#I read that comment and spit my tea

[moonilit]

@danaan13 BUT Why not yhjfh he was picking her up to Andy’s show because Aerith got them tickets for their double date

[dakusan]

C H A I N B I T E R

bang chan x reader | silver chain. pouty moans. and the lesson he teaches you when you act up.

🔞synopsis: he comes home from tour. you pout, you ignore his texts, you act up—because you want him mean. he keeps the chain on. and when you bite it? he folds you in half, fucks you dumb, and doesn’t let you cum until you’re crying, drooling, and begging for the cock you’ve been bratting for. he ruins you. then holds you like you’re breakable. because you are—and you’re his favourite thing to break.

💌a/n: welcome to filth friday, sluts. 🧷this fic is dedicated to the chokehold that silver chains + pouty brattiness + missionary with a vengeance have on my brain. chan keeps the chain on. you bite it. he loses his mind. we all win. p.s. reblogs = love. comments = spit in my mouth. tags = my new religion. p.p.s. missionary is not vanilla when he growls in your ear and denies your orgasms p.p.p.s. if you reblog this while still recovering? i see you. i respect you.

⚠️ warnings: NSFW 18+ ONLY. minors do not pass go, do not collect the chain | explicit sexual content | dom!bang chan, soft menace energy, and a very smug mouth | sub!reader with brat tendencies that get corrected | jewellery kink (chain stays ON. you bite it. he breaks.) | missionary sex but feral — folded position, deep strokes, held down, no escape | denial / edging | cockdrunk reader | dirty talk, degradation + praise mix (“mine.” “good girl.” “you don’t get to cum yet.”) | aftercare | breeding kink tones | crying & tears of pleasure | pouty!reader energy (literally the reason this entire fic exists. pout responsibly.)

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » TASTE — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The apartment feels colder without him.

It’s not actually cold—you’re curled up on the couch in nothing but his oversized hoodie, bare legs tucked beneath you, a mug of tea half-drunk on the coffee table. But it’s the kind of cold that seeps under your skin when the bed’s too big, the silence too loud, and your vibrator’s not doing the fucking job.

Your phone buzzes again. You don’t look.

You already know it’s him.

You’ve been ignoring him all day—not completely, just... enough. Left him on read once or twice. Gave him one-word replies. Didn’t answer the FaceTime this morning, even though you’d woken up with your hand between your thighs, aching from a dream you couldn’t finish.

It’s not fair, you know that. He’s on tour. He’s busy. He’s doing everything right—checking in, calling, sending those stupid audio messages that make your stomach flip when he whispers, “Miss you, baby. So much.”

But you’re needy.

Touch-starved. Cramps in your hips from curling up in bed alone. Horny to the point of irrational.

And the worst part? You can see him. Online. Onstage. Living in your phone like some cruel ghost. There he is at rehearsal. Dripping in sweat, shirt half-off, silver chain swinging with every breath. There he is in a fan-captured clip, laughing, flexing, biting his lip while dancing to your favorite track like he’s not out here ruining your life. And now? Now he has the audacity to send a mirror selfie. In the fucking studio. With the chain. The bracelets. The goddamn veins.

You nearly throw your phone across the room.

Instead, you sink deeper into the couch, bite the sleeve of his hoodie, and scream into the fabric.

“Fucking menace,” you mumble against your wrist.

He didn’t do anything wrong. That makes it worse.

Because now, every time you shift your hips, every time you think about his hands pinning you down and that cold metal chain slapping your chest while he fucks you stupid—

You can’t breathe.

You glance at your phone.

Three new messages.

[CHAN]: baby [CHAN]: don’t ignore me please [CHAN]: did i do something? talk to me

Your lip wobbles. Goddammit.

No. No. You’re supposed to be mad. Not real mad. Just pouty. Irritated. Like a girl whose boyfriend hasn’t been around to wreck her properly in over two weeks.

You don’t want sweet texts.

You want teeth on your throat. Fingers in your mouth. You want him to press your legs up and fuck the attitude out of you until you’re crying and clinging to his stupid chain like it’s the only thing keeping you sane.

Your gaze flicks to the bedroom door.

Then to the drawer.

You reach for the vibrator. Pause. Throw it back in.

“Fuck it,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”

If he were here, you wouldn’t even need it. He’d just look at you, and you’d be done for.

You bury yourself deeper into the cushions, grumbling, annoyed with the world. The room smells like him. The hoodie smells like him. Your whole body aches from missing him—not emotionally. Physically. Raw, feral want.

So you ignore the phone again.

Because if he really misses you? Let him come get you. Let him walk through that door and make it up to you with his chain swinging and his hands on your throat. Let him see what happens when he makes a needy girl wait too long.

The keys hit the lock at 1:37AM.

You hear them before you see him—metal clinking, a shuffle, a low curse. You barely manage to mute the TV before the door swings open.

He’s here.

And he looks like sin.

Black hoodie half-zipped, chain glinting just above the collar. His damp hair is pushed back with one hand, the other dragging his suitcase inside. His duffel slumps to the floor. Then he sees you—curled on the couch, one leg bare, still in his hoodie, sleeves covering your hands.

For a second, he just stares. Then that mouth curves. “You’re still up.”

You shrug, trying to look casual. You are not casual. Your thighs are clenched under the throw blanket, and your heart’s pounding like you weren’t just imagining that exact chain slapping against your collarbone while he fucks you into the mattress.

“Barely,” you say, voice too innocent.

His gaze drops to your bare thighs. Then back to your face. “Didn’t answer my texts.”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

He huffs out a soft laugh. That cocky, knowing one. “Oh. It’s like that?”

You don’t reply. Just stretch with an exaggerated yawn, lifting your arms enough for the hem of his hoodie to ride up. No shorts. Just skin. His tongue runs across his bottom lip. The chain shifts with the way he breathes, catching the lamplight.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“Not really.”

“Mhm.” He drops his hoodie onto a chair. “So the blanket, the hoodie, and no pants—that’s just what you wear now?”

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“All smug.”

He grins. Oh no. He knows. Of course he knows.

“Baby,” he says, stepping closer. “You’ve been bratting out all week. You think I can’t tell?”

Your breath catches. Heat coils instantly in your gut.

“Didn’t say anything when I sent you that mirror pic. Left my voice note on read. Ignored the one where I said I wanted to fuck you through the floor.” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Nothing to say now either?”

You stare up at him. Slowly pull the blanket off your lap. “I missed you,” you admit, soft.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I missed you too.”

A pause. Then—

“I also know that pout’s not about feelings.”

“What’s it about, then?”

He’s standing over you now, hands on his hips, chain resting just beneath his throat. “It’s about the fact that you haven’t been fucked in two weeks.”

You look away. Cheeks hot. “And?”

“And you’re soaked just from seeing me walk in the door.”

You shoot him a glare, but it’s weak at best. He sees right through it. And worse? You see his jaw flex—barely—before he lets out a dark, low laugh.

“Get up.”

You blink. “What?”

“Up.”

You rise slowly, confused. He reaches forward and lifts the hoodie—his hoodie—up and off your body in one smooth motion. You shiver at the loss of warmth. Now you’re just standing there in panties and nothing else.

He steps back. Eyes dark. “You waited for me like this?”

You nod, shy now. “Wanted to be ready,” you mumble.

His lips part just slightly. His gaze drops, lingers on your hips, then snaps back up.

And then—

His hands are on your thighs, fast.

“Jump.”

You don’t think. You obey.

He catches you with ease, arms firm under your thighs, the chill of his bracelets biting into your skin. Your breath hitches as your legs wrap around his waist, chest flush against his. His chain presses cold between your breasts, and he’s not even trying to hide the way he grinds against your panties on instinct.

“You think I don’t know what that look means?” he murmurs, voice brushing hot against your cheek. “Little pout. Ignoring my calls like I wouldn’t drop everything to ruin you the second I walked through the door.”

You squirm against him, but he tightens his grip—just enough to pin your hips in place.

“Could’ve told me, baby,” he breathes, walking toward the bedroom. “Could’ve just said, ‘Chan, I’m wet and I miss your cock.’ I’d have flown home yesterday.”

He kicks the bedroom door open without a pause. Keeps walking until your back hits the mattress in a controlled drop. You bounce once, hair a mess, legs open, breathing ragged.

He stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he’s starving.

Then he peels off the hoodie.

His shirt follows. Then the pants. He leaves the jewelry. Every bit of it. Rings, bracelets, and that fucking chain.

You swallow hard, mouth dry.

“Want me to take it off?” he teases, watching your eyes follow the chain.

You shake your head. “Keep it.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. Voice barely a whisper now. “Wanna see it dangling, wanna bite it.”

That does something to him. His jaw flexes. His cock twitches against the band of his briefs. “Fuck.” He climbs onto the bed like a man possessed. Cages you under him in one smooth motion, his hands planted firm beside your head, chain dangling just above your lips.

You glance up at him, pupils blown wide.

“Say it again.”

“I want to bite it.”

“While I’m inside you?”

“Yes.”

“While I’m ruining that little attitude?”

“Please.” You barely finish the word—“please”—before he’s kissing you like he’s making up for every second he’s been gone.

It’s not sweet. It’s hungry.

His mouth claims yours with a groan, hot and wet and open, tongue sliding past your lips like he already knows what you taste like. His chain swings between you, brushing your throat every time he shifts, a cold contrast to the heat pouring off his skin.

You moan into the kiss. He drinks it like oxygen.

Then he sinks down fully, settling between your thighs with the kind of weight that makes you feel pinned—owned. His cock presses hard against the soaked fabric of your panties, still trapped behind his briefs, but thick enough to make you gasp when he grinds down. “Fuck, baby,” he groans into your mouth. “You’ve been holding out on me. This pussy’s starving.”

Your back arches. You’re soaked, the wet patch obvious now—heat meeting heat as he rocks against you, slow and punishing, like he’s savoring every drag of his cock over your clit.

“Thought about this every night,” he whispers, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “This exact spot. These hips. The way you whimper when I press right… here—”

He thrusts just right. Your head falls back.

He kisses down your neck, slow and greedy. The cold metal of his chain follows, dragging like ice down your collarbone, between your breasts.

“Missed this fucking body,” he breathes, licking a stripe along your throat. “Missed the way you twitch for me. How you bite your lip to keep quiet.”

He grinds down again. And again. Until your hips start chasing his, until your nails dig into his back.

“Chan,” you pant, “I—I need—”

He shushes you with another kiss, deeper this time. He kisses you until you can’t think, until all you can do is cling to him, his chain brushing your lips like it wants to be bitten.

You’re pulsing through your panties. You know he feels it. You feel the smirk when he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye.

“You gonna make a mess before I’m even inside?”

You glare. He chuckles darkly. “Go on then, baby. Rub that pretty cunt all over my cock. Show me how much you need it.”

You moan—needy, wrecked—and tilt your hips up into him, grinding against the thick ridge of him through both layers of fabric. “Fucking please,” you whimper. “Want you so bad.”

“You’ve got me,” he growls. “You have me.”

His hand slips between your bodies, pushing his briefs down just enough for his cock to spring free—hot, flushed, already leaking. He swears low under his breath.

“God, baby. Look what you do to me.”

Then he presses himself against your soaked panties again, bare cock against soaked fabric, and grinds. Slow. Deep. Purposeful.

“You feel that?” he grits. “You feel how hard I am for you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes, yes—Chan, please—”

“You want me to rip these off?” You can barely speak. “Or you wanna be good and ask nicely?”

You can barely speak.

Your whole body is tense—writhing beneath him, soaked and shaking and on the edge of sobbing for it. He sees it. Loves it. The way your breath catches. The way your thighs twitch around his waist. “C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. “One sweet word, and I’ll give you everything.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “Please,” you whisper. “Take them off. Please, Chan—need you…”

That’s all it takes.

He groans softly, like the sound is pulled from deep in his chest, and finally—finally—hooks his fingers in the sides of your panties. He drags them down your legs like he’s unwrapping you. Not fast. Not greedy. Just slow, like he’s enjoying every second of you bare and spread beneath him. When they’re off, he kisses the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Then higher.

But he doesn’t go where you want. No. He climbs back up your body, and you think—thank God, he’s going to fuck me—But instead, his mouth goes to your chest.

“So fucking pretty,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours as he kisses just above your heart.

His hand palms one breast, thumb circling the nipple until it peaks under his touch. His mouth follows—hot, open, wet—and he sucks, slow and deep.

You gasp. He groans. The sound vibrates through your chest.

Then he pulls back just enough to nip—just a little—right over the mark he made. “That feel good, baby?”

You nod, breathless. “Y-Yeah—more—”

He moves to the other breast. Does the same. Tongue first. Then lips. Then teeth. Your back arches into him, hands twisting in the sheets. The chain dangles against your sternum, cold and perfect, catching in the valley between your tits as he worships you. “Could spend hours right here,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue across your nipple. “Could make you cum just from this.”

“Please,” you pant. “I need more—Chan, please, I—”

He hushes you again with a kiss.

Then he trails down. And down. And down. Mouth dragging over your stomach. Teeth grazing the curve of your waist. He settles between your thighs, breath warm and heavy against your dripping cunt.

But he doesn’t lick. Not yet.

“God, baby,” he groans, almost reverent. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You whimper. Try to lift your hips. He holds you down. “Be good,” he warns softly. “Be still.”

You try. You really do.

But then he spits—just a little—hot and slick onto your clit, and you jerk like you’ve been shocked. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, smirking as he leans in.

And then—then—he licks. One slow, torturous stripe up your cunt. Flat tongue. No mercy.

You moan, loud, thighs clamping around his head.

He groans into your pussy, pressing his mouth harder, licking deeper, like he’s starving. His chain dangles against your inner thigh now, cool and maddening with every pass.

And just when you start to build—just when your toes curl, your body tenses, and you’re right there—

He pulls back. “Nuh uh,” he says, voice thick and smug. “You don’t get to cum yet.”

You sob. He kisses your thigh, then blows softly on your wet, throbbing clit just to be cruel. “You’re gonna cum with me inside you,” he murmurs. “With this chain in your mouth, and my cock so deep you forget your own name.”

Your hips twitch. Your eyes roll back. He grins at the sight.

And his mouth returns to your cunt like a man addicted—like he’s missed this more than sleep, more than air, more than the stage itself. His tongue licks deeper now, deliberate, dragging slick through your folds and sucking gently at your clit like he knows exactly how much you can take.

“Fucking perfect,” he groans against you. “Tastes like you missed me.”

You cry out, hands flying to his hair, gripping tight. He lets you. For now. Then—

His fingers join the party.

Two of them, thick and slick, pressing at your entrance and sliding in with no resistance. Your walls clench instantly.

“Oh my God—Chan—!”

“Shhh. You’re fine.” He curls them. “You’re so fucking fine.”

His lips wrap around your clit again just as his fingers start thrusting—slow at first, then deeper, firmer, building rhythm. Every drag hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

You’re so close it’s shameful. Your hips roll into his face. Your moans are embarrassingly loud now. And just as you hit that edge—

He pulls away again. His mouth gone. Fingers stilled inside you.

“Wha—why—” you gasp, blinking through the haze.

He looks up from between your thighs. His lips are slick, his chin glistening, the chain glinting as he rises slightly, his fingers still buried to the knuckle in your fluttering pussy.

“Brats don’t get to cum without permission.”

You whimper. Physically ache. “Channie, please—”

“You gave me attitude. You ignored me. You made me wait.”

He slides his fingers out slowly, watching them glisten in the low light. You’re dripping. He presses them back in—just one knuckle—then pauses again. “Now you’ll wait.”

“I said sorry—”

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes—”

“Then you’ll be good.” His voice is soft, dangerous. “Keep those legs open. Take what I give you. And you don’t cum until I say.”

You nod frantically.

“Say it,” he demands, pushing his fingers in deep again.

“I won’t cum,” you gasp. “Not unless you say.”

“Good girl.”

And just like that—his mouth is back.

He fucks you with his fingers while he sucks your clit with precision. Every moan you make only spurs him on. He watches your body unravel, his chain swinging between your breasts with every jolt of pleasure.

You’re shaking again. So close it hurts. Your eyes roll back—your legs tremble—your whole body’s about to give out—

“Don’t,” he warns, pulling his mouth off just enough to speak. “Don’t even think about it.”

Your hips jerk. He curls his fingers and presses his tongue harder. “Not until I say.”

You’re crying now. Wrecked. Gutted. Desperate. And still, he doesn’t let you have it.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips wet against your thigh. “You feel that? That’s what brats get.”

“Channie, please,” you sob. “I need it—I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll—”

“I know you will,” he coos.

Then he withdraws completely.

You scream.

“You’re gonna be so fucking good for me now,” he mutters, climbing back over you.

His cock, thick and flushed, brushes against your inner thigh. You’re slick enough he could slide right in. But he doesn’t. Not yet. He leans in, chain swinging.

“Open your mouth.”

You do. He places the chain between your lips. “Bite.”

You bite. The chain presses cold between your teeth, sharp metal on your tongue, a mouthful of him. Of ownership. Of need. You moan around it as he grips your thighs tighter, spreads them wider, and finally—finally—guides his cock to your soaked, twitching entrance.

“Look at that,” he breathes, staring down between your legs. “You’re begging for it.”

You are. Your pussy flutters, aching, empty for so long you can barely think. His tip nudges your entrance, hot and heavy and thick, and just the brush makes your whole body tense.

“Been saving this for you,” he murmurs, dragging his cock slowly through your folds. “Didn’t even jerk off on tour. You know how fucking hard that was?”

You whimper around the chain.

He grins. “Yeah, you do.”

Then—without warning—he pushes in. Just the head. You sob.

“Fuck, baby…” he groans. “So tight. So wet. You missed this cock, didn’t you?”

You nod frantically, teeth clenched on the chain. Your walls spasm around him, already trying to pull him deeper. And he gives it to you. Inch by inch. Stretching you slow, deliberate, merciless. You feel everything. Every vein. Every ridge. Every twitch and pulse.

By the time his hips finally press flush against yours, you’re shaking.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He stills. Deep. Thick. Fucking perfect.

You can’t breathe. You can’t move. You’re so full it borders on painful, the burn and pressure delicious in its cruelty. He leans down over you, forearms braced beside your head. The chain swings, slipping from your perfect lips but brushing them.

You’re clenching around him—helpless, desperate—and he doesn’t move.

“That’s right,” he breathes. “Hold me. Grip me tight like that.”

He pulls halfway out. You sob. Then thrusts back in. Hard. And stills again. You’re drooling at this point, chest heaving, vision blurred.

“You think you can brat your way into getting fucked?” he growls, mouth brushing your ear. “You think this pussy deserves to cum yet?”

You shake your head. Tears well.

“That’s right. Not yet. Not fucking yet.”

Then he starts to move. Slow. Deep. Devastating.

His hips roll with purpose, like every stroke is a lesson, a punishment, a promise. His cock drags against every swollen nerve inside you, hitting that spot so precisely it almost feels cruel. And he doesn’t let up—not even a little.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice thick. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You nod, barely. You’re breathless, moaning with every slow, relentless thrust.

“So fucking tight,” he pants. “You’re squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go.”

You don’t. You can’t. You’re gripping him like a vice, your legs trembling around his waist, the chain now hanging loose across your chest—dragging over your nipples every time he fucks into you just right.

He leans in, kisses your jaw, then your throat. His hips grind at the end of each thrust, pressing his cock even deeper, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“This pussy’s mine,” he growls. “Say it.”

You gasp, voice wrecked. “It’s yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours—Channie—it’s yours—!”

His pace picks up. Not fast, but harder. More pressure. More control. He’s fucking you like he owns you—like he earned this. Like he waited two weeks for the chance to bury himself so deep in you, you’d never forget what it felt like to be full of him.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, sweat dotting his temple. “My bratty little baby. Thought you could tease me, huh?”

You whine—shaking beneath him, overstimulated already, toes curling with every thick, slow stroke.

“Missed this cock so much,” he murmurs, voice rough as he licks the sweat from your neck. “Should’ve begged. Should’ve dropped to your knees the second I got home.”

He pulls out just slightly—just the tip—before slamming back in, hard.

You scream.

He does it again. And again. Punishing. Precise.

“But no,” he growls. “You wanted to act up. So now? You get fucked how I say.”

Your hands claw at his back. Your nails leave marks. Your eyes roll back when he grabs your throat—not choking, just holding. Grounding. Possessive.

“You wanna cum, baby?”

You nod, crying now.

“You wanna fall apart all over my cock?”

You sob, “Please.”

He leans down. Mouth at your ear. Voice like a fucking curse. “Then earn it.”

He lets go of your throat, pulls your legs up higher around his hips, changes the angle—and fucks into you so deep you see white. Your hands shoot up, grabbing at his chain again. You yank it between your teeth, moaning around the metal like it’s your only lifeline.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Bite down. Be good. Take every inch.”

He’s fucking you hard now. Relentless. The bed slams against the wall, your cries muffled by the chain in your mouth, your body trembling under his. You don’t know where he ends and you begin. All you know is his voice, his cock, his chain, and how fucking close you are.

He knows it too.

Your body is a mess beneath him—shaking, leaking, barely holding on. Your mouth is full of chain and nothing else makes sense. You’re right there.

So he changes it up. Again.

Without warning, he pulls out—just for a second—and grabs your thighs.

You whimper in confusion, but he’s already moving.

He presses your legs together, tight, then lifts them up and folds them toward your chest, locking your thighs against him with one arm. The angle is obscene—your pussy now swollen, dripping, needy, completely exposed to him like a fucking feast.

He lines up again.

“Hold still.”

You can’t move anyway. He thrusts back in, all at once. You moan.

“Oh my god—”

“Yeah?” he growls, voice cracking. “That’s what you wanted?”

His arm flexes as he locks your legs to his chest, other hand gripping the headboard for leverage as he slams into you—deep, brutal, unforgiving.

Your mouth falls open. The chain slips from your lips, damp and clinking against your chest as your head tips back, jaw slack.

You’re drooling. Literally. You don’t even realize it. And still—still—he doesn’t let you cum. “You feel that?” he pants. “Hear how fucking wet you are?”

Slap slap slap—your pussy sounds obscene, slick gushing down your ass, pooling beneath you as he fucks into the tight, hot mess he’s made of you.

“You fucking live for this cock, don’t you?”

You nod, eyes rolled back, moaning like you’ve already cum three times.

“Say it,” he snaps, thrusts slamming into you. “Say you’re cockdrunk. Say you need it.”

You try.

Nothing comes out.

You’re babbling, lips trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“What’s that, baby? Can’t talk?” he mocks, voice half-gone, fully feral. “Already gone and I haven’t even let you cum?”

His cock pulses inside you, thick and angry, twitching with the effort to hold back—but he doesn’t break. Not yet.

He wants you ruined.

He wants you begging.

“Not yet,” he growls. “You’re not there yet.”

You choke on a sob, head thrashing, arms reaching up to grab anything—his wrist, his chain, the sheets—but it’s not enough. The pressure in your gut is unbearable. Your cunt’s fluttering around him like you’re already mid-orgasm. You’re leaking down his balls, dripping from the stretch, absolutely wrecked.

And he loves it.

“You’ll cum,” he promises, fucking deeper, harder. “But not until you break. Not until you’re drooling and sobbing and begging for it with that pretty little voice I own.”

Your brain’s gone fuzzy.

Nothing left but heat and pressure and the sound of him—filthy, brutal, mercilessly deep. Your body isn’t even yours anymore. You’re limp in his hold, legs pressed together and pinned to his chest while his cock splits you open over and over, dragging against that spot inside you with every punishing thrust.

And you still haven’t cum. You can’t cum. Not until he says.

“Come on, baby,” he growls, his voice wrecked with effort. “Where’s that sweet little voice now?”

You sob, drooling down your chin, lips trembling around broken words that won’t form. “Nngh—Ch-Chan, I—please—”

“That’s it,” he moans. “Beg for it.”

Your hands claw uselessly at the sheets. “P-please,” you cry. “Please—I n-need—I can’t—Channie, please—your cock, I need it—need to cum—please—”

Your cunt clenches around him so hard it nearly makes him lose rhythm. He grunts, digging his fingers into your thighs, pace faltering just enough to grind deep before resuming that relentless rhythm.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he snarls. “Dripping all over me, baby. You’re gonna ruin the bed.”

“I-I don’t care—please, please—”

Your body twitches, helpless under him, tears leaking into your hairline, mouth open and glossy, his name the only thing you know how to say.

“Say what you are.”

“Wh—what?”

He thrusts hard, knocking the breath out of you. “Say what. You. Are.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m yours—I’m your fucktoy—I’m cockdrunk, I—”

“You’re what?”

“I’m cockdrunk, Channie—please—please let me cum—”

He slams into you so deep you nearly scream, chest arching into his grip, your vision flickering to white. “That’s right,” he moans, voice unravelling. “That’s my baby. All mine. This pussy—mine. Say it.”

“Yours—yours—yours—!”

“You wanna cum?”

“Please—”

“Then fucking do it.”

Your body shatters. It’s not even an orgasm—it’s a detonation. You clamp down around him, sobbing, your whole body convulsing as wave after wave crashes through you. You can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t even scream. All you can do is feel.

Feel him. Feel the stretch. Feel your pussy gush around his cock as you cum so hard it feels like it might kill you.

He doesn’t stop.

“That’s it,” he groans, fucking you through it. “Fucking soak me, baby—fuck—fuck—you’re milking my cock—”

Your mind’s gone. You’re nothing but a trembling, cockdrunk mess, tears and drool smeared across your face, still whispering “yours, yours, yours” under your breath like a prayer.

“Gonna cum inside you,” he pants, voice cracked and breaking. “Gonna fill you up—fuck—can I, baby?”

You nod frantically, eyes fluttering. “Give it to me—want it—want all of it—please—”

And then he breaks.

He fucks into you one last time—deep, desperate, final—and lets go with a raw, shuddering moan as he empties inside you, cock pulsing, hot cum spilling into your still-clenching pussy.

“Fuckfuckfuck—baby—”

He collapses over you, chain dragging across your chest, both of you soaked, panting, trembling messes.

And still…

You whisper, barely conscious, lips ghosting his ear: “Yours.”

Your body is done. You don’t even register the moment he pulls out—all you feel is the warmth spilling down your thighs, his cum leaking out slow and heavy as your pussy pulses in the aftermath.

You try to speak. Nothing comes out but a sigh and a tiny broken whimper.

He huffs a soft laugh above you, lips brushing your temple as he shifts just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth. You’re too wrecked to return it—eyes fluttering, fingers twitching in the sheets, hair a sweaty halo around your face.

“That’s what my pouty baby gets, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and too smug. “Act like a brat, get fucked stupid.”

You let out a soft, slurred noise.

He kisses you again—this time on your nose. Then your forehead. Then both cheeks. “You did so good for me,” he whispers, hand cupping your jaw. “Took it all like my perfect girl."

You blink up at him. Barely coherent. “Mmhnn…you’re…annoying.”

“Aww,” he coos, grin wide. “You sound so mad for someone who just came like her soul was leaving her body.”

“You ruined me.”

“Damn right I did.”

He kisses your lips, slow and deep, like he’s trying to pour himself back into you. His tongue licks into your mouth with lazy heat, but now it’s tender. Now it’s grounding. His chain is still resting against your skin. You reach up, weakly tug it.

“Still on,” you whisper.

“You earned it,” he says softly. “Might keep it on since you like it that much.”

Your thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he notices.

“Oh, now you’re getting greedy again?” he laughs, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’re leaking my cum and still trying to start something?”

You whine. He grins and kisses you quiet again. Then he finally shifts—gently—lifting your legs, helping you unfold from the wrecked, folded position. You hiss when your body relaxes, muscles trembling. He hushes you instantly. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

He eases you onto your side, tugs the blankets up, and disappears for just a moment.

You hear the faucet. The soft clink of a glass.

He returns with a warm towel, cleans you carefully—between your thighs, over your stomach, around the curve of your ass where the sheets are soaked. You flinch at first, but his touch is featherlight. Reverent.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “My messy, fucked-out girl.”

He kisses your knee.

“My perfect pouty baby.”

Then he tosses the towel aside, climbs into bed, and pulls you into his chest like he’s never letting go. You curl up instantly—limp, warm, safe. His arms wrap around your back, one hand stroking your spine. His lips stay near your temple.

You nuzzle in deeper. “Gonna sleep for a week,” you mumble.

“Gonna feed you first,” he murmurs. “Then let you sleep. Then fuck you again.”

“Chan—”

“What?” he grins. “My baby was hungry. I provided.”

“Provided a near-death experience.”

“You’re welcome.”

You laugh—weakly. He presses a kiss right over your pulse. “You okay?” he asks, quiet now. Real. “Too much?”

You shake your head against his chest. “Perfect.”

“Good. ‘Cause next time, I’m making you cum around my tongue five times before I even think about fucking you.”

Your breath catches. He just smirks.

“Sleep now, sweetheart,” he whispers, grinning against your hair. “You’ve earned it.” And you do—out like a light, drooling on his chest while he smirks like the menace he is.

[roomiesoreo]

The Dog at the Door

remmick x fem!reader

18+/MDNI

w.c: 7.9k (i am just as surprised as you are)

Summary: Based on this concept that I posted awhile ago that really took off. I don't know when I developed the intense need to destroy this man, but here we are. I needed to exorcise this from my brain, so...enjoy.

Warnings: Smut!! Should also add that I have never written smut before lol so sorry if it sucks. Vampirsm, blood sucking, oral sex (f!receiving), sub!Remmick, pathetic!Remmic, begging kink, control kink, praise kink, p in v sex, intense power dynamics, pet names, mentions of religion, obsessive behavior, hair pulling, dom!Reader (sort of), torture, burning skin, cutting, knife play, spit play, drool, monsterfucking, treating Remmick like a dog, I really just want to inflict as much pain on him as is humanly possible.

Reblogs, comments, and likes always appreciated! Please reblog if you like what you read; it helps keep writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!

Special thank you to @spikedfearn for not only being one of the best writers in the Freaks for Remmick community, but also for beta reading this and encouraging me to write it! Please check her stuff out, she's a fantastic writer!

Tags: @001-side @slasherflickchick @plutoniumwritten @parasiticatholic

You sat on your porch in the late evening sunlight, sipping your sweet tea and listening to the soft song of the crickets all around you as they settled in for the night. It wouldn’t be long now. He was fairly consistent; true, if he needed to feed, he’d be a little longer. Crawling up to your door, well into the night, covered in drying blood, claws still showing, fangs barely hidden. Other nights, he’d stroll up right after the sun dipped below the horizon, looking like a true gentleman– clean, composed, in control. You couldn’t tell which version of him you would get on any given night. And that was part of what made it so exciting.

It had gone on this way for months. The sun starts to set. He comes to your door. The two of you fool around– sometimes. Other nights, you didn’t fool around so much as…play games. Oh, you knew what he was. No question about that. There was just something so delicious in denying him. Keeping him on your porch like a hungry dog, begging and crawling and clawing to get in. Knowing that, no matter how desperately he whined or how violently he dug his nails into the floorboards, he could not enter without your permission. He hung on your every word, waiting to hear those two little words that beckoned him in, inviting him to worship at your altar. It was deliciously fun, riling him up, tearing through his humanity, before letting him in. But sometimes…sometimes you just let him sit there. All night. Whimpering. Starving. Deranged. Just for fun.

The sun was just starting to kiss the edge of the horizon. You glanced from the setting sun back towards the parting of trees that opened from your long driveway into the clearing around your house. He would be here soon. You could feel it. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The soft sound of creaking wood catches your attention.

You glance at the clock above your kitchen cabinets. 9:47pm. He’s later than you anticipated.

You freeze. Listen. You can hear him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the boards of your porch sighing underneath him. You hear his breath, soft and sweet, before–

“Sweetheart. Ya there?”

You don’t say anything. He knows you’re inside. Hell, he could smell a human being from miles away. It gives you an idea.

You quietly walk over to your old recliner and silently lower yourself into the chair. On the ground just next to the chair is where you keep your sewing kit. While you were no expert, life in the Delta necessitated a few basic sewing skills. Thorns snagging at your dress, threadbare patches blooming in pieces of clothing passed down through the generations. But tonight, you don’t reach for any thread– just a needle. You can still hear Remmick breathing just outside your front door, confusedly listening to you move around inside. You take the sewing needle and quickly, painlessly, jab it into your left index finger. Outside, you hear his breath catch in his throat, a sound like he was being strangled.

Wordlessly, you creep towards the door. You wrap your hand around the doorknob, twist, and pull. He’s standing there, as if he had just had his forehead pressed to the door. Eyes wild, fangs barely peeking out from behind his lips. Those lips twist into a stupid, happy grin.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Just, uh, come ‘round to see ya.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, didn’t hear ya. I seem to have made a little bit of a mess.”

You hold your finger up in the tiny space there is between you. It’s beaded with blood, the tiniest bit starting to drip down the side of your finger.

“Oh, uh,” he stutters, eyes now transfixed on your wound. “I could…help ya, y’know…clean that up.”

He’s staring at the blood inching its way down your finger. You’re staring at his eyes, pupils blown huge, black and gaping. You’ve got him.

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to make ya clean up after me.”

Slowly, deliberately, you lift your finger to your mouth. You lick up the stripe of blood running down the length of your finger before taking your fingertip in your mouth, sucking lightly. His face twists with pain, like he’s just been kicked in the stomach. You gently release your finger, examining the tiny injury, no longer dripping red.

“All better,” you smile wickedly. Your heart is already thumping hard in your chest. You’re certain he can hear it– it’s the one secret you wish you could keep from him. Telling him how badly you want him, even as you torture him, sweet and slow.

“Let me in, sugar.” And so it begins. Your favorite game. “Let me in, please?”

“I don’t know…townsfolk always whisperin’ about somethin’ out there in the dark. Somethin’ evil.”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you let me in, I’ll show you how evil I can be.” 

The grin returns to his face, but you can tell it takes effort this time. His hair is damp, sticking to his temples with sweat. He’s clean of blood, so you know he hasn’t fed tonight. But he’s covered in sweat and dirt, the gentle kiss of the Mississippi heat. 

“I don’t know…” you tease. Blood starts to swell from the prick in your finger again. You gently rest your hand on the doorframe, noting the way his cocky grin fades as his eyes follow your hand.

“C’mon, baby, let me in. Let me be good to you,” he murmurs, his composure hanging on by a thread.

Wordlessly, you take a step back into your house and grab hold of the door. You go to shut it before–

“Wait.”

Slowly, he sinks to his knees, your porch groaning underneath his weight.

“Please, I don’t want to play like this tonight, baby. Please.”

His eyes stare up at you, still huge, still black. Not a trace of his usual blue left. But no hint of that reflective red yet, either. Hm.

You slowly lower yourself to your knees, eye level with him, never breaking eye contact. His breathing comes in quick, ragged breaths. You lean back, slowly sitting on the floor, right in front of the threshold. The invisible line keeping him away from you, like an electric fence, sizzles under the weight of his want. You raise your left foot to the doorframe, sending your nightgown down towards your hips. Your right knee is crossed in front of you, the last obstacle between the two of you. His hands fly to the outside of the doorframe, connecting with such force that you feel the shock wave travel through your foot and up the length of your leg. 

“Play? Who’s playin’?” you drawl, with a sweetness that you know only intoxicates him more. You notice a bead of drool at the corner of his mouth. 

“C’mon, sugar, lemme– let me in now, please.” He stumbles over his words. Fucking pathetic.

“You want to come in?”

He’s almost shaking. He nods his head slowly, eyes never leaving your center, as if he could make you move your leg just by focusing hard enough. A wicked idea flashes through your brain. As if sensing it, his inquisitive, almost fearful, eyes dart up to meet yours. You smile slowly, baring your teeth to him as you sink back onto your elbows. You drop your head back, exposing your neck to the incoming cool of the night air. He’s breathing through his mouth, raw and ragged, as if he can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs.

“Pl-please…please…” The word almost sounds like a prayer on his tongue, something uttered over and over, falling on deaf ears.

You let yourself sink so you’re lying completely on the floor. You move your right knee, torturously slow, until you’re entirely exposed to him. You hear a sound, a strangled choking sound, like an animal caught in a trap. Slowly, you bring your hand down between your legs.

“No, no, please, baby, please, let me in, I’ll be so good to you, please, don’t do this, don’t–” his begging is cut off by the gentle sigh that escapes you, and the tortured cry that rises from him in turn. You drag your fingers between your folds while he writhes on the ground, just inches from you. His hands snap from the doorframe to the ground with a loud crack. His forehead kisses the ground as if he’s a sinner begging for forgiveness. You just smile.

You delicately toy with yourself, just out of his grasp. Your eyes roll back in your head as your fingers rub your clit. And the whole time, he’s crying for you.

“PLEASE, baby, I can’t take it no more. Please let me in,” he begs, face still connected to the floor. He sounds wounded, as if you shot him. The raw need in his voice just fuels your fire. You quicken your movements, working towards your release. Your moans, quick and breathy, sting in his ears. 

“You want to come in here?” you coo quietly. Affectionate. As if you’re considering it.

He lifts his head to look at you. There’s a string of drool connecting his lips to a small puddle on the porch. He looks like a wreck. Sweat, dirt, heat, drool, desire. Sickening. Delicious.

His eyes gleam red in the darkness.

“Yes,” he rasps. “Yes, please.” 

He sounds like a man who’s crawled on hands and knees through the desert, only to be met with a mirage. You grin. His fangs are protruding, like they’re too big in his mouth. His claws are out, and you can see the scratches he’s made on the porch, like a dog locked in a room trying to dig its way under the door. Seeing him like this, undone. A monster, a killer, completely at your mercy.

You drop your head back again as you finish. Your ecstasy washes over you in waves. A choked moan escapes him– half desire, half agony. When you finally come back down, you sit up slowly in the doorway. He doesn’t have any more words. He just sits, stares, pants. You bring your fingers, still wet with your slick, to rest gently on the inside of the doorframe. He presses his cheek against the outside, that invisible line keeping him back by barely a centimeter. His tongue gently grazes over his fangs, his eyes locked on your fingers.

“Please, darlin’, let me clean ya up. Please, I’ll, I’ll be gentle. No teeth. I’ll be good. I promise.”

“You’re pathetic, Remmick.”

Finally hearing your name from his lips, he groans, eyes screwed shut, in that limbo between torture and pleasure.

“I know,” he sighs. “Fuck, I know. Just…please, I gotta taste ya. Please. Just this, just your fingers, just one taste. You’re killin’ me sweetheart, please.” 

You almost pity him. You would pity him, you think, if it wasn’t so divine seeing him beg.

You push yourself up to your knees, eye level with him once more, your noses almost touching. The invisible line. The electric fence. 

“Goodnight, Remmick.” Your breath blows gentle and sweet and cruel across his face. His features contort in torment as you bring yourself to your feet.

“No, no, please, sugar, please don’t lea–”

Click. You cut him off as you close the door. You cross the floor towards your bedroom, tired and still a little wound up. You swear you can hear him gently sobbing as you tangle in the cotton sheets.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Beautiful sunset.

The oranges, yellows, reds and pinks, all mixing together as if on a painter’s palette. It’s one of your favorite things about living outside of town: this view. Nothing for miles. Just the woods, the creek, the sun, hell, you didn’t even mind the critters. Raccoons, possums, foxes, deer…but your favorite one walks on two legs and whispers your name like it could save him.

You take another sip of your sweet tea when you hear a twig snap off in the growing darkness between the trees. You grin to yourself. He had a tendency to do that. If he showed up late and you decided to torture him, he would be at your door the next day the second the sun disappeared from the sky. Like he was atoning. Like you’d forgive him for making you wait. Putting on a show now, you lift the cool glass up to your temple. The cold condensation dissolves across your skin, bringing at least a little relief in the Mississippi heat. You move the glass down to your neck, letting the ice cold water drip down your neck to the space between your breasts. The woods fall silent. Unnaturally silent, like every living thing has vanished from the dense forest that surrounds your house. 

You glance back towards the setting sun. You stand and cross back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind you.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

There’s a gentle knock at the door. 8:24pm. That’s more like it.

You don’t move. Don’t even breathe. The knock comes again. You hear him under his breath:

“Shit.” 

You can’t help the grin that creeps across your face.

“Baby. It’s me. Let me in?”

He shifts from one foot to the other, the porch creaking under him. He sighs, antsy and frustrated.

“Please, darlin’. Don’t make me keep doin’ this.”

The pain in his voice makes your insides melt. You slink over to the door and gently pull it open.

“Make you do what?”

He’s neat, composed. Light blue button up tucked neatly into his trousers. Suspenders taught over his shoulders. Gold chain barely visible at his throat. No trace of the inhuman mess he was last night. At least, not in his clothes. Not in his body. But the suffering in his eyes tells you everything. 

His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Please don’t make me beg.”

“Fine,” you sigh playfully. “I won’t make you.” He’s eyeing the grin on your face.

“But you will anyway,” you whisper, your cruelty crackling through the space between you. “You’ll beg and cry and drool like the filthy animal you are.”

Instantly, he falls to his knees, groaning. He looks up at you through those long eyelashes. You can already see the outline of his cock pressing against his trousers. 

“Please, darlin’, I’ll do anything you ask–”

“You will?” you cut him off sharply.

He nods his head with such ferocity you’re almost worried he’ll pull something in his neck. Suddenly, you find a new way to play the game.

“Yes ma’am, anything you ask, just say the word and–”

“Take your suspenders down.”

He reaches up to his right shoulder and gently, slowly, pulls the strap off his shoulder, letting it fall to the floor at his side. He does the same with the left.

“Good. Unbutton your shirt.” Your commanding surprises even you. You’ve never played with him like this before, but something about it lights you aflame. Seeing him do everything you instruct, with the reverence of a dog obeying its master. He fumbles with the top button, despite his claws still being sheathed for now. Just the shape of his hands, his once-human-hands, shaking at the buttons, shaking from need.

His shirt unbuttoned, you stare at him, looking him up and down, while his eyes bore into your skull. When your eyes fall back to his, you can see the question in them. He’s asking you, silently: please?

“Tell me what you want.”

He leans forward, bracing himself on all fours.

“Please, baby, let me in. Just wanna come inside, be with ya, feel ya, anything you want, please.” He presses his forehead to the floorboards, reverent.

“No. Tell me what you want to do.”

“Wanna…” he’s struggling to catch his breath. “Wanna lick that pussy so good you’ll lose your voice. Drink every drop of ya. Wanna feel that pussy, so tight, so warm, on my cock, over and over again, all night, give you so many orgasms you lose count, forget your name…please, sugar. Wanna make you mine. Wanna be yours.”

He slowly raises his head to look up at you. He looks like a fucking mess, eyes almost entirely black, sweat and dirt caking his face. There’s thick ropes of drool dripping down his chin, collecting in a dark puddle on your porch.

“What’s that?” you ask harshly.

“Oh, I–”

“Lick it up.”

He stares up at you for a second, uncertain. Finally, he lowers his head to the porch in front of him. He holds your gaze as he sticks his tongue out and slowly laps up his drool.

“Good boy.”

He presses his eyes closed involuntarily, humming in pleasure at the praise.

You smile.

“Come…”

His eyes snap open, all attention on you. His breath hitches in his throat. The sound almost makes you laugh.

“...here.”

His eyes flutter closed and the breath falls out of him, his hope immediately extinguished. Still, he crawls, on his knees, as close as he can to the threshold. You dart your hand out as quickly as you can, giving him no time to react. You snatch his gold chain under one finger and pull it towards you, as close as the laws of…what? Physics? God? The Devil? Whatever force kept that electric fence up. You pull him as close as he could possibly be without being shocked. Your finger and the chain on one side of the fence, the tight skin of his throat on the other.

He gasps, a divine cocktail of shock and desperation.

“You want to come inside?” you tease. He nods again. “Words,” you spit sharply.

“YES. Yes, ma’am, please.” He's starting to sweat, little beads of moisture dotting his forehead. “Just wanna please you. Please. Let me taste you, darlin’, I promise, I can make it so good for you, just let me–”

You give his chain a sharp tug to shut him up. He cries out.

“I don’t let animals into my house, Remmick.” 

He drops his head. You feel something wet drip onto your finger. A teardrop falls from his eye to your hand.

“Please.” He shivers, voice almost completely inaudible. The volume reserved for sinners talking directly to their god. “I’ll be good.”

“My, my, my…sweat, drool, and now tears? You’d make a mess all over my floors.” You drop his chain and slowly start to wrap your hand around his throat. His head shoots back and his eyes roll into the back of his head with a moan so vile and animalistic you silently thank whatever God there might be that your closest neighbors live miles away. 

You smile. As your fingers close around his throat, he hisses and pulls away. He stares up at you, hurt. The burn on his neck sizzles softly in the damp night air. His gaze darts to your hand. 

“Oh, you are evil, ain’tcha? Sweet little girl like you, thought ya had e’rybody fooled.” 

“What? You don’t like ‘em?” You coyly show him your hand, fingers adorned with silver rings.

“Fuck, sweetie.” He’s rubbing at his neck, now almost entirely healed. The tiny amount of silver in your rings isn’t enough to do much damage, you know– just enough to get his attention. “You tryna kill me?”

“Maybe,” you coo softly, the sweetness evaporating any lingering trace of his shock.

“Please, baby, let me in. Let me fuck ya proper. Like you deserve. Please. Wanna see those thighs around my head, over my shoulders, fuck, wanna see–wanna see you…” His eyes flutter closed again, like even the image he was conjuring in his head would be enough to make him cum right there.

“Tell me.” Your tone is even. Not mean, not kind. Part of you wants to hear him out.

He leans back on his haunches, his face is wet with sweat and tears. 

“I’d take you right here on the floor. Bury my face between your legs. Make you cum more times ‘n you can count and thank you for each one, fuck, whatever you want, I’d do it all night. Then I’d come crawlin’ back tomorrow night, beggin’ you to let me do it all over again. Please, sugar, just say it. Just let me in. Can’t stand these fuckin’ games no more.” 

“You know,” you say, crouching down in front of him, still behind the door frame, “when I first moved in here, e’rybody told me about the big bad monster lurkin’ in the woods.”

His eyes meet yours then, huge, sad, pathetic. You can still see a hint of the iris, just barely, the tiniest ring of blue surrounding the endless black of his pupils. 

“They said it only came out at night, and the only way to protect yourself was to stay inside. Garlic. Silver. Sunlight. A stake–” you press your palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath his ribs “--right to the heart.”

His eyes roll back and he moans, obscene and filthy and desperate. Before he can think to snatch your wrist and yank you out onto the porch with him, you pull your hand back behind the threshold. You rise to your feet, standing over him.

“And now here he is, the Big Bad Wolf, on his knees, slobbering at my door like a dog. Ain’t that somethin’?”

He stares up at you, almost like he knows what comes next.

“Please,” he whispers, pitiful. You smile wide.

“Goodnight, Remmick.”

Click.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The next night, he doesn’t even bother knocking. Doesn’t bother announcing himself. He just sits, cross-legged, on your porch, staring up at your door as if he could will it open with his mind. What he doesn’t know is that you’re sitting just on the other side of the door, a mirror image of his desperation. You don’t know how long you sit like that. Silent, just listening to the soft sound of the cricket song and his gentle, even breathing behind the door. Finally, you give in. You reach up and twist the knob, torturously slow. The door creaks open.

“Hey sugar.”

He looks rough. Not to the untrained eye, of course; his shirt is clean, tucked in, his hair fairly neat, even his boots look pretty clean. But you see deeper than that. The slightly sunken look around his eyes that tells you he hasn’t fed in days. The subtle hollowness that carves out his cheekbones, collarbone, even settles around his knuckles, when he’s gone too long without blood. The hungry glint in his eyes that he can’t help, like an animal looking for its next kill.

“You look like shit.”

“Aw hell, come on now, cut a fella some slack. I tried my best for ya, sweetheart.” His voice sounds the way his clothes look–a façade, a too-perfect, lighthearted sound, disguising something darker underneath.

“When was the last time ya fed?”

His eyes drop to the floorboards below him.

“Remmick. Look at me.”

His eyes shoot up to meet yours, that hungry look winning out above the pretenses. His voice drops, too, into something dark and sickly sweet.

“Five days ago.”

“Then what the hell ya doin’ here?” Your voice, barbed and venomous, cuts straight to his heart. “Go find ya some poor bastard to drain ‘stead of wastin’ my time.”

“I can’t, baby. Can’t do nothin’ else. I walk in circles all night, and I keep endin’ up down this road, endin’ up here. Please, sugar, all I’m askin’ for is–”

You let your head roll to one side, pulling the skin of your neck tight over your veins. His sentence stops in his throat as he watches you, swallowing thickly. His eyes have the dull, hypnotized look of hyperfixation as he stares at your neck.

“All you’re askin’ for is…what?”

“Please. Let me in.” His voice is low, but not quiet.

“Why should I?” You drawl, knowing he’s hanging onto your every word.

“I’ll be anything ya want me to be, please. I’ll be so good to you. I’ll be wicked. I’ll–”

His words catch in his throat again as you, on all fours, crawl closer towards the door.

“Y’know, I went to church this mornin’,” you tease. “Preacher said somethin’ interesting. He said…you dance with the devil…one day, he’ll follow ya home.”

Remmick’s breath, coming in short, ragged gasps, inches from your face, was the only sound flooding your senses.

“That what you are, pretty boy? You the devil?”

His eyes dart down to your mouth and back up to your eyes, his pupils blown huge and black.

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice is half whisper, half confession. “Yes. I am the Devil.”

“That’s what I thought.” You stand slowly, gripping the door frame for support. You leave the door open, but cross the floor into your kitchen, always aware of his eyes on you. 

You reach for the smallest paring knife that lives in the knife block sitting atop your counter. His eyes don’t leave you for a second, but now, from the darkness, you see his shiny red pupils reflected back at you. You smile. The Devil at your door, begging to do unholy things to you. At your mercy.

You cross back to the door and stand over him, knife in hand. His hair, sweaty, sticking to his temples, looks almost black in the darkness. 

The quiet in the air lingers between the two of you. You want him so badly it aches. You want to torment him, to make him cry again, to stand above him while he worships the ground beneath your feet. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you can feel it thundering in your neck. He notices.

Slowly, you begin to undo the buttons at the lacy neckline of your nightgown. Drool begins to drip down his chin as he stares at you. 

“Don’t make a mess all over my porch, now.” 

He mindlessly wipes at his chin with the back of his hand, wetting the cuff of his sleeve. Done with the buttons, you drop your nightgown around your ankles. A choked sound gets stuck in his throat. You take a step out of the nightgown, kicking the garment to the side.

“Please, baby. Please, I’m dyin’ out here. I can be anything you want. I’ll follow you around on a leash, goddamn it, just don’t make me sit out here no longer.” His begging hits your ears like a symphony. You bring the knife up to your chest and gently press the tip of it between your breasts. 

He whines like a dying thing. A strangled, agonized sound,that, again, makes you grateful for the secluded location of your house.

You drag the blade down, slicing one clean line between your cleavage, just deep enough to break the skin and draw blood, just enough to sting. 

“Preacher said the best way to ward off the devil was to wear a cross,” you say innocently.

You bring the blade back up. You carve one shorter, perpendicular line through the first. A cross. A mark. A brand. Beading with drops of blood, collecting and trickling down your chest, across your stomach, towards your heat.

You don’t know when it happened, but his claws are out now. Long, caked in dirt, and scratching at the boards of your porch like a bad dog. The sound of the wood shredding under his claws makes you grin, sweet and sadistic. He pulls his head up, like just the effort of that simple movement is enough to drain all the life out of him. He braces himself with his hands on the doorframe. His eyes glow red, tears pricking at the corners. His fangs poke out of his mouth, sharp and wet with saliva. Drool slicks his chin and foams at the corner of his mouth. This is the monster. This is what you wanted.

Then, quietly, so quietly you almost think your mind might be inventing it, he whispers:

“Please, mo chuisle. Let me in.”

You sink slowly to your knees in front of him. He’s not looking into your eyes anymore. He’s staring at your blood, red, hot, and wet, dripping freely just inches from his mouth.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Want you to let me in, please–”

“No. That’s what you want to happen. What do you want?” 

“You. I want you.” His voice is ragged. Broken. Like he’s been screaming at the top of his lungs for his whole life. “Please, please, I don’t know any other way to ask, to beg, to scream, to cry for you sugar, please–”

You cut him off when you press your hands to the door frame, just on the other side of where his are. You’re palm to palm, almost, in this half-formed way, dancing along the electric fence. You bring your forehead to the invisible line, so you’re face to face with him, taking in the sight of him unravelled before you. 

“You want me?” you whisper cruelly.

“Yes,” he says through shaking breaths.

“Come get me, then.”

It’s all he needs. His hands fly to your waist as he topples you over. He presses his tongue to the blood that’s dripped down to your stomach, working his way up to your chest. When he reaches the incision, he sucks and laps at the cut. At the spot where the two cuts meet, the center of the cross, he presses a kiss, soft and gentle to your sternum. It makes you gasp.

“Gonna treat you so good, darlin’. Gonna make you forget your own fuckin’ name,” he rasps against your chest. You rake your nails across his back, careful not to let yourself touch him too much–not yet.

When he’s done sucking the blood from your chest, he begins to leave a trail of kisses back down your stomach. Sitting back on his knees, he grabs your thighs and traces his claws across the flesh, making you shiver. He hoists your legs just enough to nestle himself in between them, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your left knee. 

“Dreamed of this every night, every fuckin’ night, you slammin’ that door in my face. Kept dreaming of this. Of you.” He works his way up the inside of your thigh, kissing and licking your skin. “Taste so fuckin’ good.”

“If you think that’s good, I got somethin’ I think you’re really gonna enjoy,” you drawl, deliberately grinding your hips upwards in a small circle, catching his attention.

He growls. Like a fucking animal standing over its kill. It almost makes you sob. The pure, electric feeling of his desire.

He licks one slow stripe up your center, making you cry out.

“Sweet girl. You think you were the only one playin’? I could smell you every night, every night you shut that door in my face. Could smell this sweet little pussy cryin’ for me.”

His grip on your legs tightens as he picks up the pace. Lapping and kissing at your core, he devours you like you’re water in the desert. What was that saying? Something about well-fed sinners and famished saints?

He presses one thumb to your clit and your head begins to spin. The only sounds in the heavy air are the crickets, your gasps, and the obscene noises coming from where the two of you are connected. He slowly rubs circles on your clit, not even coming up for breath as he does. Your fingers tangle in his dark curls. He hits a particularly sensitive spot and you jerk him back by his hair.

“Ah, ah, easy, sugar. Not gonna hurt ya. Not unless ya ask real nice.” The smile he gives you is enough to nearly send you over the edge. Your drying blood at the corner of his lips. His fangs covered in your slick. His chin wet with– well, it was impossible now to tell where his drool ended and your juices began. You shove his head back down with a huff and he just chuckles, attaching himself to your cunt once more. When he opens his mouth, you can feel the tips of his fangs ghost over your clit, over and over, as he devours you.

Electricity lights up your entire body, starting in your core and sizzling through your limbs. You grip his hair as if it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth. Your legs twitch around his head, and Remmick? He just continues lapping you up, desperate, as if you might kick him back out onto the porch the second your orgasm passes.

When your breathing finally returns to normal, he’s over you, his hands on either side of your head, his chain dangling in your face. 

“How was that? Was it good?”

You stare up into his face, so desperate to please you. His eyes are wild, his chin still wet. 

“So good. Such a good boy for me,” you coo, melting him instantly. He hums in pleasure. You bring your hands back to his hair, and he leans into your touch, letting you play with his sweaty locks. You scratch behind his ear and his head drops in ecstasy. You trace a finger over the top button of his shirt.

“Ain’t you hot? All these clothes on…?”

He growls again, animalistic and raw. He sits up and rips his suspenders from his shoulders, letting them hang down around his sides in that way he knows you like. He goes to unbutton his shirt, but his claws make the dexterous movement impossible. You sit up, still under him. Gently, you place your fingers over his. You trace the length of one of his claws with your fingertip gingerly. He rests his forehead against yours, sweat mixing on your skin, your breath hot and mingling between you two as you delicately undo the buttons on his shirt.

“The Devil ever had anyone be gentle with him?” you whisper, almost afraid to break the silence.

“No,” he whispers.

You tug the shirt from his shoulders. He finishes the job and tosses it aside. He grabs at his tank top, torn and already soaked with sweat, and adds it to the pile of clothes that will, hopefully, go neglected until morning. His chest heaves with every labored breath, the gold chain glinting and reflecting in the moonlight. You rake your nails down his chest, making him drop his head back again. He groans again, loud, lewd, and lustful. 

A grin creeps across your face. When your fingers reach his waistband, you flatten your palms against his stomach and drag them back up towards his chest, pressing firmly against the taut skin, slick with sweat.

“FUCK, baby, shit!” 

He curses and snaps his head forward. When he does, you grab his jaw between your fingertips and hold him still, forcing him to look at you. The skin on his chest sizzles quietly.

“You’re a little fuckin’ sadist, ain’tcha?” he spits, somewhere between furious and turned on. You press the silver ring on your finger to his jaw in response. He hisses and bares his fangs before you shove his face to the side.

“Fuck. Fuck, sugar, I–” he breathes, still recovering. You stare down at the burns that are streaked down his chest, your hunger growing. You want to run your tongue over the burned skin.

“Let me…let me feel you darlin’. Please,” he gasps. It makes you smile. He’s still begging.

“Didn’t realize you needed permission to enter down there, too,” you tease. He doesn’t waste any more time. His hands fly to his trousers, undoing the button and zip as you lie back. You see him then, long and hard and already weeping for you. The feeling of him lining himself up makes your breath catch in your throat. 

He pushes in gently, like he’s still asking permission for every inch of closeness. When he’s finally inside, his eyes, red and gleaming, roll back into his head. “Ah–ahh, feel so fuckin’ good sugar. Feel like you were made for me.”

“Ya gonna gab all night or ya gonna fuck me like you promised?”

He laughs, the vibrations sinking in all the way to your bones, as he begins to move.

“Gonna make you cum so many times you lose count. Gonna fuck you so good you’ll be stumbling for days.”

And fuck, you think he might be right. He’s stretching you, hitting deeper than he ever has before, hitting a spot that’s making your cheeks flush and your head spin. Pleasure builds in your center as you reach up for him.

“Ah, ah. Keep those hands to yourself, pretty girl,” he scolds. You chuckle.

“Afraid of a little silver?” you coax.

He stills inside of you. You whimper, frustrated.

“That’s what I thought. Keep those hands to yourself and that pretty little mouth in line, and I’ll fuck ya like the good girl you are,” he promises. You groan under him, but whether it’s from pleasure or defeat, even you don’t know.

He resumes his pace, relentlessly ramming into you. You turn your head to the side. You see his right hand, bracing against the floor next to your head. You stick your tongue out and lick one clean stripe from his wrist up his forearm, as far as you can reach. He moans above you.

“Fuck, ‘s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout sugar,” he croons. “So good to me.”

He leans down over you until his forehead is pressed against your collarbone.

“Let me taste you, darlin’, please. Haven’t fed in days, let me be full, let me have you, please…” He pulls back just enough so you can feel his hot breath on your neck, desperate. “I’ll be gentle, I promise, won’t bite too hard. Please.”

Before you can speak, he leans into your neck. 

“Remmick–”

He recoils from you as quickly as if he was bit by a snake.

“FUCK!”

You can see the burn searing on his chin in the shape of a cross. He looks down at your neck to see the only thing you’re wearing– a silver cross on a silver chain. You smile up at him wickedly.

“I guess there’s somethin’ to be said about askin’ permission, huh?” you whisper. His glare looks like he’s contemplating ripping your throat out with his teeth. 

“You really want me dead, huh?” he asks hotly.

“Maybe just a little bit,” you retort through a devilish grin. 

Then, his gaze softens. He looks down at the necklace and back at you.

“Will you take it off?” he asks weakly. “Please. Wanna taste you…please?”

You reach up and grab the cross, playing with it daintily between your fingers. His eyes follow your every move. You could toy with him like this forever. Finally, you firmly grip the cross and tug. The chain snaps behind your head, and you toss the silver aside. You smile up at him.

He sighs, a sound of pure bliss, and falls back down to your chest, resuming his rhythm one more time. His breath is hot in the crook of your neck. You feel his fangs ghosting over your throat, his lips brushing against your pulse point. Then, something wet and dripping. He’s drooling all over you, thin, warm, wet ropes of his spit dribbling onto your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair and yank him back so you can see his face.

The creature looking back at you barely looks human. His eyes, wide and red, darkness lurking behind them. His fangs, spilling out of his mouth as if they’re too big for his jaw. Drool all over his chin.

“What?” he growls, frustrated from being interrupted.

“Just wanna see you like this,” you whisper.

“Like what?” “Like the goddamn animal you are. Like the desperate, whiny, pathetic creature that keeps comin’ to my door. Like the Devil that’s lovin’ me so good it’s sendin’ me to Hell.”

It sends him over the edge. He snarls and bites down on your neck, hard. He thrusts up into you with similar ferocity. The pain, the pleasure, all building in you, sending heat through your body. He reaches down with one hand and drags the tip of one claw across your clit. You’re seeing stars.

“Oh God–” you moan, your orgasm rocking through you.

“No God here, darlin’, ‘member?” he teases, darkness in his voice. “Just the Devil, fillin’ you up this good.”

You have no idea how much blood he drains from you. Enough to make you lightheaded, even as you come down from your high. He follows you soon after, detaching from your neck and rutting into you, chasing his own release. You feel it a second later, hot spurts of warmth shooting inside of you. You claw at his back, anchoring your nails into his flesh, certain that he’ll have marks there for at least a few days, accelerated healing be damned. You can feel him go soft inside of you, but he doesn’t pull out. He stays there, above you, panting, eyes still wild, chin dripping with your blood. A drop falls from his fangs to your chest. He leans down, still holding eye contact, and slowly, obscenely, presses his tongue to your skin, licking it up, making you shudder.

“Thank you,” he whispers, face buried in your chest. “Taste so good when you’re cummin’, heart fuckin’ beatin’ for me, pussy hangin’ onto me, fuck, baby, thank you, thank you…”

You hum in response. He picks his head up, looking at you desperately.

“Was that good? Was I good?” he asks, still craving your approval. You laugh, your hands flying up to cover your face. He stares down at the silver rings still decorating your fingers. You reach for his face and he instinctively pulls back.

“Oh,” you say gently. As much as you love torturing him, all you want right now is to touch him, sweet and soft. “You want me to take these off?”

He nods wordlessly, eyes huge, looking like a wounded thing.

“Why don’t you take them off?” you coo. “Those teeth oughta be good for more’n just this.” Your fingers graze over the bite on your neck. It’s oddly smaller than you expected. 

You raise one finger. Slowly, he opens his jaw and takes your finger in his mouth, careful not to graze the metal. He bites down, his fangs gripping your ring, and pulls your hand back by the wrist, gently working the ring off your finger. When it’s completely free, he turns and spits, sending the silver clattering across the floor. He does this a second time, and a third, until you can feel him start to get hard inside of you again. You smile up at him.

“Good boy,” you praise as he works on the fourth ring. His eyes gently flutter shut. 

When he’s successfully removed all the silver from your body, you grab his face between your hands. Your foreheads pressed together, breath leaving his mouth and entering yours. You press a kiss to his mouth, wet and sloppy, tasting yourself all over him– the sweet, coppery taste of slick and blood. His hands ghost all over you, as if he’s trying to memorize your body so he can reconstruct it the next time you shut him out.

He starts to move again, gripping your hips and pressing into you. He takes your hand and places it over your lower stomach, pressing gently.

“Feel me? Right here? Fuckin’ tight, fuckin’ sweet, fuck sweetheart, you have no idea what you do to me.” His voice is dripping with lust and something else, something like gratitude.

You feel him hitting you slow and steady and deep, and the sinful sound of him fucking his own cum deeper into your pussy makes you feel faint.

“Please don’t make me go. I’ll stay here, I’ll be your dog, your animal, walk me around on a leash, leave my water in a bowl on the floor, please, I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t make me leave, sugar. Can’t stand it, please.” He sounds close to tears. Your eyes glance up to his face, contorted somewhere between pleasure and agony.

“Remmick,” you say, forcing his eyes open, making him look at you. “You gonna keep grovelling, or ya gonna fuck me like ya mean it?”

A wicked grin illuminates his face. He picks up his rhythm. You have a feeling your back is going to be giving you hell for a little while.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

You wake in the morning, and there he is. You don’t remember how late it was when you both finally tumbled into the bed. He looks peaceful. You’re struck with something– not sympathy, not pity, something else. A feeling, deep in your chest, seeing him lying there. Looking…human.

You roll over and check the alarm clock on your nightstand. 1:37pm. Damn. Well, you suppose, to be expected after a long night. The curtains are drawn in your bedroom. On instinct, you swing your feet down to the floor, pull your robe around you, and cross to the window to open them. You grab the two pieces of fabric and pause.

The only thing between him and sudden death. You. The only thing keeping him from frying alive. You. The only thing taking enough pity on him to let him keep sleeping. You.

You cross out of the room and shut the door quietly, sealing in the darkness. In the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of water and gulp it down. You prepare your coffee, filling the old iron pot with water and setting it on the stove. You turn the heat on as you wander across the room, opening the curtains at each window, letting daylight stream into the room. It’s like something from a postcard, you think, the warm afternoon sun, the gentle underscore of birdsong, the familiar and comforting smell of fresh coffee. The pot whistles on the stove and you take it off the heat, pouring yourself a cup. You hear a stirring from the bedroom. A delicious idea takes root in your mind.

You quietly pad across the floor to the bedroom door. Gingerly, you turn the knob, and throw the door open. Sunlight bathes across the first few feet of the floor, but doesn’t reach the bed.

He screams. Screams with true terror in his voice.

“Mornin’ darlin’!” you crow. “I made coffee, if you want any.”

His eyes, terror-stricken but slowly adjusting to the sudden light, peek up at you from the sheets. It’s odd, seeing him during the day. It’s like two separate pieces of yourself colliding at once. You turn from the door, leaving it open, and jaunt back into the sunlight of the kitchen.

“You gonna stay in bed all day?” you call. When you stick your head back into the bedroom, he’s out of the bed, on all fours, on the floor. He’s as close to the patch of light on the floor as he possibly can be without catching any of it. You chuckle darkly and turn to sit on the couch, in full view of the bedroom door. 

You lean back on the couch, coffee steaming from your mug on the coffee table. Your robe falls open just a bit at your chest. You see his eyes, not yet red, but gleaming in the darkness. You let your hand fall between your legs and let your head fall back against the couch, soaking in the afternoon sunlight.

“Please, sugar. No more games.”

[ham1lton]

EVERYTHING IS EMBARRASSING ?

pairings: max verstappen x podcaster!reader

faceclaim: taylor russell

summary: you run the number one podcast on spotify, agonyauntie, and your dream guest is max verstappen. too bad for you that he hates podcasts.

or the one where your podcast is max’s guilty pleasure.

author’s note: clearing out drafts.

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liked by yourbestfriend, alexandrasaintmleux and 1,837,892 others.

yourusername: after a month long hiatus, agonyauntie is back with bigger and better stories. i’m excited to share the newest episode with you on all of the available channels.

please tune in so my mom won’t regret letting me drop out of university to pursue airing people’s dirty laundry on the internet. thank you xoxo

view all comments

user1: WE WON WE WON HELLO!!!!!

user2: will you ever top mango man? i don’t think so.

-> yourusername: trust me user2. we will.

user3: the way during the hiatus the podcast was still #4 on the spotify chart is crazy.

-> user4: WE COMIN FOR THAT NUMBER ONE SPOT YUP!!!

user5: prettiest girl ever. you need a youtube channel so we can see that facecard.

-> user6: she said she prefers podcasting to making videos because she’s awkward asf 😭

-> user7: real omg

-> user8: she’s so me.

user9: who is this 😻

-> user10: yn yln! she’s the creator and host of agonyauntie, which she started back in university. it was originally a radio show in which people would email her their problems and she’d tell them advice. it went viral when she did the episode of ‘mango man’ (just google it, it’s hilarious) and then she moved to a podcast format so it was more accessible. it went to number one and she’s halfway through s2. it’s so good!!! honestly you need to listen to the episodes.

landonorris: SO EXCITED YESSSS 🤩

-> user11: always at the scene of the crime

-> user12: how many fandoms is this guy in? 🤨

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AGONYAUNT! season 2, episode 7.

[soft jazzy intro music fades out]

yn: okay, this next email is… wow. honestly, when i read it, i had to sit back, take a sip of tea, and whisper, “what the actual hell?” to myself. so naturally, i had to include it in the episode.

let me just read it for you.

[mock-serious tone as she reads aloud]

“hi yn, first off, i love the podcast. you’re literally the only person i trust to handle this because everyone else would either call me crazy or tell me to dump him, and honestly, neither of those options feel right (yet). anyway, here goes: i think my boyfriend is trying to become a bird.

i know that sounds like i’ve lost the plot, but please hear me out. it started small—like him watching a lot of bird documentaries and casually saying things like, ‘owls are the wolves of the sky’ (which i didn’t think about at the time because men say weird things constantly). but then he started doing… bird things. he whistles now. a lot. not cute whistling, yn. it’s more like he’s calling for backup.

then last week i caught him eating sunflower seeds—not out of a bag, but cracking them open with his teeth and spitting the shells on the carpet. the carpet, yn. he’s also been spending suspicious amounts of time sitting on the windowsill ‘for the breeze’ and called a pigeon his ‘mate’ the other day like they’re friends now??

but the final straw? he built a nest. like, an actual nest. i came home from work to find him on the couch surrounded by twigs, string, and what i think might’ve been my missing socks. he said it was ‘just a joke,’ but when i asked why there were eggs in it, he got all defensive and said i ‘wouldn’t understand.’

so now i don’t know what to do. do i confront him and risk him flying away (literally)? or do i just let him… become whatever he’s becoming? pls help me yn. i miss my normal boyfriend who used to just binge-watch love island and occasionally make me toast.

cheers, girl who might be dating a parrot.”

[pause for comedic effect]

yn: okay. wow. first of all, thank you for this email. genuinely, it’s given me a lot to think about. like, this man has gone full National Geographic, and you’re just… casually living with it? incredible. i’m so glad you came to me because i don’t think your friends would’ve taken this seriously enough, and frankly, neither will i, but we’ll do our best.

so. is your boyfriend trying to become a bird? honestly, yeah. sounds like he’s halfway there. whistling, befriending pigeons, eating seeds like he’s at a football match—this man is leaning in hard. and i have to say, the nest? iconic. horrifying, but iconic. he built an actual nest in your home. he didn’t just think about it; he did it. that’s commitment.

but here’s the thing: you have to ask yourself, are you okay with this? like, if you imagine your life five years from now and you’re still with him, is he going to be perched on top of the fridge, squawking about how you don’t appreciate him? or is this just a phase? because maybe it’s temporary. maybe he’s stressed, and this is his way of coping—some people journal, some people go bird-mode.

what i suggest is this: sit him down for a chat. calmly ask, “babe, are you going through something? or are you genuinely preparing to molt?” like, we need clarity here. and if he doubles down on the bird thing, you have a choice to make. either support him and start buying bulk birdseed, or set him free—preferably in a park, not near any major roads.

also, maybe keep your eye on those eggs. i don’t know where he got them, but i’d be concerned.

anyway, good luck with your pigeon-man. i wish you nothing but the best, and if it escalates, please email me again. i have to know what happens.

[transition music fades in]

yn: right, let’s move on before i spiral into a full TED talk about men and their inability to handle hobbies normally. honestly, this man saw blue planet one time and said, “that’s my personality now.” unbelievable.

[music fades out, next segment begins]

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────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

liked by landonorris, ynsfanpage and 1,727,908 others

agonyauntie: our newest episode is out next week, here are three clues about what it will include.

(hint: the middle one is that our host will be involved. spoiler alert! 😉)

view all comments

user1: omg it’s MAX VERSTAPPEN

-> user2: who tf is that

-> user3: exactly like yn said celebrities as guests

-> user4: he’s literally famous? he’s a formula one star???

-> user3: okay congrats

-> user4: ??

-> user3: girl idk what u want me to say idgaf abt that man 😭 good for him getting the krabby patty formula one or wtvr

user5: OMG MAX AND YN…

-> user6: new ship name needed asap

-> user7: new job application needed ASAP!

user8: omg what if yn and max get together? he’s her dream guest and she seemed a little into him om the live she did watching the f1 race.

-> user9: um he’s literally gay i just googled it…

-> user10? HUH?

-> user9: his fiance is charles leclerc i just read how they met on this gossip website called ao3. very cute. it also told me more about obama’s secret lover, some guy called harry styles. you should check it out.

-> user10: u grown as hell and u can vote. the world is a scary place.

user11: AND NEXT GUEST WILL BE LANDONORRIS LETS PRAY TOGETHER 😎

-> user12: lando we know it’s you take them glasses OFF!

-> user11: 🥲 🕶🤏🥲

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author’s note: hi :) just looking for some feedback. send me an ask with what sort of fics u guys like. idk what to post. have a lot of drafts. also idk this will get a pt2. i just want it GONE! sorry <3

[plutotheplum]

Keep My Hand in Yours

emperor!zayne x concubine!reader - read part 1!

summary: the emperor is intent on convincing you that you are worthy enough to be his empress.

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, fluff, oral sex, vaginal fingering, p in v, praise kink, throne sex, spanking

wc: 6.9k

a/n: part 2 is finally here! thank you for all the sweet comments, i cherish them all!! <3 umm... i do plan on adding some more parts to this series... so yeah, i hope you enjoy! :)

also on ao3!

“She is not with child.”

Zayne’s stern voice cuts through the chatter of his advisors, his fingers tapping against the arm of his throne irritatedly. The drone of voices silences, his advisors lowering their heads in respect.

You stand off to the side, playing with the sleeves of your robes nervously. Perhaps you’d been a little naive to think the advisors would have been accepting of your blossoming relationship with the Emperor. 

Word had spread throughout the palace, and most likely throughout the entire Empire about the new developments that had taken place overnight. The guards had heard you of course, their eyes averted and cheeks flushed pink when Zayne had held your hand and led you out of his chambers.

An unforeseen turn in events, and you had somehow excelled past the advisors’ expectations, garnering the Emperor’s affection for you. Whilst a small number of the Emperor’s advisors were pleased, the majority were not. Standing before them, you can see the disdain on their faces, the hatred that belies their thin smiles. Jealousy is above all however, for their own daughters were once placed forth as noble matches for the Emperor. 

You jolt out of your thoughts when an Imperial guard takes your arm, moving you to stand before the Emperor. Zayne looks down at you, and you can spy the slight softening of his eyes as he watches you bow to him.

“As I have said,” Zayne repeats, “she is not with child.”

“Forgive me, your majesty,” a voice speaks out from behind you, “how can she not be with child? We- we have heard of what occurred.”

Zayne motions for you to spin around, and you do as he wants. You now face his entire court, advisors gathered in hours of the early morning. It was the grand chancellor who spoke, a tall man, his face gaunt. You remember he had served Zayne’s father before he had passed.

“We are both not ready for children,” Zayne explains, “I had the palace physician brew a tea under my command.”

It was true. You had both spoken about the matter, and you simply could not handle carrying a child so soon. Zayne had agreed, snuck you out through the passages in the middle of the night, and had taken you to the palace physician. The brewing of such teas was not unheard of, but certainly not an accepted occurrence, although perhaps more commonly used among the nobility.

“I see…” the grand chancellor says slowly, his gaze fixating on you.

You want to shrink away, somehow hide behind the safety of the Emperor, but you cannot. Instead, you shift on the spot, averting your gaze to the floor as though you were not the very object of interest of this gathering.

“And you intend to continue this foolish endeavor?” 

Your head snaps up at the harsh words, gaze settling on the new voice that had spoken out. A lower ranking official judging by the coloring of his robes, his eyes narrowing as he stares at you.

“It appears you forget yourself,” the Emperor replies coolly. 

“Or perhaps you forget yourself, your majesty,” the official spits, stepping forward, “you would ruin the image of your rule to marry some… some lowly concubine?”

The murmurs of the other members of court are hard to ignore, hushed whispers breaking out at the official’s blatant show of disrespect towards the Emperor.

“And was it not this very court that decided to gather concubines without my knowledge?”

“For child bearing!” the official hisses, pointing his finger towards you accusingly, “not for marriage!”

You swallow harshly at the viciousness of his words, biting back the insults that threaten to spill out. Retaliation in such a meeting would only support the official’s cause. 

“She will be your Empress,” Zayne says calmly, “if you seek to insult my future wife yet again, I will have you removed immediately.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks when he affirms that you’ll be his wife. It may not be the best time, but the light flush covers your cheeks and you try to stop the pull of your lips, a smile threatening to spread across your face.

“If you think I- we will stand for such insolence, you are sorely mistaken, your majesty” the official snarls.

A bitter laugh echoes through the throne room. 

“Be grateful that I am not my father,” Zayne murmurs, “for he would have had your head. Remove your seal.”

The official sputters, looking around at the rest of the court members wildly. Most avoid his eyes, others unconsciously touching their own seals through the fabric of their robes.

You flinch when the official removes his Imperial seal angrily, tossing the little silver square at your feet.

“You have poisoned his mind,” he accuses heatedly, face reddened from his outburst, “and you should do well to remember your station.”

Irritation pricks at your skin, your teeth gritting together. You were well aware of your station, of your status and how you’re perceived. The incessant reminders aren’t doing well to calm your frayed nerves, brows pulling together as you glare at the official. 

“Bow to her.”

The rules of nobility have been set in place for longer than you could possibly know, and yet Zayne seems insistent on breaking them. It’s bold, even for him, to demand such a thing. You turn, shooting him a look, subtly shaking your head. There’s a hint of a smile on the Emperor’s face, as though enjoying this confrontation.

“I- I will do no such thing!” the official protests.

“You have already lost your seal and your position and you still will not do as I say?” Zayne murmurs, leaning forward in his throne.

You watch with wide eyes when the official does bow to you, the upper half of his body lowering. Another round of hushed whispers passes through the room, and you can feel the grand chancellor’s eyes boring into you. His authority was only second to the Emperor, the only man who held a real chance of changing Zayne’s mind.

“Good,” Zayne says, leaning back on his throne, “now leave us.”

The throne room clears out immediately, until you’re the only one remaining. You smile at him, stepping between his legs until you’re standing in front of him.

“I did not take you for a tyrant,” you tease, brushing his hair out of his face.

“And I did not know that protecting my future wife made me a tyrant,” Zayne muses, his arms wrapping around your waist.

He tugs you closer, his head falling forward to rest against your stomach, face burying itself in your robes. A soft sigh leaves you, fingers running through his loose hair, scratching at his scalp lightly.

“Tired?” you ask, arm wrapping around his neck.

The Emperor nods against your stomach, trying to press his face deeper. A laugh escapes you at his needy behavior, your hand managing to cup his jaw to bring him out of his hiding place. 

“The affairs of state have become bothersome,” Zayne says, peering up at you.

“Oh? You did not seem to mind before.”

“Playing coy?” Zayne smiles faintly, tugging you forward until you stumble and land on his lap.

“Hardly,” you whisper, pressing yourself closer as your hands curl into his robes.

The Emperor leans back on his throne, his hands kneading at your hips. You chase after him, eyes fluttering shut as you press your lips against his. Zayne lets out a low noise, drawing you closer, his hand sliding up your back as you kiss. The memory from last night is still fresh, the feeling of his hands on your body ingrained in your mind. 

“I cannot have enough of you,” he whispers, lips brushing over yours.

“You- you ought to rest,” you gasp, tilting your head to let him kiss down the length of your neck.

Zayne kisses your sternum, and back up your neck before he sighs and tucks his face into the crook of your neck. You hold him close, hand smoothing over his hair gently.

“I have made things difficult for you,” you say quietly.

He shakes his head, squeezing your waist reassuringly. 

“I have become complacent,” he murmurs, “simply letting others do as they please.”

You kiss his forehead when he lifts his head, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks. Exhaustion mars the Emperor’s face, his eyes looking sunken and dull. The sudden gathering of his court appears to have drained his energy.

“I shall have to gather them again,” Zayne says, “the trade agreements need attention.”

A smile settles on your face when he kisses your cheeks gently, his hands petting your sides. You move off of his lap, standing up with him reluctantly. Reaching out, you fix his hair and his robes that you had held onto earlier. 

“Finish, then retire to your chambers to rest,” you instruct, patting his chest.

Zayne laughs, his head dipping down to kiss you. You return the kiss eagerly, pulling apart with a few sweet, little pecks to his lips.

“You are already acting like a doting wife,” he whispers.

You flush when he says that, looking away. It’s still hard to get over the fact that Zayne, the Emperor, wants to marry you of all people. The thought of it all makes your palms sweaty, cheeks hot and heart race. There’s a whirlwind upon you, Zayne, tearing apart your preconceived notions of the Empire. 

“I want to dote on you.”

The words tumble from your lips, soft and vulnerable. You’ve never felt this way about a man, never had a man pay attention to you, never been touched by a man before him. It’s as though the Emperor’s expressions are always tender in the way he gazes at you. You’ve never known what it’s like to be in love, but if it’s like this, so startlingly soft and sickeningly sweet, you fear you may be lost in him forever. 

“I- I just meant-” you begin to correct yourself, fidgeting with your robes.

“I know what you meant,” Zayne says softly, his hands finding yours.

Your breath catches in your throat when he lifts your hands to his mouth, his thumbs running over your skin soothingly. Zayne keeps his eyes on you as he kisses across your knuckles, squeezing your hands gently after. 

“I said I take care of what’s mine,” he continues, drawing you close, “and you are mine now.”

You nod jerkily, shoving your face into his chest. The Emperor hums, stroking your hair slowly. Unfortunately, you don’t get to bask in his embrace for any longer, a guard announcing the arrival of a messenger.

“Rest,” you remind him, planting a soft kiss on his cheek.

Zayne nods, squeezing your waist before allowing you to draw away. 

-

The other girls crowd around you immediately when you enter your chambers, their expressions sly and knowing as they tug you towards the middle of the room, soft giggles filling the air.

“Well?” one of them asks, eyes wide with curiosity. 

“Well what?” you ask, feigning innocence.

A chorus of complaints breaks out.

“Stop being shy!”

“We tell you our stories!”

“You must tell us!”

One of the girls reaches for you, her arm hooking with yours. She leans down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers conspiratorially.

“Was the Emperor well-endowed?”

“Oh, stop it!”

- 

The grand chancellor has been lurking in the hallways.

You’d noticed the tall man when you had left to make some tea, but after a considerable amount of time, he was still there. The cold breeze outside should’ve been enough to deter him, but you’ve figured he must be intent on speaking to you.

To be frank, you aren’t in the mood for another confrontation just days later from the disastrous court meeting that had occurred. It’s why you hold your breath as you sneak out from your chambers, feet padding against the floor lightly as you try to slip past the grand chancellor’s turned back.

“Will you avoid me for much longer?” he calls out. 

You wince, halting in place. The grand chancellor cannot be avoided forever, you suppose.

“Come along,” he says, his fingers motioning for you to follow him.

You do as he says begrudgingly, following after the grand chancellor. To your surprise, he leads you into the gardens rather than a private room. Snow is yet to fall today, autumn soon drawing to a close in a few weeks. You wipe the fallen leaves that have landed on a nearby bench, sitting down after the grand chancellor does.

It’s suffocatingly awkward, your fingers playing with each other agitatedly as he simply sits next to you, looking out at the plants and trees that make up the gardens. You realize it would be a foolish idea to let your guard down around him. The grand chancellor hadn’t reprimanded Zayne during that meeting and yet you remember the way he had been staring at you. His intentions are hard to discern, his loyalties to the Emperor and the Emperor alone. 

“Much like his father, his majesty is stubborn,” the grand chancellor says, “I have had the pleasure of knowing both men since they were children.”

“I see,” you murmur, peeking a glance at him.

You don’t know why he’s telling you this, half-expecting the man to begin berating you for becoming so close to Zayne. 

“I shall be frank,” he sighs, turning to face you, “I did not expect the Emperor to become so… enamored by you.”

“I did not expect it either,” you grumble defensively.

“His majesty is an intelligent man. He knows of the consequences and yet seems intent on taking you to wed.”

“Consequences?” you echo.

“Political alliances are frail,” he explains, picking up a fallen leaf and examining it, “marriage is the easiest way to prevent a war between regions.”

“We have not been at war for years!” you protest, shaking your head.

“And we will not be for many more,” the grand chancellor assures you, “I am simply warning you of what may come when you are Empress.”

You don’t understand the politics of the Empire, have never been privy to such things. The grand chancellor only adds to the confusion and uncertainty that has been brewing inside your mind. 

“I thought you would dissuade him,” you say quietly.

“The boy deserves happiness,” the grand chancellor murmurs, standing up, “if he wishes to be with you, then I will allow it.” He peers down at you, his lips thinning. “Take caution, child. Envy drives men to madness. The nobility may hide behind their bloodlines, but a cesspool festers within.”

The grand chancellor hands you the withered leaf.

“Loyalties change as the seasons do.”

- 

A week later, the Emperor finds you in the gardens, sitting under a tree.

“You have not come to see me,” Zayne says, sitting down beside you.

“I did not want to trouble you,” you reply.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. The Emperor’s fingers are stained with ink, streaks of black covering his pale skin. Zayne’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.

“The grand chancellor is worried.”

“I surmised as much,” the Emperor sighs, his fingers playing with your robes.

You peer up at him, and Zayne leans down, dropping a kiss to your forehead. There’s a part of you that can’t help but feel you’re putting him in a position that he normally wouldn’t be in if he had simply chosen to marry someone of higher status.

“Do you truly wish to marry me?” you ask quietly, averting your gaze.

“Have I told you otherwise?” Zayne asks in return, his fingers gripping your chin to turn your head so that your eyes meet his again.

The tenderness in his eyes is overwhelming. You feel as though you’re drowning, swallowed up by his irises and his honest gaze. Things would’ve been far simpler if he were someone less important, but you can’t imagine Zayne being anything other than the Emperor, for it would be a disservice to the Empire.

You shift, standing up before settling your hands on his broad shoulders, straddling him as you climb up onto his lap. It’s improper to act so brazenly, but you’ve done far more improper things with him, acted far more brazenly in his presence. The Emperor grunts as you settle yourself on his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer.

“I am not fit to be your Empress,” you whisper.

Zayne doesn’t say anything for a moment, his hand simply rubbing up and down your back soothingly. Your throat is tight and you can feel your lips trembling. You don’t want to cry, but you can’t help it when a sniffle escapes you.

“And you think I am fit to be Emperor?” he whispers, “I am only here because of my father and his father before him and so on.”

“But you are the Emperor,” you insist, voice quavering, “I could not possibly-”

“Forget about nonsensical titles,” Zayne murmurs, his hands cupping your cheeks as his thumbs wipe away the hot tears that have begun to roll down your cheeks, “I meant every word I said that night.”

“B- but-” 

“But nothing,” the Emperor soothes, staring into your eyes intently, “I would sooner have no one than not have you.”

“You are the worst,” you say tearily, pushing at his chest weakly. 

“Ah, I am sure,” he says, a small smile spreading across his face.

The Emperor cradles your head, tilting it to his will as he kisses away the fresh tears that wet your cheeks. He doesn’t stop there, his lips dragging over your skin gently. The Emperor kisses your brows, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, every inch of your face that is bared to him.

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

You kiss him gently and Zayne smooths his thumbs over your cheeks, deepening the kiss as he presses his lips against yours firmly. A soft whine leaves you, letting his tongue lick over the seam of your lips before he licks into your mouth, tongue delving deep. The Emperor kisses you as though trying to convince you of his words, as though to make you stay. 

“I want to show you something,” Zayne says, his forehead pressing against yours. You nod, moving to stand up. Zayne doesn’t let you, instead hauling you up into his arms and standing up. A surprised squeak bubbles out of you when you realize the Emperor is carrying you.

“Zayne!” you protest, “Zayne, people will see!”

Zayne only tightens his grip when you begin to squirm, brushing a kiss to your forehead to calm your ministrations.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, people do see. You try to shrink in his grasp, pressing yourself into his chest as the palace staff pause their duties to watch with wide eyes as the Emperor carries you out of the gardens. Some are unable to stop their jaws from slackening, others beginning to point and whisper amongst themselves.

The Emperor hardly bats an eye, his stride strong and purposeful as he carries you through the hallways and courtyards. It’s a statement in and of itself. 

You spy the smirk on an Imperial guard’s face when he opens up the doors to the throne room, your eyes narrowing when the man sends you a wink. The doors slam shut with a resounding thud, leaving only you and Zayne inside.

“Zayne- Zayne, no!” you hiss, hands scrabbling at his shoulders when you realize what he’s doing. 

Your legs kick out, trying to somehow climb up the Emperor’s tall frame. It’s futile against his strength, his hands manhandling you until he sets you down on his throne. If he doesn’t punish you for it, you fear the Heavens will. 

“Stay,” the Emperor says, pushing at your shoulders when you try to shoot up from where you’re sitting, “I command it.”

You sit in place rigidly, back straight. There are centuries of history that make up this throne, and you can’t help but feel that you are somehow dishonoring it all by sitting here. 

“What are you-” your brows furrowing when he suddenly begins to bend.

Fingers digging into the arms of the throne, you feel as though you might faint as you watch the Emperor bow to you before sinking to his knees. Zayne stares up at you expectantly, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

“G- get up!” you whisper heatedly.

There’s no one here, but you can only imagine the severity of the consequences if someone were to stumble in here and find the Emperor on his knees for you.

“Command it,” he says, looking perfectly content in his current position.

“No one can command the Emperor!”

“I will not move unless you exert your authority,” Zayne says simply.

Your eye twitches at his insistence, at his own brazenness. 

“Say it,” he coaxes gently, “say it and I will stand.”

“I-” your breath catches in your throat awkwardly. You flush when Zayne nods his head encouragingly, your voice breathy when you begin to speak again. “I c-command you to stand.”

“Very good,” he murmurs, standing up and moving towards you.

Zayne smiles at you, his head dipping to crash his lips onto yours, his hands braced on the arms of his throne. You gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he kisses you fiercely. The Emperor continues his onslaught of kisses, dragging his lips down your neck as his fingers pull free the knot holding your robes together.

“You think your station determines your worth,” Zayne whispers, his teeth scraping your shoulder, “but this- you are worth more to me than the finest jade.”

“Stop,” you whisper, eyes slipping shut, “you must stop speaking like that. It does awful things to my heart.”

He laughs softly, kissing between your breasts. You bite your lip as his mouth envelops your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple. His teeth catch on it, tugging playfully before letting it pop free as he switches breasts. You run your fingers through his long hair, head tipping back against the throne as your body convulses.

The Emperor holds you in place, letting his tongue lave over your areola, his half-lidded eyes peering up at you to catch your reactions. You give him a weak smile and Zayne moans around your breast, his hand squeezing at the fat of your other breast.

Your dazed eyes watch as he kisses down your body, kissing your hip then your navel. He sinks to his knees once again, and you can’t find it in yourself to reprimand him, lost in the haze of lust and love. Zayne kisses the curls of hair on your mound, his hands gripping your calves to help guide your legs over his shoulders.

“I have missed this,” he whispers, his thumbs pulling apart your folds.

“As have I,” you sigh.

You moan when Zayne licks up a stripe over your cunt, collecting your arousal on his tongue. He rests his cheek against your thigh, watching intently as your aching hole clenches around nothing, watching as more slick drips from you.

“Stop staring,” you mumble, pushing at his head gently.

“I enjoy the sight,” he says in return.

Your thighs twitch when he pushes the hood of your clit up a little more, exposing the swollen bud. Zayne groans, kissing the inside of your thigh firmly before licking over your cunt again. A strangled gasp rips out of your throat, hands tightening in his hair as he sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Z- Zayne- ah- hah!” 

A soft whimper escapes when he kisses your clit, his fingers dimpling into the flesh of your thighs harshly. Zayne pulls you to the edge of the throne, his face burying deeper as he groans again, drinking down your slick. 

You squeal when he fucks his tongue into you, body shaking uncontrollably as you fist his hair tighter. He hisses against your cunt, renewing his efforts. You can feel his mouth opening wider, trying to consume you whole, licking and sucking desperately at every inch of velvety, sensitive flesh he can reach.

His nose rubs against your clit, and you’re seeing stars. The Emperor makes an obscene noise and you can feel his tongue moving inside of you, the feeling making your thighs clamp around his head. 

“Have- have you ever put your fingers inside of yourself?” he asks, raising his head.

You shake your head, watching as his fingers stroke over your clit lovingly, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to your knee.

“May I?” the Emperor whispers, his finger prodding at your hole.

You give him a jerky nod, legs falling apart a little more for him. He smiles up at you, his finger sinking into you slowly. You whimper at the sensation, clenching around his finger. Zayne adds another soon after, and you’re panting desperately, hips bucking as he curls them inside of you. 

“The scroll said to do something like this,” he mutters under his breath.

“You- oh- you read a scroll?” you grit out.

“It was quite informative,” Zayne murmurs, beginning to move his fingers.

“Why must you be so- ah!” 

You don’t get to finish your sentence, your knuckles turning white as you grip the throne for stability as he latches his mouth back onto your clit, his fingers thrusting in and out of you. The heat inside your stomach grows more intense with each flick of his tongue, his teeth scraping against your sensitive flesh for good measure.

Moans have begun to fill the air, and you can’t find it in yourself to care anymore, letting go completely. You guide his head to where you want him, toes curling against his back, crumpling his silk robes. Zayne’s mouth works with his fingers diligently, his fingers crooking up a little more to graze the spot where you need it most.

You peek down to see the pink flush on his cheeks and your back arches, his name leaving your mouth in a cry as you come on his fingers and his tongue. The Emperor moans as you writhe, his fingers moving in and out of you a couple more times before freeing them from your clenching walls.

Chest heaving, you pant, slumping back in the throne as he kisses across your puffy folds and sensitive cunt. Your thighs twitch a little when he peppers soft, little kisses against your clit and you can’t help but think the man has an obsession with its ability to bring you such pleasure.

The Emperor kisses up your body and you cup his jaw, kissing him sweetly.

“I fear this throne may be ruined,” you whisper against his lips.

He laughs, his nose nudging yours gently, “I recall promising to take you on it.”

“Before that,” you stand up on shaky legs, pushing at his chest until he sits back on his throne.

Adoration glimmers in his eyes, watching as your loose robes slip from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. You stand bare before the Emperor, and you catch the slight spreading of his thighs to relieve the ache of his cock.

This time it’s you that’s sinking to your knees, pulling his robes free. The muscles of his abdomen clench when you run your fingers down his chest, his hand coming up to cover his flushed face.

“Why are you shy now?” you accuse, pouting up at him.

His thighs twitch when you curl your hand around his cock and you can feel the throb of his fat, hot length. 

“You do not have to-” he whispers when he sees your head dip.

“I want to,” you say stubbornly.

Zayne nods in acquiescence, moaning when you begin to drag your hand up and down his cock. It’s a little intimidating when you stare at it up close, but you swallow down your worries, leaning forward to kiss the tip experimentally.

His cock twitches in response, pre-cum beading at the tip. Your tongue darts out, licking up the little glob, feeling the taste of him spread across your tongue.

“Zayne,” you whisper, breath fanning over his cock, “Zayne, you must watch me.”

The Emperor groans at your lilting voice, his eyes opening the moment your mouth envelops him. His hips buck and you nearly seize up at the feeling of the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. You mewl around him, breathing through your nose, tongue swirling before your head begins to bob up and down.

“Fuck,” Zayne hisses, his fingers spreading across your scalp, “my love, you are devious.”

You hum in response, pulling off of his cock in favor of giving more attention to the tip of it. You swirl your tongue, tongue flicking at the flared head and it’s enough to make Zayne whine, his thighs spreading wider for you. 

“Can you take it deeper?” he asks, his fingers trailing down the curve of your cheek.

“I shall try,” you murmur, mouth opening for him.

He hooks his thumb into the corner of his mouth, cupping your chin before his thumb spreads over the flat of your tongue. You smile, eyes flashing with mischievousness as you suck his thumb into your mouth, tongue flicking against the pad of it. 

Zayne shoots you a searing look and you watch as he grips the base of his cock. He drags the tip of his cock against your closed lips, entranced as he watches his pre-cum smears across your lips. His other hand presses at the back of your head and your mouth opens again, letting him guide his cock into your mouth.

“Just like that,” he whispers, “good girl.”

You can feel arousal shooting through you at the praise, slick pooling between your thighs yet again. The ache is so unbearable that you shove your hand between your thighs, rubbing at your clit.

The Emperor pushes your head gently and you go willingly, slurping and sucking around his thick cock. Saliva drips from your mouth, coating his cock and his balls, strings of it landing on the edge of his throne. You rub at your clit faster, eyes fluttering as he brushes your loose hair away from your face.

“A- ah,” Zayne rasps, “hah- my love.”

The term of endearment is enough to have you taking it upon yourself to sink down his cock even more. The tufts of his black hair hit your nose for a moment, but you’re inexperienced and you’ve overestimated your own abilities. The feeling of his cock filling your throat is too much, and you choke, throat seizing, causing you to pull off with a hoarse cough as your eyes water.

Concern flits across Zayne’s face, his thumb swiping over your swollen lips. You give him a watery smile, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He sighs in relief when he sees you’re okay, leaning forward to place a tender kiss to your lips.

“So willful,” the Emperor murmurs.

He slides his hands under your armpits, picking you up and setting you down on his lap.

“I can do it again,” you mumble, gaze lowering to see his cock pressed between your bodies.

Zayne smiles, petting at your sides, “as much as I enjoyed the feeling, I cannot have my darling choking on my cock.”

“I was not choking,” you whine, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

“If you insist,” Zayne soothes, “but when we are married, I will have many more opportunities to watch you swallow my cock.”

The Emperor’s constant promise of marriage has your heart lurching and you lean forward, crushing your lips against his. He grunts in surprise at your sudden action but returns the kiss just as eagerly, squeezing at your hips.

You whine into his mouth, his hair tickling your skin as he presses forward, his hips rolling up into yours. You can feel his hard cock between your thighs, the length dragging between your folds. 

Zayne groans at the sensation, his head falling back and you take the opportunity to kiss down his neck, rolling your hips wantonly, your nails digging into his broad shoulders.

“Who are you?” he whispers, groping the fat of your ass.

“W- what?” you pull back, confusion spreading across your face.

The Emperor guides your hips to continue moving, your folds hugging his cock as you grind against it.

“Who are you?” Zayne asks again, “your title, what is it?”

Pleasure has made your mind hazy, and you can’t discern whether he’s playing a game of some sort with his questions, or whether he’s suffering from some sort of untimely amnesia.

“Your concubine,” you reply, “I thought-”

You jolt in his arms when he suddenly lands a heavy spank to your ass, his eyes narrowing when he hears your answer.

“Incorrect,” Zayne murmurs, his hand squeezing your ass in warning.

“I am your concubine- ah!”

Zayne shakes his hand, spanking you twice. You can feel the prickly heat spread across your skin, the pain searing. You glare up at him, and he smiles back, his hand smoothing over your reddened backside. 

“Who are you, my love?” he whispers, his nose nudging yours.

Oh. Oh. 

The Emperor’s insistence is a remarkable thing, you think. He may be even more stubborn than you are. Zayne’s fingers tapping against your cheek brings you out of your thoughts, your eyes meeting his. 

“I- I am your Empress,” you say quietly.

“Precisely.”

Zayne slots his lips over yours and you mewl, your hips beginning to rock again, inner thighs wet with your slick and his pre-cum smeared over his abdomen. He kisses you over and over until you’re short of breath and your lips are swollen and slick with his spit.

“Will you take my cock, my love?” 

“Y- yes,” you say airily, lifting your hips as he grips the base of his cock, “please.”

Zayne squeezes your hip, watching as you bite your lip and sink down on his cock. His cock is just as girthy as you remember, filling up your needy hole perfectly. Your body falls forward at the feeling and Zayne kisses your cheek, his arms wrapping around your waist.

“Always take my cock so well,” he praises.

Your hands plant themselves against his chest as your head tips back, taking what you want from him. Hips rising and falling, airy moans filling the air, you ride the Emperor. Zayne moans with you, his hands kneading at the flesh of your sides before drifting to take handfuls of your ass too.

“So good,” you slur, the force of your movements increasing, “feels so good, Zayne.”

“I know,” Zayne whispers, watching the bounce and sway of your breasts as you move atop him, “use me, my love.”

You do as he says, using him to drive yourself further to the edge of pleasure. The sounds filling the throne room are lewd, the clap of skin echoing throughout coupled with your shared noises.

Your thighs burn as you roll your hips, taking his cock deeper into the heat of your cunt, feeling it punch into the most sensitive spot inside of you. It’s too much, the mind-numbing sensations and your own body tiring with every movement.

You slump against him, hips slowing to a pitiful stop, his fat cock still stuffed inside of you. It twitches and you whimper, peering up at Zayne desperately.

“Husbands should take care of their wives,” you mumble, lips pressing against his.

“But we are not yet married,” he whispers teasingly. 

Zayne kisses you slowly, his hand sliding up your neck and stopping to cup your cheek. He molds you to his will, maneuvering your body as he sees fit, grabbing at every inch of flesh he can reach.

“But I am yours,” you say earnestly, “and I will be yours till the day I die.”

“You will, won’t you?” Zayne smiles, drawing you closer, “nothing makes me happier, my dear.”

You wail when he suddenly ruts up into you, balls slapping against your ass as he tightens his grip to bounce you up and down on his lap. Your hands lose their holds on his shoulders, scrabbling for stability until you find purchase on the top of his throne. 

The Emperor is fucking you on his throne. 

You try to feel some sense of mortification, but you can’t, the feeling of his cock erasing all sensible thoughts from your mind. Zayne slaps your ass and you squeak, body falling forward even more. Your breasts press into his face and you whine when he mouths at them, sucking a hardened nipple into his mouth.

The Emperor’s name leaves your mouth in a pleading chant and he answers your needs, pulling you down until your cunt is flush with the base of his cock, pussy swallowing up his length completely. Zayne slows to a grind, keeping his cock stuffed inside of you. 

You curl an arm around his neck, hugging him closer to your breasts and Zayne groans, his mouth opening wider to try and take in your entire breast. He stares up at you, the flush on his cheeks deepened and eyes so, so soft. 

Your lips slot over his as soon as his mouth detaches from your breast, your lips working against his slowly and sweetly, hips swaying back to meet the slow thrusts of his hips.

“You have ruined me,” you confess, cheek resting on his shoulder.

“Better it be me than some other man,” he whispers.

You agree with him on that. Zayne has given you far more than you could’ve possibly dreamed, the twist of fate bringing you something, or rather, someone to cherish.

“You are everything, Zayne.”

He groans at your bold words, his head falling back against his throne. You come undone in slow waves, body trembling as he comes with you, his cock kicking inside of you as hot cum spurts from the tip, filling you up. You can feel the thickness of it, cum spilling into you for a few moments longer as your hips slow to a stop.

You both breathe heavily, his chest moving under yours. A thin sheen of sweat covers your bodies, robes forgotten as they lie at the foot of the throne. 

A soft smile graces your lips as you move his hair out of his eyes, tilting his head to kiss his forehead.

“You spoil me,” Zayne mutters, nuzzling into your palm.

“I think it is the other way around,” you laugh breathlessly.

He sighs, slumping in his throne, his cock still inside of you. You can feel it softening, no longer plugging you full as cum begins to leak out from your pussy.

“I may need more tea,” you whisper.

Zayne huffs in amusement, his fingers collecting his viscous cum. He smears it across your pussy, his fingers catching onto your clit as he rubs his cum onto the little bud. He lifts his hand to your mouth and you accept eagerly, staring into his eyes as you suck his fingers clean of cum.

“Minx,” he mutters.

You giggle, kissing the pads of his fingers affectionately, shifting to sit on his thigh. Zayne smiles in return, his hands massaging your sore thighs. He kisses your cheek a few times, peppers a few kisses here and there over your shoulder.

“Feeling better?” Zayne asks, nuzzling your cheek.

“Much,” you whisper, smiling up at him, “but I fear I may not be able to walk.”

“Shall I carry you again?” the Emperor whispers.

You roll your eyes, prodding your fingers into his chest, “I did not enjoy that.”

“Lying is punishable by death.”

“You are insufferable,” you whisper.

Zayne leans forward for another kiss, but you deny him, slipping off of his lap. He laughs when your thighs tremble, reaching out to catch you by the waist before your knees buckle.

He tugs you onto his lap, thwarting your escape as he kisses you again. You think you won’t be leaving this place anytime soon.

-

Zayne doesn’t think there’s anything more beautiful in this world than when you’re sleeping. 

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the sweet innocence of your face, your hair splayed against the pillows, the gods must favor him for they’ve sent him a vision.

He smiles as he watches you stir in your sleep, brushing away the hair that’s fallen onto your face. Zayne can’t resist leaning closer, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek, feeling your soft skin under his.

Zayne likes it when you smile, when you glare, the way you protest against his subtle teases. He’s never met someone as endearing as you, never bothered to take interest in another until you came along with that tray of tea clutched in your hands. He hasn’t told you about how his own heart flutters at the mere thought of you, and doesn’t think he will. He’d be better off showing you instead.

Above all, he remembers when you’d stumbled into his chambers, your flustered disposition as you’d apologized. He’d been lonely before you, trapped in a dull existence with others meandering through his life without purpose.

But you’ve changed things now. He feels free when he hears your laugh, the light in your eyes warming him from within. The world around him seems brighter, sparks of color appearing in places he had never seen before. 

You had painted the world for him.

[lxvvie]

HEAR ME OUT BECAUSE:

You moan his name too softly.

Barely a breath. Barely a sound. But he hears it.

And Johnny stops. Mid-lick. His breath fans hot over your soaked cunt as he lifts his head, eyes gone dark, chest heaving like you just insulted his family name.

“That you?” he rasps. “Whisperin’ my name like it’s some secret?”

(nah, we're not doin' that.)

He spits. Right on your cunt. Doesn’t even blink. Lets it drip down over your folds and watches it mix with your slick—his slick, the one he pulled from you with nothing but mouth and fingers and filthy words.

Then he lowers his head. And tongues it back up.

Slow. Purposeful. Tongue flat, dragging through the mess he's made, because he wants your voice ringing off the goddamn walls.

Like I just know he's making your punishment his mission because how dare you try to keep quiet? Afraid of the guys hearing ya? Ghost the colossal oaf could sleep through celestial horns and the skies cracking open, Gaz prob staring at a wall with his airpods on, pretending he isn't listening (i won't tell you he's got a hand down his pants but-) and Price'll just grunt and go back to reading some reports. Makes the same noise when his tea's shit.

An aside, but Price would absolutely be the one bloke who’ll be in the room reading reports while one of the boys is getting his cock wet. It’s pretty much background noise to him. May raise his eyebrows depending on what he hears but for the most part, he’s silent. And proud. Attaboy. Ghost is the fucker who you think is asleep (because he may or may not be snoring), but will make a comment later on—“Mm, birdie nearly screamed my ears off, mate.” Dammit, Ghost.

And as for Soap, it’s as if you committed blasphemy what with the way you’re so… quiet. All this sweet cunt lovin’, bonnie, and you’re QUIET as a church mouse?

Fuck. No.

Soap does you one better, makes it equal parts heaven and hell. You can’t come, bonnie. Not yet. Not until everyone in the room and nearest vicinity knows who’s servicing that pretty pussy of yours. Soap has you grabbing any and everything to keep yourself sane as best as possible, but he ain’t letting up for shit. Edging you with his mouth, tongue, and fingers, and he’s brought you close to the edge plenty of times before stopping and making you say his name.

Cheers, boys! Yer getting an earful.

And yes, Kyle’s harder than fuckin’ diamonds and no amount of horror podcasts is helping keep his dick soft. Fuck.

[bowtiepasta]

indulging: gn!reader, implied ptsd, brief gun, reverse comfort, established relationship, soft and retired si, possibly ooc since this is my first cod piece in a minute. be nice please

you light an old candle in the kitchen, one saved from new years, and call his name, but he’s already moving—boots by the door, checking windows. old habits really never die, do they?

“it’s just a fuse, si.”

he doesn’t answer. instead of a switch box, you hear the click of a gun you didn’t know was loaded.

“simon.” you say, softer this time, stepping into the shadow of his silhouette. “it’s okay.”

when you see his shoulders sag, you usher him into the living room, careful to mind all the trinkets and memories now decorating your home despite not being able to see them without squinting.

with his head in your lap he tells you, in that voice like gravel and apology, that he’s been anxious for days.

you shift beneath him to reach the blanket draped over the back of the couch—navy, soft and frayed from too many washes, the one he pretends not to favor but always ends up loafed under anyway.

you tug it down and drape it over his back, fixing it when it catches on his shoulder, smoothing over the edge by the curve of his neck where his dog tags leave faint, irritated lines. they aren’t there tonight. he hasn’t worn them in the house for months now.

the wind rattles weakly against the kitchen window. the kind of sound that used to make him check all the locks again—three times over, sometimes four. he doesn’t move. that’s a win in your book.

you yawn. “did you eat today?”

he hums, which isn’t a yes.

the candle’s almost halfway gone now. it burns faintly of pine and smoke, same as the scarf you wrapped around him back in january when he came in from shoveling the walk and couldn’t feel his fingers.

“there’s leftover stew in the fridge,” you add. “with the carrots cut how you like. plus, i found the crackers that don’t go soggy in five seconds.”

his shoulders twitch in a small, grateful laugh.

“you spoil me.”

“i keep you alive, baby.”

his lids open, closing again when you lean down to press your lips to them. “so spoiled.”

your thumb moves along his temple, grazing the spots where his hair grows in uneven. he’d tried trimming it himself last month, stubborn over the bathroom sink with dull scissors and curses under his breath. you’d happily taken over, guided his chin with your fingers, smiled through the steam despite the way he never quite met your eyes in the mirror. now that same temple twitches under your touch, a small tell.

power’s still out. the hum of the fridge is slowly dying down, the candle sputters and spits when the draft rolls in. you think about the leftovers on the stove, simmering in the pot because you always forget to put it away until you’re both already in bed.

you nose at the crown of his head. “i refilled the tea tins,” you yawn again, and he follows suit. “moved them to the left side of the cabinet so you’ll stop knocking over the sugar in the morning.”

“i’m sorry i scared you,” he shifts on your lap, nuzzling your thigh while his head’s elsewhere.

“you didn’t.”

“i clicked the bloody gun.”

“we’re both still here aren’t we?” you’re quick, and he scratches another notch in his metaphorical bedpost, for all the times he thought you wouldn’t have anything to say back but did. he’s starting to believe you were made for him, in every sense of the phrase.

outside, the wind pushes against the window like it wants in, but here—here, the room glows faintly gold. the fuse is still blown, hallway still dark, kettle as good as dead. even so your home is warm with old blankets and old habits, and a man who doesn’t quite know how to rest, but tries anyway, in your lap.

idk idk idk idk i missed him and spat this out think whatever you want i feel too sleepy and soggy to proofread

consider reblogging, commenting, or sending an ask if you enjoyed. thank you for reading ! ♥︎ do not copy, edit, or repost, any of my content on any platforms.

[yungistiny]

camgirl ═ chapter two

[ S. Mingi ]

chapter two: spike

╚═════════

summary: mingi just really needs some cash and he was told all he had to do was hold a camera. simple enough. he just didn’t anticipate the type of content he’d be helping to create

warning: emo mingi, stoner mingi, switch mingi, switch reader, mingi is hung, creampie, unprotected sex, choking, spanking, masturbation, rough sex, degradation, size kink, spitting, deep throating

pairing: mingi x afab/reader

genre: smut, angst, drama, romance

word count: 3.5K

chapter one

chapter three

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Mingi was sat in the cushioned and actually really fucking comfortable pink computer chair as y/n grabbed everything she needed for this particular livestream. His eyes never left her, taking in the toys she sat on her bed, the two white towels she went and grabbed from the bathroom.

He never looked away from her until his phone alerted him of a new message. Mingi was tempted to ignore it but grabbed his phone from his pocket, unlocking it and rolling his eyes at the name that stared back at him.

woo: are you with y/n??

mangi: I’m gonna kill you

woo: please you love me right now

mangi: 🖕

woo: 😣

woo: I got a bet with y/n on how long you’ll last 😌

mangi: how much?

woo: just $100

woo: she thinks you won’t make it before the first orgasm but I bet her you’ll go all the way hard and all 🫡

Mingi looked back at y/n as she pulled her thick pink comforter blanket off the bed, folding it and placing it on small pink cushioned stool she moved from the end of her bed to the side.

She thought he wouldn’t last?

Y/N turned around, why was she suddenly nervous under Mingi’s gaze? She’s literally had thousands of strangers watch her get herself off but the dark heat in her new cameraman’s eyes flustered her. “You ready?”

Mingi removed his glasses, sitting them on her desk behind him as he stood, grabbing the camera back up and turning it on. He connected to the streaming site she had showed him, ready to go live on her signal with already over 300 viewers waiting for it to start.

“When I give you this signal,” y/n gave him a come here movement with her index finger, the almond shaped black nail, a stark contrast to the pink, much like Mingi himself, very tempting. “zoom in, or if I use my middle finger that way, change the angle a bit.”

Mingi darted his pierced tongue out, distracting y/n a brief moment as he wetted his lips. “Got it.” His voice was almost unrecognizable from how deep it had gotten and y/n had to pretend like it wasn’t him the cause of the arousal slick wetting her underwear.

“Just a second..” She sat atop her bed, legs crisscrossed and Mingi briefly caught the glimpse of the wetness soaking through her pink Calvin Kleins. He bit his lip to keep from smirking. “Ok, start it.” Y/N looked so innocent with her hands placed in her lap and all the pink and fuck Mingi wanted to ruin her and he didn’t care how many watched.

The second they went live, Mingi had to get a hold of himself because he knows she was looking into the camera but the smirk she sent directly towards it, towards him, he could already feel his dick twitch.

He watched her read comments that viewers were leaving from the stream on her phone, she did that for a few minutes before sitting the phone down and pulling herself up onto her knees.

Mingi followed her movements, zooming in as she reached for the pink silicon dildo she had decided to get out for this stream. It wasn’t big but it also wasn’t too small and he briefly wondered if she could take him? One thing Mingi would always be cocky about is having a big dick.

And he was certainly bigger than the dildos and vibrators he’d seen in her cabinet.

Mingi glanced back towards the computer monitor where the livestream was also being displayed, the views already growing over a thousand quickly, the chat and comments section spammed by all the horny anonymous fans and viewers.

“I feel like today you all deserve to be teased.” Her voice was so dominant when she said it, so sultry and hot that Mingi knew this was gonna be a difficult situation to keep his cool. Though he had no control over his dick getting hard. “I have a new cameraman….” Her lustfull gaze stared right at him, smirk growing as the viewers spammed even more comments at the mention of Mingi being there too. “and I want to see how long he can last.”

Fuck. Mingi clenched his jaw and followed her with the camera as she slowly removed her shirt, a pink lace bra kept her breast hidden still but Mingi was already hard as hell and he didn’t care if she noticed the prominent bulge in his baggy jeans or not.

Y/N reached for the small pink vibrator, something she always used during her streams, it connecting with the streaming site so viewers who paid a little extra could control the settings however they wanted. She held it by the long little tail, never breaking eye contact with Mingi. “What do you all think…” she bit her lip, looking directly into the camera. “should I play with him?” She giggled, feigning innocence. “Maybe next time?”

Next time? What the fuck did she mean play with him? Mingi watched her pull her Calvin Kleins off, feeling as if he were being tortured as she gave him the signal to zoom into her naked, bare, soaking wet cunt. He had to bite back a deep moan at the sight of her leaning back, spreading her legs open and pushing the small pink vibrator inside of her, the little pink tail the only part left visible.

It took everything in him for Mingi to not just join her in the livestream right then and there at the sound of the moan that left her.

“Spike..” it took Mingi a long moment to realize y/n was talking to him, masking his real name with a false one that had him curious as to why Spike? He didn’t speak, looking at her with an arched brow. “Get on your knees.”

What? Mingi furrowed his brows together as y/n gave him a commanding stare. “Now.”

Fuck.

Did she act like this with the others? Did she do this to Wooyoung? Mingi steadied the camera, kneeling to one knee first then the other, never breaking eye contact with y/n as he went. “Come here.” She gave him that come here movement with her finger but it was certainly not a signal to zoom in.

Mingi slid across the carpeted floor, his jeans snagging slightly before he stopped right directly in front of y/n at the foot of her bed.

“Do you want to help me?” She held a teasing tone but her question was meant to ask for his consent and Mingi was nodding so quickly he almost gave himself a head rush.

Mingi was sure this wasn’t part of the actual job but shit, at this point he’d work for free. “Show me your hand.” Y/N bit her lip as he held up his free hand to her, his right hand that had a chunky metal ring on the index, middle finger and thumb. And fuck they were long.

“Go ahead,” She smiled sweetly down at him and Mingi was so hard, almost achingly so, as he glanced down towards her aching cunt right in front of him. “while I see what our viewers are saying.” Y/N picked her phone up to start scrolling and occasionally reading out comments.

Mingi looked at the camera in his other hand and frowned for a second before reaching his long arm out to place the camera on top of the blanket on the little cushioned pink stool.

“Fuck…” Y/N gasped, eyes wide as Mingi dived in, tongue already flat against her clit, his piercing a new sensation she had never experienced before as it added an extra little tickling sensation that was causing that familiar tightness and heat to pool in her lower abdomen.

Mingi didn’t give a shit who saw him. Who was witnessing him eat her like a starved man. Because it was him having her suddenly a moaning mess. He was practically growling into her as he tasted everything he could. And fuck he was already becoming completely pussy drunk.

Y/N threaded a hand into his hair, grinding herself against him, the camera angled just perfectly on them. The views grew, the comments spammed madly, all demanding more of Spike.

“Mi…. Spike…” y/n felt her legs wrap around him, shaking slightly as he sucked her clit into his mouth, reaching a hand up as multiple donations came through sending the little pink vibrator on a constant high as Mingi grasped the tail, thrusting it into her deeper, pulling it back out only to do it again.

“I’m… fuck…” y/n couldn’t even form anything remotely coherent, her walls clenching around the vibrator and an actual scream leaving her, mumbling into a whimpering moan as she came the second Mingi thrusted the vibrator against her g spot.

Mingi pulled his head back, smirking when he snatched the vibrator from her, y/n gripping his hair hard as she rode out her orgasm.

But he wasn’t done and y/n certainly wasn’t reading comments as Mingi stood up, flipping her over and pulling her up against him, back to his chest as Mingi lifted her, facing them directly towards the camera.

Mingi kept most his face hidden in the crook of her neck, one sharp eye gazing into the camera as he spoke. “I’m not done helping you yet.”

Y/N knew fucked dumb already because the livestream was the last thing on her mind when Mingi’s arm wrapped around her and his hand cupped her before sinking two of his long thick fingers into her, curving them and poking at that spongey spot that had her moaning again, head thrown back against his chest and whimpering when she felt his thumb start rubbing at her slightly overstimulated clit.

Was she fucking crying? She knew she was being loud because she could hear herself though it sounded as if she were hearing under water.

And then she was coming again, definitely whimpering and crying from the high of it as Mingi fucked her through it with his fingers. Y/N gripping at his arm wrapped around her, nails digging into him as she shook and started squirting on her carpeted floor and all over Mingi’s hand, some of it even spraying the camera lens.

And now she owed Wooyoung money but she didn’t care because it had been a while since anyone else made her come and having Mingi have her like that in front of who knows how many viewers had y/n on an adrenaline high.

She’d never had anyone else with her like that during a stream. Y/N didn’t really think Mingi would do anything when she teased him but now she could kiss Wooyoung for sending him to her.

Mingi waited until she relaxed in his hold, sitting her back down on the edge of her bed as he walked over to pick the camera back up, sucking his fingers clean and snatching one of the towels y/n had gotten in case of a mess to wipe the lens off.

Y/N looked into the camera, the stream letting everyone see her dazed and fucked out expression and Mingi was smirking, his tongue poking out as he waited for her to continue.

He looked back at the computer and his eyes widened at the views. Over 5000 and counting. 5000 people just watched him make a mess of y/n and he briefly wondered if anyone he knew was watching too….

Y/N reached for her forgotten phone where it lay beside the little pink vibrator Mingi pulled out of her.

The views were a new high for her, the comments begging for more of Mingi, or Spike. Donations were plenty and y/n knew then that Mingi was about to become a permanent fixture in her streams.

Mingi was surprised and shockingly a little disappointed when y/n ended the stream after promising everyone that Spike would be back.

“Well,” Y/N grabbed one of the towels wiping herself dry before pulling her Calvin Kleins back on, followed by her shirt. “they love you.”

Mingi sat the camera back on the desk, grabbing his glasses. “I didn’t like….” He pushed the black rimmed frames back up the bridge of his nose. “overstep anything, did I?” He had certainly got blindsided by lust for a moment.

“No.” Y/N was swiping away at her phone, pulling up her contacts. “Took me off guard a little though.” She smiled at him and Mingi felt his heart flutter. What the fuck was that?

“What’s your number?”

They exchanged numbers and y/n also sent him his payment to his account.

“I’m doing another stream Friday,” Mingi followed behind her back downstairs, the city life now dark out. “same time, get here a little early though.” Y/N watched him slip his combat boots back on.

“Also….” She bit her bottom lip, pulling it between her teeth. “what do you think about a blowjob next time?” Her gaze lingered down to the prominent bulge in his jeans.

Her question had Mingi freeze with his hand on the doorknob. “What?” She wanted to give him head? She wanted to take him right in front of everyone? “You sure you want everyone to see how much of a mess I’ll make you?”

Mingi grinned at her, opening the door, biting back a smirk at the way y/n stood speechless behind him.

“See you Friday.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

It was getting colder out, his long sleeved shirt not doing much for Mingi against the chilly night wind as he stared down at the atm receipt in his hand.

With the money his mom sent him and what he had just made from helping y/n, 1.2 million won sat in his account. Mingi grinned, the broody and moping mood he had been in now gone. He sent his mom back the money she had given him earlier that day and went to his weed man’s contact.

Johnny Suh had been Mingi’s dealer since freshman year of college. He lived only a couple of blocks from Mingi’s own apartment building. He had just gotten back to his side of the city after leaving y/n and really needed a blunt. He had smoked all his stash earlier.

Johnny let the call ring four times before he answered it. “Well, well, well…” he sounded amused, a bit teasing. “I’m assuming you’re coming over? How much?”

Mingi told him what he needed, ending the call and shoved his phone into his pocket and starting the walk over, just passing the convenience store Wooyoung worked at, gasping when someone snatched him pulling him inside.

“What the fuck?” Mingi glared at Wooyoung as he turned the stores open sign off, staring at Mingi in shock. “I should be asking you that!”

Wooyoung was grinning crazy at him, giggling. “That was the best stream y/n has ever done!”

“You watched it?” Mingi shoved Wooyoung off of him. “Of course I did! I had to make sure I won the bet.” He smirked at Mingi, loving the fact he had been right. He knew if there was one person that could match y/n freak, it would certainly be Song Mingi.

“You were the one that said I’d be perfect for the job.” Mingi was giving him that crooked grin of his, Wooyoung eyeing his hand as Mingi fixed his glasses. The same hand and fingers that deliciously had y/n fucked out only a little time ago.

“Are you going back?” Wooyoung saw the way y/n gaze had watched Mingi in the stream, saw the want and need in her eyes. “Friday.” Mingi answered, moving past Wooyoung to grab some munchie food for later while he was there.

“Y/N never let anyone join her before like that.” Wooyoung followed him around the store as Mingi picked up numerous ramen, some chips and a few sodas. “She usually puts a rule down beforehand.”

Mingi dropped all his stuff down on the counter, Wooyoung going back behind it to ring everything up. “Not once?” Now Mingi was curious, why was he the exception?

“Nope.” Wooyoung smirked as Mingi pulled his phone back out to tap to pay. “Well, I still have a hard on and I need to go pick up my weed…” it was true too. His bulge was no longer prominent after the taxi ride back but it was certainly still aching and all Mingi wanted right now was a blunt and a cold shower.

“Ok, ok,” Wooyoung was done messing with him, turning the open sign back on. “but don’t I at least get a thank you?”

Mingi flipped him off on his way out, grinning the entire time as he gripped the shopping bag with all his snacks inside.

Wooyoung pouted, feigning hurt.

“Rude.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

“Well,” Johnny opened his apartment door, grinning at Mingi. “if it isn’t Spike!”

Mingi’s eyes widened when the name registered. “You watched it too?” Wooyoung was enough but Johnny too? They were never gonna stop pestering him about it. How many more of his friends were fans of y/n?

“I’d recognize your ass anywhere, Spike.” Johnny smirked at him as he let Mingi inside where Johnny’s best friend and roommate, Jaehyun, was sitting on the couch, bong in hand, smoke blowing from his mouth and coughing a little.

“Aye,” Jaehyun grinned at Mingi and Mingi already knew he saw it too. “Spike!”

Johnny laughed as he grabbed Mingi’s baggy, the weed concealed inside a solid neon green ziplock. “Jaehyun tried it once, didn’t last ten minutes.”

“Hey!” Jaehyun glared at Johnny. So Jaehyun had tried to help y/n before? Mingi assumed with Johnny being Wooyoung’s dealer too, that his friend must of been the one to send him. “It’s not my fault she’s hot!”

Mingi played with his tongue piercing, contemplating. Jaehyun was a very attractive guy with a voice to match so again, why was Mingi the exception for y/n to let him join her?

“So everyone knows it was me?” Mingi really didn’t care, something in him awakening and loving that y/n only let him join her. Loved that everyone knew how good he could get her off. How much of a mess he could make her.

“You’re the only 6ft emo we know with pink hair.” Johnny snorted as he sat down beside Jaehyun, grabbing the bong and repacking the bowl. “And you weren’t exactly discreet.”

Mingi stayed at Johnny’s long enough for Jaehyun to interrogate him on how he got y/n to let him join only to answer him with a shrug every time as he got in a few hits from the bong before shoving his bag of weed into the waistband of his underwear and leaving.

San was watching a cooking video on tiktok when Mingi got home, standing in the kitchen with a bowl of something red that Mingi did not want to know what it was. San was a horrible cook. Byeol hopped onto the kitchen counter, sniffing the red substance in the mixing bowl before hissing and jumping back down.

“What the hell are you cooking?” Mingi reached down to pat Byeol as she rubbed against his leg, sniffing him. “I’m trying to make kimchi.” San didn’t remove his gaze from his phone. Mingi snorted. “Good luck with that.” He went to his room, dropping his bag of snacks onto his bed before walking across the hall to the bathroom.

His shower started out cold, Mingi slowly easing it to warm after his hard on had subsided but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get y/n out of his head. Her moans. Her scent. Everything was invading him and refusing to leave him alone.

The shower head poured over him, steam enveloping the bathroom as Mingi gripped himself in his hand, closing his eyes and picturing y/n on her knees in those little knee high socks. It was only Tuesday and he wouldn’t see her again until Friday.

Mingi slowly started to stroke himself, his imagination giving him the perfect image of what he wanted Friday. Y/N had practically asked if she could give him head and he was certainly not going to deny her.

“Fuck…” he bit his bottom lip as his strokes grew faster, pants leaving him as he could only imagine how heavy he’d feel on her tongue. Ached to see how far she could take him. How long she could go while he fucked her mouth, make her gag and become a complete ruined mess.

He came just as San knocked on the door saying he was ordering Chinese instead after giving up on his attempt at kimchi.

Mingi couldn’t care less.

He just needed it to hurry up and be Friday already.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @dejatiny @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @hannahlilibet411

[zstartrixxx]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲

ᵖᵃᵗʳᶦᶜᵏ ˢᵘᵐⁿᵉʳ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝᵖᵘᵖᶦˡꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You are the favorite student of Patrick Sumner, a man with a past that even he cannot face. Drowning in the murky waters of an ambiguous relationship, your tutor numbs his emotional wounds with the medicinal use of a specific herb. As the two of you weave this strange bond—one that only you truly understand—he eventually gives in to your whims, introducing you to his own way of relaxing. What begins as a shared indulgence soon deepens your conversations, revealing Sumner’s most primal and untamed side—a side he only reveals with you. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: I HAD to write this right after finishing (for the second time) the series along with the book. I HAD to. after this fanfic we will return to our normal programming. i pictured him exactly like this one look from him in the series. the research was as deep as a saucer but that's it, as i said this is more like an outline of a work than a work in its entirety, BUT i left few external links that i found interesting on the subject ;) maybe i'm a little crazy for having imagined the entire climax scene of this here while actually listening to the title song non-stop. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. CANON-DIVERGENT ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE. angst, medicinal drug use (marijuana), mention of past traumas, tutor x pupil dynamics (here both are of legal age), light mention of phlebotomy (it's basically a type of blood puncture); smut: stoned sex, rough sex, brutal behavior, p in v, rev cowgirl, spit, oral!sex (both), praise and soft!dom behaviour (kinda both), cry in the sex (why not?), whinning!patrick. others: metaphors present in the song such as drainage and a type of cannibalism. sad!patrick, independent!reader. perhaps some historical anachronisms. references to the series and the book, but they are very subtle. use of german (engel for angel, nickname of the reader). 𝐖𝐂: 9.3k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖯𝖠𝖳𝖱𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖲𝖴𝖬𝖭𝖤𝖱 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"chew your meat for you, pass it back and forth in a passionate kiss, from my mouth to yours. i like you!" (drain you, nirvana)

1.

1862.

Berlin, Capital of the Kingdom of Prussia.

Behold the man.

He walks elegantly through the sea of people in that sumptuous Prussian ballroom—mostly Junkers, landowners of great fortune from their vast families, whose money originated from the earliest German burgs. They were burly men with large, thick, graying mustaches, petite women with severe expressions, and plump children full of a health that only good nourishment could provide. Patrick Sumner genuinely gave no importance to any of these people, with all the genuineness of his being—or what he once was—he couldn't care less about noble titles, surnames full of "h", "y" and "w", or what was the supposed divine providence of their ancestors.

His eyes, darkened by the black velvet lapels of his frock coat, mapped the people swimming like fish in schools of different species and sizes around him—there was the von Moltke family in an isolated corner, and on the other side of the hall shouting, the von Roons. Men dressed in expensive, fine tailcoats and others in military uniforms proudly displaying their ranks while women dressed in the fashion of the time: puffed dresses clinging to their bodies, corsets made with whalebone (previously scraped and perfumed) tightened at the waist, some with fans to wave away the fetid breath from men's mouths or to hide smiles yellowed from excess sugar in their tea. The smell that reached Sumner's sensitive nostrils in waves was a mixture of talcum perfume with musk and vanilla pods, concentrated whiskey, Oriental cigars and a slight odor of sweat accumulated in the heavy pieces of some uniforms that hadn't seen contact with clean water and soap for weeks.

He wrinkles his nose, adjusts his mustache, leans on his solid wood cane to support his slightly lame leg—a war souvenir from the times of English occupation in India. On his body, clothes well-ironed by the maid: pure cotton trousers and a tailcoat, both in black, the collar of the white dress shirt turned out, a red bow tie and black alligator leather boots on his feet; he dressed the part, like a count. Though he preferred earthier tones—he felt profoundly more himself when wearing brown, beige, pale yellow, russet-red suits and trousers—exceptionally for the occasion, he was entirely in black. Standing out beyond the bow tie were his iron-blue eyes and posture. Colleagues from Berlin's Charité pass by him, greeting him with tips of their polished top hats.

Patrick's German is as heavy and broken as his English, but what he learned in those little over three years living there, almost like a local, was more than enough to communicate with professors and patients. He lived immersed in his own Anglo-Irish bubble: some immigrant surgeon colleagues like himself, there alone for studies or with their families for work, living in an almost-village of native speakers that united them, as well as in his relatively large property, a red-brick mansion with wooden floors, large rooms and spaces he himself hardly used completely—a whim for someone who had lived a life squeezed between small boarding house rooms, military tents and the claustrophobic cabin of a whaling ship. He lived there with two English maids to take care of the house, a Prussian housekeeper, a French cook and his pet cats.

So as not to feel so alone he decided on impulse to adopt some animal—as he couldn't indulge the almost sadistic happiness of spoiling a polar bear, for obvious reasons—he opted for something smaller, independent yet volatile, cute and needy, much like he saw himself since setting foot in that austere and polished capital: a cute little cat, which ended up bringing him many more, who curled at his feet on cold nights, meowing for food by day and flattering him or keeping him company when he retired to his office to study. He had lost count of how many, but never their names—and thinking of them brought a small corner smile to his face, like the one he wore now as he walked feeling out the room, identifying near the enormous windows with fresh white snow stuck to their edges, who he wanted to find.

The British-origin family consisted of a father, a well-established surgeon in the Prussian Empire for at least a decade and a half, a society lady wife who taught etiquette and English to young girls whose dowry might match the value of Sumner's property, two daughters—one seventeen, full of curiosity and vitality, the other twenty-three, equally curious—but quieter—and Der kleine Prinz (The Little Prince), the promising future of that family. Sumner found this utterly ridiculous because among them was the most brilliant and sharpest mind he had met in his thirty years of age: you.

The eldest daughter, you carried the weight of the obligation to marry some bourgeois young man (better yet if aristocratic), but who broke expectations by firmly planting your feet on the ground to contradict father and mother by declaring loud and clear that her dream was to be in her father's field. He heard it had been a massive fight, the father himself, usually so jovial and portly, was hurt and didn't speak to her for weeks, with the mother acting as intermediary; it was at this moment that Sumner appeared: in this man's life and in yours, almost like some lesser saint who definitively interceded and supported your cause. He had just received his employment contract from Berlin's Charité, and service instructions and also studies at the University, when the man who was his superior, seemingly touched by his good looks or his manner, dumped all his sorrows in his lap. Patrick was sharp as a scalpel: "Let her be what she wants, sir. If she regrets the choice, you can tell her 'see, I warned you!', and direct her to a husband."

The man seemed struck by near-divine illumination. He vigorously shook Sumner's hand, thanked him repeatedly, almost jumping, and the next day Sumner was already scheduled—ahead of many other veteran interns—to stand beside the chief surgeon. This certainly stroked his ego. But what left him ecstatic was when, days after the offhand conversation, his superior and now mentor, made him a request:

"Sumner, I know this may not be your way or perhaps not something you've done before... But before my beloved daughter makes the decisive move to go to London, to the Nightingale Training School for Nurses, I wanted to know if you'd be willing—of course for a good amount of appropriate thalers—to act as a sort of instructor to her..."

Patrick frowned, in his doctor's attire—a white apron over his black medical tailcoat—, leaning outside the hospital, smoking his pipe with a relaxing and meticulously calculated mix of cannabis sativa and tobacco, looking at him with a mix of curiosity and lethargy. The man clasped his hands in supplication:

"Please, Sumner, I only believe and trust in you and your ethics to leave my precious daughter alone with you. I'm thinking of expository and practical lessons about the nursing field, could be here, at my house or even at yours, I hear you're setting up your private practice there... She could assist you too. Take a liking or not. You'll decide. I'll pay very well, no doubt about that."

Sumner lost track of when the union of the words "money" with "happiness" had occurred to him, probably after he galloped away from Baxter's house with an almost sacrilegious amount of cash in hand, but after learning that money does bring happiness, everything about it caught his attention. His salary at Charité was appropriate for his position—no complaints. He'd also invested in small banking ventures that yielded excellent returns, but the more, the better.

He smiled with stretched lips, teeth gleaming, extended his hand to thank and accept the proposal, barely knowing the man's prodigal daughter. When he met you, he was even more certain he hadn't made a wrong decision. Once, marveling at how you handled surgical tools, on a Saturday afternoon at your father's house, Sumner didn't let escape his mouth: "How lucky I am to have met you, Engel!" (Angel)

You smiled between your teeth, between shyness and pride, eyes sparkling with a platonic passion for the beautiful man beside you, with hands behind your narrow back, breath fresh with mint leaves after a shot of cognac, returning to handle the scalpel and scissors in a meticulous incision made on a clean and sterilized pigskin. This was still your first month and it seemed your charismatic and sometimes taciturn presence had an effect on the remotely quiet man with a naturally melancholic spirit, who always hid behind iron-blue eyes or hibiscus-red lips some secret playing between crooked teeth. At least with you Sumner showed the bare minimum of something close to empathy. Not exactly affection or tenderness. Just a gracious state of recognition of your intelligence and cleverness mixed with the apathy of his being.

About five months later, bent over his mahogany desk, writing an essay he'd requested, you felt a warm, sweaty hand rest very tenderly on the back of your neck, warm, exposed by the collar of your simple white cotton dress; looking over your shoulder surprised, you caught his languid gaze with slightly reddened sclera, a soft smile and intention in his speech: "It's time to drain your blood, Engel. For the promotion of your monthly health."

Now, face to face with him, you maintain a polished smile but with a complicity embedded between lips and tooth enamel. Your father is excited by Sumner's magnetic presence, your mother nearly melts touching his shoulder while your younger sister chases the Little Prince, leaving you face to face with Patrick, who takes pride in his lessons;

"Mr. Sumner is a most respectable professional, very eloquent and above all: ethical!"

"Yes, it's not in my nature to be prideful but if there's one thing I am it's this: ethical."

He smiles broadly at the three of you, lingering on your face, before turning to your father.

You just hold back the almost mocking laugh between your throat and tongue that passes internally between the undulations of your teeth, allowing yourself a slight exhale through your nose.

Ethical, he said with all the words of his heavy English.

_____________________________________________

2.

Sumner was not ethical.

He was a liar—and yet he didn't lie as well as he thought.

Well, sometimes he succeeded with his omissions or lies, bidding farewell to the fool who believed his rehearsed words. Like your parents, completely hypnotized by the man. The truth was as simple and raw as the metallic taste of the blood that was pulsed monthly in your therapeutic phlebotomy sessions: for just over two months, or less, Sumner had been fucking you at nearly every meeting. 

It began that afternoon at his house, what was supposed to be a simple therapeutic session to administer vitamins and iron into your blood, turned into a first time both painful and almost clinical, with Sumner taking you heavily and slowly on the floor, your body half-naked—your breasts out of the décolletage, wet with saliva, and the heavy petticoats lifted, forming almost a frame of tulle ruffles mixed with cotton around Sumner's body, who like you was half-dressed: the brown vest and unbuttoned white shirt exposing his lean torso slightly defined by the sports he'd been practicing more assiduously, the suspenders fallen to the sides of his shoulders to loosen the linen pants that lightly scraped his thighs, his hard, throbbing cock out, wet, sliding into you slowly while he watched you, analyzing your expressions: when you squeezed your eyes and furrowed your brow, he took it as a painful sting, stopping his movements. When your expression eased and you pulsed around his cock, moaning hoarsely with an almost primal desire, he began thrusting again. They stayed like this for minutes until he came—outside, pulling away just enough to spill between your petticoat, watching the thick drops of cum stain the fabric with a livid smile. He looked at you seeing the panties tangled between your thighs, your breasts rising and falling breathlessly, the crystalline blood trickling from your wet slit. He knew you hadn't come, but he also knew there was satisfaction and almost relief in your expression.

It was deliberately you who started it all, there was no denying that.

Eager to quench the fire of desire for your tutor, without realizing, while he prepared the instruments for the puncture, you stumbled over words and actions, firmly grabbed his wrist, gave him your best pleading look and kissed him. Your first kiss resulted in your first sex with the man hired by your father to be your medical tutor. The kiss was strange and clumsy, just like the sex, but none of that stopped you from continuing. You wanted it and so you did.

"This certainly shouldn't have happened... There won't be a next time," he said somewhat harshly, tucking his soft cock back into his pants. You looked at him with some disbelief and noted that Sumner was a damn liar: his expression was far from regretful or guilty, on the contrary—there was a gleam in his ocean irises, a small smirk at the corner of his mouth, a shine on his forehead that stuck his bangs from the effort. Playing along with his lie, your hands gathered your breasts, bruised by the man's kisses and nibbles, back into the fabric, standing slightly to pull the pure cotton panties up to cover your intimacy:

"Alright, Patty. It'll be my first time with you and the last too."

Somehow the sarcasm in your phrase ignited in the man a symptom he didn't even know he could suffer: a kind of fear bordering on obsession at the thought of losing you. Losing you to some other man, perhaps in a higher position than his like so many other cowards who despised him, possessing you not just as a companion but as his pupil... It left him unsettled, almost in an anxious crisis that kept him awake all night. Luckily he remembered he had some grams of the miracle herb he'd started using to calm himself, preparing the smoke in his pipe, where in his bed isolated from the world, he let himself be possessed by the wave of lightness and relaxation, watching the corners of the dark room move in simple languor, closing his eyes to harvest a dreamless sleep.

He woke up alert, the cloudy day welcoming him.

The sex was on Saturday, and you would appear at his house that Sunday afternoon.

When you sat side by side at his desk, the first thing Patrick did was subtly touch your shoulder to get your attention—interrupting your ritual of taking your leather satchel belongings out—, clear his throat and say, straight to the point:

"As your tutor, I understand my responsibilities and know my rights and duties and—"

"Where the hell are you going with this, Patty?" Your tongue seemed sharper than his. Sumner sketched a short, sarcastic smile:

"If I could continue with my speech perhaps I could make myself understood."

"Alright, the one who interrupted you is no longer here..."

"Look, as I was saying," he showed no surprise at your mockery, adjusting in his chair, staring at you deeply, the words restless on his tongue to leave his mouth soon: "as your tutor, I have my experience in various areas of life, and given your decision yesterday I believe we can continue with our lessons... If you catch my meaning."

You stared at each other mutually. Patrick had a fullness in his face contrasting with the heavy gaze he carried, while you were read by him with a mix of genuine surprise and an expectation that vibrated in your eyes. He waited for your answer—perhaps an altered question like: "Wait! Are you proposing this to me!?", or even something like: "No, Mr. Sumner, I feel deeply regretful of what I did...", but what came out of your mouth left him somewhat relieved and shocked.

With all the possible words in the world amusing themselves with him, you simply said:

"Patrick Sumner, are you proposing that we fuck, is that it?"

_____________________________________________

3. 

You had a slight impression that Sumner was indeed hiding something. Something between the layer of skin and skeleton, deeply etched into his entrails, something that only he carried with himself. During these months as your tutor, he abstained from banal questions like "what are your parents' names" or "what did you do before stopping here?", confessing to you one random day that he had once been on a whaling ship. Just that. Even when you had crossed all boundaries and shared your bodies in a strange union, Sumner was peculiar in his way of telling you:

"Sometimes I am nothing, much less anyone."

And you remained silent, too ecstatic to think of opposition, stripped not only of body but also of soul—there was another element that you highly doubted the surgeon, now also teacher, believed he possessed. There was this almost skeptical quality of the man toward himself: he would make the sign of the cross occasionally, but when he fell silent and recited something under his breath, they weren't prayers he was saying; perhaps a Homer he had memorized years ago or a page from some scientific article, to practice his German. Patrick was mysterious without making himself a mystery. You even doubted if that was his true identity.

But to you, somewhat too youthful, reckless and above all, thirsty for everything, all that mattered little: the dark past of a man, even if it was a beautiful man like Sumner didn't concern you so long as everything best he could offer you, he gave willingly. He was intelligent and patient to teach you all you needed for nursing, and his body was warm, soft and delicious against yours. Too warm, as real as your own body, a pleasant weight beneath your lungs or crushing your heart against his. You were aware that this had a date, time and moment to end and that like any other day—like the very day you lost your virginity, blessed virginity so adored by other men—you would wake up, put on your nurse's uniform and occupy yourself with countless beds in London. Far from everything, everyone. From Patrick Sumner.

That's why you didn't want to waste your time.

You tried to read him like the books you read about anatomy and pharmaceuticals, but as he had closed himself off, leaving you only a tiny crack of the man behind the glacial posture of an untamed bear, you busied yourself with other things. The world was progress, you read in newspapers about machine advancements, argued with your father and Sumner about medical technologies and in private moments, read pamphlets and manifestos of a new wave of female union. And all that filled you so much that it reached the point where you simply emptied yourself of yourself, of parental ideals of who you should be, even of the woman the tutor saw you to be something far beyond yourself. Beyond your body, your soul, something very large and fluid that devoured everything, could do everything, be everything.

And it was in this almost transcendental kind of faith that you clung to.

_____________________________________________

4.

The opioid addiction had ended since the excruciating moments at the North Pole, but the traumas had left him with exhausting anxiety and fucked-up drowsiness that forced him to stay awake through nights, ruminating on the past like a grinder shreds coffee beans, until everything turned to powder and was diluted in water—in his case, all the stormy memories mixed with the burning pain of sleeplessness overflowed in heavy tears, Drax's hand on his shoulders, Baxter's shrill voice in his ears threatening him, blood and steam melting like ice in him, carnage in the form of bear roars, the existential void bordering on the sharpest madness, all in a vicious cycle that trapped him within himself.

He no longer feared being found—perhaps he even unhappily mocked the law of distant lands using his baptized name and surname—what he feared was finding himself, that poor devil from three, nearly four years ago.

That's why he had to seek a practical and therapeutic solution.

Through acquaintances and war memories, he recalled the existence of a medicinal herb that had helped so many other kings and queens, ancient healers and shamans to cure desperate souls, insomnia and even assist in childbirth. Through research and word of mouth, he discovered the plant had already reached Europe long ago, and there were some growers in the Prussian region, obtaining contact with one who not only gave him the fruit but seeds, providing instructions on how to plant and cultivate it. After that, Sumner took advantage of the property's spacious backyard to build a garden, from this garden full of fruits, flowers and medicinal herbs, a greenhouse where there were some specimens of the plant that he not only used but also commercialized.

He turned his relaxing fruit into business too.

Learned to extract the oil to make ointments and solutions.

In a year and a half he practically became an alchemist—something he once judged critically.

He had even used the herb to jerk off... Well, he had been lonely all that time, it had been many months at sea, a winter season in the middle of the world, a brief yet distant contact with the female body in the meantime, and since arriving in German lands, he had few companions by his side. Therefore, before the apprentice came into his life, he liked to get high and jerk off imagining things while strange images assaulted his mind, until coming, breathing deeply between relief and a certain sadness of his own misery, letting out a: "Congratulations, Sumner.", cleaning himself in his bathroom wiping the remains of cum and sweat from his hand, his cock, from himself as if baptizing himself once more, staring deeply into the huge mirror still feeling the marks of his old self emerging, smiling smugly and going to sleep.

He slept like an angel.

There wasn't a single worry in his world since then.

Until you arrived, his pupil and filled a space he himself had left vacant. He therefore avoided smoking near you, afraid of leaving you with that heavy smell of the herb, impregnated in your lavender talcum perfume that he liked so much. He liked you. Patrick even refrained from giving you a less concentrated solution of the oil extract for your eventual menstrual cramps or headaches, who knows why. Not even he knew.

He wanted you the way he saw you: lucid and pure.

He was fascinated by understanding you while being inflexible in letting you understand him—because not even he in the end knew what to write about himself. He wrote endless diaries only to burn them later, scribbled his name and surname when he caught himself writing it on white sheets and repeated like a mantra:

"I am nothing, nor anyone. And that is a privilege."

He dressed in his mask of a good doctor, armed his voice with sweet lies and the posture of a lord and faced day after day. There was no past, much less a future.

Only the present, the days at Charité between surgeries and new learnings and the weekends teaching you solutions for various poisoning treatments or simply plunging inside your soft flesh, reminding himself once again how good it was to be beside someone. By your side.

_____________________________________________

5. 

After the waltz—a few stumbles on your part, a few stepped-on hems from Sumner—the ballroom gradually emptied as midnight passed and the next day promised work. At least Patrick and your father would carry on as usual. They’d exchanged pleasantries during the dance, nothing too suggestive—it wasn’t in the man’s nature to overturn propriety; he had a reputation to uphold. Yet, contradicting his every chivalrous gesture, Sumner let a sly grin slip as he deliberately offered:

"Perhaps your carriage is too crowded. Mine has room for one more, should you wish to send someone with me."

The someone was you.

Your parents exchanged glances. You played the fool, drifting ahead toward the main door held open by a liveried footman. Your father murmured to your mother, who turned to Sumner—now idly tracing circles with his cane:

"Mr. Sumner, if it’s not too much to ask, we’d be delighted if you escorted our daughter. Given you’re practically family, there’s nothing to fear."

"The honor is mine, Miss—" He drawled your surname with exaggerated velvet, laughing inwardly, drunk on the sensation that it wasn’t him standing there but some other: persuasive, shrewd, faintly cruel. This was the advantage of being nothing—from that inner void, he could shapeshift. A chimera. A beast in a man’s skin.

The same hand that gallantly kissed your mother’s now slid inside your dress—the bodice loose enough to grant him access—kneading your right breast as his mouth devoured yours shamelessly. The carriage rocked like waves against a ship’s hull. Sumner was disheveled, his top hat discarded in a corner, the coachman’s whistles and horses’ neighs outside drowned by your shared panting, his soft groans, the heat thickening your blood until the air grew stagnant with lavender and cinnamon. He tore away from your lips, aiming for your exposed neck, when you stopped him.

In the dim light swaying from the carriage lamps, his widened eyes gleamed:

"What?!"

"I need to say something..."

For a heartbeat, Patrick braced for the worst—you’re pregnant—already spiraling into solutions, an uncharacteristic panic rising. Your lips, glistening with his spit, parted in a whisper:

"I was wondering if you might... share a bit of your herb with me."

"Hah?" Between relief and curiosity, he finally pulled back, his hand—still warm between your skin and the dress fabric—awkwardly adjusting the hardness straining his trousers. You glanced through the gap in the curtains at the empty street behind, your parents’ carriage just ahead. Home was near. Slowly, you began rearranging your dress. Almost mechanically, Sumner helped, fingers practiced with laces and buttons, tightening the loose ribbon of your corset.

"I’ve been having dreadful headaches. My father says I study too much—that it’s stress. He prescribed salicylic acid, but it wrecks my stomach... So I thought I’d test if your remedy might suit me better."

"You’re certain?" Sumner rubbed his furrowed brow. You smiled cordially, tucking escaped hairs back into place, then nodded at his incredulous stare. "Didn’t you yourself say this plant’s medicinal? That it’s ‘the greatest respite in life,’ that it brings peace? Well, my time for London nears, and I’m a bundle of nerves. My parents beg me to stay, to become your assistant, but we both know the truth. I’m curious, Patrick. I want to try it, just once, before I’m stranded on that dreary island. Would you deny me?"

Patrick stayed silent.

Shadow crossed his face. Before he could utter yes or no, the carriage jolted to a halt. The door swung open.

"Miss, we’ve arrived," the coachman announced.

"Lovely! Thank you for the ride, Mr. Sumner." You winked, gathering your heavy skirts and leaping out.

Alone again, steeped in your lingering perfume, Patrick smiled—a caged beast sensing freedom. A fierce light radiated from him. He’d do anything to trap it inside himself.

_____________________________________________

6.

"My dearest pupil,

Today I find myself embarked on the endless task of organizing and cataloging new specimens freshly arrived from London, and I should like to request—if it would not inconvenience you—your company in this arduous endeavor. Seek your parents' permission; show them this note if necessary. Should their answer prove favorable, I shall await you at my home tomorrow when the afternoon sun sets. If the hour grows too late, I shall humbly ask that you spend the night here—there are several guest rooms, and I shall personally instruct my housekeeper, Anna, to attend you.

Yours most attentively,

Your tutor, P.S."

The letter might have bordered on scandal by the era's conservative standards—yet Patrick risked it. And succeeded, for that very evening, he received a reply from your father, dripping with obliging naivety:

"To my dear friend and my daughter's tutor,

It would be our greatest pleasure for her to partake in this activity! I take the liberty of making a humble request: that during her stay, you might endeavor to sway her reconsideration, for she speaks of nothing save Florence Nightingale's Institute—its marvels, its revolution for women and nursing, all this starry-eyed chatter of the wider world. She is an honorable girl, meant for marriage; I've secured a most promising dowry, yes, granted her cultivated education, yet never did I intend for her to fly so far... Sumner, though you are not yet a father, perhaps now as her tutor you might see this world is unprepared for such a girl. Make her see reason—be our angel in this!

Ah, regarding her lodging at your residence—though I trust implicitly in your impeccable honor and near-aseptic propriety—I shall tell others she visits a distant cousin. To silence the gossip that already wearies me. Envious tongues in trying times, my dear; the slightest spark becomes a conflagration.

Look after her well,

Your friend..."

Patrick released a sardonic chuckle through teeth clamped on his pipe, smoke pouring from his lips like furnace breath, genuinely astonished at such pathetic gullibility. Unless, of course, the man played the fool masterfully, clinging to the delusion of your wide-eyed purity. What festered in Sumner's chest wasn't merely discomfort at your father's blindness—but how your very existence had been whittled down to archetypes. And how he himself was perceived: so austere as to be rendered almost asexual.

"Old fool," he muttered, crumpling the letter. Behind him, the fireplace spat embers; beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a damp winter night thickened. Snow was forecast—perhaps a storm by morning, rendering travel impossible. Perhaps his invitation hadn't accidentally coincided with the weather.

___

It wasn’t Sumner’s place to make you change your mind.

Even if there was a sensation pricking at him, like a needle drawing out excess blood in those old phlebotomy sessions, he remained as steady as possible. When he received you casually in his home once again, he led you to his private library—a massive room lined from floor to ceiling with sturdy wooden shelves, deep reddish-brown like his beard, some sections still empty, waiting for the volumes of books he had ordered to fill them. He’d been finding himself with idle time lately, so he intended to read as much as he could, perhaps even return to his scribblings, write more in his journals.

His pale blue eyes reflected you from across the room, absorbed in reshelving the editions you held in your hands. Evening was falling, the sun yielding to the petrol-blue veil of a frigid night. He wore a brown wool pullover, black linen trousers, closed-toe shoes, his hair slightly disheveled, while you stood in your simple dress—long sleeves, a full skirt without much padding, a subdued violet hue that contrasted sharply with the warmth of the room. He set a book aside, leaned against the desk, and spoke softly:

"Your father still clings to the illusion that you’ll change your mind—that you won’t go to London after all..."

"I know," you hissed, too focused on your task. Patrick shrugged, nodding slightly.

"You’re really going, then?"

"I thought you already knew the answer, darling..." You sidestepped his questions with serene evasion, your heels echoing with each step, filling the vast library. Sumner clicked his tongue, something like yellow venom rising in his throat, eyes narrowing with a sudden fear that choked back a sob threatening to become a roar. He thought of the North Pole, of the white bear, of himself, of India—of everyone who had abandoned him.

"I like you."

The words didn’t sound like him. Or like anyone—just his soul speaking through flesh, grating between his teeth and spilling from his eyes. He stood rigid, intact in his solemn stance, arms crossed as if shielding himself from a cold that didn’t come from the room but from within, as though he were caught in a blizzard. He watched you gather books into your arms, a silent resolve that wouldn’t break even if he slit your throat with a scalpel.

Finally, you lifted your gaze to his—dark, distant. But your whole being smiled, warmth radiating from your face:

"I like you too, Sumner. I like you very much."

___

Light knocks on your door woke you from the light nap you had already drifted into. You glanced at the small clock beside you, noting it was past one in the morning. You found it odd since Patrick hadn’t mentioned anything about visiting you at any other time except when the sun was visible outside. That’s why you weren’t expecting him… at least not like this. You had been reading your book by the dim light of a bedside lamp, slowly surrendering to sleep. Your skin was still warm from the bath you had taken in the suite—a spacious room on the same floor as the man’s main suite. The plaster walls were adorned with deep wine-red wallpaper featuring flowers and arabesques, while the wooden floor gleamed. The furniture was Rococo-style, made of mahogany with gold details. Heavy, partially drawn curtains immersed you in a blend of absolute darkness and the outside nightlight—streetlamps and the moon.

The knocks continued until you heard a whisper:

“Engel, it’s me! Patrick! Open up.”

Your heartbeat quickened, the sound loud in your ears. Your bare feet touched the smooth, cold wood—first your toes, then the soles, then your heels, steadying yourself. The hem of your pale pink nightgown brushed the floor, its long sleeves and square neckline tied with two silk ribbons. You walked to the door, gripping the knob tightly, your knuckles whitening as you twisted the key to open it, revealing the man holding a candle in a small holder in one hand and something else you couldn’t quite make out at that moment. You finished opening the door to let him in, observing by the faint candlelight how he looked—a brown robe covering his back, no shirt underneath, dark earthy silk pants, and a pair of black slippers. In his other hand was a small tied leather pouch. As you closed and locked the door and Sumner sat on your bed, he remarked:

“Anne has been instructed not to disturb us unless absolutely necessary. The same goes for the rest of the staff…”

“Were they dismissed?”

“No,” he frowned as if the question were almost offensive, untying the pouch’s laces while you sat facing him, leaning back against a pile of soft pillows. Patrick added: “They’d grow suspicious if I did. They’re asleep in their quarters, but don’t worry—they’re in another wing of the house.”

His fingers worked precisely, grinding the cannabis flower before him using a small bowl and fine-tipped scissors. The metallic clicks made you realize this was really happening. He prepared the pipe, pressing the shredded leaves with his fingertips before rummaging in the pouch again—pulling out a small tube of thick, sticky oil, dripping three drops into the bowl. He put the accessories away, turning to you with a heavy sigh.

“I’ll light it, take the first drag, and then you’ll smoke, okay?”

“Alright.”

His eyes were a deep darkness, as if you were at the ocean’s depths, teetering on the thin line where sunlight barely penetrates the infinite abyss below. The yellow lamplight mingled with the timid candle flame he carefully kept steady between you. He used the flame to light the pipe, a strong odor rising and filling your lungs as he inhaled the white smoke. He didn’t cough or grimace. Nothing. He pulled the pipe from his lips and offered it to you. Your hands took it awkwardly, examining its shape before you took a breath and—

‘Cough cough cough,’ your throat spasmed as you tried to inhale, choking on the thin smoke. He laughed, taking the pipe from your hands, drawing deeply until his cheeks nearly puffed, then motioning for you to come closer. Still coughing and waving away the little white wisps escaping his warm lips, you obeyed, leaning in. Patrick placed one hand behind your neck, the other moving the pipe aside as he brought his face close, lips slightly parted—exhaling dense smoke from his mouth into yours. A smoky kiss, transferring the fumes to you, his lips gradually pressing closer as the white mist faded into a tender, passionate peck. I like you, he thought as he did it. He repeated the gesture almost clinically—inhaling from the pipe again, using his free hand to pull your lower lip down, kissing you in a back-and-forth of tongue and intoxicating smoke.

When he pulled away, you waited for the effects to begin. As if reading your mind, Patrick—still puffing on the pipe—casually informed you:

“It takes a few minutes to kick in, so just relax…”

“But I am relaxed,” you began, amused, sinking deeper into the pillows behind you, “completely relaxed…”

“Well, that’ll help the effect.”

“And what are we doing in the meantime?” you asked innocently, one leg playfully sliding into his lap, your toes teasing his thigh. Patrick looked down, a lethargic smile crossing his face:

“Honestly, I didn’t think beyond just lying here and relaxing…”

“Nothing? Not a single thing?” you pressed, widening your eyes, continuing to massage his thigh, dangerously close to his cock—until he grabbed your foot with a warm hand, holding you still. His gaze was calm, but his pupils were slowly dilating:

“Look, Engel, I’ve never fucked in this state, so it’s better not to get too excited…”

“Not even willing to try? There’s a first time for everything, right, Sumner? I think we could enjoy it in other ways—” You rose from the pillows, slowly feeling your body tingle and your perception of time shift. Patrick squeezed your foot once more before lifting it and kissing the arch, murmuring against your skin:

“I’ve been dying to. I’ve read articles saying the high intensifies orgasms—for both women and men…”

“So why not try it?! Let’s treat it like a scientific study!” you teased, eyes sparkling. Patrick couldn’t resist, releasing your foot to rub where his cock was already hard. He moved the candle to the floor, turning to you with hunger, shedding his robe and slippers before climbing on top of you, his mouth desperate for your tingling lips. Your tongue didn’t even feel like your own, your senses sharpening even as the man above you both was and wasn’t Patrick Sumner.

The man’s hands untied the knot of the camisole, pulling it off his body with some difficulty, the wet tongue against his imposing a frenetic rhythm for you who slowed down, holding him with hands that rippled out of the matter, letting out clumsy giggles accompanied by his growls, feeling his silky hair brush against your face, the trail of wet kisses from his jaw to your neck sounding like little crackles of light on you, his hands very noisy and slow in their haste over your body, seeking to part your legs where you felt yourself melting into a waterfall, gripping the hair between his fingers while Sumner, in his sexual muteness—except for the moans and growls of pleasure he emitted—leaned down and hungrily devoured your pussy. His mouth was sharp velvet mixed with the softness of his beard against your Venus mound, your slit dripping your slick, your clit burning and the desire to be eaten whole by that mouth. Sumner wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were closed, echoing little pleasure moans and wet smacking sounds, sucking eagerly on that little spot, his tongue trembling and making you feel spins and tremors while the room around you in the half-light contorted into different waves and shadows. Reality was something else, your sensitivity had heightened, and Sumner was the best fuck in that country; all of this passed in a rush, whimpering softly, gripping his head, wanting more.

Your voice was strange and at the same time a moaning hum:

“Patrick, what do you want to do to me? With that tongue, fuck, so good! Yeah, like that—”, you insisted he keep devouring you with his mouth wide open on your clit, his tongue moving up and down. He pulled away with a heavy pant, finally his steely blue eyes fixed on you, his voice wicked and libertine:

“I’m going to devour you today, Engel.”, he looked at your open pussy with passion, wet with his saliva, the most delicious of dishes, gathering spit on the tip of his tongue before spitting against your clit, giving it a few light taps with his fingertips before starting to rub them hard, watching you shiver and writhe, screaming his name. And he moaned and laughed, going back to sucking you again, more intense, gripping your thighs that insisted on trapping him between them, almost crushing him, feeling weak and trembling while your body floated. Your eyes watched the arch of his spine undulating, his shoulders shifting beneath your thighs. Beautiful. Your mind stuck on that word as Patrick stretched his tongue and licked your clit from bottom to top, the sensation of accumulated pleasure melting and forming at its peak, you grinding against his tongue which he pulled away to once again give little taps that sent shocks through your entire body, lifting you toward the fall of orgasm.

“Fuck I’m gonna come…”, you whimpered, closing your eyes, squeezing him even tighter between your thighs, hearing his mocking laugh as he kept sucking you like he was eating you; in a delirium you tried to push him away, tensing the inside of your thighs to release yourself from the intense orgasm rippling out of your body. Patrick laughed, catching his lost breath, rising slowly like a profane god, his mouth wet with your arousal, hair disheveled, ears and cheeks red. Proud as a doctor who just cured a patient, as always, Sumner was surgical in sex—and no matter how intense the orgasm was, you still pulsed for more.

“Patrick, I want you to fuck me.”

“But isn’t that exactly what I’m doing?”, his voice was deep, drunk on the taste of your pussy like a precious elixir of life, his senses sharp and relaxed from the weed, jumping up to take off his pants and fuck you, as always. But just as he was about to position himself between your legs, almost with his usual pragmatism, you closed them, leaving him stunned.

“This is torture, Engel…”, he started with a serious expression, a hand around the bone of your knee, trying to open your leg: “Don’t be disobedient with your teacher.”

“Here and now you’re not a damn thing to me, Patty—”, with the leg he was holding, you stretched to push him away, opening yourself again. Patrick stayed there on his knees, his cock hard and erect almost touching his navel, his skin very pale and his body hair naturally platinum, giving him a smooth, velvety look. You looked at his cock: it was between medium and large, thick, veiny, the shiny tip slick with pre-come the color of your outer lips, his trimmed pubes darker than his hair, his balls medium and smooth. Anatomically pleasing, you’d say. You laughed at your own silliness, your foot still firm on his chest as he stared at your wet, inviting pussy with a look of lament.

Resigned, he took the words that seemed to escape him:

“Then what am I? What do you want?”

“I told you. I want you to fuck me. Without all that clinical shit, too proper. I want soul.”

“Don’t you think you’re asking too much from someone as soulless as me?”, he returned the yellow venom, his hand now pumping his throbbing cock, very needy and desperate. You laughed nasally, sliding your leg to rest on his shoulder, doing the same with the other, spreading yourself for him:

“I know you can unleash your more beastly side, Patrick. Fuck me like an animal. That’s all I’m asking.”

Something shifted in the man, as if a little switch had been turned inside his cage and the creature that lived within him had been set free. His slow blood seemed to rush vigorously through his veins, going straight to his cock, leaving him dizzy with lust. He smiled as if he hadn’t smiled in a long time—wild—his hands gripping your thighs, pulling you to the middle of the bed, lifting your hips slightly, keeping your legs over his shoulders, grabbing his cock to fit into your tight entrance, moaning loudly with a very instinctive pleasure as he practically split you open, welcomed by your wet, hot, pulsating flesh:

“Fuck, what a delicious pussy,” he didn’t know if it was the weed or just him, but this was more insane than the other times. Sweat already slid down his forehead, forming a translucent layer on his skin, gripping the sides of your thighs as if he had claws instead of fingers, imposing himself in a back-and-forth, opening and closing his mouth to pant and moan, accompanied by your whimpers that got lost, thin and penetrating even deeper into him, feeling his cock fill you completely, slamming deep to where the base could reach inside your little pussy, sliding out, and coming back again.

“Eat this pussy Patrick, eat it good—like that, like that—don’t stop!”, you said between short breaths, being levered up and down. Patrick had feral eyes and an attitude that made you delirious in that room that had turned into a sauna; the smell of wet sex and bittersweet sweat filling your nostrils, your natural scent soaking his cock and driving him even crazier: “Come on, turn that ass for me, I wanna fuck you from behind.”, he ordered in a burst of words, the world around you just vibrations, orgasm, moans, and overwhelming pleasure. He gave your ass a little slap as you felt the emptiness of his cock sliding out, looking at him with desire, positioning yourself with your ass up for him. Pumping his cock, Patrick dragged himself on his knees until he was bent between your legs, spreading the cheeks of your ass like a predator, pressing his nose against the slit of your pussy, inhaling your intoxicating scent, then sucking your pussy again, making you shiver, draining your strength.

“Just fuck me already,” you moaned impatiently.

“Oh my God, look how this little slut is desperate to take dick,” Sumner commented in ecstasy, one hand jerking his cock while the other gave little slaps that sent shocks through your pussy: “you love it when I mistreat this pretty little thing, huh?”, he laughed with pleasure, spreading your ass again to spit against your pussy, rising and soaking your entrance with his saliva, the tip threatening to push in. He teased, pulling a desperate gasp from you.

“Just the tip, love,” he teased again, pushing in only to where the tip ended. It sent an intense shiver through you, his right hand at the base of his cock rubbing it against your slit, starting to thrust against your clit once more, intense and hard, fucking just your little bud, making you shiver and feel even more sensitive, your orgasm building again around that sensitivity, your face against the mattress muffling your near-hysterical whimpers. Sumner was fucking crazy, a beast, watching you suffer on his dick like that, his left hand firm on the curve of your waist, hot and heavy, guiding you against the tip of his cock, once, twice, three times fucking you again with just the tip until he saw you tremble and scream muffled into the sheets, already soaked, your legs going weak.

“Who said you could lie down, bitch? Come on, get up, I haven’t even fucked you properly—”, he positioned you again, on all fours, ass up, still trembling, finally splitting you open once more, letting out a guttural “fuck, so good”, delirious, fucking you with a focused speed, your hands floating over the sheets, you cried and moaned in pleasure, sensitive and completely surrendered to that overwhelming sensation, overloaded with the heat, the sweat, the smell of that animalistic sex, Patrick’s hair stuck with sweat at his temples, moaning in time with you, feeling himself being squeezed by your inner walls that swallowed him, eating you with roughness, his hands deep against your skin, holding back from coming all at once. Suddenly he lifted you by the shoulders, throwing himself onto his back—you were now on top of his slick cock; Patrick spread his legs wide for leverage, while your hands found unknown strength to brace against his waist and ride that delicious dick.

“Yes! Yes! Ride me like that, fuck…”, he growled, the bed creaking, the room flooded with heat and bestial waves, his hand finding your abused clit: “Patrick, for God’s sake—”, you felt his other hand squeeze you, his right hand fingering you while you kept riding him, so wet, so frantic, your heart in your throat, the world spinning and spinning. You lifted your head as if you needed fresh air, open-mouthed, feeling the bones between your thighs burn and ache from the effort, sweat dripping from your neck to your navel, pressing against the man; Sumner whispered: “Come here, come here, love…”, his voice almost a wild honey melting into an odd tenderness, making you lie on top of him, wrapping you in a warm bear hug, his mouth going to your ear: “I’m gonna fuck you now real slow just so you feel this dick tear you apart and drain everything from you. I’ll show you how to turn someone into nothing, nothing but a dumb little thing desperate for my cock—”.

In the confusion of words and sensations, you just nodded.

Sumner straightened, his cock still buried in you, one arm still crushing your tits, keeping you tied to his body, while the other adjusted to grip your waist; his thighs bent in an arch, your legs suspended at his sides, completely open to him. The man’s mouth pressed to yours whispered obscenities as he fucked you, things like:

“Hear that sound? That’s my dick splitting you open,” “How’s my little bitch whimpering on my cock,” “Can’t take it, love?”, sliding in slow with a thrust of his hips, pulling out so slowly you felt like you’d spill out.

No longer able to stand the stupor mixed with the huge wave consuming him, Patrick practically roared in your ear, repeating like a fervent believer:

“Dive, dive into me…”, sliding you off brusquely, you running out of his body, ready to leap off the cliff and instead met with a warm, intense wave of a surreal orgasm that made every inch of your being tremble, shiver, and convulse. Your soul escaped for brief seconds, your vision blurred, intense tears bursting from your eyes, your scream dragged out as you felt Sumner’s hands hold you steady, squeezing his cock hard, almost draining his come into you. Your heart was a soft, strong pulse, reverberating through your ribcage, your blood audible throughout your tingling, floating body.

Patrick gently pulled you off him, dragging himself to sit on the edge of the bed. You blinked slowly, looked at his back, sweaty, watching his arm rise and fall incessantly while short moans escaped his mouth, like the creaks of a running animal—he was chasing his own orgasm. As if your body had a will of its own, you slid off the bed, your sticky skin meeting the wood, kneeling and staring at him with near-passivity, a little smile brightening your gaze, you half-yellow in Sumner’s blurred vision as he struggled to breathe. The candle beside you had gone out, leaving only the placid yellow of the lampshade and the dome of darkness. You were a beautiful, soft spirit, without edges, floating before the man’s dizzy head. You took his cock from his hands and swallowed it, just as he had done earlier, sliding your mouth until you had him completely, feeling the weight of his hand on top of your head, whimpering:

“Like that, like that, just like that…”, his breathing ragged, tears welling in the corners of his eyes as you sucked him eagerly: the taste of his skin mixed with your arousal and saliva, raw and addictive, your tongue swirling around the tip, provoking in him a delirious agony of pleasure, his eyes rolling back, his mouth open as he groaned your name hoarsely, his grip loosening on your head, you laughing as you waited for him to fill your mouth, flood your palate with his creamy release, intensely eager, making wet noises, letting his slick cock go, feeling your pussy twitch again with pleasure at his rough moans, a thread of saliva connecting your lips to his tip, devouring his balls as you jerked him to milk his orgasm, watching him grip the edges of the bed, mouth open as he groaned and came in hot spurts against your lower belly.

You laughed, the sensation of lightness and height embracing you, bending to lick his cum off your skin, cleaning him. Half-opening his reddened eyes, the sapphire of his gaze languid, he caressed your head:

“Good girl… The luck I have to have met you! I really like you.”

He affirmed, as if he were crying.

He felt the tears fall and be kissed, wet, a whispered hum taking him to a strange place, nestling into a sweet sensation of nothing. When he suddenly woke, he looked at the window—the pale sun of a cold winter day was rising—and beside him, you were leaning over papers, writing something. You glanced at him first from the corner of your eye before turning and stroking his exposed chest:

“Go back to sleep, go back to sleep…”

Your voice faded again, Patrick Sumner reduced to less than nothing. The beast was caging itself inside him once more.

_____________________________________________

7.

Patrick let out a strange noise that came from somewhere deep in his throat. Perhaps it was a stifled hiccup tangled in his chest or a fearful roar insisting on escaping through the gaps of his slightly parted teeth. He sat holding that single sheet of paper with perfect handwriting, legs propped up on the sturdy desk, rocking gently as he read the contents of the letter addressed to him with care. His voice was a trembling mix of English and his latent Irish accent, sotto voce:

“Sumner, it is with great pleasure that I am leaving Berlin. By the time you read this, I will already be aboard a ship bound for my destination—my long-dreamed-of institution to train as a nurse. I have no plans to return, much less any intention of seeing you again. To be honest, what we had these past few months was very fruitful—know that I am grateful for it—but I was your most devoted and happiest pupil in these times. I ask that you do not seek me out; I do not wish to be found for now. Live your life as you did the last time we saw each other: as that free and almost bestial soul you are. Surely, that is how you will find happiness. From your pupil.”

A shiver ran through his body. He pushed himself back abruptly, landing with a thud on the floor. He stared ahead, seeing nothing—in his mind, images of her now mingled with memories of a distant past. Strange tears welled in his already streaming eyes, draining everything out of him, as if he were seeing Patrick Sumner once more.

And so, the man felt again that unexpected stab of cobalt-blue sadness, the longing with its familiar taste taking hold of him once more. He’s all alone again.

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE (1820-1910) | (BRIEF) HISTORY OF CANNABIS (12,000 years of HISTORY) | CHARITÉ UNIVERSITÄTSMEDIZIN BERLIN (idkw but i think this soooo cool lol) | phlebotomy | i'm not going to lie that i LOVED writing for this man, i'm OBSESSED with him and i want to write more and more for this character who is so complex and complex in his little head.

[little-diable]

No such thing as feeling guilty – Draco Malfoy

This is pure pwp, I know y'all live for these Draco settings. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: A chat with a stranger at a tea store turns into something more–even after the reader realises that said stranger is her best friend's father.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, age gap, dad's best friend, choking, spanking, spitting, oral (m), degrading, pure filth

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x fem!reader (2.2k words)

“The black one is the better choice.” An unfamiliar voice forced her eyes off the tea she was looking at. Bright eyes were staring down at her, taking in her features for a moment before they flickered back to the tea. The man was handsome, his bright hair was slicked back, a perfect contrast to the black suit he wore. 

“And why is that?” Her voice had a slight tremble to it. (Y/n) had to force herself to calm down, to follow his gaze back to the tea selection before he’d catch her staring at him. 

“You’ll just have to trust me.” A smirk tugged on his lips as he let his eyes wader back towards (y/n). She couldn’t stop her chuckles from breaking through her before she fully turned towards him, instantly picking up on the authority oozing off the man. He was at least twenty years older than her, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care, pulled closer by something she couldn’t pinpoint yet. 

“I don’t think I should trust a stranger.” Now it was on him to chuckle. She could only hope that he didn’t pick up on the heat his mere gaze flushed through her, leaving her body trembling. 

“What’s your name?” For a moment, she focused on the scent of his cologne, reminding her of green apples, old books, and something unfamiliar. Everything about the man seemed to pull her in, begging her to learn more about him and the mysterious aura that stuck to him as if it had been sewn to his black shoes. She could only murmur her name while her eyes momentarily broke contact with his, focusing back on the tea. 

“Well, (y/n), we’re no longer strangers now. Pick the tea, you won’t regret it.” The man‘s voice rang in her ears, leaving her trembling as she watched him leave. A part of her wanted to call after him, needing to hear his voice again, the raspy almost breathless whispers that would follow her around for a while.

And yet, a small part of her told her that this wasn’t the last time she‘d cross paths with him.

……

It had only been a few days since the run in at the tea store before (y/n) had crossed paths with him again. With her nose half buried in the book she was supposed to read for her classes, she hadn’t noticed him at first. Only as he had cleared his throat to gain her attention had she allowed herself to study the handsome stranger again. 

“Can I?” He pointed towards the empty chair next to hers, letting a smile widen on her lips while watching him sit down. For a moment, neither spoke up, allowing their curious eyes to take in the frame of the other before she slowly closed her book. 

“My friend loved the black tea, thank you for your help.” She could have sworn that a smirk wanted to tug on his lips. The man whose name she still didn’t know was a mystery to her, a confusing case she dreamt of whenever she allowed herself to get lost in her wandering thoughts. 

“I’m glad, (y/n).” He took a sip of his drink but his eyes didn’t stray from hers once. He was just as drawn to her, kept close by something neither could pinpoint just yet. 

“What’s your name?” She couldn’t stop herself from asking for his name, needing something to cling to. Perhaps she could find out more about him, the man who didn’t leave her thoughts no matter how hard she tried to focus on other things. 

“It’s Draco.” A hum left her at his name, wanting to taste it on her tongue. Deep down she knew that she would whine it in the late hours when her hands began to wander, urged on by the way she thought of him and the big hands she wanted to feel on her body.

“Will you let me take you out on a date, (y/n)?” Heat rose in her system, moving up her body like a snake slithering towards its next prey, ready to snap any moment now. Perhaps she should have run, should have crawled from the grave she had dug the second her eyes had met his for the first time. But there was no escaping the man with piercing eyes, no matter how much dirt would collect underneath her fingernails from trying to crawl out of the grave, she couldn’t run, couldn’t crawl, couldn’t hide. 

“Where would you take me?” A smirk widened on her lips. (Y/n) watched him ponder over her question, letting it buzz through his system before he gave room to a soft chuckle. 

“Let that be my worry. Here, put in your phone number for me, sweetheart.” 

……

In retrospect, she should have paid more attention. Not many people were called “Draco”, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he was indeed the only Draco she had ever heard of before. The father of her best friend. The father of the one friend she had been close with for years. The man she was now on her knees for with glassy eyes and twitching jaw muscles. 

“Atta girl, you’re doing so well for me, sweetheart.” (Y/n) hated to admit it, but the date he had taken her on was the best she had ever experienced. He had taken her out to dinner, not to a fancy place that would fit his appearance, but to a place that seemed to hold emotional value to the man. 

Perhaps she should have asked about his family earlier. Perhaps she should have dug deeper, but those piercing, mesmerizing eyes and those lips she had wanted to feel pressed against hers, had distracted her a tad bit too much. She should have left the date the second he told her of his daughter, dropping the name of her best friend. But she hadn’t, (y/n) had gaped at him for a second before the truth had split right from her lips. 

In retrospect, he should have ended the date with kind words and a soft smile. But Draco hadn’t. He had kissed her the second they had arrived back at her place, drawing her closer while her hands tugged on his bright roots and her heart picking up its pounding beat. 

It hadn’t taken long for her to end up on the floor of her bedroom, with only her underwear on and her hands tugging on his hardening cock. Praises left the man she couldn’t stop admiring–even as he began to impatiently fuck her throat to leave his marks on every inch of her body.

She was a goner. High on his taste. High on the sounds he made. High on the feeling of his hands touching every part that was aching for him. Fuck, she was his, had given herself to him on the first of hopefully many dates–no matter how loud her mind screamed at her to push herself away from him, there was no escaping Draco Malfoy. 

“You enjoy this, don’t you? Being a cock-hungry whore for the father of your best friend.” His cock nudged the back of her throat, forcing (y/n) to choke around him with a whine. Fuck, she did love this more than she should, set on giving every part of herself to a man who was by far older than she was. 

“I can’t wait to fuck you, to leave bruises on your sweet little body.” (Y/n) could only hope that his words weren’t just empty promises, but things he’d actually do to her. Her glassy eyes got lost in his bright ones while wordlessly begging him to finally fuck her, to touch the place that needed him the most. 

Draco harshly pushed her off his cock without a warning, watching her lose her balance with a dangerous smirk glued to his lips. Once again he looked like a predator set on pounding, ripping her to shreds while she’d beg for more and more. Before she could get another word in, his hand found her throat, choking her with just enough force to make her hyper aware of the power he held over her. 

“You’re mine, pretty girl. I will do whatever I want, and you will take it all.” A hum left her, unable to speak as he forced her to keep looking at him. His raspy chuckles buzzed through her body, straight to her aching heat. Fuck, she felt as if she was about to pass out, letting go with a high moan, sweat bearding her forehead, and her eyes fluttering close. She could almost taste her relief even though she hadn’t been touched properly so far. 

“Open your mouth.” The command was followed instantly, exposing her tongue to Draco as if she knew what he was planning on doing. They held eye contact as he spat down on the strong muscle, strengthening the bond that buzzed between them even further. The moan that wanted to leave her crawled up her throat, grateful for the way he momentarily loosened his grip on her–only to throw her down on the mattress. 

With her face buried in her pillow, Draco let his hand come down on her ass, meeting the soft fabric of the panties he was about to rip apart. (Y/n)’s sweet sounds left his cock twitching, urging the man on to move faster, to let her ripped panties drop before brushing his ringed fingers through her slit. She was dripping for him, letting her body do the talking while she could only whine and moan for him, hoping that he would stop dragging out this moment. 

“Tell me, what do you need, sweetheart?” He was teasing her, acting as if he was giving her some power to make her own decision about the outcome of this night. Nothing but lies she was too distracted to pick up on. Her moans stopped her from speaking up as he pushed two fingers into her heat, spreading her walls in preparation for his cock. 

“Fuck me, please.” The chuckle leaving Draco made her walls flutter around his fingers, keeping him close while his free hand pumped his cock, keeping himself ready to fuck her stupid. 

“Address me properly.” (Y/n) struggled to follow the command, she needed a few moments and fresh intakes of air before a breathy “Please, Mister Malfoy” left her. It was all Draco needed to hear before he replaced his fingers with his cock. 

The moan that left both at the sudden intrusion echoed through her apartment, and yet neither could pay attention to the sound, too far gone, too fucked out already. Draco didn’t hold back, he fucked her from behind as if the Devil was chasing him, whispering to him that he needed to ruin her, that there was no need to feel guilty about the situation they found themselves trapped in. 

“Oh god, you’re so big, feel so good.” She kept blabbering away, getting lost in her feelings and the new sensation. They were a perfect match, a darkening bond that chained their souls together. 

“My pretty girl, fuck, you were made for me.” His hand came down on her behind again, set on burning his handprint into her skin. Her moans spurred him on to fuck her even faster, to brush against her swollen spot while the edge called them closer, set on ripping them off their balance. 

“Draco,” he was too focused on the feeling of her clenching his cock, too focused on her nearing orgasm to scold her for using his first name. This was all about their approaching high, the need to be close to one another without having to hold back–something he had longed for since that moment in the tea store. 

He pulled out of her for a moment to flip her around, to tower over her with his dark gaze set on her features. They held eye contact as he pushed into her again, as his fingers found her pulsing bundle. She was a moaning mess–the most beautiful mess he had ever been fortunate enough to look at. 

“Cum for me, sweetheart, show me how pretty you look when you cum for me.” (Y/n) didn’t need to be told twice. She came with a gasp of his name while pulling him down for a kiss. Their tongues fought for victory while he fucked her deep, chasing his own high while her walls had a tight grip on his cock. 

Draco came with a gritty “Fuck”, pulling out just in time to paint her stomach with his cum. She was panting, needing to catch her breath while he kept staring down at her with a widening grin, seemingly getting lost in darkening thoughts on how to fill the last remaining hours of the night. 

“I’ll let you rest for a moment, but don’t you think I’m done with you yet, sweetheart. I won’t be for a long while.”

[wistericaine]

ruined oat milk | theodore nott

serial killer!theo x writer!reader | fluff but in a dark way | wc: 582

summary: writer!reader confronts theo about the dead head in the fridge

tw: mentions/references to death

“You have about two seconds to explain exactly what is going on here.”

Theodore looked at what was inside of the fridge with a blue tint washing over his face, fear and dread running through his veins at the sight.

He hadn’t wanted to keep the head away from their home. Away from the fridge and disposed of somewhere else. Yet he had to bring it home last night, where it now rested beside the oat milk jug.

Would this mean that you and him were done? Were you going to pack your bags—expose him to the Aurors and turn him in? Theo’s heart was pounded against his chest in dread, not wanting you to leave him ever. His mind was racing with dependance, thinking about all of the ways that he would have to keep you with him. Maybe a mind altering spell of sorts, something that would remove your memory of it. 

“I can explain—” he stuttered out.

“I don’t care about how you got the head, I already know about that—” you said, waving your hands around before pointing at the milk jug. “I’m asking you to explain why you brought it here. Into our kitchen fridge—I mean, do you know how dangerous that is?”

Theo’s mouth opened to continue his explanation, going to spit out word after word to convince you to stay, before it shut right after. “You—” he murmured quietly. “You know?”

“Of course I know,” you said to him. “You keep your journal near the couch all the time—your handwriting is very pretty by the way—but I needed some research for my writing.” you said to him. “I’m not sure how I didn’t see it earlier to be honest, especially with how much you know about killing.”

“Well—” he stuttered out again, “Wait, do you not care?”

“You kill Death Eaters, I really don’t care about them much. What I do care about is the fact that there’s a decapitated head sitting next to my oat milk!” you whined out, waving your hands dramatically to gesture at the head once more. “My oat milk is going to be forever ruined because of this—and I really wanted to make tea. You have five seconds to explain this.”

Theodore looked at you with a look one could only consider religious—though a religious man might consider him blasphemous with the way he wanted to worship you instead of God. “You are the best woman I have ever met in my life.” he murmured in awe.

“This isn’t helping my oat milk.” you said, poking his stomach. “Speak.”

He chuckled quietly, wrapping his arms around you as he looked over at the head in the fridge. “I was going to dispose of it earlier—there’s something specific in there that I think might help me find more Death Eaters.” he explained quietly, hands squeezing his arms in anxiety. “Though I suppose sleep deprivation causes you to confuse fridges.”

“You better get me new oat milk.” you said, shaking your head. 

“I feel like we’re brushing past the whole ‘I’m a murderer’ part of this conversation.” Theodore muttered out confusedly. “How are you not bothered by this?”

You shrugged confusedly—and Theodore was positive that you probably didn’t know yourself. “I’m a writer, you’re a resource.” you explained to him. “Plus, how else would I get accurate descriptions if it weren’t for you.”

“Ah, so I’m becoming your scientific journal.” he chuckled quietly to you.

You giggled and nodded. “Course you are.”

hello everyone, i hope you guys enjoyed! just another small drabble here! i thought i'd write something about how writer!reader confronts theo about being a killer, but if you want i can write a fic about how she finds out herself <3 thanks so much for reading!

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© wistericaine 2025. do not copy, translate or claim any of my works as your own. reblogs + comments are so very appreciated!

[lotusbxtch]

SoCal to NorCal - Chapter 1: Malibu

Series Masterlist Series Pairing: husband!Joel Miller x f!Reader x boyfriend!Frankie Morales Series Summary: Joel is your rock, and Frankie is your ocean. So what happens when you bring the three of you together?

- or -

you and Frankie roadtrip up from Southern California to Northern California so he can meet Joel. A polyamory fic. This series exists in the Triple Frontier universe and is a Joel Miller AU/Triple Frontier AU. Series Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI

Chapter 1: Malibu

Chapter Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!Reader x Santiago Garcia

Chapter Summary: You & Frankie visit your friend Santi at his Malibu mansion to kick off your roadtrip north, and you let desires guide the night.

Word Count: 6.9k

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI

Chapter Warnings/Tags: polyamory, threesome, multiple partners, MMF dynamics, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected P in V (wrap it up pls!), DVP, multiple orgasms, multiple creampies, cum kink, spitting, alcohol consumption, mentions of food, gratuitous descriptions of male and female anatomy, heavy use of Spanish pet names/nicknames, Santi being a menace is his own warning, Frankie the PEK, Frankie has a big dick and so does Santi, Reader uses she/her pronouns, Reader is able-bodied, has breasts, and has hair that can be pulled, otherwise no description of Reader's skin color, size, body shape, hair color, eye color, or ethnicity, no use of y/n. Everyone is testing negative for STDs and Reader is on birth control. a/n: This is my very first series fic! I plan to have 3 chapters including this one. This one was meant to be a fun spicy little intro into the fic, but of course Santi being an absolute menace meant that this is absolute smutty filth and I'm sorry (not sorry). MASSIVE thank you to my sweet @for-a-longlongtime, who not only gave me the iconic Santiago line "guava goes better with pussy and mezcal," but beta read for me, bounced ideas around, and encouraged me when I wasn't sure that I could do this. Without her help, this fic wouldn't be in existence! Dividers by the amazing @saradika-graphics, thank you! (Please note that the chapter graphic is NOT meant to be accurate to Reader — vibes only!)

If you enjoy my writing, please leave a comment, feedback or reblog! It would mean the world to me. Thank you!

“I think that should be everything,” you murmur, closing the back of the forest green Jeep. You card a hand through your hair while going over a mental pack list for the third time this afternoon. Behind you, you feel a soft kiss on your shoulder and warm, strong hands envelop your waist.

“You ready to ride then, sweetness?” asks your boyfriend, Frankie. You smile and lean back into his embrace. “Yeah, I’m really looking forward to this trip,” you say, turning to plant a kiss to his aquiline nose, and then another to his plush lips. You both hop into the car; Frankie navigates towards the coast, while small butterflies dance in the pit of your stomach as you think about how the two of you got here.

You and Frankie Morales met six months ago at the Santa Monica airport. In a bid to encourage team bonding, upper management at your job booked a helicopter tour of the Los Angeles skyline. Frankie was the pilot for your chopper. He charmed your group with his charismatic yet humble demeanor and fun factoids about LA, especially you – your coworkers insisted that he kept staring at you when you weren’t looking. But Frankie ultimately beat you to the punch and asked you out for drinks the following night. You accepted, and the rest is history. The attraction was palpable from the get-go, and Frankie’s go-with-the-flow attitude complimented your fiery personality to a T. You adored how detail-oriented he was in all aspects of his life – memorizing your favorite teas, asking about how your projects were going, knowing exactly how to make you see stars in bed with his fingers, his cock, and especially his tongue. You couldn’t deny that Frankie was the perfect addition to your life, and you to his.

Through those first few weeks, you both divulged the more challenging bits of your lives. Frankie told you about his daughter, Isabella, and how his struggle with cocaine almost ruined his life. His relationship with his ex-wife was strained because of it, but they co-parented well - it was their main goal to ensure that Isabella was never put in the middle of their struggles, that she always felt supported and loved by both of her parents. Frankie had lost his pilot’s license after he failed a random drug test, and he took that as a sign to do the work to fix what was broken. He was now two years sober, and back to flying.

You, in turn, revealed to Frankie that he wasn’t the only man in your life. For the last decade, you’ve been with Joel Miller, your husband of seven years. Joel was the steady compass of your soul, the man whose roots intertwined deeply with those of your heart. You’d loved Joel almost your entire life, having grown up in the same neighborhood, although your crush on him was secretive during your childhood. He was your older brother’s best friend from college, a transplant from Texas whose parents moved to the Bay Area when he was a teenager. You ran into him after getting your master’s degree and moving back to the suburbs of San Francisco, and something sparked between the two of you. Since then, you’d been inseparable. When your work requested that you spend a year going between NorCal and SoCal to establish the new Los Angeles area office, you knew it would be a challenge for your relationship. As it turns out, it was only really a challenge for one reason — your sex drive was incredibly high, and sometimes you were apart from Joel for weeks at a time. Phone and video sex worked as well as it could, but it couldn’t beat the real thing. One night, after a particularly frustrating video sex session — all of your toys ran out of juice and you’d left your charger at home, among other things — Joel surprised you by suggesting that you didn’t need to stay monogamous. 

“Are you sure, Joel?” you asked incredulously. “You’ve never been one to particularly like sharing.”

Joel huffed a laugh. “Yes, darlin’,” he replied. “Lord knows the new office ended up bein’ more work than either of us thought it’d be. I know how much ‘gettin’ yours’ can be de-stressin’ for ya, and I don’t wanna be the reason you can’t seek it. It’s not like you’d be askin’ someone to move in with us. If it helps you, it makes me happy. And it sure would give my phone battery and hands some relief.” He chuckled as you scoffed in mock indignation. “You don’t have to tell me anythin’ you don’t want to about whoever you get involved with. As long as you’re stayin’ safe and they’re treatin’ you as well as I do, then I’m okay with it.”

You sighed in consideration. “Let me think about it some more,” you said, picking at your rental’s bedspread. “It’s not something I’m going to take lightly.”

And then two weeks later, you met Frankie. Frankie was surprisingly relaxed when you told him about Joel, albeit surprised. He’d hesitated to continue things until you got on the phone with Joel and had him tell Frankie himself. After all, you’d checked with Joel within a few days of meeting Frankie just to make sure Joel was still okay with you being with another man.

You made sure to tell Joel when you’d be seeing Frankie, and Frankie didn’t contact you when you were back home with Joel. It wasn’t that either man wanted to pretend the other didn’t exist; rather, they each wanted to respect the other man’s time with you. Frankie wasn’t seeking marriage or starting a family; he wanted to continue using his time and energy on Isabella and getting his career back on track. And Joel was confident in and comfortable with your  marriage in a way that didn’t allow for unseemly jealousy to crop up. 

Gradually you told each of them bits about the other one, until one day Joel suggested that the two of them meet. You were game, but wanted to run it by Frankie first.

“He wants to meet me?” Frankie asked, wringing his hands a bit and looking mildly surprised. The two of you had just finished dinner at one of your favorite taco trucks in LA, and you licked the tips of your fingers as you finished your last al pastor taco, the warm, savory spices dancing on your tongue. Frankie took a sip from his Mexican Coke, his plush lips wrapping around the cool aqua glass of the bottle.

You nod your head in affirmation. “Just for a couple of days. We could make a vacation out of it. Joel suggested maybe we road trip up the coast.”

Frankie looked pensive. You don’t blame him, especially when the two men had made a concerted effort to keep their relationships with you separate. “You’re sure you want to do this?” Frankie asked, searching your eyes for any hesitation. You studied those dark chocolate irises, so similar to Joel’s. 

“Yes, Francisco,” you confirmed, reaching out across the plastic picnic table to touch his hand. The sounds of the city wrapped around you as the two of you gazed at each other. “Joel has my heart, but so do you. And I want both parts of my heart, my favorites, to be with me at the same time for once.”

“Ok, mi amor, let’s go then,” Frankie said resolutely, bringing up your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your skin.

Your thoughts bring you back to the present, with Frankie’s one-hand grip on the steering wheel and the warm coastal sun beaming through the windshield. The windows are down, allowing the salty sea air to filter through the Jeep. He flips on his turn signal and begins driving through a particularly posh part of Malibu. Giant mansions dwarf the street, pristine lawns and modern, open-glass architecture rolling by as you continue on. You let out a low whistle.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell does Santi do again to afford this?” you ask Frankie, eyes flicking to and from each house you pass by.

“Nothing,” Frankie chuckles. “When we got the money from that final mission that Santi and I went on, he invested the entirety of his share into the stock market. Well, almost everything.” He snorts at the champagne Range Rover in Santi’s driveway as the two of you pull up. Frankie, on the other hand, put the majority of his earnings into a trust fund for Isabella. The rest he used to set himself up comfortably but modestly. “Santi still does some consultant work for private security firms, but he just keeps reinvesting the money and using it to buy property and fund charity work,” Frankie explains.

“Can’t say I blame him, it’s a pretty solid strategy,” you respond, taking in the splendor of Santi’s Malibu abode as Frankie parks his Jeep. The three-story home is minimalist and modern on the exterior, with a combination of cool beige stone and warm wood paneling. No other houses are on either side of the building, so the property is ulta-private, and even has its own beach. As the two of you unpack your bags from the car, you hear a wolf whistle shriek from somewhere around the corner. Jumping slightly, you turn and then smile as Santiago Garcia strolls barefoot out of the house, his pale linen slacks and caramel vintage ribbed polo shirt fluttering lightly against his muscular frame in the sea breeze. 

“Hey pendejo, you finally made it!” Santi yells to Frankie, then turns to you with a “hi, hermosa,” and a kiss to your cheek. You wrap your arms around Santi’s torso, inhaling his sandalwood and cinnamon scent and giggling a hello. Frankie walks up, bags in hand, and tries to ruffle Santi’s perfectly coiffed curls. Santi dodges him and then goes in for a bear hug; Frankie smiles broadly as they rock side to side before clapping each other on the back.

“Good to see you, hermano, and thanks for letting us stay with you,” Frankie says warmly as he picks up your luggage and the three of you head towards the house.

“Not a problem, I’m in town for a consulting gig and figured it’d been awhile since we’d gotten together,” Santi responds ahead of you. You and Frankie follow him into the open-concept common area, admiring the sleek countertops, stainless steel fixtures, and plush yet subdued furniture. Light neutrals rule the color palette, with plenty of floor-to-ceiling windows to allow natural light in. You run your hand over the back of a velvet lounger, indulging in the texture against your fingertips. Frankie goes to the bedroom to drop off your luggage, while Santi starts pulling things out in the kitchen for dinner prep. Continuing towards the back of the house, you push open the sliding glass doors, letting fresh air in while you admire the view from the balcony. Below, the azure waves caress the sand gently, and the sound of the ocean encourages you to release all the stress from the last workweek. 

The boys get going on dinner as you slip on a silky emerald green dress - opting to go braless and barefoot - and dab on some rosy lip stain. The dress drapes lushly over your body, making it both comfortable and beautiful. After spritzing on some of your favorite perfume and putting on thin gold hoop earrings, you emerge from the guest bedroom you and Frankie are sharing for the weekend. Santi looks up and hums in approval.

“Damn, bebita, you look delicious,” he purrs as he finishes seasoning the steaks. “Do you always dress up for dinner with this chump or did you get pretty just for me? It’s okay, you can tell the truth.”

You roll your eyes at his cockiness and chuckle as you squeeze his bicep in passing. “Santi, don’t flatter yourself,” you retort, “I did it for myself. I don’t need to dress up for him to want to devour me.” You cross the kitchen to Frankie, who’s working on the caprese salad. Frankie huffs a laugh and puts down the kitchen knife, wiping his hands on a towel before to circling his hands around your waist. You lean into him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“That’s right,” he shoots back to Santi without looking over, “she doesn’t need extra dressing up; she’s stunning enough as she is.” He kisses your forehead softly as you gaze up at him lovingly.

“You’re right.” Santi lets his gaze scan over you approvingly. “She probably looks even better with nothing on.”

“Santiago!” you laugh. “You’re such an insufferable flirt.” You walk back over to the opposite side of the kitchen island from him, fixing him with a smoldering smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know, hmm?” Santi has always been relentlessly flirtatious with every attractive woman he meets, including you. Frankie’s never bothered by his antics, but you see his eyes flick towards the two of you, anticipating his response.

“Don’t tease me with promises you won’t keep, sweetheart,” Santi warns you, voice like rich caramel, sweet and smooth. You hold each other’s gazes for a moment before you break away, laughing softly and successfully ruffling his hair like Frankie wanted to earlier. That distracts Santi from the moment, as he huffs and runs his fingers through his curls to fix them.

A few hours later, the three of you are relaxing on the balcony by the fire pit after dinner, drinking mezcal margaritas and catching up on life. You sit with your legs across the cream  patio sofa, your back against Frankie’s side like you often do with him. His arm is draped possessively across your torso while his thumb rubs absentmindedly back and forth across your shoulder. Santi goes inside to fetch the mezcal bottle from the kitchen, having switched to just the liquor, and you stand from the couch to observe the beach at the balcony’s railing. The darkness of night has settled over the landscape, lending deep navies and turquoise hues to the water, and everything feels more hushed. 

As you inhale the coastal breeze, you feel Frankie’s warm body press into you from behind, and then his soft lips pressing a trail of kisses over your shoulder and neck. You hum happily, smelling his rosemary cedar soap on his skin, and press yourself further into him, lightly grinding against his hips. Frankie lets out a quiet groan and presses right back into you, letting you feel his hardening length against your ass. He begins to cup your breasts through the silken fabric of your dress, easily pebbling your nipples with no bra between his fingers and your tits. The heat of arousal starts to pool low in your belly as Frankie slides his hands down to your hips, grinding on you until he’s fully hard beneath his pants. You tilt your head back, closing your eyes, and turn to the side to catch his lips, biting on his lower one and eliciting a louder groan from him. 

“Sweetness, I need you so badly,” Frankie whispers into your ear. When you quietly moan in response, you can feel Frankie’s hands slip down the silk over your ass and hear him shuffle behind you. Spinning around and opening your eyes, you see him on his knees, hat next to him on the floor, starting to ruck up your dress. 

“Frankie,” you hiss, grabbing his hands, desperate for more but concerned. “What if Santi sees?” 

“What if I want to watch?” you hear suddenly over Frankie’s shoulder, and you gasp when you look behind him and realize Santi is leaning against the open balcony door, sipping mezcal straight from the bottle. A fire ripples from the base of your spine upwards, and your gaze drops to Frankie, whose eyes have gone nearly black with desire but remain on you. Your lips pop open slightly, and you freeze.

“Well, querida, answer the man,” Frankie rasps. “Either you let him watch or make him go back inside, but either way, I’m eating this sweet pussy.” His hands slowly drag up your legs until he’s cupping your ass, squeezing the soft flesh, which rips a moan from your throat. As Frankie’s lips trail up and down your legs, you look back up at Santi, trying to read his expression. Gone is the molten chocolate of his irises; instead, you see glimmering adamant, dark and deep like the desire painted over every line of his face. But that heated gaze is still respectful – you know Santi would never cross your boundaries. If you truly didn’t want him to watch, he’d go inside the house, no questions asked. 

It’s for that exact reason that your desire thrums through you like a bass line, and you bite your lip. “Frankie, I need your mouth on me right now. I think Santi needs to see how hard you make me come.”

Frankie responds with a groan, while Santi lets out a deep purring sound. He moves to the couch, sitting with his legs spread, and takes another swig of mezcal as he takes in the sight before him. Frankie immediately yanks your soft lace panties down your thighs, and growls at the gossamer-thin string of arousal that connects your weeping center with your underwear.

“Fuuuuck, querida, you’re fucking soaked,” Frankie moans, inhaling the intoxicating scent near your glossy slit. You step out of your panties, and he grabs them, tossing them to Santi. The man on the couch catches them with one hand, bringing them immediately to his nose and sniffing deeply. 

“Goddamn,” Santi grits out, “she smells so fucking good, hermano.” He brings the gusset of the lace garment to his mouth, gingerly licking the slick off, groaning at the taste. You gasp at the sight, a wave of wetness trickling down your channel. “Tastes amazing too,” he adds, leaning back into the couch cushions and stuffing your panties into his pocket.

Frankie pushes your dress up to your waist and moves your left thigh to rest on his shoulder, spreading you open. He splays your lips open with his thumbs, staring at your pussy glistening in the fire’s light, on display for both him and Santi. He licks a steady strip from the bottom to the top, swirling around your clit at the end. You moan loudly, leaning back against the railing for support.

“Oh bebita, listen to those sweet sounds you’re making for Frankie,” Santi croons from the couch. “He must be making that pussy feel so good.”

“Yes, Santi,” you gasp, swallowing thickly as your eyes close in pleasure. “He’s so fucking good with his tongue.” You hear Santi rumble deep in his chest in response.

Frankie begins licking, sucking, and tapping on your clit exactly like he knows you like it, gripping your cheeks with both hands and massaging them. You writhe against his face, rocketing faster towards your impending orgasm. When you look up, you see Santi palming his cock through his pants, the bulge straining against the linen. Your cunt clenches at the image before you. Frankie can tell you’re close, so he slips two of his fingers into his mouth momentarily to slick them up and then plunges them into your warm cunt. You throw your head back, nearly screaming in ecstasy. Your grip tightens on the railing.

“I know you’re close, querida,” Frankie growls. “Let Santi see how pretty you look when you come.” Frankie then hooks his fingers just right inside of you and hits that soft spot that sends you into orbit, squealing. You feel everything tighten and then release, your orgasm rippling through your core and into your extremities. Frankie and Santi both moan at the sights and sounds of you reaching your peak, Frankie lapping up every drop of release from you.

“Good fucking girl, mamacita,” Santi says, getting up from the couch and stalking towards the both of you. Frankie gets off of his knees, easing your leg off his shoulder while wiping a hand across his drenched mouth. He knows exactly what Santi wants, so he moves back a couple of steps. You almost stumble, legs like jelly, and Santi catches your waist.

He tilts your chin up to meet his eyes, and his assessing gaze breaks through the post-orgasm haze you’re in. “I really want to taste that perfect cunt, baby,” Santi whispers. “Can I do that for you?” You look at him, hesitating for a moment only because this is a line you’ve not crossed with Santi before. You nod clearly at him. Santi shakes his head. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Santi,” you breathe. “Please put your mouth on me.” Santi groans in anticipation and starts walking backwards, pulling you with him. When you look at him in slight confusion, a sheepish smile passes briefly over his lips.

“Bad knees,” he reminds you, and you laugh. “Kneeling on concrete would kill me.” He tilts his chin to Frankie. “Fish, open the door to the bedroom. I’m gonna lay her down. And bring the bottle.” Frankie obliges, sliding open the other glass door to the expansive bedroom and grabbing the mezcal bottle.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers. You sigh a yes, and Santi kisses you softly at first, then deeper. He tastes like cinnamon, tropical fruits, and smoky liquor. Moaning quietly, you start to lose yourself in his kiss as he moves the both of you backwards into the bedroom. 

The California king size bed is draped in soft taupes and creams, the bedding a gauzy cotton that feels incredible on your skin as Santi gently lays you on it. He pulls your dress up your body, and you arch your back to help him remove it over your head. As your bare body is exposed to him, glowing in the low light, he sucks in a breath. Frankie places the mezcal bottle on the bedside table, then strips out of everything except his black boxer briefs, his length fully hard against his left thigh, and sits down on a sleek chaise lounger in the corner, watching you and Santi.

Santi strips off his shirt and then climbs onto the bed over you, slowly sliding his hands over your soft skin as he goes. You shift on the bed at his touch, back arching a bit and thighs rubbing together. He keeps his eyes locked with yours as he reaches your head, forearms bracketing either side of your face. His body is so close to yours yet not touching.

Moaning, you tangle your fingers in his salt and pepper curls and pull briefly. Santi bites your lower lip in response with a small growl. Sitting up, he grabs the mezcal off the bedside table.

“Open,” he commands, taking a swig from the glass bottle. You obey, and Santi leans over your open mouth and fucking spits the mezcal into it. You swallow, moaning at the taste, the alcohol and him. He kisses you roughly, licking into your mouth, and you whimper, your legs dropping open of their own accord.

Santi notices and chuckles darkly. “Oh, you liked that, huh?” he purrs. “Dirty girl.” He kisses and nips along your ear and neck, across your collarbone, and down your chest. Reaching your nipples, he swirls his tongue around and then gently nips each of them. You feel slick pooling at your entrance, starting to drip down your inner thighs. Santi traces his tongue down your belly and to the curls above your pussy, inhaling deeply. He pushes your thighs open further and groans at the sight.

“Goddamn, you’re drenched,” he grits out, shuffling down to put his face at your center. You glance over at Frankie in the corner, and notice he has his cock out, slowly stroking the length. You whimper at the sight and Frankie licks his lips. You feel a sudden pinch at your inner thigh and whip your head back to the man between your legs.

“Eyes on me, hermosa,” Santi orders. “I want you to look right at me when I eat this pretty pussy.” And with that, he dives in.

Santi is a messier lover than Frankie, who usually eats you out with absolute precision, priding himself with knowing exactly how to make you come as fast as possible, and repeat the process until you’re crying out from overstimulation. Santi, however, is licking at you like he wants to drown himself in your cunt. His tongue is everywhere, licking broad stripes across your slit, sucking on your lips and clit, biting at your thighs, shoving his tongue deep into your channel. 

“So fucking sweet,” Santi pants out in a daze, separating his mouth from your sopping cunt for just a moment, and then goes back in for more. You mewl and grip the bed sheets as he continues to ravage you.

Your moans of pleasure stir something in Frankie, who gets up from his seat and walks over to the bed, his need to touch you nearly insatiable.

“Frankie,” you whine as you see him, your eyes hazy with lust, reaching out to him. 

“I’m right here, querida,” he reassures you, then gets onto the bed, placing himself behind you. You scooch up the bed so that you’re sitting in between his spread legs, your back to his bare chest. You can feel his hard length against you, silken and hot, his precum smearing slick against your skin. Frankie kisses your forehead, then leans forward and grabs your legs behind the knees, pulling back and spreading you impossibly wider for Santi. The man between your thighs groans, slipping two fingers into you, making your back arch even more.

“Does our little slut like to be spread out? Do you like Frankie holding your legs open for me, bebita?” Santi growls, pumping his fingers in and out of you. You cry out at his words, throwing your head back against Frankie’s shoulder. One of your hands grabs Frankie’s thigh, and the other one grips Santi’s hair once again.

“Yes,” you respond, pushing his head back towards your dripping slit. “Lick my pussy like you mean it, Santi.” He groans deep in his chest and dives back in, and you feel Frankie bite the junction between your neck and shoulder in arousal. Santi continues pumping his fingers into you as he sucks your clit between his lips, swirling his tongue over it in tiny circles. You feel your orgasm begin to rise in your lower belly, intensifying with each thrust and lick. Santi feels your slick walls bear down on his fingers.

“That’s it, honey, I know you want to come for me,” Santi says.

“Give it to us,” Frankie whispers in your ear. “Come for me and Santi.”

Frankie’s command is all it takes to snap the tether in your core, shattering you into pieces as the pleasure courses hot through your body. You scream their names as your pussy gushes wave after wave of slick, running down your thighs and Santi’s fingers, into his waiting mouth, licking and slurping obscenely, his fingers continuing to press into your g-spot to prolong your high.

“God, I need to be inside you right fucking now,” Santi grits out, pussydrunk. He stands up and hurriedly shoves his pants and boxers down his legs, his thick cock springing free and bobbing slightly. You feel your mouth water; his dick is just as gorgeous as Frankie’s. 

Santi meets your eyes once again. “Do you want me to fuck you while Frankie holds you open, sweetheart?” Santi asks you. You pause, your pleasure-addled mind narrowing in on one idea – having them both.

“I want you both,” you moan. Santi’s eyes widen a bit and then dart to Frankie. They share a smirk and then Frankie turns to you in his lap.

“Querida, how do you want us?” Frankie inquires. “One at a time or at the same time?”

“At the same time,” you whimper. “I want you both in my pussy.”

Santi and Frankie groan in unison. Santi smiles wickedly, looking at Frankie. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, eh?”

“Just like we used to,” Frankie chuckles darkly, and your fuzzy mind tucks away their exchange for later. “We have to get her ready, then.” He slowly releases your knees and turns to you, kissing the side of your face and lightly nibbling your ear. He grabs your chin gently with his fingers, turning your head sideways to meet his eyes. “We’re going to work you open first, okay, baby?” he intones softly. You nod your head yes. Santi and Frankie’s eyes meet, and Santi opens the bedside table drawer, grabbing a bottle of lube and tossing it to Frankie. 

He catches it, reading the label. “Guava?” Frankie asks quizzically. “What happened to the mango-pineapple one?”

Santi shrugs. “I still have it,” he explains, “but guava goes better with pussy and mezcal.” You huff a laugh and Frankie smiles, kissing your forehead again and sweeping your hair out of your face.

“Guess we have an edible lube connoisseur here,” jokes Frankie, opening the cap and pouring some of the slick liquid onto his thick digits. 

The sweet, juicy fruit scent wafts through the air, and Santi grabs the bottle from him, doing the same while shaking his head incredulously.“It’s not my fault that you have no sense of refinement,” he retorts. Frankie just rolls his eyes and turns back to you.

“Are you ready, sweetness?” Frankie murmurs. You nod your head and breathe out a “yes, baby”. Frankie reaches in front of himself and slips his two lubed fingers into you, and you whimper softly. Santi follows suit, slipping two of his fingers into you next, kneeling between your legs. You feel stretched full but so turned on. They allow you a few moments to adjust, and when you nod your head, they begin swirling their fingers in opposite directions. A moan rips from your throat and you grab at the bedsheets. They continue swirling and pressing their fingers in and out, and the sight of your pussy filled with their fingers gets the both of them rock hard.

The cloud of euphoria in your head is all-consuming as they continue, your arousal reaching an almost painful peak. Suddenly you grab their wrists and both men stop immediately, concern crossing their faces. “Are you okay, bebita?” Frankie asks, his brows furrowing. 

You nod your head rapidly, and then bleat out, “I need you both inside me right now.” Santi and Frankie grin at your fucked out expression, looking at each other conspiratorially.

“Well, you heard the lady, Pope,” Frankie says. “Let’s give her what she wants.” He shifts you forward as he moves to the side, pulling his underwear all the way off. He lays on his back on the bed, his hard cock against his stomach dripping pre-cum. “I want you to ride me, hermosa, and then Santi is going to enter you from behind as you lean forward,” Frankie explains.

You nod your head in understanding and straddle his thighs, facing him. Frankie hands you the lube bottle. You dribble a stream onto his waiting thickness, and he hisses as the cool liquid hits his hot velvet skin. Grabbing his slick length, you shuffle forward and guide him into your channel, whining when he bottoms out easily. Frankie reaches up and grips your hips, guiding you to ride him.

After a minute, he looks over your shoulder at Santi, who is slowly stroking his dick. “I think she’s ready, Fish,” Santi says, and Frankie nods once. Santi gets on the bed, coming to his knees behind you and grabbing your hips. Frankie slides his hands to your back, gently pulling you towards him until you’re leaning forward, laying chest to chest, your pussy on full display for Santi, stuffed with Frankie’s cock. You hear Santi groan behind you at the sight.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this, bebita,” Santi admits as he slicks up his hardness with the lube. “Been thinking about being inside this pussy for months.”

“Well, now’s your chance,” you tease, looking back at him. “Better hurry before the offer expires.” Santi smirks at you as he places his hands on your hips.

The moment you feel the head of Santi’s cock slide into your pussy, you gasp as the sting of the stretch hits you. You hear Santi behind you grit out a quiet “fuck”. Slowly he continues sinking into your hot, wet heat. Reaching forward, he circles your throbbing clit softly, making you whine but relax, allowing him to slip deeper into you, inch by inch. Your pussy twitches and both Santi and Frankie choke on moans. 

When he fills you as far as you can take both of them, the three of you hold still. As the seconds pass, the sting gives way as you adjust to being this full. The result is rolling waves of lightning sparking through your veins with each minute movement inside of you. You let out a high-pitched whine as a knot of white-hot pleasure tightens in your core.

“Mierda, bebita,” Frankie moaned, “are you gonna come just from both of us being in you?”

“God, she feels so fucking good,” Santi murmurs, almost to himself. Both of them are gripping you tightly as you continue to whimper and whine, your high quickly building. Your breathing intensifies, and you start to shake. 

It’s so much, being so full of them physically, and the thought of them both in you - two of the most attractive, sexy men you know - is nearly making you lose your mind. But you don’t want to come before your boys have even gotten to move. It almost feels like a weakness, being this fucked out for them.

“It’s ok, sweetness, let go,” says Frankie softly, realizing you’re holding off for them. He presses a kiss to your neck and it’s your undoing. 

The brush of his lips against that sensitive spot right under your ear pushes you off the edge and you wail, your pleasure cresting as you jerk under their firm grips. They moan loudly, your pleasure stoking theirs. The three of you catch your breaths as you come down from your high.

Frankie looks up at you, eyes pitch black, swimming with devotion for you. Santi strokes your hips gently, his strong hands shaking slightly.

“How are you feeling?” Frankie asks you sweetly, rubbing his hands across your back, his thighs clenching from holding back. 

You take a shaky breath. “So fucking full,” you respond, and then giggle softly at your obvious observation. The boys laugh too, and then moan slightly as your bodies shift. Santi squeezes your hips and asks, “Are you ready for us to move, hermosa?” Your head is swimming in endorphins as you whimper out, “Yes, Santi. I need both of you to fuck me now.”

With that, the two men lock eyes and nod, beginning an apparently practiced dance of their cocks. As Frankie slides himself out, Santi pushes in, and then they reverse roles. You cry out in ecstasy. It’s so much more than you could have ever imagined.

Frankie and Santi start off with slow, shallow thrusts in and out, gradually stretching you around their lengths. When Frankie hits a particularly sweet spot, you moan fervently and more slick coats them, making them both moan back in response. The friction between their cocks and your walls is delicious.

“Fuck, bebita, you look incredible taking the both of us,” Santi says, gripping your hips harder, a sheen of sweat glimmering across his body. 

Frankie hums in agreement. “You’re doing so well, baby,” he praises. You preen at their words, arching your back to change the angle. Santi whimpers and kisses along your spine, worshiping your body. The room is thick with the smell of sex, guava, and mezcal, the squelching sounds of your pussy weaving between all three of your moans and cries of pleasure.

The boys begin to speed up the wetter you get, starting to fuck into you with vigor. You feel like your whole body is vibrating. Leaning down to kiss Frankie changes the angle once again, and Santi lets out yet another whimper as you slide your tongue along Frankie’s.

“Fuck, baby, just like that, that’s perfect,” he gasps, getting even harder inside of you. He starts to rub your clit in tight circles, making you yelp. “I want you to come one more time for us before we fill you up,” he continues. “Gonna make your pussy milk our cocks. C’mon, honey, you’ve got one more in you, I can feel it.”

“I don’t know,” you whimper. “I - it’s so much…”

Frankie lets out a growl. “Oh, querida, I know you can come for us one more time,” he says. “Just think about how full of cock you are right now.”

He’s right. The psychological thrill of having both men inside of you is the push you need. You start to shake again, everything tensing up. Both men moan as your channel pulls tight.

Santi leans down to your ear, still thumbing your clit. “Fucking come for us. That’s an order.”

You scream so loudly when your fourth orgasm hits you, that you’re grateful that Santi has no neighbors - because they definitely would have called the cops by now. Tears leak down your face from the intensity, and Santi whimpers loudly as he thrusts in and comes deep in you, his hot seed coating your walls. The tightness of your pussy and Santi shoving deep end up pushing Frankie’s cock out, but he couldn’t care less. 

When Santi’s strokes slow and then stop, indicating he’s finished, Frankie pushes him off of you, and roughly flips you over onto your back. He shoves your legs apart, and pushes his dick harshly into you. Boneless, you lay there, moaning and taking it, unable to say anything coherent except for Frankie’s name. Your boyfriend presses your legs even further towards your shoulders, nearly bending you in half as he fucks into you hard and fast, Santi’s cum forced out of you with every snap of Frankie’s hips.

“God, you look like such a goddess right now,” Frankie babbles, nearly snarling, “so full of cum. You like that? You want me to fill you up good? You’re gonna be leaking our cum for days, querida.”

“Yes, Frankie, yes,” you moan, “please fill me up. I love your cum in me. I wanna be so full of both of you.”

With a shout, Frankie bares his teeth and comes, getting as deep as possible and filling up your cunt just like he promised. You feel his cum thick and hot in you, triggering another moan. 

Frankie drops your knees back down to the bed, nearly collapsing down against your chest while the two of you pant heavily, trying to catch your breaths. Looking over, you spot Santi sitting up at the corner of the bed, looking disheveled but utterly sated, his now-soft cock still shiny with lube and your combined releases. 

You reach your hand out to him, and he crawls towards you, slotting himself next to one side, while Frankie hisses as he pulls out of you and lays next to you on your other side. He smothers your neck and face with kisses, and you giggle, feeling Santi pepper kisses across the top of your head and stroking the underside of your breast affectionately with his thumb.

You let out a contented sigh. “Wow, that was…”

Frankie hums out an “incredible” at the exact same time Santi rumbles a “so fucking good” to complete your statement, which makes the three of you laugh. Giggles subsiding, something they said in the heat of the moment suddenly pops into your mind.

“Wait a second,” you say as you sit up. Both men lazily look up at you, faces blissed out, waiting for your question. “Frankie, you said, ‘just like old times’... How many times have you double teamed with Santi?”

The two of them look at each other with nearly identical smirks. Santi pipes up first. “Well, back in our Army grunt days,” he explains, “when we’d go on leave together, we kind of had this habit of teaming up to pick up women.” Your jaw drops slightly, and Santi looks amused at your shock.

“It was a fairly effective strategy,” Frankie continues. “Trying to land a girl alone was a crapshoot. But with the both of us offering her a night to remember?” Frankie huffs. “It seemed like fantasy fulfillment for almost every woman we fucked together.”

Your eyes rake over the two of them, gloriously naked and handsome as ever, in bed with you. Yeah, you can see the appeal. 

“Okay, but who came up with the idea?” You ask, then immediately put up a hand into the air. “WAIT, no, I know exactly who… Santi, you slut!”

Frankie lets out a loud bark of a laugh as Santi rolls his eyes, folding his arms over his chest, annoyed. 

“Hey, don’t act like you didn’t benefit from it, idiota!” Santi grumbles. Frankie reaches over, finally successfully ruffling Santi’s hair. Santi flinches and bats Frankie’s hand away, making you shake with laughter as you lounge in the post-coital haze with your boyfriend and his best friend. You don’t blame those women they slept with one bit. This was a night you will surely remember.

No pressure tags: @mermaidgirl30 @legendary-pink-dot @nerdieforpedro @mountainsandmayhem @arcanefox207 @campingwiththecharmings @exquisit3corpse @gutsby @honeyedmiller @lavendertales @lu62 @luxurychristmaspudding @ozarkthedog @qveerthe0ry @swiftispunk @sheepdogchick3 @thatshortgirlwithglasses @wannab-urs @musings-of-a-rose

[water-to-drink]

Hii!!

After reading Sagau Neuvillete I can’t avoid asking for Sagau Arlecchino.

If you don’t want to write for her is fine

And thanks for the Sagau Neuvillete!!!

Sagau Arlecchino

(Pairing): Arlecchino x gn!reader

(Tags/Warnings): Reader is crazy, crack fic, reader has a dysfunctional family (mentioned (sorry those with normal healthy families)), possible ooc Arlecchino, traveler is left ambiguous, takes place during the Fontaine archon quest and Arlecchino’s story quest, (if I missed anything lmk)

(Word Count): 550

(A/n): Sorry this took so long, as said before Arlecchino is a bit hard to write for

❌ The Knave had a very busy schedule, with her running the house of the Hearth to other Harbinger obligations, so why is she in Monstadt collecting mist flower corolla?

❌ It started in the most unlikely place, a tea party between Furina, Neuvilette and her

❌ Though you were quiet throughout the meeting but she felt a divine presence, similar to the presence she felt whenever she’s near the Tsarita yet different and more powerful

❌ Her second interaction with you was during her second meeting with Furina with the traveler in Neuvilette’s place. Grilling into the hydro archon she asked about her escape plan for when the prophecy came to fruition

“She don’t gotta explain shit!”

❌ Those were your first words to the Knave, brash and crude. The complete opposite of what she had expected them to be

❌ She won’t lie in saying that she’s a bit disappointed in how her first meeting went out, perhaps she shouldn’t have pushed as hard as she did. She still doesn’t agree with Furina’s seemingly lack of action but if she has your support then she’ll back off

❌ The next time she interacted with you was after the prophecy was fulfilled. The salty breeze whips around her and the traveler, the idle chitchat around her was dulled in her mind by your voice

“I’m not going to stop you, you can take the gnosis to Snezhnaya.”

❌ She initially expected a fight, but your words took her by surprise

❌ Not only that you aren’t going stop her, you also gave her your approval for her and the Fatui’s mission

❌ Maybe she was wrong about you

❌ A few days later she sense the familiar divine presence

“Hey babygirl.”

❌ “Babygirl?” She did hear you call other vision users that, whatever it is she’s glad that you aren’t still mad at her as you were during the tea party

❌ After some talk she brought the traveler with her to her meeting with the Iudex to discuss some things

*gasp* “babygirl!”

❌ That word again, maybe it’s a term of endearment that the divine uses, if that’s the case then she’ll wear it with pride

“Bye hydro daddy~”

❌ The day went on without much trouble until the battle for Filliol and Nanteuil’s freedom commenced. Arlecchino was thankful that you didn’t talk much throughout the fight because she doesn’t know what she would do if she was caught off guard by one of your comments

❌ Bringing the traveler in her domain she walked towards them but stoped when she hears a moan and you saying

“I love a woman who can kick my ass.”

❌ A blush crept up on Arlecchino’s face, she’s flattered but she wouldn’t dare raise a hand towards the divine creator even if you wanted her to. The fight carried on with more of your commentary

“Damn this family is more dysfunctional than mine’s, and that’s saying something!”

❌ If Arlecchino was taking a sip from a drink she definitely would have spit it out, she’s supposed to be threatening and now she’s doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry

❌ Whatever the she should do the rumors about you are true, you seem to can’t take anything seriously

[the-cauldron-witch]

Howdy T'Witch! It makes me so happy that you got your blog all up and designed! Those are big days and I’m happy that it looks so good! Hopefully you think so too!

I say that your writing requests were open and I’d love to pick your brain on some light angst if you’re up for it! No worries if you ain’t because hey understandable. The holidays be crazyyyyyy 🤪

But maybe to something to think about if you’re bored and whatever. But I wanted to ask on how do you think the Bayverse Boys would respond to you (y/n) getting amnesia and forgetting about them completely for whatever reason for how ever long? Do you think they’d try to rejog their memory or try to love them better with the chance of a fresh start? Or something else entirely. I am curious and I’d love to hear your thoughts if you’ve got the time and energy. Thanks for existing!

Hey Anon! (It’s weird to type this and have you not actually be an anon lmao)

I am very happy I finally have my blog up and running how I like, it finally feels like a little home to me. Thank you for noticing! 🫂🫂🫂

Thank you so much for sending an ask, I’m going to have fun with this one! I’m giving them a happy ending though, cause I can’t write angst and not give my boys a good ending. (Also completely unedited and not proof read lol)

Leonardo

The worry and anxiety he feels in the pit of his stomach like he swallowed a lead weight is one thing, but the chest-clenching heartbreak when you shriek at the sight of him and had no recollection of his existence is another.

He keeps a stoic face once you’ve calmed down and while explaining who he is to you, but really this poor guy is absolutely gutted. It takes so much of him to keep a straight face.

Still a bit of a helicopter, using any subtle opportunity to jog your memory of himself. He’ll make a cup of tea for you in the exact way he did on your first date, subtly comment on your outfit when he recognizes it’s something he bought you, anything he could think of to hopefully remind you.

This man does not sleep the entire time. You aren’t sleeping in his bed, how could he anyway? Once he is sure you are fully asleep, he comes to check on you. Listen to see if you talk in your sleep, mumbling about memories or just in case a nightmare decides to haunt you.

When he can’t check on you or do really anything else, he’s meditating in order to keep his emotions in line. He’s completely destroyed, so meditating for hours on end is the only way he can keep himself in check.

Although he’s snappy, irritable, and driving everyone but you away, what Leo really needs is one of his brothers to ignore the attitude and just stand there and let him get it out. By the time he’s done he’s already apologized a hundred times, he’s just lost and broken hearted.

Out of all his brothers, Raph is probably the one that cracks him and gets him to just spit it out. They all know what’s going on and how much Leo’s hurting from it all, but he still needs to let it out. Raph can handle the attitude with ease, brushing it aside and letting Leo get himself together

After what feels like an eternity, you gain your memory back at the most random of times while you happened to be watching him practice his kata. When you start babbling memories excitedly, he picks you up in a hug and cries into you.

It doesn’t matter if anyone’s watching, he’s crying and just so grateful that you remember who he is. Weeping tears of joy and the bottled anxiety finally burst as he holds you. Bear with this poor guy, it’s been a ride for both of you really.

Raphael

This poor guy is so surprised and in shock when you don’t remember him, he thinks you’re playing some sort of prank on him at first.

“Heh- babe, c’mon…don’t joke around like dat”

Once it hits him that this isn’t a prank or joke, you genuinely do not know who he is, Raph practically shuts down.

The love of his life doesn’t remember who he is, even looks at him like he’s the monster he felt he was before meeting you. It breaks his heart so much he locks himself away for a day or two, unfortunately leaving you more confused.

When you start wanting to be near him- no, needing to be near him, is when he starts coming around. He found you pacing back and forth in front of his bedroom door like a cat waiting to enter a closed off room one night.

You couldn’t explain it, but you have this invisible pull and primal need to be near him somehow. To be close, even touching him. Although you don’t remember why, you just know you need to,

Raph starts coming out of his room and trying to act normal, but when his brothers look him in the face an see how red and raw his eyes are, the dark circles, and the heartbreak in his eyes, they know it’s just an act but wisely choose not to comment.

He catches you staring at him while he’s working out, chuckling as you bashfully try to shy away. He doesn’t tease or joke though, instead encourages you to come watch

“I miss my favorite spotting partner,” Raph admits, hoping that will help jog your memory a little. It doesn’t outright, but you do find yourself already knowing how to spot him.

After a few days of you following Raph around like a lost puppy, your memory finally comes crashing back to you when Raph slipped the boxing gloves on you for practice.

Relief. So much relief it washes over Raph like a tidal wave that nearly knocks him off his feet. He holds you and kisses you, telling you repeatedly how grateful and happy he is you have your memory and you’re here. The tears will come at night while the two of you are in bed for the night, but he holds you and everything is okay.

Donatello

Initiate full on analytical mode. He is immediately going through a thousand different scenarios and cures in his head, he almost forgets that *you forgot* who he was all together, so his babbling did nothing to calm you down.

Even with all his knowledge and abilities, it still doesn’t negate the overwhelming emotions he feels when you don’t recognize him. It hurts, makes it hard for Donnie to even breathe, but he hides it behind his science and research.

Sitting in front of his computer for days on end in between checking up on your, it becomes almost like an obsession for Donnie to get your memory back. At the risk of his own health and wellbeing, he does not stop.

From using scents he knows you enjoy, like that cologne you bought for him as a gift or your favorite body wash, tasting your favorite coffee or the tiramisu Donnie bought for the two of you on a date once.

Let’s put on that movie we watched on that one Valentine’s weekend; you were obsessed with it for weeks!

Oh, what if Donnie took you to that rooftop the two of you saw a comet in the night sky once? It was absolutely beautiful, but wasn’t nearly as beautiful as you, he confided.

Countless hours of research keep Donnie from sleeping, honestly at one point contemplating how he could just straight main-line caffeine into his blood stream to stay awake.

Without warning one night, you come into his lab and demand he sleep. Not ask, not coax, you demand Donnie to get in bad with you and get some sleep. He questions if you’ve finally gotten your memory back, but sadly no. And he’s crushed. But you still demand he lay down in bed with you.

Crawling into bed with you with awkward limbs, Donnie is surprised that you lay down exactly as you always do with him. Even without memory, it was like your body still remembered how you fit together.

Quiet tears fall as Donnie holds onto you, sleep mercifully taking him into a deep slumber. Guilt crawled its way into your stomach while trying to sleep, wishing that your memory would just return so you could stop all of this.

Waking up in the morning, you blinked with shock as you look at Donnie- looked at him like you knew him again. And you did. You had woken up with your memory by some miracle.

Kissing and hugging you with love and relief, Donnie can’t keep his hands off of you or keep the tears from smudging his glasses. It was all so hard to believe while it was happening that now it was over, it felt like the end of a tornado.

The two of you decide to sleep in a little longer, only because Donnie could barely hold his eyes open. Frankly, sleep was probably what you needed too after all this.

Michelangelo

Confused. Downright, no jokes confused. How could you not remember him so suddenly? Time just doesn’t erase like that right?

Mikey asks Donnie a million and one questions, repeating or re-wording them or giving scenarios. It drives his brother mad, but he tries to be lenient because Donnie knows how terrified his younger brother is.

He caters to you in every way; offers to get you a drink, make you something to eat, get you a pillow, it becomes a little overwhelming, but you don’t know how to tell him to stop.

When Mikey tries to kiss you and pull away, it was like you could practically hear the way his heart shatters like glass. But he hides it with a smile and flirts, telling you he won you over once, he could do it again.

This is when he starts to flirt with you like he did before the two of you started dating, but with far more strategy and knowledge. Comments about how sweet you are while making your favorite chocolate pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream

Tells you how amazing you look in that shirt or those pants, mostly because he was the one to buy them.

He’ll give you your favorite kind of gifts; favorite flowers, candy, stuffed animals, anything he can think of giving you and jog your memory. Each time it doesn’t work, he’s crushed a little bit more, but he keeps trying.

Plays movies that you and Mikey watched together, shared music playlists the two of you built together over the period of your relationship, and whatever else he could possibly think of. But it still didn’t work.

When you aren’t anywhere near to see, Mikey with let himself cry for a moment out of frustration and sadness that you don’t remember him. It hurts, but by the time you are near he has a smile back on his face.

He thought you were sleeping one night when you found him crying down one of the sewer tunnels away from the lair. The sight broke your heart, which for some reason jogged your memory. Rushing to hug and kiss him, you damn near scared Mikey out of his shell.

“Angelcakes, you remember!?” Mikey shouts, picking you up and spinning you in a massive hug. Thank the pizza Gods, he had you back!

Taglist

@silverwatergalaxy @thelaundrybitch @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos

@yorshie @truffle-reblogs @redsrooftopprincess @ninnosaurus @thepinkpanther83

@avery73 @luckycharms1701 @tmnt-tychou @suksiskovaikkakuuseen @milykins @justalotoffanfiction

[ikeuluvr]

asking you to the school dance || enha hyung line

synopsis - how enhypen’s hyung line would ask you to the school dance

enhypen x reader / best friends to lovers / warnings - none! :) / wc ~200 per member

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　

heeseung is a very straightforward type of man. he’s not shy to share his feelings and wants with you because he knows how important communication is in your friendship. however, for the first time in his fourteen years of friendship with you, he’s struggling to tell you how he feels. “I’m in love with you,” he wants to scream until his lungs give out every time he sees you, but how do you naturally spring that onto a person? tired of not being able to call you his love, heeseung devises a plan to ask you to be his date to the school dance, and, in life. knowing that extravagance isn’t your cup of tea, he carries out his plan on your weekly gaming night so you won’t grow suspicious. he opens minecraft on his tv and tells you to look at the house he had built, only for there to be no house, but the words “can i be your date to the dance?” with a geeky smile he has you look farther to the right of the proposal where another one lay, “...and your boyfriend?”

big and extravagant public attention grabbers aren’t necessarily jay’s thing. he loves to make things intimate and special in his way without eyes always on him. when the winter formal was announced, jay knew he had to ask you to be his date before anyone else could. he invited you to his place for a cozy home-cooked meal made by jay himself. jay is usually a nonchalant type of guy, but he was nearly sweating through his shirt because of how nervous he was. with a little help from his mom, he got you to leave the kitchen while he plated both of your meals, carefully curating the word “FORMAL?” across the rim of your plate with sauce. jay placed the newly decorated plate in front of you after your return from a chat with his mom, a shaky gleam in his eyes waiting for your response. “jay, i’d love to be your date,” you smile at him, pulling him into a hug and leaving a kiss on his cheek that turns him redder than the tomatoes on your plate.

what really sparked your friendship with jake was your mutual love for music. as the two of you grew closer, you would send each other new music to listen to every day. whether it be a new artist, a song, an album, a playlist, or a performance, the two of you always find something that the other would enjoy. you could send a simple “i’m bored” text to jake and he’d have four performance videos, two albums, and three new artists for you to indulge in to cure your boredom. it was nothing out of the ordinary for you and jake to create playlists for each other either, so when he sends a new one titled “hey y/n…” it doesn’t even faze you until it's opened. “I was… Enchanted… To Meet You…” the songs read in order, “So… Let’s Be… The Life of the Party… at Prom?... Be My Date!” you cheesed ear to ear when you realized what jake had just asked you. “P.S. I Like You,” was the last song on the playlist, leaving a whole zoo in your stomach in excitement to tell jake you’ve always felt the same way.

sunghoon is the corniest dude you have ever met in your life. there’s never a day where he’s not spitting bad jokes your way or making the most sarcastic comments that make your eyes roll. he definitely thinks he’s the funniest person in the world. while deciphering through all of his options of how he wants to ask you to be his date to the school dance, he came to the consensus of something cute and simple: a sign. sunghoon loves those cheesy proposal signs that he sees on tiktok and pinterest that use witty play on words. he wanted to make his sign special and make it exclusive towards your friendship. the first time the two of you spent time alone together was after your friends ditched the two of you on a movie night, leaving you and sunghoon to go see the movie Minions. that night also happened to be the night that sunghoon realized he had feelings for you. sunghoon chose to make that night his inspiration for his sign, painting the phrase “y/n, you are one in a minion. be my date?” onto his posterboard. your heart melted at the sight of your best friend standing outside your front door, sign in hand… dressed as a minion. naturally, sunghoon had to go all out. overalls, yellow face paint, goggles, and all. to him, it was worth it to see you smile and laugh the way you did.

[himluv]

The Incident, pt. 2

Impossibly, this is Chapter 30(?!?!?!) of my Rookanis fic Say My Name (Say it Twice). Thank you to everyone who's been reading along and leaving such wonderful comments. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Read The Incident, pt. 1

Read from the beginning

With Embria sky-high on gingerwort truffle tea, Lucanis's night has been thoroughly derailed. But... is that really such a bad thing?

The trip through the Crossroads was slow, and stressful. For the most part Rook was in a good mood, marveling at the magic all around them, and laughing at things Lucanis could neither see nor hear. But Spite was furious, spitting and hissing and shouting the whole way about her being poisoned. It did nothing to help Lucanis focus on helping her. And then she burst into tears as he tried to get her into the Caretaker’s boat.

“I can’t swim,” she cried over and over. 

“I know, Embria, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” She sniffled. “It’s embarrassing! What kind of person doesn’t know how to swim?”

He shrugged. “Plenty of people.”

She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Do you know how to swim?”

He winced. “Yes.”

Her face crumpled and two delicate tears fell, one down each cheek. He tried to guide her into the boat, but she just shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Dweller,” the Caretaker said in its soothing voice. “You are safe here.”

She sniffed and wiped at her face. She looked at the spirit for a long moment, as if she couldn’t see it correctly, then she looked back to the boat and stepped right in. 

Lucanis sighed and thanked the Caretaker as he sat down next to her. She instantly put her head on his shoulder and sniffled some more. 

“What’s happening to me?”

His heart clenched at how small and frightened she sounded. “The gingerwort truffle tea, remember?”

She chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Worms.” She snorted. “Creators, Assan is so funny.”

He had never heard her use the Elven gods as a curse, or even invoke them in reverence. She’d given that up when it became clear the Evanuris were not the benevolent beings the Dalish had always believed. So, Lucanis knew she was very, very impaired for it to fall off her tongue so easily, and without notice. 

Mierda, he was going to kill Davrin. 

“Lucanis?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

He peered down at her, frowning. “For what?”

She heaved a disappointed sigh. “I don’t think we’re going to meet in the music room tonight, after all.”

He chuckled at that. “No, probably not.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and pressed the corner of his mouth to her forehead. “But, that’s all right.”

She peered up at him, her pupils still so, so wide. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Embria, I’m sure.”

They were quiet for a moment, the Caretaker rowing them through the Fade. It was almost peaceful, until Rook sniffled and wiped at her face. 

Rook. Is crying! Again?! Spite howled. He was handling Embria’s impairment much worse than she was. 

Lucanis froze, momentarily unsure what to do. Then he gently rubbed his hand up and down her back. “What’s wrong?”

“I just…” She shuddered and shook her head. “I’m sad.”

He took a deep breath, knowing this was going to be a long evening. “About what?”

Her face crumpled as a fresh wave of tears overwhelmed her. “I really wanted to see you tonight.”

He smiled, but bit back his chuckle. It wouldn’t do to hurt her feelings now. “I know,” he said. “But, I’m here, now.”

She sat up so she could look right at him. She was a mess, her cheeks wet and blotched red from crying. Her eyes were swollen and her chin wobbled with the force of her frown. “Will you stay with me?”

He blinked at her for a moment, not comprehending the question. Did she think this little incident would chase him away from her? “What do you mean?”

She sniffled. “When we get to the Lighthouse,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He let out a relieved sigh. “Of course,” he said. He’d already planned to stay by her side – she could not be left on her own like this. 

The Caretaker brought the boat up to the dock at Beacon Island without a word. Lucanis helped Rook up and carefully guided her back onto solid ground. Her grip on his elbow was so tight, he knew that, if not for his leathers, she’d leave bruises. 

Only when they stepped through into the Lighthouse, did Lucanis think about where to take Rook. She was right, he couldn’t leave her alone in this condition. The Lighthouse was a perilous place on a normal day – he couldn’t imagine navigating it while hallucinating. 

But, he also knew he couldn’t sit with her in her chambers. Not even two weeks ago that room had unraveled him completely. And while he was improving daily, he wasn’t ready to spend hours facing that wall of water and its pale, shimmering blue light. 

There was the music room, but there wasn’t anywhere comfortable to lay, and he knew Rook would need to sleep this off eventually. Which left the pantry. His room. His cot. 

His mouth went dry at the thought. He’d fantasized about bringing her to his room, about retrying that mortifying almost-kiss, and where that might lead now that they were together. But, he had never imagined her in his room like this.

Spite settled now that they were back in the Lighthouse, the demon’s anger relegated to faint hissing and growls. He circled Rook protectively as Lucanis led her through the library and out into the courtyard. They were lucky, for once, and no one was outside. The last thing he wanted was to explain to the others what had happened, and where he was taking her. 

He led her into his room without incident, but once he closed the door, she stopped and blinked around the room. 

“This is the pantry,” she said.

“It is,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to leave you alone like this.”

Embria smiled at him, slow and sweet. “Thank you, Lucanis.”

He nodded, then ducked down to grab the spare blankets from under his cot. He laid them out and made an attempt to fluff the thin, sad pillow he sometimes used. His bed was uncomfortable by design, to make it hard to fall asleep. But it would have to do for now. 

“Get comfortable,” he said. “Have you eaten since breakfast?”

She nodded, shrugging out of her Halla leather overcoat. “There were snacks with tea.”

He did not even want to try to imagine what Davrin thought passed for snacks to pair with his atrocious tea. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head, and now that her tears had subsided, Lucanis thought she looked a little pale. Right. Strife had suggested a bucket, and he should probably get a carafe of cool water and a washcloth. Just in case.  

“I’m going to get us some water, all right? I’ll be right back.”

She nodded, but it was a slow, dazed motion. He was not at all sure she’d heard him, but he needed to get that bucket, so he stepped out quickly and gathered some supplies. When he returned to the pantry Rook stood bent over a basket, her arms elbow deep in coffee beans. She was giggling and swirling her hands through the beans, and her pants were on the floor. 

Lucanis stood and stared for a long moment, processing the sight before him. 

She still wore her long-sleeved linen tunic, which was long enough to reach her mid-thigh. Though, the slits at the hip showed a hint of the brown fabric of the shorts she wore underneath. She wasn’t technically indecent, but he was certainly not prepared to see so much of her skin. 

He might be taller than her, but Embria carried more weight, her body full and curved. Her legs were pale and looked so smooth and, Maker help him, there was no gap between her thighs when she stood upright. He desperately wanted to run a hand up the inside of her leg, to know how soft and warm her skin would be just beneath the hem of her tunic. 

And these were wildly inappropriate thoughts to have about her at this moment. She was impaired, as good as poisoned by one of Viago’s concoctions. She was vulnerable, and he would never take advantage of that. 

But, mierda. She looked good. 

He closed the door behind him and pointedly did not look at her as he stepped past to set the bucket beside the bed. He pulled a carafe of water, a bowl, a washcloth, and two glasses out of the bucket and set them on the side table nearest the cot. He poured some of the water into the bowl, and soaked the washcloth in it. Then he poured her a glass of water. Only then did he clear his throat and turn to face her. 

She was still playing with the coffee beans, a wide grin on her face, but her eyelids drooped and her skin was quickly losing color. 

“Embria,” he said. “Do you want to lay down?”

Her brow furrowed as she considered his words. Then she nodded, and tottered over to him. Lucanis was very, very careful to keep his eyes on her face as she approached him. He expected her to sit on the cot, to perhaps even collapse onto it as her exhaustion caught up to her. But, Embria did neither of those things.

She stepped up to stand before him, her gaze fixed on his mouth. She was so close, he could feel the heat from her body. She was always so warm. And she still wasn’t wearing any pants.

“Embria.” Her name was hardly a whisper off his tongue. He felt transfixed, rooted in place with nowhere to run. No desire to run.

She lifted her hand and traced her index finger along his bottom lip. “I never noticed this scar before,” she said. There was no heat in her voice, no intent. She sounded in awe of the the little echo of the slice on his lip. He’d bore it for so long he didn’t even remember how he’d got it. 

Maker, he was trembling. A deliciously vicious mix of anticipation, worry, and lust rattled through him. He needed to stop her, now. 

“Rook,” he said, his voice low and sharp.

She blinked and looked up at him. Her eyes went wide and she drew her hand back from his face. “Oh! Oh no. Lucanis, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean–”

“It’s all right,” he said. “Just–” he exhaled. “Just drink this–” he handed her the glass of water “–then lay down.”

She took the glass and sat on the cot. She took careful sips until the cup was empty. He took it from her, refilled it, and left it on the table within her reach. She let down her hair from its usual half-up, half-down bun, running her fingers through it and sighing. Her tunic lifted dangerously with the motion, baring just a little more of her thighs.

Lucanis cursed under his breath and shook his head. This night was going to be a special brand of torture. Then he helped her slide under the blankets and settle in to rest. 

He crouched beside the cot to look her in the eye. “If you start to feel sick, there’s a bucket right here,” he said. 

She scrunched her nose at the idea, but nodded. “Thank you.”

He smiled at her and brushed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. “I’m happy to care for you,” he said. And it was the truth. This wasn’t how he’d expected this evening to go, but he was happy to share it with her regardless. “Now, sleep,” he said. “You should feel better when you wake up.”

He stood and made to go, but she took his hand in hers. “Will you lay down with me?” She whispered, as if she was afraid to ask. She winced. “Just until I fall asleep?”

Lucanis sighed. He knew he shouldn’t. His self-control had already been put to the test tonight, but her eyes were heavy with sleep and glimmered in the candlelight. He knew he could never tell her no.

He blew out some of the candles, dimming the light in the room, and quickly changed from his leathers into his usual shirt and slacks. He skipped the vest and boots, then he climbed onto the cot behind her, his back to the wall. 

It was a small, uncomfortable cot when he was alone. Sharing it with Rook was an improvement, even with the blanket firmly between them, but there was no way to lay together without his front pressed to her back. They lay curled together, her under the blankets while he stayed on top of them, and Lucanis marveled at how naturally his body fit around hers.

It would be such an easy thing to bury his face in her hair, to press a gentle kiss to the back of her neck. He wanted to, just as he wanted to wrap his arm around her waist and breathe her in. Lucanis had not shared a bed with someone since he and Illario were boys. He’d forgotten how comforting it could be, knowing he wasn’t alone.

 She was so warm, even through the blanket, and the rhythm of her breathing was as soothing as the sound of water lapping in the canals back home. In the quiet, half-dark of the pantry, Lucanis listened to Embria breathe, and imagined a lifetime of nights of just that. He smiled at the thought, and it didn’t take long for him to doze. 

He didn’t know how long they’d laid there, if he’d even really fallen asleep, when she moaned. Instantly, he was awake and alert.

She moaned again, lurched, and then heaved over the side of the cot and into the bucket. 

He sat up and swept her hair back from her face as she heaved again. He rubbed her back in gentle circles, something he remembered his mother doing when he’d been sick as a boy. He didn’t know if it actually helped ease the sickness, but he knew it felt good. 

It took a few moments, and Rook’s retching was not quick or efficient – each heave seemed to take tremendous effort – but eventually, the sickness passed. She lay panting, her face hanging off the cot, over the bucket as she spat the last of the sick from her mouth. 

“Fuck,” she groaned. She rolled onto her back, one bare leg off the cot with her foot firmly planted on the floor. 

Lucanis reached over her for the glass of water. “Here,” he said. “Little sips,” he reminded her as she took it. He watched her take a few swallows, then took it back and set it down. Then he wrung the washcloth out into the bowl, and laid it across her forehead. 

She sighed. “Oh, that’s nice.”

“How’re you feeling?” Her whole body quivered from the exertion of expelling Davrin’s terrible tea, but her voice sounded clearer. More like herself.

“Uh,” she said. “Better? I’m not seeing things anymore.” She blinked, then frowned at him. “We’re lying in your bed.”

He smirked. “Don’t worry, Rook,” he said. “I’ve been a perfect gentleman.”

She snorted. “Of course you have,” she said. “I’m more worried I haven’t been very ladylike.” She shifted under the blankets, then froze, her eyes going wide. “Lucanis?”

“Embria.”

“Where are my pants?”

His smile widened. “Somewhere by the coffee beans.”

She glanced around, then put a hand to her head. “What the fuck was in that tea?”

He frowned. “How much do you remember?”

She scowled, but wouldn’t look at him. After a moment she said, “all of it.”  She covered her face with both hands. “Lucanis, I am so sorry.” She made to get up, but he pressed her shoulder back down. 

“You need to rest,” he said. 

But, she wasn’t listening. “You asked for slow and a week later I’m half-naked in your bed? Puking?! What is wrong with me?!”

“Rook,” he said, again using that low, sharp tone.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and her brow pulled low with concern. 

“Enough,” he said. “Let’s go back to sleep.” He removed the washcloth from her forehead, setting it back in the bowl. 

She watched him, her eyes shining in the candlelight. “Okay,” she whispered. She rolled away from him, onto her side with her back pressed flush against his front. 

This time, Lucanis brushed the hair away from her face and pressed a gentle kiss to the crook of her neck. This time, he let his arm drape over her waist and she laced her fingers through his over her stomach. This time, it was perfection 

“Goodnight, Embria,” he whispered against her neck. 

“Goodnight, Lucanis.” Her voice was thick, but he couldn’t tell if it was sleep or emotion that made it so. Either way, he pulled her closer, breathed in that smoky-sweet scent of her hair, and smiled. Sleep came quickly after that, for them both. 

Sniiiiiifff. Faint stink of sour dirt. Sick. Poison. Gone. Now, smoke and berries. Salt and coffee. Together. Rook is soft. So soft. Hair between fingers, against his face. Our face. Smells good. Smells nice. Like FREEDOM. Like home.

Hmmmmm. Take care. Never hurt. Our Rook. 

Rook sleeps. Lucanis sleeps. Spite rests and will watch. 

Always. Take care of. Our Rook.