently, your unblinking eyes begin to cry. As you shudder, clinging frantically to the shape of your physical body, the words seem to take root at the awful, weeping heart of you. The delicate balance of emotion is undone and remade, that careful mixture that shapes everything you are and everything you want to be. You’re mine, and I want you, and I’ll have you. I want you, and I need you, and it’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine.

This shrieking, struggling sensation, thrashing in your chest like a bird in a cage. Wicked talons claw your ribs to pieces from the inside, catching on the bone, ripping and rending the fat and flesh and organs – you’re shredded into ribbons, coughing up feathers. Let it out, let it out, choke it down. How can you get away from the thing that’s inside you? The cruel beak peck peck pecking through the skin to get to him, and you’ve never wanted anything so horrifyingly, terrifyingly much.

Don’t make me stop. Mine, you’re mine. I can’t, I can’t, I need it – I want you, I want it, let me have it…

Do you even know what’s happening any more? Does it matter? All you know is this new and lovely creed, frightening in its intensity and dreadful in its desires, and you smile blackly as it blossoms deep inside your body, soaking into every astral part of you. It’s not a human sensation. It’s all-encompassing, a demon’s feeling. This incredible oneness, body and mind so connected as to be inseparable. To think it is to become it, and the only thing you can think about is how much you want – crave – need him. How it howls, how it hurts, an aching pressure that wraps around your heart like a snake, writhing as it crushes th—

“Is everything alright?”

“Cam!”

Your brain instantly floods with paranoia, sharp and white like a camera flash, the acid fear of instinctive shock lighting up your whole body as your head snaps inhumanly fast to the side, whipping around to see the confused-looking Serenity daemon standing right beside you.

“You…”

Stunned, there’s not much you can do except stare wide-eyed at him, desperately trying to hide the terrible storm that rages inside. He can’t know. He can’t.

“I, um… I wasn’t expecting you to be – you know, to be, like, right there…”

You trail off into a laugh that probably sounds as forced as it feels, breath still not quite back in your control. Cam doesn’t look entirely convinced, a tinge of worry bleeding through his aura, but he tilts his head slightly and puts on a smile that in any other case would be reassuring.

“Sorry for the surprise,” he murmurs soothingly, one hand coming to rest lightly on your shoulder. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He’s gentle, so gentle as he brushes the wetness from your face, the pad of his thumb just below your eye. “How about we head back to the office, hm?” he suggests. “I know this place can be… ah, it’s quite intense, isn’t it? Especially the first time.”

You nod vaguely, not really listening, but you can’t help the sudden flare of panic that races up your spine as he tries to nudge you back down the corridor. Not yet, not yet! He’s right there, your Vega, your Vega, you can’t just leave, can you? You have to do something, but wh—

“Oh!”

Cam freezes, stumbling slightly as you drag him down towards you – one arm around his waist, the other over his shoulder. Instinctively, his arms wrap around you in return, palms flat across your back as you press the side of your head into the curve of his neck. You can feel every breath he takes, chest to chest, slotting easily against you.

Just… just a second, you whisper into his mind, and you don’t even have to pretend to feel overwhelmed. I just need…

He nods, so sweet and adoring, like he could ever understand. It’s alright. We’re not in a hurry. Take your time, okay?

From the outside, it probably looks like nothing happens.

That’s good.

You don’t stay there long. Only a few seconds – maybe half a minute, at most. Then, Cam leads you out of the cell corridor, and out of the maximum-security block entirely. Nobody stops you, and nobody says anything.

It’s not a very long walk. Inside, upstairs, through the badge check. He takes you back to the office, and sits you down at your desk, and the rest of the day passes entirely normally. Grey clouds drift past the window, threatening to rain but never quite managing it. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.

Yes, it’s very normal. Paperwork comes and goes, keyboard clattering non-stop until it’s dark outside, and you reach down to pick up your bag from underneath your desk. The front office is almost empty as you leave, only one or two people still around, and the man behind the desk doesn’t even look up from his computer as you sign out.

Yes, that’s it. Normal. Perfectly, exactly ordinary.

He hadn’t noticed a thing.

Perhaps he’d been distracted, or perhaps you really did pull it off. The cold air of the cell corridor, freezing you from the inside out as your eyes began to change – getting wider, darker, sharper. Focus changing, pupils expanding. Magic simmering beneath the surface of your skin, filling your eye sockets, dissolved into the liquid that a human would call tears.

Cam must not have realised how close you were to the door. He must not have thought how easy it would be to look through that thin, irresistible viewing slot, just one more time.

The bright sugar of temptation, fizzing sweet and tart on your tongue as you drank in the scene. A single figure, painted against the stark white of the wall behind him, sitting tall and graceful on the edge of the bed. The unmistakable shape of horns, viciously sharp, worn proudly like a crown. Long fingers twisting into light fabric, wicked claws threatening to tear right through. The pointed spade of a long tail, not quite hidden from view.

And two curious, pitch black eyes, staring straight back at you.

Caught between ticks of the clock – it was only for a moment. He couldn’t have known. He couldn’t. Considering the strength of the wards that envelop his cell, layers upon layers of complicated warding magic, it just isn’t possible that he could have sensed you at all – let alone seen you. He doesn’t know you even exist. There’s no way.

Inhuman perfection, the stone tears of the statue of an angel. Head tilted to the side, dark hair falling slightly over one shoulder. Frozen air turned to dust in your lungs, a still heart stuttered over a beat it couldn’t take – and slowly, ever so slowly, Vega had turned his head to look at you.

Head over heels, falling through space. He’s mine.

It’s always been so easy. The doors out of the front office are automatic, and they take a little while to close. It doesn’t take much to just step right back in, unnoticed as the guard looks away, and disappear back down the office corridor you came from.

In the morning, you’ll go and speak to your supervisor. ROLE AMENDMENT REQUEST: REHABILITATION OFFICER (DUAL SPECIALITY). You’re already certified to deal with humans, anyway, and the higher-ups don’t care about demons at the best of times – the form you’ve left on her desk is neatly filled out, block capitals in black ink, and you think she’ll say yes.

In the meantime, things are a little bit slow. It’s been dark outside for a few hours, and the night shift is only just starting. There’s a few security officers in here, dotted around at their desks, but they’re all too busy staring at their own computers to really pay any attention to the rest of the room.

Although the ceiling lights are always on, bathing the room in their harsh fluorescent glow, you’ve always thought that they leave the room remarkably dark. It’s the mass of screens that covers the far wall that really illuminates everything, the huge cluster of monitors where the CCTV feeds flicker endlessly. They seem to tower over you, a great monument to your grand ambition, a silent siren’s call. Magnetic, addictive. You can’t resist their pull.

It’s like a dance as you pick your way through the office, the imaginary rhythm of a waltz playing in your head with every step. Past the Earth Elemental who sits by the door, past the photocopier, underneath the ceiling fan. The stacks of paper in that Stealth’s intray don’t move as you skip happily through the gap between desks, your steps make no sound on the cheap carpet as you twirl past the nest of filing cabinets next to the coffee machine. Nobody looks up as you pass them, totally unaware of your presence, and that’s exactly the way you like it. They can’t see the brightness in your face or the lightness in your heart – it’s a special surprise, a secret just for you.

The Freelancer who’s meant to be watching the tapes is already sitting in the chair, so you have to stand. The electricity thrumming in the air reminds you of the thick magic of the maximum-security cells, that heavy taste of ozone coating your teeth and sliding slickly down your throat, and it makes you swallow involuntarily. How much longer will you have to do this? How long until this room is nothing but a distant dream?

You already know it’s going to be wonderful. All the glass and the plastic will fall away in a shower of sparks, cracking and popping as they hit the floor, and when you reach out to touch him you’ll find more than just a monitor. It’s a love story, isn’t it? He’ll be there, right in front of you, to touch and taste and feel. He’ll see you and he’ll smile, he’ll say it’s alright, my love, I’m yours. You’ll be safe, and you’ll be full, and you won’t ever be alone again.

Just a little longer to wait. Without you even noticing, a great big smile spreads across your face, and you’re struck with the sudden urge to press your face right up against the cold, flat surface of the monitor. The future has never been so close. At last – at last! – you’ll finally be happy.

Grey static, harsh and grainy. The buzzing song of the CCTV soars ever higher, a beautiful melody that rings like a bell, echoing through your skull. And there in front of you, immortalised forever in your eyes and your mind and your core, is the still, silent blur of pixels that makes up the perfect form of Vega, Vega, Vega.

He’s so beautiful.

The night shift carries on. You smile as the dim light goes through you, and invisible fingertips brush gently across the smooth glass of the screen.

He’s mine.

-

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this is an original fanwork by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute.

[muletia]

Heya!! I LOVE your pocket AU and your OP obsession is so damn relatable ^-^!! I love reading and re-reading… and RE-re-reading your work and everyday I look at your account at least once! You’re so cool and your work is just *genuine chef’s kiss*

Now… I never ask anything to anybody… requests aren’t really something I do so I’m just gonna go for it… in your pocket spouse AU.. imagine a human who’s like SUPER talented in art… mostly traditional art… and he/she/they become a pocket spouse… and ONE DAY… this human draws their spouses as a beautifully drawn masterpiece… I wonder how they’d react… (I’m mostly asking for TFOne… but I don’t mind if you put TFP OP in there lol)

I can imagine Sentinel finding this super cute and bragging about it, even asking his spouse for more… buying his little lover the stuff it would need to create more masterpieces like that…

I only have an idea for Sentinel… but I also wanted to know how YOU’D think they’d react… anyway I think I yapped a lot… idc I love your work enough to make it worth yapping about! Which is a RARE occurrence even for me.

- With luv, Meg >:3

hello! and kdbskvu thank you so much for the kind words!!! <3 hope you'll enjoy these short headcanons <3

[tfo] sentinel x human!reader [tfo] b-127 x human!reader [tfo] elita one x human!reader [tfp] optimus prime x human!reader

word count: 1200

Sentinel is thrilled.

Finally, someone has managed to capture his beauty and magnificence in art, naturally, without exaggeration. The way you have transferred his image onto paper is truly admirable, and in his optics, it is a masterpiece. Not only because he is the inspiration behind your artwork, of course. Though he will undoubtedly go on and on about himself, criticizing every tiniest detail and pointing out proportions, he is still genuinely happy in his own egotistical and manic way that his adorable pocket spouse has gifted him such a delightful present.

Naturally, your painting will be displayed in a very visible place so that every bot can admire how talented Sentinel’s human is, and so the self-proclaimed ruler of Iacon can boast about you and your skills. After all, you are his pocket spouse, you must be the best, and your artistic talent must match the grandiosity of his ego.

One portrait/artwork will definitely not be the last. The moment Sentinel discovers that you have a knack for transferring his likeness onto paper in such an exquisite way, he will definitely ask for more. This time, however, he will suggest that he be your live model to make it easier for you to capture his beauty. And yes, he will be striking different poses (you ARE drawing him like one of your French girls), expecting you to capture every single one. You’re going to have a lot of fun with him. Of course, your patience will be tested, he will underestimate how long a single drawing session can take, so expect some hurrying up, but his nagging will fade into the background when he praises your skills, staring at the drawings with a kind of genuine admiration you have never seen in him before.

You mentioned traditional art, so Sentinel will definitely find a way to scan his portrait onto his datapad. He glances at it whenever he doesn’t have access to the physical copy, or simply when he starts missing you while dealing with the utterly boring (and manipulative) business of ruling a city under his forged Prime title.

And yes, you will never run out of art supplies with him around. Sentinel will make sure you have the most exquisite drawing tools, ensuring you never run out. You must keep creating such magnificent works of art for him!

"Oh Primus, oh Primus, this is for me? Really?! Oh, I’m so happy! No one has ever drawn anything for me before! Thank you, thank you so much!" dies

To say that B-127 is happy with your drawing would be an understatement. He is ecstatic, absolutely over the moon that you willingly did something for him. Ugh, his sweet pocket spouse! He will literally be ugly crying while yapping about how much he loves you, how beautifully you drew him, and how grateful he is for such an amazing gift.

As thanks, he will smother your entire face with kisses (still sobbing and wailing) before pulling you into his chassis, holding your artwork in his other servo, unable to take his optics off it.

"Is this really how you see me?" He looks so cool, so good. Whatever self-image he has built in his processor, whether it’s B-127 or Badassatron, you have managed to perfectly capture it on paper. And he will not let you forget it. Will tell you this the first, second, and fiftieth time, because Bee will not shut up about praising your skills for a long time after receiving his portrait.

Sometimes, you catch him staring at the drawing, wearing an enormous, dreamy smile while his digit gently strokes the paper, careful not to damage it.

At some point, he will shyly ask if you could make another drawing — but this time, he really wants you to be in it too. Whether it’s you sitting on his shoulder or holding hands, B-127 wants you to be in every part of his life, always and forever. And that includes a snapshot of your life together, captured on paper <3

Elita’s reaction may not be as explosive as Bee’s or Sentinel’s, but internally, she is barely holding herself back from bouncing off the walls with excitement. If she could, she would staple your masterpiece to her spark.

When you show her your drawing, Elita takes her time. She studies it carefully, searching for details, memorizing every single feature, immersing herself in human art. The silence as she does this is deadly and nerve-wracking — but then, a simple and meaningful, "It’s beautiful." and you know you did a good job. That’s a rare compliment from her, after all.

Elita doesn’t praise often. She doesn’t like sugarcoating things. So when she does compliment you, it’s like winning the lottery.

On the surface, she may seem indifferent, and her reaction may come across as cold or ungrateful — but inside, she is overjoyed that you chose to spend your time capturing her likeness on paper. And in such an amazing way!

This is an especially key moment in your relationship because, at first, Elita didn’t understand the hype around pocket spouses. You were assigned to her, not her choice, and it took her time to warm up to you. But this gift, this drawing, ignites little sparks of a growing bond. A bond that, if nurtured properly, could become something truly special.

Optimus is deeply touched that you chose to spend your time drawing him, but he is also intrigued. So this is how you see me type beat.

You give him a new perspective on himself — one that he has never thought about before. For the first time, he can look at himself through your vision of him. Maybe… just maybe, it will help his self-esteem a little?

Of course, he won’t let it show. His reaction will be humble, but he is happy. Immensely so. It is a great honor to receive something from you, especially something given from the heart, not out of obligation. His gratitude won’t be overly expressive as words suddenly seem to get caught in his intake, blocked by the overwhelming emotions — but he will make sure you know how thankful he is. That he sees how much effort you put into this, and that your artwork is masterful.

He will definitely hang it above his desk in his habsuite. A risky and irresponsible choice, because Optimus will constantly catch himself pausing his work to admire and analyze the masterpiece you created for him.

He is still working on understanding human art and its meaning, but in this case, he is certain that you have done an incredible job.

He will try to repay you. He is a busy mech, always with so much on his servos, but for you, he will always carve out some free time to prepare a gift in return. And as an old-fashioned mech with a romantic spark, he would write you a poem.

It will be cryptic, intricate — just like his overwhelming and tangled feelings for you. But it will be a glimpse into his spark. A moment of unveiling, revealing a part of himself he keeps hidden.

He will read it to you in private, in a quiet, intimate place, hoping that you will cherish his love almost as much as he cherishes the gift of your artwork <3