#Finger Control Hand Device -Left Hand

[nymphoheretic]

Synopsis: You infiltrated the Farspace Fleet only to be captured by the Colonel. He looks vaguely familiar...It couldn't be! Could it be...Caleb!

Warnings: Hatefucking, psuedo-cest, CNC (Caleb uses reader's conflicting feelings against her),OOC Caleb(probably cause he's a little mean), gun kink, glove kink, misuse of Caleb's evol, fingering, electrostimulation via his bionic arm, squirting, light degrading, teasing, edging, choking, oral sex (m!receiving and f!recieiving) impact play (clit slaps, spanking, light face slapping), praise, manipulation, breeding, orgasm control, overstim, use of "gege", use of "mei mei" (lemme know if I missed anything!)

Pairing: Caleb x F!Reader/MC

Word Count: 8.5k

A/N: Caleb has been rotting a brain ever since his trailer dropped and he was all yandere-ish vibes and mean and evil and....I swear I'm a Zayne girlie

AO3

Network: @eveningatthemoviesnetwork

You were visibly shaking with anger as you glare at the man walking around in front of you. How could he dare show his face to you again after being declared dead for a year?! How did he survive the explosion? How did he escape? And the more important question that burns in the back of your mind: if he did make it out, where was Granny Jospehine? Did he just leave her to die?

Your eyes follow him as he steps slowly around the room, an apple in his grip as he stares at it thoughtfully. There was a neutral look on his face as the methodical soft creaks of his boots echoing out as he circles you. You clench your fists tightly as your teeth bites down on the plush of your lip as you raise your chin he finally sits down, his purplish eyes easily locking with yours.

“Gege…”

The pitterpatter of the storm outside strikes against the widow as Caleb regards you with a cool look as he squeezes the apple lightly in his fist. He sits directly in front of you, his knees brushing against yours from the movement. A small, short scoff leaves his lips as he looks down at the apple in his grip. “Have you ever taken a moment to consider…” His eyes shift back towards yours as his lips quirk up into a sinister smile. “…that I was never your brother?” Caleb lifts the apple to his lips slowly and takes a bite, the sound of his teeth breaking the bright red flesh echoing through your ears.

Before you could stop yourself, you rose to your feet, hand held high and smacked it across his cheek. The apple flying from his hand and smashing against the window before sliding down and smearing the glass with its juices. Your chest heaves as you glare at him through narrowed eyes as the force of your slap causes his head to turn to the side, his cheek visibly red. “Bastard.” you growl, voice filled with hatred, yet it still trembles with conflict as the memories of the sweet Caleb you grew up with surfaces.

Caleb slices his eye back over to you, subtly flicking his index finger up and watching as the gravity around you grows dense from his manipulation as you drop to your knees. Lightning flashes, making his eyes glow sinisterly as he rises back to his feet. His hand stretches out and pets your hair as his smile turns back soft. “You’re acting like you don’t remember me, Little one.”

That nickname. It stirs something within you and the image of Caleb - your Caleb - overlaps the man in front of you. His eyes turn playful and it makes your heart beat faster in your chest. “No!” You yell out and when his hand moves to caress your cheek, you lash out and bite him. Your teeth sink in deep as you clamp your jaws down on to the fleshy part between his wrist and pinky.

He lets out a grunt as he grabs your jaw in his other hand and squeezes your cheeks until you release his hand. His tongue pokes out and licks at the indents your teeth left behind on his hand. “Do you remember when we were little and you brought home an injured cat?” He reaches out and grabs your wrist, placing a thin black device around the width as he releases his control over the intense gravity around you. “I put a collar with a bell on it so it couldn’t escape without being noisy.” His hand trails down your leg as he increases the gravity around it to hold you in place on the couch.

You gasp and open your mouth to say something, probably to curse him again when the cold gloved finger of his other hand presses against your lips, silencing you. His eyes harden once more as he rises back to his feet. “Do as you’re told and don’t cause any trouble. You won’t get hurt then.” When your jaw snaps shut his facial expression softens as he reaches for your hand and places it on his cheek, curling your fingers to make you cup his face. “It’s me. I’m back.”

Those words make your heart quiver as you nearly give into his sweet voice. Everything about him screamed your gege - your Caleb, but there was something darker about him that was holding you back. A bit of darkness in his eyes that you could easily spot. You grit your teeth as you could still feel the effects of his evol holding you down. “Gege…If you’re back, then let me go!”

Caleb’s eyes darken when you call him that and he moves his face away from you. His fists clenched tightly, his gloved hand making a creasing sound as his eyes squeezed shut. When he opens them again, he looks into yours. The hatred that burns in them was shallow. He could easily break you if he chose to. “Princess…you didn't pass.” His voice was cool as he reached out his hand.

You gasp as pressure constricts around your throat as the gravity around it moves inward, pressing down on those precious arteries and veins that deliver oxygen rich blood to your brain. Your eyes widen as you claw at the air around your neck to no avail. You try to squirm around, but the pressure on your leg holds you down. Tears begin to form in your eyes as you look at Caleb pleadingly. “Please…ge…Caleb…” you manage to breathe out.

Finally.

The pressure around your throat stops and your hands immediately fly to cup your tender neck as your chest heaves, your breath coming out in pants as blood seeps back into your brain. Your shoulder gives a short flinch when Caleb wraps his long fingers around your delicate wrist and pulls you into his chest. His sweet voice surrounds you as it rumbles from his chest. Your hand curls up on his pectorals as your face heats up, coloring down to your chest. “Caleb?”

“You can't convince yourself to hate me with every fiber of your being.” His finger slips under the small opening at your waist, slowly tracing the skin there in a slow caress that makes shivers roll down your spine. “Wouldn't you agree, Little one?” He practically purrs that name in your ear as his gloved hand presses you deeper into his embrace, a coldness seeping into your flesh through the materials of your clothing.

You meet his lilac gaze and could see the way they soften for you - because of you. It made your heart squeeze painfully in your chest. He was right. You couldn’t bring yourself to hate him completely but that did not stop the rage that was boiling within you. You try to remove yourself from his hold but still that heavy pressure on your legs keeps you close to him. You open your mouth once more to curse at him, when he slips his fingers into your mouth and presses down on your tongue.

“Ah ah ah…You still haven’t passed your test, princess.” He kicks your feet apart, his manipulation over the gravity that holds you down releasing its grip but now he has one on your jaw as saliva pools on the center of your tongue until it leaks down the corners of your lips. Caleb’s lips turn upwards into a smile, his face morphing into the one of your sweet gege. You blink once, twice, three times to try to clean your mind. This Caleb was not your gege. This was the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel Caleb. And you? You were his prisoner.

Caleb stares into your eyes, lilac orbs darkening with something akin to desire and need. All those pent up feelings he’s had for you are flooding back so intensely. His fingers slide deeper into your mouth, saliva spilling down the corners of your mouth before he pulls them out completely. He spreads his digits and watches how the translucent strings of spittle slides down them. His knee slots between your thighs as his hands quickly cup your cheeks, “Bite me again and I’ll crush your throat,” he warns before his tongue slips into your warm mouth.

A surprised squeak vibrates in your chest as you try to beat down that feeling of greedy want and desire that you had once held for Caleb before he was lost to you. You had to remind yourself that he was now the enemy, but…why were his lips so soft, tongue so gentle as it strokes over yours, trying to coax a reaction out of yours. Your first instinct was to bite down until his threat replays in your head. You could feel a sheer difference in the temps of his palms as he cups your face under your jaw.

His tongue licks over every part of your mouth, leaving nothing untouched. He strokes over your teeth, the roof of your mouth before finally coming in contact with your own. He swirls it with his pink muscle, teasing and coaxing it out to play with his. He grips your jaw a little tighter with his left hand, cold, hard fingers digging into your skin as a growl vibrates in his chest. He pulls away briefly, tongue flicking out over your lips. “C’mon. You’ve kissed me before, little one. Don’t tell me you actually hate me?”

Your eyes narrow once more as you try to pull your jaw out his grip, wincing a bit when he squeezes it tightly. A hiss vibrates on your tongue before you draw in a slow breath at his taunting words. Heartbeat racing as blood whooshes in your ears as you remember all the sweet shared kisses with Caleb. How his gentle tongue tastes on yours, how his soft lips felt against yours. Before you could stop yourself, your eyes soften as they flicker down to his mouth, his lips looking very inviting.

Slowly you lean in, breath mingling with his as you near his lips with yours. Lips clash in a soft kiss as a moan dares to slip past when his tongue reaches out to play with yours. Feelings that you tried so desperately to keep hidden away, to keep them locked away resurfaces before you could snuff them out. Your arms come up to lock behind his head, fingers digging into his soft dark hair and pulling him in closer. The sweet, familiar taste of apples explodes over your taste buds as you curl your tongue around his in a slow, seductive way. Your eyelids tip close as you begin to lose yourself.

A voice in the back of your head screams at you loudly, shocking you and making you break away as his hands begin to slide down your back. “No!” You say as you push him away, your breath coming out in hot pants as a string of saliva cools as it snaps back against your neck. Gasping when he suddenly slides his knee further between your thighs, pressing it up against the seat of your pants as his hand tips your face back up to meet his purple eyes. “Caleb…what are you…”

He says nothing as he digs his knee in deeper against your core, eliciting another gasp from you. “You don't really hate me. I'm back. I'm your Caleb, remember?” He takes your hand and presses it against the left side of his chest over his beating heart. “See? I'm alive.” His cool, even tone also sounds sad to your ears and you have to look away from his eyes. He was trying to pull you back under his spell. You couldn’t let him. Hold on to the fact that he lied! That he… Caleb trails your hand down lower until it rests on his belt. “Do you still hate this, princess? I’m aching for you.”

“C-Caleb!” You squeak as you try to pull your hand back, but his grip holds tight as he slides your hand lower until you cup his hardening cock. You could feel it rising to full attention, tenting the black slacks he had on and straining against the zipper. “Y-you…” Glaring up at him, faux disgust written all over your face, but your body was betraying you as your thighs hug together around his knee. You could feel yourself growing damp as your fingers curl around his length. “N-no…” You whimper out. Caleb takes your face in his hand gently, squeezing your cheeks until your lips part. Slipping his tongue out, he lets a long, hot dollop of saliva drip down to pool in your mouth. With a subtle flick of his finger, gravity shifts around your throat and before you could even think spit slides down your throat as he easily reverses your positions. The manipulation of the gravity around your leg strengthens and forces you to kneel in front of him, you place your hands on his thighs to prevent your face from being smushed in his lap.

A smile tilts at his lips as his finger comes up to tip your chin back up to look into his darkening gaze. “You remember what to do, right.” He coos softly as his other hand tugs down the zipper to his pants, popping the button open. Caleb shucks them down over his hips until his long, thick cock pops out, the tip leaking pre down the pale shaft, the tip flushed a bright pink. “Come on, little one.” His voice is still that same soft tone from before - the one that makes your heart quiver as you look up into his soft, puppy eyes.

Your tongue peeks out to wet your bottom lip as you are slow to realize what he wants from you. It wasn’t until his cock springs out and nearly smacks your cheek did your eyes widen. “I…No. I won’t do it.” You flinch when his hand raises, but peek one open when his fingers simply brush over your hair as he gives you another soft smile.

“Oh, pretty, I wasn’t asking.” His eyes darken as he lifts his chin, the gravity around you shifting and forcing your lips on his cock. Caleb lets out a groan as your warm cavern engulfs his length, his head falling backward to rest against the back of the couch. His hands ball into fists as he decreases and increases the pressure of the gravity to make you bob your head up and down. He could feel the familiar way your tongue curls around his dick. His lips curl into a smirk, “That’s it. Such a good girl. Keep sucking, just like that. Your mouth feels as good as I remember.”

His praise sent shivers rolling down your spine as a tingle started to throb between your legs. You squeeze your thighs together as you feel slick beginning to pool into the seat of your panties. How and why were you enjoying this? Caleb was the enemy now! He was no longer your sweet gege - no longer your sweet Caleb. This was…Your thought process was interrupted as Caleb shifts, thrusting his hips upward and the thick tip of him brushes against the back of your throat and making you let out a choked moan. You should hate this, but his familiar taste on your tongue made it almost impossible as the hatred in your eyes softened as you tried to glare up at him.

Caleb slowly eases up on his manipulation of the gravity around you until you were sucking him off willingly. He reaches down and presses his hand against the back of your head as your saliva drips down to wet his balls, your soft tongue caressing the large vein running on the underside of his cock. “Such a nasty little cockhungry slut. Wish you could see how you look, sucking my cock like it's your favorite treat.” His voice trails off in another low growl as his hips buck up, heavy balls slapping against your chin as they begin to draw up as his cock twitches on your tongue. “You want me to cum down that greedy throat of yours? Paint your mouth in my color, yeah.”

You didn’t realize that his hold over the gravity around you had stopped as you continued to work your mouth and tongue over his thickness. A moan vibrates in the muscles of your throat and chest as you bob your head deeper down on his cock, nose brushing against the light dusting of brown hair at the base of his pelvis. Thick strings of spittle clings and runs down his shaft as your tongue curls around his tip, tasting the precum that was oozing out the slit. He tastes just like you remembered, sweet with an underlying hint of salty. His degrading words reach your ears and your face burns with embarrassment as you try to remind yourself that he was using his evol to make you do this.

Before you could look back up at him with faux anger, his cock twitches on your tongue, swelling in your mouth as the movements of his hips grow sporadic. You let out a surprised squeak when his hands cup your face as he thrusts deeply, his tip hitting the back of your throat as his seed suddenly spills over. It fills your mouth at such a rate that you have no choice but to swallow or choke on it.

Caleb’s hips thrusts in sporadic jerks as his balls empty his cum down your sinfully tight throat. Oh how he could stay in this perfect little mouth forever. But he was dying for a taste of you. He missed you and your touch so much over the past year, he was gone. “You enjoyed tasting me, yeah? Got you wet between your thighs, little one?” His eyes watch the way your chest heaves as he slips his cock out your mouth and sees the way your thighs pressed together. He tsk’ed when you shake your head “no”. Still denying the fact that you didn’t hate him. That you didn’t hate what he was doing. That you didn’t hate that he was reclaiming what was his long ago.

A ‘scwhick’ sounded in the silence followed by the ripping of leather as a blade slices through the material of his glove. Your eyes widened at the sight of his bionic hand as a knife shoots out of the wrist. Caleb balls the hand into a fist and raises the blade down to your eye level, a grin spreading over his lips as he waves the blade in your face. “You’re wearing too many clothes, baby girl.” With those words, he slides the tip of the sharp knife down your neck, being mindful to not pierce your flesh until he makes it to your hunter’s uniform. He easily slices through the white collar of your top before dragging the blade down towards the red corset top.

You gasp as your breasts bounce free when your top was cut down the center and with Caleb’s manipulation over the gravity around you made it impossible for you to raise your hands to cover them. Your mouth parts in a whimper as the cool touch of the blade crawls over the soft, warm skin of your breasts as you feel Caleb’s eyes locking in on them as he traces his knife over them. “Cale-” Your words are cut off as he snaps his gaze back towards yours and you feel the shift in the gravity pulling you back up to your feet.

Caleb said nothing as he shifted his manipulation to make you rise back up, his bionic hand making quick work of the black pants you wore. His eyes zero in on the red lace of the panties you were wearing and a grin spreads over his lips. “Were you expecting this? You’re such a naughty mei mei of mine.” He says the term like it was a curse, like it was venom on his tongue before his eyes land on the dark, wet spot forming in the seat of your panties. “What’s this? Lying to me about not liking having me down your slutty throat.”

“I…I didn’t! I…I don’t want you, Caleb!” Your words sounded false even to you. You advert your eyes away from his and lift your chin in defiance to his question. “It’s a natural reaction! That doesn’t mean anything, gege.” You’ve learned that he hates being called that now and when you peek down at him out of the corner of your eye, you could see the dark cloud that covered his face. You let out a squeal when his fingers suddenly dig into your hips, hooking into your panties and pulling them down. You watch in mild shock at the long string of slick that connects your labia to the wet cotton patch before it breaks.

Caleb arches his brow up at you, a smirk curling at his lips. “A natural reaction for getting this soaked for me. Your “brother”? He leans in and presses his lips against your mound, nosing at it and listening to your soft gasps as your hands fly to his hair. “You’re a terrible liar, princess. Just admit it.”

You could feel yourself getting weak in the knees as Caleb trails kisses down the innermost corners of your thighs, inches away from your dripping heat. You feel a moan threatening to escape and you quickly bite your lip. Hard. To try to prevent it from slipping out. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, gege.” Your mouth parts in a scream when a shock courses through your body coming from between your thighs. You yank Caleb’s head back to see his bionic arm’s finger pressing against your clit, a stream of light violet energy surging through it.

“Caleb.” He growls, another surge of electricity running from the tip of his mechanical finger to your precious little pearl. Your voice calls out to him as his tongue reaches out to soothe the sting and his chin is immediately drenched with your juices. His metal fingers slide from your clit to prod at your opening as his other hand wraps around your thigh to pull it to drape over his shoulder. The pointed tip of his tongue circles your nub before his lips close over it and he suckles it into his mouth.

Your legs buckle as your slick bubbles and pops at your hole as his fingers slowly push inside. Fuck. Your heart was pounding beneath your rib cage as your fingers curled into his dark hair and you didn’t know if you wanted to push him away or pull him closer to your needy cunt. His name was on the tip of your tongue but you swallow it back down. You couldn’t give him the satisfaction that he’s broken you down. Made you submit to him and his…Fuck. Your head falls to your chest as his tongue does wicked things to you, slipping between your folds and curling in deep as his nose nudges and bumps against your clit.

Fingers dive deeper into his hair as you could no longer hold in your voice as Caleb pushes his metal fingers in deeper and lets a wave of electricity course through your walls in a pleasurable tingle. “Oh fuck!” The screams of your ecstasy reach his ears, sounding like the gods and goddess were singing to him. His tongue became relentless as his lips suck and slurp at your sensitive little clit, drinking down every drop your slick hole produces.

If it wasn’t for his hold on your legs and the strength of the gravity holding you up, you’d have fallen as your knees buckle when he slurps at your juices as they run down his chin, trickling down his neck as he shakes his head like a ravenous beast. You were close, you could feel your heartbeat throbbing in tune with the pulses of your clit as his fingers dug you out, juices gushed out with every thrust that his greedy tongue eagerly laps up. “Ge-Cal-”

Then suddenly it all stops as Caleb pulls away, ruining your orgasm. Lilac eyes flash mischievously as he peers up at you, his bionic arms dripping with your juices as he brings the fingers to his lips and licks them clean. “Did you want to cum? Come on, little one. Admit it. Admit that you want me. Admit that you never saw me as your brother. Admit that you can’t hate me.” His hand closes around your thigh as he turns his head and presses his damp lips against the plush flesh. “Admit it and I’ll make you cum so hard you see stars.”

Caleb watches you with his lips quirked up into a smile as you whine and try to undulate your hips; seeking his tongue and fingers back into your aching and dripping snatch. But his hand wraps around your waist and holds you down as the gravity around your body places opposite pressures, causing you to stand still. His eyes narrow when you still try to struggle against his hold over his evol and a “tsk” leaves his throat. “I said. Admit. It. Little. One. Stop. Being. Stubborn.” He enunciated each word with a sharp slap to your clit with the flat of his fingers.

You let out a pained whine as each strike was also followed by a small zap of electricity that thumbs over your engorged button as blood makes it swell even more. You bite your lips to stop the plea that almost spills over. Your eyes are burning with tears as you shake your head. You would not admit that you were enjoying the painful pleasurable torture he was putting your body through. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. You- “Ca-Caleb…” Your bottom lip quivers as tears threaten to spill down your cheeks. “Please…I admit it. Can I please cum now?”

Your subconscious was screaming at you as your lips betray you and uttered those words, but before you could even think to take them back, to redact your statement, a cool smile spreads over Caleb’s lips as his fingers slide over your soaked slit, smearing your juices over you labia. You bend at the waist, hands flying back into his hair as his control over his evol weakens a bit and a moan escapes your lips. “I…I didn’t…mmph…” Your words are stolen as Caleb shoves his fingers into your mouth, your taste still clinging to the leather of the glove he still wore as he attacks your slit again with ravenous licks.

Caleb feasts on you like a starving man, juices trickling down the side of his face and neck as he ate your pretty cunt so messily. Lewd slurping sounds echoed throughout his room as he drank down every bit of your slick pussy juices that he could. The pointed tip of his tongue flicks and lashes out at your sensitive nub as his lips suck on your labia. As his gloved fingers still thrust into your mouth, the fingers of his bionic hand find their way back inside your slick cavern twisting and turning as he digs for that sweet spot that will have you cumming on his tongue.

You could feel the way your walls were clenching tightly around his fingers as he pressed deeper and deeper, searching for that gooey spot deep within your body. It all felt so foreign to you. This wasn’t the sweet Caleb that you had shared tender kisses with. Wasn’t the sweet boy you gave your virginity to years ago before his “death”, Nor was this your sweet gege that always vowed to protect you. Your voice is muffled by his fingers as you feel your pussy squeeze around his metal fingers as you feel your clit twitch and your juices flood out of you, hot and runny and drenching down his wrist. “Gege!”

The second your juices flow down his tongue, filling his mouth as he greedily drinks and slurps it all down. But the moment that name leaves your lips, he stops; pulling away from your addictive little pussy, a line of slick clinging to his bottom lip as he cuts his lilac eyes up to meet your dazed gaze, his voice was hard and even. “What did you call me?” He watches as your mouth parts in a gasp as he rises to his feet, cock bobbing as he stands, but he ignores the pre that dribbles from the tip to splatter on the floor. Lifting his chin, he snaps his head towards the couch and his evol sends you flying down into the cushion; face down ass up and your back arched so pretty for him. “Would your precious “gege” do this?”

He pulls out his gun from the holster, his legs coming to lock yours between his feet as he leans over you. The cold muzzles of the pistol caresses the hot skin of your spine, starting at the base of your skull and trailing down to the center of your back and over the curve of your ass. His other hand came crashing down on the globe of flesh until the skin was heated and a faint print of his hand was left behind as the skin wiggled. “I shouldn’t have let you cum. If I had known you’d be such a brat.” But despite his words, he was happy to taste you on his tongue, to taste your sweet juices.

You turn your head to look back at Caleb, feeling the cold tip of the gun tracing down the length of your back. You cry out when his hand smacks the flesh of your ass over and over again until the skin was heated and you were damn near in tears. You bite your lip as you feel him nudging the gun against your right ass cheek to stop the whimpers from coming out. Your pussy clenches in anticipation of what he was going to do, body betraying you as it grows slicker with every passing second. Despite your mind telling, yelling, that you should hate this, hate what he was doing to do, your body craved it. Craved more of his mean touches. More of his harsh treatment.

Caleb’s hand fists his cock as he slides the gun down, the cold tip gliding down the line of your ass. “Hmm? Should I punish you for being a brat. Delaying your orgasms again and again as I fuck you? Or maybe this slutty pussy is greedy for something else? You want my cock, little one or…?” He traces the muzzle down the line until it brushes against your glistening slit. His eyes watch as you jolt from the contact and try to pull away as his hand glides faster over his length, squeezing the swollen tip with every upward drag. “Answer quickly before I make the decision myself, princess.”

You try to pull away from the gun, but your hips rock back against it, your labia spreading to encompass the tip briefly. How could he try to make you choose? You…didn’t want either, right? Your pussy clenches at the thought of him fucking you with his gun, but was drooling over the chance to finally have his cock nudging up against your most sacred parts. Just as you were about to open your lips to tell him your answer, the cold steel of the gun sinks into your gooey walls, slick bubbling and popping around the black metal.

“Ca-Caleb?” Your voice was a mixture of shock and pleasure as he worked the gun a little deeper as you slowly rocked your hips backwards to help him. As his knuckle nudges at your clit, you let out a mewl and throw your head back. “F-fuck!” The curse leaves your throat before you could even think to swallow it down. You push back further, walls stretching to accommodate the thickness of the gun’s muzzle. You were so depraved for enjoying this, but you would never tell him. You still hated him. Right? Right?

“Shhh….” his hand wraps in your hair gently, pulling it back until your neck is exposed as he sinks his gun in deeper, the wet gushy sounds of your sloppy pussy making his dick grow impossibly harder. As your juices gush out, drenching his gloved fingers and sliding down the handle of the gun, his eyes watch as your naughty hips couldn’t stop moving backwards to fuck yourself deeper on the barrel. “Lemme listen to these slutty sounds she’s making for me.” Without warning, he pulls his gun out, the sticky sounds of your pussy trying to desperately suck it back echoing around the room as nasty strings of your cum drips down the length. “Just look at how you’ve dirtied my gun?”

He pulls on your hair, arching your back so far back your spine pops almost uncomfortably as he waves his slick covered gun in your face. “I should have you clean it, no?” He presses the gun against your cheek, smearing the creamy cum down your skin for a moment as his bionic hand lets go of your hair, still coated in your juices from earlier and wraps carefully around his cock and smears your slick down the length of it. His eyes zero in on your quivering little hole as you tremble under him and his self-control was beginning to waiver. He wanted to keep teasing and edging you until you were screaming his name and only thinking of him and his cock.

Moving the gun away from your face and bringing it to his lips as he notches the bulbous tip of his cock against your drooling hole. He shifts his bionic hand from his cock to grip your hip tightly, his mechanical fingers digging into the plush flesh tightly. As his tongue slips out to lick up the length of his gun, he pushes past those first tight rings of muscles, your pussy immediately stretching to accommodate his girth. Your taste explodes over his taste buds and he moans softly as he was greedy for more, but the wet velvety feeling of your silken walls engulfing his cockhead was starting to make him dizzy with how fast the blood was leaving his head to his engorged cock.

Your head drops to your chest as your arms threaten to give out from under you as Caleb sinks deeper into your warm, gooey walls, the delicious stretch of him filling you was damn near maddening. His name was on the tip of your tongue as you clench down tightly around him, sucking his cock in until the thick mushroomed tip was pressing snuggly against your cervix. A low moan vibrates in your chest as you pant and your hips rock back against his, the slow sticky clasp of skin meeting skin ringing out in the room.

Caleb’s eyes were trained on the sight of your tight little hole as it swallowed up his length. You were perfect for him. Your walls hug him just right, the right amount of pressure that makes him never want to leave your depths. “Fuck.” The curse leaves him in a growl as he places his gun down on the edge of the couch, both hands coming to wrap around your waist to pull you back deeper and faster on his cock. His leg hikes up, foot planting into the soft cushion of the couch as he thrust fast and hard into your tender cunt, pounding into you at such a pace that it was near demonic.

You bite your lip to stop the scream that was building up in your throat, chest burning from holding in your voice as your pussy squelches with every brutal and harsh thrust. The lewd sound of his pelvis meeting your ass vibrates and echoes in the room. His fingers grip your waist tightly, the cold fingers of his bionic arms branding your skin with his marks as his grunts fill the room as well. Sweat forms on your brow as you pant for air, rolling down the side of your face. “Ca-” You quickly snap your jaw just as you stop yourself from calling out his name.

Another low “tsk” leaves his throat as his eyes narrow. His left hand moves to grip the back of your neck and pushes your face down into the cushions as his foot slides up higher, caging your much smaller body under his. “Come on…let me hear you.” He urged as he made sure that with every thrust, he pressed his pelvis against the curve of your ass, grinding a bit to make sure you felt every inch of him. “Say my name. You know you want to scream it for the whole Fleet to hear, hmm?” He punctured each of the next words with a sharp snap of his hips. “Fucking. Scream. My. Name. Brat.”

The dam within you broke and your pent up emotions came flowing like the river of slick that gushes out of you as you cum hard against him, the force of it pushing his cock out as you finally grace his ears with the melodic sounds of your salacious screaming. “Ca-Caleb!”

Finally.

Finally after he’s edged your body to the best orgasm of your fucking life, did you say his name in the most prettiest of cries. He sits back on the couch, hands grabbing you around your waist, using his evol to shift the gravity of your body to make you weightless as he straddles you over his lap. “Such a dirty girl. Cumming so violently like that. I’m not through with you yet.” He flicks his finger down after his right hand notches the bulbous tip against your leaking hole and the gravity shifts downward, forcing your pussy onto his length.

Another lewd scream leaves your tender throat as Caleb makes you ride his cock, bouncing you up and down on his thickness. You had just come and your body was still trembling from the aftershocks of the one he just gave you. Your arms come up to wrap around his neck as his hands grip your thighs as he thrusts up into your cunt. “Caleb! Please! Slow down!” Tears sparkle on your lashes as drool begins to leak down the corner of your mouth.

He grabs the back of your neck and pulls your lips to his, tongue sliding out to delve into your mouth and curls over yours. Caleb then sucks your pink muscle between his teeth. You moan and he swallows the sound down as his hand shifts to grab at the meat of your ass to bounce you up and down on his cock, the tip kissing your cervix with each upward snap of his hips. Caleb felt the way your walls were fluttering, gripping his thickness tightly and he knew that you were going to cum again soon.

Breaking away, a thin string of saliva still connecting your tongue until it broke away to lay coolly against your chin, his lilac eyes capture your fucked out gaze. “Gonna cum again, little one?” His breath came out in harsh pants as your pussy squelches loudly as your juices gush out and wet up the material of his pants still hanging around his hips. “Ffuucckk, you’re squeezing me so tightly.” His head falls to rest against yours as he pecks at your lips sweetly, a vast difference in his powerful thrusts.

Your body was trembling as you rock your hips into his, not caring if his evol was making you bounce on him or not anymore as the pleasure consumes you. The only thing that matters in that moment was the approaching climax he was about to give you. Your nails dig into the material of his black uniform, damn near ripping into it as you claw at his back. “Fuck! Caleb! ‘M’gunna cum!” Once. Twice. Three ti- “Wh-what?” Your voice was a warbled cry when his hands grip your hips, stilling you over his cock.

His lips curl up into a soft, yet sadistic smile as he holds you in place, his evol working against you and keeping you pinned down. “Did I give you permission to cum yet, little one?” He plants his feet down firmly on the floor before utilizing his strength to stand up, his hands wrapping around your thighs and locking your legs around his thick, muscular waist. He moves his left hand away from your body and hooks his finger between your teeth. “Bite only my glove, pretty girl.”

You do as he says, biting down on the tip of his glove and watch with hazy eyes as he pulls his hand free. And finally. Finally. His skin meets with yours as he glides his fingertips down the valley of your breasts to your belly, his eyes widen when he feels the smallest protrusion and his lips crack into a smile. “Look at that. I’m so big and you're so small compared to me, I’m bulging out. Such a tiny, tight pussy you have mei mei.” He teases as he lays his palm flat over the small bulge and presses down on it to hear you squeal out his name as he uses his bionic arm to slam you up and down on his cock.

His knees bend slightly to stabalize himself as his hips move in tune with yours as he fucks you fast and hard. Caleb grips your ass hard, hard enough to leave the imprint of his fingers behind as he bucks up into you, jostling you on his dick as your arms come to wrap around his neck as your fingers dig into his scalp, grazing it with your nails. His eyes shift towards the large bed in the center of the room and his lips curl into another smile as he turns. His cock never leaves your soft, warm, wet walls as he walks over to where the bed was; your salacious moans making him impossibly harder as he grits his teeth.

“Fuck…just listen to her talking to me.” His hands grip your ass tighter as he lifts you up, your cuntsquealching and gushing around his girth as he pushes you back down on him. Caleb stops at the edge of the bed, your slick juices dripping down his shaft and creating a creamy ring at the base of his dick as he lays you down on the plush mattress. You immediately sink down into the softness as he pushes your legs to your chest, ankles damnnear by your ears as he folds you up.

Your breath is stolen from you as your thighs are compressed against your chest as he pistons his dick in and out of your clenching pussy. You grab at his shirt, twisting the material until the buttons pop open. Your eyes widen when the familiar silver dog tag with a small apple charm dangles in front of your eyes. The chain sways to and fro before you and your heart pounds beneath your rib cage as you feel a rush of slick gushing out of your snatch. The necklace you had given him. He kept it. You hook your finger into the chain and pull.

A surprised grunt leaves him when you tug down on his dog tag, making him lean down to meet your lips in a hungry kiss as his hips pause in their brutal snapping. He moans softly when your tongue seeks out his, curling and tasting his mouth. Caleb pulls away, his eyes shining with adoration, desire, and affection for you. “Naughty girl…look what you did to my shirt?” His left hand trails down your body, caressing your soft skin and relishing in the feel of you under his rough fingertips. “Punishment by pleasure. You’re not allowed to cum until I say so.”

His feverish words are whispered hotly against your lips as he pulls his hips back, thick shaft rubbing against your walls as his cockhead bumps against your over sensitive clit. It twitches under his touch as he saws his length through your soaked lips until you damn near were in tears. “Beg. Beg for it. Beg for my cock like the slutty girl you are for me, princess.” He coos softly.

Your teeth worry your bottom lip as tears fill your eyes at his teasing. Your body was beyond sensitive and stuck on the edge between pleasure and pain as the need to cum grows more and more intense. A part of you still wanted to deny him, to not give into his demands, but the bigger, louder part wants to submit to the pleasure. “Pul-please…Caleb…I need you…”

“Hmm?” He leans down, teasing your clit with featherlight touches as he nudges the tip of his dick at your slick hole, sinking the tip in and thrusting shallowly before pulling out. “Need me to what? C’mon. Use those big girl words.”

“Caleb!” You whine out as you try to grab at his necklace again, but he’s quicker than you and takes both your wrists in his bionic hand and pins them to the bed. “I need you to fuck me! Please make me cum again! I need it!”

A feral smirk spreads over his lips as his left hand moves to spread your labia apart, translucent strings of your slick slipping over your drooling hole as he lines up the bulbous tip of his dick. “Since you asked so nicely.” With those words, he slowly sinks back in, making sure you felt every single thick inch of him. Feeling his balls tingling, he set a slow, steady pace, hips smacking into yours with every deep thrust that makes your breast bounce. Your hands twist and nails dig into the meat of your palm as you buck your hips upward and wrap your legs around his middle, your heels fitting perfectly in the dips of his back.

He keeps up that same slow, sensual pace, his hips swirling in slow undulated thrusts as he takes his time. His pubic bone grinds into your clit with every stroke as he slips his fingers inbetween the two of you. Caleb swirls his ring and middle fingers over your clit slowly, pressing into the swollen flesh as he watches your face scrunch up and you writhe with pleasure under him. “Y’like that. Like it as I slowly make you mad with pleasure. Is that something your precious “gege” would do? No, sweetheart, I was never your brother and you knew that. The kisses we shared, the times I held you closer during thunderstorms. The many times have we done this?” Caleb’s thrusting picks up in speed as his emotions hit a new high.

You shake your head as you desperately try to cling onto what little semblance of sanity you had left. But the steady wet smacks of his pelvis against your as his dick makes your pussy gush around him makes that almost impossible. “Caleb. Caleb. Caleb.” His name leaves your lips like a mantra as tears of pleasure fall from your eyes and down the side of your face into your hairline. “You were never my brother, Caleb! You’re my lover!”

Caleb’s hips stutter as his balls tingle and he cums a little at your words. You said it. The one thing he’s been dying to hear. The one thing he was determined to make you say. “That’s fucking right. You never really hated me. You just needed me to fuck the brat out of you, huh?” His hips pick up in speed until he is thrusting in and out of you at such a speed that it makes drool bubble up in your mouth and your tears to fall faster. He captures one of your bouncing breasts between his teeth and sucks the hardened nipple into his mouth, lathing it with his tongue and circling the areola as he works the fingers of his left hand over your pretty little clit.

His balls smack against the curve of your ass as he feels the telltale signs of his release nearing. He quickly moves your legs from around his waist, placing them on his shoulders as he cages you with his body, his thrusting becomes sporadic. Caleb’s hand returns to rest above your mound and spreads, thumb still resting on that tender button as he presses down on the protrusion of his cock in your lower belly. You let out a squeal as the pressure stimulates you from the inside and your legs lock around his neck. The thick tip of his was constantly knocking against your cervix and the fine dark hairs of his pubes rub so tantalizing against your clit as his thumb rubs fast circles.

“Cum. Cum for me, baby girl. Cum so hard for me.” As if by his command, your juices squirt out of your pussy, drenching his pelvis and dripping down his shaft and balls. “Good girl. You want me to cum? Deep inside you and fill you up so full?” His fingers still work over your sensitive clit until you were screaming and begging for reprieve. “Yeah, you do.” He snaps his hips heavily. Once. Twice. Three more times before stilling, his cock twitches within your depths before his seed floods out the tip.

His cum is hot and sticky as it fills your womb, his hips resuming their slow, gentle thrusts to fuck it deeper and deeper still even as the sheer amount overflows your pussy and gushes out with every slow, deep thrust. His forehead drops against yours, the cooling sweat that beads there making your skin sticky as he pecks at your lips in sweet kisses. Caleb slowly lets your legs down from around his shoulders, his left hand massaging your hips in case there was any lingering soreness.

“You okay, little one? I shouldn’t have been so rough…” His eyes widen when your hand slips from his grip and cups his face. Your eyes were soft as you gave him a smile.

“It was perfect, Caleb. I needed this. I missed you.” Your fingers rub his cheek gently as you lean up and press your lips to his forehead softly. You wiggle your hips, feeling his cum slosh around inside you and blinking in confusion. “Uh…Caleb…”

“Hmm?” He hums as he drops his head to the junction of your neck and shoulder, skimming his lips over the soft skin. “Yes, princess?”

You fidget under him, whimpering a bit when he slowly drags his hips out, cock still hard inside you. “How are you still..”

Lilac eyes peer down into yours as a boyish smile spreads over his lips and a chuckle vibrates in his chest. “You didn’t actually think I was done with you, yet? Nope, we have all night. Round Two? Start.”

2022-25 nymphoheretic - I do not give permission to copy, edit, alter, or distribute my work. Do not adverse on tiktok. Do not repost on any other platform.

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[lascvitae]

ON MY MIND ✵ NISHIMURA RIKI.

❀ ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚ alt. YOU MAY BE ON MY MIND

EVERYDAY BABY, SAY YOU’RE MINE .ᐟ

ᝰ.ᐟ you ask your boyfriend to narrate your makeup video and he says yes, but you don’t expect what he leaves in.

ᝰ.ᐟ pairing. gamer bf!niki x fem!reader ᝰ.ᐟ genre. fluff ᝰ.ᐟ warnings/tags. teasing, you do vlogs/make videos, established relationship, domestic fluff, niki lowkey bullies you

ᝰ.ᐟ wc 1k

(🎧) now playing — cool with you by njz.

masterlist.

NIKI SLIDES ONTO YOUR DESK chair like he lives there. (he kind of does at this point.)

you left hours ago, sending him a link to the footage and a simple message:

“do my voiceover plz haha”

he sent back a thumbs up emoji and a picture of him playing valorant at your setup with a bowl of dry cereal.

but — finally — the video’s up on your editing laptop. you’re centered in the frame, lips already glossy, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder like you didn’t plan that. he rolls his eyes and hits record.

“alright. this is my girlfriend. she’s about to spend thirty minutes proving she doesn’t need makeup by putting on a full face of makeup.” he says, voice flat.

you hold up your primer and flash a peace sign at the camera.

“step one: mystery goop. i think it makes your face sticky. which is apparently good. don’t ask me why.”

you start patting it in with your fingers, totally focused.

“she’s acting like she’s doing heart surgery right now. it’s not that deep, bro.”

a moment.

“okay, maybe it is. her skin looks good. whatever.”

next up is foundation. you dot it on with practiced precision.

“here comes the skin colored lotion. as if her face isn’t already smooth.”

you blend quickly with your sponge, mouth moving like you’re talking to yourself off camera.

“she’s definitely complaining about something right now. probably the sponge. or the time. she’s never on time.”

concealer comes next. you do a triangle under the eyes, and a to the chin.

“she does this everytime like she doesn’t sleep whenever she can. like it doesn’t make sense.”

you lift a brow at the mirror. he mirrors the look automatically, smirking.

“she makes that face every time. like she’s surprised it’s turning out cute. babe. it always turns out cute.”

you do your brows now. you go in with small, controlled strokes and niki hums under his breath.

“this part? she zones out completely. i could be talking to her and tell her i crashed the car and she’ll make faces then respond ten seconds later.”

then eyeshadow. you hesitate. consider. then go for the neutral and pink shades.

he nods like he predicted it.

“she does this every time. pretends she’s gonna experiment with brighterer colors and then picks the same color she always uses. at this point it’s muscle memory.”

eyeliner next. you draw a clean wing with one hand, barely blinking.

“i can’t look. i always think she’ll poke her eye.”

you pick up your lash curler and glance at the camera like you already know he’s going to say something.

“yep. the torture device.”

you clamp it, curling your eyelashes upward.

“why are you not even scared? like you’re not squeezing metal near your eyeball right now. couldn’t be me. actually, literally wouldn’t be me.”

you curl the other side with the same calmness.

“she does this in the car sometimes. i don’t know how she does it while moving. and i just have to sit there and pretend i’m not witnessing some shit out of final destination.”

you reach for your mascara next, open it and apply it to your lashes.

“this is the lash grower. like it’s literally magic.”

you pause mid swipe, mouth open, brows slightly raised like you’re trying not to mess up.

“this is the mascara face. you know the one. mouth open, eyes wide, like a fish.”

you finish one eye, then the other, blinking carefully toward the ceiling.

“honestly? she ate that. i’ve never seen someone do this without stabbing their own eye. i flinch just watching it.”

then blush. you apply it to your cheeks and the tip of your nose.

“she’s obsessed with this part. but i like watching it. it makes her look pretty and soft. and the way she uses like, nothing, and it still spreads out—“ he catches himself, laughing under his breath.

“yeah. i like this part.”

you smile at something off camera now. probably at yourself. or maybe at the joke you were thinking of when you were filming. whatever it was, it makes his heart squeeze.

“she smiles like that and i forget what i was talking about.” he says quietly.

highlighter next. it’s just enough to catch the light and you tilt your face toward the window.

“there it is. that little head tilt. she does that every time too. look at her trying not to smile. she knows she looks good. i hope she trips on her way out. just kidding. i’ll catch her.”

you’re reaching for your lip liner now, dragging it gently along the edge of your lips with precision.

niki squints.

“okay, now we’re doing… outlining. this part’s lowkey a scam. she lines her lips just to fill them in again. but i’m not allowed to question it.”

you lean in a little, still focused, overlining the top lip slightly.

“look at her. just casually redrawing her face like it’s a coloring book. i said something about it once and she was like ‘it’s called enhancing.’ okay then. my bad bae.”

you cap the liner and grab your lipstick next, a nudey pink, your go to. you tap it on lightly, almost like a stain.

“this one’s always in her purse. i don’t even know what shade it is but i like it.”

finally: lip gloss. his real enemy. you swipe it on, press your lips together, and pout a little.

niki sighs dramatically. “this part ruins my life. i go in for a kiss and she’s like, ‘nooo you’ll mess it up.’ like girl. you just spent thirty minutes turning into the human version of an angel and i don’t even get one kiss?”

you pose and he continues to talk.

“then when i finally get to kiss her i become one of those sticky mouse traps. but it’s okay. i secretly like it.” he admits.

you laugh at yourself then reach to cover the camera and the screen cuts.

he leans back in your chair, hoodie sleeves half pushed up, hand hovering over the stop button.

the room’s quiet again. the file’s done. he could stop recording.

but he doesn’t.

not right away.

he exhales, taps the desk once with his knuckle, then mutters under his breath, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s still talking into the mic.

“she’s so pretty it actually pisses me off.”

he pauses.

then speaks softer. more to himself than anything.

“…i’m so down bad for her it’s insane.”

click.

taglist — @saysirhc @blissfulflw @yuyuy90

[chiscaralight]

cw: nsfw sukuna x fem!gamer!reader. i hc that sukuna would like prsk and dti lmfao. overstimulation. choso and gojo ver linked at the bottom!

college athlete!sukuna who spots for for the first time on the field. you’re sitting in the bleachers, alone like a loser. most people tend to come with their friends to watch them play, but even in the sweltering sun, you’re still what, playing a game on your phone? he scoffs under his breath and turns his head back to his teammates, locking in for the rest of the friendly match.

college athlete!sukuna who starts to see you everywhere, nose deep in your phone, laptop, switch, whatever it is. it pisses him off for some reason and he can’t pay attention to the group of girls trying to get his attention. what is so important about those damn games?

college athlete!sukuna who slides into the seat next to you a couple of weeks later. you don’t say anything, eyes focused down on your device while the light from your screen reflects off your thin-framed glasses. he clears his throat, but no answer from you. his brows furrow.

college athlete!sukuna who finally gets your attention once you clear the level.

“what the hell are you always playing?”

the question alone has stars sparkling in your eyes as you explain the well thought out lore of your current favorite game franchise. he rolls his eyes at first at your enthusiasm, but he ends up actually getting quite invested in the storyline.

college athlete!sukuna who lets you download games on his phone, only agreeing to play them if you teach him. it leads to a couple of days where the two of you just sit together, his thick fingers trying to maneuver the small device that infuriates him so much it makes you laugh. there’s a solution you have for that, so you tell him to come over later in the evening.

college athlete!sukuna who’s not that outdated, he has a ps5 himself. he plays a sports game with his friends once in a while, but it’s not something he’d say he does often. so he’s a little unsure when you slide the controller into his hand and nudge him to play for a bit while you go change.

college athlete!sukuna who can’t focus on the game, he’s practically undressing you with his eyes. you’re wearing such thin clothing, a slightly loose tank top, and some much too short shorts. unlike him, you’re much too concentrated on the game, missing the way he licks his lips at the sight of your thighs.

college athlete!sukuna who places the controller down practically 4 minutes after you join, claiming he has something else he wants to play.

college athlete!sukuna who ends up with his hand down your underwear, toying with your clit. he makes sure to drag his fingers up and down your slit extra slow so you can focus on your game. but you’re shifting around quite a bit, mouth ajar and eyes struggling to stay open when he slides one in. you're clenching around him a couple of times, before finally letting out a shaky moan.

college athlete!sukuna who’s managed to drag you away from your game with his tongue, fail screen displayed on the tv while his head is deep between your legs, holding your thighs apart while he eats you out. those talented fingers of yours are scratching at his scalp and tugging on his hair, pulling him closer as you start to hump his face.

college athlete!sukuna who’s a little more surprised when you ride him with such ease, your pace fast and steady while he grips the fat of your ass. his eyes are moving between your face and tits that are bouncing oh-so-well, and he just can’t help but fuck up into you, matching the rhythm you’ve set.

college athlete!sukuna who smirks at you across from the class when he sees you the next day. you’re not playing anything this time, eyes surveying the students in the lecture hall until they find his. even with your shirt covering you up so well, he knows just where all the hickeys and bite marks he left are placed, giving you a wink when he sees your smile grow.

college athlete!sukuna who comes over more often, only agreeing to actually play if his cock is sheathed in that ‘gamer pussy’ of yours. and he’ll lean you back, making sure your legs are resting on his arms while his controller is under you. you whine, telling him this isn’t a good position to play, but he retorts by telling you it’s a good position to fuck. your silence is enough for him to fling the controller away and drill into you full nelson just like he wanted to.

college athlete!sukunawho won’t tell you that he does play those games on his phone when the two of you are apart. he’s taken a special liking to one:

Hatsune Miku: Colorful Stage!

what? he’s an athlete. it’s brain-stimulating and it’ll help him keep up his rhythm in the field!

speaking of stimulation, college athlete!sukuna just loves to overstimulate you. he takes pride in the fact that he's one of the only things that can draw you away from an intense match, and he'll make sure you as many times as he sees fit.

college athlete!sukuna who will hand you the disc version of a game you’ve been waiting for for months but couldn’t camp out to get, claiming it wasn’t a big deal. it was actually, he stood in line for almost 8 hours and missed a class, but the way your smaller body was brimming with excitement was enough to put it behind him

college athlete!sukuna who won’t refuse your lips wrapped around his cock as a form of thanks, heavy hand pushing you further down his thick cock while your tongue struggles to move around. such a nasty thing you are, but he’s cumming in your mouth all the same when you moan around his cock.

college athlete!sukuna who suggests that you play roblox tonight while he watches. you agree, knowing it’s just a ploy for him to tell you that you're bad at outfit picking and pick up his controller (yes his, he has a designated controller now) to show you how to get first place in Dress to Impress. and he won. such a clean victory deserves a reward, right? so you’ll have to sit on his face, but not now. he’s about to start another round.

college athlete!sukuna who’s face is blank while he watches you sleep. your shirt is ridden up and your controller is barely hanging from your limp fingers. he’ll turn the console off before scooping you into his arms and depositing you in bed. he’s about to shut the door and go home, but your whiny voice calls out to him to stay.

college athlete!sukuna who bites at your shoulder softly to wake you up. he has an early practice today that he has to leave for but he wants to see you there later on. and no devices, he wants you watching him the whole time.

choso ver here!

gojo ver here!

geto ver!

another sukuna linked to this one here!

[narxcisse]

★ — Taste

Pairing: JayVik x GN!Reader

CW: explicit, i wrote this while i was drunk listening to Taste in loop so It probably has spelling mistakes or idk dude, MDNI

English isn't my native language

Viktor's room smelled of oil and steel, a signature aroma of his restless tinkering. Yet tonight, there was something else-something softer, almost floral. The faintest reminder of you. Jayce noticed it the moment he stepped inside, his brow furrowing, a pang of familiarity stirring deep within him.

"You changed your scent," Jayce said, an almost playful edge to his voice, though the weight of the memory dulled it.

Viktor didn't look up from his desk, the ever-present glimmer of his cane leaning against it. "I didn't," he replied simply, his tone even, almost detached.

Jayce's lips quirked into a knowing smile. "It's them, isn't it?"

That made Viktor pause, his fingers halting their meticulous work on a piece of hextech.

His amber eyes flicked to Jayce briefly before returning to the device. "You shouldn't assume such things."

Jayce stepped closer, boots clicking against the floor, the air between them heavy with unspoken truths. "I don't have to assume," he murmured, lowering his voice as if the room itself might overhear.

The ghost of your touch lingered on them both.

Weeks ago, your body had fit perfectly between theirs, tangled in a bed of limbs, whispers, and fleeting moments that felt like eternity. You had been the bridge between their differences, the storm that ignited their otherwise controlled flames.

Jayce had been rougher, his hands desperate, like he feared you'd slip through his fingers if he didn't hold tight enough. Viktor had been the opposite, calculated and intentional, savoring every shiver he could pull from you. They were opposites, and yet you had brought them together-briefly, beautifully, and entirely on your terms.

When you left, you didn't just leave their bed. You left your mark.

"Jayce," Viktor said softly, pulling the man from his thoughts. He was standing now, his limp noticeable as he stepped toward the taller man. "Why did you come here tonight?"

Jayce swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the way Viktor moved, deliberate and unhurried.

"To talk."

"About them."

"About us," Jayce corrected, though the truth was murkier than he'd admit.

Viktor's lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"They're still here, you know," he said, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. He stepped closer, close enough that Jayce could smell that faint floral note again, stronger this time. "In every breath, in every touch."

Jayce's breath hitched, his hand twitching at his side. It had been weeks since you left, yet here he was, standing inches from Viktor, feeling you between them like a phantom.

"Do you miss them?" Viktor asked, his gaze piercing, unflinching.

Jayce didn't hesitate. "Every damn day."

A charged silence hung between them before Viktor closed the gap, his fingers brushing Jayce's arm. "Then let them stay," he whispered, a challenge and a plea.

When Viktor kissed him, it wasn't just Viktor. It was you-the taste of your lips, the memory of your laughter, the way you had pressed kisses to Viktor's neck and whispered secrets into Jayce's ear. Jayce groaned against Viktor's mouth, his hands gripping the smaller man's hips, pulling him closer as if that might somehow bring you back.

And in a way, it did.

Every touch, every kiss, every moan-they were all laced with the echoes of you, binding them together in a web of shared longing. Neither of them could forget, and neither of them wanted to.

Because some things linger. Some things stay.

And you-oh, you were unforgettable.

[letteremi]

Just like Chet

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: satoru and you have been friends since high school, and boy, it's been tough being his friend. can't he just see that you've been here all along?

cw: suggestive themes (16+), alcohol, and swearing

genre/tropes/etc: friends to lovers (are they lovers? no, worse), university au, unrequited love (idiots), mutual pining, golden boy! satoru, sukuna as plot device (soz), angst, angst no comfort, alcohol!, will they-won't they, miscommunication (sorryyyyyyy), in denial, suguru and shoko and gojo and friend group yippee

wc: 5.8 k

an: not proofread xx running on 2 hrs of sleep and redbull my head IS going to explode but that's okay! I kinda wanted to make it longer actually.

Hope you enjoyy!!

Credit goes to @bronzewasp for the divider!

You weren’t that girl — the kind who pouted, sulked, or let her stomach twist just because a boy didn’t look her way. Not in a million years, or so you told yourself. You didn’t get jealous. Especially not because of Gojo Satoru.

Not even when fangirls swarm him the second he passes the gates of your university. Not when they easily pried you away from him — a manicured hand yanking you back, saccharinely sweet perfume like poison in your throat. 

“I’ll see you after lectures,” you’d say, but you’d always avert his gaze, and he’d flash a grin your way, and then you would part ways. You would keep your head straight, and your eyes forward, refusing to look back at him.  

You’d meet up with him later, by the basketball courts. You always got there first, and you’d always set your backpack down at the uppermost left corner. 

He’d swagger in ten minutes late, backpack slung on his left shoulder like clockwork, Suguru drifting behind with his hands in his pockets.

He’d hop up to where you were, chat your ear off for 20 minutes, with Suguru’s interjections — ‘and then Yaga actually threw his bag at me’ — ‘well, can you blame him?’ 

The hollering whoops and ‘hey man’ of the rest of the basketball team would echo into the gym, signalling the end of your conversation. Without a second look, Gojo would jump up from his squeaky seat, shoes creaking underneath him as he launched onto the wax-coated floors. 

“You always come early, huh?” Suguru would murmur. Not teasing. Just observing. Then he would turn, waving a casual goodbye, with a knowing gleam in his eyes. You never responded. Didn’t trust your voice to come out steady. If you had looked a little closer into his eyes, maybe you’d see the pity in them too. 

When they both left you, you’d turn to your laptop. You’d type furiously — not an essay, not anything — just noise to drown out Suguru’s voice replaying in your mind. He had said what was so obvious, but what Satoru had always failed to notice. Or maybe he had — and just didn’t care. Didn’t want to trespass into the unspoken. 

You envied him — Satoru. The heights in which he soared, the freedom he had to act so natural, to just float between people. Jealousy always creeps in like a cat amongst the shadows. A bitter little voice reminding you that he could turn to anyone, while you only ever turned to him. He belonged to the world, while you stayed in the outskirts. It was fine, really. You didn’t need the spotlight, you were happy without the attention. The twinge of envy calls you a liar. 

He was someone who called the shots, took control of his own future. And you were always just someone waiting in the stands. 

Sometimes you’d turn your gaze towards the court — watching the motions of the players, awed by their fluidity and speed. And sometimes, when you found them, Satoru’s gaze would already be fixed upon you — blue eyes pinned you in place, shameless, electric, like he wanted to be caught staring. 

Your fingers would still, a light pink dusted your cheeks. He’d wink as he scored another point, stuck his tongue out for good measure. 

He’d jog up the stands, his hair damp with sweat, curling at his temples, and snatch your water bottle. After he drank all your water — ‘there are perfectly working water taps just outside the gym, idiot’, exasperated and teasing, Satoru would laugh and recount the game, animatedly gesturing, while you listened attentively. 

And without fail, you had to always bite your tongue. Always had to physically stop yourself from saying the words that came to you as easy as breathing. It was easy to love Satoru Gojo. 

Too easy. 

- 

The carpeted floor of the library is shaking, thundering even. The scratching of pen on paper ceases, the staccato of keyboards stops. People are looking up from their work — some startled, some annoyed. Stomach dropping to your toes, you grimace. There could only be one person coming your way. These days, you don't really want to see him. Too consumed with the thought of studying (and him), or whatnot. 

It wasn’t like you didn’t like thinking about Satoru. Just, that he sprung into your mind uninvited. Going to study today? I should probably invite Satoru… Walking past a store, and seeing a mug with a digimon on it? Satoru would love that for his birthday…Passing couples on the street? Your heart clenches, saying the thoughts that you didn’t want to think.

Shaking your head, you pull your laptop closer like it’s a shield from the Satoru-shaped distraction. Crossing your legs, you sip some matcha before diving straight back into trying to get through slope stability analysis. Why, oh why did you choose to study civil engineering?

A large palm slams onto the table, scattering your pens and sending your papers flying. Craning your neck, you find yourself face to face with the one and only Satoru. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, a playful pout on his lips. Lips pursed, your gut twists. Guilty. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, the picture of innocence. “You’re imagining things.” 

“Ah! She’s manipulative, too!” He gasps dramatically, the back of his hand flying to his forehead. Just as quickly, he drops his palm and surges forward like an overeager dog. 

You could catch the flecks of midnight blue in his eyes. Could see the light freckles scattered across his face. Shoes digging into the carpet, you try to scooch backwards. Unfortunately, your chair doesn’t glide gently across the floor as you had hoped, sticking to the carpet like glue. Instead, it just tilts on its back legs. Awkward.  

Okay, new plan. Arms stretched overhead, you yawn, back curving like a cat’s. A smooth move (not) to put some distance between your faces. The side-eye he gave you let you know he saw right through you, the playful pout of his lips said something else.  

A dramatic sigh fills the air. “Well… I’ll forgive you for being the worst friend ever if you go out with me tonight,” he says. 

With him? 

You stare back at him, confused.  

“Suguru and Shoko said that they wouldn’t come if you didn’t either,” Satoru hums, “Besides, I miss you—”

What? 

“ —no one else can keep up with me on the dance floor,” exasperation and defeat in his voice, though the teasing lilt never leaves.  

“I don’t really have a choice then, do I?” You breathe out, not even realising you had stopped. 

His eyebrows knit together as he leans in again — ever invasive, eyes sparkling. “I’m glad you see things my way,” laughing, “Stay at least this far—” Satoru gestures with both hands, “ — away from me though, so you don’t scare away any cute girls.”

“Ew I’d be standing way further back than that,” you retort. Lie. 

With a roll of his eyes, he’s off like a gust of wind. As soon as he had come, Satoru was gone. The only indication that he had been there was the lingering scent of his citrus cologne. And you, with your ears hot and pink. 

-

Your vanity is a warzone, your foundation brush teeters precariously on its edge, mascara wand missing its tube and drying out by the second, and three half-used highlighters glittering like cute little bombs. Where is that lip gloss? Did you leave it in the last purse, or was it hiding in one of those drawers….

Grumbling, you settle for a lip tint that makes your eyes pop. Your room matches your table, clothes littered on the floor and on the bed — messes made, casualties of indecision, torn between loose, flowy, or short, and form-fitting. 

Your reflection stares back at you as you step back from your mirror — makeup done. Fingers raking against the smooth material clinging to your skin, you gnaw at your lip. Maybe it’s not too late to change into something more casual…

You take one last glance in the mirror. Lip tint, lashes, dress that may or may not be a mistake. It’ll do. It has to. Time is running out, starting over would be pointless.

He picks you up at eight fifteen. Well, technically, Suguru picks you up at eight fifteen. Satoru is the one hollering your name and heralding your arrival, his head jutting out the backseat window with glee. 

The setting sun paints his face in a wash of warm oranges and pinks, and his dark sunglasses sit perfectly upon his nose — completing his party outfit, if you could call it that. As you make your way to the car, you clock his shirt — unbuttoned at the top and sleeves rolled up, showing off his muscles like he’s modelling for Vogue. What a whore, you think affectionately, giggling to yourself. 

As you draw closer, Shoko pops up behind Satoru’s massive head, from the far right of the backseat. “Who’s this babe, and can she give me her number?” she wolf whistles, clapping like you’re walking a runway. 

You do a little spin in your tight dress that hugs you in all the right places, heels clacking against the cement. Eyes rolling affectionately, you blow a kiss to the brunette. She catches it, shooting you a lascivious wink in return. 

“You can have my number, and anything else you want,” you flirt back, pulling the door open with a grin. 

“Isn’t Sugu so mean? He wouldn’t let me be passenger princess,” Satoru whines as you settle into the front seat. “Said I’d make him crash! Unbelievable…”

“That’s because you keep messing up his console, idiot,” Shoko sighs, “How can anyone drive when you’re being annoying?”

“Are we ready to go?” Suguru finally speaks up from the driver’s seat, while adjusting the radio. 

You grin, “I’m six strawberry shots in,” Satoru laughs at your admission, “Let’s do this — before I start regretting this dress. And everything else.”

-

Giggling like madmen, like co-conspirators, you and Satoru had long abandoned your friends for a corner of the bar. The blunt edge of the bar counter dug into your back, but your three? five? eight? Shots dulled the pain. Loud and exhilarating, the heavy beat of the song echoed with your rhythmic heartbeat. Though, with the way Satoru was caging you with his body, toned arms pressing onto either side of yours, you couldn’t be sure which was louder. 

“Toru, you don’t have to do that, you know,” you whisper-shout in his ear. It was the only way he’d be able to hear you over the party-goers. 

“What? And have the crowd sweep you away? Who else is going to laugh at my jokes, huh?” he shoots back. A thrill raced through your body, electrifying. He means he wants you with him then, right?

“Fine. Better you feeling all those sweaty bodies than me,” you tease. Your lips were beginning to ache from how much you’d been smiling. His body heat radiates onto you, soaking you with his warmth, your face so, so red. Here, you could pretend that he was yours. You could blame your feather light touches on the alcohol. You figure that someone like him, so endlessly touchy, wouldn’t mind. It was all in good fun.

You sweep your eyes around the room, trying to catch a glimpse of Shoko’s shiny bracelets, or Suguru’s silver piercings. A pair of red eyes — sharp, hungry —- catches yours several times, your heartbeat stutters each time. Shaking your head, you turn back to Satoru, teasing him. 

Mid-laugh, Satoru lazily turns around, glancing over his shoulder, breaking eye contact. He stills — you feel it, painfully close to you — his laugh dies down, his mouth hangs open. 

“Hey.” A pretty girl with glossy eyes, glossier cherry lips, and long, silky hair had her pointer finger still raised trepidatiously above his broad, angular shoulder. She looks exactly like one of the models he’s always gushing about. 

With a jolt, his back straightens up, like someone had electrocuted him into having good posture. It’s like he’s tingling with a nervous excitement. You watch as his calloused fingers rake through his snowy hair, breathing life into his messy looks. Like he’s trying to impress her. His warmth dissipates from your side. 

He is beautiful. So beautiful. Fuck. 

You should leave. Just because he was a friend you maybe didn’t think of like a friend, didn’t mean you had to also rob him of this opportunity. 

“You’re handsome,” she drags a manicured finger down his chest, leaving rippled fabric in its wake. “Buy me a drink?”

Ahem. You awkwardly clear your throat. Surprise flits across her features, as if she just realised that you were there. I mean, fair, you were standing next to the Gojo Satoru.

“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry, are you together?” Her hands flew to her face, mouth open in a perfect ‘o’, distress present in her pretty eyes. 

“No, no,” your laugh comes out strained. “We’re just friends. He’s all yours.”

As you glance up at him, you swear you see a flash of hurt in his eyes, the slightest twitch of his lips. Just as quickly, he beams back at you, all smiles. Were you imagining things? No, probably just wishful thinking.  

“Yeah,” Satoru affirms, “I’m all yours.” He locks eyes with her, cocking his head flirtatiously. You swear you hear your heart break. 

You need to go. And you need another drink. 

You excuse yourself, mumbling something about going to the bathroom. A pair of eyes, hot and heavy, follow you through the sea of bodies as you push through. Your heart sank with every step, twisting into something so, so ugly. You didn’t have any right to him. You didn’t have any right to feel this way. So why did you?. 

You were right, it was sticky and sweaty. But it was sure as hell better than watching your best friend put the moves on another girl. 

You whip your head back to look at them, hair flying, earrings stinging. The warm, overheard lights cast a reverent glow on them. The angular lines of his face were soft, and his ears were pink. Intense concentration etched in his beautiful eyes, something that you’ve only ever seen when you glance at him during physics lectures. But it was directed to her. It was clear. He was captivated. 

“Owch,” A voice rips you out of your thoughts. You turn back, tearing your eyes away from them. Oh. The crimson gaze from before. 

“Hey, gorgeous. Your hair, uh,” he points to the right side of his face, rubs his jaw a little with a small pout.  

Guilt courses through your veins. Frantic, you grab his left shoulder (it was a lot firmer than you expected), “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I swear...” Your gaze drifts down to his arm, following the dark ink spiralling along down to his wrist. 

The corners of his lips tug into a shit-eating smirk, exposing fanged canines that bit against the plush of his lips. 

“You’re not forgiven, doll. Unless…” He leans in, voice husky and low, “You let me buy you a drink.” 

Well. You are at a club. And, he is hot. And you did not want to think about Satoru right now. 

“Make that seven, and we have a deal,” you purr. Screw Satoru, screw feelings. You squeeze his firm shoulder, your other hand reaching to brush the side of his thigh. 

His smirk grows wider, and his hand finds its way to the small of your back. 

“Sukuna’s got you,” he whispers, with a nip of your ear.

-

You don’t know how many drinks you’ve had. 

At some point, the alcohol stopped feeling like devastation, and more so like liquid melatonin. Satoru hadn’t looked at you all night. Still enraptured with his nice, new girl — all cherry lips and no history. You, on the other hand, are a loser. Fifty seven times. Fifty seven times that you stole a glance at him, and fifty seven times he didn’t look back. It was like you didn’t exist in his world, invisible to the one person you thought saw you most. You felt like a sulky bobblehead, and the lights spun with each movement you made. You shifted slightly, turning your heavy head towards the bartender. One more drink couldn’t hurt. 

“It’ll definitely hurt, missy.” Sukuna laughed, the sound dying as his drink reached his lips. Had you said that aloud? 

A low grumble left your lips, and you turned to pout at the man. He’d had as many drinks as you had, but with the easy way he made conversation with the bartender, and the effortless way in which he’d just said anemone (how does that come up in conversation anyway?), you’d never have guessed. 

Sukuna’s easy grin never faltered. He carried himself like a man who knew the world would bend to his every command. His comfort was all shadows — dark, fleeting, yet, it shielded you from the worst of your ache. 

“You sure you want to keep going?” Low, dangerous. 

Your stomach tightened, too willing to just let go. 

Though your head was heavy, your feet felt as light as air. Floating your way to the lounge, you collapsed on the couch.  

You feel so dizzy, your eyelids fluttering shut. You just want to go to sleep. At home. Crawl into bed. Disappear for a while. 

A large hand wraps around your shoulders, pulling your head onto his chest with little resistance while supporting your back. Sukuna strokes your hair, and you feel the faint pressure of his rings against your scalp. Even the booming techno music isn’t enough to wake you up, you’re just so done. You snuggle into Sukuna’s chest; in your defence, it’s the best pillow you have right now. The tacky leather of the couch sticks to the back of your thighs, your dress riding dangerously high. Your eyes flutter shut, and Sukuna’s coarse fingers trail to your mid-thigh, drawing comforting circles — grounding you. You shiver. Sukuna watches you carefully, stilling his fingers and pulling back. You should let him, but you wrap a hand around his, tugging him back to your thigh. 

Self-hatred devours you. You hate yourself for being so easy to comfort. For reaching for the nearest warmth when the one you really want doesn’t even care if you’re by his side. For all your pride, you’re really nothing without his attention. 

The smell of Satoru’s cologne lingers on you. But the smell is fading, replaced by the smell of nicotine and sin. 

Maybe you just need someone to want you right now. 

Maybe you just want Satoru to look this way, just once.  

Guilt coils in your gut, but you’re too tired to fight it. 

All you know right now is that your head is throbbing. That his hands are warm. And that in this moment, you can pretend it’s him. Pretend you’re wanted. 

The comforting motion begins once again, and you let out a pretty sigh. Sukuna smirks. 

-

Across the bar, Satoru Gojo is seething. If he were a cartoon, steam would be shooting from his ears. His narrowed eyes are locked onto your form, cuddled into some guy’s side. Did you like him? Was that your type? Should he get tattoos? Would that make you finally see him? You nuzzle closer, and his heart twists. Wait, is that his hand on your thigh? His jaw locks so tightly he wonders if he’ll still have teeth by the end of the night. 

Did you even know this guy? Were you safe? It didn’t seem like he was trying to pull anything — not yet, anyway. Satoru closes his eyes. Reminds himself to drop his shoulders. Reminds himself to unclench his jaw. Tells himself to shrug it off. Relax, she knows how to take care of herself. It’s not the first time you had gone out drinking, and it’s not the first time he’s seen you shamelessly batting your eyelashes at a hottie to get a free drink. He thinks it's resourceful, actually, and it’s so funny to watch you swindle them when he’s the one pulling you into the taxi at the end of the night. 

This time is different though. He’s never seen you cling onto someone like this before, with your cheeks flushed, your delicate hands sprawled across both your laps. It hits him like a well aimed punch of betrayal, but he knows that’s not fair. 

He was the one who abandoned you first, choosing to talk to that girl, and not you. He knew it was wrong, it felt like it was against his very being. Satoru just wanted to see how you’d react. He hoped you’d pull him closer, claiming your spot next to him. Needed to hear jealousy oozing from your words. Was desperate for an indication, any sign, that your heart raced as traitorously as his did when he was next to you. 

He thought he could keep you at arm’s length. Indulge in the brightness of your laughter, your sass as you teased him relentlessly, admire your thoughtfulness. Flirt with you, because you both knew it was a joke (it wasn’t for him. It was never a joke for him). Pull you close, like proximity could make up for his refusal to admit to his feelings. And now some knock-off delinquent with discount tattoos and an unoriginal smirk was putting the moves on the girl he wants so badly.

Your jewelry catches the emerald hued light of the dance floor, glinting at him from across the room. You’ve opened your eyes, and you’re scanning the room like you’re mentally parting the sea of people to find him. Satoru adjusts his posture, rolling his shoulders back, tilting his chin slightly upwards — can’t blame a man for knowing his angles; can’t blame a man for needing to look irresistible. Just before your eyes land on his, the man you’re with lifts your chin, saying something low against your ear. Your eyes widen. That’s it, he’s coming over. 

His heart is already halfway across the room; his body just follows. 

-

Sukuna’s telling you that someone is staring daggers at him right now. That they kind of look like they want to obliterate him on the spot for being with you. 

Bitterness in your throat, it’s like the tiredness in your eyes has been replaced with venom. There is no one in this room that feels that way about you. 

You wished otherwise. But that was the truth, a bitter pill you had been trying to swallow all night. It’s cruel, you think. How he keeps giving you hope. Taking it away the next second. Or maybe you’re just angry that you believe him every single time. 

You’re trying to glare down at him through your lower lashes — which proves difficult when you’re practically slumped onto his body. With a huff, you rise to your (wobbly) feet. 

Much better — now you can scold him for playing with your sad, tired heart. 

Crossing your arms across your chest, you lean down to really give him a piece of your mind. 

Heels and alcohol don’t mix though. Your balance tips all at once. Head lurches past your feet. Fuck.

Your hands fly out in front of you. Muscles tense in anticipation, you’re waiting for the thud, to feel Sukuna’s body under yours (but not in the way he expected tonight to go..). It never comes. 

A warm arm wraps itself around your waist. Strong, familiar. 

“Hey Princess, don’t you go falling for someone that’s not me.” Oh. You knew that teasing tone. Could pick it out of a room of overlapping conversations easily. Your body begs to melt into the sharp outline of his, but you’re still feeling petty, so you stay stiff, resisting the pull that is him.

“Hey,” Satoru calls your name again, low and coaxing, “It’s hometime.” 

You tilt your head sideways, quizzical, looking up through your eyelashes at the white haired man. “Oh. Gojo.” 

The name is foreign, tastes wrong on your tongue. Too distant. 

“Gojo?” 

Satoru’s voice comes out strangled. He hasn’t been Gojo to you since before high school. Short, and sharp, his breaths are haggard against your ear. The thud of his racing heartbeat against your back. The ever tightening grip of his soft hands, hard on your skin. His forearm gently pulls your body closer. It's still not close enough. 

“It’s Satoru to you,”  he murmurs. 

Scrunching your nose, “Okay fine,” you sigh, clearly not budging, “I want to stay with Kuna though. Kuna’s comfy…you’re exhausting.” You’re aiming to kill. 

Sukuna raises a brow, dimples showing, and the corner of his mouth twitching as if to say try me. But he lounges back on the leather like it's his throne, challenging Satoru to challenge your drunken rambling. 

Words cannot describe the sheer disbelief on Satoru’s face. His beautiful features are contorted dramatically — eyebrows shooting into his messy fringe, mouth partially open like he wants to say ew, and he’s no longer breathing.

“Um no you don’t and no he isn’t,” He’s gentle, but there’s no mistaking the sharpness of his tone. His hands are trembling, like he’s one second away from breaking. “Come on, you’re wasted. We’re going home. Now.” He wraps a hand around your forearm and puppets it into a limp wave. “Bye, Kuna. Thanks for your…help.” Satoru’s clipped tone isn’t fooling anyone. 

It’s automatic, it’s out of your control, the way you immediately slump against his frame. And Satoru can’t help the way he feels when you finally surrender to him. 

-

Satoru has to drag you into the taxi. Click goes the seatbelt, as Satoru nimbly belts you up — his silky hair brushing against your face like a feather duster. The muscle of his arm contracts, moves against your waist, your stomach, as he shoves you inside— you can’t help it, it tickles, and giggles bubble up your throat, filling the silence of the cab. 

Wait. 

You’re supposed to be wallowing in your self pity right now. And ignoring him. 

You cross your legs towards the window (decidedly away from Satoru), and you whip your face in the same direction. 

Huff. 

Petulant? Yes. Did you care? No. You wanted so desperately to make him feel like he was losing you, just this once. 

Just like you’ve always felt. 

His stare bores into the back of your head, the whole ride back to your apartment. 

You stomp ahead of him, heels clacking loudly as you ascend the stairs, pushing open the front door with force — leaving it unlocked for him, you know he’s following anyway. You hope he’s following. 

Satoru trails behind you, arms crossed, tense, footsteps silent. Ears pick up on his fumbling with his keyring, finding the vibrant, hot pink spare you gave him, and locking the door with a click. A chord of shame, guilt, satisfaction, rips through you. You’re ashamed that you want him here, after the show you put on in the club. Sheepish, that you acted in that way. You didn’t even want Sukuna that bad anyway. Satisfied, that in spite of that, he’s here. He’s here. 

You’ve moved into the bathroom, sighing into your reflection, as you lean onto the sink. You pump oil cleanser onto your palm, rubbing furiously into your skin, like it’d scrub tonight’s events from your memory. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

Foundation-tinted water spirals down the sink. Still, you reach for the makeup remover—like it could erase the night.

“Hey, can I come in?”

Satoru. 

A sigh. “Sure.”

His figure moves into your peripheral vision, a hand holding scrunched up silky pajamas, the other tucked into his pants pocket. He’s half-hidden by the wooden door frame, like he doesn’t want to be seen by your anger-clouded stare. He’s looking downwards, to the side, eyelids lowered. 

He walks over, sets the pajamas by the sink. His eyes follow the way you rub at your eyelids, makeup remover soaked cotton pad in one hand. The mascara just won’t lift.

Satoru grabs the cotton, pries the makeup remover from your hands. “Just let me help,” voice low, and soft, “Promise it won’t hurt.” 

He’s already taken the remover. You sigh, stilling. “Fine.” The hum of the bathroom fans permeates the silence. You close your eyes, letting him press the liquid soaked material against your eyelashes. 

You let your eyes flutter open when he finally pulls back, the cotton pad now darkened with the last of your stubborn mascara. He holds it up like a trophy, grinning at first — until he sees your face, properly sees it, like the act of cleaning away the makeup stripped away your armour too.

You're bare now. In more ways than one. And he knows it.

“I’ll go warm up your bed,” he mumbles, like it’s something casual. Like the weight in his gaze didn’t make your knees want to give out.

You nod, wordless.

When you step into your room, it’s dimly lit — just the soft golden hue of your bedside lamp casting shadows along the walls. The sheets are pulled back on your side. And Satoru’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, his back to you, elbows resting on his thighs like the weight of the day has finally gotten to him too.

The door creaks behind you as you step inside, slowly. Your legs feel heavy. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the ache of everything you’ve left unsaid.

You get in bed without a word. Pull the blankets up to your chest. Big hands tug at the corners of your blankets, tucking them under the mattress. The silence thickens.

It’s like he’s wrapping a towel around a feisty cat, with how hard he's tucked you into your sheets. Featherlight, his palm cups your jaw as his thumb brushes at the corner of your lower lashes. It lingers for a touch too long, like he’s savouring being so close, so intimate. You both feel it, the line he’s toeing. Your pulse stutters, leaning into his touch before he removes his hand, brandishing a smudge of black on his fingertip. 

“Leftover eyeliner.” Satoru says, voice casual, and distant. But you catch how his hand flexes, twitches. He stands back up, eyes darting to the corner of your room, averting eye contact. Oh, right. You’re reading too much into his actions. He didn’t like you. Any decent person would do this for you, for anyone. You weren’t special. 

Warm tears pool in your eyes, and silent rivers run down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, pretty girl, why are you crying?” He says, voice laced with panic, movements frantic above you. Thud. He drops to his knees, cupping your alcohol-flushed face with both frigid palms. His silver eyebrows draw together, skin creasing in the middle. 

You bring your own hand to his face, pressing firmly between his eyebrows, smoothing out the furrow. “It’s nothing. ‘s not like you care.”

“I care about you,” Satoru mumbles, looking deep into your eyes, “Tell me what’s on your mind.”  

“Do…you like me?”

“You’re really doing this?” He questions, fingers carding through his hair — like he was annoyed, frustrated, at you even, for disrupting the illusion of friendship you had. The expression melts off his face, when he notices the trembling of your lips, the springing of fresh tears. 

His hands reach for you, but you’re flinching away like he’s just struck you. 

“Right. Of course.” You flick your eyes from his stunned face — mouth still agape, like he’s still processing — to the alarm clock by your bedside.  

Satoru got you the alarm clock on your bedside table, after your phone alarm failed one too many times. He had complained that he looked like a loser in Calculus III; sitting all by his lonesome, looking like an abandoned puppy with how he turned to look at each person who entered the lecture room. 

Don’t ever leave me alone again, he’d pouted, smacking the air out of your lungs. 

The memories run rampantly through your mind as you silently grieved the loss of your relationship, fists clenched, fingernails digging into your palm — desperately trying to replace the ache in your heart with the physical sting. They clung to you like a second-skin, every detail vivid, bright, in the quiet darkness of your room. 

You blinked, head roughly tossing from side to side, like you could physically catapult the memories, the experiences, Satoru, from your mind — desperate to halt the flood of emotions threatening to drown you. 

You were done. You had to be done. 

The boy next to you is a statue, head hung low, like he wants to say something, anything, but can’t. 

You turn toward him, your heart pounding as you break the silence. Hands trembling, shaking. “We can’t be friends anymore,” breath hitching, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, faltering at the edges with hurt, as your voice wavered. 

Your lungs felt like they were being crushed, your mind reeling, but it was too late to take it back. You had drawn the line, and you weren’t going to cross it ever again. For your sake. 

“Wait what–” Satoru starts, but you press a finger against his lips, “Just…can you kiss me? Then you can go.” 

He’s kissed plenty, only to ghost them the next day. The least he could do was offer you the same kindness, no?

His brain is short-circuiting, his mouth agape. Something wild flares in his widened eyes. His gaze flickers to yours, like he was trying to piece it out, but the puzzle didn’t make sense no matter how he arranged the parts. 

You’re rolling over, hands reaching out to his face. Tender, and soft, you thumb at the sharpness of his jaw. He shudders at the feeling, muscles relaxing, leaning into your touch. His breath hitches as you draw impossibly closer. 

“You’re drunk, we can’t–,” his breath ghosts over your own, puffy lips. Hesitation heavy in his voice. 

You don’t give him the chance to finish, edging closer, lips hovering just shy of his. Breaths mingling, noses tilting, heartbeat thundering. Every part of you aching for something that you couldn’t have, would never have. 

You pull back, just a fraction. Meeting his eyes — radiantly sapphire, an abyss you’d gladly fall into over and over again — filled with so many unsaid words.

“Right.” You draw in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” voice barely a whisper. The weight of his rejection hanging in the air between you, the hurt searing your soul.

You slump back to your pillow, and you turn away from him. You let him go. 

You hear the creaking of the floorboards, the rustle of his clothes, as he rises from beside you. Each movement is so slow, so painfully slow. Leave already, you want to scream. 

The door doesn’t close right away. You can hear him standing in the hallway — a breath held, a presence refusing to vanish. And then, finally, the soft click. Silence.

Cause that’s what he’s always done. Leave. 

© 2025 letteremi. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise/copy, translate, or repost my work to any platforms 

[chiiyuuvv]

understands ★

down bad!nicholas 1.5k words

notes! inspired by song linked in 'notes!' "i'll admit that i'm scared / 'cause i've never really cared as much as this / it's worth the risk" screamed nico so ofc i had to write about it. warning!! this is very delusional, read at your own risk

▸ 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺?

“ta.. da..” nicholas pops out of his hiding place once he hears the rooftop double doors creak open. the huge grin plastered on his face shrinks to a shy smile, suddenly self-conscious now that you were in front of him. “hi..” he mumbles, the back of his neck suddenly itchy from embarrassment. 

“hi,” you breath out in shock, your eyes darting past flustered nicholas to scan the deck he decorated just for you. it seemed unlike his character to put so much care in an objective, a picnic blanket placed in the center of the area with pillows surrounding the perimeter. a speaker was placed to the far left of you, soft rnb echoing from the device. there wasn’t a need for any lights, the cloudless stars being your source to see. 

“do you like it?” nicholas’s voice releases the breath you didn’t even know you were holding, his chest pressed against your back as he drapes his arms around your waist. “i, um.. put a lot of time into it,” his deep chuckle rings in your ear, his chin resting on your shoulder. 

“why?” you turn in his embrace, your eyes widening at the lack of space between you. nicholas looks down at you as you look up, the sparkle in his stare brighter than any star in the sky. if you examine closely, the tips of his ears match his hair, the small smile still adoring his features. 

“you know..” he starts off timid, his voice small as his shoulders do a little shrug. “i just wanted to.. say thank you, for everything,” the way his voice trails off suggests there were more to his reasons, but for now, you nod in acknowledgement at his heartwarming gesture. 

“you didn’t have to,” your voice was as small as his as you pressed your head against his chest. he takes it as a sign to bring you closer, his fresh scent invading your nose.

“i had too,” he defends. you could only chuckle at how persistent the boy was being, especially after the incident. you always found it to be no big deal, unable to realize how much you changed the boys' world.

nicholas was upset.

the joyful cheers of your friends and their video games fade into nothing once the male prances past the living room and into his room, slamming his door with frustration. the commotion makes harua jump in his seat, you and taki sending worrisome looks at each other. “don’t mind him,” euijoo chimes, placing his controller on his lap as he shakes his head. “he just needs some space. anyways, who’s up for another round of mario kart?!” and just like that, the happy energy resumes like nothing happened. 

maybe it was your stubborn attitude telling you to do something after euijoo told you not to, but you found yourself in front of nicholas’s door moments after the boys passed out from their gaming.

“go away,” his voice was raspy compared to the soft knocks on his door.

“i brought some strawberries,” you squeak, still determined to make the male open the door. “i’m sorry if i’m being annoying, i just want to make sure you’re oka–” the door swung open before you could finish your sentence, hair covering nicholas’s sharp eyes as he looked down at you like you were some type of pest.

“if i take the food, would you leave me alone?” he sounded irritated, his words straight to the point.

“actually,” you give an awkward smile, “can i come in?”

nicholas was stressed.

“i feel like i’ve been trapped inside a box filled with impossible accomplishments, yet i have no one to turn to when i need help,” nicholas mutters, his head placed comfortably on your lap. you hum in response, giving him the opportunity to rant his heart out as your fingers comb his hair. “it feels so hard doing everything by myself.”

“who says you’re by yourself?” nicholas perks up at your words, your hands still in his hair as you give him a reassuring smile. “i’m sorry you feel so imprisoned, nico,” you begin, your hand sliding down to cup his cheek. your thumb rubs the skin. “it may not feel like a lot, but you have me to support you.”

“oh,” he breathes, shocked by your words. “thanks.”

nicholas was in love.

“are you good?” you turn your head to the boy in question, your elbow resting against the diner table. nicholas turns to face you with a smirk, jokingly raising an eyebrow. 

“what, i can’t laugh at what my own best friend is saying?” he teases, suddenly glad you were sitting on the same side so he could itch closer to your body. his heart skips a beat when you lean even closer, your noses centimeters from each other. 

“not when our nico sounds so cute!” yudai, the friend you forgot was accompanying you chimes. he leans his chin into his hands on the other side of the table, nicholas snapping his head to the older in annoyance.

“i’m not cute,” he nags, sending yudai a look. the boy only winks in return.

“yeah, you’re right!” you defend, playfully furrowing your brows at yudai as you wrap your arm around nicholas’s shoulder, bringing him closer to you. “you’re my cutie,” you giggle, pinching the boys cheek. unline how he reacted to yudai, nicholas keeps quiet, clearly flustered by your words. 

“but i’m wrong when i say the exact same thing,” yudai bellows, raising his hands in defeat. “favoritism!!” he says, loud enough to get looks from across the restaurant.

…

“you’ve put so much time and effort into me, the very least i can say is thank you,” you appreciated his words, but deep down you knew there was something more to nicholas’s actions. especially since he’s been acting so differently around you. the way his eyes linger onto yours, how his lovesick smiles appear as soon as you enter a room. he makes you feel warm inside, like you were so special to him. 

“you’re welcome but,” you stop to chuckle in disbelief, “no one sets up an entire date to show how grateful they are, nico. seriously, what’s all of this about? you’ve been acting so weird lately,” your fingers trace his jawline as you speak, determined to pry his mind apart.

“because i..” he stops to catch his breath, his heartbeat speeding up when he looks into your eyes. a hand lets go of your waist to interlock the fingers on his face, placing light pecks on the tips. “i’ve never felt like this before,” the boy finally opens up, squeezing your hand. “i never felt so carefree, so loved. you’ve taken me in like i was yours to begin with, you’ve been so sweet, so soft, so inviting. i can be myself without receiving any judgement, i can feel upset without having to be guilty about it. y/n, you help me realize that..”

“that?” you tilt your head, tears welling up at nicholas’s precious words. the boy keeps quiet, his nervousness getting the better of him. he feels as if he doesn’t deserve one drop of your undivided attention. you were an angel that flew from heaven who constantly put a smile on an unorganized guy like him. you had a life, yet you put it on pause to help regulate nicholas. all those late night calls filled with encouragement when you could have turned off your phone and went to bed, he didn’t know what it was that made him worthy of you. you were too good for him. 

he must do something to show how much he appreciates you, right? even if that meant rehearsing his confession for hours in front of a mirror after he got home from work, or turning his rooftop into something you’ve always dreamt about. although he was scared, he still thought you were worth the risk.

his eyes stay glued to yours as you stand in the tense silence. his heart speeds up again because god, you were so pretty. he hates that he’s come to this realization now. in a swift movement, his hands let go of your body to gently cup your cheeks, lifting your chin so now he had a straight shot at your lips. 

he licks his own in anticipation, your presence making his mind go blank, your soft breath erasing all the doubts in his head. he lets out a sigh before connecting your lips in a feverishly slow pace, his figure being sent to a world of bliss as your mouths move against each others. he starts to feel dizzy when you grip his shirt, pulling him closer like you were going to lose him if you didn’t. words couldn’t never express the amount of love you had for each other. 

letting go of your lips, his hands circle around your waist again, ducking his head to kiss the salty tears from your face. if it weren’t for your soft giggle, you would have heard the boy sniffle. he pushes your foreheads together, closing his eyes in bliss.

“you’re the only one who understands.”

︴bonus! kinda got carried away, anyways i hope you enjoyed hehe

▸ taglist 📬 @cherrycolaberry , @wtfisgoingright . @slytherinshua , @luvnicho , @enhacolor , @lakoya

🎬 navi

@chiiyuuvv on tumblr . do not steal works/headers/line dividers

[ryuucam]

MY SAVIOR, BEAUTIFUL SOUL

⋆｡𖦹°‧ the oak family head has always intrigued you, but your sworn loyalty to the nameless led you to raise your sword against him in battle. but now that it’s all over, and he’s repented his sins, will you let him get closer to your heart?

contains friends to lovers but it’s more like love at first sight, slight aventurine x reader, purity-corruption talk, slight yan!sunday, gopher wood and sunday backstory, religious imagery, character study?, very very slight gore but as a rhetorical device, pov changes (reader -> sunday), scent kink, virgin!reader (implied) and virgin!sunday, he’s an asshole about virginity, cunningulus, pussy referred to as “she”, dubcon-noncon creampie

notes this was supposed to be a drabble idk what went wrong, take this as a thank u for all the support <33 feel free to send in requests

sunday, dominicus, the oak family head. ever since you arrived in penacony, you’ve heard these names countless times - but you can’t blame the citizens, because, as the ipc gambler said, he is the most famous man in the whole planet of festivities (well, he said handsome, but thinking about how attractive he is will just make you even more distracted). you can’t deny that you feel intrigued by the halovian, but, with all that happened, it is very unlikely that you’d ever interact with him again. well, that’s the harsh reality of the trailblaze - as march told you in one of your “girl talks” in your room in the reverie. and as soon as you start coming to terms that your little crush on sunday is destined to be inconclusive, you suddenly receive a text from mr. yang: the man you’ve been infatuated with is joining the express.

you’re a bit ashamed of your lack of hesitation when it’s time to vote in favor of the new member of the astral express - at least caelus and the others agree with you in looking past all the ena chaos. well, it’s not like you went against your better judgment: it’s clear that sunday has had a change of heart, and all his actions are a product of years of grooming and abuse by another member of the family. as he came to terms with this knowledge, though, sunday changed. the meticulous oak family head is no more, and all that’s left behind is a bird with no wings, no freedom, nothing. but, despite being just a shadow of his former self, the halovian is not a stranger to humanity, to feelings. he saw your behavior on penacony (your courage, your strength, your desire for freedom), and he saw how you stood up for him for his addition to the nameless. and he admires you.

as weeks go by on the express, sunday slowly starts getting closer to you: first, it’s offering you some insight on books he’s read, that are most certainly in your interest, miss y/n, then, it’s joining you for breakfast. and when you two are close enough - closer than he is to any other member on the express - he starts being more physical. resting his knee against yours (unknowingly making your heart skip a beat, or two), lying his hand on your shoulder, and slowly inching his face closer and closer to yours. even if he’s long abandoned the manipulative powers of ena, you still feel trapped by his gaze. however, it’s not controlling - far from it - but the sheer sensibility and vulnerability that pool in his irises are enough to make you go weak in the knees.

one night, you’re both sprawled out on your bed, staring at the stars in the ceiling. while you’re seemingly relaxed, sunday feels like his brain is about to short circuit any second now: his nose is filled with your perfume, his fingers are less than an inch apart from yours, and his eyes are stuck on your face. have you always looked this good? yes, he’s sure of it: your hair frames your face so well, your complexion looks exceptionally dreamy, and the way your eyes melt into his is enough to make him feel lightheaded. and your body - god, your body. sunday has lived a life of chastity, of strict rules and limited, if not any, freedom. even so, he can’t help but feel guilty when he feels his cock inevitably strain against his pants when you unintentionally get closer to him. his breath hitches, and he hopes, prays even, that you don’t notice the twitching. sunday feels like the guilt could eat him alive: you’re so sweet, so willing to accept him for who he is - and he’s doing nothing but tainting the sweet image has of you.

who is he kidding? the second he met you, you were corrupted by him. since your first introduction in the reverie, when he wasn’t an outcast, a fugitive yet, but the most respectable man in penacony, he had his mind set on you. he was disgusted with himself when he felt his stomach churn at every interaction you had with the stoneheart. sunday knew he had no business involving himself with your affairs with aventurine, but he went against his better judgment and spent just a tiny bit more time torturing the avgin man. of course, he feels like a monster now. and he felt like one when you were on the battlefield, fighting against the harmonious choir, against him. but, sunday is now a new man. so, deep in his heart, he hopes that you’ll forgive him for lusting over you.

“sunday? are you okay?”

oh. your voice, your sweet, honey-like voice. it’s enough for him to be stripped away from his thoughts, a saint arriving at a land of sin and evil. he coughs - a lousy way to mask his thinking. “i…yes. don’t concern yourself, miss y/n”. your eyes soften. “sunday… you can tell me what’s wrong. you’re not alone anymore.”

right - he’s not alone. he has you, mr. yang, caelus… he is no longer trapped in a cage, and his newfound freedom is hard to process. the world sunday has known for years has collapsed, but rebuilding a new one is easy if you’re with him. and he knows you won’t leave. right? how could you leave? an angel like you is above all cruelty he’s known, and you’ll take care of him. so he smiles, and closes his eyes, denying himself to stare at you any further.

you just sigh: after all that’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to pry further in his mind. you don’t know what you’ll find. so, unconsciously, you reach out to him, hand sneaking over his face, caressing his cheek. you don’t miss the hitching of his breath, or how his eyebrows form a slight frown. sunday, on the other hand, is feeling everything all at once: he feels like he’s crash landing in a groundless void. the more he sits there, helpless, the more he feels disgusted with himself. how can he not do anything in this situation?

but he knows, deep down, that you won’t blame him for being weak: you’re worshipping him as much as he does you, and for just a second, sunday feels the robbed divinity rush in his veins again.

and with this newfound confidence, sunday open his eyes and almost closes the gap between you two. it’s bold, irrational, and so unlike him, but he sees no trace of malevolence in your eyes - just genuine surprise. he thinks you look so cute like this, so surprised. so he’ll keep going, so long as he gets to see you like this. he inches closer, and everything around him stops. his heart and mind are racing with questions, unresolved reasonings, but sunday thinks it’s time to let this all go. maybe he’s trying to cope with the lustful, sinful, but oh so addicting thoughts he has of you, but maybe, just maybe, he’s a tired man seeking solace.

and maybe he can be both, he concludes. his lips press against yours, clumsy and inexperienced, and his eyes flutter shut. sunday feels the oxygen flowing back into his lungs when you mimic his actions. the hand that was resting on his cheek now serves as a way to pull you both closer to each other, both unknowingly afraid to break the kiss. it’s fragile, raw, but so is sunday. you’re the first to pull away, reluctantly, but the halovian knocked all air out of your lungs. your hand doesn’t move, though, and a line of spit that connects your lips serves as a testimony to what just happened. you’re breathless, wordless, but sunday sees your dilated pupils and reddened cheeks - maybe you need him in the same way he needs you. that must be it.

“miss y/n…” sunday speaks first. your expression softens. he sees it, and suddenly every word that comes to his mind seems meaningless, unworthy of being uttered in your presence. you deserve more, much more, and sunday fears he’ll never be able to communicate with you - not even by ripping out his heart and handing it to you. you sense this (and sunday wonders how: surely you have not been blessed by xipe?), and rest your forehead against his. you smile, and he feels powerless. experimentally, you rest your lips on top of his. “is this okay?”, you murmur, lips not leaving his.

god, yes. sunday feels no hesitation as he crashes into the kiss, breaking the soft and gentle balance you tried to build. he knows he’s never done this before, but he doesn’t worry about self consciousness, insecurities or whatnot. he forgets about lust, maybe because he’s already been taken over by it, or maybe because what he’s feeling is love. either answer is foreign to sunday, who keeps following his instinct. he gently moves on top of you, one hand holding yours, while your other hand lowered itself on the nape of his neck. he kisses you again, and again, until you’re both panting, lips swollen and wet with spit. and the he feels it - how could he have forgotten it? the strain in his pants is more evident than ever, nudging at your soft thigh. he whimpers at the friction, feeling his clothed sensitive tip nudge against your skin. sunday feels his stomach churn: what now? he’s never done this before - he has never touched his cock, let alone have it done by someone else.

then, he hears it. and he feels like he could listen to that angelic sound for the rest of his life.

you whimpered - or is that a stifled moan? sunday does not know, but it doesn’t matter as he’s now painfully aware of your presence. he feels lightheaded, his mouth is inexplicably dry: he swallows, then closes his eyes. he gets closer to you, nose prodding at your cheek, taking in your scent - it’s sweet, just like you, but it’s just so human, so raw. is this what arousal smells like? sunday’s head is spinning, and he feels like all the blood his poor heart is pumping out is going straight to his pants. his free hands goes from your cheek, your neck, your collarbones. then, he hesitates: he needs to tell you something, he can’t just take you. “miss y/n… will you let me?” your eyes are watery, your face is burning. you can just nod, not being able to let out any word but a sweet, sweet whimper. sunday smiles: you’re just so cute. “you have to tell me… can’t do anything otherwise. can you do that for me, miss?”

embarrassment pools over you. when did he get so bold? but his erection feels so good on your skin, and you need more: so, you do as he commands. “please, sunday… t-touch me? please-ah!…” sunday rolls his hips into your crotch as you speak, tip hitting your poor cunt. he smiles, and kisses you again. he keeps on kissing you, trying his best to keep you quiet - and him. his hands sneak down to your chest, feeling the soft, supple flesh sink into his cold, trembling fingers: your breasts are even better than what he imagined (countless nights spent stifling his noises as he pumped his cock, thinking about you), and he feels his dick twitch when he feels your nipples hardening. as he unbuttons your shirt, he wonders how he could’ve lived without this, without you, for so long. you’re left in your bra - it’s nothing elaborated or fancy, just a white, lacy bra that cups your boobs so well. sunday breaks the kiss to press pecks all the way down to your neck, pressing his lips on your soft mounds and nose on your cleavy. aeons, you smell so good. “pl-please… help me take this off.” you don’t question his inexperience, and slowly unhook your bra. sunday’s the one that takes it off, and he swears his briefs are drenched in precum. he latches his mouth on your nipple, hand playing with the other, first sucking gently - and as you moan and cry louder, he gets harsher. he’s unaware of the hickeys tainting your smooth skin: even if he wasn’t, he’s too busy playing with your tits. his cock is subconsciously prodding at your crotch, and you can’t take it anymore: “sund-ah! sunday!… ngh, n-need you to-hm!… do m-more…”

oh. how can he deny you? he leaves a goodbye kiss on your nipple, so lewd but so him, and moves his hands to your waist, slowly tugging down your skirt. once it’s off, sunday focuses on your panties - oh, they’re matching with your bra. did you do this for him?, he wonders. you minx, you knew that he’s infatuated with you. well, now’s not the time to dwell on this, he concludes, and strips you of your panties. now he’s left stunned: your puffy cunny is staring right back at him. “y-y/n… you’re gonna let me touch this? this pretty pussy? please?…” you nod - the praise making your head spin and eyes roll back into your skull. sunday smiles, relieved: he didn’t know what he’d do if you denied him of your sweet hole any longer. his face hovers over your crotch, lips kissing your labia, your clit, your hole.

his nose is pressed against your clit, bumping on it as he makes out with your cunt - and you cry, thrashing desperately because this is so lewd, so perverted! how’s sunday supposed to know all this? your thoughts are interrupted when he sighs, and reluctantly leaves your pussy alone. you gulp as he raises his body, undoing his belt and letting his pants fall. he’s in his briefs, and you can clearly see the fat outline of his cock. it’s hard, thick, and there’s a wet spot right where the tip is: sunday lets out a deep breath, and tugs down his pants. your mouth is watering, and you feel your neglected cunt leak as his cock springs free, hard and angry, so different from its owner. sunday is delicate, pure, and his length is swollen, veins leading to the oh so delicious mushroom tip.

sunday’s embarrassed: why are you staring at him? is his cock so horrid? why- oh.

he lets out a moan when your hand engulfs his dick, soft skin wrapped around his aching flesh, and sunday thinks lust has really taken over him. “please, let me-ah, lemme put this inside. need y-you!” and how can you say no?

you lean back, and sunday’s on you like a starved man - he knows he should lick your hole a bit more, maybe stick a finger or two in it, but he has long forgotten all the knowledge he got from some blooodhounds years ago. his tip prods at your small hole, and he worries about breaking you. can you take it? his sweet angel, you’re so perfect for him and he’s about to defile you - oh, he feels like he could cum just like this. tip pressed against your clit, both of your juices mixing together in a candied mix. he lowers his cock a bit, enough to be face to face with your entrance. the world stops when he slips it in: your pained moans, your walls fluttering shut around him, your tears staining your white sheets. sunday has ruined you, corrupted you with his lust, but now that he’s known how your cunt feels, he can’t get enough.

he moves, and his thrusts are messy, sloppy, inexperienced, his balls slapping and bruising your soft skin. sunday feels like he’s reached heaven, and he won’t stop. he can’t - you’re sucking him in so hard, so desperate to be fucked by your halovian companion. oh, you must be a pervert too, sunday realizes, letting a defiled angel like him taint you. but now you’re his, forever robbed of your purity and pride, and you’re not going anywhere.

“‘m gonna c-cum, ‘kay a-ah, angel? let me cu-uhm! in you, please? y’re g-gonna be ngh! a sweetheart, yeah? lemme claim your cunny, ‘kay?” sunday’s voice is slurred, words flowing out of his lips without his control. you nod, maybe even say something back, but sunday can’t hear you - you’re pussy’s the one he’s listening to right now. and she’s pleading so sweetly for sunday to cum in her. so, maybe you’re telling him no, that it’s risky, it’s wrong - but he’s not listening.

sunday empties his load deep in your pussy, kissing your cervix and womb with it, and he’s happy. he kisses you, poor you who’s all fucked out on your bed. don’t worry though, sunday will take care of you. it’s only natural - you’re bound together now, and maybe this realization is the reason you creamed so sweetly around his cock. he kisses you again, and you succumb yourself to him.

he’s happy, and he feels his cock twitch at the thought of doing this again. then, he’ll take his time tasting and ruining you again, and again, until he’s sure you won’t leave him: not for the avgin, not for the trailblazer, not for dan heng. you’re his, and he’s yours. forever.

[mead-iocre]

FIFA | Leah Williamson x Reader

synopsis: you play FIFA

warnings: none. just fluff x

wc: 1.7k words

The late afternoon light filtered through the sheer linen curtains, casting a warm golden glow across the living room. You sat curled up on the couch, legs draped over Leah’s lap, idly scrolling through your phone. The rhythmic clicking of the Xbox controller’s buttons was the only sound filling the room, a counterpoint to the quiet hum of the outside world.

All of a sudden, the clicking of the controller stopped. Leah nudged your leg, palm wrapping around one thigh and squeezing. “Hey, baby” she said, her voice light with a hint of something else. “Wanna do something fun?”

You look away from your phone, arching one perfectly groomed eyebrow. Leah took a moment to admire you, dressed in your favourite Izaak Azanei pink shearling cuff button cardigan with the matching leggings. Leave it to you to be overdressed, even in the comfort of your own home. 

“What do you have in mind?” you asked, letting her phone drop onto the sofa beside her. You were intrigued now.

“I was thinking…FIFA,” The blonde said with a shrug, pushing her hair back as it falls over eyes. Her bangs haven't grown out just yet.

You blink up at her, slightly caught off guard. You had never shown the slightest interest in football or video games. You could barely remember the rules, let alone the offside rule.

But one thing about you, you were just as competitive as your professional footballer girlfriend– if not even more.

“FIFA...?” you ponder over it for a moment. You were never one to back down from a challenge-- even football. “Okay, you’ve got my attention. Let’s play.”

The big smile that took over Leah’s face could’ve blinded a man.

She squeezed the leg that was still draped over her lap, and grabbed the second controller that was conveniently left on the coffee table. She hands it to you, grinning when your hands awkwardly fumble around with the buttons. 

Her competitive girl.

Rosy tinted lips settled into a pout, sweet wrinkles form across the middle of your forehead as you study the device in your hands. “Lee–” A huff leaves your lips. “…how does this even work?”

Leah chuckled softly, leaning in to adjust your grip. Her fingers brushed skin. “Okay, first things first. You use the left stick to move your player,” Leah said, her voice gentle but firm. “Try it. Push it to the left.”

Your brows furrowed, lips curling in confusion as you nudged the left stick to the side. On screen, the character shuffled a few steps, the motion awkward and unsure, much like you when you went to your first couple of football matches. “I’m– uh, not sure if I’m doing it right,” 

Leah’s lips quirked into a soft smile as she leaned a little closer, unable to stop herself from touching you somehow. She lets go of one side of the controller and instead drapes it over your shoulder, fingers rubbing the little bit of exposed skin by her hip. “That’s good. You’re doing great, baby. Here, let me show ya.” Leah gently took your hand, guiding your fingers to the controller so you were holding it more comfortably.

“Like this,” Leah murmured, moving the stick smoothly, making the player glide across the pitch. “See? Just a gentle nudge.”

You watched, captivated not by the moving avatar on the screen who looks eerily similar to Viv, but by the blonde shuffling closer beside you. After a year of dating, you should be used to this, but you weren't. Your heart still squeezed when you look at her.

It's almost ike when your Hermes sales associate pulled out your new Hermes Birkin 30 in Mauve Sylvestre Bag with Epsom Palladium Hardware.

Almost.

“Okay, I think I got it.” You pushed the stick forward a little more confidently this time. Your player jogged across the pitch—clumsy, but moving.

“There you go, baby” Leah praised, her eyes on you, soft with affection. “Now, let’s pass the ball.” She pointed to the ‘A’ button on the controller. “Press this to pass it. Lightly, okay?”

You pressed the button, and the ball rolled a few feet—straight to the opposing team.

Leah laughed in pure, utmost affection. You couldn’t help but admire the curve of her neck and the way her soft tendrils of her hair brushed against her cheek as her eyes met yours again. They were like crescent moons and you love the way her cheeks flush slightly the more she laughs.

One hand slides in between your knees, affectionately squeezing your inner thigh. “Okay, that was... a bit too light. But you’re getting there, baby”

You bite your lip, shy now, tasting your favourite Summer Fridays lipgloss. “I swear I’m trying,” you pout but nevertheless straightening your back to lock back in. “This is harder than it looks.”

The blonde just smiles a secret smile. The scent dewy sweetness of pink peony and fresh lily of the valley mingling with the soft, delicate rosy smell of your hair. You feel her press a kiss against the crown of your head, her lips moving against your hair as her jokes “It’s okay, baby. Sometimes I pass it to the opposing team too”

Too soon.

You recall the last game where Leah accidentally kicked the ball to an opposing player and nearly assisted an equaliser. Luckily, the goal was saved.

You gasp playfully, looking up at her only to be met with her pretty blues. The skin around the corner of her eyes crinkle as she laughs with you. Leah’s ability to not take herself so seriously is one of your favourite things about her. 

Turning back to the screen, you tighten your hands around the controller. “I think I might be terrible at this.”

“You’re not terrible,” Leah insists. “You’re learning. And that’s what matters.”

After a few more attempts, you finally managed to pass the ball with some semblance of control, sending it to your own teammate. “Look, I did it!” you bellow, your voice filled with genuine pride. Stacks of Tiffany and Van Cleef bracelets jingle and jangle as you pump a fist in the air. 

It was like when you scored your rare Dior Metallic Lambskin and Rose des Vents Satin bag– but without having to swipe a card.

You press the right buttons, watching as your avatar on screen kicks the ball up the pitch. “That’s what I’m talking about! What a pass, baby!” Leah turns to you, throwing her arms in the air, before leaning in to give you a sweet kiss. When she pulls away, a shiny sheen of your lipgloss is left on her own lips.

She doesn’t wipe it off. 

You grinned at her, fully locked in now. You rolled up your pink shearling cuff sleeves up your arms, because this was serious now. “Okay, now let’s see if I can actually score a goal.”

“Woah– okay, Messi. Lets see how you get dribbling first”

Reaching into the pocket of your pink joggers, you pull out your Summer Friday lipgloss, swiping it over your lips a few times. Leah just watches you with a small smile, your lip gloss still lingering on her bottom lip. You twist the lipgloss lid closed, pressing your lips together. “I can do this. Watch me.”

The Arsenal defender took that as her queue to sit back and observe as you focused back on the screen. The intensity in your gaze was almost palpable, and for a moment, Leah found herself mesmerised not by the game on the screen, but by you.

You pressed the ‘B’ button with a confident flick of your thumb, and watched as the ball sailed through the air—past the defenders, past the keeper—and into the net.

You gasped as the words– GOAL!– flashes on screen, eyes widening in disbelief. “Did I- did I just score?”

Leah was stunning. Her breath caught in her throat as she tried to make sense of what her girlfriend just did. “You... you did,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, awestruck. “You scored, baby. What a bloody good goal.”

Turning to her you gasp wide, sparkling eyes, lips parting in shock. Your curls bounce as you turn back to screen– wanting to make sure it was real– and then back to your girlfriend. “I... I really did? Oh my god--”

You squeal, jumping up from the sofa and clapping your hands. A breathless laugh escapes your lips as you twirl around in pure, unfiltered joy. Your eyes sparkle, cheeks flushed rosy with the thrill of victory, raising your arms raised in mock triumph. “I’m a footballer!” 

“Okay- okay don’t come for my job just yet” Leah reaches over, gently snagging your wrist and pulling you into her arms. You melt into her willingly, the controller slipping from your grasp as you both collapse into a tangle of laughter and affection, bodies close. The victory feels sweeter, somehow, in the warmth of her embrace.

“Told ya you could do it” Leah murmurs, pressing a kiss against your forehead. 

You laughed, burying your face into her chest, the familiar smell of her hoodie washing over you. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m not completely terrible at it.”

“I think you’re more than just ‘not terrible.’” Leah snuggles you closer to her, a hand sneakily creeping underneath your top. When did that happen, you have no idea. Unable to help it, you shiver slightly at the feel of her nails dancing across your back.

And of course she notices.

Her voice is low, teasing. “You’re kind of a pro, actually”

"Alexia Putellas better watch out" You say, haughtily. Your taunt is rewarded with her raspy laugh. She nuzzles her face into the crook of your neck, leaving a kiss on the spot where you neck meets your collarbone. "I'm coming for that Ballon Dior"

“Ballon D’or, baby– not Dior”

You look at her, the love of your life. Her pretty blue eyes, bright as they stare at you. She's got a small smile, head tilted slightly as her eyes roam your face. You blush at the intensity of her gaze, still not familiar to the privilege of getting to look at her every single day.

Leah pulls you to her so you're laying over her chest. You snuggle closer, bringing your knees up, and making yourself comfortable. "You should get one.."

An eyebrow raise. She presses her lips together, holding in a laugh. "Wha-- a Ballon D'or? Bit hard to do as a defender, love"

"No," You roll your eyes, petulantly. You shake your head. The soft swish of your hair moves, a playful flutter through your locks thanks to your freshly blow-out. "a Dior"

Leah laughs. The kind of laugh where she throws her head back, crinkles form by the corner of her eyes, and her entire body contorts, uninhibited, because of you. It’s the curve of her neck, the subtle arch of their brow, the way her breath catches just before another laugh bursts free.

"C'mere" Her hand grasps the side of your neck, squeezing it gently, a few lingering chuckles leave her lips. She pulls you closer, pecking your lips once, then twice.

"I’ll get you your Ballon Dior"

back on my spoiled!reader x leah bs. she's just a girl (wants her Ballon Dior)

thank you to the anon who sent the request <333 i hope you love it even if i changed it a lil bit <333

・❥・- kisses, butter

*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission first. Thanks for respecting that!

[meownotgood]

steel kisses supernova. / machine herald!viktor x reader

A botched mission results in fixing the Machine Herald's mechanics, brushing your hands to wires, and indulging in the traces once left by emotion.  tags: 18+, reader is gender neutral + fem bodied, reader uses they/them pronouns, wireplay, inappropriate use of hextech, bonding through near death experiences, divine machinery, reader has a prosthetic arm, repairing the machine herald, fluff + angst, praise kink, sexual tension, fingering + clit stim, size difference, protecting you with their own body trope, yearning, good lord you guys need to stop yearning, mix of arcane + league lore, vik's anatomy isn't mentioned. (terms used for reader: cunt, clit, no mentions of chest anatomy, dear, sweetheart, spark, love, adorable) word count: 49.5k note: hey!! please keep in mind, this fic is unfortunately too long for tumblr due to the word count + tumblr's post block limit... so you'll be able to read the first part of the fic here! the full fic is available in its entirety on ao3. apologies for the inconvenience, and happy (late) year of fucking robots... read on ao3

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The deepest fissures in the depths of Zaun are usually, thankfully quiet. Perfect to hide something you'd expect not to be found. 

You breathe deep puffs of simulated air through your gas mask. Your ear presses to the cold steel door, sealing off the entrance to the Chem-Baron vault. There shouldn't be anyone present, not at this time. Enforcers know little of the darkest labyrinths of Zaun. It's too risky to even have guards stationed here. Predictably, you're met with total, resounding silence — save for the echoing beep and ping of Viktor's self-made sonar device. 

Lowering onto your knees, leaving yourself eye-level with the door's intricate set of five locks, you cast one more glance towards him. Viktor — the Machine Herald — completely towers over you, especially from this position. 

It makes the back of your neck prickle on impulse. The two of you hardly resemble partners. Creator and creation, more like. One another's opposite image. A bright purpose for sets of technical, controlled executions. A fragile, too-emotional human, and a composed, powerful machine. 

As though his complex steel form, an expression of the limits of his work and technology, was made to be admired. 

Some people do. They come to him when they need him; just as you once did, ages ago. They worship him like a deity. Perhaps you're starting to see why. 

Viktor hardly resembles the man you remember. And yet, there's a certain thrum to him. Mechanical beats and impulses. Familiar gear and hardware that delightfully push the boundaries of science. Vibrant, intricate, self-built components that demand your curiosity. 

The Machine Herald captivates you, just as strongly as Viktor once did. 

Viktor's mask voids him of expression. His orange, glowing eyes are the only light to illuminate the room. Still, there's urgency to the way he moves, stepping closer. His cape billows in the chamber's low draft, his iron boots clank when they hit the ground. His thumb flicks a thick button on the side of the sonar device. 

The third arm jutting out from his shoulders tremors, before it comes to life. It scans the door with a bright red sensor, then twitches, shuts off. The sonar reader chimes approvingly in response. 

Viktor gives you a nod. His gaze runs hot and intense, enough to burn right through you. 

"The Hextech crystals are here. The device is picking up several readings," He discerns, modulated voice rumbling evenly. "If we are fortunate, we might return all of them." 

You pull your gas mask from your face. It hangs loosely from your neck. The vault's thick, partially-filtered air hits your lungs hard. One deep breath in feels like you've filled your chest with half clouds, half sawdust. 

You're trying your best to focus, examining the locks with your eyes squinted, when a gentle, yet firm hand places onto your shoulder. 

"Do not rush," Viktor instructs. "We have time. This should be handled as quietly and discreetly as possible." 

Artificial heat bleeds from his touch. Sparks of warmth, like black holes and galaxies, expand and implode beneath your skin. There's a sense of loss, when he carefully pulls his hand away. Allowing the cold to seep back in. 

Your jaw clenches. Finally, you turn towards your metal arm. 

The edges are smooth and shiny, recently welded. It's second nature to test the flexing of your fingers, even though you can't feel them; the metal creaks, but holds, gears turning, rigid platings twisting. Intricate patterns, in deep shades of silver and amber, line the frame. Fused together with a powerful ray of heat. A clear sign of his handiwork. 

Recalling Viktor's instructions, you find a small notch on the underside. Press here, then pull this panel open. A thin lockpicking tool emerges from your palm, easily held between your steel-jointed fingers. Fit with its own handy flashlight. 

It helps illuminate your work as you start on the first lock. 

"How long do you think it'll take before they notice?" You're asking. Swearing to yourself, when the lockpick meets some resistance. 

Viktor fiddles with the sonar device. "They will eventually. The crystals are nothing more than a bargaining chip. In all probability, once they attempt to sell them back to Piltover- Well, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise." 

"We're making enemies of top and bottom side, then." 

Viktor answers, "As anticipated." 

It certainly wouldn't be the first time. This is all deathly familiar — working beside the Machine Herald, stealing tech to help those in Zaun. Though, this mission has been easy, in comparison. Perhaps a bit too easy. Your first tango with Zaun's upper echelon should've posed more of a challenge. All the crystals are right here, in an unguarded vault. No strings attached. 

Viktor's boot taps against the ground to an impatient rhythm. So, you aren't the only one on edge. 

You try to make conversation. "Thought about what you're gonna say to Miss Glasc?" 

Rummaging through a Chem-Baron's property is one thing, certainly a dance with danger. Messing with Renata Glasc would be like prancing underneath a guillotine. She's influential, cunning, her connections nearly as bountiful as the coin that lines her pockets — and she's Viktor's benefactor, most pressingly. An important supplier of sheet metal, hardware, and painkillers. 

"Glasc possesses no knowledge of this place. It is beyond her territory. Nevertheless, our alliance is not so easily relinquished, considering the rate of mutual benefit." 

You put on your best faux, overly fancy voice. "We're her most beloved pawns, after all." 

Viktor expels an amused huff in agreement. 

The first lock ticks. When you move on to the second, it pops open around your lockpick in one smooth, simple movement. 

You scoff, clicking your tongue, "As rich as these people are, you'd think they'd have a better security system." 

"Our work here is not yet complete," Viktor replies, firmly and mechanically. He closes the sonar device, and he kneels down to hand it off to you. With your hands full, you're reaching around awkwardly, breathing an annoyed huff as you stuff it back into your pocket. "We still need to wipe the security cameras, and dispose of the thermal detectors." 

"We?" The third lock clicks. "Pretty sure that's just my job." 

"It is." 

You throw him a quick, indignant glance. The fourth lock clicks open harshly, as you hastily jam your lockpick past the threshold. 

"Almost done," You're mumbling, mostly to yourself. 

"Excellent work," Viktor practically purrs, praise reverberating through his voice filter. "The new lockpick functions for you naturally, I see. We will be finished here soon." 

Your spine tingles, like there's a lightning storm underneath your skin. Your heart pounds. It threatens to throw your composure off-kilter. To be praised by the feared, indecipherable Machine Herald is a wonderful, thrilling, head-rushing thing. 

But you've stopped working on the last lock. The end of your lockpick taps the door idly, to no rhythm in particular. 

Viktor notices. 

"I thought I would provide you with some motivation. But here you are. Pouting, as expected." 

A steel palm glides up from the small of your back, leading to your shoulder as he stands upright. 

"First," Viktor explains, "I will obtain the crystals. Then, you will head to the security room, and I will stand guard in the event we are ambushed. We already discussed our plan. Have you forgotten?" 

Your eyes roll. He says it like a taunt — you should try to remember, because he doesn't plan on reminding you twice. Although, in truth, there's little force behind the words. There never is, not when it comes to you. 

"Actually, I remember being promised a reward in my future." You glance up at him, gaze playful, star-like. The lockpick twirls around your metal fingers. "Y'know, for all my hard work. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about that, right?" 

Viktor hardly falters. "Once we return to the lab, we can discuss." 

"Hm." You stare blankly at the last lock. Dramatically squinting your eyes, tapping your index to your chin. "I think my lockpick is broken." 

Viktor grumbles, "You are ridiculous." 

Your shoulders shrug. "Just clarifying our terms." 

It's rhythmic — the way you instantly return to your work, turning away to hide your shit-eating grin. Your partner falls silent, for long enough to let the tension build. Metal creaks and scrapes together when his fingers clench. Either way, you're going to get what you want. You're certain. The push and pull between you always ends in your favor. It has to, because there is one exception to his rule. One weakness, amongst his perfected layers of inhuman machinery. An unacknowledged line connecting you and the Machine Herald. 

If it were anyone else, if Viktor was made of less flesh and more machine, he might've attempted to circumvent this, to remove the aspects he deemed distractions, but you — 

Viktor sighs, hard enough to push steam out from the edges of his mask. 

"When we return, anything you desire from the lab is yours. Or I will add another modification onto your arm, if you prefer." His steel hand returns to your shoulder, this time giving you an authoritative squeeze. "Now, focus. First, the Hextech crystals. Then, the security system must be dismantled. Deciding will come later." 

Anything you want. 

The smirk on your face must make you look stupid, but you're having a difficult time holding it back. Continue to play your cards right, and one of those crystals might be yours. 

"Alright, V." A single turn of your lockpick clicks open the final lock. You rise to your feet, and the lockpicking module folds back into your arm with a simple button press. "I'll get it done, yeah?" 

Viktor approaches the door. You swiftly step aside. 

"Good." 

The vault is small. The metal door opens with a loud, grating creak. A flickering overhead light turns on automatically, revealing walls decorated by various rudimentary weapons, and tables littered with blueprints. Canisters of shimmer are stacked neatly in a corner. Unfinished machinery parts collect in piles on the floor. Resting atop a table in the far-right corner, graciously reflecting the light, you spot your target — a glass case, with a set of Hex Crystals suspended inside. 

You stride in. Viktor grabs his staff, still leant up against the wall, and he follows you into the vault. 

Your hands clasp together and rest behind your head. You glance around, examining the entirety of the room. A large blueprint is pinned to the wall; stolen, most likely, as it's signed with various Piltover clan symbols. It seems to detail a process to make similar crystals artificially. There's no cameras on the ceiling, or in any of the four corners. You lightly kick one of the piled-up automatons with your foot. The springs in its center make a dull popping noise. A clear sign that they're entirely broken. 

"Wish you'd be a little nicer, though," You're humming, musing idly. You kneel down, sifting through the pile of components on the ground. A chipped gear, a loose screw, a broken lever. Why would a Chem-Baron vault be filled with useless, rusty parts? "You said it's a psychological thing, right? When humans are influenced by their emotions. Positive reinforcement, I guess." 

Beep, beep, beep. 

You rise to your feet, and Viktor answers from behind you. Voice dangerously close to your ear. Low and stern enough to make you tense. "Don't move." 

Unfortunately, you're not listening. You spin around to face him, arms crossed in front of you. Your fingertips toy with a loose wire on the panelling of your forearm. Viktor is twice as imposing when he's close; he towers over you, with your head barely coming up to his metal chest. Glowing eyes meet yours, and although it's usually impossible to determine what he's thinking, you can instantly tell something is wrong. 

He glances to either side of the room. His fingers drum against his staff quickly, almost nervously. 

Both arms fall loose at your sides. "I'm teasing, Viktor-" 

"Do not speak," Viktor snaps, his tone controlled. He grabs your shoulder, hard enough to nearly make your weak legs stumble. "And don't move." 

Beep, beep, beep. 

Oh. Prevailing over the silence is an unmistakable noise, getting louder, getting faster — 

Fuck. You're freezing up, as still as a fancy Piltovan statue. Your hands start to shake, and now you're chipping, threatening to crumble. Sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck, trickling down like sharp ice shards. You're both screwed. 

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep. 

Valves fall open; a loud hissing sound cuts through the air like a blade, as the room quickly fills with billows of smoke and sharp gasoline. Burning your eyes, choking your lungs. 

Viktor's staff hits the ground with a clatter. He grabs you, pulls you into his chest before the fear in your mind has caught up with your body. Your breath catches, your vision blurs, your ears ring — and all at once, the vault crumbles into destruction, blown to bits in the wake of a deafeningly loud explosion. 

— 

"Hold still. Is there one single instruction that is not immediately lost on you?" 

"I'm trying, Vik. Geez." 

Viktor presses an old cloth to a long scrape on your forehead, fabric ripped and dirty with oil stains. The disinfectant stings your skin lightly. You try your best not to flinch away. Your stool creaks when you awkwardly shuffle back and forth, digging your nails into your leg, and Viktor's scrapes the concrete ground when he shifts closer. A cold metal hand tilts up your chin, holds you firmly in place. He brushes the rag over your jaw, next. Meticulous, as he cleans the faint scrapes left by glass fragments, and so, so gentle. Your heart twists inside your chest, grinds and sings like a music box wound up too quickly. 

You force your breathing to steady. Your eyes stare into where his would be. Soft and golden, honey-drenched suns. The light of his pupils burns when you look at them too long. The artificial glow behind his mask carries amber-hued traces of what you remember, but he's utterly unreadable. Would he be looking at you with annoyance? Disdain? Guilt? 

Another corner of the rag is brought to your neck, and you roll your sore shoulders back. Trying to find a distraction, your gaze trails to the table behind him. 

Stray parts are scattered about. There's scalpels, messy rolls of bandages. Tools are sorted into piles: various wrenches, different sizes of pliers. In tonight's chaos, a few screwdrivers have rolled onto the ground already. 

And at the edge of the table rests a small glass case. The lid cracked, the surface charred. Each Hex Crystal remains suspended inside. Completely, tauntingly unharmed. 

Emberflit Alley is quiet and secluded, especially once night has fallen. Viktor's lab hums to its own familiar, comforting rhythm. It allows you to finally breathe again. 

Experiments you've been working on together litter every flat surface. Breathing devices, prosthetic outlines. A prototype hand takes up its own corner of his desk, parts separated neatly. There's a makeshift bed by the door, surrounded with discarded cans, left by the stray cat you both have been feeding. A couch rests in the room's corner, cracked leather showing its age. Stacks of your clothing pile up on the arm, neatly folded. You're sure you'd last left them in a heap on the floor. 

The adjacent end table houses an ashtray, littered with your smokes. Coffee stains burned into the wood form halos around your chrome lighter. 

(Viktor made it ages ago, to replace the ones you kept losing. It never leaves your pocket. Your thumb likes to trace over the jagged, uneven edges, welded from scrap material. You flick the sparking gear until there's a flame. Molten and warm, reminiscent of his heat — over and over again.) 

Finally, Viktor leans back, satisfied. He turns in his stool, tossing the rag onto the table. He sifts through his tools for a moment, metal clanking together, before he turns back to you, wrench in hand. 

"Your arm." Viktor instructs simply, holding out his gloved hand; and you're quick to extend it for him, allowing him to grasp and examine the broken gaps between your forearm's metal platings. 

The memory of the evening's events flicker dimly through your mind. You both were lucky, all things considered. 

You fucked up, must've tripped something. The vault shook, a bomb went off, and everything was a blur from there. A mix of hazy sensations. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Rubble pinning you into place. Thick fumes choking you, burning in your chest, making your eyes water. Suffocating the cramped vault and mixing with the heavy air of the fissures. Pressure assigns itself a stronger definition. Its force pushes between your ribs, as though it hopes to split them open. 

Viktor's greys and oranges took on a watercolor swirl in your teary vision. He pressed your gas mask to your face until you were breathing again. He helped you to your feet, carried you when you were starting to fade in and out — 

Right. Viktor shielded you. He purposefully pressed you beneath him with seconds to spare, to ensure most of the rubble would damage him, instead. 

His chassis was mostly unscathed; the advantages of steel, you suppose. 

Your arm is busted, undoing all of Viktor's recent enhancements. Your lungs still ache. Your body hurts. The sort of hurt that crests like a fully-encompassing wave, the form of hurt you can't name. Not a this is sore here, or a this is injured there. 

It hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things. 

If the explosion damaged the canisters and blew through the shimmer, if it reached the crystals and sparked a chain reaction, the decimation would have been unrecognizable, you're sure. 

A dangerous chill laces up your spine. It taps you on the shoulder, reminds you of the risks. Viktor adjusts the crooked lockpick-panel on your palm. He holds your hand in place when your fingers start to twitch. 

You're alright, though. Alive. The realization perplexes you. It makes your chest ache, the memory a tender blade, pressing deep. 

Viktor saved you. And for the faint, blurry moments in between, it felt warm, to be held in his arms. It felt safe. 

This feels safe, familiar — Viktor skillfully glides his gloved hand down your forearm, examining where the frame has buckled in on itself. Metal components have been warped by heat. The outer armor is digging into the steel skeleton, blocking several axles and hinges. 

He reaches behind him, exchanging his wrench for pliers. You're watching him think as his fingertip taps your arm rhythmically. You can practically hear the vibrations of his memorized voice, echoing through your mind. The skeleton is unaffected, but the outer shell has been decimated. Most functions are rendered inoperable. Additional augments can be repaired in time. For now, returning function to the joints is the primary objective. 

It is a simple adjustment. You are in good hands. As you always are. 

Viktor has no problem with wordlessness. But matters between the two of you rarely get this silent. 

He holds your arm in a tight, unmoving grip. Pliers in hand, he works on bending each plating back into place. 

It reminds you of the past, pleasant and persistent. Viktor's been working to improve your prosthetic since you met. When the line between you sealed into a knot. When tension brought you together, two ships on stormy seas, and you decided to turn your sails and bond over the shared struggles you had to overcome — your arm, Viktor's leg. Piltover was less of a grave, and more of a home, then. 

Weakness, experimentation, and danger followed Viktor as a second shadow. Ultimately, it only made sense to rush after him. No matter where he returned to, no matter what he was slated to become. 

Without Viktor, you might find yourself flexing your handmade fingers, staring at the piece of him you're doomed to carry with you. A reminder of the half to your whole. Like the connection between gears. Like what the hammer is to the nail. Bright light to a systematic solar panel, crisp air to weak lungs. A hacksaw to fragile flesh. Inseparable. 

Viktor finishes adjusting the armor on that very same arm, and he begins to reach for your shoulder. His glove brushes your skin. Gentle, but you swiftly realize it's meant to be a distraction, reassurance. Crooked screws dig into the separation between your shoulder and your arm; Viktor tightens them carefully, and you wince, tensing up. 

Low and soft, Viktor's words crunch through his partially-damaged voice filter. "Tell me if I am hurting you." 

"No, no," You're answering, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just a little sore." 

You shut your eyes. Viktor tightens the last screw. Fuzzy stars blanket your eyelids once they flutter open. 

His Hexclaw reaches behind him, handing him another tool. Ever-so careful, he examines a dainty set of wires leading through your forearm. He pushes them aside, attempting to reach a line of broken pistons set into your wrist. 

Metal clinks against metal. The lab hums quietly, jars bubbling, vents thrumming. 

"I cannot believe you waltzed right in." 

Oh. Viktor shatters the silence — and your placidity, along with it. 

"We're gonna start with this now?" You're huffing; the steel tip of your boot taps the floor anxiously. 

Viktor stops. He tips his head up, glowing eyes with rings of circular, mechanical pupils glancing at you. Expectant, intimidating. 

Your entire body weakens when you sigh, jostling your arm, making him hold you tighter to keep you still. The firm grip he has on your forearm's frame screams annoyed. 

"How the hell was I supposed to know they had the place tripped?" You argue, "And weren't you supposed to detect it? With that device, like you did with the cameras?" 

"Thermal cameras give off a unique heat signature, which the device was tailored to analyze," Viktor explains evenly. The end of his multi-tool extends to reveal small tweezers, which he uses to delicately remove specs of rubble from the joints in your wrist. "The Hextech crystals, as well. The energy they radiate is relatively equivalent. Failing to detect the tripwire indicates a clear error of design. It will be adjusted for our next mission. Now, your wrist. Test how it functions." 

Viktor sits back, and you twist your wrist in either direction. The joints swivel smoothly, and the modified pistons hold firm when you clench your hand. 

"Perfect. This will suffice," He concludes, with the familiar air of pride he always regards for his creations. Grasping your forearm once more, he returns to working on its inner mechanisms. 

"We needed those crystals, Vik," You're continuing. Fiery gaze fixated on him, even though he's focused on his work. "Our current procedures aren't cutting it anymore, and you know that better than anyone. Hextech has the potential to save so many people. I'm not like you. I can't just… sit around and calculate every possible outcome before I make a move. We can never make progress without taking-" 

"Risks only serve as obstacles when they threaten permanent consequences. Progress is not linear. It comes to those who are patient enough to know when they should further it." 

Viktor compares a few different sized gears in his palm, eventually choosing the smallest one. It fits perfectly into the juncture of mechanics just below your wrist. 

He glances up at you once. Then, he calmly returns to adjusting your arm. "Impulsivity will get us nowhere." 

You groan, tossing your head back. 

"They tripped a vault. With explosives." You're gazing at the ceiling, focused on the large, Machine Herald shaped shadow Viktor casts as he works. "Why even store the crystals there if you're just going to blow them up the moment someone nabs them? It doesn't make sense." 

"This was not about the crystals. They are sending a message. The Chem-Barons will not hesitate to dispose of us, if we continue to cross them." 

The pieces click into place, in hindsight. Voices flit through your memory. Takeda's shimmer-drunk drawl as he leans back in his leather seat and counts his coin. Make sure you tell your tin-can he still owes me. Veraza's cold tone as she crushes a purple petal between her fingers, the thick air of her greenhouse planting roots inside your lungs. Careful, now. The other Chem-Barons believe you are pulling at your leash much too tightly. Do not let them break your neck. 

Ah, the crystals were bait. An expensive trade-off. And the vault simply housed the things they were trying to get rid of. Unauthorized weapons. Stolen shimmer. You, and the Machine Herald. 

Physical pieces slot where they're supposed to, as well, when Viktor finishes adjusting the chain of gears that line your steel skeleton. This was the easy part. He rolls his shoulders back in frustration, as he attempts to adjust some warped, particularly stubborn strips of framework. 

"But this discussion is about you," Viktor grits, as though the words are spoken between bared canines. "What in the world could you have possibly been thinking? Or were you failing to think at all?" 

Your eyes roll. "You know what? I don't even want to get into it." 

"We are not getting into anything. It is a simple conversation," Viktor swears under his breath. He pulls and pulls at the thin cylinder but the broken metal won't give. "And I believe you should contribute." 

"I think it's best if we don't talk about it. We're both stressed, and just-" 

"I disagree." 

"I'm fucking tired, Vik," You're huffing, free arm rubbing the sore nape of your neck in emphasis. "My whole body hurts. Sorry if I'm not thrilled to sit here and listen to you scold me, because somehow, this is all my fault." 

Viktor rebuttals, "You are missing the point." 

"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly." 

"I am merely asking you to consider your actions." Viktor pulls at the last broken strip hard. It snaps, and he tosses it onto the table behind him with an equal display of impatience. "From now on, precautions must be put into place. Especially in situations involving the Chem-Barons. And you must promise me, if we find ourselves in a comparable situation, for once, you will listen." 

"Fine." 

You're yanking your arm away the moment he finishes closing the platings. You examine it quickly, front and back, flexing your fingers. Some sections are still chipped, but it'll do. Clear, delicate care has been put into the intricate assembly of each division, each joint, to ensure movement is as comfortable and responsive as possible. Viktor's work is always articulate, but doubly so, when it comes to you. 

His adjustments have already taken considerable weight off your shoulder. Surges of warmth kindle faint flames in your chest — but you're sighing, arms crossing, brows pinching. 

"Next time, I'll stay here. Keep the place warm, since it's all I'm good at." 

"I did not-" Viktor weakens in the wake of a sigh, as if the air is shuddering through his makeshift lungs. "I apologize, I should not have made it seem as if I was blaming you-" 

"No," You interrupt. Teeth gritted. "I'm tired of feeling like all I do is get in your way." 

You know you're being unreasonable, but you hardly care. The words simply tumble out, like they've been toppled from the knots in your mind. You glance down. Your fingertips fiddle with a line of screws embedded into your forearm. 

Whatever rebuttal Viktor was planning dies as quickly as a blossom in a snowstorm. He drops forwards; his fingers lace, he rests his forehead against them. Tension buds in his body like you've never seen before. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair, and he sits up. 

His voice fizzles with heavy, husky, insuppressible static. 

"I could have lost you. That is what you do not understand." 

Your spine tingles. As though it's laced in gold. You can feel the pull of guilt and tenderness — like gravity, in your heart, in your chest, in your flesh. The words must flicker differently through a mostly mechanical system, if they mean anything to him at all. 

You stand slowly, kicking your stool away half-heartedly. 

He's grabbing your wrist before you can get far. Your real wrist. He holds you there, hesitant. (The changing of seasons rarely reaches the depths of Zaun; you're gradually beginning to forget what they're like.) But Gods, Viktor's steel touch feels the same as the heat of summer, artificial warmth resembling basking in sun rays, dipping your wrist into candle wax. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the frigid chill of winter. Cool metal reminiscent of the sharpness of ice. 

"Lay down," Viktor instructs, as though he plans to give you little choice in the matter. "It is late. You should rest." 

Perhaps you truly do have a problem with listening. 

Because even as Viktor is speaking, your gaze is travelling across him, eyes narrowing as they catch downwards. Your partner hates asking for assistance, but you're used to reciprocity — to completing something for him, in exchange for what he does for you. To further the cycle of fixing and repairing. Little losses and small victories, strung between the fate of you, and the Machine Herald. 

Viktor's hand slips from your wrist. He follows your line of sight, and there's a look in your gaze he's long since come to recognize. Pure persistence. 

Your palm reaches out to him, makes a grabbing motion. "Screwdriver." 

Viktor drums his steel fingers against his iron thigh, making metal rhythmically clink against metal. Your stubborn nature is a stake, driving into him intimately. Like it never really left. 

Leaning his elbow on the desk, he reaches behind him, to hand you the particular screwdriver he knows you'll need. Flat-tipped, handle weighty. A light smile paints satisfaction across your expression. He continues to keep his gaze on you as you're sliding down — your frame appears small, when compared to his, simply because you're only human; this state amplifies the difference between your mortal form, and his large, metal chassis. Eventually, you're settling on your knees in front of him. 

The column of his leg is busted. It's functional, sure, but a few of the plates were crushed under rubble, the brace-like mechanism has springs loose and cogs twisted. Everything might crack, under the strain of continued usage. 

For now, you can fix the platings. You've done it before. On his arms, a few times. On his back, once. You'll reinforce the gears and tighten the framework back into place, to keep it stable, until he has the time to make a full replacement. 

You decide to start with his ankle, and work your way up. You're lifting his heavy leg, exhaling a weary breath as you place it close to your lap. The end of your screwdriver finds the seam on the back of his calf, screws crooked and stripped. Your jaw grits. You forcibly push the steel back into place, tightening each screw as far as it'll go. 

(And you're aware this is stupidly reminiscent of a lifetime before, although Viktor is twice as metal, and half as human. Emotions and sentiment are among the many things he swore he discarded.) Yet, he's leaning back. Relaxing, almost. Giving in to you, to this. 

Unable to sit still for long, Viktor twists. He finds the two broken halves of his staff, resting them in his lap, pressing them together. The Hexclaw twitches, before its laser hums. He begins to expertly weld both halves together. 

After a while, you're breaking the silence. "Vik?" 

Viktor doesn't look up. He examines the end of his staff, fiddles with a few wires and jacks. It's still out of power, predictably. 

"Yes?" 

"Back then, when the bomb went off." Your fingers trail his knee, admiring the smooth, solid structure. "You tried to protect me. Why?" 

"I thought you did not want to talk about this." 

You breathe a slight tch. "Just answer me." 

You're glancing up at him, but Viktor is pointedly not looking at you. His Hexclaw curls behind him to set his staff on the table, and to grab another part. In tandem, he's reaching for his throat, pulling its front panel open. 

He tilts his head back. Thumbs through the wires and exposed circuitry to yank a small part free, so hastily it seems like it'd hurt. He shoves the new voice box inside, until it clicks into place. Viktor rolls his neck once the panel is shut. 

"The explosion was inclined to originate from the entrance, perhaps aiming to trap us inside," He explains, voice strikingly clear, this time. "As soon as it convened on the shimmer or the crystals, the entire room would be set ablaze. Fortunately, it did not. It was a poor plan. But, regardless of their failures, you are… not suited to withstand such conditions. The only option was to use my construction as a shield." 

Your chest splits with an arrow-shot ache, because you know he's fucking right. If Viktor wasn't there, or if the fire had spread just a little more; if you weren't standing so close to him, or if your gas mask had broken, or if anything had changed — 

You swallow hard enough to make your eardrums prickle, and you busy yourself with fixing the drilled-in brace, just above his knee. 

"I guess that makes sense." 

"And our mission was a success," Viktor reasons. "Was it not?" 

"We got the crystals. But-" Your grip tightens on the screwdriver's handle. You breathe a long sigh, heavy enough to make your lungs hurt. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you, for acting like an idiot, for everything. I should've known it was a setup. The stupid vault was filled with junk. And I was standing so close to those shimmer canisters, I could've-" 

Your head shakes; your breath does, too. "Nevermind." 

Viktor's gloved hand grasps his gauntlet, where the power source feeds energy into his palm. You swear you catch his fingers trembling just slightly, as he deftly pulls the panelwork apart. 

"My body will not take long to fix," He replies. Metal fingers clenching individually, while he prods deep into his own arm. "If that is your concern." 

Your palm glides up his thigh slowly, exploring every dip and notch in the shape. Firm steel curves under your fingers. Beckoningly smooth. "I know. I want to make this up to you, is all." 

A steel index finger drifts underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards, in his direction. 

It's momentary. Viktor takes his hand away to grasp his gauntlet again, snapping the panel on his wrist shut. The molten light on the back of his hand glows brightly, indicating a newfound charge of energy. 

"I need you to listen carefully." 

"Mmm," You hum. You're warm, pliable, electricity traveling from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, like gliding gentle touches over tender bruises — "I'm listening." 

"This was a minor setback, nothing more," Viktor continues. "Betrayal from the Chem-Barons was anticipated. Your safety is my only concern. On that subject, I believe I have made myself clear. There is no need to hold yourself responsible. You do not owe me anything." 

Right. Just your life. 

You take your time on the last screw in his upper leg. Rising to your feet, you toss the screwdriver onto the desk, causing it to roll all the way to the edge. You give him a swift once over. 

The back of your hand taps against his chest. "Something's broken in here. The platings are all misaligned." 

"Potentially." 

Viktor grasps your hand. Squeezing, first, before he pushes it away. Gods, you know it's artificial and intentionally practiced — Does a machine's best attempt at replication still count as intimacy? — but it makes your head spin, all the same. 

"I will handle it," He concludes, assured. Words thick and accented as they rumble through his filter. 

Your head shakes. "No, it's- this isn't some kind of obligation. I want to fix this for you." 

"Spark, you have done enough for me. You may rest, now." 

The next breath you draw in aches to say his name. 

So, you let it. 

"Viktor," You murmur, although a hard, determined edge is returning to your voice, one that doesn't intend to take no for an answer, "Let me help you." 

You can feel the vibrating thrum of machinery beneath your palm, with your hand pressed flat to his chest. You half-expect another argument to ensue. You're preparing for it, as you worry an impression into your bottom lip. Instead, Viktor shifts, sitting up fully. 

He reaches down. Thumbs pressing a set of latching mechanisms, one on each of his sides. The armor around his entire midsection begins to hiss approvingly, releasing small puffs of pressurized steam. 

"This," He starts, although he's already popping open the structure of his central system, "Would prove much more simple if I chose to complete it myself. But I will teach you. If you are willing." 

Your smile shows your canines. "Of course." 

The moment Viktor has his platings fully opened for you, armor swiveled to the side like doors on hinges, a thick blanket of smoke pours out, filling your lungs. You cough, batting it away. The sound of his machinery is so much louder: ticking gears, moving pistons, the hum of various pumps. Your eyes squint, and you place your hands on your knees, bending down to peer inside. 

It reminds you of the automatons you've worked on together. The blueprints he followed for his own structure must have been similar, at least. But this won't be like operating on a person, nor an automaton. The little fixings you've done for the people of Zaun, fusing organic with inorganic, pale in comparison to the complicated system before you. Viktor's system. 

Viktor's fingertips dance over the inner edges of his armor, pressing a few more latches into place. Locking functions, you're guessing. To keep the platings open. 

"At odds with your expectations?" He questions, noticing your hesitation. 

"Well, I suppose," You're answering, throat dry. "This wasn't what I was expecting, no." 

"Ah. I will take it from here, then." 

"No, just… give me a minute. Need to get my bearings." 

A lull takes over. Viktor leans back slowly, he rests his elbows on the desk behind him; hands clenching, as he resists the reflexive tick to busy them. You allow yourself to kneel, still propped up enough to put your gaze eye-level with his mechanics. 

It's… a lot. 

You couldn't even begin to describe every individual intricacy. Different mechanisms all work in tandem, pushing out steam, clicking gears into place, powering various motors; and there's hundreds of wires, leading every which way like veins. They connect through a diverse array of parts, but they all inevitably curl into one central space — like the crest of a wave, like a Fibonacci spiral, an unintentional golden ratio. Bridging into a singular unit, runes carved on its edges. A small crystal suspended within. 

You're reminded of Viktor's words from years prior, when his newfound form first perplexed you. When you steeled yourself and simply asked, because your gaze kept catching on the jarred organs surrounding his workspace, despite his declarations that he'd relinquished all of himself. Because you're watching him dig a scalpel into his forearm, skin dead and pallid like snow, obsidian-hued blood trickling into the gap between sizzling, split circuitry. 

It was practical, this way. To replace imperfect organs with a consistent, mechanical system. 

Actually, the configuration before you is anything but. 

The mechanics show signs of Viktor's own handiwork. Welded edges, carefully constructed synapses. Bundles of wires have been grouped together messily. Displaying a clear motive: to focus on making a functional system, not a pristine one. 

The central unit, housing the crystal, is surrounded by two large pipelines, interconnected by steel conduits. Their purpose is lost on you, but one is smaller, the pipe closest to the unit. Like the way one lung is smaller to give room for the heart. 

Some of the parts are recognizable, albeit a bit rudimentary; they're prototypes you remember improving upon ages ago. Viktor must have deemed them still functional. Or perhaps, he hasn't had the time to replace them. It humanizes him, in a strange, opposite way. Viktor is so busy with the rest of his endeavors — evolving his plans for the Undercity, assisting others, including you — he hasn't been able to rebuild himself. 

And there is something beautiful about it, about him. Something worth worshipping. Alluringly, divinely synthetic, self-made by his hands. Everything within him vibrates with electricity and life. Resembling a tangible, second soul. 

(You're starting to understand those who pray for their flesh to be replaced with mechanics. Those who worship their image of the Machine Herald, despite not knowing he was once a man, just like them. Because still, every time you see them, knelt in reverence before a statue or a stained-glass depiction of the Grey Lady, you can't help but think of Viktor, and yourself.) 

Your heart hammers wildly inside your chest, a perfect contrast to his steady, exposed system. Your breath echoes so sharply through the lab, you're sure with the proximity, he can hear it, too. 

Maybe it's the circumstance — this is Viktor, after all. You're giving yourself a headache, trying to figure out how you should work on your own partner, how to understand the Machine Herald's stupidly ornate insides. 

And it's exciting, interesting. You've never worked on anything so complex before. He's a puzzle you desperately want to learn to solve. 

But, more than anything, this feels personal. Intimate. It's a thrilling, entirely new way to admire him, yet you're finding it difficult to stay relaxed. You think of the Viktor you once knew. Of how it would feel to be shown the softness of his guts. To be asked to dig through his sinews and his lungs and his innards, instead of wires and mechanics and gadgetry. Palms brushing a body made of fragile bones and pallid skin, not metal. 

Fucking hell. You'd do it, either way. Without hesitation. 

"Okay," You breathe, attempting to place yourself back on course. You rub the overwhelming tension from your temple, allowing your tired eyes to close for a fleeting second. Then, you're pulling up your stool, sitting across from him to continue your examinations. 

Beneath his mask, Viktor's gaze stays magnetized to you. To the pinch in your brows, to your hands folded in your lap, moving with the bounce of your knee. 

The curious, ambitious, lost-in-thought side to you is always impossibly enthralling. 

"This is sort of familiar, actually," You reason, as though you're trying to convince yourself. "Kind of like Blitz, just… way, way more advanced." 

You focus on locating the parts you recognize, as opposed to the ones you don't. The center unit is definitely a main power source. The pumps and fans surrounding it are likely for cooling. It amazes you, honestly. Viktor must know all of this like the back of his hand. 

"I will explain the process to the best of my ability." Viktor replies. 

"I'm, uh- a little nervous, V. It's your body, and I just- I don't want to mess anything up. When's the last time someone poked around in here? Is there anything I definitely shouldn't touch?" 

Viktor clenches his hands idly. He leans back a bit further. "Comply with my instructions, for now. Once the major repairs are complete, and we have eliminated all present malfunctions, you will be free to tinker with each apparatus, as you see fit." 

"Okay. I can do that."

"As for your additional question, it has been quite a while since I have improved upon my own design. This would make you the only one I have… shown this to, for lack of a more acceptable term." 

"Oh." You shrink up, recoiling your hands before they can reach for him. Jaw set, as you bite down your own nerves. "Should I- are you sure this is okay, then?" 

"Yes." Viktor's head tilts slightly, analyzing. "Go on. I trust you." 

Your heart races at that. Running circles around itself, abiding by its own laws of chemistry to create unbridled, newfound energy in your chest. 

Without another moment of hesitation, you shift closer, and you stick your hands inside. 

Warmth radiates off of him, sparking from the countless movements of parts and mechanics. It warms your face, envelops your palms as if you've held them to a campfire. It's definitely too hot, all things considered. 

"Looks like there's a problem with temperature," You're commenting, although it's certainly obvious. You run your fingertip over a line of fan blades, set into the top of his chassis. You turn them yourself, and pick out a few tiny pieces of rubble. "Yeah, fans are all stuck." 

"The fans are an auxiliary measure," Viktor clarifies, tone smooth and systematic. "The central pump must not be pushing coolant. Check the thermoregulation cylinders. They lead into the manifold." 

"Vik." Your gaze flickers up. "Whatever you just said, it sounded like total mechanical gibberish." 

"Give me your hand." 

With his metal palm already extended, you lean forward, and you gently brush your warm fingers to his. 

Viktor guides you carefully, steel digits closed around yours; the entirety of your hand fits in his palm with ease, it's at least twice the size of your own. Your fingertips slip past wires and circuitry, to hover over an intricate array of cylindrical conduits. 

"Do they feel hot? The cylinders," Viktor clarifies. "Touch them carefully. Do not let them burn you." 

His grip on your hand loosens. You're wincing, as you hesitantly press your fingertips forwards — but the metal isn't hot. Far from it, in fact. 

"No, they're… lukewarm, maybe." 

"Hm." Viktor leans back once more, elbows propped on the desk behind him. "We will begin with the fans. This fix will be the least complex."  

"They connect to a main unit, right?" You're asking, even though you've already started moving on your own. The automatons you remember working on carry similar cooling systems. "If that goes out, they all do." 

"Correct." 

You follow a fan's wiring with your hands. It loops several times, before it plugs into a small metal box: sides caved in, surface smashed. 

"Ah. Found the problem." You tap the surface of the power supply with your nails. "It's busted." 

"Do not touch it yet," Viktor instructs. "Its processes may still be running, in which case, it could overheat. Remove each connector and extract the unit. I will add it to my list of obligations, I suppose." 

You quickly pull every wire from the fan power unit, and you reach over his shoulder to place it on the desk. Viktor leans his head back. A few valves in his chest expel large puffs of steam, somewhat akin to a sigh. 

"The main cylinders," He continues, "Do you remember where they are located?" 

"Mhmm." You find the cylinders with your fingertips. Metal smooth, cool to the touch. 

Viktor stretches, rolling his shoulders back, armor slightly clinking together. He tips his head down to study you. 

"Shift your hand to your right. You will find a main cooling manifold. Open it. Flip both notches paneled into the intake. Up, for precisely three seconds. Then, flip them down. It will overclock the thermocore, enabling a full reactivation." 

You nod slowly. Right, you've got all that. Open, flip, down, close. 

Your fingers brush along the cylinders until you find where they lead into. The manifold's panel opens easily — slowly, with all the delicacy of opening up a ribcage. Fingertips to the notches, you push them both up; like tending to a wound, like softly tracing scar tissue. With bated breath, you keep count in your head. One. Two. Three. Then, down. 

You click the front panel back into place, and the entire assembly begins to whir. 

"Now, they will resume function. The systems are… cooling down- very good, well done." Viktor affirms, tone ripe with relief. Within him, sets of valves and pistons gently heave. 

His praise makes you shiver. Selfishly, you want to hear more. The cylinders are starting up. They're still slightly cool, as you drag your fingers across them; but Viktor's warm voice has the opposite effect. Guiding heat to coil and ignite in your gut, like you've swallowed phosphorus and matchsticks. 

You remove your hands carefully, settling them in your lap, and you give Viktor time to catch his breath. 

The manifold shudders. Briefly overloaded by the extra draw of power, perhaps. Viktor's machinery works synchronically to reign it in; his shoulders tense, he reaches into his stomach and messes with a few components, flipping switches, thumbing regulators. He leans back, and the large central cylinders strongly push out smoky air, reminiscent of lungs. 

Strong is a good way to describe the Machine Herald's construction. Complicated, durable, and intentionally intimidating. There's power behind the grind of every mechanical process. Parts are entrailed together haphazardly, vitals cased in metal, strung between wires — clearly not meant to be toyed with, to be examined by someone who is foreign to them. 

And yet, here you are. 

Old, rusted mechanics take the place of scars. Tracing your fingertips along his steel skeleton might remind you of brushing them over a defined ribcage. Individual colored wires form auroras, purposefully tethered. Able to be memorized — like you once did for constellations on soft skin, dotted in freckles and moles. 

Oh, how you long to reach out and touch. 

(It wouldn't be the same — but how would it feel? Would some wires be cool, rough, while some are smooth, warm? Fit with their own small intricacies: frayed insides, different electric charges. You could be gentle with some, and rough, with others. His pressure points would buzz underneath your fingertips. Shudder like a body arching into warmth. Would Viktor stop you, or would he give in — a betrayal of what he was made for, to finally pull you closer?) 

Hands still in your lap, you fiddle with your thumbs. Viktor's chest reverberates. Every mechanic convenes into his center, feeding into pumps and wire splitters, like arteries. Powered by a small, perplexing device with suspended panels. The metal is carved in rune-work. Protecting a gemstone, illuminated in hues of faint, blue light. It strikes you as Hextech inspired, though clearly more machine than magic. 

"Viktor, this crystal," You're asking, "What is it?" 

"That," Viktor's gaze stays trained on you. "Would be what functions as my heart." 

Your eyes sparkle. "Can I-" 

"Yes," Viktor interrupts, disgruntled. He knows that look, and he doesn't intend on fighting it. "Inspect it if you must. The gemstone is not my only power supply. Simply one of many." 

As your curious fingers approach, reaching into his chest, the device appears to open without prompting — panels shifting, sides unfurling. Coaxing you in. 

Your fingertips meet the gemstone, gently admiring; the surface is smooth like a petal, like gliding a pen over paper. It pulses with rhythmic energy, akin to a heartbeat. Viktor shifts, he breathes a cross between a gentle sigh and a mechanical hiss. When the stone drops into your palm, it is solid, warm. Energy-rich and beautiful. It reminds you of an oyster's pearl. Cosmic shades of purple and blue shift within its shape. 

"Vik- Wow." You let go of a small, tensionless laugh in amazement — you're literally holding Viktor's heart in your hand; "This is incredible. You're incredible." 

Viktor tenses. Energy thrums from the crystal, sparking hard against your skin. You choke in a sharp, pained breath, and you take your hand away quickly, leaving the gemstone to return to suspension. 

Ah. Viktor's heart just shocked you. 

You're barely able to reconvene; his Hexclaw grabs your face, tilting you gently yet forcefully, guiding you to meet an expressionless mask and glowing, motionless eyes. 

"Enough," Viktor asserts. "I require your focus. The central systems have cooled. We may proceed." 

Then, his Hexclaw releases you, reaches behind him, and hands you a wrench. 

"I will pull the sternum platings open, beneath the oxygen valves. Reach inside, and secure the pistons that sit above the energy reservoir. Is this understandable?" 

Back to work already, it seems. "Yeah," You nod. "I've got it." 

It's a relatively simple fix. Viktor reaches deep into his circuitry, pushing wires aside to pull both platings apart; surely this would have been cumbersome, if he'd opted to do it alone. Both sections of his sternum need to be held open, or they'll try to snap shut. Your hands are much smaller than his, as well, so you have no trouble reaching into his structure, and swiftly re-tightening the pistons. 

Viktor closes the panels as you're reaching behind him to set the wrench on the desk. His Hexclaw twitches. His gauntlet and the generator fixed into his shoulder flicker with light, like a dying lightbulb, before energy surges within them, bright and molten. 

You glance up. "Good?" 

Viktor's body hums quietly, amidst his usual mechanical noise. 

"Perfect. You are an expert already, yes? The Death Ray is no longer fueled by reserve power." Viktor rolls his neck to the side, until it gives a satisfying, motorized pop. "Now, as we continue, you will need to use your hands." 

"Alright. I can do that." 

"Use your flesh hand," Viktor corrects. "And promise me you will be careful. I would prefer to keep each of your remaining fingers intact. Do not get them stuck." 

You form a faint, light-filled smile. "I promise." 

"To your left, there is a diode controller. Here." Viktor finds your hand, steel digits brushing over your knuckles, and he guides you, once more. "Tell me which lights are displayed on the module." 

Your hand presses to a small steel box, nestled into his chest. "There's a red light. I think that's the power, but… it looks like that's it." 

"The explosion jostled its position, as I suspected. Inlaid into the underside, there will be a set of wires." 

Sure enough, although several curving filaments obstruct the crooked controller, you can spot a few tangled wires, plugged in loosely. 

You gently push a few of his mechanics aside, trying to get a handle on what you're dealing with. "You're planning on doing a full cold boot, right? So pull them all out, wait for the controller to restart, and then plug them back in." 

What Viktor lacks in expression, he makes up for in vibrato, because you can practically hear the smile hidden within his voice. Equally calm and weaponized; as soft as a caress, and as powerful as a knife held to your throat. 

"Yes," He hums, mechanical filter thrumming around the thickly accented syllables. "Look at you. It is impressive- how efficiently you learn." 

You aren't trying to prove him wrong, but what's truly impressive is how easily he knocks the focus right out of you. You're grasping at what remains of it, as you stretch to guide your hand to the wires. With the controller pinning them between itself and his metal skeleton, it's a relatively tight fit. 

Breath in your throat, you manage to find the first wire — and you blindly tug. As it comes free, Viktor's chest tenses, gears grinding, valves sputtering. He grabs your forearm, holding you still. Shaky mechanical fingers attempting to establish control. 

"Gentle," Viktor instructs. His body hisses, expelling warm air that fans over your skin. "The wires- they direct essential currents of power. If you are not careful, you will overload the voltage." 

He releases you gradually, then leans back fully. 

"Sorry. I'll go slow." 

You grasp the next wire at the head. Instead of pulling, you shift it back and forth, over and over, until it eventually comes free. With each discharged wire, his mechanics grow hotter, louder. Warmth radiates over your palm as the controller chugs, giving off a faint, high-pitched noise. It reminds you of the whistles of trains in Piltover. 

"Better?" You murmur, heavy gaze drifting across him, hand already blindly grasping for the fourth wire. 

"Yes," Viktor coos, content. "Keep going." 

"Does this- am I hurting you?" 

"No, you are not." His tone grits at the edges, buzzing rigidly through his throat. "The controller is applying a simulated curve. It is… an excess of pressurized fuel. A maelstrom of diverging currents. It is impossible to summarize in sympathizable terms, as your body is very different from mine." 

The Machine Herald tends to select words purposefully. He calculates discussions and formulates terms like every negotiation is a game of chess — and yet, this description is remarkably familiar. 

In the early stages of your alliance, the two of you rarely got along. Every sentence between you spun a web of new arguments. Viktor was insistent when it came to his vision, and weakness wasn't welcome, not within his new mechanized heart. You were a distraction. An unexpected miscalculation. A maelstrom, as Viktor described it. 

For our mutual benefit, you should relinquish the memories you have of the man I once was. We are no longer partners. If you can suppress this needless bickering, we can continue as allies, perhaps. 

"I'm depriving you of energy." You trail your fingertip over the ridges in the final wire. "Your systems are working overtime, to try and adjust." 

Viktor's body relaxes — warm and reverberant and trusting. He affirms, "Precisely." 

The last wire comes free smoothly. You take a languid, intentionally-long breath, giving the controller time to refresh. The wires have fallen loose, they rest a little further down in his circuitry. Leaning far forward in your stool, you bundle all of them in your palm, to make sure you won't lose them. 

"They're out." You line up the first wire's plug with the controller's first socket. "Gonna plug them back in now." 

"Firmer, you can be firmer." Viktor never begs, but this, despite bordering on a command, is the closest to pleading you've seen him come to. "The central system is acclimated to the fluctuations in energy." 

Your cracked bottom lip briefly catches between your teeth. Bringing the wire right against its socket, you shove it back in — and Viktor tremors, visible electricity sparkling from his chest like shooting stars in a lightning storm. With the second wire, his head rolls back. When you press the third in, he breathes a low, barely-audible groan, and the sound drives into you like a saw, a chisel, a stake. 

(You're lost in color, in the orange glow of his gaze and the coppery-steel of his body, as they paint stupidly vivid pictures in your mind. Viktor reaching for you, holding onto you for leverage. Static blooming at your fingertips, innocent experiments turning into purposeful coaxings. Stalling until he pleads, overwhelming him with surge after surge of energy, electromagnetic impulses and solar sparks that have him hot and only half-functional.) 

You really need to focus. 

"Okay." As you push the last wire in, the module's lights begin to flash, blinking faintly in a bright hue of amber. "I'm done." 

"Reach your hand further inside," Viktor is already explaining, words rich, perplexingly breathy. "You must guide it around the gears, to the back of the module. Beside the sets of copper filaments, you will find a red wire." 

You tilt your head down to peer behind the controller. 

"Fuck." You breathe a slight tch. "It must've come loose. It's all the way back there, Vik." 

"You may need to come closer, then." 

For a moment, you chew on the inside of your cheek. Palm buried inside him — you should be the one in control, but Viktor relaxes; his head tips, and he gazes at you as though he's got you under a microscope. Perfectly, wholly deciphered. Your weakness is predictable, not simply because you are human, but because it is you. There's no surprise within him when you rise from your stool, only an addictive array of certainty. 

Viktor leans back a bit more, spreads his legs to allocate space. And you straddle his thigh, heels rested on the spidery base of the stool. 

The hard, uneven edges of his armor dig into the pliable flesh of your legs. One large thigh is easily enough to accommodate you, but you need to shift closer, to properly reach behind the controller. 

You're reaching in, in, feeling around for your target. An unsteady steel hand braces to your side; Viktor holds you in place. You sigh in frustration, your fingertips fumbling past cold filaments, trying to find the smooth, elusive wire. 

Gears gently press into your forearm. A small, rigid generator bumps your elbow. Your body curls, you reach further inside him. And you find it, just as you're close enough to rest your forehead against his. Metal to flesh. Cool against warm. Your eyes — bright and fascinating, like stars, he thinks — become lost in the artificial glow of his. 

Your breath fans over his steel mask. "Got it." 

"Good." Viktor's voice is low, intense, and fucking sultry. "Plug it in." 

hey, sorry for interrupting the fic! unfortunately, due to the long word count of the fic and tumblr's post block limit, it's impossible to fit the entire fic into one post... :( if you're enjoying the fic so far, you can continue reading on ao3!

thank you for understanding... <3

[sylus-doll]

Synopsis: It's normal to feel insecure every once in a while. But what would Sylus think of it? You wonder if he'll think that you're too much but you still ask to look through his phone anyway. And he willingly lets you.

Warnings: Low self-esteem and self-doubt, insecurity, jealousy issues (thinking he has other girls), bad relationships (not with Sylus), mentions of stalking (done by Sylus to you), mentions of threat messages.

Author's note: Is this controversial. Idk. I think I'm overbearing, so this is self-indulgent but I hope that it helps if you can relate to it as well. This is based on one of his Destiny Café and affinity level up lines. Comments and reblogs are appreciated! <3

You had always been a little insecure of yourself. Comparing yourself to others, envying the life they have, wishing to be a different person entirely. All of this had been ingrained into you like heated iron scorching skin, branding itself onto the fragile fabric of your soul. It would be alright, if it didn't consume your being and take the reigns of your mind at the worst of times.

Previous partners always brushed you off when you wanted to speak to them about your troubles. Telling you that it was fine— that they could handle it. Lies. Maybe they would indulge you once or twice, but they would always end up angry at you for being... difficult. Your jealousy is out of control, your clinginess is overbearing, your need for reassurance is exhausting. Always too much, too high maintenance. It all ends sour.

But you can't help it. The need to satiate this overwhelming emotion withers you away. Your desperate want for someone to claim you as their number one— the only one—overrides rationality. Yet you have learned to bite your tongue. Force your words to die in your throat because you never want to be too much. Especially not for someone like Sylus. Sylus who has always been so understanding and patient and you are terrified that this might tip him over the edge.

Sylus, however, notices that you seem rather lost in thought. Although he has been on his phone for quite some time, nothing gets past him. Not your jittery behaviour or the sighs that escape past your lips as if they were the words you wished to convey but held back on. He sees you fiddling with a trinket, some gemstone he left lying around the base that Mephisto probably went for. Switching off his phone, he sets it aside in favour of staring intently at you, two fingers resting on his temple as he leans on his elbow.

“You seem quite fascinated with that pretty gem, sweetie. Has Mephisto influenced you with a crow's instinct?” Sylus teases you, an opening line for conversation.

You jerk, scowling at the man, “Don't compare me to that bird!”

He only chuckles, shaking his head.

“What's on your mind, sweetie?” The tone of his voice shifts, now noticeably softer. So are his eyes.

Sylus is worried about you, it seems. You glance at him, taking in the way he keeps his eyes only on you. Then briefly direct your gaze towards that damn phone of his before looking into his eyes. Vicious scarlet turned lovesick velvet; it engulfs you in safety. Your lip quivers, and you bite down to stop it from doing so. What would Sylus say if you asked to look through his phone? How irritated or annoyed would he be? But his eyes are so warm, and you crave the gentle adoration it drowns you in.

“Can I... look through your phone?” You ask hesitantly, breaking eye contact first.

Well. That was the last thing he expected you'd ask him. He stares at you a little dumbfounded, only briefly, before regaining his composure. He expected a favor, something grand or perhaps requested the impossible from him. Of all things Sylus owns, and you ask for his mobile device. With a quirk of his brow and small tug at his lips, he gestures for you to come closer. When you do, he sits you across his lap, pulling his phone from the coffee table with his evol and drops it off in your hands.

“Go ahead, sweetie. I have nothing to hide from you, only the authorities.”

Sylus is patient when you begin your... search. Throughout all the apps he has; social media, websites, albums, contacts. You find that most of it contains you and N109 business. Pictures of you that you don't recall him taking, candid ones looking away from the camera. Auction sites where he's betting on antique weapons and vintage wine. Messages to Luke and Kieran regarding missions, and sometimes about keeping an eye on you. Ominous ones from others that come in the form of—

“What do the codes mean?” The question tumbles out of you before you fully think it through. Damn you.

His hand envelops yours, scrolling through the messages with his thumb.

“This one, is a location. Some sort of trap, most likely. The one you looked at earlier was a threat. And as for this...” Sylus explains every single one, not even hesitating.

Once you're satisfied, you give him back his phone. There was nothing. No other girl, no secret lover, not a single piece of incriminating evidence. Shame and guilt immediately take root within you. Sylus is not that kind of person, you should have known that. Should have trusted him more and let it be. Why were you like this? Apologize. It's what you need to do now because maybe he thought you were doubting him.

“I'm sorry—” he cuts you off.

“No. You have nothing to apologize for. Didn't I tell you that you have access to all my resources? Including, but not limited to, my phone. You can take a mile if I give you an inch.”

He brings your hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle. Even the tips of your fingers, and a final one on the inside of your palm.

“Next time, you don't need to ask. Just snatch it away from me if you think I'm giving it too much attention. I'll drop anything to show you how much I adore you.” He looks at you, gaze unwavering.

You will never be too much for Sylus. Everything that you have to offer, he will devour like a dog starved. He has been deprived of the intensity of your affections for far too long to be picky. If your love is tender, he will soften himself from metal to clay and be molded by your hands as best he can. And if your love is untamed ferocity he will embrace you with open arms, ready to be ripped apart. It will be alright— Sylus will stitch himself back together if that was what you needed him to do. That is what he will do to love you.

[pome-seed]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 11

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Doctor!Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Defeated and knowing the end is near, you do what you can to say goodbye to the Soldier. Regretfully, you soon find out that death isn't so soon to come.

Warnings: Captivity, Canon-typical violence. Heavy violence. Torture. Electroshock. Blood. Mention of starvation. Guns, weapons, fighting. Intimate sadness between reader and Bucky. Please skip the middle of this chapter if its too much.

Authors Note: Hi guys! This chapter is quick, but very dark. Please be warned. The middle of the chapter is descriptions of violence. ALSO, if you want to be apart of the taglist, let me know :)

Song Rec: Desperate Decision by Aleksey Chistilin

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

You knew your time was up.

You did what you could; you gave him his last injections, then took a wrench to the giant machine the Soldier never left. He was shocked when you first started tossing shit around, maybe even enjoyed it. 

“They're using trigger words,” you told him, smashing the wrench into a big box on the side of the seat. “And using electro pulses in the brain.” You grunted, yanking at all the wires you could.

“Plug your ears, do what you can to not hear those words, okay?” You panted, throwing metal scraps aside. “The control panel- and I think probably a device your handler keeps on him- they control the pulses in your brain.”

You stumbled over a stray cord and caught yourself on the bench where his metal arm was trapped. You rested your hand on the cold steel. “Break what you can, okay? Just- remember this. Remember that it’s all a lie.” You panted, your stomach twitching and twisting. You brushed your cheek against your shoulder, wincing as the bruised tissue in your face met your shirt. 

“Remember that they are all lying to you- You're not safe, and you need to get out. You're a person, okay? You were something before this.” You whispered. "Remember that."

He watched you, his brows tilted up, a crease knitted between them. You reached out and brushed your thumb between them, smoothing the wrinkle. “They’re going to make you kill more innocent people. Please, please fight.”

 You tucked a few stray locks of dark hair behind his ears. “I should have cut your hair again.” You said, the lingering thought spilling out. There’s so many things you wanted to do. So much left undone. “But it's okay, long hair suits you.” You smiled bitterly. 

“Why are you-” He paused, the muscles in his jaw tensing. “Why are you accepting this so easily?” He stared at you in bewilderment, the terrified rabbit of a person, who was accepting their own looming death with a smile.

He watched you with this tragic look, all too real and too tender. But he was helpless. He couldn't save you. Not like this. Not yet.

“Because there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop it.” You traced your fingers over his hairline. “I can bite and kick and scream, but they have guns. They have torture.” You swallowed heavily. “They have you.” You pressed your lips together, bittersweet as you met his gaze. “I don’t have any other option but to accept it.”

He shook his head, your fingers brushing his temple. You didn’t know when you had gotten so comfortable with touching him.

Maybe it was because you were scared, and you were dying, and that he was the only constant thing in your life. Maybe it was because he was the only thing around you that you weren't scared of, and you missed the softness of affection. Maybe it was because you were terrified to die, and all you wanted was to hug your family. 

His lips parted, words on the tip of his tongue.

The door behind you slammed open. 

“Oh god-” you tried to hide the tremble of your hands as you dropped them from his face. 

Footsteps stomped behind you.

You grabbed the wrench and slammed it harder into the metal power box on the side of the chair, again and again, fragments and sparks flying, until pairs of hands yanked you away. You yelped, the wrench falling from your hands. Your feet kicked out, but hands wrapped around your ankles.

 “Fuck you!” you shouted, tears burning behind your eyes. “Fuck all of you!”

You cried out as someone kneed you in the side. Your body hit the ground, the hands around your arms dragging you back towards the door. “Remember what I said-” you shouted, your blurry gaze set on the furious form in the chair. “Remember what I said-” you begged.

Just before the doors slammed shut, you caught a glimpse of those sad blue eyes. 

“You want to know how we did it? You’ll get what you want. We’ll show you.”

The terror you felt prior was nothing compared to the weight those words hit you with.

Weeks passed. Weeks.

In darkness. 

When younger, you always thought you would die of old age, or from a sickness passed down in your family. Then, when you were taken, you assumed it would be one swift bullet to the brain. You weren't useful enough for any extra trouble. That’s what you thought.

Turns out, you were wrong.

And they took their time with you.

They started with sensory deprivation. You spent days in solitude. Absolute silence, darkness swallowing up your every sense. You were strapped down, immobile. You were gagged and bound, attached to wires and starved. 

For the first few days you were fully aware of yourself. You spent your time shaking and terrified, counting the seconds like you’d grown so used to. But as the days passed, you started to lose yourself. You stopped being able to tell the waking world from the one inside your head. You barely ever realized when your eyes were open or closed.

Then things changed. 

Then came the pain. It started with holding your head underwater until you slipped under the veil of unconsciousness, then yanking you out and shocking you to life. 

You were stripped of your clothes- stripped of your dignity. You were freezing, the ice cold water sticking to your bare skin. You felt humiliated, you felt like a thing rather than a person. 

That was the whole intention, you imagined. 

They wanted to break you.

And they did.

As the weeks passed, you lost yourself in the long bouts of strenuous torture. 

They repositioned you days ago, switching your chair for a pair of cuffs and some chains. 

Chains rattled above your head. Cold air bit at your naked skin. Blisters dripped blood down your forearms from where the cuffs rubbed your wrists raw. 

Shivers wracked your body, making it hard to keep still. You tried and failed to balance on the tips of your toes as they scraped the ground. You slipped on the curdled blood that stained the cold floor.

You blinked slowly, your body sagging. You battled between keeping your eyes open, staying on guard, and succumbing to the warm embrace of sleep.

Voices floated around you, lights blinking on and off. Your head hung low, chin tucked to your chest. You couldn’t move, your muscles feeling shriveled and weak. You heard a man counting. Your heart picked up in your chest. 

Saliva pooled in your mouth around the rubber mouthpiece shoved between your teeth. Trembles wracked your body, fear surging through your veins. 

Click.

Click.

Switch.

Electricity surged through your body, your nerves feeling sliced open and frayed. A shrill, animalistic scream ripped from your throat, echoing in the large lab. Your whole body locked up, the tissues of your muscles rippling in agony.

Your eyes rolled back in your head. You couldn’t hear anything except the buzzing in your ears and the hum of electricity. You wanted to cry and beg for relief. You wanted to admit defeat. 

You wanted nothing more than to go home. 

In an instant the flow of electricity flipped off. Your body went lax, trembling and twitching. You huffed like a sick dog, sucking air in through your locked jaw. 

They gave you sixty seconds to breathe, as they always did.

Click.

Click.

Switch.

Agonized wails tore from your throat.

And it repeated like that.

Again.

And again.

You didn’t hear it. 

The first sounds of death. You weren't aware of anything but the rippling pain in your body. But the men around you noticed. They were scrambling, frantic as they shut down their computers and ran for nearby weapons.

Gunshots sounded outside the lab. 

Grown men cried out, shouting and screaming.

The doors to the lab blew open. Metal grinded against metal. A small metal ball rolled into the room, knocked against a control panel, then rolled to the side.

Then, boom.

Gas erupted from the small ball as shrapnel rained down around it. Gunfire showered the room as a large body emerged from the broken doorway. He moved like a shadow through the fog, sparks of light following gunfire. Bodies dropped, one after another, their screams of terror cut short. 

You could barely keep your eyes open, your own body still bearing the weight of your last round of electrocution. You couldn’t feel anything anymore. You couldn’t even feel the necessary fear as you heard heavy bootsteps draw closer. 

The gunfire had ceased. 

Everyone was dead.

You saw the tips of black boots.

A single gunshot went off, your chains fracturing.

Your body went crashing down, limp. A cold metal weight wrapped around your waist and hiked you up. You blinked, your gaze cloudy and confused. Warm fingers gently gripped your jaw, massaging the hinge for a moment. Your jaw loosened slightly, the shock of the electricity wearing. He pinched your chin and slowly worked the rubber mouthpiece from between your teeth. A string of saliva connected from your lips to his fingers. He wiped his thumb over the corner of your mouth, then tossed the rubber to the side. 

You were weightless in his arms, tossed over his shoulder. Your bound hands hung low, swaying with every step the man took. 

A heavy metal hand held firm against your backside, keeping your steady. Your face pressed against his lower back, cold leather meeting your cold skin. You knew you should fight. You knew you should struggle and cry and kick, but you just couldn’t. All of the fight you had left was beaten out of you a long time ago.

It took all you had not to black out then and there. And with just that, you failed. 

You thought you were blinking, because that's all it felt like. But every time you opened your eyes, things were very different.

At first it was quiet, just boots on concrete, walking through dark halls. Then there were sparks raining down on you, lights shot out from soldiers charging down the hall. Then you were being set down, body slumped against the floor. Blood spattered on the walls, knives pierced flesh. 

Then you were being scooped back up, tossed over a broad, thick shoulder. 

Then, you felt the kiss of sunlight against your skin for the first time in months. 

It was so warm, and so bright, you thought you were dying. You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your face into the man's lower back.

 You thought you would revel in it, turn your face up and gasp the fresh air greedily. But in all reality, it was just too intense. 

It was so bright it made your eyes throb in your skull. The fresh air on your naked skin made goosebumps travel down your back. 

You took two deep breaths before everything went black again. 

A/N: Forgive me :D I'm very sorry for the angst. But hey, the next chapter will be something very different! Please enjoy, comment, and be kind!

@rafesgurl @pleasecallmeunhinged @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @frog-fans-unite @lonelyghosts-stuff @cherryandsugar @a-world-with-pure-imagination @unicornqueen05 @cupids-mf-arrow

[heartyluv]

thoughts are being thunk rn. thought about birthday sexy time with caleb (WAKEY WAKEY CALEB FANS, IT'S JUNE 1ST in my time zone at least 👀. HAPPY CALEBRATION 🎉🎉🎉) and my mind instantly went to giving him a lap dance for his birthday.

but i got a feeling homeboy won't last a second 😭 he'd be grabbing mc the second she steps into the room wearing their — yes, their. because anything mc likes by extension caleb likes — favorite set of lingerie.

mans is handsy, unless mc ties him up first/orders him to just sit like a good boy 🫣

but then that got me thinking, which of the lads men do you think would last the longest and get to see the end of the performance? 🤔

AHSHSHS IM SORRY IF WHAT I SAID IS MESSY AND MAKES NO SENSE. I TEND TO YAP

Note: BABE YOU WON’T EVEN BELIEVEEE WHAT I SAID LIKE TWO WEEKS AGO —click here— BUT YES I AM SO DOING THIS!!! Now in the future I could do a full fic or headcanons, but here’s a simple list in order from who I think will last the longest to who just can’t wait for the whole performance. AND WE LOVE A GOOD CALEBRATIONNN (i’m letting him get me pregnant)—too much? (he can lick his cake off of me)

Warning: A little explicit, but we’re all adults here.

!!MDNI!!

1. Zayne - This man is the EPITOME of discipline, cmon now. He’ll wait because not only does he like what he sees, but he wants to give you the opportunity to fulfill something you specifically planned for him without interrupting. I definitely think he lets you take complete control. Everything you say, he’s doing it. So if you say don’t touch, he won’t. But when he gets that green light..? HE’S INNITTTT!!!

2. Sylus - He’s going to let you complete the whole dance, but it won’t be without him teasing you. Maybe gliding his fingers along your skin to send shivers down your spine and kissing parts of you that get close enough to his lips. That deep breathy chuckle he does because he knows what he’s about to do the moment you stop..? YEAHHHH!!!

3. Xavier - Very patient man, but he’s struggling. Every time he gets a chance to inhale your sweet scent, when you grind on him, put your tits in his face—he’s rock hard and flushed. He moans too…just because he starts to get super needy. I think he kisses your body a lot while you dance since he just can’t help himself. I don’t think you’ll get to finish the whole song, though. Maybe you’ll have a specific amount of time left—like 36 seconds or something LOLLL. He was sooo close, but he couldn’t hold on.

4. Rafayel - He for sure joining you. I don’t think he’s just sitting there just watching tbh. I feel like he gets up to kiss on your neck and his hips are moving with your hips. When you’re trying to be all sexy, he’s already prepared to fuck the absolute hell out of you LOLLL. Like he’s literally peeling your lingerie down because he was neverrrr listening to that whole “be good and don’t touch”. And when he’s deep in you, he mocks you for even asking him such a thing—playfully, of course.

5. Caleb - You’re lucky if you get a whole minute into the song without him tackling you to the floor. Zero patience, zero discipline, he’s about to impregnate you LOLLLLLLL!!! Now for the sake of giving him a little more detail, let’s say he does listen to you and keeps his hands off at first—just know that it won’t be long. The moment you sit on his lap and your tits are right there—your pussy grinding on his cock? THE LINGERIE BARELY COVERING ANYTHING?!? He’s picking you up to give you some dick, but he appreciates the sentiment and your faith in his patience. That whole routine is longgg forgotten.

(no taglist because it’s not just for caleb and i don’t want to be blowing up peoples devices/inbox too much LOLLL)

[northsealight]

...and dry it off with care

summary: you're tired and not sure how to receive comfort. jason helps you relax :)

notes: a quick little imagine to tide MYSELF over while i try to grow the balls to post my insane jason related project soon (hint hint its medieval).. but this is my first post.. yahoo!

彡𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 彡

The past couple of weeks had little to look forward to. You, an unfortunate slave to your degree, had subscribed to the Sisyphean cycle of waking up at 6:00 AM, eating stale leftovers, and killing yourself at lectures until you dragged yourself home at 8:00 PM. The part of your miserable routine that stung the most was the fact that you barely had time to see Jason. 

This night was no different. Dead on your feet with a head of freshly showered hair, you painfully clambered into bed with your slumbering boyfriend. Unfortunately, the hopes of drying your scalp died long ago with the remainders of your arm strength. 

As you try to get settled quietly between the sheets, Jason, being a horrifically light sleeper, blinks awake to your dismay. He groans, and lifts one sleepy eye open. Secretly, you think to yourself how cat-like your boyfriend is. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, reaching over to brush the soft strands of hair from his eyes, “Go back to sleep.”

Jason only hums, and traces your hair with his outstretched fingers. He yawns. “Your hair’s still wet.”

“Astute observation. Now go back to sleep.”

“Mm. No,” Without warning, he arises from bed, padding off to the bathroom. You snort incredulously when he comes back with a blow dryer.

“Sit up,” He gently commands, sitting on your side of the bed now. “Gonna catch a cold if you sleep like that.” 

Your brain stalls, for a second. “What?”

Jason rolls his eyes and motions for you to scoot over, the remnants of sleep previously clinging to his face dissipating by the second. “I’m not letting you go to bed like that. Up.”

Oh. Your chest, in your half-sleep haze, instantly melts at his tenderness. 

You almost feel like a third party observer as your body folds into a sitting position, leaning flush against Jason’s chest without your control. You don’t miss the way how one his comically giant hands is always on you, touching your thigh, or resting on your waist.

Jason begins to gently dry your hair with the machine on the lowest setting. Maybe it was how emotionally draining your day was, or the sentimentality of the late evening, but your eyes became mysteriously damp at the way he handled you– took care of you. In the quiet darkness of your shared room, his movements felt languid, almost delayed. It felt wrong, distorted in some form. Each careless movement of his body against your own wasn’t deserved, like your body should dissipate at the touch of another. 

Wanting to push him away, your muscles tense, the vulnerability and sheer closeness overwhelming you. Jason in turn, still gently drying your damp scalp, notices the stiff movement. 

“Relax. What, you’ve got a crush on me or something?” he teases. You almost snap out of your stupor at Jason’s stupid jab, but you humor him anyway.

“In your dreams,” you sniff. “ I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Now it’s Jason’s turn to be teased. He plays along, and you can almost envision his small grin with his response. “Now who’s this mystery man? He’s lucky to have a pretty thing like you.” 

You sniff again. “He’s a big idiot. He sings off-key Cher to piss off my neighbors and keeps forgetting where he left his glasses. And he always insists on staying up for me when he should be resting up for tomorrow.”

“Hey.” Jason warns you, waving around the blow dryer. “Need I remind you who's wielding the potentially lethal electric device?”

You only snort and push at him. When it falls quiet, you break the silence with an unsure apology. “Sorry for waking you up.”

Jason only shushes you. “Don’t apologize for that. S’no bother.”

You close your eyes and lean back, further into him, to anchor yourself. Jason only presses a gentle kiss to your neck, and continues drying your hair.

You fall asleep that way. Morning comes to find you with a dry head of hair, an aching heart, and a gentle giant curled around your figure.

[jamil-s-wifey]

I saw the rules that NSFW is fine & things u don't write for the NSFW, soo may i req hcs of Savannaclaw's dorm with gn!s/o (f!s/o is ok too) where s/o asks the boys to breed them? Ummm is my req still alright? do tell me if u feel uncomfortable with this. Thank u!

Yes, of course, your request is perfectly fine! One interesting proposition towards the Savannaclaw dorm coming right up! Thank you for diligently reading the rules! ♥️ I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Nsfw under the cut!

Leona

See, he gets it. You're dating a beastman. Of course you'd want to get a taste of the wild side - the primal urges, the possessive bitemarks, the delicious feeling of being full to the brim, like a good little bitch in heat. He gets it. ...But that doesn't mean he won't have some fun with it.

"Breeding, huh? You think just 'cus I'm a beastman, that we call it breeding, that it comes natural or something? Wanna live out your little creampie fantasies through me, huh?"

Oh that accusatory tone, that sharp glare.

Just as you were about to apologise, he interrupted you.

"You'd stand correct, herbivore."

Oh, that piece of-

And he was on you, pinning you to the nearest surface, which ended up being the bed itself. (Lazy lion be lazing) Sharp canines scraped over the pulse point on your neck, as his hips ground into you.

"You wanna be bred, huh? Filled to the brim, marked and scented, so that everybody will know who you belong to? Careful what you wish for, little herbivore."

"You might just get it. Now spread your legs."

Ruggie

He right about *choked*.

You? With him? Now?!? But he's not prepared for fatherhood. He'd want to have a steady income to provide for his family and - and it's so tempting, and you're pulling him in with those glassy eyes, and delicious lips and-

Oh, you meant in like-. Oh You just really want to be filled, don't you. Okay. He can work with that.

He'd be for sure frazzled at first, but very quickly get into rhythm. The more ye imagines it, the more obsessed he gets with the image of your hole dripping with his cum, reddened, used and thoroughly bred.

He'd have to wait until nighttime, when he's free, but the moment you two were left to your own devices he was quick to shed your clothing, nearly ripping yours from your body.

Surprisingly eager, considering the state of pure panic he was in earlier that day. All teeth, and growls, and breathless moaning, and all just for you.

"Shishishi, and here I thought I was the wild one. Oh doncha worry, I'll fill you plenty~."

Somehow that sounded more like a threat than a promise and you were content with both.

Jack

Every single fiber within Jack's body was screaming at him to take you right then and there. His instincts were going haywire at the prospect. He needed you carnally, viscerally... and you were just offering yourself to him?

His tail was a dead giveaway, as to the whirlwind of emotions coursing through him, as he stared at you. His fingers were twitching, aching to get a hold of you.

"You....do realise what that entails, right? We uh...we mate for life. I know you find it..uhm.....attractive, but I have to warn you."

He figured you were aware, he just couldn't believe it. His breeding also entailed a knot after all. You had to be warned. And you already knew. Of course you knew, you'd been together for years. After hearing your wholehearted confirmation, he felt the thin thread of his self-control snap within him.

A deep guttural growl left his throat, as he stepped towards you, grabbing your face and pulling you in for the kiss of a lifetime. Big, rough hands travelled from your face, to your neck and down your body, only to lift you up, wrapping your legs around his waist.

"I can't wait to paint your insides white. You'd look so good, full and sated, my perfect mate."

Who are you and what did you do to my Jack?

[httpvomitello]

You Should’ve Been Specific .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: You're strong, confident, and a bit reckless when it comes to getting things done—which Steve Rogers both admires and is constantly stressed out by.

steve rogers x f!reader

The mission had started simple. In and out. Get the device, neutralize any threats, and leave no trace behind. Easy. Or at least, that’s what it was supposed to be.

Steve had said, very clearly, "Take care of it."

And in your mind, that was permission.

You crouched behind the remains of a half-destroyed building, smoke curling into the air, alarms blaring in the distance. You were covered in dust and soot, your pulse still racing, heart pounding with leftover adrenaline. And right next to you, standing rigid and wide-eyed, was Captain America himself—looking at the destruction you may or may not have just caused.

“You said to take care of it,” you said calmly, brushing debris off your shoulder.

Steve slowly turned to you, brows raised high in disbelief. “I didn’t say to destroy the entire city, Y/N.”

You shrugged, dead serious. “Then you should’ve been specific.”

His lips parted like he was going to argue—but then he just exhaled and rubbed a hand down his face. “We’re going to have a long talk about this.”

“Great. I love our talks,” you quipped, then stood up and gave him a once-over. “You okay?”

“Besides being thirty seconds away from an international incident? Peachy.”

You smirked, and without waiting, started walking back toward the extraction point. Steve followed you, still grumbling under his breath, but you knew him well enough to hear the hint of a smile there.

Back on the Quinjet, after the mission was called in and the mess left behind for Damage Control, Steve sat across from you with his arms crossed, jaw set in a very disapproving boyfriend look. You leaned back in your seat, legs stretched out, trying not to laugh.

“You’re reckless.”

“You’re adorable when you’re mad.”

“This isn’t a joke, Y/N. You dropped a building on that convoy!”

“They were going to kill us, Steve. I made a judgment call.”

“You always make a ‘judgment call’ that ends with a crater in the ground.”

You tilted your head, genuinely curious. “And yet, here we are. Alive.”

His expression cracked a little. “You stress me out.”

You smiled. “I know.”

The jet was quiet for a beat. Then, you got up and walked over to him, dropping into the seat beside him, your fingers brushing against his.

“I’m sorry. I know I push the limits sometimes. But I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think it was the only way. I’d never risk you.”

He looked over, that gentle Steve Rogers softness surfacing through the tough exterior. “I know that. I just—” he paused, taking your hand in his, “I need you to come back to me. Every time. I don’t care what we’re up against.”

You leaned in, resting your head against his shoulder. “I always do. You’re the reason I fight this hard.”

He pulled you into a quiet kiss—one that spoke more than the words you both fumbled through.

The next morning, you woke up in your shared apartment. Steve was already up, making coffee in the kitchen, shirtless with just his dog tags resting on his chest.

“Morning, love,” he greeted without turning around.

You stretched, yawning. “Morning, rules.”

He turned, gave you a look. “I meant what I said—we’re talking about yesterday.”

You padded over, wrapping your arms around his waist. “We can talk. Over pancakes.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Bribing me with carbs?”

“Yup.”

He sighed, smiled, and kissed your forehead. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You grinned. “I know.”

Later that day, at the Avengers Tower, Sam and Natasha walked past you and Steve sitting on the couch watching security footage from the mission.

Sam gave Steve a look. “You let her level a building?”

“She said she was handling it!”

“And she did,” you added, proud.

Steve covered his face again.

Nat just smirked and kept walking. “You two are gonna give Fury a stroke.”

You leaned into Steve’s side. “He should’ve been specific too.”

[muntitled]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞

Farleigh Start x Fem!Reader

Summary: Hating Farleigh had never stopped him from using you

Content Warnings: Language, Fwb, Forbidden Relationship, Unedited, Dark Fic, Dark Humor, Coarse Jokes, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Smoking, Weaponizing!Ollie, Smut (+18), Minors DNI, Slight CNC, Breeding, Neediness, Exhibition Kink, Grinding, Extreme Degradation, Humiliation Kink, Praise Kink, Hate Sex, Hair Pulling, Rough sex, Messy Sex, Spitting, Orgasm Control, Dirty Talk, Choking

He'd definitely bully me if he was real, and I'd be in love with him

"It's not like we're actually going to eat anything. Mother only insists we all make use of the furniture," Venetia's rambling is incessant as she walks briskly into the dining hall. You know her irritation is the by-product of the undiagnosed anxiety that comes with being forced into an uncomfortable Dior slip on such short notice.

In all fairness, you weren't doing so well either. The dress you are currently wearing is just as suffocating and Venetia's Saint Laurent heels dig into your bone. Your outfit is a velvety, laced up nightmare.

A torture chamber.

You wholeheartedly wanted to crawl into your own bed and forget about everyone and everything. In fact, the only thing keeping you mildly excited for dinner with The Henrys happens to be-

"Gentlemen!" You exclaim, before cleverly adding, "And you've brought Farleigh with you."

You all congregate at the left side of the dinner table, while the Henrys and The Henrys wives all mill about the dinner party. There are'nt any rules to things like this. It's all so self explantory.

What was not all too self explantory was your seating positions. Venetia forces you to sit in between herself and a very vexed Farleigh.

"How interesting," Farleigh barely addresses you in his tired monotonous lilt, "You're almost, nearly, just about, decently dressed." You bristle as you lower your behind to your chair, all while Farleigh shoots you a tight-lipped smile.

"Wow!" Your words drip with sarcasm, promptly halting Farleigh from flirting with the man to his immediate left - one of the Henrys closeted sons, no doubt. "That almost, nearly, just about sounded like a compliment!" You exclaim before leaning over beside him in a daring display of confidence. You place your hand tentatively on his thigh before whispering, "Am I going to have to use my rape whistle?"

Farleigh's scoff sends a string of lightning shooting down your spine.

"You're such a slut, I think you'd enjoy probably enjoy it." His breath is hot against your cheek and would be considered vile.

It should be vile.

Why can't you bring yourself to find Farleigh as vile?

With his elbows lowered underneath the table like a good little gentleman, Farleigh lets his fingers crawl tentatively over your thigh.

The games are on.

Your heart is beating at a million miles an hour with your mind reeling at not only Farleigh's large warm palm finding its home on your ample thigh but his words.

They are in complete contrast to everything you two have experienced together thus far on your stay in Saltburn.

As his fingers inch their way towards your inner thigh you're absolutely breathless. All you can think about is your escapade in the pool the evening before.

Both Catton siblings had been immersed in a very Catton argument, leaving you and Farleigh to your own devices on the banks of the stone pool.

With both your arms leaning over the ledge of the pool and Farleigh pressed to your side, no one could barely tell that Farleigh already had two digits dipped inside your weeping cunt. His hand moved slowly and deftly, so as not to cause too much of a stir in the water and give you two away. And he did it all while leaning his free hand out of the pool, cradling his copy of Jane Eyre with his eyes glued on the pages.

"F-Fuck Farleigh, can I cum?" He sighed at your agitated state.

"Not until I'm finished with Chapter 18." He mumbled almost distractedly, as if your needy voice was something akin to a pesky fly interrupting his reading.

Chapter 18, as you'd probably guessed, had never ended.

His cousins were back from their argument and his fingers left your cunt just as quickly. You had both went back to pretending to hate each other and you were left to 'rub one out' in the safety of your room like some hormonal teenager.

You truly are furious with him.

"What's this I'm hearing about a rape whistle?" Felix pipes up from the other side of Farleigh, equally dressed up all spiffy for the Henry's "You didn't rape anyone, did you?"

Farleigh's response is more of a hiss, "Of course I didn't-"

"Surely there must be more savory topics of discussion at the dinner table other than rape?" Comes the quick mediation of Elsbeth, who sits at the head of the table, clutching her string of expensive pearls as if they weilded the power to rid her of all these insolent little kids.

"Of course there is," you exclaim before turning your head to smile at the presence beside Ventia, nestled quietly in his seat like a little pauper.

Farleigh's manicured fingernails sink half moons into the skin of your thigh, peeking up from the slit of your dress as you lean away from him and say, "You must be Oliver! It's a relief to see another commoner around here." It was so undeniably petty to weaponize Farleigh's greatest foe, but the vexation of not being made to cum the night before still hangs heavily on your shoulder. And at the end of the day, you really just were a petty bitch.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ollie!" Slightly leaning over Venetia, the boy looks pale. As if he was biting down on his words. God, his tongue must be riddled in scars.

"Pleasure to meet you." Oliver cooly mirrors the warm and inviting smile stretched across your face.

"Don't lean over me," Venetia mumbles, "I'm not a child."

Meanwhile, Farleigh scoffs once again. While he injects himself in your conversation, his hands move swiftly to cup your vagina, nearly raking a gasp out of your throat in the process. "She won't sleep with you, mate." his brown eyes are trained on Oliver's. "She's a slut but not that big of a slut."

The extreme degradation laced in Farleigh's voice is enough to have you nearly moan out in front of all your friends, their family, and all the bloody Henrys.

Farleigh knew exactly which buttons to push to have you melting catastrophically against his fingers. He knew what words could have you slipping into subspace and he knew how to get your cunt weeping.

"Jesus Christ, could we not do this right now?" Venetia asks, staring pointedly at her cousin, and not at the sight of your legs parting to further accomdate his lazy rubbing against your cunt.

"I'm sorry, Cousin," Farleigh replies, "but it's not my fault your best friend is a raging bitch."

A breathless chuckle escapes your clenched teeth, "I-I'm not a-"

"Yeah, I am so completely done with this conversation," Venitia says, before strangling the stem of her wine glass and chugging it down as if it was nothing but water.

You turn back to hiss into Farleigh's ear, "You're such an a-asshole-"

"Say that again but don't sound like you're on the verge of squirting on my fingers in the middle of dinner." His grin is shadowed by the dimness of crystal chandlier and all the little candles posted along the table. "This is what you get for being a bitch," he says, socasually it makes you break your resolve by shifting in your seat, to better grind your cunt against his fingers, even for a mere second.

It's almost enough to make you cum right then and there.

"Oh-ho!" He aims a guffaw at the sky, "You really are a needy little slut-"

"This dress is shit," you suddenly push yourself out of your chair, creating the minimal noise of wood scraping against the floors. Most eyes are on you and Farleigh slyly removes his hands from in between your thigh. He leans over the table, bringing his fingers to his lips before spreading them over his gums like you would cocaine.

"I have to go change." You say to Venetia, before promptly (and very rudely) bowing out of the dinner.

A few seconds later, you hear Farleigh mumble something about needing a smoke and your heart rattles wildly in its cage. His footsteps are brisk behind yours, and you can feel his eyes sinking into your figure.

While your feet carry you to your destination and you let your brain catch on, you're already sneaking into Farleigh's room.

"Ah! Trespasser!" He exclaims excitedly behind you, with his hands stuffed in his pocket.

"You're so fucking annoying!" Your complains barely escape your throat before he's attacking you in a sloppy, open mouth kiss. He steals the air right out of your lungs, until he's breathing for the both of you. Farleigh slips out of his Abercrombie suit blazer, discarding the material as if it truly meant nothing to him.

His hands are everywhere, with special interests in your breasts compressed tightly by the uncomfortable stitching of your dress.

"This dress..." you mumble distractedly.

"Fuck this dress." He says, and you wholeheartedly agree. Perhaps it was desperate of you to turn in haste. Lifting the ends of your hair to present the zipper to him.

"You look fucking ravenous." He admits in a grave whisper, with his lips grazing the side of your neck, "I wanna fucking eat you." He says, "I wanna be inside you."

"You have such a dirty mouth, Farleigh," the groan that escapes his throat as he zips down your dress lets you know that you may have found your way in.

As the dress spills around your heeled feet, followed by your lacey underwear, Farleigh reattaches his full lips to the skin of your back. "What did you say?" His voice is like the rough gravel encircling Saltburn and you let your eyes roll to the back of your head as you arch backwards against him. His hardness presses against your ass and your fingers weave their way into his curls.

"I said youre a dirty boy, Farleigh." He ruts against you, almost as a second thought. "A dirty fucking boy,"

"Fuck," his hands dig into your hips, rubbing you against him. All as he pleases. "Fucking, fuck. I'm not gonna cum like this-" He says suddenly before spinning you back around.

It is few and sparse moments when you're reminded just how much taller Farleigh is than you and eventide it happens, the wind is knocked out of you. Farleigh advances on you like a literal predator until you're forced to fall backwards on his bed.

He barely undoes the bowtie, and only a few buttons go loose enough to showcase the beautiful expanse of his chest.

"You're absolutely soaked aren't you?" He asks, hovering on the bed above you.

"I need to cum, Farleigh, please-" You knew it was the only way to get what you wanted. You had unashamedly resorted to begging for a man who hooked his nails into your hair, forcing you to sit upright as he parted your legs.

"Look at you," he whispers before cackling maniacally. "You're so stupidly wet, you filthy fucking girl-"

"O-oh fuck, Fuck Farleigh," Your try by all means to grind your cunt into the mattress but is doesn't happen.

"When are you going to learn that I own your orgasms?" He whispers, with his other hand furiously undoing the belt of his fitted pants. "You don't cum until I say. You don't touch yourself until I say. You don't even fucking think about cumming until I say-"

"You're such a big little baby," you spit back, "A big needy, little b-"

You're once again pushed backwards and Farleigh's mounting you with his leaking cock locked tight in his fist.

You automatically lift your legs to present your cunt to him and he groans at the sight.

"I'm going to cum inside of you." He promises.

"I want you too."

Farleigh's eyes are heavy as he slides himself inside you. He looks down at you like you were the most precious thing in the world to him. A treasure trove.

"Fuck- I need you to carry on talking." Farleigh says before shutting his eyes tightly. "Fuck you feel so good-"

"You're doing so well, baby," his hips rut inside you, accidentally pushing his cock in way too deep, way too fast and you both hiss and moan. "Such a good boy," you say with your hair finding his own curls, "You're being such a good fucking boy, Farleigh-"

"Open your mouth," you comply robotically. Farleigh places his hands on the underside of your chin before tipping your head backwards. His chains dangle above you as you stick your tongue out and he spits directly into your mouth. "Such a slut," he says, "Such a filthy fucking good girl." His words have you grinding your cunt against his cock until soon, you're both on the precipice of cumming.

"F-Fuck-"

"Such a good girl," he whispers, with his breath ghosting yoir face and the sound of skin slapping against skin only grows louder and louder. "S-So fucking good-" He whispers over and over again until your cunt clenches around his cock, promting Farleigh's orgasm with a quickness.

His cum spilling inside you has you slipping unceremoniously into your own orgasm and Farleigh wails in both the pleasure of your cunt milking him dry, or your fingers still pulling his hair like crazy.

"Fuck!" He exclaims before slumping on the bed beside you, "Get your fingers out of my hair, you psycho-"

"You love it, though," there's a teasing lilt in your voice, and all Farleigh does is scoff before patting down the pockets of his pants.

"You give me endless reasons to smoke," he says, before tipping his head back, unknwongly leaning into your embrace as your fingers coil through his soft curls.

"You'd smoke anyway."