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fukashiin · 1 year ago

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attractive things they do #2 !

— w. housewardens

⤷ "yuutapdatass tweeted: malleus pls stop dming me to rub our feet together as a nightly custom"

cw: hinted suggestive content for malleus, vil and leona. passive reader! enjoy ♡

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

shushing others so you can focus.

pens and textbooks alike cluster along your designated study table, accompanied by the riddle rosehearts as his knee brushes against yours wordlessly. he's utilising this free period, toiling out and about to aid you in your, regretfully, pointless revision. finals season starts to get rigid around this time, so he's more than content to lend a hand if you're willing to put in the effort. except—the students abounded at the table diagonal to yours start getting chattier than what's socially allowed in the library, so riddle calls them out without a pain. one "they're trying to focus." and their mouths are zipped. he turns back to you, unperturbed, and smiles. "shall we continue?"

SO patient with you it makes you cry.

riddle may be a bomb of ire waiting to burst at any given moment, but you believe that his patience shouldn't go uncredited. a tireless awardee, a distinguished laureate, going sleepy in your eyes, although he's wrestling to win over the urge just so you can get the hand of the concept he's cramming into your head last-minute. the scent of white petunias could really alleviate his fatigue, and you make a promise to bring over a few of those in favour for his devoutness to your study sessions. for the time being, he'll make sure you pass, for him, and for yourself.

vows that he'll outdo your stupid ex in every way.

whatever your ex did wrong, riddle will do better. that's just in his nature. he swears with each and every fibre of his body, nuzzling his head in the dip of your shoulder, that he'll love you in ways that your morose ex never bothered to think about. a muttered pledge that couldn't compare to the pious burn that lit in his eyes, like a withstanding candle refusing to go out. his confessions are firm, where he'll be the betterment that you wished for on an astral night, so please, don't put him in your doubt.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

pressing you against the nearest wall he spots to kiss you.

there are numerous attributes to this man that renders you hopelessly drunk in love. one of them is his maddening habit of pressing you flushed against the nearest surface in his sight, and the most poorly lit areas when you're in stranded in a public space to guise the both of you. he executes this with the softest hint of care, ensuring that the landing wasn't too harsh, and advancing when given the green light. wispy strands of hair stroke your skin like a feather, as fine lips come crashing down to yours in a heartbeat, in paradise. he gives you a sheer once-over, bringing up the following statement: "grab onto my vest if you need to."

breathes the confidence into you.

downgrading oneself may be in his dictionary, but it won't appear in yours. he'll clasp any opportunity to brandish his infamous eye-roll to those whose comments about you stray a bit too loud. you may be a bit thrown off by the audacity and aimlessly think about the ways of which you could live up to his—your standards. you take a bit to reorient yourself when you hear your name being called out, sluggish hands circling your waist, as you're unable to finish your thought about how beautiful he is until he asks whether you're actually sparing a single thought for those nobodies. he casually states that you're leagues better than them, whether you think so or not, and won't mind giving you a physical demonstration if you can't bring yourself to accept it yet, because he knows it.

just knows what you want without you having to tell him.

eyeing an accoutrement that could accent your main outfit? longing for a new stand-alone book after the last one you buried yourself in was a letdown? leona has the prices covered. despite your incessant denial, that you don't actually need those, he tells you that a little spending wouldn't hurt. he doesn't need verbal expression to know what'll satisfy you, the flit of your gaze is the only opening he requires. you're embarrassed by how easily you're read, but the hearty smile that blooms on your face will be all the excuses leona needs to keep spoiling you.

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

drapes his coat over your legs if you're cold.

sometimes, you swear that he has the whole "affection capability" of a wooden plank. his actions aren't entirely faultless, nor was there not a single second of err in the delivery of his speeches, but he does haul around that handy coat solely for moments like these. perched wordlessly on top of mostro lounge's signature high stools, azul rebukes your rash behaviour after spurting out in the rain without an umbrella, clothes weatherworn and all—not to mention the lounge's benevolent addition of its AC. the chills rack your body from head to toe, not noticing that a fuzzy warmth starts to blanket your legs, as azul pats it down creaseless. he says that you can pay him in return at a later date, your declining health is his utmost priority at the moment.

sets you straight when you need it.

his prized coin collection seems to blur boorishly, bleeding into the soft jazz playing in the back. the thirsting need to word-vomit all over the place, thanks to the hours of ennui you've been experiencing ever since you've trudged yourself back to azul's room, threatens to tip over the edge. he notes your irresolute responses to his (nearly) bombarding questions while he's planted over at his desk, and takes the initiative to make you open up to him. he wants you to look at him, commit his words to memory, as he caresses your shoulder under the twinkling lavender glow of his night lamp with a sure look in his eyes, guaranteeing that you're going to do fine.

has a secret album dedicated to pictures of you in his gallery.

azul tries to get accustomed to the revolutionising tricks of technology just for you. fine, if he has to pass through every single hyperlink and learn unfamiliar terms, that's on him. other than owning a booming magicam account promoting #mostrolounge, he saves a single, peculiar file in his gallery that hoards all the pictures he's taken of you when you're together, on a date or not. he can't tell if your lovely visage is the sole cause to the rapid change of pace in his heart when he's dealing with a mounting workload, but if you ever drag yourself down after taking a quick glance at them, he'll bring you right back up.

KALIM-AL-ASIM

clears the hair out of your face when its windy.

you may be a tad bit hesitant to ride the magic carpet every once in a while, but kalim's sparkling serendipity puts your heart at ease. he takes you for a midnight rendezvous, golden embroidery flashing and sheening at every twist and turn you direct with the tassels with aplomb—as he compliments. his headpieces jangle merrily like a thousand bells in the breeze, up until he notices your sight being blocked by the troublesome hair whirling all over the place. chuckle as he may, he shifts it to the side of your face with a deft hand, tracing the last strands down to your chin. "there. seeing better now?"

interlaces your hand with his in your sleep. (the physical touch GOAT)

wrinkled bedsheets rustle under the weight of your movements, coarse, and even a bit sullen as the morning ooze of sunlight drenches through your curtains, as if it prohibits you to sleep in the entire day. kalim's newfound ailment forces the two of you to be separated indefinitely, so colour yourself surprised when you feel the taut clutch of your hand in another, holding onto the remaining pieces of you that he needily ached for all night. sun-kissed fingers wove between yours like silken ribbons, his eyes pleading for you to stay, as a minute—a moment without you in his world—would be infallible torture.

purchases a piece of the moon for you.

you know those moneyed, wealthy fans who purchase a piece of the moon for their favourite idol? kalim gets influenced, and is driven by his conviction that you deserve something more extravagant than rowdy parades or a hallowed mansion (regardless of how many he wishes to buy). he takes it upon himself to surf across Lunar Registry, registering your full name and gifting its stated amount for approximately...5000 sq ft of land of the celestial body that hung high in the sky, radiating its extraterrestrial luminance on your nights of sobriety. you chide him for such an impulsive act in return, but soften up when he states, upright, that he would gift you all the stars in space if he could.

VIL SCHOENHEIT

brings you to touch him himself.

no use if you're cowardly in the bold language of physical touch, vil will simply make you oblige into feeling him, whether its physically or through minds. oftentimes you find yourself hastily straddled on his lap, him decked in his satin-sewn pajamas, as you prod and poke his hands nervously while scrutinizing every area of skin that screamed of his unyielding years of care. there's a teasing lilt that lurks behind his voice, questioning if you're seriously taking your time trying to figure him out where you're aware that he's less than patient. he seizes your hand in his grip, and leads them to his chest—shamelessly. if he needs to remind you of who you're with every day, he'll be more than committed to reel you closer to his body.

demands full eye contact.

tsking and huffing is, an unsurprisingly normal habit for him to adapt. and this includes moments of when you're shying away from him, heaving under your tense breath about how unfairly attractive he is. slick in his latest outfit tailored specifically according to his calibrated measurements. high stilettos bests your height, and he almost seems disappointed in the lack of praise he's receiving (although he knows exactly why). you feel a manicured finger tilt your chin upwards, as your teetering praises come to an abrupt halt. he smiles, demanding you to look him in the eyes throughout every second you're worshipping him.

tells you to ready yourself before he showers you in his love.

vil wants you to experience each and every slide of his nails against your feverish skin, whispering pure promises and cherishing you, affirming that you're worth much more to him than a million grand. if you ever throw yourself below the bar lower than necessary, he waves your deplorable behaviour away, and asks if you truly believe that you're tumbling down that route of thinking when you're with him. vying arms enclose your figure like a velvet blanket, surrendering your chapped lips a centimetre away from his, as his refined scent tickles your nose until he advises you to prepare yourself to revel in his untiring devotion. all your worthwhile priorities were put on hold until further notice.

IDIA SHROUD

leaning back in his chair after finishing a game.

you arose from your sleep, previously dozing off while perusing written tales of the past propped up on idia's bed. the culprit of your awakening is off cheering in the same vicinity after speed running a round and emerging victorious, unmanned, of the latest version of a first-person shooter game he recently installed on his computer. he starts to recline in his chair as it creaks off his weight, arms slackened behind his head and his sweater gliding off of his stomach, exposing the barest bit of delicate skin that indulges you to run your hands across. he emits the heaviest of sighs while he runs a sore hand through his hair, as the disorientation of your mind starts to scatter all over the place.

"i thought it'd cost more."

Idia Shroud will not have you get scammed by lowly, needling scammers surfacing online websites like newborn piranhas. his head begins to split when you spout about the official item being too pricey and that you won't be able to milk a single penny out of your derelict dorm, so he insists that he pays for the item for you himself. you send him a link of the mentioned item, and he felt like he was dragging himself through wet cement throughout the whole mire. he remains indifferent to the price overall, and goes "oh? i thought it'd cost more." with a brazen smirk etched on his face that it almost gave you a whiplash.

discreetly orders things to your front door.

quivering lips settle atop of your shoulder for the last time before he sends you back from his room after the intimate amour that had you two wondrously occupied for the entire day. you pilfer a single gummy worm from his desk, and cloak yourself further into his jacket that intoxicates every one of your senses as you streel into the night air that reeked of petrichor. your steps begin to feel like bricks, whilst your eyes were betraying your wish to stay alert. as you approach the front door welcoming you to your dorm, you gauge the sight of a small box placed on the carpet with a small note plastered on it that follows the lines of "for you, pretty thing."

MALLEUS DRACONIA

cushioning your head with his hand.

bony fingers sail through the pleasance of your hair, twirling each and every tendril that it meets and bringing them to his defined, pillowy lips. amusement cracks through the ominosity that sits in his eyes, shielded by his bangs as he beams a smile your way before grasping your shoulders in a split second. he pushes you down onto the mattress with a thud, cushioning your head with a single hand, and tells you to save your yelps and complaints before he endows you with the ability to sing for him all night. he reassures you that he does in fact, know how to secure the deadbolt on the door.

doesn't bother with any potential contenders whatsoever.

malleus but it's "okay, and?" personified. yes, he's heard of the towering sovereign in the neighbouring country who was recently appointed. yes, he's heard of the lucrative salesman nearby situated in town whose attention you captured after visiting his booth. yes, he's heard of Leona Kingscholar. but he could not give Two (2) flying tamagotchis about whoever has been swaying your way, tossing cheap and low-grade courtship in an attempt to earn your affection. he notes that he does have some cheesy pick-up lines of his own to use, but unlike the others, he knows you inside and out. he has no use for the mainstream ways of love and is eager to please you to his own liking, further revealing the unparalleled reverence he maintains for you and only you.

brushes his fingers over your collarbone.

once you step across the threshold of his bathroom, adorned in his nightwear, malleus can't help but dim the lights with the flick of his finger after catching the sight of your collarbone that peaks out from underneath. he's in front of you the moment you blink, and hums in response to your addled self. he brings his ice-tipped fingers to your neck, padding it with caution, and sliding them down to the V-shaped collar that hides the rest of your warmth. stark fingers ghost over the structure of your collarbone, and malleus asks whether you think the gibbous moon will be kind enough as to not set so early.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst imagines #twst x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #kalim al asim x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #idia shroud x reader #malleus draconia x reader #riddle rosehearts #leona kingscholar #azul ashengrotto #kalim al asim #vil schoenheit #idia shroud #malleus draconia

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ittybittyfanblog · 8 months ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 6

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, you get your very own samantha from her (2013) lol, time skips as a plot device!, this has an arc i promise, if anybody here plays disco elysium you’ll find that i took concepts of “the pale” as inspo at some points in this chapter lmao A/N: Oof this one’s a little longer than any of the previous chapters. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3 (and just a heads up, this might be the last chapter I post before I kick it off for the holidays. advance happy holidays! if you guys celebrate that sort of thing.)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

There’s a quiet stillness brought by the morning after that makes the problems of a heavier night seem like a fairly distant memory.

For at least a few minutes past the moment you blink away the stubborn grit in your eyes – you don’t remember the last time you’ve been this well-rested in ages – you lie, listless, on the soft powder-blue bedding of your twin-size mattress, watching specks of dander and dust drift from the amber sunlight that filters through the cracked panes of the casement window.

It floats aimlessly, unhurried. Much like you.

The echoes of last night’s events return to you in sporadic flashes—jumbled and fragmented. The whispered exchanges, the playful banter between you and your unlikely conversation partner play back in your mind, like some half-finished supercut.

And the more you recall, the more awake you feel, chipping away the last traces of daytime lethargy weighing you down.

“So, what happens now?”

The sound of a car backfiring breaks through from the outside, like a starting pistol signalling the beginning of another day. A familiar, heavy weight presses against your side, and you thread your fingers through the scraggly fur of the purring feline who’s taken the empty space on your left, just above the covers.

You breathe in deeply, closing your eyes.

“I wish I had an answer. I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

You realize how many questions still linger, a lot more left unanswered. Far more than what you were able to glean, at least. From what little you’ve learned, an entirely new moral dilemma emerges—one you never imagined you'd have to contend with.

There’s a lot of things you’ve never expected to happen. Yet here you are.

“Seems we’re at an impasse.”

It’s an odd thing in itself. You keep waiting for the disbelief to catch up, for a shred of sanity to surface and make you reject the situation you’ve found yourself entangled in. You should be feeling the same, pesky feelings that pulled you sharply out of your flight of fancy last night, a sense of trepidation for what lies ahead in this precarious game of two.

But instead, you’re here. Now fully awake, and already looking forward to the day with wary acceptance. Looking forward to resuming where you’ve left off with that charming anomaly who’s upended your world, and left you suspended in an exhilarating limbo of uncertainty and excitement.

“...Indeed.”

You crave it—like the first stirrings of a neophyte druggie teetering on the edge of an irreversible habit.

You need another hit.

“Why the long face, little dove?”

Because if desire could manifest into being, it would’ve been Sylus.

“We can figure this out together, can’t we?”

You pick up your phone.

––––

“You’re here? Make yourself at home.”

You look at him, deadpan. He looks back at you serenely.

Your voice takes on a dry monotone when you respond, “Keep talking like that, I’m about to cum.”

There’s a shocked silence; then—

Sylus barks out a surprised laugh, immediately breaking character.

You snort. “Good morning to you too, I guess.”

He meets your gaze with a look of scandalized amusement, his smile wide enough to flash teeth.

"Good morning, indeed."

––––

You two fall into a natural rhythm even before the day comes to a close. Perceptive as he is, Sylus hasn’t let you linger in the unease left over from last night any longer than necessary; which to say, should be left buried and forgotten, past its provenance.

“So you could, like– hypothetically, top up my ascension materials… indefinitely?” There’s a manic shine to your eyes when you confront him back at the home screen, gleeful and triumphant after you boost almost all the 5-star cards you have of him up to max level. “Like an infinite glitch?”

He’s content to just simply listen to your excited chatter from his languid perch on the seat, one palm resting against the side of his face as he watches you, half-lidded and relaxed. Utterly entertained by your antics.

The slight twitching of his mouth, the subtle tilt of his head… each minute shift in his expression makes a whole world of difference from the version you’ve known him longest—almost a lifetime ago.

Now he acts so human, so alive, that it’s almost unreal.

(It’s almost imperceptible, but you swear the air also feels different; like the pixelated space around him is bending, stretching, to accommodate this newer him.)

“Sure,” he shrugs, lips quirking up into a half-smile as he notices the deep crease forming between your brows.

He knows the question you’re about to ask, curious thing that you are.

“How, though? Like, what are ‘materials’ to you?” You make air quotes with your fingers, making you appear all the more endearing to him look at, in your process to make sense of a world that’s unfamiliar to you.

“Think of it as upgrades,” Sylus explains patiently. “You place the order to modify the equipment I use, in whichever situation calls for it.”

“And Memory Cards?”

“... A video reel, maybe. Or a restricted case file—locked until you’ve got enough to trade for the information you want.”

“And I suppose the dealer in question here is you?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Who else?”

“Huh,” you say, considering. “So, Deepspace Trials. That’s something you do on the daily? Because I… make you?”

“More or less.”

“And you never thought to question that?”

“Mm, maybe I’ll start charging for my services this time around.”

You roll your eyes, already accepting his analogy for what it is. “Oh, please. With the amount of money I’ve spent on this game, consider yourself paid in full.”

––––

You were right about your earlier prediction—this new Sylus in combat mode is something else.

For starters, he’s a lot chattier.

“Ouch, kitten– don’t charge in like that.”

“Why are you using a sword? Don’t you like the guns I’ve given you specifically for this?”

“What are you waiting for? Make her resonate with me now.”

And, instead of sticking to his lines and responding to whatever the MC’s programmed to say during battle, he focuses on whatever you’re fussing over—no matter how… moronic it is.

“Ah, fuck! I hate that spinning thing!”

“Move, then. Let me handle it.”

“Block it, block it!”

“I would, if you weren’t halfway across the field. Stick closer to your partner next time, yeah?”

He doesn’t say any of his usual lines. Nothing from his scripted prompts. When all Wanderers are defeated, there’s no post-battle banter between him and the MC.

“Goddamn, you’re strong!” You whoop giddily, completely energized by straight winning almost twelve Orbit trials in a row. I guess that’s what a fully awakened Solar pair gets you, huh?

Sylus lets out a chuckle, infected by your enthusiasm. He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite all the damned fighting you’ve put him through.

“We make a good team,” he allows. And because he likes the little nose scrunch you do when you’re annoyed— “Although your dodging really needs more practice, sweetie.”

Before you could think of a comeback, the pop-up window for the next stage comes up. Ass.

––––

Come Monday morning and you’re once again swamped with work.

You barely have enough time to scrounge something up for lunch—if it weren’t for the persistent reminders from Sylus, chiming in every five minutes once the digital clock on your phone had hit eleven-thirty, you’d probably skip eating altogether.

And make something else than just boiling a pot of instant ramen, sweetheart. You’re on track for an early grave at this rate.

“I could… add an egg?” You suggest, unsure. “Maybe cut up some tofu, make it gourmet?”

He doesn’t even dignify the egg suggestion with a response. Tofu’s a good start. Now, what else do you have in your pantry that has nutritional value?

“I despise that,” you mutter, but start rifling through the cupboards anyway.

After amassing enough ingredients—or what looks more like a sad pile—that might, with some effort, turn into something healthier than your usual go-to fix, you start Googling recipes online.

‘tofu easy lunch recipe’

‘10 mins tofu recipes’

‘begginer recipe using tofu frozen dory mixed veg—’ Ping!

… Really, kitten?

You don’t even have to see him to know he’s giving you that look, the one that’s practically dripping with judgment over your dubious life choices.

(You know it all too well. Personally, in fact. You see it on some relatives' faces at the family get-togethers you’re always required to attend.)

Great. Heat creeps up your face as you mumble defensively, “Stop. Not everyone’s a culinary genius, okay?”

After that, he lets you be – something you’re thankful for, really. He’s being too distracting anyway.

Swallowing down the–stubborn and suffocating–embarrassment that's now stuck in your throat, you keep scrolling through Tasty dot co, praying you can whip up something edible with what (little) you have. You’re fully aware that you’re a grown-ass woman who can’t manage a basic life skill and that you’re probably about to burn down your kitchen—

Another notification pops up.

Pull up your tabs, sweetie. I think you’ll find something there that we could put together easily.

Confused, you do as he says. Sure enough, four tofu-related recipes are neatly grouped together in your Chrome browser, ready to be tried and tested.

Your eyes widen. “Wait—you did this? How?”

He doesn’t answer your question. He does, however, offer: Want me to coach you through it? Cooking’s more fun done with a partner, I’d say.

In the end, you manage to make something that tasted way better than you thought you could do by yourself. You have him to thank for that.

“You happy with it?” Sylus asks, grinning at the satisfied look on your face.

“Mhm!” you hum around a mouthful of food. “Fanks, Sy.”

“Anytime, darling.”

––––

“Do you really have to call me ‘kitten’? You sound like a Discord mod.”

Sylus has no idea what a Discord mod is, but judging by the contempt in your voice, it’s clear that you’re not giving him a compliment.

"What do you prefer, then? Princess? Poppet? Sweet thing?" He pauses, tilting his head. "Baby?"

You blush and look away. "...Ugh, whatever. Kitten's fine."

––––

Your routine with Sylus settles into a seamless, effortless flow as the days go by; it’s almost second nature, talking to him. So much so that you’d think nothing could faze you anymore.

Well. Almost nothing.

A message bubble from an unknown number appears on your lock screen: Hi, sweetheart. X

You almost ignore it – brushing it off as some dumb prank from a bored rando – when, not even five seconds later, another text pops up.

+0063-XXXXXX: Its Sylus.

… Huh?

“Is someone fucking with me right now, or…”

+0063-XXXXXX: Nobodys ‘fucking with you,’ kitten.

Then–

+0063-XXXXXX: Send a reply so I can see how it shows up on my end.

Your jaw drops. “Holy shit– you can text?? How are you doing that?” and, “Did you just cuss...?”

+0063-XXXXXX: 👍

+0063-XXXXXX: And Ill let you know if you text me the question 🙄

So you do. You tack on a now spill?? at the end for good measure.

You watch the “typing…” bubble appear, holding your breath.

+0063-XXXXXX: Its a complex mix of technical code and harnessing the energy from a dormant protofield Ive discovered, just south of Vagrants Land.

+0063-XXXXXX: The energy I got from it felt different somehow from your normal protofield. I figured I could put it to good use.

+0063-XXXXXX: Oddly enough, theres an… indescribable effect to oneself when youre nearing the centre of disturbance, shall we say.

+0063-XXXXXX: I can only decrypt the waveforms by the rarefield border surrounding the AoR. Any further and Im afraid the adverse effects may do more harm than good.

+0063-XXXXXX: But if amplified, it seems responsive to the filament of what connects your signal from deep space to this planet.

+0063-XXXXXX: Who knew it could act as a transmitter to send you something as rudimentary as a telegraph?

… Sometimes you forget how smart Sylus really is.

You: that’s pretty amazing ?? wtf sylus

+0063-XXXXXX: I get by OK.

You could practically feel his smugness radiating from those four words. You scoff, shaking your head in a mix of awe and begrudging admiration.

He sends two more messages.

+0063-XXXXXX: Im just glad we can communicate through other means, sweetie.

Sy-Sy (??): Now save my number. Sy Sy will suffice 😉

––––

Since your latest discovery that Sylus can now text (!!), you’ve been talking to him outside the game non-stop. It’s like talking to a very active friend who never leaves you on read, and you couldn’t be more ecstatic.

You: so no one else in ur universe knows anything abt ur situation?

You: no one else acting funny or sumn ? >.>

Sy-Sy (??): None that I know of, no. I prefer to keep it under wraps.

Sy-Sy (??): Now that you mention it, Mephisto has been acting quite suspicious lately.

You: ?? suspicious-suspicious or just reg suspicious??

Sy-Sy (??): Hes with his other crow friends now. They might be attempting a murder.

You: ………. is that…. supposed 2 be a joke……….

Sy-Sy (??): Im running on 3 hours of sleep, give me a break.

Sy-Sy (??): Also your textspeak is horrendous, sweetie.

"Um, hello–?"

Your gaze snaps back to the—very real, very present—person sitting across from you at the table, sporting box-dyed blue hair and a frown. You're at the Annex House; a sleek, new-age Japandi-style bar downtown, just an easy five stations away from your place. You both decided to try it for their infamous Rotten Apple cocktail and, of course, your weekly catch-up.

Khol, your friend of eight years since college, is currently giving you a mildly annoyed look.

Oops.

They point at you accusingly while complaining, "Ugh, we don’t use our phones when we’re hanging out! That’s the rule!"

You smile at them, sheepish, pocketing your phone as discreetly as you could. “I know, I know. Sorry.”

Then, puffing out your cheeks, you meekly ask, “You were talking about Anna...?”

They roll their eyes but go over the gossip a second time, much to your benefit. Phew.

Your phone vibrates. Twice.

…

You sneak a quick, final peek.

Sy-Sy (??): Enjoy your night out, darling ❤️

Sy-Sy (??): You let me know when youre back home, OK?

Biting back a grin, you send out one last text in reply.

You: will do !:9

Sy-Sy (??): Good girl.

––––

"Um–so this is my cat, Maru," you say by way of introduction, holding the plump, orange tabby in front of your phone that’s propped up against a carton of Koko Krunch. There’s a slight struggle in lifting his left paw between your fingers to wave at the man on the other side of the screen. "Say hi, Maru."

“Hello, Maru,” Sylus greets amicably in return, watching the both of you with clear amusement in his eyes. “Care to tell me the origin of this proud beast?”

You recount the story where you’ve first seen Maru five years ago, nothing more than a scraggly little runt at the time, hiding in the gap between a dumpster and the interstice of a cragged wall. You were walking home from a night out drinking with your uni buddies, when you heard the incessant meowing.

It drew you in like a siren’s call. If the siren in question had the vocal prowess of a warbling whale on the brink of death.

Upon closer inspection, the grimy fluffball revealed a stubby, crooked tail and wide, beady eyes. In your alcohol-fueled haze, you briefly wondered if you were staring at a tiny ginger rat.

“Well, it’s definitely all cat,” your friend Bee declared by noon the following day, calmly retracting a scratched and bloodied hand from the disgruntled feline, which promptly hissed and darted right back under the bed.

You hummed in agreement, passing her a wad of tissue.

"I couldn’t decide between Nospurratu and Catpin Meow," you say matter-of-factly, giving your capricious son a scritch under his chin. "Bee suggested I stick to something simpler, like Maru. Hence the name."

Your explanation is punctuated by an offended nip on your pointer finger.

Sylus is covering his mouth, but nods solemnly. “I think Maru is a nice name.”

There’s a moment where the two seem locked in a silent standoff, neither breaking eye contact nor making any sort of outward reaction. Just as you’re about to step in and interrupt the bizarre staring contest, Maru gives a slow, deliberate blink.

Sylus takes it as a sign of victory—or perhaps a ceremonial seal of approval.

With a faint smirk on his lips, he offers the cat a small bow in respect.

––––

You’ve practically emptied the entire arcade of plushies – enough to put it out of business if it were actually, you know, real – and you’re bored to tears.

“Another round of Kitty Cards, perhaps?” Sylus suggests, but a single glance at your face is enough to let him know that you’d rather gnaw off your own hand. Or his. He might just let you.

Sighing dramatically, you complain about the limited playability of the “mini-games” in-game.

“There’s literally nothing else to do. Same old shit, over and over again.” There’s a pout on your face that Sylus wants to nibble on, not that you’re aware of the forming thoughts in his head. “No new banners. I’m stuck between Kitty Cards and the claw machines... I’m bored, Syyyyy,” you whine, stretching the last syllable for effect.

To be fair, he has tried to make it a bit more challenging for you. He stopped fucking around during Kitty Cards – no more extra two cards in exchange for one of yours, no longer placing different colored kitties deliberately in the wrong cups.

After six straight losses, your frustration is palpable. The fun is gone.

He makes audible commentaries during each of your six tries at the claw machine. Every time you manage to snag a plushie, he praises you for a job well done (It flusters you, not that he needs to know that). When your luck runs out and you grab onto nothing but air, he wryly points it out through some slight ribbing, but nothing that’s actually hurtful (This flusters you too—again, not that he needs to know any of this).

There’s nothing else to do. It’s like you’ve exhausted all you could in this small, curated window of his that you’re privy to. If only there’s a way to leave the mini-games behind, to do something new, perhaps outside of what the game has to offer…

Oh, wait.

“Hey, Sy,” you call the man to attention. “Wanna try something out?”

You beat him at Words with Friends by a small margin.

“Ha! That’s thirty-nine points, buddy.” You crow proudly, after putting down Devotees in a straight column.

He eviscerates you at Zynga Poker.

“... How are you so good at this??”

“Comes with the package, sweetie,” he says with faux-modesty after revealing (yet another!!) full house, winking like he hasn’t just wiped the floor with you.

By the end of it, both of you are in high spirits—except, maybe, for your bruised ego.

––––

“Say my name, say my name… If no one is around you, say baby I love you…”

“It’s nice to know that we have another thing in common, little dove.”

It takes you a moment to process what he’s implying.

You stop singing, affronted. “Wh—how dare you.”

––––

“Are you having fun?” Sylus asks, his tone droll as he stands there, hands on his hips and a small scowl on his face. You’re too busy spinning him around, thoroughly entertained by the number of outfits and accessories you’ve forced upon your slightly reluctant model in the photoshoot that's currently taking place.

It’s more amusing, knowing that he’s fully-aware of what’s happening. And that you know he’s aware of what’s happening.

He’s like your personal, sentient Ken doll; if Ken had ashy grey hair, red eyes, and a mercurial attitude.

“I am, actually,” you shoot back, grinning as you plop a tomato stuffie on top of his head. “Look, you two match!”

He exhales a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

Not that it stops you. Fluffy bunny ears, a fish headband, an uncharacteristic halo—you’re relentless. “Hey, can you try a different pose?”

“That depends on the pose… and how nicely you ask.”

“Dear Sylus,” you sing, jutting your bottom lip forward and fluttering your eyelashes exaggeratedly, “could you please, pretty please, flip the camera off?”

He snorts but obliges, raising his hand to deliver the most effortlessly cool middle finger you’ve ever seen. “Happy?”

Woah. That’s… hot. “Oh! Uh. Yeah. Yeah, that’s—”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your reaction. You giggle nervously. “You look… hot.”

“Mm?” His smirk grows, teasing and predatory. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” you blurt out, but the pinking of your cheeks betrays you. He’s definitely enjoying this now.

“I could be convinced to do another one,” he murmurs, voice pitching a little lower.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to say the first thing that comes to mind. Stop, you whore.

Your nerves get the best of you. Without thinking, you switch to putting the MC back on screen.

Sylus blinks, red eyes narrowing as he looks at you, perplexed.

“Uh,” you shift your gaze between her frozen stance and his idle figure. The sudden silence hangs a little heavy in the air. “Would–would you like to do poses? With her?”

He opens his mouth, an automatic response—but he stops, expression flickering into something unreadable. Confusion? Hesitation?

His brows knit together, and for a short while, he just studies you, the space between you thick with unspoken questions.

“Do you want me to?” he asks finally, his voice quieter, almost careful.

No–I don’t want you to— To pose with someone who looks so-–

perfectperfectperfect by your side—I only want to see you—

I want to see you––

Why do I care–?

I don’t care––I care, I care so much––

“Why not?” you choke out, the forced cheer in your voice grating even to your own ears. You shrug, nonchalant in all the ways you’re not. “I’ll dress her up real nice, and then—” You slap a pink bow onto his head. “You can try to keep up.”

He doesn’t move, not paying the offending accessory any attention. His gaze is solely locked onto yours.

I don’t care. I don’t.

You take the first shot.

____

“What’s the song you’re playing?”

You pause mid-mop, cocking your head to the side in slight surprise.

“Uhh– Pedestal,” you answer unsurely. “By Portishead. You like it?”

He hums, eyes glinting with interest. “I do. Play the rest.”

And just like that, you’re introducing Sylus to modern twenty-first century music—and to Spotify.

____

From that point on, Sylus begins using your Spotify account to discover a whole new world of music—quite literally, in his case. Sometimes he steals the control from you, overriding what you’re currently listening to, just to hear the most random track play from your speakers.

In the middle of a mundane afternoon while you're completely locked in at work—hyperpop synths blaring in your ears—you’re suddenly jolted by the sound of heavy mandolins as an honest-to-god Russian military march blasts through your headphones, shattering your focus like a damn rhino in a china shop.

And so with the level of patience that could put the Virgin Mary to shame, you painstakingly explain to your friend the courtesy of not stealing the proverbial AUX cord from the “driver,” especially when it’s their turn on the radio.

The two of you reach a compromise, and thus the birth of your “shared” playlist. Sylus reluctantly agrees to explore on his own time—when you’re not using the app. Like when you’re busy with other things. Or when you're asleep.

You wake up to the first strings of a Muse song. One of your favorites, in fact.

Sy-Sy (??): Good morning, sweetie.

Sy-Sy (??): Last night was enlightening. I have you to thank for that.

Sy-Sy (??): Oh, and I hope you could indulge me. I added some songs to our playlist. I think youll like them. We both seem to have a thing for alt-rock.

Sy-Sy (??): Give me time and Im sure Ill acquire a taste for electronic music too. Be patient.

You huff out a laugh, lazily rolling over as you check your shared playlist. Sure enough, there’s twelve new songs on it.

You: awe that’s great sy :)) and these songz r rly good !! u got sum of my faves here

You: based on what u like maybe u can try looking up sum david bowie, probz massive attack idk

You: i’ll add stuff later for u to listen 2!!! <2

You: <3*

Sy-Sy (??): Alright, sweetheart. Im looking forward to it.

Sy-Sy (??): ♥️

____

From the outside, the studio is just another unit among endless rows of dull grey—small and unassuming. Tucked away on the sixth floor of a nondescript building, it’s built as unremarkable as the rest.

Through a window stained with a mix of corrosive ochre and burnt sienna, there’s a quiet hum; the presence of something that wasn’t there a week ago. Life has shifted, ever so subtly, from an oppressive achroma to a much warmer vibrancy.

There’s a faint hint of movement. Inside, the young woman wears an almost-permanent smile, her phone an extension of her hand as she taps away with no semblance of rhyme nor rhythm—only in a continuous staccato. Her eyes are locked on the screen, as if drawn by an invisible force.

It’s elusive; this connection. Something beyond. Supranatural. It weaves through the room like whispered secrets shared in the dead of the night, beneath a city blanketed in deep ultramarine. Soft, like a wind brushing through a still everglade.

The apartment, once steeped in a self-inflicted solitude – one that went by unnoticed for a long period of time – comes alive as an intangible presence fills its nooks and crannies with the steady warmth of companionship. There’s a gentle heat to the space now, like the glow of an invisible hearth.

The flickering of the string lights, the muted laughter shared with a voice through the tinny speakers of a handheld device, a slight signal interference… all feel like the genesis of an impossible story.

Outside, the evening sky is fading into twilight.

And as one looks out onto the street below from the sixth floor window, it’s almost as if the world outside doesn’t quite matter anymore.

Inside, the air is full of life, in ways it has never been.

____

“Come to me, just in a dream

Come on and rescue me

Yes, I know I can be wrong

And maybe you’re too headstrong

Our love is––”

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @i2sannie @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @slyfoxtsu @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @tinyweebsstuff @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean

(if..... for some damn reason..... the tags still don't work i rly don't know what i'm doing wrong T_T i'm posting this from a macbook is that it, is the ghost of steve jobs fucking with me rn)

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #sylus x non mc reader #sylus x oc #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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sightseertrespasser · 5 days ago

Text

White Out

Today’s story is brought to you by several days of accumulated comment exchanges led by @keferon spawner of intriguing AU’s.

In a rare change of events, I’m actually going try (try) to preemptively outline how many chapters a story will be in advance.

The story will be four parts total and are named below:

White Out

White Knuckle

White Elephant

White Hat

Look up tf portal au to see other amazing creators taking this concept and running with it.

Enjoy.

———————————————————————

In. Out.

Slower.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Jazz was breathing manually, which had to be one of the absolute stupidest ways the cons have ever tried to kill him.

He much preferred their earlier stuff. Knives instead of needles, long winded monologues where they reveal their whole plan and how they’re going to kill you because they really do believe that they’re going to kill you.

The good stuff. Informative. Classic.

Not whatever shit one of Soundwaves little punks managed to stick him with.

Jazz blinked rapidly as he felt his eyes going dry from staring at the same crack in the wall for the last fuck knows how long.

He couldn’t turn his head without his vision lagging behind, and the risk of dizziness was too great when he’d just managed to find a hiding spot before the drug really kicked in.

It got worse in waves but he was managing to ride them out. Whenever he had a moment of clarity he’d sip more water and whenever the effects got worse he’d stare straight ahead and focus on not having a panic attack.

At the peak of each wave, Jazz could do exactly one thing at a time. Sometimes it was rubbing his thumb in circles against the concrete to ground himself. Sometimes it was wiping the sweat from his cold neck. Currently, it was breathing manually.

Because for some god fucked reason, he was pretty sure his brain couldn’t do that on its own right now and he’d actually suffocate if he stopped.

His breathing hitched, then manually smoothed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

His fingers itched where he couldn’t move them. Covered in moon dust he’d been trying to paint onto the floor since he’d escaped. One of the few functional portal guns hummed uselessly on his lap.

Orange. It’s the orange one I need to fire.

Back home, Prowl had its twin, an inactive blue portal waiting for him. Prowl always had a door back home for him.

Now if I could just move enough to open it.

The portal guns were pretty fuckin amazing in Jazz’s opinion, and after the moon incident it became pretty clear that the things range was Yes. The only real limitation was the conductive surface needed to hold a portal.

The smeared white surface on the floor was about half the size he needed.

The tight empty feeling of not enough air snapped his brain back to the present.

In. Out. In. Out.

In. Out.

In.

Out.

After several indeterminate measures of time, Jazz tested his current level of capability by changing the direction of his vision.

He got his head to turn far enough down that he could see the white patch on the floor, so it was mostly in his peripheral. But at least he was kinda looking at it.

He felt well enough to start petting the concrete again. The motion brought to mind the analogy of petting his own brain like some kind of nervous animal to keep it from jumping away.

Once his automatic breathing kicked back in, Jazz turned onto his knees achingly slow. The world wobbling to catch up with his glacial movements.

Just a little longer and he could finish the portal base.

Boots scraped the floor above him, painfully sharp in his ears. “In his current state he can’t have gotten far. If he is gone we’ll just have to move up the time table on project White Out. Keep looking.”

Or now.

Now is fine.

Jazz heaved himself over the white blank mural and started to paint his escape. The shot of adrenaline from hearing the Decepticons enter the fire escape stairwell made his heart stutter over itself in a way that put a great big dark spot in the center of his vision.

I need to get back. I need to finish this and fire the portal to get back home.

Completing the portal is the fastest way inside the Autobot base.

Blinking away the darkness, Jazz moved unconsciously, wiping broad even strokes across the ground. Sweat dripped down his nose. His visor growing cloudy from his steaming breath rising through the freezing air.

Footfalls.

A shout.

And then a gun fired.

—————

Prowl prowled.

He certainly wasn’t pacing. It just so happened that the terminal on one side of the chamber was .0052% faster in sending signals to the solar arrays than the terminal on the other side that streamed camera feed from the west wing with .099% less static.

Therefore, it was perfectly rational for Prowl to stalk back and forth between the two.

And the steady blue glow of the unconnected portal in the center of the chamber was purely circumstantial in its location at the halfway point between those terminals.

He would not look at it.

He would not sit and stare like some forlorn puppy or a sailors wife taking vigil in her bay facing window.

He had a job to do.

Ratchet was with an away team gathering medical supplies. After last time with the twins raiding a veterinary office, it was deemed that expert supervision was worth the risk to bring back the correct supplies.

There was an unfortunate limit to what Prowl could create. He had vast stores of many kinds of chemicals and base elements, but the supply wasn’t infinite. Everything he gave was something he’d never get back.

Chip chip chipping away at the facility, every disaster made him just a little bit smaller.

As he amputated and recycled pieces of himself too damaged to repair, Prowl became intimately acquainted with the looming concept of entropy.

The Autobots were questionable company at times, but there was a hidden value in the ways they staved off that rotting entropy. Both of body and mind.

Symbiosis: (noun)

1. the living together in more or less intimate association or close union of two dissimilar organisms (as in parasitism or commensalism)

2. a cooperative relationship (as between two persons or groups)

Prowl gave them protection, food and warmth.

The Autobots brought him supplemental salvage, entertainment and.. autonomy.

At least, one member did.

He glanced at the static oval of blue.

Prowl had a theory. A completely implausible unscientific theory which he could test, however that would mean considering something no better than a superstition as a serious intellectual phenomenon.

The second Prowl left this room, Jazz would return.

He didn’t need to leave. He really only moved his avatar between the terminals of his central sanctum. He technically didn’t even need to do that. Manual inputs were far slower than simply commanding what needed to be done internally.

Prowl just typed out of habit.

He was staring at the portal again.

Sighing, Prowl looked up where Elita was to discuss her observations of the exterior of his facility in “person.” Finding her on the way back from the roof, Prowl raised his crane into the ceiling of his chamber to meet Elita on the upper floors.

The portal flickered to life.

Ecstatic rage and vindication were completely blown from Prowls processor as he watched Jazz hit the ground so hard he bounced.

Shouting voices carried through the tunnel in reality and Prowl descended.

He was not usually in the habit of leaving the lights on when working alone, so when the shabbily dressed Decepticons approached the ever shifting orange hole punched through space, all they could see was Jazz’s limp form surrounded by darkness.

Then red.

Body like a claw at the end of a mechanical arm, Prowl was wrapped around the spy instantaneously. He snapped up his gaze to the would be kidnappers just beyond the portal. One almost raised a gun on instinct before their more observant cohort yanked them into a full fledged retreat.

The look on Prowls face promised the kind of death that could only be described by a science fiction author dropping acid in the eighties.

A moment later and Prowl disabled the portal while bringing on the lights. He sent a prerecorded facility wide intercom message politely demanding for [medical trained personnel] to immediately report to [central chamber].

Prowl himself, meanwhile, frantically began searching his information banks on everything pertaining to emergency care.

Bombshell had done quite a number on Prowls data banks, deleting scores of “useless” information to free up additional memory and processing power. The first category to go was anything pertaining to keeping humans alive. It wasn’t exactly a priority to Prowl at the time, so he’d not bothered making backups beforehand.

Cursing quietly, Prowl had to focus a camera on a first aid guidelines poster in an employee break room several floors down instead.

1. Do not move unless the environment is dangerous.

Jazz is in the safest possible location.

2. Call for help.

Done.

3. Check subject for mutant mantis men bites or a wire tap.

What? Fucking Tarantulas.

4. Check subject for responsiveness.

“Jazz?” Prowl gently laid his hands on the human. He couldn’t feel temperature or really even texture but he could clearly see how soaked Jazz’s shirt was beneath the collar of his coat.

“Jazz are you alright?” He was breathing loudly, but didn’t sound like his airways were blocked.

“Hengh.” Jazz moved to roll onto his back and Prowl helped him.

He tried to speak again, “Heeeey Prowle- Pow-wer, oh WOW talk- talk-‘King is weird right now.”

The core of the facility stared down at him. Prowl lifted Jazz’s visor to better see his eyes and Jazz just giggled.

A beat passed, “Your pupils are massive. What happened? Were you drugged?!”

“Feels like it!” Now that he wasn’t trapped in an enemy base, Jazz relaxed considerably and seemed content to become an unhelpful puddle.

Before Prowl could tear out his technically real, technically not hair, Orion and Elita ran into the chamber.

“Buddies!” Cheered the mess on the floor.

“Jazz! You’re okay!” Orion beamed down.

Prowl cut off their reunion with a number of floor panels pulling aside to bring up a fully stocked medical suite.

“Jazz is not okay he has been poisoned with an unknown substance, now would one of you do something?!”

After some scrambling and unnecessary apologies, Jazz was lifted onto the gurney and about half a dozen different monitoring devices were set up.

Prowl was receiving data. He was receiving data that he couldn’t interpret because fucking BOMBSHELL deleted over half of his medical files, and Prowl didn’t have anything else to compare what he was seeing with.

He’d schedule full depth medical screenings with every Autobot available once Ratchet returned. Without a proper baseline Prowl was useless in this department.

Speaking of Ratchet, Elita called over from one of the terminals, “We got Ratchet on the line but the connection is fuzzy. Jazz, how’d you get poisoned?”

“Mmm, stabbed.”

Somewhere deep down in the facilities inner workings, an old pipe burst like a blood vessel.

“WHERE?!” Three voices simultaneously called out.

“Leggy.” Burbled Jazz, who was now wiggling the leg in question with no signs of stopping.

Bemused, confused and deeply entertained, Jazz just snorted when Orion grappled his leg like a small alligator.

A crackling voice came over the terminal, Ratchets frowning mug appearing on the screen, “-leave you idiots alone for two days and the whole damn-“

“Ratchet, I’m sending along the data we’ve acquired so far. None of Jazz’s organs appear to be failing yet but I’ve already come up with a list of possible donors. If we work quickly then-“

Ratchet raised a hand, scolding through the screen, “Hold it HOLD IT! Absolutely NO organ removal without me being the one doing it! Now everyone shut it while I read this. Prowl, give me a couple clear photos of Jazz if you want to be useful.”

The facility core quickly did so snapping pictures of the small puncture wound on Jazz’s leg as well as some wider shots of his overall state.

Ratchet mumbled to himself, barely coming over the microphone, “Blood sugar is a little low, temps running high, there’s signs of an adrenaline spike which makes sense, and a foreign chemical signature of..”

Ratchet guffawed, then broke into a full belly laugh.

Never in any of their individual lives have they ever heard Ratchet laugh at a medical report.

Shaken slightly out of his stupor, Jazz worriedly looked over to the screen and made a noise that was vaguely interrogative and lacked any consonants.

Getting a hold of himself, Ratchet addressed his patient, “Hey kid? Were the cons throwing a party?”

Jazz made another noise that was more confused than concerned. Still without consonants.

Either because of lag or a failing poker face, Ratchets face twitched a smile. “Because you’ve got about two hundred milligrams of THC in your system.”

—————

Jazz felt floaty.

And bored.

Once word got out that Jazz was back, a cause for celebration, and that he was high as fuck, a cause for significantly more childish celebration, social hour began and didn’t stop til Prowl plucked Jazz from the party claw machine style.

The general consensus was that the Cons had definitely intended to kidnap Jazz like they had Mirage. Their choice of drug and the state of the equipment Prowl saw those goons carrying implied the Decepticons were salvaging whatever they could find. They wanted him alive, so they improvised something that would fuck him up but not kill him.

Lucky Jazz.

Injections worked differently from smoking or edibles, so the former party ambulance took an “educated” guess at when it’d wear off and rounded that up by another twelve hours to be safe. He also talked Jazz through how best to ride it out, which Jazz was so using for blackmail material later on.

Interrogating the brick wall of a doctor on his adventurous youth would have to wait though, as he and a few other autobots were still a days travel away.

More concerningly, Ratchet also flagged a couple things that implied Jazz might have caught a cold on top of getting Turbo High, so current orders were to eat, drink and rest.

While everyone was around, he played up the goofy character people expected when they thought of someone being high as balls and Jazz didn’t let up the whole afternoon. He got quite the applause.

That said, his head hurt. He felt cold and exhausted. And he technically hadn’t gotten a chance to actually rest since he first got shanked. But he could’ve kept going. This was the most fun the Autobots had had in a while and he didn’t have the heart to turn them away.

Prowl? Not so much.

He pretty much went limp as a kitten when Prowl swiped him and spent the last of his energy blowing kisses and waving goodbye while Prowl scolded the party over letting him actually rest. Soon enough, Jazz was deposited into his personal room within the facility and left with a little peace and quiet.

A lot of peace and quiet.

Maybe somewhat too much peace and quiet actually.

Sensory overload straight into total silence wasn’t exactly playing nice on his fuzzy brain. So while Jazz focused once more on breathing at a steady pace, he turned to the camera and crooked his fingers in a “C’mere.”

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The sharp click of panels in the ceiling indicated Jazz was about to get something much more entertaining to do than breathe.

“Hellooo French fries from the skies.” Jazz sang.

Suppressing a smile, Prowl lowered to his bedside.

“How are you feeling?”

Flopping his head back, Jazz self evaluated, “Tired, bored, thirsty, dizzy and did I mention bored?”

Turns out getting Weed Wacked meant baby sitting duty, except instead of teaching toddlers swear words, Jazz was baby sitting his own brain without pay. And he already knew all his own swear words. Scammed.

“Soup?” Prowl offered.

“Ye.”

A few moments later the greatest invention known to man was delivered.

The two made small talk as Jazz ate, Prowl updating him on what gossip he’d missed and Jazz taking notes. When the walls have literal ears there were certain benefits to befriending its mouth piece.

Eventually Jazz was warm and satiated, eyelids getting droopy.

Well almost satiated, he always was a sucker for desert. He put on his best sultry look which was probably comparable to a half baked bread loaf that was hanging partway off the counter.

Jazz draped himself forward, “Kiss?”

Prowl just laughed once and met him in the middle.

They both knew kissing didn’t physically feel like anything to Prowl, but there was still the emotional feedback that made him run a little warmer beneath the shell. Heck, Prowl offered to give affection about as often as Jazz requested it.

And Prowl was nothing if not indulgent.

Besides, Jazz had learned awhile ago what did make him happy and exploited the hell out of it. The closest thing Prowl experienced to a dopamine hit was when someone did well in completing a test chamber, so Jazz was a regular subject in those spaces.

Jazz did once suggest he could solve a rubix cube while they were making out, however this proved to be logistically challenging.

What was much easier at the moment was to cup his hand around the back of Prowls neck and pull him that much closer.

This near, Jazz could peek and see what Prowl looked with his eyes closed. He smiled into the kiss.

Tracing his fingertips along where the base of his skull would’ve been, Jazz caught the touch of a seam that trailed down the center of his neck and beyond.

He’d been inside there once. After shutting Prowl down and replacing the lost morality core, Jazz wouldn’t let anyone else touch him there.

He wanted to make sure that Prowl would stay Prowl no matter what anyone else tried to argue.

Crisply, Jazz could see the memory in his minds eye: smooth interlocking metal puzzle pieces that folded away with the right touch, compact switches like rows of pin heads, bundles of cabling so carefully spaced out.

He could imagine the feeling of clicking the access panel open and threading his fingers through the wires.

Grasping, then yanking-

“Woah.” Jazz suddenly stopped. Then pulled away completely.

His eyes were scrunched closed tight as he tried to push the mental image from his mind.

From some casual conversation with Prowl previously, Jazz knew, he knew that pulling the plug on Prowl was about as unpleasant an experience as it could get for the guy.

“Is everything alright? Did I do something?” Prowl still had a hand between Jazz’s shoulder blades, so even though he was asking, Prowl didn’t think he was what hurt Jazz.

Jazz scrubbed his face with one hand and waved him off with the other, “Yeah, yeah you’re fine. I think Aunt Mary the hit-man is coming to fuck with me one last time.”

“I see. Do you want me to try and reach Ratchet or anyone else?” Prowl spoke quietly, lightly leaning into his space.

Honestly, Jazz was feeling crummy in that way pre-illness usually did. However the mental image of hurting Prowl was still sharp in his mind and Prowls presence was making it hard to not dwell on. He pushed it away harder and felt a little cold sweat on his back.

“No, no I think I should just sleep this off. Come get me if anything crazy happens though yeah?” Jazz scooted down his bed a little further and got more comfortable.

Prowl lingered, but nodded, “Of course. I’m going to speak with Elita if you need me. She says there’s some concerning cloud cover incoming and wants to know how the facility will handle a white out.”

White Out caught in his mind. He hadn’t told anyone about what he’d heard right?

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He could think the words he wanted but the sound wasn’t forming. Or was it? Ratchet mentioned inner and outer monologues could get a little mixed up on high doses. Maybe he already said it at the party.

He was dropping quickly now, warm and fed and thoroughly exhausted. But he needed to..

He needed to..

“Snow is falling outside.” Prowl looked up through the ceiling into the sky beyond.

His bed was so unfairly soft.

Leaning over one last time, Prowl pulled the blanket a little further up Jazz’s shoulder as the human fought for consciousness.

Softly, in a voice that Jazz suspected Prowl didn’t think he could hear, he said, “I’m glad you came back.”

Jazz had no more voice, nor even a twitch to his fingers, so he put all his thoughts into his eyes and hoped that Prowl could read them.

Me too.

I love you.

I’m pretty sure the impending snow storm is another attempt to kill us all by the Decepticons but I am unfortunately too blasted to communicate that right now so please read the S.O.S. I am trying to blink at you ah fuck my eyes are closed.

Goodnight Prowl.

Goodbye Prowl.

———————————————————————

Tada!

It is so very late at night.

Take care everyone.

- SSTP

#tf portal au #writing #between trapping Ratchet outside and working out that Prowl is missing the crucial medical information #I had to be sure no one with the brains had the information needed to solve this puzzle before it began #Ratchet and his collection of unfortunate dipshits are safe in a cabin somewhere #riding out the storm #won’t be relevant to this story but if the premise intrigues you feel free to explore

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anghimalaaynasapuso · 5 months ago

Note

Your work is amazing, I love the way you interpret Simon’s personality and speech patterns in the prosthetic arm Simon fic.❤️

hello, anon! thank you so much for the kind words. i just wanted to take this opportunity to post this deleted part of prosthetic arm simon.

sfw. angst (?). highschool dropout simon. shame.

the prosthetic is finished.

it fits like a second skin. moves smooth, seamless, with no lag between thought and motion. it’s perfect. better than anything he could’ve gotten himself. better than the overpriced models he looked at years ago, wondering if he could stomach the debt just to feel normal again.

and for a moment, as he flexes his fingers, as he watches the metal articulate like flesh, he feels… proud. proud of you, of your work, of the precision in every detail. he turns his hand over, watching the way the joints move, the faint hum of technology so advanced he still doesn’t fully understand it.

but then— the thought creeps in, unbidden, unwelcome.

his throat tightens.

does this mean he doesn’t have an excuse to see you anymore?

his fingers still, mid-motion.

the past few months have been good. better than he expected. seeing you, talking to you, getting to know you beyond the surface-level interactions he usually keeps with people.

but now?

now there’s no more check-ups. no more adjustments. no more need for him to stop by so you can make small tweaks, run diagnostics, ensure everything’s running smoothly.

simon swallows, something cold curling in his chest. he tells himself he’s being ridiculous. that if he really wanted to see you, he could just— just call, just text, just ask.

but that’s not how he works.

he’s spent so long just coasting with people. staying at arm’s length, keeping interactions simple, necessary, easy to walk away from.

“you did good,” he says, and he means it. he just hopes you can’t hear everything else under it.

you don’t seem to notice his unease, too excited as you bounce on your heels, practically beaming.

“oh- i have news!”

he blinks. tries to steady himself. “yeah?"

“my thesis got picked to be presented at congress!”

it takes him a second. longer than it should. he hears the words, knows what they mean, but they feel far away, like his mind is still caught in the spiral from before.

but then he sees the way you’re looking at him, the pure joy on your face, and something inside him lurches

“shit,” he breathes. “that’s- that’s incredible.”

and it is. you deserve this. you deserve more than this.

so he shows up to the congress.

he doesn’t tell you he’s coming. he doesn’t even decide until the last minute, standing in front of his closet, staring at the one half-decent button-up he owns.

but then he’s there, standing outside the venue, and he brings flowers.

he’s never done that before. never even bought flowers before, really. but he stands outside the venue, fingers tight around the cheap bouquet, feeling ridiculous and out of place.

he feels out of place.

too big, too rough, too obviously not part of the sleek, academic crowd milling around in suits and dresses. he tugs at his sleeves, shifting his weight, half-ready to just leave the flowers somewhere and go before—

then he sees you. scanning the crowd, eyes searching.

and when you spot him— you light up.

like he’s supposed to be here. like he’s not just some guy who stumbled in, unsure if he even belongs in moments like these.

you rush over, practically colliding into him, and he barely has time to react before you’re grabbing the flowers, pressing your face into them, laughing breathlessly.

“you came.”

his throat works. he clears it, rubbing the back of his neck.

“’course i did,” he mutters.

you smile.

…

he knew this was a bad idea.

he knew from the moment he walked into the restaurant, stiff in his chair, palm sweating against the napkin in his lap.

knew when you slid into the seat across from him, looking bright and effortless and so at ease, still glowing from your big presentation, still beaming about the congress.

knew when he looked down at the menu and realized he didn’t recognize half the words on it.

simon’s spent years in places like this— quiet, dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of good food and low conversation. but he’s always been alone. always sat in a corner with his back to the wall, a meal in front of him and no one expecting him to talk.

but now— now there’s you.

and you’re talking, telling him about the congress, about the people you met, the questions they asked. you sound so fucking excited, like the whole world is opening up in front of you, and simon—

simon just nods.

he doesn’t know what to say. doesn’t know how to keep up.

he’s never been smart like you. never been the type to sit in lecture halls, to write papers, to stand in front of a room full of academics and present something that matters.

he barely finished school. left home at sixteen, signed his life away at eighteen, spent more years holding a gun than a pen.

he doesn’t belong in places like this. doesn’t belong next to you. you who's all bright ideas and ambition, the kind of person who builds things, who makes the world better.

simon’s just good at breaking it.

he shifts in his seat, hyper-aware of how he looks— broad shoulders hunched awkwardly, big hands clumsy against the silverware, a goddamn mutt at a dinner table.

he wonders if you notice. if you see it. if you realize you could do better.

your food arrives. you thank the waiter, pick up your fork—

and before you can even take a bite, it slips out.

“i-”

you pause, fork halfway to your mouth.

simon grips his napkin under the table, flexes his fingers, heart thudding heavy in his ribs.

he shouldn’t ask. should just let this be a nice dinner, let you go home, let you move on.

but—

“would you…” he swallows, throat dry, stomach tight.

he shouldn’t ask.

“would you want to go on a date with me?”

the words hit the table like lead.

silence.

he doesn’t breathe. doesn’t move. because fuck, he actually said it.

and now there’s nothing but the space between you, the quiet hum of conversation, the faint clink of cutlery against plates—

and you. staring at him.

he braces for rejection. tells himself it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s—

“yeah,” you say, voice light with something he can’t name. “i would.”

his stomach drops.

relief. disbelief. something dangerously close to hope.

he exhales, tension bleeding from his shoulders. nods, just once, like he’s acknowledging an order. like his hands aren’t trembling under the table.

“okay,” he mutters.

then, quieter—

“good.”

#📌 simon #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #📥 mail

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bywons · 5 months ago

Text

LATTE HEARTS ⬭ SIM JAEYUN

𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗢─────────𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗋

❪ 𝖠𝖬𝖮𝖱𝖤 ❫ ｡ 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺!𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 835 𖥔 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 ━━━ 𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 愛

스루 ܃ for @yuons as a late bday gift ! flustered jake cause i love you the most :3

𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 ꣑꣒ 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾

“so how do you draw these heart shapes on lattes?”

it’s a genuine question. maybe. or maybe it’s the lighting—the soft, golden glow of the café’s overhead bulbs making your eyes sparkle when you look at jake.

he stumbles a little, just a fraction, nearly forgetting the steaming jug of milk in his hand. a few droplets spill over the edge, and he steadies himself right on time before he does something absolutely humiliating, like dropping the whole thing.

you notice. of course, you do.

“you okay there?” your voice is teasing, lips quirking up at the corners.

jake clears his throat, setting the milk down with what he hopes is effortless coolness. “yeah! totally fine. great, even.”

you hum, unconvinced. but you don’t push, instead resting your chin on your palm, elbow propped on the counter as you watch him.

it’s late. the café is empty, save for the two of you. the doors are flipped to closed, chairs stacked on tables, the hum of the espresso machine the only sound filling the space. jake should be wiping down counters, finishing up for the night. but instead, he's here, making you one last latte.

not because you asked. because he offered.

“okay,” he says, forcing himself to focus. “latte hearts. right. first, you start pouring from higher up—like this—so the milk blends into the espresso. then, when it’s nearly full, you bring it lower and kinda... wiggle it to make the shape.”

you blink. “wiggle it?”

“yes, wiggle it. this is an advanced technique, y/n, don’t mock me.”

you grin. “so this is how you impress girls, huh? latte art and coffee shop charm?”

jake chokes on air.

“i—what?” he sputters.

“oh, come on,”you say, tilting your head. “you’ve got the whole cute barista with perfect hair and a pretty smile thing going on. and you flirt with everyone—i’ve seen it.”

he gapes at you. “i do not—”

“you so do,” you counter, smirking. then, a pause. a shift. your voice softens just a little as you add, “so tell me, jake. do you give every girl latte hearts, or am i just special?”

oh.

oh, he is so done for.

jake grips the milk jug a little tighter, steadying himself. he could play it off, laugh it away like he always does. but something about the way you're looking at him, like you already know the answer, makes him decide on something bolder.

he finishes the pour, the heart shape forming perfectly on the surface of the coffee, and slides the cup toward you.

“considering i just made this one after closing hours, for free,” he says, smirking, “i’d say you’re pretty damn special.”

you blink, eyes flickering between him and the cup. then, slowly, you pick it up and take a sip.

and that’s when jake sees it.

the tiniest bit of foam, clinging to your upper lip.

his brain short-circuits.

because you, completely unaware, are licking your lips slightly, and it’s not helping, and jake knows he should just tell you—hey, you’ve got a little something right there—but instead, his body moves on autopilot.

he reaches forward, thumb grazing over your lip, wiping the foam away in one slow, easy motion.

you freeze.

jake doesn’t move either. his hand hovers for a second too long, thumb still tingling from the contact.

“oh,” you say, voice quieter now.

his lips twitch. “oh?”

your gaze flickers to his, and there’s something different in your expression—something playful, something dangerous.

“just thinking,” you murmur, leaning in slightly, a dangerous smirk on your face, “if you do this for all your customers, or if this is part of my special treatment too.”

jake huffs out a laugh, dropping his hand but not stepping back.

“y/n,” he says, voice low, “it this was really special treatment…” he grabs a marker from the counter, scribbles something on your cup sleeve, and slides it back to you.

you glance down.

dinner tomorrow? yes and no. with two little boxes beside them.

your heart skips.

slowly, you uncap the marker, eyes locked on his the entire time, and check the box.

yes.

jake grins, leaning against the counter, impossibly close.

“good choice.”

before he can step away, before he can fully let himself process the situation, you suddenly lean in and press a quick, featherlight kiss against his cheek.

jake almost malfunctions.

his brain goes blank. his face heats up instantly, warmth blooming from where your lips had just been. he barely registers the way you pull back, smiling like you just did not ruin him in the span of a second.

“thanks for the coffee, jake,” you murmur, fingers lightly tapping the cup as you get up from your seat.

jake is still frozen in place.

you laugh, stepping backward toward the door. “don’t be late for our date tomorrow.”

and then, with a final wink, you’re gone.

jake just stands there, heart pounding, hand slowly coming up to touch his cheek.

he is so screwed.

taglist────open nets @/k-labels @k-films @kflixnet

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witherby · 7 months ago

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Human!Damian x Mer!Reader

Damian, one of the newest employees at Gotham Aquarium, forms a fast bond with its only mer inhabitant.

Content includes: Fluff, pre-relationship, language barrier

You crack an eye open when you feel movement in the water. The rhythmic swish, swish, swish coaxes you from the bed of seaweed you were curled up in and you drift to the source of the disturbance in your habitat.

Surfacing, your gills flex and twitch briefly as you adjust to breathing air, and you chirp at the creature perched on the lip of your tank, one hand still swishing the water. His vibrant, green eyes and small smile never fail to make you happy.

"Good morning, Princess," the creature — Damian is his name, your mind supplies — greets you warmly. He lifts up a bucket with your breakfast, and you trill and reach for it eagerly, webbed fingers curling around the metal and brushing against his own, dry digits briefly. "You've got two shows today. The usual one at noon, and then a private birthday party this evening. These money-hungry cretins refused to listen when I told them it would disrupt your routine and irritate you, but they don't care. I apologize in advance."

You click and whistle at him as you shovel a fistful of eel into your mouth, chewing happily. It was difficult to understand the land creature, but you weren't terribly upset. You got the gist — something different was happening today. When different things happened, you tended to get more snacks, especially if you huffed and fussed a bit, so it was fine. You hope Damian will stick around and play after you finish your meal.

"Good job, Princess," the land creature says when you show him the empty bucket. You know what those words mean, and you preen and coo giddily. You like the title he calls you, too. "Princess" is not your primary identifier; it's not what the other land creatures call you, only Damian. He calls you something different, which feels special. You like that you're special to him, because he's your favorite handler and therefore special to you.

You slip under the water briefly to wet your gills, then break the surface again with a flick of your long, iridescent tail and reach for him, chirping. Damian gives you a considering look, head slightly tilted like he wants to hop into the tank with you, but ultimately pulls away and rises. You croon sadly after him, slapping the water.

"Later," he says, "I promise. We'll play later, when there's time. Right now, the tours are about to start. You know that."

You chuff. You do know that. It's almost Attention Time, which means more land creatures walk through strange tunnels that cut through the bottom of your large habitat to stare at you, and you get to stare back. If you do enough tricks, you even get snacks and toys. You like the attention; you're a beautiful mer and deserve to be admired, but you wish the creatures would actually come into the water instead of the large, weird tunnels you can't reach.

Slipping under the surface again, your tail propels you towards the larger section of your enclosure, where the tunnels are, and you don't have to wait much longer before the first group of land creatures comes through to admire you. To your endless delight, Damian is leading them. The other caretakers know that you're the most active when he's the one guiding the tours, so you make sure to do all the flips and twirls you've been taught for him.

When you catch his eye, Damian smiles a little again, just for you, and you trill with joy.

-----

Thanks for reading! Reblogs encourage me to write more!

#damian wayne #mermaid au #damian x reader #damian wayne x reader #batfam x reader

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1l0v3y0ud0ntl3av3me · 10 months ago

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「YANDERE VILLIAN × FEM! READER」

A/N: This is for the girlies, sorry to the other pooks. This one is a bit intense. In emotional sense. Technically this guy is an bnha oc of mine saur..

【DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT🕊】

TW: Degrading, misogyny, non-con, implied long time non-con, betrayal from friend, two-faced mf, etc.

You couldn't take it anymore. The constant violation, the relentless manipulation—it was all too much. You had to expose Jun, had to make someone believe you. So, you went to your friend, your confidante, and poured out your heart. You told her everything: the way Jun would use his Quirk on you, how he would force himself on you, and the way he would leave you feeling empty and used.

As you cried, she listened, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief. When you finished, she promised to help you. You clung to that promise, desperate for someone to be on your side.

The next time Jun and your friend met, he noticed the tension between you two. He could see the disdain in her eyes, and he knew he had to act fast. With a smile on his face, he pulled her aside, his voice low and soothing. "Hey, I've heard you've been talking to my girlfriend," he said, feigning concern. "I'm worried she's got the wrong impression. She's just jealous, you know how women can be."

Your friend, believing his side of the story, turned on you. She confronted you, accusing you of lying and causing trouble. Betrayed and heartbroken, you were left with no one to turn to.

Unbeknownst to you, Jun had been using his Quirk on her, subtly influencing her thoughts and emotions, making her doubt your story. He enjoyed the power he held over her, and it only fueled his desire to control and dominate.

One day, when you were alone with Jun, he decided you needed a 'reminder' of your place. He forced you into an empty classroom, slamming the door shut behind you. His eyes were filled with a mix of anger and desire, and you knew there was no escaping what was to come.

He began by mocking you, calling you ungrateful and saying how much you enjoyed his advances. "You're always so tight, like you want it," he sneered. You tried to protest, but he silenced you with a rough kiss, his tongue invading your mouth as his hands roamed your body.

Jun then used his Quirk on you, sending shivers down your spine and making your body betray you. "Looks like your body can't help itself, huh?" he teased, as your nipples hardened and your pussy grew wet with desire. He tore off your clothes, leaving you completely naked before him.

"You're such a tight little slut," he growled, his voice thick with lust. He bent you over a desk, your hands pressed against the cold surface as he positioned himself behind you.

He thrust into you without warning, his thick cock stretching you wide open. You cried out in pain, but he didn't care. "Shut up, you love it," he snapped, as he began to pump in and out of you, his grip on your hips tightening with each thrust.

"You were made for this," he snarled, slapping your ass. You felt humiliated and violated, his cock filling you up, the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh filling the room.

He forced you to look at the sight of his cock entering you, your face contorting in pain. Jun's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he fucked you harder and faster, his cock sliding in and out of your tight hole.

He was relentless, driving you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel your orgasm building up inside you, even though you desperately wished it wouldn't. Jun leaned down, his hot breath against your ear as he whispered, "Cum for me, [Name]."

You clenched your teeth, trying to hold back, but it was no use. Jun's words, combined with the intense pleasure he was inflicting, sent you over the edge. You cried out as an orgasm ripped through your body, your pussy clenching around his cock.

This only served to push Jun over the edge as well. He groaned loudly, his cock pulsating inside you as he came, filling you with his hot seed. He pulled out, leaving you on the desk, your body shaking, and your mind reeling from the violation.

Jun stood over you, his cock glistening with your fluids, before licking his lips. He leaned down and trailed his tongue along your cheek, smirking as he said, "Remember who you belong to, hm?"

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wyvernest · 2 years ago

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soft s3x and grey sweats

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!gf!reader

warnings: smut, tooth rotting fluff, miguel wears grey sweatpants, soft and loving sex, domesticity, unprotected piv

summary: miguel ft. grey sweatpants

A gentle drizzle splatters on the windows of your bedroom, tapping its soft, irregular crystal drops onto the glass only to wake you from your blissful nap.

You had fallen asleep with your head on his chest, invaded by the warmth of his body next to yours, the fascinating feeling of being home with him. You couldn't ever dare to ask for more than that.

With a spine-bending stretch, you step out of the cosiness of the king-sized bed following the realisation of his absence. Leaping down the stairs, you seek the comfort of him being near you like a throat-gripping vice.

You hear the water running, occasionally overlapped by clattering, dishes clanking and drawers being pushed shut.

You step out into the hall of your open-concept kitchen, linen stockings preventing even the subtlest noises of your movements from reaching him through the ambiance.

Your weight on the wooden floor is merely a gust of wind as you sit yourself into the corner of the sofa in order to watch him from up close.

You hug your legs to your chest in an attempt to adapt to the temperature change of the room, your flimsy top and panties doing little in covering your middle.

He hasn't turned to you since you hopped off the stairway. Arrogance tugs at the furthest corner of your mind after having sneaked behind his hyper vigilance, completely unnoticed. You seize the opportunity to study him in the absence of his piercing gaze fixed upon you.

Your eyes linger over the expanse of his broad back, the navy blue, short-sleeved shirt creasing in thin, cascading lines over his shoulder blades as he shifts his weight to his right, bicep bulging when he stretches his hand up into a cupboard.

You're more than delighted to note the easiness with which he attains things normally out of your reach.

Not only once did you call for his help to get you something from any place higher above you, having him stand behind you when doing so, and without fail him making sure to push his groin up against your ass in the process, prompting you to bend just slightly forward onto the board or sink in front of you before the simplest request for aid turned into you, taking him against any surface around the house.

It became quite the signal after a while. Whenever he heard you, 'Miguel! Come here for a second, baby’, his cock would fatten in advance at the sound of the command.

"Should've stayed upstairs, muñeca. I was making something for you." he snaps you out of your reverie, the sleepy raspiness in his voice deliciously running late over the last syllables of his remorseful disfavour.

While still not facing you, it turns out he was well-aware of your presence.

"Don't worry about it. I'll just watch." you excuse yourself, draping your midriff over the armrest, hands supporting your head on the soft cushions as you thaw at the sight of him cooking for you.

He returns to the kitchen island, his index finger mindlessly following the instructions he was mentally revising, before his eyes find you on the couch, scanning every patch of skin you have on display, as if sizing you up for his dessert.

He allows his vision to wash over your silky smooth thighs, your waistline that moulds into the hill of the pillows, the exact same way it moulds so erotically against him when he pistons his hips into yours.

With your pleading gaze inviting, thighs squeezed together in frustration, he is unsure of what to finish next, the pancakes, or you.

Your attention drops to the chubbed, prominent curve of his stiffening cock in his sweatpants, the shade of it nearly obscenely large, evident on the grey fabric. His hand slips down his crotch, lazily palming his dick through the material. You feel the heat pooling between your thighs, yearning growing unbearable.

"I have to let it rest. I'm all yours now." he suggests smugly, and part of you suspects that he had been needing to take you since you decided to flutter your eyes shut on the bed, arms coiled around his waist.

You shamelessly keep your eyes on target as he sets the dough bowl aside, approaching you with a heaviness in his pace that you know oh so well.

His dick twitches ever so slightly in his pants, hardening until its outline becomes lewdly evident, straining upwards into his pants in all its length and girth that ruptures you unforgivingly whenever he stuffs himself inside you.

Before he can even reach the sofa, your eager hands clutch his waist, feeling the rigid muscles underneath his shirt as you start planting gentle kisses down his abdomen, having him shudder at the contact even through the cotton fibre.

Your soft breasts meet his bulge in the process, offering nothing more than a few mere brushes that only rile him up more than he had hoped.

He drops his weight next to you on the cushions as the only way to avoid the urge to pull his cock out and shove it down your throat through your pretty, plush lips. He opts to rest his head back on the pillows, legs spread wide in front of him, taking up nearly all the space next to you.

Not a single moment is wasted before you take his cheeks in your hands, fingertips grazing his rough, barely visible stubble, pressing rushed, obsessive kisses all over his face.

You slide one leg over his, seeking the pressure of his broad, firm thigh to your clothed cunt.

His own hands are quick to grab your waist, pulling you flush against him, your chest flattened on his. His lips find yours through your loving pecks, deepening the kiss he caught you with, swiftly interrupted by a soft gasp of yours the second your ass meets his boner.

You teasingly lower yourself onto him gently, revelling in the feeling of the tip pressing harshly into the thin fabric of your panties.

Letting your hand travel down his firm chest, down his abdomen and over the sizable bulge in his sweatpants, you cup him through the material, applying just enough pressure to coax a groan out of his throat.

His wide thighs involuntarily flex on your sides and he twitches in your hand, a reminder of his force, his size in comparison to you, his ability to have you any time he wanted despite the position, despite your teasing.

His head leans back on the couch exposing his throat, eyes dazed out and fixed on the view of your breasts peeking from under your crop, visibly satisfied with the angle he found. Your boobs, round and soft, ever so inviting for him to knead in his large hands, he thinks.

Warm palms leave your hips to slide up your waist, disappearing under the cotton shirt, idly groping your chest.

You reel at the feeling of his rough, calloused hands on your smooth skin, touching and fondling in all the right places.

His knuckles protrude every now and then through the thin textile as he keeps massaging your breasts, feeling your pulse quicken with each deep breath you take.

Before you can even decide on your next move, you feel the blistering warmth of a splayed out hand on your back, propping you gently as he tilts you to the side, a familiar bow of such a dirty dance that has your thoughts melting out of your brain, your whole existential purpose being resumed to him alone in a matter of seconds.

He lays you down over the length of the couch with such care, such strength that has you submitting mindlessly, wrapping your frail arms around his neck. Legs up in the air, he has you just like he always does. Your blood boils through you, the ignition of nerves only he could ever cause.

He descends upon you, veiling your entire body in his, hands eagerly running over your body, playing you like an instrument that only sings for him, that only he can hold.

You sigh, taking in the scent of him, letting it invade your lungs like inhalants. The visceral musky cologne, with shades of a pine forest that had your thoughts run wild and senses sharpened.

Half lidded eyes accentuate his savagely, crimson irises and dilated pupils, the sheer sight of you under him never ceasing to rile him up bad enough to make him beg for your touch.

You squirm weakly; quickly enough he takes the hint and hooks his thumb around your panties, dragging them down your soft skin, impatience evident in his movements.

You feel the weight of his hard cock on your thigh, head going dizzy at the thought of its girth stretching you open, the thought of the pained groans that crawl out of his throat when he comes, his dick pulsating inside you.

He stills above you, eyes darting over your face, as if searching for something he had just remembered he was missing, a gaze condimented with adoration, curiosity, and a hesitancy you may only interpret as astonishment.

"No puedo creer que seas mía" (”Can't believe you're mine.”) he mutters, barely above a halted whisper, following the realisation of your rather perplexed demeanour when confronted with such antics. ”Makes me think that maybe", he pauses, "pushing through all the shit in my life made me worthy of you.”, he confesses, vulnerable and wounded.

You've caught smudges of this view of his before, only not this categorical. In a way, you find it quite the most heartwarming yet peculiar thing there is to know about him. He seeks the comfort of believing that all the suffering he endured meant something, a sacrificial lamb for him to ultimately earn the limitless love of your embrace, your affections and unwavering devotion.

It wasn’t pride that clawed at his memories of having conquered and survived when so many others didn’t in the same circumstances he faced. It was relief, the relief of a man that swam the ocean to find paradise.

And there you were, silk-smooth, gentle hands cupping his face with such infatuation he did not think possible, looking up at him like there wasn’t anything more beautiful in existence you would rather see.

His heart had inevitably melted into yours; now soldered together against all odds fate could bestow.

”I love you, Miguel. With or without your scars.”, you pull him into a reassuring, promise-sealing kiss, which he softly reciprocates, regaining his confidence and unyielding want.

His lips ghost over your jugular, relishing in the way your exhales halt in your throat, pausing in expectancy as his hot breath excites goosebumps over the satin skin of your exposed neck.

”I love you more.” he teases, lips latching onto your pulse point, lightly sucking hungry kisses down to the valley where your throat meets your shoulder.

Despite knowing how adamant you were about your own love being immeasurable, let alone any lesser than his, he took great joy in dramatically rivalling you on the matter, beclouding your fondness only to start a competition of who manages to sway the other with their words of pure worship and fidelity.

Whether there was another underlying reason for his racing I love you more’s, you do not know. Maybe a reminiscence of his mistrustful, defensive nature, reflecting its last slither of bewilderment into a seemingly innocent insistence that he, indeed, loved you more than you loved him.

How could he not? You had no knowledge of the things he had to do for his job, what it truly meant to risk everything for someone, to risk your life for another.

And he prefers it this way, to have you shielded away from the horror of finding yourself in that situation, from the heartbreak of even imagining the circumstances in which you may decide to give your life for him in all your passion, let alone pondering upon the choice and place the verdict upon your declaration of love, weighing it down in all gravity and seriousness of the pledge. In the depths of his mind, he dreads it, hearing you say, ‘I love you, I would give my life for you’, although he would do so for you without thinking twice.

He dreads knowing that his presence in your life could scar you so that you may have to die for him, that his soul alone could be stained in your blood, even only in hypothesis.

Therefore, he feels far more content thinking that you don’t quite love him as much, thinking that you, as perfect as you are, would not suffer should anything happen to him. That your attachment to him will only ever bring you nothing but joy.

And oh how he brought you joy. Pure bliss and paradisiacal rapture. Even more so when he held you so dearly against him, painting you in doting kisses, marks of which linger on your skin long after he’s departed.

His warm, broad hand sails down over the plushy mound of your breast, indulging in a layover just to squeeze lightly. To drift below; its tender, round shape fitting in the junction between his thumb and index finger; his palm seemingly continuing its travel down your waist before returning unexpectedly, massaging your soft tit after a run down and up your waist, making the butterflies in your belly grow agitatedly.

The meagre shudders of your body underneath his unpredictable and exciting touch, the silent whines that die in your throat as he kisses down the crook of your neck have his cock twitching in his pants, beads of precum gathering on the flushed tip, staining the material. You feel the unmistakable length of it poke your thigh, hard and thick.

"Eres tan buena conmigo" (”You’re so good to me.”) he breathes deeply, voice hoarse with restraint, lacing his words with a poised thread that wraps around your neck, earning him a fractured moan. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

Grabbing onto his massive shoulders for support, delighted with the way his muscles ripple under your soft hands as he continues his attack on your most sensitive spots he knows so well, you press your leg tentatively into his hard-on, an unspoken, considerate request for him to cease the teasing and chase his own pleasure.

“I want you”, you whisper breathily, finding your voice on the last word, accentuating the singularity of your need, the force with which you crave him, only him. “I love you, Miguel, I wanna make you happy.” you declare desperately, planting another suffocating kiss on his slightly agape lips, having him gasp softly into your mouth, a killer whale surfacing above the waterline for a superficial breath before diving back into the depths of the ocean.

He kisses you with such ardour, savouring the addictive taste of your delicate lips, slipping his tongue into your mouth like you hadn’t seen each other for months, like one of those desperate days in which he has his way with you right after he returns from a bone-chilling mission throughout the multiverse.

After ending the kiss with an unnecessarily harsh smooch, he draws back, making you giggle through unrelenting panting. He scans your face, absorbing the image of you, in your most defenceless self, so full of what can only be adoration for him.

He takes in your half-lidded, love-struck eyes, the look he thinks not even the bestest of painters of the world could capture on canvas. The look he thinks would be perverted in blasphemy should it be, even in attempt, recreated on any portrait, any sculpture, any photograph.

He follows the line of your jaw that cascades sharply into the crook of your neck, the only safe place for him to lay his head at night, the place he reveres to place the sweetest of kisses upon, having you either laugh or melt in his arms.

His vision then lands on your sore lips, exhaling the very air he breathes, uttering the same words that echoed in his head out in the field; ‘I love you, truly, entirely and through my whole being. With my body, heart and soul, oh, I love you.’

He dips his head down your waist in reverence, leaving gentle pecks down the line of your stomach. In any other instance, you would giddily chuckle at his ministrations, a chuckle that would soon turn into a hearty burst of laughter, as he knew just the spots to touch and tickle and make you reel in retaliation when play-fighting on a particularly lazy Sunday evening.

However, now, there was no impulse to laugh. You watch him closely as he reaches the crease of your pelvic bone, looking up to meet your gaze.

You feel your face heat up at the sight of him, a strong hand wrapped around your thigh, the other holding your middle.

Satisfied with the moans he successfully drove out of you, breaths getting heavy at the thought of how wet you have to be by now, he sits up on his knees to hurriedly haul his shirt over his head.

His dick grows harder at the familiar picture of you, laid back on the sofa, eyes glazed with drunken want and the remembrance of his feverish touch on you.

Letting your hands roam his chest and firm abdomen while he disposes of the shirt, you curl your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, carefully dragging them down his bulky thighs, eyes widening as his cock springs upwards from the grey fabric, hitting his stomach before ever-so-slightly bending to the right under its generous weight.

You let yourself fall back into the cosy corner of the couch, parting your legs with lascivious speed while watching him stroke his now glistening cock, eyes trained on yours.

A vigorous, bulging forearm anchors next to your head, the other guiding himself inside you. His mountainous shoulders block any view of the room aside from him, and you obey the impulse to run your hands over his biceps, his pecs, his jaw.

You draw in a sharp breath at the contact of his fat tip on your wet folds, rubbing into the dampness at the entrance before breaching you.

You whimper softly, trying to adjust. No matter how many times you have sex, it always takes you time to adapt to his size, to fit him inside you to the hilt.

His forehead rests against yours as he pushes further in, a gentle hand coming to collect a few unruly strands of hair from your face. It stops to cup your fiery, rosy cheek, his thumb grazing your dainty skin protectively, soothingly, before his arm docks symmetrically to the other, beside your head to balance his weight on top of you.

Your tear-welled eyes flutter shut, the dip between your brows deepening and rising into an unspoken plea for a one-second pause. He stops, knowing of your struggles despite your fervent insistences that he may always bottom out regardless of your aches.

He cannot bring himself to cause you discomfort in any way, even under the greenlight of your sincere consent.

“I know, love, I’m sorry.”, he pacifies you, and you’re overwhelmed by his attentive care, starting to rain messy, fatigued kisses over each patch of skin on his face within reach. He returns the gesture in earnest, covering your features in slow smooches.

It calms you, allowing him to push all the way inside your tight cunt, grunting into your temple as you tense around his shaft the moment his tip presses against your cervix.

A loud sigh that swiftly leaves your agape mouth tells him to proceed. His hips start gyrating languidly, his dick exits you only halfway, coated in your juices, before driving back in with a quiet squelch. You throw your head back on the pillows, legs coiled securely around his waist as he makes love to you, laying you onto a cloud of pleasure.

"Ugh, oh-," he groans, his voice deep and rugged, mirroring his own mind-numbing bliss, “you feel so good”. With his head now leaned into your chest, his heavy breaths are hot on your skin, timed with the drive of his hips into yours.

He starts going faster, yet the force of his thrusts still soft. The second he finds the puffy nub of nerves that snaps firecrackers in your lower belly, you grab at the mattress, gasping and moaning weakly. Muted whines are put out in your throat as you close your mouth to swallow a kiss your body had craved to give him.

His shoulders flex under his weight as he picks up more speed, nearing his high and finding the rhythm you know only leads to those desperate grunts that have you coming only from their sound alone.

He pushes into his thrusts, rubbing the coarse hair above the base of his cock on your clit. Your back contorts and arches in response, gifting him an even more delicious angle for the precise rolls of his hips.

You choke on a pained scream that dissolves into your limbs as you come hard, your orgasm washing over you in drumming tidal waves, crashing onto you with every drive of his fat cock into your soft, drenched cunt.

"Oh-- ugh, yeah- so good," he groans into your rose, kiss-marked neck, seemingly taken aback by the force of his own euphoria, as if he had been expecting a gentle current of ecstasy as result of his intendedly soft and gentle session of lovemaking, instead being met a fierce jolt of elation. He stills, holding a breath from erupting out of his throat into a shaky moan.

The bridge of his nose is pressed perfectly into your neck, a sculpture-worthy puzzle of two souls sewn together. His hot palm seeks the feeling of your smooth skin, landing shy of your waist, holding you against him with the firmness of a man who heeds every longing you had ever voiced, who heeds the closeness you had always coveted as you rode the rapids of your orgasm.

The pressure hammers into you in aftershocks, hauling you back down in fading flutters, pulsing into your lower belly as he tenses, pushing his hips flush against your ass with one final blow, releasing into the warmth of your cunt.

You clench faintly at the feeling of his fat cock spasming and twitching inside you, catching on to the last gust of your high.

He groans in oversensitivity, pulling out before carefully placing his broad hand in between your thighs, tenderly cupping your dripping pussy to prevent his come from staining the peppered grey couch. You flinch at the contact, not having fully recovered from the stimulation.

He leans into you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. You turn to him instinctively, unable to find your voice or enough strength in your arms to do anything but gaze up at him with the face he knew so well; the euphoria-painted face you grace him with when his love overflows your body, teeming into your watery eyes.

Sitting up, he unpacks a thin, white blanket from the opposite edge of the sofa, cocooning you into the clean, fresh fabric. You hum in comfort, struggling to chase the warmth of his arms as he tucks the edges of the material underneath the contour of your body.

”Just stay here for a bit.”, he whispers into your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. “ I‘m almost done with your surprise.”

“You want me to help?” you resort to a last-chance inquiry in hopes of finding an excuse to sit beside him for longer, even in the kitchen.

He knows you’re well-intended, but decides to better value the total credit of his courteous offering.

You will most certainly keep the stakes up and stubbornly get dinner ready for him on the very next occasion you find, so he might as well echo your stubbornness and finish his task alone, meeting great satisfaction in spoiling you with the opportunity your body has given him.

“No te preocupes, (Don't worry.) I’ll manage.”

You dramatically reach for him with your extended arms as he heads towards the kitchen. He throws you a sympathetic smile before resuming his cooking, fully aware that a considerable part of him would have wanted nothing more than to rush back into your arms and spend the rest of the evening smothering you into his warm embrace, play fighting you into submitting to his self-indulgent caresses and kisses.

divider by @cafekitsune

spanish translations by @bookished 🤍(tysm!!)

50% requested by @badbitchhour (ik u wanted a wedding night but my brain short-circuited when i tried to write it, it's still coming tho!!! meanwhile made the very soft and emotional lovemaking part til i get around it and start feeling it)

a/n: don't pick on me for the extremely creative! title i wanted to make shit clear from the start. (clickbaiting)

also smut authors try not to use the same words and phrases for every sex scene without using things like 'wand' and 'shaft' (challenge impossible)

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the-flaneur · 8 months ago

Text

scarlet fury (cl16)

pairing: dark!charles leclerc x sainz!reader

summary: following his explosive outburst on the radio, what better way to relieve his anger than by getting back at his teammate?

warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW -> smut ft. rough sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), hate sex, a little bit dubcon (but reader is still consenting), possessive!charles, charles using you (literally and figuratively) to fuck over carlos

wc: 2178

[masterlist] [requests]

as you nervously awaited the end of the race in the garage, you knew this weekend had not been good for your brother, or his teammate. practice had been all over the place, with the mercedes surprisingly looking as the fastest car so far this weekend (although lewis had told you in confidence that he was very concerned about the race pace and the tires) and the greatest attention was on max’s potential championship winning race.

however, as the race actually progressed through the garage screens, your heart sank.

your ferrari boys had somehow dropped behind max, and both mercedes, and when carlos’ mechanics refused to let him pit, you rolled your eyes at the camera which you knew had been panned towards you that very second. it was frankly frustrating at the very least, you thought, glaring daggers at the back of ricky’s head.

but when your brother’s pit lane shenanigans were being called out by sky sports, you sighed internally, watching him cut across the line before darting back out. and it only got worse when charles had gotten on the radio to berate your brother about fighting him on track. the battle for constructors was vital right now, and your brother was not making it any easier for them to stay in contention. eventually, as the ferraris rounded the last corner together, you let out a small grimace at the camera.

charles’ furious outburst had left a trail of expletives echoing through the cockpit, he gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. his face was twisted in anger, eyes narrowed to slits as he focused intently on the rear of carlos' ferrari ahead. the tension radiated off him like heat, every muscle coiled and ready to spring into action. meanwhile, carlos apparently to him, seemed oblivious to the commotion, his concentration solely on maintaining his position and crossing the finish line in third, securing a mercedes 1-2 and a ferrari for the podium.

as brian tried to calm charles down over the radio, his anger simmered dangerously beneath the surface, barely contained. when charles finally spoke, his voice was low and aggressive, each word dripping with venom. "tell carlos if he wants to play dirty, i'll show him what his face on the track looks like," charles growled, his gaze never leaving the road ahead. "i'll fuck him over." the threat hung heavy in the air, unspoken but unmistakable. charles' hands tightened further on the wheel, his knuckles cracking with the force.

as soon charles slammed his car into parc ferme, he stormed out of the cockpit, his racing boots pounding the asphalt as he marched straight towards the garage area, pushing angrily passed ferrari personnel who were cheering and celebrating carlos. oh just how pissed off was he, you thought, his face was still flushed with anger. but when he glanced over towards you, there was an undeniable hunger burning in his eyes as they locked onto yours.

you were no stranger to charles’ passion, healthy or not. as carlos’ younger sister, you had attracted the attention of many young men and women, most of all being his very own teammate. although you had rebuffed charles’ advances at first, you were not immune to the monegasque's charm and had soon found yourself sneaking behind carlos’ back to meet with him in hotels across the world.

without a word, he charged over to you silently, grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you into his driver’s room, locking the door shut behind you. in the dim light, charles pinned you against the table, his body pressed hard against yours as he claimed your mouth in a rough, demanding kiss. his tongue invaded your mouth, tasting you deeply as his hands roamed over your curves, grabbing and squeezing roughly.

now, consumed by fury and humiliation, charles was about to unleash his pent-up aggression upon you. his muscular frame loomed over yours as he stripped off his racing suit, revealing a chiseled torso glistening with sweat. he grabbed you from your thighs before seating you on the table, like a sacrifice ready for her god.

“charlie…” you whispered, nervously, watching him roughly push down his boxers, freeing his massive, throbbing erection. pre-cum drooled from the tip, glistening in the dim light. charles grabbed your ankles and pulled your legs apart, spreading you wide open for him.

"you think you're so smart, don't you?" charles hissed, his breath hot against your ear as he yanked your panties down your legs. "playing both sides, i’m fucking my teammate’s little sister... you're just a dirty little slut, aren't you?"

"you think you can handle this, princess?" he taunted, rubbing the swollen head against your slick entrance. "or are you just another pathetic little tease who can't take what she dishes out?"

with no warning, he thrust deep inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. a guttural moan escaped his lips as he savored the tight, scorching heat of your pussy gripping him like a vice. he began to pound into you mercilessly, each savage thrust jolting your body against the cold metal table.

"you think your precious brother deserved that podium?" charles growled, his voice low and menacing. without waiting for a response, he grabbed your thighs and yanked them apart, exposing your soaked pussy to the cool air. "i'm going to teach him a lesson he'll never forget."

charles roughly thrust his rigid cock deep inside your quivering cunt, not bothering with foreplay or gentleness. he gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he began pounding into you with savage intensity, each brutal stroke punctuated by a grunt of exertion and rage. the table creaked ominously beneath you, its metal legs scraping against the floor with every powerful impact. your back arched, pressing your breasts against the unforgiving surface as charles relentlessly fucked you, his thick shaft stretching your tight walls to their limits.

"d-do you like this, you little slut?" charles snarled, his breath hot against your ear. "did you think i would let your brother get away with this? ruining my chances in the wdc?" he reached down to roughly pinch and twist your nipples, sending jolts of pain through your body that only heightened your arousal.

"nnngh... no, please..." you managed to gasp out, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and desperate need. you knew you were at his mercy, completely powerless under his dominant grasp. charles continued to ruthlessly pound into your dripping wet pussy, his aggressive thrusts causing the table to shake violently.

"no? then why are you so fucking wet, huh?" he sneered, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he held you in place for his relentless fucking. despite your protests, your body betrayed you, responding eagerly to the brutal pounding from charles.

"shut up and take it," charles barked, his grip on your hips tightening as he increased his pace. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the small room, mingling with your muffled moans and whimpers. "this is what happens when people cross me."

“but i didn’t,” you whined as charles fingers sank deeper into your ass, gripping hard enough to leave bruises as he continued to rut into you mercilessly. his thick cock stretched your tight pussy to its limits, the forceful thrusts causing you to cry out in a mix of pain and pleasure.

"you're damn right you didn't!" he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "but you're going to pay for your brother's sins nonetheless." with each brutal stroke, he punctuated his words, driving home the lesson he intended to teach.

despite your feeble protests, your body responded shamefully to the treatment, your inner walls clenching around him as if begging for more. the lewd sounds of your sex filled the air, a symphony of grunts, slaps, and muffled moans that seemed to spur charles on.he stepped back, his massive erection bobbing angrily before him. with a cruel smirk, charles grasped your ankles and flipped you onto your stomach, your face pressed against the cold metal of the table. "so i get to use you however i want, since your precious brother screwed me over."

without further warning, charles drove his thick cock back into your dripping folds from behind, slamming into you with unbridled ferocity. his heavy balls slapped against your clit with each merciless thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain through your sensitive body. charles' relentless pounding sent waves of intense pleasure coursing through your battered body, each brutal thrust pushing you closer to the brink of ecstasy. despite the harsh treatment, your cunt clung greedily to his pistoning cock, desperate for more of the rough, punishing friction.

as charles continued to rail you from behind, his meaty hands slid up your sides to roughly palm your small tits, pinching and twisting your sensitive nipples until they throbbed in time with your racing heartbeat. "you love this, don't you, you filthy little cumslut?" he taunted, his hot breath washing over the back of your neck.

"ahhhn... oh god, yes! i-i love it!" you panted out, voice strained with a mix of pleasure and humiliation. each brutal thrust of charles' thick cock sent shockwaves of ecstasy through you quivering body. your hips bucked involuntarily, meeting his punishing strokes as you surrendered to the overwhelming sensations. moan after moan spilled from your lips, a litany of wanton pleasure that only fueled charles' dominance.

"mmmph... harder, please! fuck me harder, charles!" you begged, pussy clenching greedily around him, milking his cock for every drop of seed as you teetered on the brink of a mind-shattering orgasm.

"that's it, scream for me," he growled, his voice a dark rumble in your ear, "let everyone hear you scream my name, you dirty little slut!" charles commanded, his voice low and menacing as he gripped your hips tighter. "i want carlos and the whole motorhome to know who's dominating your needy and pathetic cunt right now."

your cries of pleasure rang out, echoing off the garage walls as charles pounded into you relentlessly. "yes, yes, fuck! ahh, i'm yours, charles! only yours!" you wailed, the shameless declarations spilling from your lips as you lost yourself to the intense sensation of being thoroughly claimed.

as your body tensed and trembled, charles buried himself to the hilt one final time, his cock throbbing and pulsing as he unleashed a torrent of hot seed deep within your spasming depths. "take it all, you dirty whore,"

he spat the words out in a guttural snarl, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied his balls into your willing pussy. the sensation of charles' thick cum flooding your insides triggered a powerful climax, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his spurting cock as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you.

as the aftershocks subsided, charles slowly pulled out, his softening member leaving a trail of sticky fluid dripping down your thighs. he stepped back, admiring his handiwork – your ravaged body, marked by the signs of his brutal possession.

"well, that should teach your brother a lesson," charles said with a satisfied smirk, tucking his spent cock back into his racing suit. "now get dressed and get out of here before i decide to punish you some more."

as the overwhelming sensations of charles’ battering against your swollen pussy finally caught up with you, your vision blurred and you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness. the last thing you registered was charles' strong arms scooping you up and carrying you out of his cramped driver's room.

some time later, you found yourself lying on a plush bed in an darkened room, your head throbbing and your body aching in all the right places. groggily, you opened your eyes to see charles standing beside the bed, a smug expression on his face.

"i brought you here because i thought your brother might appreciate the... gift," he said, holding out a piece of paper. it was a handwritten note, scrawled in bold letters: "for carlos sainz jr., signed charles leclerc. consider this a taste of what your sister can dish out. next time, keep your hands to yourself on track."

charles dropped the note on the bedside table with a smirk, clearly pleased with himself. "i figured he'd get the message loud and clear," he said, leaning against the dresser with a casual air. "maybe next time he'll think twice before trying to steal my glory again."

he glanced down at your disheveled form, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "you look like you could use a rest after our little encounter. just remember, what happens on track, stays on track... unless i decide to bring it back to the pits, of course."

with that parting jab, charles turned and sauntered out of the room, leaving you to ponder the arousing turn of events and the lingering ache between your thighs. the note seemed to burn a hole in the tabletop, a tangible reminder of the stormy passion that had erupted between two teammates in las vegas.

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#⭑ : my work.ᐟ #the-flaneur #smut #x reader #f1 #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 smut #charles leclerc #dark!charles leclerc #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc angst

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mikaylathenerd5 · 10 days ago

Text

Lights Down Low + YAD Series One Shot

You Already Do Masterlist ৹ Main Masterlist ৹ Join My Taglist

❤️ Pairing: Roman Reigns × Shiloh Lucero (Black OC)

📌 Summary: Some nights aren’t just about sex. They’re about remembrance. Possession. A promise kept in the dark.

After weeks apart on the road, Roman returns—and he’s not in the mood for small talk. He wants to remind Shiloh exactly who she belongs to. What starts as soft intimacy under the dim glow of their bedroom light turns into something filthier, deeper. Rough hands. Whispers in her ear. A mirror that doesn't lie.

This isn’t just about need—it’s about claiming what’s his.

⚠️ Content Warning: This one-shot contains mature themes and explicit sexual content, including elements of dominance, emotional intensity, and intimate roughness within a consensual relationship. It may feature strong language, possessive behavior, and scenes that explore power dynamics and physical overstimulation. Reader discretion is advised.

💭 A/N: Just a quick heads up—this one’s on the longer side. It’s full of slow tension, layered intimacy, and detailed buildup, so if you’re looking for a quick read, this might not be your vibe (and that’s okay!).

Thank you in advance, loves, for taking the time to read and interact with my work. I appreciate it more than you know. As always, my inbox is open. 🖤

📝 Word Count: ~8.3k

Sometimes love isn’t soft — it’s fire and control, chaos and surrender, wrecking you only to make you whole again.

The air backstage was still hot from it. The match. The wreckage. The return.

Producers barked into headsets, crew ran cables, monitors flickered–none of it touched him. Roman moved through Gorilla like a storm still gathering, his walk slow but sharp, each footstep echoing louder than the last. No words. No nods. Just heat rolling off him in waves.

He hadn’t come back for praise. He came back to remind everyone what power felt like.

And he reminded them. Every last one of them.

But now, he was looking for her.

His shoulders stayed squared, face unreadable as he scanned the hallway just beyond the curtains. He saw her–tucked to the side near production crates, talking to someone. Laughing.

His stride didn’t break, but his jaw did tighten.

Shiloh stood relaxed, curls pulled back, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. She was wearing his hoodie–the old Bloodline one she always stole when he was gone. Her smile was easy, the kind she didn’t give just anyone. She rubbed at the hem absently between her fingers, like she didn’t know what else to do with her hands. Her phone was in her back pocket. She’d checked it earlier. No missed texts.

Naomi had warned her earlier that he might still be in "locked-in mode" after a night like this. That didn’t stop her from hoping he’d be different this time. It had been weeks since they’d last seen each other off-screen. She’d gotten used to the weight of missing him, but not the ache that followed.

Roman knew that laugh. Knew it in his bones. He knew what it sounded like when it was just for him–softer, throatier, laced with something only he ever got to pull from her. When it curled through the dark while her head rested on his chest. This laugh was different. Too bright. Too easy. Shared with someone who hadn’t bled to earn it. And it wasn’t for him. Not this time. Not in this moment.

The guy beside her–some medical staffer from NXT–stood too close. Laughing too freely. His hand brushed her wrist as he said something, and Roman felt it like a slap.

“You always working double duty?” the guy asked with a grin. “Must be exhausting being fine and essential.”

Roman slowed. The noise around him faded into a low, useless hum. Voices buzzed, cameras clicked, crew shouted–but none of it mattered. He moved through the chaos like a storm still rolling, not quite finished.

He caught the scent of sweat in the air, heat clinging to every surface, the faint tang of metal threaded through the adrenaline and motion. But it all blurred beneath the clarity of her. Her voice. Her smile. Her body language. The entire room bled out around her.

Shiloh turned at the shift in energy. She didn’t flinch. But she did brace. Not for what he’d say–he rarely needed words–but for how tightly the air stretched when he was near. That tension meant something. Always had.

Her smile caught at the edges, stalled by the shift in weight in the room–by him. “Hey, babe,” she said, light but cautious. “This is Devin. He’s filling in on PT tonight.”

Devin extended a hand. “Man, wild return out there. You killed it.”

Roman didn’t take the hand.

Didn’t speak. His jaw flexed once, barely visible. That was the only warning the guy would get.

Just looked at him.

He could’ve made a scene. Could’ve snapped back with a threat or shoved the guy without saying a word. But no–not yet. He wanted the silence to speak first. It always did. He held still. Let it simmer.

Devin cleared his throat and stepped back, his hand slowly dropping. The silence stretched. It made the space feel smaller.

Roman shifted his attention to Shiloh. Stepped in. Claimed space like it was his to take. His hand landed low on her back–steady, firm, deliberate.

She went still beneath it.

His fingers flexed once against the fabric, grounding himself in the reality of her body beneath his. Still here. Still his. He’d slept in this hoodie once while she was gone. Told himself it was just comfort. It wasn’t. The last time he touched her like this had ended with her breath hitching in his mouth, hoodie in a heap at their feet.

His voice was quiet, meant only for her. “We’ll talk when we’re alone.”

That was it. No anger. No scene. Just a promise wrapped in restraint.

He didn’t look back to see if she was coming. He never had to.

She hesitated. Just long enough for her heart to trip over itself. Had she smiled too easily? Had she waited too long to call him?

Then she moved. One step after another.

Roman remained rooted, unmoving. Shiloh’s feet carried her forward before her mind could catch up–drawn not by command, but by something quiet and magnetic, something threaded into the silence he left in his wake. Something she didn’t need to name to obey.

The silence between them was louder than the Gorilla’s chaos.

She followed.

In her chest, something heavy loosened. And in his shoulders, something darker settled.

No, this wasn’t over. It hadn’t even started yet.

And when it did, it wouldn’t be loud. It would be quiet. Sharp. The kind of reckoning that didn’t need an audience–only the two of them, standing at the edge of whatever this had become, ready to burn or rebuild. And tonight, he’d decide which.

Because this tension didn’t start in Gorilla. It started a week ago, in a different hotel room, with a different kind of ache.

—One Week Earlier—

The FaceTime connected without delay.

Roman looked drained—but not in a way that dulled him. His dark hair clung to his neck, jaw framed by a full, neatly groomed beard that begged to be kissed. He leaned back on the bed, lips parted, chest rising slow, deliberate.

“You good?” she asked.

He exhaled through his nose. “Missed your voice.”

Shiloh smiled, low and tired. “Missed you too.”

Silence fell between the two. But not empty. The kind of silence that buzzed with heat and memory.

“You wearing it?” he asked.

She angled the camera to show the oversized hoodie draped over her bare legs. His hoodie. “Haven’t taken it off since I got back to the room.”

“Fuck.” His throat worked. “Show me more.”

But she didn’t move right away.

Instead, she let the camera linger. She wanted him to see what he did to her just by asking. Her thighs shifted slightly, muscles tense beneath smooth skin, but she stayed quiet—breathing him in through the screen. The hoodie clung to her like his presence.

Roman adjusted the angle of his phone. One hand dragged slowly over the length of his cock, already thick in his palm. “Don’t make me wait, babygirl.”

The screen tilted again. Her thighs spread gradually, knees drawing up with purpose. She hadn’t worn anything underneath. She never did when she missed him like this. Her fingers skimmed lightly over her inner thighs, teasing herself before finally letting two fingertips brush the slick between her legs.

A sharp inhale slipped from her lips.

She let her fingers press against her clit in slow, purposeful circles—soft and deliberate. The rhythm built with each passing second, syncing with the way Roman's jaw flexed on the screen.

“You already this wet for me?”

A breathy nod. “Been like this just thinking about you.”

“Eyes on me.” His voice dropped, more command than request. “I want you watching every stroke.”

Her breath hitched. “Roman…”

“Look at what you do to me, babygirl.”

He angled the phone so she could see his cock—veins thick, precum shining along the tip as he stroked with slow, punishing control.

Her fingers moved faster now, dipping lower to circle her entrance before easing in. She gasped at the stretch—tight, teasing—then dragged them back up to flick her clit again. The hoodie slid up slightly on her hips, bunched in soft folds that clung to the heat of her skin. Her legs trembled. Her head tilted back, but she forced her gaze to stay locked on the screen.

He looked so good. Too good. Muscle and dominance, wrapped in restraint that was barely holding.

Roman’s breathing deepened. He watched her, hunger simmering low in his gut, the distance between them making everything sharper. No one else gets this. No one else sees her like this.

“You miss how I fill you up?”

“So much,” she whispered, fingers grinding harder now. Her thighs shook, pressure threatening to break.

“Say it.”

“I miss your cock. I miss how deep you fuck me. I miss your voice in my ear when I’m crying from how good it feels.”

His hand clenched around his cock. “You’re so fucking perfect like this. Don’t come yet.”

She whimpered. Her hips lifted off the mattress, trying to chase the orgasm already clawing through her spine. Her other hand moved instinctively to her chest, pinching one nipple through the fabric of his hoodie.

“Not yet,” he growled again.

Her mind blurred—only heat, only the phone screen, only him.

“You’ll come when I say. Not before.”Her body ached for release, every nerve begging to disobey, but her mind clung to his voice—tight, trembling, desperate to please. She bit her lip, whimpering, hips grinding against her fingers with frantic tension, her orgasm trembling just out of reach.

Then finally—“Now. Let me hear it.”

She shattered.

Her moans broke in waves, high and soft, breathless sobs spilling from her lips as she came. Her legs shook. Her back arched. Her fingers never stopped, drawing out every twitch of pleasure as her orgasm flooded through her.

Roman followed with a low groan, the sound deep and rough as he spilled over his hand, jaw tight as his own release overtook him.

After, the silence returned—but this time it was softer. Warmer.

He looked at her. Still hungry, but soft.

“Next time, I want to see my cum shining on those lips.”

She licked hers and smiled. “Yes, Daddy.”

He smirked, voice low. “That’s my good girl.”

The car ride back to the hotel was dead quiet.

Roman’s grip on the steering wheel flexed with every turn, knuckles pale under the passing streetlights. Not rage. Not quite. But something colder. Something harder. The kind of silence that said everything without a single word. If he said her name, he wouldn’t stop. So he didn’t. Just clenched the wheel tighter and let silence bruise his tongue instead.

He could still see it. That moment in Gorilla. That PT’s hand brushing her wrist—his woman. A sharp throb carved down his jaw, heat flaring behind his eyes before he forced it back down. Her laugh too damn sweet for a stranger. Roman hadn’t blinked. Just stared until the guy nearly stumbled over his own greeting.

Smile at her again, motherfucker. See what happens.

Shiloh watched him in profile, heart knocking gently against her ribs. He looked too calm. That kind of calm that meant he wasn’t. Not really. His jaw ticked like it hurt to hold everything in.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice barely more than a breath.

He nodded once. No words.

She reached for his thigh, hoping to ground them—to soften the space between them. Hoping he'd take her hand, squeeze it once like he used to when words felt too heavy. But he didn’t. And the emptiness that followed felt colder than any silence. But his leg shifted subtly out of reach.

Not cruel. Just… closed. Fortressed. And Shiloh had no key for this version of him.

The ache twisted under her ribs. Her fingers curled into the hem of her hoodie—his hoodie. A week ago, she was wearing it during a FaceTime call while her fingers worked between her thighs, and Roman groaned her name.

Now, he hadn’t even looked at her since they left the arena.

The turn signal clicked once. Then again. Roman didn’t glance her way as he spoke.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

Four words. Final. Cold. Sharp enough to cut.

“It wasn’t like that babe,” she whispered. “He was just being nice.”

Roman’s jaw flexed, eyes still on the road. “I don’t care if he was passing you a water bottle. His hand was too fucking close.”

Shiloh looked away, biting her lip. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Her laugh had been too loud. Too easy. She hadn’t meant for it to land wrong, but Roman knew what her real laugh sounded like—the one that curled low in her throat when she was flushed, needy, whispering his name. That laugh was his. This one? He didn’t recognize it.

Fuck, was she trying to make him jealous?

No. She wouldn’t do that. Would she?

A week ago, he had her shaking over FaceTime. Her voice cracked when she begged to come, hoodie halfway off her shoulders, fingers soaked. He’d whispered, That’s my good girl.

“If this is you pissed off,” she murmured, “then just say it.”

He exhaled, slow. “You think I’m pissed?”

“You won’t even look at me.”

Roman finally turned to her, his voice dark. “Because if I do, I’m not gonna be able to hold back.”

Now, she sat next to him in silence, unsure if she still was. Her thigh tensed. She shifted in her seat, biting down on the inside of her cheek as a memory flickered—his voice, low and raspy, telling her she was his. That was only days ago. So why did it feel like a lifetime?

Roman flexed his jaw. His voice had stayed buried long enough. He wanted to say it—I didn’t like him looking at you like that. I wanted to break his fucking hand. But instead, he drove.

Beside him, Shiloh stared out the window. Her reflection flickered in the glass, lips parted like she wanted to speak but didn’t trust the words. He hadn’t let her in yet, not really, and her mind was already turning—Is this punishment? Did I make him feel replaceable?

She swallowed hard, blinking against the sting behind her eyes. The car felt colder than it should’ve. Like his distance was sinking into her skin, crawling under the fabric of her clothes, settling in her chest like ice. Her fingers trembled in her lap, and the ache of it pressed deep into her collarbones—tight, unrelenting.

Say something, please.

Roman looked at her then. Just a flicker, but it was enough. His gaze heavy. His chest rising slower than before.

He didn’t look angry. He looked starved—for her touch, her sounds, the quiet way she used to lean into him like he was the only man in the world. Like she still belonged to him.

They reached the hotel, pulling into the lot with a quiet screech of tires. Roman parked but didn’t move. Just sat there, staring ahead.

“Are you gonna talk to me tonight?”

He finally glanced over, voice low and heavy. “I’m gonna do more than talk.”

She didn’t know if he’d speak again tonight.

But when he did—it wouldn’t be soft.

And she didn’t want it to be.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Roman dropped their bags by the wall. Turned the lock. Still silent.

Shiloh didn’t expect him to speak. Not yet. His mood lingered like static—thick, humming, heavy. She paused just inside the room, breath catching in her throat, shoulders tensing instinctively beneath the weight of his silence. So she didn’t poke the storm. She slipped into the bathroom, peeling off her hoodie and jeans with fingers that shook more than she’d admit.

She reached for one of his shirts—the faded black one with the stretched collar. Her favorite. It still smelled like him. She slipped it over her head, wearing nothing but her panties underneath.

The mirror caught her just as she tugged it on. Hair messy. Eyes rimmed in doubt. Skin flushed in places he hadn’t touched yet.

Maybe this is all we have tonight. Maybe this is how he needs to love me—through control.

She exhaled slowly. Let her fingers drift over the fabric near her thighs. Imagined his hands there instead. Imagined how it felt the last time he gripped her hips so tight she bruised.

She stepped out of the bathroom barefoot, each step slower than the last.

Roman was on the edge of the bed, legs spread, head bowed—but his eyes lifted the second she crossed the threshold. They pinned her in place.

“You remember the rules?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her voice was soft, breathy.

His tone dropped lower. “Say them.”

“Safe word is papaya. Three taps if I can’t speak.”

His eyes dropped to the shirt she wore. His shirt. A flicker of something darker passed over his face.

He nodded. “Good.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. The quiet buzz of the room felt suddenly suffocating.

“You really let some bottom-rung PT put his hands on you?” he murmured. “Let him smile at you like he had a shot in hell?”

Shiloh swallowed hard.

“He knew who I was. Every damn person in that arena knows who I am. But he still tried it.

And Roman felt it in his chest—the sharp, possessive edge of jealousy clawing its way up his throat. That man looked at Shiloh like he had a chance, like Roman wasn’t right there, like he wasn’t the one who made her come undone night after night.” Roman stood slowly. “Still thought he could touch what’s mine.”

Another step. He towered now. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.

“I don’t give a fuck if he was being ‘nice.’ Next time he even thinks about you like that, I’ll remind him who you belong to.”

Shiloh’s breath caught.

Roman tilted his head slightly, the predator in him rising.

“He tried to claim something that wasn’t his. Touched you like he could ever make you moan like I do.”

His words struck like a match to gasoline.

Roman didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t have to.

His presence filled the room like smoke—and she was already breathless.

But her thighs pressed together without permission.

And he noticed.

Every inch of him screamed mine.

His voice dropped lower. “Take off that shirt.”

Shiloh’s lips parted. “Why?”

Roman’s gaze burned. “Because I don’t want him on your skin. Only me.”

The silence didn’t ease—it thickened, coiling low in her belly like warning smoke. Shiloh peeled off the oversized shirt, letting it fall soundlessly to the floor. The cool air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps along her thighs and arms. Completely bare now except for her panties, she lowered herself slowly, knees pressing into the plush carpet. Her hands rested on her thighs, posture steady despite the flutter in her chest. She didn’t speak—didn’t need to. But every breath came tight, taut with anticipation.

He didn’t deserve her obedience. But he took it like a man who never questioned what was his.

Roman stood before her, towering, gaze heavy with hunger. His breath moved through his nose in sharp, deliberate exhales, like he was fighting the urge to break. Heat simmered behind his eyes. Possessive. Starved.

He stepped forward. Then again. His shoes flanked her knees. He reached down, threading thick fingers into her curls before tugging her head back, forcing her to look up.

“That PT thought he could stake a claim,” he growled. “Like you weren’t already mine. Like he didn’t know who the fuck I am.”

A flicker passed through Roman’s mind—mine. Not just her body. Her mouth. Her sounds. Her attention. He needed it all.

He told himself it was just about the PT. It wasn’t. It was about every moment he couldn’t hold her. About the sound of her laugh when he wasn’t there to earn it. About the quiet, gnawing thought that maybe—just maybe—she didn’t need him the way he needed her.

Shiloh didn’t flinch. Her lips parted, anticipation and arousal clashing behind her eyes. She could still taste his jealousy in the air—thick, unrelenting.

Roman unzipped his pants, his cock springing free—hard, veined, swollen with need. He slapped the head against her lips, smearing precum across them.

“Open up. I want your throat, not your excuses. You’ve got one job right now. Take me.”

She obeyed.

He didn’t ease in. One hand cupped the back of her head, the other gripping the base of his cock as he fed it into her mouth—slow, deliberate, brutal. Inch by inch until her lips kissed the base. Her throat convulsed, but he held her there. Controlled her breathing. Controlled everything.

His hips moved with the precision of a man who knew exactly what he owned.

“Yeah,” he murmured, low and dark. “There’s that look. Just like that. Let me see that mouth take it.”

She gagged. Her eyes watered. Drool pooled at the corner of her lips. Roman’s stomach clenched—because fuck, nothing in the world looked more his than her on her knees like this, choking on him, eyes wide, mouth ruined for anyone else.

A whimper broke in her throat, but it only made him harder. He moaned above her, hips rolling harder, deeper.

“Sweet-talking another man with the same mouth you begged me with?” he gritted.

She whimpered again, unable to answer, but her submission said everything. Her throat burned, eyes stung—but she needed him to stay in this moment with her. Needed to prove that this mouth was still his home, no matter how bruised it got.

And God, she was soaked. Her pussy clenched around nothing—tight, fluttering—aching from being ignored. She was dripping down her thighs, untouched. Just from his voice. From the rage behind his silence. From the way he took her without question, like she was built for this. Her cunt didn’t care about pride or jealousy—it just wanted to be filled.

She used to taste his apologies in kisses but now she tasted his punishment in every savage thrust. If this is how he forgives—then she’d gladly let him wreck her until she couldn’t speak his name.

“That’s it. Take it. Don’t run.”

Each thrust hit deeper, more ruthless than the last. Roman’s abs tensed, the muscles in his thighs flexing, and his voice grew ragged. A low snarl vibrated through his chest.

“You want me to cum?” His tone was animal. “Hold it. Don’t you move.”

His thighs tensed beneath her, every vein in his forearms bulging as he gripped her skull like a lifeline. Sweat broke at his temple. He was holding back a roar, biting it down in his chest like it’d burn through his ribs.

And she didn’t move. She took every inch like it was penance. Like she owed him this. Like it was the only way to speak the words she couldn’t say.

Roman’s body bucked once—hard—like his nerves had short-circuited. A broken growl escaped his chest, guttural and primal, as heat pulsed from him in waves. His cock throbbed deep in her throat as he spilled into her mouth. He shook from it—every nerve ending tight, every muscle strained. There was no hiding how much he needed this. Needed her.

He held her there, fingers tangled in her curls, breath heaving. He watched as she swallowed, watched her lips seal around him with reverence.

Finally, he dragged his thumb across her lip, catching a stray drop and smearing it across her mouth.

“Good girl. Now wear that shit like lip gloss.”

He slipped his thumb between her lips again, pressing down on her tongue until she choked slightly.

“Keep it warm for me.”

She swallowed again, cheeks flushed, thighs trembling from the effort to stay upright. Her jaw ached, but her heart pounded like a drum.

He exhaled a breath that sounded almost like a warning.

“You’re gonna remember who fucks you like this. You’re gonna feel it tomorrow—in your throat, in your knees, in every fucking step you take.”

“Bed. Now,” he ordered, voice still wrecked.

She stood up, her legs shaking.

Roman didn’t speak. Didn’t kiss her. Just watched her limp to the bed like he hadn’t already decided to break her again.

The room crackled with silence—thick, electric.

Roman dragged her to the edge of the bed, his grip firm and unwavering, like the pull of something ancient—inevitable and solely for her. His hands wrapped around her ankles, spreading her open with unapologetic certainty. Shiloh’s breath caught, thighs trembling beneath the weight of his gaze.

He studied her. Jaw tense. Eyes sharp. Like it was daring him to ruin it.

“You let someone else see you smile like that,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous. “But this? This stays mine.”

He bent down, kissed her inner thigh—one mark, one warning. Another kiss, slower. Then another. Each one closer, deliberate, lingering just long enough to make her squirm. By the time he reached the crease of her thigh, she was already whimpering, breath shallow from the anticipation alone.

One long, slow, filthy drag from her entrance to her clit. It made her eyes flutter. Made her hips buck. Heat shot through her like a lightning strike.

A broken moan spilled from her lips.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Let me hear that sweet mouth.”

He licked her again—slower this time. Savoring. Each lick was possession. Slow, consuming. Like feeding a hunger only she could satisfy.

There was no easing in. No asking what she liked. He knew. Mouth hot and open. Tongue greedy. Lips sealing around her clit with a suck that made her toes curl.

Roman groaned into her—deep and guttural. The vibration dragged another cry from her throat. His hands slid up her thighs, thumbs digging into soft flesh, keeping her open. Keeping her his.

“Fuck, I missed this.” His voice was hoarse. Worshipful. “Missed how sweet you taste when you fall apart.”

Her hands clawed the sheets. Her hips jerked. He didn’t let her move. Just pressed her down and buried deeper.

“Stay the fuck still.”

He growled the words as his hands pressed down harder on her thighs, holding her in place like a warning and a vow.

He mouthed at her clit like he was starved for something only she could give—greedy, reverent, and utterly unrelenting. His beard scraped her thighs, just enough to sting—just like earlier, when he'd kissed her rougher, claiming her inch by inch. His breath came hard, hot, uneven—driven by a hunger only she could satisfy.

Two fingers slid in deep. No warning—just a slow, relentless stretch that made her gasp. Heat flared, pressure built, and the wet sound that followed made Roman groan, slickness clinging to him—raw, greedy, unrelenting.

“You’re soaked. You miss me this bad?”

She gasped, voice breaking. Her thighs twitched, a breathy whimper spilling from her lips, but he held her firm—anchored her there like he needed every ounce of her surrender.

“Keep ‘em open. Let me feel how much.”

He curled his fingers and hit that spot. The one that made her spine arch. The one that always broke her first.

“Roman—please—”

“Don’t beg. Just give it to me.”

The pressure hit fast. Her breath caught—a suspended second, the kind before lightning. Her body seized, a choked sob breaking loose as her nerves fired wild. Pleasure surged low and hot, coiling like a fuse just lit.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Right there. I want all of it.”

Her orgasm tore through her—violent, breathtaking. A sob snagged in her throat, her hands gripping the sheets like lifelines as the world tilted, lost to the white-hot rush of release. A cry broke from her throat as her vision blurred and her body flooded his mouth. Wetness coated his lips, and her thighs locked around his head like she could trap the moment in place.

Roman exhaled sharp against her—nearly a growl. His jaw clenched like he was holding back a moan, savoring the taste of her release with hungry precision. His mouth locked on her clit, tongue unrelenting, fingers still grinding into that spot like he wanted to own every nerve.

“There she is. Fuck, look at that mess.”

He licked her through it—like he loved the taste of her unraveling. His hips pressed to the bed—bare, hard, leaking. He rutted once against the sheets, just to relieve the ache. But he didn’t touch himself. Didn’t need to. Watching her fall apart was enough.

He could’ve flipped her over and fucked her raw, right then—shoved all that hunger inside her until they were both breathless. But this? This was better. Watching her shatter just for his mouth? That fed something deeper—something primal. A need to claim. A need to own.

“You hear me, babygirl?” he murmured into her. “You make me so fuckin’ hard when you do that.”

Her chest heaved. Her hands trembled. She couldn’t focus—everything was heat, pulse, and Roman.

“Too much—Roman—too much—”

“No, it’s not. You got more.”

His tongue slowed now—softer, gentler, teasing. The strokes changed. Broader, wetter. He kissed her clit between flicks like he missed her already.

“Come again. One more. Let me see that pretty pussy squirt one more time. You know this pussy was made for me. Made to come on my tongue. Don’t hold back mama. Flood my fucking face.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks. Her thighs trembled. Her clit throbbed. Her brain short-circuited—just heat, breath, and Roman, buried between her thighs, devouring her like she was the cure to something in him.

Her body was his—every gasp, every tremor, every wet cry surrendering to the claim he'd already made.

She sobbed the instant his mouth locked on her clit again—pleasure detonating through her in a blinding, hot wave. Her cry tore free, sharp and raw, hips jolting as sensation overtook her. No thoughts. No words. Just Roman. He groaned, jaw tight, devouring her like he’d been waiting his whole life. One ruthless suck, and she shattered—spine arching, body surrendering.

“That’s it. Let go for me.”

She broke.

The second orgasm was brutal—louder, messier, unstoppable. Wetness splashed across his throat, his lips, his cheeks. She squirted again, gushing across his face, her body jerking beneath the wave, thighs shaking.

Roman moaned low—starved—like her taste hit harder the second time, thick with heat and the sound of her sobs. Her release clung to his tongue, every tremor coursing through his body like a fever he didn’t want cured.

“Fuck. Look at you.”

When he finally pulled back, his lips were soaked, his jaw tight, his eyes burning.

He didn’t speak at first. Just hovered over her. Letting her see what she did to him. Letting her feel it.

He needed her to remember this—who unraveled her, who she came for.

He stared down at her like she was holy. Wrecked. Glistening. His. “You look so fucking beautiful like this, mama. Ruined. Just how I like you.”

Then he kissed her—slow, deep, soaking wet—as her breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping into his mouth, the taste of her still lingering between them.

“You remember who made you feel like that?”

She nodded through tears, lips parted, breath shuddering.

“Say it.”

“You… Ro—Roman.”

He smirked. Wrecked and proud.

“Damn right.”

He brushed her hair back, fingers gentle for the first time tonight. Her chest still heaved, her thighs glistening, but his touch had shifted—no less possessive, only reverent. Like he was grounding her back to earth after dragging her to the edge of heaven.

He didn’t give her time to come down.

His shirt clung to him, soaked through. Pants hung low, cock already hard from tasting her. Still not enough. He tore off the rest of his clothes until there was nothing but skin and the kind of need that made him reckless.

Roman flipped her onto her stomach, no hesitation. This wasn’t just lust. It was days of missing her, needing her, jerking off in silence to memories that didn’t touch the real thing.

He dragged her hips up, spreading her wide.

“Get that ass up, mama,” he ordered, breath sharp. “Don’t make me ask again.”

She moved instantly—arched, obedient, trembling. Her body gave way for him like it had been waiting. He watched, mesmerized, as her folds opened, glistening, stretching to take the thick head of him. She was wet and willing, and he gave her all of it in a single thrust.

The sound that ripped from them was pure ruin.

Tight. Wet. Home.

His jaw clenched. Hips snapped forward. She clenched around him like she missed him, like this was where she was meant to be.

“You know how many nights I jerked off to this pussy?” he rasped. “Backstage. Hotel showers. Fuckin’ planes. I’d see your name pop up and lose it.”

He slammed into her again. And again. Deep. Bruising. Like he was carving the ache out of himself.

“I’d come so hard, pissed I wasn’t inside you.”

She couldn’t answer—couldn’t think. Each thrust knocked sound from her lungs. Her fingers gripped the sheets. Her mind emptied.

Roman bent lower, hand pressing the back of her neck as he yanked her back onto him.

“Every match. Every show. All I wanted was this. You.”

His thoughts blurred behind his eyes, gritted in his teeth—This isn’t just release. It’s reckoning. She was the only thing that made the world fall away.

She whimpered. Tried to meet him halfway. Failed. He had control now—of her body, her breath, the rhythm of her unraveling.

“Don’t run,” he warned. “Take all of it.”

He leaned in close, nose brushing her shoulder. “This pussy’s mine. You feel that?”

Her moan broke open beneath him.

“Bet that clown didn’t even know what he was lookin’ at,” Roman growled, thrusting in so deep her breath hitched. “Thinking he could measure up to me. Like he’s ever made you sound like this.”

She whimpered, dazed, her fingers curling tighter into the sheets.

“He ever try you? Get too bold?” His voice turned to a snarl. “Tell me now or I’ll drag the truth out of you with every stroke.”

His grip on her hip tightened, pace intensifying.

“Feels like fuckin’ heaven,” he muttered, grinding in deeper. “But you’ve got me starvin’ for more. For every sound you make.”

His pace quickened, punishing and desperate. Her cries cracked in the air. His teeth skimmed her throat—close enough to burn.

“I missed how you milk me. Like your body knows mine.”

She sobbed something that wasn’t quite words. Her body fluttered around him, close. Her mind scrambled for control she didn’t have—he had her, body and soul.

“Roman—please—”

“Yeah,” he growled. “Beg me for it.”

“Please, Roman—fuck—don’t stop—”

“I’m not fuckin’ stopping.”

He slammed deeper, fingers bruising her hips. Sweat rolled down his spine. She broke with his name on her lips.

Her orgasm hit hard, seizing her body with a sudden, breathless jolt. Thighs shook. Toes curled. Her moan cracked open from deep in her chest as Roman fucked her through it, merciless and locked in. Her back arched, a cry breaking into his name. She clenched tight around him, pulses rippling, and he growled low—shattered and starving. Pleasure whipped through her, taking over her whole body. Her fingers fisted the sheets like they were the only thing tethering her to the earth.

Roman dropped his head, forehead pressing between her shoulder blades, fighting to keep control. His pulse thundered. His grip on her hips stayed firm, like letting go meant falling apart.

This wasn’t just fucking. It was finding his way back.

“That’s my girl,” he breathed. “You take it so good for me.”

She reached back blindly, and he caught her hand, threading their fingers tight.

He stayed there, buried inside her, both of them trembling.

He didn’t want to pull out.

Not when it felt like she was the only place he made sense.

Roman sat back against the headboard, thick thighs spread, cock heavy against his abs. He pulled her into his lap—skin to skin, her back against his chest, flushed and trembling. Her legs draped over his, wide and vulnerable. Their bodies locked like puzzle pieces. Like instinct.

His arm locked around her waist. The other slid between her thighs.

Two fingers sank into her—slow, deep, deliberate.

“Ride my fingers,” he rasped against her ear. “Let me watch you fall apart.”

Her mouth dropped open. The stretch stole her breath. The mirror stole her shame. Behind her, Roman let out a low grunt—rough, unfiltered—his cock twitching against her spine as he held her tighter, the sight of her split open in his lap undoing every shred of restraint left in him.

She saw it all. His fingers disappearing between her legs, her thighs trembling, her lips parted like she couldn’t breathe without him.

His hand reached down, grabbed hers, and guided it lower.

“Rub it. Make it nastier.”

Shiloh whimpered. Her fingers trembled as they found her clit—sore, swollen, needy. Her other hand gripped his thigh for balance.

The squelch echoed. The filth of it made her wetter.

“You hear that, mama?” Roman’s voice curled around her, thick and low. “That’s how bad you need it.”

Her hips rocked, caught between his fingers and her own touch. Her thighs trembled, soft and slick against his skin.

“Look at yourself, baby.” He nipped at her neck. “You look so good when you’re mine.”

She looked. And saw everything.

Her body moving like sin—hips grinding down, her own fingers circling fast and frantic. Her mouth open. Eyes half-lidded. A moan frozen on her lips. Roman’s jaw tight behind her, eyes pinned to the mirror like he couldn’t look away.

“You know what this does to me?” he growled. “Watching you ride my hand like it’s my dick—this pretty pussy so fuckin’ greedy, suckin’ my fingers like it don’t know the difference.”

Her breath caught. Her head fell back. She moaned, broken and deep. Her hand slipped off her clit for a second—she couldn’t keep up, couldn’t keep still.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Make it messy. I want your cum all over my fingers.”

“You feel that?” he added, grinding his cock against her lower back. “Didn’t even fuck you yet and you got me throbbing.”

She sobbed. Her hips moved like instinct, like hunger. Her body trembling, core tightening, a sweet burn in her thighs.

“I never liked mirrors,” she choked out, barely able to speak, “until I saw what you turned me into in one.”

Roman froze—then groaned, guttural and raw. His grip on her waist flexed tight. His cock kicked hard against her back.

“Fuck. You don’t even know what that does to me,” he said, voice strangled with need. “You say shit like that and expect me to stay calm?”

He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her, like he needed her breath just to survive the moment. Then came the whisper—low, broken, right against her skin. “Every time you move like this, every sound you make… it ruins me.” Then he looked up—into the mirror. Into her.

“You see her?” he muttered, gaze burning. “That filthy, perfect fuckin’ girl—that’s what I fell in love with. Wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Don’t look away. Watch what you’ve become for me.”

She shattered—legs shaking, cries muffled in the heat of his chest. Wetness coated his fingers as her climax took her over, slick dripping down his hand. She could feel it—how soaked his lap had gotten, how it slicked between their thighs. He held her through it, mouth pressed to her shoulder.

“That’s it, babygirl. Just like that.”

But he didn’t stop.

His fingers stayed deep. Still curling. Still working her through it. Still pulling more.

His other hand slid low—pressed against her belly to feel every tremble, every pulse. A thought sparked through her haze: He knows my body better than I do.

And somehow, he still looks at me like I’m brand new.

Roman pulled his fingers out, soaked and glistening. He brought them to her lips, slow and deliberate.

“Open.”

Shiloh’s breath hitched. She obeyed, wrapping her mouth around them, tasting herself—tasting what he did to her.

His groan hit her ear, deep and possessive.

“That’s it. Clean it up, mama. Let that mirror see how good you follow orders. You feel that? That’s how hard you come for me, and I’m not done until I see you ride every inch.”

He shifted her hips forward. Guiding her, slow and steady, knees planted wide.

“Face the mirror. I want you riding me next.” His voice was gravel, soaked in heat. “Want you to see what you do to me when this pussy soaks my dick like that.”

He slid his fingers out, coated and dripping. Gripped the base of his cock and ran it slow between her cheeks.

“Back arched. Legs wide. Just like that,” he murmured, voice like a threat and a promise. “Let that mirror watch you take me—every inch, every bounce. Watch yourself come apart on what’s yours.”

He pressed his cock against her, dragging it slowly between her folds.

“You see that?” he groaned, the sound thick in his throat. “That’s how your pussy welcomes me home. Like you been waitin’ for it. Like you don’t feel right without it.”

His voice deepened, rougher now. “No filters. No act. Just raw, real, mine.”

Roman shifted her forward, guiding her carefully, reverently. Her knees pressed into the mattress, thighs already trembling. His cock slid between her soaked folds, dragging along her heat. Thick. Pulsing. Already slick from her earlier release.

“Back up,” he rasped. “I want you to feel every inch.”

She obeyed, lowering slowly, her breath catching in her throat as he filled her—inch by inch—until her ass met his thighs. Her hands braced on his quads, nails digging in. The stretch stole her breath. Her pussy clenched tight around him, like she was made to take him.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, voice strained. “Take it all. You know I belong inside you.”

She started to move, hips grinding in slow, aching circles, eyes fluttering shut. Every roll made his cock drag along that devastating spot inside her. He gripped her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, then slid his hands to her ass—spreading her cheeks wide, watching the way she bounced, the way her slick clung to his length.

“You feel that?” he muttered darkly. “This dick hittin’ too deep, huh? You fuckin’ soaked.”

“So deep,” she gasped. “Don’t stop. Please.”

She rode him like she needed him to breathe. Creaming all over him, her arousal soaking down his thighs. The slap of her ass against him was obscene—sticky, wet, relentless. Roman watched every second in the mirror, jaw tight, eyes locked on the hypnotic jiggle of her thick ass, every bounce coaxing a fresh wave of heat low in his gut. The filth between her thighs, how wet and wild she looked taking all of him, made his cock twitch. Every slap of skin echoed against the walls of the hotel room.

His hands twitched where they gripped her, every muscle in his arms straining with the need to lose control—to flip her over, fuck her into the mattress, and mark her all over again. But he didn’t. Not yet. Instead, he let that tension simmer, feeding the ache as he watched her take him like she was made for it.

“That’s it. Bounce for me. Let me see what you do when you want daddy to lose it.”

Roman gritted his teeth, chest heaving as she bounced harder. He slapped her ass—once, then again—watching the ripple and the shine of her slick coating his cock.

“You ridin’ the fuck outta me, Shy. This how bad you missed me?”

“Yes, daddy—fuck—I needed this. Needed you inside me.”

She looked over her shoulder, hair sticking to her face, lips parted. Her thighs trembled from the effort, but her hips didn’t stop moving. She slammed down again, crying out when he bottomed out, her body twitching from the stretch.

“You don’t stop ‘til I break, huh?” he growled. “Greedy little thing.”

Her pace grew frantic—hips rolling, ass clapping, moans spilling into the room. Roman’s grip on her flared with heat, a low groan breaking free as he watched her come undone. Mine, he thought savagely, heart hammering. Watching her lose herself on him—so raw, so messy—wrecked him in ways he didn’t have words for.

She could feel every drag of his cock against her walls, her clit throbbing with every bounce. Sweat clung to her skin, heat flooding her limbs, while the taste of him still lingered faintly on her tongue from earlier. Her vision blurred—every sense overloaded, every nerve ending lit like fire. Her voice broke into gasps, then sobs. She tried to lift off, overwhelmed, but Roman locked his grip.

“Nah. You don’t run. You fuckin’ take it.”

He thrust up into her—sharp, deep, punishing. Her thighs shook. Her hands slipped. Her voice cracked on a scream.

“Play with that pussy—yeah, show me how nasty you can be. Don’t stop ‘til you make a mess for me.”

She obeyed blindly, fingers working her swollen bundle as she rode harder. A raw thought sliced through her haze—He knows every part of me. Every pulse, every twitch.

“Cum again, mama. I wanna feel it. All of it. Soak my fuckin’ dick.”

She shattered. Back arched, body locking, cunt pulsing around him like a vice. Roman’s whole frame tensed. He gritted his teeth, eyes glued to where they connected, a guttural groan tearing loose as he felt her gush around him. His control cracked. Fingers bruising her hips, he fought the instinct to flip her, to chase his own release inside her warmth.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he breathed, voice shredded. “That’s it. Let daddy feel you fall apart.”

He slammed into her—again, again. She felt it—his cock thickening, his groans faltering. One hand tangled in her hair, the other anchored to her hip.

“You want it inside?” he growled.

“Yes—yes, please—fill me up. I need it, daddy.”

He let go—brutal thrusts, deep and final. A snarl ripped from his chest, his name escaping her lips as he spilled inside. His orgasm gutted him—hot, punishing, endless. Her body jerked beneath the weight of it—claimed, fucked full, her walls fluttering around him as he emptied everything.

“That pussy ruins me,” he murmured against her skin. “Nobody gets you but me.”

Their skin clung together. Her body limp and twitching. His chest heaved behind her, breath hot against her shoulder. He pulled her upright into him, their breaths mingling, his cock still buried deep.

“You feel that?” he whispered, hand gliding down to press the slick between her thighs. “Still fuckin’ leaking. That’s how I know it’s mine.”

She whimpered, overstimulated and full. Her hand gripped his thigh, her head lolling back against him.

“I can’t move,” she whispered, voice hoarse.

“Good,” he rasped, kissing her neck. “I don’t want you to.”

She slumped forward, arms trembling, body giving out. Roman wrapped her tight, chest to her back, refusing to let go. One arm looped around her waist. The other slid between her thighs, feeling the mess they made.

He nuzzled into her shoulder, lips soft.

“Still with me, mama?” he asked, his voice ragged.

She whimpered and nodded, breath shaky. Roman pressed a kiss to her spine, lips lingering.

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not lettin’ go.”

She slumps forward, breath ragged, limbs trembling as the last waves of pleasure slowly fade through her body. Roman doesn’t let her go—his arms tighten around her waist, pulling her close like she’s the only anchor in a storm he can’t weather alone.

“That’s where I belong. Inside you,” he murmurs low, voice thick with something beyond desire. Something fiercely protective.

Their breaths sync, warm skin pressed together, sweat cooling between them. The world outside softens, dissolves, leaving only this shared stillness, heavy and sacred.

Roman shifts carefully, lifting her from his lap and laying her down on the sheets with reverence. His fingers trail slowly along her spine, memorizing every curve and shiver. He reaches for a soft towel and gently wipes the sweat and traces of their connection from her skin—his touch deliberate, tender.

He pulls the blanket over them both, cocooning them in warmth and quiet.

His voice breaks the silence, husky and vulnerable. “You okay?”

Shiloh nods, eyes soft and glossy from the aftermath of everything they just gave each other.

Roman exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s fighting an internal storm.

“I’m not mad at you, Shy… but seeing that guy with you? It fucked me up. Made me realize how much I don’t want to share you.”

His voice drops, barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I wonder if one day you’ll think I’m too much—too intense, too everything. But damn, I need you to know—even if you do, I’m not going anywhere.”

Shiloh turns her head, searching his eyes with steady warmth. Her fingers find his jaw, tracing its sharp line with gentle certainty.

“You’re the only man I want, Roman. The only one I see. You’re not too much—you’re exactly what I need.”

Her voice is soft but sure, woven with quiet conviction. “I’m not going anywhere either. You’re the one I love.”

Roman’s lips curl into a small, weary smile as the tension drains from his shoulders. He pulls her closer, resting his forehead against hers, grounding them both.

She notices a small bag of her favorite candy on the nightstand. The little things he remembers even when words fail.

“You bought that for me?” she asks, surprise threading through her voice.

He smirks, pride clear in his tone. “Knew you’d need sugar after I drained you.”

He kisses her temple slowly, lingering like he never wants to pull away.

“Next time some punk touches you, I’m gonna knock his teeth out,” he warns softly, protective fire blazing in his eyes.

She leans into him, breath catching, voice barely a whisper filled with certainty. “You’re mine. Don’t ever forget it.”

Roman tightens his arms around her, the promise physical and unbreakable.

They stay like that. Breathing, holding, and grounding each other as the quiet wraps around them like a second skin, sealing their bond deeper than words ever could.

✍🏽 Author Note:

If you made it to the end—whew, thank you. I know this one was long, but I poured so much into it: the tension, the filth, the intimacy, the ache of being wanted that badly. I hope it hit you somewhere soft... or somewhere much lower.

Every comment, reblog, like, and whisper in my inbox means more than I can say. I write from my heart, and the fact that you’re here, reading and feeling with me? That’s everything.

If you want more of Roman × Shiloh (and don’t want to miss a thing), feel free to check out my masterlist and join the taglist—it’s open! I always make sure my taglist besties get updates first.

Up next for this pairing: 💌 Catch & Keep — a one-shot where Roman finally meets Shiloh’s family 🏠 Make This House a Home — domestic softness and deeper emotional connection

That said, I’m likely updating one of my other series first before dropping those—so sit tight, and thank you for your patience.

As always, feel free to scream in the tags, cry in my inbox, or tell me what line did it for you. I love knowing what sticks.

Stay soft. Stay filthy.

Love y'all 🖤✨

#roman reigns smut #roman reigns x black oc #roman reigns #black oc #roman reigns fanfiction #wwe x black oc #roman reigns fanfic #wwe fic #wwe fanfiction #wwe smut #you already do series #shiloh and roman #kayla's random universe

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deathbxnny · 8 months ago

Text

Arcane women cheating on their s/o and getting caught. | Vi, Caitlyn, Sevika x Gn!Reader

(Part 2)

So I'm writing this whilst extremely sick, but the idea just wouldn't leave my mind, so I'm sorry if this sucks... also, you're welcome in advance!<3

Content: TW!Cheating, angst, hurt/no comfort, swearing, some violence? Idk, just chaos, probably ooc, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》VI

In hindsight, you should have known better than to think that she'd be yours forever. When you were children under Vander's care, she had promised you that she'd be yours for life. It was naive, and deep down, you knew that it wouldn't last. Especially when she was able to leave prison with the help of that Enforcer.

You weren't blind to how close they were when Vi came to visit you weeks after her release, claiming to have an important mission with the blue haired woman she had to finish first. But things fell into place again with her, and you pushed those thoughts aside from the joy of having your girlfriend back... until the denial finally caught up to you months later, when you were asked to go on a mission with her and Caitlyn to catch Jinx once and for all. You refused at first, unwilling to be the cause of more pain in Zaun, yet Vi couldn't see how wrong it was.

She followed the Kirammann near blindly even when she should've known better, and that hurt. You ultimately just joined because she practically made you to and didn't leave you much of a choice. The jealousy was, however, unbearable, yet Vi just called you dramatic in response.

It was no big deal anyway. Her and Caitlyn were just partners in this mission, you know? It's really not that big of a deal. They are just very good friends at best. Can't she have friends, or are you that controlling now? The lies finally came to the surface when you trailed after them secretly whilst Vi asked for a private moment alone. It felt wrong and invasive at first, but what you saw was a lot worse than the guilt. Caitlyn leaned forward to kiss Vi on the lips, and a perhaps foolish part of you hoped that your girlfriend would push her away to tell her off. Yet she didn't do that. Instead, she dropped her gauntlets and melted into the Piltovans embrace fully, as though your relationship didn't matter. And maybe it never did to her.

You let out a shaky sigh, doing your best not to absolutely freak out in the face of absolute doom. Everything suddenly felt so tense and suffocating, your body trembling in horror. You should've listened to your gut feeling months ago. But love blinded you. It really did. You couldn't look away either, your broken heart pounding against your ribcage wildly when it finally dawned on you that you were an idiot this whole time. Everyone must've caught on except for you, and yet you had the hope that she'd never do this to you. Not your Vi. Never your Vi. Prison must've changed her more than you thought.

Unable to breathe and completely devastated, you attempted to step back and flee. You didn't even want to bother and yell at her when she didn't even deserve your time anymore. But alas, fate had different ideas, as you knocked over an empty can that made both women part in surprise. Vi's eyes immideatly met yours, a shocked look on her face as though you were the one that betrayed her. "Oh fuck... wait, I can explain, I, we-" "-Vander would be disappointed in you, Violet." You said, unable to stop the painful words from slipping out of your lips. Her feelings would never be protected by you again anyway. You've wasted years of your life waiting for her and caring for her when she finally got out. You never complained, and you bit your tongue every time she did something that you disliked. But it was all for nothing.

Vi was left speechless at your words that awoke a deep insecurity she had attempted to hide for so long. Imagining Vander's disgusted and disapproving face didn't help. Pushing Caitlyn out of the way, she tried approaching you carefully, afraid to lose you. You were the last thing she had left. "Please babe, it's... that was... Fuck just let me explain." But there was nothing she could say to make you forget what you saw. And you sure as hell weren't going to stay with a cheater. Vander taught you to know your worth, and you wouldn't let him down like that.

So when Vi was close enough, you slapped her right across the face, making her stumble. How could such an innocent gaze do the worst things? You had to get out of here before your hands stained the blood of your own people, too. "Cupcake wait -" "-Our people are dying at her hands, whether you like to see it or not. And I refuse to be a traitor either." Not bothering to hear what else she had to say, you simply left and never looked back.

Forever truly is never promised.

》CAITLYN

She has grown distant to you ever since her mother's death. Something you understood and supported by allowing her space to grief. You did everything for her to have a comfortable transition into this uncertain future, hoping it would ease the pain ever so slightly. But things aren't that easy. Her rage was brewing and overflowing into an irrational hatred for all Zaunites due to who had killed her. You may have never met Jinx, but even you understood that not everyone down there was like this. They didn't deserve the anger.

Yet Caitlyn couldn't see it your way and refused to, which led to many arguments and eventually a separation for the time being. Your heart was hurting, and you couldn't recognize the woman she had become. But of course, you were the crazy one. The Traitor, who empathized with those "animals", a word you were still in disbelief in to hear from her of all people, considering her late mother's ambitions. Ambitions that she stepped all over after she used her vents for an unforgivable plan that gassed the entire undercity with "the grey". You couldn't believe it. It left you to sit at Cassandra's grave frozen and bewildered for hours on end, guilty about being unable to do anything.

But just as you thought she couldn't get any worse, she had to prove you wrong like always.

On a moonlight night, you made your way through her estate in search of the last of your belongings. You weren't going to stay in Piltover any longer after she became the commander. Not being able to stand what she now was, you took it upon yourself to leave as silently as possible. Perhaps get back at her for hurting you, as selfish as it may have been to you at first. Yet the guilt melted away when you creaked open the door to her room, a room you often secretly shared. You didn't think she was home around this hour, as you hoped she was too busy to be there yet. But alas, there she was, with a familiar red-headed officer of hers. The one you couldn't stand at first sight, as you felt like there was something off about her.

You were right about that, at least. You couldn't make out everything, but their scandly clad figures moving around the bed was enough to paint a picture you wished to forget. Oh, how the rage took ahold of you in that moment! For a split second, you finally understood how she must've felt like. And god did you hate it.

Unwilling to let this ruin the reason you've come here to begin with, you unceremoniously switched the lights back on and casually began to grab your things off the shelves and vanity. Caitlyn jumped up in surprise when she finally could see again and saw you standing there, back facing her. She was speechless, and so was the sly officer below her. Although the smirk was easy to hide behind a covered mouth. "Don't mind me. Just here to get the last of my belongings." You said, voice shockingly steady. Despite the shocking situation, you felt calm and undeterred, finally done with her at last. "W-wait, this isn't what it looks like, love. This means nothing, I-" "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. No need for it when my skyship is leaving soon." You turned to glance at her and felt a sick satisfaction at her horror striken face. She certainly never expected you to catch her, and you certainly never expected her to sink so low.

Stumbling out of the bed and after you, as you exited the room, she ignored Maddie's hushed pleas to stay. "Come on, wait and allow me to explain, at least! I... Things have been hard lately -" You walked quicker now, not wanting to hear what she had to say. But she just wouldn't let you go. "- And, and you weren't around and I..." "Are you done? I wasn't around because you didn't want me to. Now let me leave at once, or I will scream and alert everyone in this building of what you're doing." Caitlyn stood still at the top of the grand staircase that you practically ran down. Before you slipped through the doors, however, you turned to her one last time, tears finally burning in your eyes so treacherously.

"Your mother died in vain, hoping from the heaven's above that her daughter would be worth the Kirammann name... and yet, all she does is roll in her grave at your actions. Oh, the shame." You hissed out before slamming the doors shut and never looking back.

》SEVIKA

Sevika was well known for her loyalty to those who deserve it. It was unrelenting and filled with unparalleled devotion, especially to you. Or so you thought.

Looking back on it, you wondered when the first red flags started appearing. Was it when she ditched Vander for Silco? Or when she spent endless nice "gambling" in some downtown bars instead of hanging out with you? Or was it maybe when she would only come back home extremely late into the night... or days later, sometimes.

There was always a new excuse, too.

She had a lot to do. Missions are piling up. Some random drug dealers weren't handing over the money they owed to Silco. Enforcers were causing some trouble. The Firelights were causing some trouble. She got too drunk and had to crash somewhere closer to the bar. Jinx blew something up again, and she had to fix it. Silco had her running all over Zaun collecting debts. Blah, blah, blah... the creativity was never-ending, and you were beginning to get beyond enraged about it.

You weren't stupid after all. It didn't take much to figure out that she was lying most of the time, and it was clear that she didn't care if you knew either. It was all very half-assed, to say the least. And the people that you asked for confirmation would always roll their eyes, knowing just as much as you did that it was bullshit and she was definitely doing something she shouldn't. Like getting drunk to the point she couldn't remember where home is. Metaphorically and literally. But what got you the most is how blatant and in your face it was.

The question as to why she was doing this now after years of being together is one you'll most likely never get an answer to. And you've made peace with that a while ago. Revenge was, however, still very much on the table, and you'd be damned if you didn't get an ounce of it.

With some bribery, Jinx was thankfully very willing to rat out Sevika, going as far as to even happily lead you to her. She wanted to see the world burn and knew that you weren't the type to let people get away with hurting you. And so, she leaned back with the sweets she acquired through you and watched as you casually loomed behind her in some run-down brothel. She apparently really loved frequenting this one, according to the crazed girl, something that made you scoff. She'd trade you in for THIS? Now that's an insult. The brothel workers nervously scooched away from her at the sight of your face. You two being a couple was well known, but you didn't blame the girls for doing their job. A bag is a bag, and you're about to have Sevika's head in one.

Grabbing a nearby bottle of wine, you practically smashed it over her head, knowing that it would do little to hurt her. "What the Fuck?!" She cursed, immideatly standing up to bash someone's face in. Yet after being met with your unimpressed look, she froze. "Hm? What is it? Not having fun anymore? Because I certainly am." The brothel workers quickly fled, leaving you alone. In the distance, you could hear Jinx's cackles. At least someone was actually finding this amusing. "... Ah... Hey, sweetheart... I uh..." "Call me that again, and I'll gouge your eyes out next. Years and years of loyalty to your miserable ass and this is what I get, Sevika? Have I really gotten that boring to you?" You hissed out, trying your best not to burst into tears.

You've been with this woman for so long through absolutely everything imaginable. But it wasn't enough for her. She had changed over the years into someone you hated, and you couldn't believe you were willing to waste so much more time with her. Not anymore, though. Suddenly feeling so suffocated in this stuffy room, you rolled your eyes and threw what was left of the broken bottle right at her speechless form before turning and leaving. "You know what? I don't care anymore. Go and find someone else who will in this hellscape because I promise you that you won't."

Stepping out into the dim lanes of Zaun, you felt more free than ever before as you ducked into the darkness for good. She'll never see you again, and you'll be sure of it, as you listened to her calls for your name getting further and further away.

#arcane #arcane x genderneutral reader #arcane x y/n #arcane x you #arcane vi #arcane vi x reader #vi #vi x reader #arcane caitlyn x reader #arcane caitlyn #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn #caitlyn kiramman #arcane sevika #arcane sevika x reader #sevika x reader #sevika

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