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matrixfangs · 10 hours ago

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blessed be the whore - part 1

Priest!Remmick x fem!reader

summary: The old priest in your small town has died a gruesome death. The new one has an... eccentric way of doing things.

word count: 6.3k

warnings: smut, sacrilegious actions, blood, praying, quoting the Bible during sex, sex in a church, sex on an altar, P in V, Oral F! Recieving, cum play, reader's first time, religious themes/imagery, blood play, blasphemy, abuse of a rosary, drool, squirting, degradation if you squint, praise kink, allusions to murder

a/n: HELLO! I have been working on this fic for weeks, and I finally came to the conclusion that it just needs to be a two-parter. I want to keep this A/N short and sweet because I have so many people to credit, all from Rosie's lovely Discord server! Firstly, my two beta-readers, @confetti-cakemix and @fuckoffbard! LIZ, YOU ARE MY NORTH STAR WHEN I'M WRITING, THE BESTTT, and CONFETTI!!! YOUR DESCRIPTION OF IMAGERY, EVEN WHEN YOU'RE JUST BETA READING, IS PEAK. Now that that's out of the way, I'd like to tag each and every person in the server that also gave me suggestions and helped me in ANY way! @spikedfearn @somnolenthour @citrinedigital @eternalstrigoii @le-temps-viendra36 @iceemochaa @hyoscyxmine @otxiycohcoy @flixpii @faestunna Clown (also not sure if they have a tumblr but that's my twin!!) @cherryxhaze. If I forgot ANYONEEE please please comment or DM me and I'll add you immediately! I got so much help in the server, and I had to scour through almost a month of messages to find everyone!

tags: @moyavsemoya @slasherflickchick @reneeswrld @made2wait @horror-moviehoe @arminstopguy @weirdblob21 @writersp3n @endofradio @thecontortionistsportal @notabot2 @spikedfearn @fuckoffbard @madkingcrowley @manyimaginativemuses

The new pastor of your quaint village church was strange.

The village itself was old. You’d grown up with wrinkled hands drawing ash crosses on your forehead, strings of garlic hanging on doorways, barefeet in hot, red dirt. When you were younger, you were never allowed out after dark. No exceptions. Kids who went out after dark went missing. Their names became prayers on the congregation's lips at each church service.

The old pastor, Monsignor Quinn, had been so kind. He’d listen to your panicked confessions, fleeting feelings of lust with a boy from school. Brushes of fingers against skin that kept you awake at night.

He’d died so suddenly. He hadn’t been very old, not even past his thirties. And the weirdest part - the local sheriff wouldn’t tell you or anyone in your village how he died. You heard rumors of blood-streaked walls and screams that had only been heard by those awake that late into the night. You watched people cross themselves as they passed his boarded-up house. Little children crossed the street to avoid passing it.

And now, you were shaking the new pastor’s hand, rough and firm. Father Remmick. His lips curled like he could tell what you were thinking, his tongue running through the folds of your twisted mind. His eyes, calm and clear blue, never left yours when he introduced himself. Your father’s arm rested protective and heavy on your shoulders, the heat radiating from him comforting you like a blanket.

“Pleasure to meet y’all.” Father Remmick drawled, hand still wrapped around yours. His accent was strange - deep, and Southern, but mixed with something old that you couldn’t place. Something thick and gooey, honey falling slowly off a wooden spoon. “I’m sorry for what happened to Monsignor Quinn. Tragic… truly.”

He didn’t look sorry—not really. His other hand pressed to his chest in sorrow, but his eyes shone with a playful gleam that was sinister, bloody, and cold.

Your voice was dry when you spoke to him for the first time, having to turn your chin up to look at him. “What happened to him?”

“Oh,” Remmick’s smile fell, but the concern didn’t feel real. It felt mocking. You felt his thumb stroke your knuckle. “Nothing that needs to fall on ears as sweet as yours.”

Your father’s arm tightened, and you were grateful for his presence. When Remmick released your hand, you fought the urge to wipe your palm on your dress, to wipe him off of you. His crooked grin remained, and his tongue slowly ran over his bottom lip, licking the sweat from his chin.

“I can’t wait to get to know you.” He looked away from you like he had to force his eyes away, like it was painful not to be looking at you. His gaze left you feeling naked, the inside of your body tingling like someone had dug around inside and pulled out everything sacred. “All of you, of course.”

His sermon had been even stranger than he was. He said all the right words, but they came out of a twisted mouth. A serpent’s tongue ran over the words of God, words meant to comfort and uplift, but coming from him, made your stomach twist. Your fingertips ran over the silver rosary underneath your shirt as he spoke, his eyes never drifting down to the Bible before him. He knew the words by heart, and they still sounded so wrong.

When you got on your knees to pray, you felt something so deeply, internally wrong in your chest. You couldn’t help but look up while everyone else’s heads were down, their lips moving silently in prayer. You found Father Remmick, hands wrapped tightly around the lectern, looking at you. His knuckles were white, his eyes roaming over you ardently. A rust color flashed over the blue of his eyes, like the nictitating membrane of a reptile. His gaze violated you, drilled a hole through your chest.

For a single heartbeat you kept your gaze locked on his. When he smiled at you, you swore you watched something crawl under the skin of his forehead, two points—like horns—begging to poke out of his skin.

That night, and for many nights onward, you dreamt of Father Remmick.

The church was empty, save for you and him. His clerical collar glowed against the black of his button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal veiny forearms and slender fingers following it. Fingers that reach for your rosary beads, let them clatter to the floor. He spoke in a language you didn’t know, touching you in a way you’d never felt. A way that felt too good to be holy.

When you woke, you prayed. You prayed for hours into the early morning until the skin on your knees was raw and your eyes were sore from being squeezed tight. The rosary left a red and stinging imprint on your hand that would be there for days.

But what frightened you most was the throb between your legs, pounding rhythmically and making you yearn for… fullness. After every hour of prayer it seemed only to get worse.

At church, you couldn’t listen to the sermon. You couldn’t even look up at Father Remmick. Not without images flashing behind your eyes, sounds so vile and loud in your ear that you couldn’t even hear the words he was saying.

Throaty moans. A hot, wet tongue between your legs. The feeling of rhythmic thrusts, something pressing into a spot inside of you that made you feel more euphoric than God himself ever could. You felt weak every time you looked at him, your fragile body giving in with every glance.

“My child-” His voice echoed through the rickety church, but you knew he was speaking to you.

“You look distracted.”

Your throat ran dry as you stared at the scabbed-over skin of your knees, just below your dress. You could feel your father's demanding elbow digging into yours. Be respectful.

A flash of something else when you looked up at him again. Something softer, something tender. Lips pressed to your skin, dragging against the top of your breasts.

“What could be more important to you?” He was smiling. Smiling like he knew what you’d seen, and the devilish things you’d heard. “Than worshipping and praising God with your community… with me?”

His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he raised his arms to grip the sides of the lectern. The muscles under his shirt tensed, and your eyes lingered. By the way his smile widened, he noticed.

“Be sober-minded and alert, Miss.” He nodded his head toward you, like some kind of twisted teacher. “Your adversary, the Devil, prowls around like a roaring lion…” His eyes, gleaming again like something inhuman. “Looking for something to devour, like a lamb wandering from the flock.”

Remmick paused, smiling to himself. “Be glad that I arrived here at the right time, to lead you down the path of righteousness.”

Your skin had grown cold, like spiders were running up your arms and the back of your neck. But it wasn’t just what he’d said that made you rigid, a dripping of cold sweat rolling down your spine. It was the agreeing hums of the congregation, like they knew what you’d been thinking.

You couldn’t sleep that night. The pillow's satin fabric was coated in sweat, which clung to the back of your neck and made your butter-yellow nightdress stick to your back. You stood from your bed, bare feet pressed against the hardwood of your bedroom floor. As you left your room, you knew every creaky spot to avoid, opening the door with close precision to keep it from making a sound.

You could hear your father snoring from the cracked door of his bedroom as you slipped through the hallway like a ghost. You blindly slipped your feet into slippers in the dark, your hand wrapping around the gold door knob of your front door.

The cool breeze of a late July night kissed your skin, making your hair prickle against the fabric of your nightdress. The sky was black, stars spilled across it like bleached sugar against molasses.

The walk to the church was by memory, your feet crunching above the gravel road in the cool dark of your village. No light was lit in anyone’s homes; the only sound was the cicadas whining in the trees surrounding you. As you passed Monsignor Quinn’s home, the foundation seemed to creak before you, the sound almost like a weeping in the air. You didn’t cross the street and kept your head forward to pass by it. It was just another house. Just another death.

The church was dark but buzzed with an energy that made the air feel electric. You could see its indent in the darkness. It was made of white siding sun bleached from hundreds of years under the sun of the South. The smokey-colored brick spires reached out into the dark sky, pointing to the stars. Their elegance had entranced you as a child. Now it just made you feel sick.

A rectory with a gabled roof and dead bushes surrounding it stood next to the church, just a few yards away. There was no light to be seen, no sign of life. Father Remmick would be asleep in there, sleeping soundly despite his completely taking over your mind and your body.

As you entered the church, you didn’t make a sound, creaking the door open just wide enough to slide your body through.

You moved blindly down the pews, hands running across the cool wood, hoping it would comfort you. It didn’t. You fumbled around until you found a box of matches and lit the candlesticks at the table behind the altar. It didn’t provide much light, but you could at least see the flickering expression of Jesus on the crucifix before you, He who had died for your wretched, terrible sins.

Knees hit wood, your hands gripping the fabric of your nightdress as you prepared to grovel. But you wouldn’t get the chance to. Not to God, at least.

“Couldn’t sleep, sugar?”

A voice that echoed through the dark like it- he owned it. You stood, turning around and searching the dimly lit dark for him.

Father Remmick was sitting in the pew furthest from you, legs crossed and arms stretched long behind him. He was smiling; crooked,pointy teeth nearly glowing in the dim light. Your eyes roamed over the clerical that remained against his neck.

Your throat had gone dry. You swallowed hard, one hand reaching out to steady yourself on the altar rail.

“You could say that, yeah.”

Remmick’s legs uncrossed, spreading out in a way that felt like it couldn’t be anything but disrespectful. His eyes didn’t look blue in this light. They seemed almost amber, gleaming and ever-changing in the flickering candlelight.

“In peace, I will lie down and sleep,” Remmick said quietly, a teasing little smirk on his face. “For you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.”

Your knuckles had turned white against the altar railing, and the sudden realization that you stood before him in nothing but a nightdress made you freeze. You should have felt empowered by his words, but instead, you felt like prey under that violent gaze. You kept your expression blank.

“Yes, I will perhaps follow those words when I know peace.”

Remmick’s head cocked to the side, like a dog sniffing out a treat. His eyes rolled down your body, stopping at your bruised knees.

“You troubled, darlin’?”

He didn’t sound concerned, not really. He sounded starved the question dripping off his tongue like drool rolling down a chin. He looked at you with mock-concern, eyebrows just a little too furrowed, his lips just a little too downturned.

“Have somethin’ you’d like to confess?”

His eyes flickered to the confession booth. Two purple, velvet curtains opened to a small wooden box—one side for the priest, the other for the sinner.

You didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the throb between your legs, or the puppy-dog shine of his eyes in the candlelight that made them look almost like melted caramel. Or perhaps the way his voice lingered in the room like steam after a hot bath. But you nodded, quicker than you’d meant to.

Remmick stood on long legs, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to reveal curling veins that traveled along his forearms. He gestured toward the booth, lips curling deviously like he’d won something. Like he was collecting a prize he’d been patiently vying for.

“Ladies first.”

The confession booth was dark, except for the little light that flickered through the intricate carvings on the wood door. The worn leather cushion sank beneath you, full of cracks and creases from years of use. You could hear Remmick shuffling on the other side as you closed yourself in. You could hardly see him through the lattice-patterned window separating him from your booth, just the shadows cast over his face and the bright white of the clerical covering his throat.

Your hands were tangled in your lap, your leg bobbing up and down under your nightdress. You listened to Remmick’s calm breath as he settled into his seat, closed your eyes for a moment, and envisioned his hands running over his pants, his head bowing in silent prayer. The thought of it made more heat travel down your body, your heartbeat loud throughout your body.

“Sign of the Cross, yes?”

His voice seemed even deeper, even more irresistible in the dark—something as velvet as the curtain before you. Your hands trembled as you made the Sign of the Cross over your face.

“Bless me, Father,” you paused, licking your dry lips. “For I have sinned. It has been… far too long since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Remmick was smiling. Hands clasped in his lap, burning eyes staring into the wood of the booth. He could hear every shift you made, every breath coming from your heaving chest and out of your beautiful throat. The throat that pulsed with your heartbeat. The heartbeat that hadn’t left his mind since he’d laid eyes on you. He thought of your blood pooling in the dip of your collarbone and shifted in his seat.

Your chest was heaving, your nails digging into the seat's leather. You pressed your legs together, glanced at what you could see of Remmick’s face.

“Father, I have impure thoughts. I fear that the Devil has his hold on me, making me yearn for…improper things.”

Remmick’s smile curled, teeth sharp against his lip. You were right where he wanted you. Hot, pulsing, panting. His hands unclasped, his palm pressing into the seam of his pants. His head fell back, eyes slipping closed at the pressure against him.

“Improper things?” he asked you, his voice leveled as much as possible, but you caught the hitch. “Do you think the Lord would accept this confession… if you can’t even say what sin you’re thinking of?”

Your throat bobbed as you realized he was right. You were a sinning coward, unable to tell God what He needed to forgive you for. Your hands left sweat marks on the seat, palms raised to grip the rosary around your neck. The marks on your knees from groveling for God had started to sting, as if the Devil himself scratched down your legs. Reminding you of who you thought of and who you wanted to be on your knees for.

“I think of someone… touching me. Their hands against my skin, defiling me in a way that-”

A sound, guttural and desperate, left Remmick’s throat. His hand had continued to press against him, thick tendons and veins straining under his skin. His eyes opened, pupils nearly flooding his entire iris. All that was left was a ring of red on the outside, the color of blood stained on satin white sheets. He was silent, marinating in how you gasped at the sound he’d released. You were so deliciously untouched.

“And who is that you think of?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy and charged with something dangerous. It felt as if the rosary in between your hands were being tugged from your grasp, until you looked down and realized that it was just you releasing it, letting it clatter onto the floor.

The point of no return. Letting the Devil take you by the hand and dance you into Hell. You’d called to God so many times and He’d never answered, but Remmick was here. Real, tangible, beautiful. You dug your nails into your palms, prayed for your soul one last time before diving into the deep end.

“...I think you know, Father.”

Silence, at first. Something that made the air hot, that made your breath catch in your throat.

The wood groaned as Remmick shifted, his feet scuffing against the floor. You could hear the screech of metal rings against a rod, Remmick pushing the curtain open.

He didn’t ask for permission. He pushed your curtain open slowly, filling it with his broad frame and slender fingers. His fingers gripped the velvet, and a brass ring around his finger caught the light. He was a wolf in wolf's clothing, teeth sharp and bright in the dim light.

One hand left the curtain, reaching out to touch the lines of your collarbone. He ran his nail up your neck to rest the pad of his finger against your pulse.

“I do know,” he hummed, applying pressure to the pulse, just enough for you to feel him there. “And I always knew you’d come.”

His other hand flew from the curtain with a speed that didn’t seem human, fingers gripping your hair and tugging your head back to expose your throat.

“God.” You moaned low in your throat, breath ragged as Remmick lowered himself enough to be straddling your lap, thighs warm and solid on top of yours. He leaned forward, his mouth finding your ear. You felt his tongue run over the shell of it, something long and cold like a serpent.

“Not sure your God is here, sugar.” His voice was low and sweet, rattling the inside of your body. “He woulda saved you by now, right?”

Remmick looked down into your nightdress, lip caught between his teeth. He was quiet as he raised his hands to the fabric, gripping it tightly before tugging. The nightdress split apart as easily as tearing paper, your skin prickling with goosebumps as the cold air hit your naked chest. He looked at you like a sinner did the cross, eyes nearly glowing. He waited; waited for your invitation to touch you, thick drool rolling down his chin like a rabid dog. It dripped onto your chest as you nodded, your hand shaking when you wrapped your fingers around the white clerical collar at his throat. You tugged it off, letting it fall to the floor beside your rosary.

“Touch me, Father.”

Remmick was on his knees in a second, tearing away the rest of the ruined nightdress from your body as he nestled his shoulders between your thighs. The only thing that remained between you and him was a thin pair of underwear, lacy trim at the edges that he ran his fingertip over with a twitching smile.

The pad of his rough fingertip pressed over the fabric of your underwear, firm against your clit. Your body jolted forward, legs falling open for him as the pleasure traveled up your spine.

Remmick laughed, his head thrown back and mouth open wide.

“So wet for having never been touched, little lamb.” Remmick’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging it down your smooth legs. “Do you want to be worshipped, as your God is…” He tucked your underwear into the back pocket of his black pants. “Or ruined, like the Devil would do to you?”

“I want…” Your words cut off with a whimper as he pulled his finger from you, only to open your legs wider. “I want what you want, Father…”

Remmick hummed, weighing his options. “Lil’ bit of both then, I reckon.”

His head dove in between your legs like he’d been starved of water for years, and you were the first drop of salvation he’d found. He groaned, deep and low in his throat, that sent a vibration through you that had your hands flying to the dark waves on top of his head, pulling him against you.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise as he licked against your cunt, long tongue rolling around your clit like he’d been made to worship it.

“So sweet,” Remmick smiled against you, warm and wet for him. “Like the Lord made you just for me.”

Remmick’s hands left your thighs, palms searching the floor as he continued to suck on your clit, pushing his tongue into you, curling it up in a way that didn’t seem possible. When he found what he needed, he pulled away, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes and your wetness dripping from his lips.

His hand raised, your rosary beads tangled between his fingers. With careful precision, he lowered the necklace against your cunt, the coolness of the beads making you shiver and scratch marks into the leather seat beneath you. As the beads pressed on either side of your clit, your head fell back against the wall, heat traveling up your neck as if the flames of Hell were already licking against your skin.

“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.” He cocked his head to the side, eyes penetrating and sharp on your face. He could sense your impending release, the way your heartbeat quickened, your back arching off the seat.

“Don’t.”

Once low and ragged in the dark, his voice had become clear. He closed your legs with one large hand and dropped the rosary beads back to the floor so he could lean forward, pressing his other hand against the wall next to your head. His face was inches from yours, and his breath was hot on your neck.

“Not yet, darlin’. Not ‘til I say.” His lips found the pulse point on your neck, nipping before kissing tenderly. “The Lord teaches patience, lamb.”

Remmick’s hand left the wall to grip your hair again, tugging your head back. It made your scalp sting in a way that made you want more, your mouth parting to whimper against him.

“That bein’ said,” A crooked smile - lips baptized in your essence. “I’m bettin’ you sound real pretty beggin’.”

His tongue was long and rough against your cheek as he tasted your sweating skin, a deep rumble in his throat as if he was tasting the sweetest nectar. He stopped at your temple, placing a gentle kiss there. His lips remained there, teeth grazing skin.

“So go on, darlin’. Pray for me to fuck you.”

Your breath caught, your entire body going hot from his words. He laughed against your skin, like he could feel the very chemistry in your body change, the way you grew slicker from his twisted request. The way you knew that you would do it for him. You’d pray to be spread open by him, explored in a way not even God could do.

“Oh, you will do it, won’t you…”

It wasn’t a question. Remmick knew you’d beg; he knew how far gone you were. He laughed against your skin.

“Doesn’t matter how good of a girl you are… how much you love Him. You’ll give it all up just to get off, won’t you?”

Remmick pulled back, hands sliding down to hold firm on the flesh of your hips. He lifted you from the seat like you weighed nothing, turned both your bodies around until you were straddling him. Your naked core rested against the rough material of his pants and made your body shiver. He smiled.

“Go on… hands together in contrition. Do it right…” His rough hands grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands flat together between your bodies. When they were pressed together to pray, he let his fingers linger on the bare skin of your thighs, fingers just too long and nails just too sharp against your skin.

Your lips were dry, and Remmick’s eyes drifted to them like he wanted to lick across them, make them wet again.

“Heavenly…”

Remmick hummed in glee already, just from a single word. His head bowed, as if to join you in prayer, his eyes slipping shut.

“Heavenly Father… forgive me for what I am about to ask of you. I know I do not deserve such a blessing as being touched…” Your words faltered as one of Remmick’s hands slid up your thigh, gathering the slick in between your legs. His finger pressed against your clit, and you gasped, hands pressing together tighter. “As being touched by someone so good, so…”

Remmick’s finger pushed inside of you, pressing up to a spot that made your throat close up, the only sound coming out a pathetic squeak of a whine.

“Aww, darlin’, that’s so sweet of you. But you don’t have to lie.” His body leaned forward, his wet mouth pressing against your ear. “Tell your Heavenly Father what I am. What you know I am.”

“I’m…” You continued the prayer, voice deep and rasping. “I’m going to fuck the Devil… and Lord, I beg you to have mercy on my wicked soul.”

Remmick laughed against the skin of your neck, drawing thin beads of blood with the sharp points of his teeth.

“Are you now? Going to fuck the Devil?”

All you could do was whine at the pleasurable pain in your neck, your hands shaking with the desire to pull them apart, to grab at his skin and his hair.

Remmick hummed to himself, pulling his finger out of you with a slowness that made you bite the inside of your cheek. His cold hands slid up your arms, pulling your hands apart from their prayer.

“Get up.” He said quietly, with that same thick, gooey voice he’d had when you’d shaken his hand for the first time. You did as he asked, spreading your legs and backing off his lap. His eyes traveled up your bare body as he stood, towering over you inside the booth. With a firm hand on your hip, he nudged you toward the curtain.

“To the altar.”

Remmick’s breathing was heavy behind you, his gaze burning holes into the bare skin of your back as you slowly walked to the altar. You looked to the cross just above, and you felt no remorse, not anymore. Whatever God could do to punish you, you were sure Remmick could do worse. Maybe you wanted him to.

You ceased walking once you had reached the altar, your belly just close enough to feel the cool wood against your skin. Remmick was behind you, his breath hot and wet on your neck. His eyes ran over your skin, from the top of your head to the balls of your feet. The expanse of a human body that he was now free to ruin. That he’d be begged to ruin.

With one swift movement, he grabbed your wrists, raising them and placing them flat on the altar. Your fingers brushed the closed Bible there as your breath hitched. Remmick made no effort to remove it. He only slid one hand down your body, as soft and languid as a serpent, and pressed down on the arch of your back.

“Look at you…” Remmick murmured, fingers sliding into your folds, finding you warm and wanting there. Your legs quivered at his simple touch, so his other arm found its spot under your belly, assisting in holding you upright. “So nervous… shaking. You must honor God with your body, little lamb.”

Two fingers entered you, pushing in and out with a torturous speed. Your legs spread wider, your nails scratching into the leather-bound fabric covering the Bible before you.

“Please..” Your voice quivered as you tried to keep it level. Your head fell against the Bible, leaving sweat marks. “I need you inside me, I need it more than I need God.”

Remmick’s fingers pulled out of you, and you heard the faint sound of his lips licking his fingers clean. He moaned at the taste of you, his other hand pulling the clasp of his belt buckle apart. “Aw, sweetheart, that’s so kind of you.”

By the press of him against you, hot and pulsing, you could tell that Remmick was big. But nothing could have prepared you for the way it felt when the head of his cock began to press inside you, hardly able to breach your entrance. He pulled back, body lowering to press lips against your sweat-slick spine.

“Gotta open up for me, baby.” He said against your skin, running the length of himself against your folds. His tongue was cold and barbed as it ran up the expanse of your back and to the shell of your ear. “Take me all at once, and maybe I’ll make you see Him. Denying yourself would be the true sin…” Remmick tried once again, his cock slowly able to start stretching you, inch by torturous inch. You couldn’t make a sound as your mouth fell open, tears beading at the corner of your eyes from the sheer size of him.

“Haven’t even fucked you good yet,” He groaned as he pushed in. “And you’re already speaking in tongues.”

When he’d bottomed out inside you, pressing deep on a spot inside you that only made a guttural sound escape your throat, his large hand pressed against your belly.

“Feel all that pain, lamb. You’re just getting used to me… your body will learn quick.” He slid back slowly and pushed back in with just as much resolve. Your legs nearly gave out, hands scrambling for purchase on the lectern as he fucked into you. “Soon, all you’ll feel is me.”

Remmick was right.

Soon, the only feeling that remained was deep, wicked pleasure. Every thrust of him inside of you felt like another ring lower into Hell, the souls eternally damned there shaking their heads at you as you made the same mistakes they did. But the problem was - you didn’t fucking care.

A whine escaped your throat as Remmick picked up the pace, just a little bit. One hand on your belly, the other gripping your hip so hard you were sure you felt the cold prick of blood on your skin. Every thrust was hitting something inside you that somehow made you wetter, something that had you dripping onto him like some kind of deranged baptism.

Remmick was grunting, getting louder with each thrust into you. He tried to hide with honeyed words, but you felt too good around him.

“So easy, aren’t you?” Remmick was grabbing one of your arms, pulling your hand into his to press onto your own belly. You felt the bulge of him with each thrust in, and the pressure on your stomach made your cunt flutter around him. He groaned, words faltering as you squeezed around his cock. “You…” He nearly whined, hand gripping yours on top of your belly. “Just a few words about your corrupt God and you... you spread your legs for me?”

He laughed, hand leaving your stomach to grab at your hair, tugging until your head reeled back just enough to see him. He was beautiful like this, pupils blown out, and the first few buttons of his clean shirt popped open. Blood streaked down the corner of his mouth from the wound on your neck, and his tongue was unnaturally long as it unraveled out to wet his lips.

“Do you know something, sweetheart?” He asked, dark eyes meeting yours. “Your God isn’t here.”

A whine broke through your mouth as he rolled his hips in a particularly torturous way, hitting the spot in you that he’d found with his fingers in the confession booth. There wasn’t anything you could do but let your body go slack against him, head kept in place only by his grip on your hair.

“What would your God say, hm?” Remmick asked, pressing into that spot again, making your vision go white. “If He saw you split open for me?”

Remmick released you, and your head fell forward to the altar. He leaned forward, and you felt the cold press of something against your neck, a chain or something of the like.

“Do you still believe in Him?” He asked against the nape of your neck, pressing deep into you. He nipped at you again and lapped the blood up with his tongue with a soft moan.

“Maybe you should apologize to Him, hm? How does that one go again?” Remmick pulled out, almost entirely. You felt the cold air hit the wetness of your cunt, and you whined at the loss of contact from him.

“Forgive me my sins, Oh Lord,” Remmick spoke, moved both of his hands to your hips, and thrust in with one swift move that made you cry out in shock, in pleasure, in shame. “The sins of my youth.” Another deep thrust, and back out again. “The sins of my soul,” Another. “And the sins of my body-”

The last push inside of you made you see streaks of color in your vision, your mouth hanging open, and your lips wet with drool. You felt something like a spool form in your stomach, desperate to unravel. It was an odd feeling that you’d never felt before, akin to the feeling of nearly wetting yourself, and it made your face burn with embarrassment.

“Father,” Your voice was gone, raspy and unrecognizable. “Father, I feel…” You whined as the feeling grew, doing everything in your power not to let the spool unravel. “I think I‘m gonna pee… it feels like-” Remmick chuckled, increasing the speed of his thrusts.

“Oh, my poor baby.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. He was the Devil himself.

“You don’t even know what your sweet little body can do, do you?”

And with that, Remmick was reaching around your body, pressing two of his fingers against your clit and rubbing, coaxing something out of you. The more he coaxed, the tighter the spool wound.

And then it snapped.

You didn’t recognize your voice as you came, nails scratching into the altar so hard that the wood began to splinter, piercing the tips of your fingers. Remmick was laughing as wetness coated him, the front of his pants and the fingertips at your clit. You’d provided an entire baptism for him, and he wouldn’t let it go to waste.

He pulled out of you, gripping your hips tightly and whipping you around so your back hit the altar. Remmick’s knees hitting the floor and his tongue diving inside of you happened in one action, in one second. He licked up everything you gave him, your essence leaking onto his face and dripping down his chin.

His cock remained hard, long, and red below you as he sucked on your clit. You wet your lips, a shaking hand lifting from the altar to grip at his auburn waves.

“Touch yourself,” You whimpered, voice coated in overstimulation. “Please… let me see the image He created you in…”

Remmick’s eyes slid open, peering up at you needily. His nose brushed your clit as his tongue pushed up inside you, and he grabbed at his cock with a strong, blood-covered hand. Immediately, he was moaning, the vibrations in his throat traveling through your entire body and making your head feel airy. His hand was so beautiful pleasuring himself, pulling up and down the length of his cock and making himself leak. His hips thrusted up into his fist, and you found yourself longing to see the muscles that flexed beneath his shirt.

Your trembling hand scratched at his scalp, and Remmick sighed happily underneath your touch. He wasn’t even eating you out, not anymore, just nuzzling his face into your skin and breathing you in as he touched himself.

“Beautiful…” You whispered to him. “Like an angel.”

Remmick growled, hand tugging on your thigh and yanking you to the floor. Your back slid against the altar as he pressed the head of himself against your cunt. His forehead pressed against yours as he came with a groan. The warmth of him spilled against your clit and downward, and Remmick’s fingers gently pressed into you, making sure it stayed tucked away inside you.

Your body trembled as Remmick pulled his forehead from yours. His thumb came up to brush against your lips, and for a brief moment, he pushed it inside, humming as the pad of it pressed against your warm tongue. He leaned forward, replacing his thumb with his mouth. A small squeak sounded in your throat at the feeling of his tongue pressing against the roof of your mouth, licking away the last of the prayers that stuck there.

Remmick’s lips remained connected to yours as he helped you stand on shaking legs, his hands pulling you up effortlessly by your waist. His hand reached behind him, grabbing the underwear he’d tucked in his back pocket as he’d prepared to stick his tongue between your legs.

He leaned down, untangling the delicate material and holding it out.

“Step in, sweet thing.” He peered up at you through half-lidded eyes. “Gotta keep everything I gave you inside… keep you close to me.”

Your hand gripped his strong shoulder as you stepped into the holes of your underwear. Remmick pulled them up slowly, leaving soft kisses on your skin as he went. When they were fully up, getting soaked with the mix of Remmick’s and your release, he straightened. His lips pressed against your forehead for a brief, sweet moment.

“I’ll see you at Sunday service.” He said as he pulled back, his voice just as fucked out as yours had been.

“Front pews. Don’t think you can hide from me in the back.”

His hand grazed your arm, almost innocently.

“Or anywhere, for that matter.”

#remmick x reader #remmick x fem!reader #remmick smut #remmick x reader smut #remmick #remmick x y/n #jack o'connell #remmick sinners #sinners remmick #sinners au

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stethosc0pe · 2 days ago

Text

like a stone

frank langdon x goth!reader

wc: 6k

content/warnings: MDNI/18+ NSFW, sub!langdon, canon typical gore, smut, PUSSY EATING PUSSY EATING, GET YOUR MESSY PUSSY EATING HERE, oral (f receiving), masturbating (m), possible seed planted for marking kink, landgon being desperate for that thang, eating it thru the panties, excruciatingly dialogue heavy with smut at the end, fluff, yearning, angst?, early established relationship, divorce, Frank has no kids, rehab, alcohol mention, reader is PGY-5, reader has a Buick LeSabre, reader wears all black, reader has black hair, hopefully no exclusionary language (no mention of hair texture, skin color, weight or height) except that reader has a vagina!

a/n: frank langdon is a smug little man and i feel he needs to be humbled by an intimidating woman! that woman just happens to be you, y/n Harker. named after Mina Harker (nee murray) from dracula. all of my previous fics have been about down bad men. i cannot write a dominant man. i just can’t. that is disgusting. #ToMe . reader in this fic is the boss !!!!! and he loves it !!!!

i am a goth so i made this character a goth cuz there’s not enough goth readers inserts! when u click the link to a y/n’s outfit and its like.. i would never wear that baby blue dress you have projected onto me! and i would never stutter and get flustered in front of a man!

though it is mentioned reader has black hair and a vagina, there is no specific image for her in my mind, like, no mention of size, height, or race. goths come in all different forms! oh, and all of my readers are bisexual even if not explicitly stated in the fic.

i was thinking about making a series of this, like harker x langdon. if you guys have any requests for that maybe….. haha…… idk…. bye

7:45 am

Frank Langdon watches you float through the hallways. Around central. In and out of doorways. You peek in on the cases the still-green doctors have asked you for help on. This time, it’s Whitaker. Langdon can’t hear what you say to him, he can only see the back of you and Whitaker’s perpetual, helpless, orphan-like gaze. When you back out of the room you’re leaning in on, you smile at both the patient and Whitaker reassuringly. And once you turn around and they can’t see your face anymore, your smile relaxes and fades, and the familiar furrow to your brow returns.

You have a resting bitch face. It’s chronic. You don’t frown, per se. Your eyes frown for you, slanting and squinting and making perfunctory eye contact when needed. Your eyebrows come over your eyes like rainy clouds, the left one arching up when you’re listening.

You have a darker disposition. You’ve always been that way. A loner in high school. Harder to get close to. It keeps the creeps away, you learned in your youth, so you leaned into it harder. Headphones in and angry looking. It’s habit now.

But for your patients… for the families, for the bright eyed, scared student doctors… you brighten. It’s kind. It’s conscious.

It’s so fucking… sexy.

Langdon should be helping a sickly individual, but god, he’s been distracted lately. The black hair doesnt help. The clean laundry slash faded perfume smell doesn’t help. The fitted black long-sleeve under your scrubs does not help.

He realized some time ago that he wants, so feverishly, to see that brow unfurl when he makes you laugh. To be the one you like more than anybody else.

It wasn’t romantic then. And then he was sent to rehab. He did a lot of begrudging introspection during his stay. And with your semi-frequent visits, he realized things he’d been refusing. He also got a divorce, so. That made things a little easier in some places, a little more painful in others.

You and Langdon had just gotten together. Just put a label on it. A desperate confession from him, not even six months after his divorce was finalized. He was overly tired and wearing thin. Composure lost to the wind. You took him home. Since then, he hasn’t really left your apartment. It’s been five weeks. He’s obsessed.

And now… he wants to see that brow crease again in focus when he’s got his mouth at your core.

He’s going to let the lease on his own shitty apartment run out.

You head to a computer to type something up. He’s uninterested in what. He follows you, and when you crash down into the chair, he drags another one over to you so he can be level with you. You don’t look at him. He loves it when you don’t look at him. He feels like he has to work for it.

‘I wanna fuck you.’ Frank Langdon whispers to you, front completely facing your profile, basically speaking into your ear as you type. Your head jerks, angles towards him at the abruptly vulgarity in your very sophisticated workplace. But your eyes say on the computer. You recover quickly, and that killer poker face comes back.

‘No.’

‘I want to eat you out.’

‘No.’ You don’t spare him a glance. You barely dignify him with a response. You know he’s a smooth talker, and you’ve fallen into bed at many inopportune times because of it.

He knows you a little too well by this point. He’s been with you nonstop; going from work to your apartment, from the apartment to your Buick LaSabre— which you won’t even let him drive once because you’ve seen him make a turn without slowing down— and back to work.

You were friends before, too.

You started working at Pittsburg Medical Trauma Center five years ago when Frank was still an intern and you were a second year resident transfer from a different hospital. Technically, you were his senior, being a year ahead of him. That made him competitive at first. He’d been in this ER since med school and now you show up, what– with your near perfect success rate with patients and your… arresting energy. Pfft.

Quickly, the insecurity wore off, and he stopped trying to deny that you were magnetic, like nobody else he’d ever met. It took some time to get you to friendship status. But he did. And it really, really stuck.

All there was to learn about you that he didn’t already know was how you looked naked, and how you liked your eggs in the morning.

And now, when you go home together, he follows your lead. When you get up to start getting ready for bed, he falls beside you at the sink, brushing his teeth while you pee. You pull your bedding over both of you and ensure it covers his shoulders because you like it colder in your apartment. You ask him if he’s warm enough. You don’t change the temperature for anyone, but you’ll make warm accommodations just for him.

You wake up to a clean set of scrubs set on the counter for you in the bathroom. When you come out, freshly showered, you find him already ready, pouring you both cereal. Walking up close behind him, you press your front to his back and snake your freezing hands up his scrub shirt. He jumps a little.

Getting up from your chair, you beeline for your next case. And of course, Frank bounds behind you, unable to give up. Ambition, after all, is a virtue in this industry.

‘Honey-!’ He stops in front of you so you can’t advance any further. ‘You’re killin’ me.’

Frank puts his hands out before him, palms up, in a pleading gesture. He knows he’s being unreasonable.

‘What do you want me to do? Tell me. I’ll do it.’

‘We’re at work. Your job.’ You cross your arms over your chest. It doesn’t deter him any.

‘There’s empty rooms. We could go upstairs.’ He follows your eyes with his whole head as you look around to make sure nobody has heard him and wave him a be quiet motion.

‘Don’t you have patients?’ You poke him square in the chest and start walking again. He walks backwards with you.

‘No, I have absolutely no patience when it comes to you. You smell so good.’ He says the last part as you walk past him. You hear him and break a smile he can’t see. He hopes nobody heard that. He scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed once you’re around the corner and he’s thrust back into the sterile white of work again, glancing about and trying to seem busy.

You linger around him. It must be your pheromones. You think you’re ovulating.

But maybe he’s just in love.

8:30 am

‘Can you tell your guy to stop moping around like someone took his lunch money? He’s bringing down staff morale.’ Says Dana with a pitying look, peering at you over her glasses. It seems she’s dealt with men like this before.

‘Our staff doesn’t have morale.’ You raise an eyebrow. She chuckles her raspy Dana chuckle. ‘And are you sure that’s not just his face?’

‘Rich comin’ from you, Wednesday.’

9:01 am

You stare up at the screen full of patients and ailments, deciding on which one to take. Really you’re just resting a little, leaning against the counter. Frank is next to you, of course, mirroring you, watching the board all the same.

Placing your glasses on top of your head, you rub at your eyes and sigh a little. You’re nursing a migraine, and the hideaway from the fluorescents behind your eyelids is a brief respite.

‘What’s the matter?’ Frank asks from beside you, your arms touching.

‘Just… headache.’

‘I can help with that. I know a remedy for headaches.’

‘Yeah? So do I. You know I’m a doctor too, right?’

‘An orgasm. Multiple, if possible.’ You gawk at him. Your mouth opens in honest shock with the corners of your mouth upturned. You’re thoroughly amused but… he’s getting bold. To be honest, you thought he’d dropped this after the first mention.

‘Relieves migraines, better sleep, helps with cramps, and helps to satiate excited boyfriends, too.’ He goes on… and on…

‘Oh, my god.’ You shake your head in disbelief and huff a single wry laugh.

‘Let’s-’ You cover his mouth with your hand. Well, if there wasn’t enough blood pooling in his dick before…

‘If Dana hears you, I’m never gonna live it down, you caveman.’ He smiles under your hand at the name-calling. You let him go, a little bit of Langdon spit on your palm.

‘I love it when you call me that.’

You point to the board. And he follows your finger.

‘There’s sudden vomiting, diarrhea, and body aches in south sixteen. Why don’t you take that? Could be norovirus. That’s fun!’ You turn to face him and lean on the counter with your hip instead, ‘Have at it, big guy.’ You slap his shoulder with facetious encouragement.

‘It’s gastroenteritis and you know it. Y’know-‘ He huffs, ‘Why are you torturing me? Do you take pleasure in torturing me?’

‘What a stupid question.’ You say as you exhale, ‘Of course I do.’

‘Where’s Harker?’ You hear in the distance, sounding all too similar to a grumpy senior resident you know.

‘You’re a sadist.’ You stand up to leave and press a smooch to his lips right as he finishes talking, barely giving him time to react.

Langdon makes decisions all day.

Where to cut, when to cut.

Dosage. Pressure. Time of death. Second opinion. Hold compressions. Pull, stitch, cauterize.

How to break a less than hopeful diagnosis to the parents of a toddler.

He notices the way you operate. He trusts it. A lot of times, at home, he wants you to make the decisions. He wants to fold like tissue and collapse in your hands. He’s been an unwavering champion of the ER all day, and he wants to know that when he goes home, or is simply in your presence, he can falter, and it’ll be okay. It feels— you feel— like the safety on a pistol that’s loaded. With one in the chamber.

And, of course, you don’t mind. Because… as a woman, the world as you know it is full of men who want you to be pliant and subservient to them. Just a little dumber so they feel a little smarter.

Not him. You are wanted, badly, just as you are. And that’s offputting and ready and jaded and wry and… oftentimes the most capable person in the room.

‘Makes you a masochist, I guess. I gotta go, baby.’

11:31 am

‘Doctor Harker?’ Mel King holds the tablet, looking at your patients chart curiously. You’re palpating a gym bro’s dislocated shoulder. Feeling at the knotted and tense muscles and the misplaced joint.

‘It’s Y/N for you, Mel.’ You smile quickly at her and go back to your task, tongue peeking out the right side of your mouth in fixation on the shoulder. She smiles quickly back. She still hasn’t been able to bring herself to call anyone by their first name, although she insists on it herself. Honestly, you find it nice to know someone who defaults to being respectful. You and Mel have become fast friends, but at work she still gets a little formal sometimes.

‘Right… are you aware that Doctor Langdon has been staring at you for…’ She checks her watch. ‘Four minutes?’

‘Relax at the elbow. Good.’ You guide the patient through. You steal a glance to the outside world for a second and scan for Frank. You see him across the way at central in a swivel chair looking like he’s got nothing better to do. His elbow rests on the desk in front of him and he clicks a pen in his hand. When you meet his eyes, he doesn’t falter. You can’t really tell what’s going on in his head. Maybe he’s zoned out on you, thinking of something wildly different. He could feel threatened by the Skarsgard-looking man you’re working on. Maybe he’s ogling you. But no, it doesn’t feel like a lustful gaze at this very moment. Although, knowing him, it could turn at any second.

You think maybe he just looks for you when you’re not there. And when he finds you, he makes your visage his home. It’s comfortable.

You’ve been independent a long time now. And you haven’t been in a relationship for a long time, either. You hope to settle back into this. Being needed. Wanted. Looked for. It feels good for once.

‘Let him. He’s not bothering me.’ You brace both your hands on the guy’s wrist and shoulder. ‘Deep breath in– and… out.’ You rotate the arm up until the ball pops back into place. Your patient grunts as expected, and you’re sweating a little after holding this dude’s buff arm up for so long. Otherwise, another satisfied customer.

Mel starts to wrap up the affected shoulder to stabilize it for a little while. She realizes that this whole time she’s never actually fully fleshed out your relationship with Frank. She’s been busy. And he was at rehab for a long time. ‘Is he…? Are you guys like… enemies?’

‘While I think he’s a little upset at me right now, unfortunately he is my lover.’

You flash back to this morning. You woke up slowly together for once. You snoozed your alarm, but woke again to Frank pulling you against him and smushing his mouth lovingly to your neck and shoulder. He was steady at half-mast, his hand skated across your skin until it danced its way into your underwear and fell between your lips, pressing and circling with the precision of an ER doctor. And then… your second alarm started to buzz, vibrating the bed.

You bounded out of the bed and away from his attentive fingers. You got ready for work with some urgency now, breaking out of your momentary sex trance.

Unfortunately, Frank never left it.

‘Okay, good. Because I was getting nervous.’ Mel utters to you, a glimmer in her eyes, like she’s able to find it funny now, ‘And… unfortunately?’

“Yeah, have you met him?’

12:58 pm

Frank finds you again after you've just led a procedure that had been particularly bloody. You're washing you're hands alone, room cleaned up and ready for another case. You’re the last one out, and you seem to have forgotten to take off your viscera-splattered glasses in your absorption.

You sense the tall, warm presence behind you.

‘Sometimes I wonder how you find the time to always be exactly where I am.’ You don't turn around yet.

’Are you mad at me?’

‘Why would I be mad at you, House?’

‘You’re ignoring me.’

‘I’m not. We just can’t have sex at work. And you know that.' Now you're drying your hands off with the noisy, crinkly paper towels. 'You know, when I started working here, they told me you would blow me away with your big doctor brain.’ You chuck the paper towels in the trash.

He notices that you always seem to be doing something when he's bothering you at work. Being productive in some way. And he can't help himself but be temporarily, fully occupied by your company. You two becoming intertwined has been detrimental to his time management.

‘Oh, I’ll blow ya.’ He nods once and impishly smiles like a little-shit kid. You start making your way over to him from the sink. He has your full attention right now. It feels like a rare occurrence here so, he really feels it. Physically.

In reality, it's not a rare occurrence. He's just spoiled.

‘Is this your first time talking to a girl?’

He ignores you, nipping at your heels to get his next verbal chess move in.

‘I just like to check in. You could be the happiest woman alive and we’d never know.’

‘I am happy!’ You mock offense, hands on your hips.

‘Did you tell your face?’

‘No.’ Your hands drop from your hips in forfeit. You stalk even closer to him. You like to get up close with him. See everything. ‘And you’ll be able to detect when I’m angry.’

‘How?’ He pulls the glasses off your face and chucks them in a bin to be washed.

‘Mmm… for one, I’ll start calling you Langdon again. Like the olden days. And someone once told me that when I’m pissed off, thunder booms in the distance.’

‘Oh, yeah? I’m takin’ notes, see?’ He mimes jotting down your tips on his hand (notepad).

1:30 pm

It slows down midday, so while you’re not needed, you decide to take lunch in the staff lounge. You set out two very big red apples in front of you.

Frank saunters in, stripping off his gloves and basketball-ing them into the trash can. He slides into the chair next to you.

‘Can you start this for me?’ You gesture with the first apple.

‘Mhm.’ He bites it while it’s still in your hand, making it easier to bite on the new edges for you. You have sensitive teeth. He takes the other apple and bites it for himself, taking a big chunk.

‘I’m guessing… five-hundred IV with Zofran and sent home with Imodium? For south sixteen?’

‘I didn't take south sixteen. I took fifty-three year old acute arrhythmia and lethargy.’

‘Oh… cardioversion?’

‘…Yeah.’

Pulling out your phone, you open the New York Times app and pull your chair closer to him so he can see. You click on Connections. It’s Frank’s favorite. You personally like Strands, but you like doing Connections more if he’s there. You eat your apples together with noisy crunches and mumble ideas for the possible categories to each other.

While you hold the phone, Langdon pokes at the screen with his index, the rest of his fingers holding his apple. He solves the yellow line with ease. Starting off strong.

answer, fix, remedy, solution (ways of solving a problem)

As you think about the puzzle, you chew on the inside of your cheek and… those brows come down. He loves to watch you. You’re his favorite show. There’s something so… animalistic about you. You’re wholly yourself around him. Free of tension for the moment and elbow propped up on your knee– the respective leg of which is propped up on the seat of your chair.

You don’t fake smiles for him. You rest your face. You’re relaxed. Though you’re happy to do it for others, you don’t have to manufacture a grin around him because he’s always liked you and your angry face. And when he makes you smile, he knows it’s real. Because it’s big and toothy and accompanied by other expressions. When you don’t want to laugh at what he said because it’s so stupid, but you do, and your eyebrows draw together and peak up in disbelief as if to say you’re lucky you’re pretty. When he compliments you and the smile rises to your face slowly like you’re fighting it.

He likes making you break a smile. But he likes the rest too. He loves that furrowed brow. That’s what makes this— you, together— so easy.

You solve the blue line: eraser, eyedropper, lasso, magic wand (photoshop tools)

‘D’you… still have a headache?’

Your mouth cracks open into a big laugh, dying down into little giggles after a few seconds, shoulders shaking. It’s funny to you because it feels like a stand-up comedy call back. It feels like he’s been sitting on that one, waiting for the right time. You took a migraine pill hours ago and it’s since been forgotten, but he doesn’t know that. You sigh with a Hmmmm in the afterglow of the laughter. Your eyes crease hard and your cheeks dust pink, raised higher by your grin. You’re leaning into the moment and its warmth. You rest your head in your hand and look at him for what feels like a long time. You pin him with your gaze like you’re thinking hard. He feels paralyzed.

Looking at him is nice. Usually, on busy days, the majority of the times you see each other are blurry shapes you think are Frank. He’s still and steadfast in front of you now. It helps that he’s pretty. You’ve never been one for blue eyes, but… they don’t look empty on him. It helps that without the obvious sex appeal, you really do love being with him. He was a good friend. He’s a good boyfriend. He’s a great doctor.

It helps that there’s nothing sexier in the whole wide world than a funny man.

It helps that you like him more than anyone else.

‘Go…’ He readies himself for another no, and prepares to pout. ‘…find a room. I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?’

‘Really?’

‘Go.’

He walks out of the room with his fist held high like Bender at the end of The Breakfast Club.

1:38 pm

Coming out of the stairwell, you enter the hospitals empty wing. It’s quiet, you knew it’d be quiet, but it shocks you every time. One or two of the lights in the long hallway flickers. It’s kinda setting the mood for you.

You continue on, trying to figure out where Frank could be, and he appears in the doorway to your right.

‘Well, hello.’ He says, leaning against the doorway with an endearing, faux-debonair voice. He can barely contain his excitement, a big smile peeking out. You approach him with your arms crossed over your chest, all guarded from the neck down, but your eyes are soft and you’re definitely, visibly in love. You take your hair down.

Once you’re within a foot of him he grabs your hands and pulls you backwards into the room with him. He crashes his lips down to yours in a kiss that you would expect mid-make out session. Not the appetizer. But he's already there. He's been there.

‘You’re so annoying. But I really do love you.’ You say, and he's got his hands cradling your face with barely any pressure at all, but enough to tilt your head up a bit to expose your neck and shoulder. He drags his mouth all along your jaw, and you smile and out comes a broken laugh because it's such a wet, tickly kiss. Your hands cover his where he holds you, squeezing.

‘Mm- love you.’ Says he, with his hands under both of your shirts and his voice dampened by your neck. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you.’

‘Couldn’t stop thinking about me or her?’ You pointed straight down to your vagina, weeping a little already at the thought of what’s to come.

‘Yes.’ He rushes out, cupping the her you speak of. He feels the warmth of your core and he can’t believe it’s real, that he convinced you finally to fuck him at work.

Langdon drops down to his knees and his hands slide around to the back of your thighs. He opens his mouth and bites the loose end of the bow of your pants drawstrings. He looks up at you like he's being knighted by a monarch.

‘Jesus Christ, Frank.’

He pulls it apart with his teeth until it gives, and when it does he hooks one finger into each side of your scrub pants and drags them down slowly. He looks at you the whole while, your idle hands becoming ambulatory by carding them through his hair. His eyelashes only flutter then.

‘Call me Langdon.’ He’s stopped his ministrations, looking at you expectantly. You stay silent, smiling down at him, and he thinks you aren’t gonna throw him this bone.

‘Fuck, you’re mean.’

‘Langdon.’ You give in, calling to him adoringly. There’s only so much you can deny to a man like this.

Langdon lets out a Mmh, muffling as he presses his mouth and nose over your panties. Those grey, cotton, brief-cut panties. You have a cutesy black lace pair. He’s seen them in your laundry. And even though you’ve been having sex nearly everyday, you still don’t feel the need to put them on. You know he just wants you like this. Comfortable.

Or maybe you don’t care at all. The panties are going to come off anyways.

He licks you through your briefs, making the grey material darker with his wet tongue. He moves against your pussy like he’s kissing your mouth.

‘Lay down.’ Frank says when he can pull himself away, and you find yourself on the forgotten-about hospital bed that comes with the room. You sit midway on the bed, and he tugs you down to the edge by your thighs, leaving you laying half diagonal across the bed. You let an Oof!

Your legs have nowhere to sit until he’s kneeling and plants himself between your thighs. He puts them on either side of his head. He’s been activated, the moment snapped open, and he’s like a dog off his leash.

He's dragging his tongue and teeth up one thigh and down the other, leaving wet trails. You take the opportunity to sit up a little and pull his shirt up his back until he shrugs it off. When he returns to his ministrations on your thighs, he uses his unoccupied hand that's not holding your thigh to his mouth to thumb your cleft, still clothed, top to bottom.

He's had a smile since you took his shirt off. You admire the long, still red scratches that go all the way down to mid-spine. You really did a number on him last night. The thought is abandoned as he starts dragging your panties down your legs, watching them stick to your wet core. Once they're not touching your center anymore, he pulls them off quickly. They are thrown over his shoulder, discarded somewhere in the dusty room.

You thank your past self for always packing extra underwear everywhere you go.

‘How could you just leave me in bed like that? Don’t you have any idea what you do to me?’ He looks up at you from his station, pupils blown wide with lust, ‘How fucked up I am about you?’

‘M’sorry. Didn’t know it was so bad.’

He licks a wide, deep, pressing stripe up your cunt. You sigh in pleasure, a little sound catching in your vocal chords. He lavishes you freely in this. With others, Frank had been known to be a teasing lover, but with you, he wanted it now. He wanted to do it now.

‘It’s really bad.’ He moans out.

One of your hands is stable at the back of his head, one keeping your shirt up above your navel. He takes the latter and places it on his naked shoulder.

‘Touch me.’ He asks of you. He is so fucking horny, cracked wide open and all apart, unable to hold anything in. You start to move. Hands carding through that hair you love so much. Fingers scraping at all the skin you can reach, letting him know you’re there. You have what he needs, and you’ll give it when he truly, wantonly needs it. And when you deem it right. You let your nails drag along him, but you make sure your fingers fall to their pads when you reach his back, dancing with attentive pressure. He’s hurt there. In a good way. Red lines decorate him. Up and down and diagonal and horizontal. They’re only superficial. You won’t leave any scars.

He’ll heal, and he’ll ask for it again.

But for now, you will relent. You will put your claws away.

‘So pretty… oh, my god.’ You purr in pure admiration, unable to resist telling him. He loves, loves, loves it. Keep talking, his actions say. He gathers a good amount of your slick from the depths of your pussy with his tongue and sends it back down his throat, and he looks up at you through his eyebrows, eyes flitting back and forth, looking at you like you're doing something equally vulgar. And he's got a trail of your slick down his chin. You try not to let your eyes close.

The sight of him, the sight of that…

'You're demented.' You whisper. You love it. You love him more for it.

You tug his hair to pull him up and let your legs fall off his shoulders so you can kiss him stupid. Your hands cradle his face, and he braces himself on the bed. You can taste yourself on him. Skin and sweat and salt and highly recognizable sweet.

He gives a clipped moan at your mouth against his. It feels like a reward. And it is, you’re pulling him away from where you need him most just to show him pure and altruistic affection. His tongue goes into your mouth and your spit is mixing. His mouth tastes like pussy. You’ve eaten pussy before, it’s a specific thing, but you can almost see yourself from his point of view right now.

He really is good to you. Like syrup, sweet and stuck to you.

‘More.’ You lay back down and your fingers wrap into his hair and you place him back where he fits perfectly as you arch your back in anticipation. Your heartbeat thrums warmly. He returns dutifully.

There is no complaint from him, only a Fuck, Y/N and pussy-drunk whimpers. Your thighs go back around his head— to where they belong. He lowers back down and gestures back and forth with his head, burying his face and tongue back in where they were before, like he’s making up for the lost time spent kissing you. He licks and licks and licks you. Mouth going deep and then tending to your clit, sucking and circling and covering it fully with his tongue and then nudging it lovingly with his nose when he’s gone back lower.

It’s almost already over for him, really. He’s been strangely tolerant of the straining fabric over his bulge. For a while now, he’s been humping at the air, desperate for friction from his pants. But he dives deeper into the black, chases you there. One of Frank’s hands leaves your thigh and you let it. Because he’s being so thorough and good.

He touches himself rough and harsh. He fucks his fist over and over again. He tears his tongue out of you just to drop spit and slick on his cock and hand. He goes right back to you.

This is a wet, disgusting, sex-addled display of together and us and make me feel good, please.

You call to him, Langdon, quiet but loud enough so you know he can hear it over the wet eating of you. Those brows are coming down hard over squeezed shut, dark eyes, and it’s the nail in his coffin.

‘Langdon.’ Your hips start to move of their own accord and you grip his hair, putting him in the exact right place. Over and over. Nose pressing against your clit and his entire mouth covering the rest of you, lapping and vicious.

Holy fuck, yes. Hold me here. Let me die. Wear those cotton underwear to my funeral.

Touch yourself on my grave.

In between blinks and closed eyes, you try to steal glances of him when you can. And it’s almost too much. He’s started fucking you with his tongue so, he’s buried in there. You can only see that hair you love so much, and those eyes.

‘Oh, god.’ You utter to yourself.

And of course, he's been watching you too. More than you have him. It's what he's been asking for this whole time. He hopes and half-knows that he's the only one to ever make you feel this good. Your hair is splayed out on the bed beneath you and it'll be a fuckin' mess when he's done. He reaches out with one hand and paws at your abdomen, the side of your boob, your sternum, the plush of your belly.

‘Yeah… M’yeah, mmph-‘ He croons against your cunt, voice muddled and dripping in you as he's currently fucking you with his tongue. Under your hands, to can feel his jaw contracting and releasing to swallow you whole.

You feel like you’re being swallowed whole.

‘You gonna come?’ He manages to moan out when he feels your cunt start to flutter like rain. Hoping the answer is yes, yes, yes.

‘You’re so smart, baby.’ You poke at him breathlessly as best you can, voice raspy with pleasure. It only spurs him on.

‘Yeah?’

After that, you can’t make out his words anymore. Some seem to be yes’s and fuck’s and some are just guttural sounds, but they’re in the tone and volume that you’re sure he’s about to make a mess of himself.

You think to yourself that this really feels like love. He’s so deep in your most vulnerable, sensitive parts right now. And you’re not even halfway through a twelve hour shift, rings around your eyes from your sleepless profession. Your hair has been up all day until now and it’s been years since you could be bothered to put on makeup. And he’s in there. It feels like love.

Everyone’s greatest fear, at the end of the day, is that they won’t be deemed adequate. And when you get like this, it’s glaringly obvious that you’re both so far beyond adequate to each other.

‘Stay there- right there-‘

Frank Langdon hopes to a god he doesn't believe in that you'll say his name again.

‘Langdon-‘ Frank comes then and there, aligning your cry with a final thrust into his fist. He moans and raves and grunts into you, the vibrations of his voice sending you over the edge. And you can hear him down there enjoying himself thoroughly, loudly. Which only gets you there faster. You rock yourself over his face one last time, and then you’re finally there, sent swimming into the deep dark behind your eyes, twitching and tensing in bodily elation as you always do. As he always brings upon you.

Frank paints his hand and lower abs in come. Aforementioned abs are stuttering and clenching. Your collective sweat and your slick and his come. Just everywhere.

His face stays stationary as you fuck yourself through your own orgasm, but it’s not like he could easily move away with your climax-induced iron grip on his hair. And he’s still got a hold of his cock, barely stroking now but wanting to eke out the last licks of pleasure he can.

You're both panting and wracked with aftershocks. Becoming still after an orgasm tears through you while your heart still pounds hard is a hell of a feeling.

He stays on his knees, not wanting to move yet. He rests the side of his face against your knee, back hunched in relaxation, tension gone and forgotten.

There’s a close, warm moment. Like you’re bound together by a heavy blanket that covers you both. There’s heat from bodies and cool air from the vents. You both feel like you could fall asleep right now. And that makes it all the more intimate, knowing that when you go home, you will fall asleep together.

‘I’ve never had anybody go down on me so much.’ You speak into the quiet, caressing the back of his neck.

‘Anything to say about the quality, or just the quantity?’

‘You’re the Pitt’s leading cunnilinguist.’

‘Thanks.’

You straighten yourselves up to go back to work, a little hazy but satisfied. You look over to find him wet from nose to chin.

‘You’ve got pussy all over your face.’ You try to wipe the bottom half of his face off with your hand, fussing over him, and you barely get to his bottom lip.

‘Stop! That’s mine, I earned that!’ He protests, shooing you away.

In your house, I long to be

Room by room, patiently

I'll wait for you there like a stone

I'll wait for you there alone, alone

my requests are open!

#frank langdon x reader #frank langdon #patrick ball #the pitt #the pitt x reader #michael robinavitch #dana evans #mel king #x reader #dennis whitaker #jack abbot x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #smut #goth reader #Spotify

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houseofaegon · 1 day ago

Text

ENCHANTRESS ╱ BOB REYNOLDS/VOID SERIES

✷ ─── +18 MINORS DNI 𓏲 ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ dark themes, witchcraft, mentions of trauma, grief, mentions of character's death, blood & ritual imagery, possession, morally gray characters, violence, sexual tension, slow burn, nsfw smut scenes, chapters with explicit sexual content will be tagged and rated accordingly. each chapter will include specific warnings.

✷ ─── AUTHOR'S NOTE. this series is my love letter to witchy women, lovers of fleetwood mac and mother stevie nicks, and misty day devotees. this is for the ones who speak to the moon, pull tarot cards, carry crystals on their purses, and leave salt at the doors just in case. arabella montenegro is an original character born from my obsession with witchtcraft, feminine rage, tarot cards, and folklore. she's not just a witch, she's a girl with a monster inside of her who still dares to love deeply and profoundly. i also craved a latina!oc for bob reynolds bc yes—latinas for bob reynolds. let's be for real right now, bob needs someone who can hex him and heal him at the same time. thank you for reading and giving this series a chance. reblogs are always welcomed and deeply appreciated, comments warm my heart and inspire me to keep writing, so thank you for always supporting me! lots of love, bri.

✷ ─── ENCHANTRESS SERIES. chapter one: beauty in tragedy. chapter two: the devil you know. chapter three: the witch. chapter four: moonlit waters. chapter five: divine hunger. chapter six: to burn & be burned. chapter seven: of teeth & tenderness. chapter eight: bound by blood. chapter nine: ashes between us. chapter ten: salt in the wound. chapter eleven: blood moon. chapter twelve: whispers in the dark. chapter thirteen: the witch and the void.

⠀‘ ݁ ִ ׂ ̧ ִֶָ 𖥔 ࣪ ˖

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ prophet girl, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀chosen by the sun, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀do you hear the gods whispering ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀those silent stardust words?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀cursed daughter, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ uttering insanities no one believes ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀do you regret taking the vow?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀‘ ݁ ִ ׂ ̧ ִֶָ 𖥔 ࣪ ˖

♱ ˖ ࣪ . ARABELLA MONTENEGRO was born under a blood moon, marked by old gods, bound to ancient magic, cursed and chosen all at once.

A witch.

A weapon.

An Avenger once, before the world became too loud, and her own shadows grew teeth sharper than anyone could control.

They called her The Enchantress, not realizing that name belonged to something else—the other half of her.

The darkness that lives beneath her skin.

Not evil. Not good. Just ancient, and waiting to be let out.

Now, Arabella walks barefoot through the Watchtower—salt at her doorways, obsidian rings on her fingers, shadows whispering her name like a sacred incantation. Her tarot cards never lie. Her shadows never sleep.

After the near-destruction of New York by the Void, she's called back to a world she tried to leave behind, she’s called back to the fight—to the Thunderbolts, to Bucky, to the ghosts of who she used to be.

And to BOB REYNOLDS.

The golden god with too much power, and too many fractures.

He is power incarnate.

And Arabella is the only thing he cannot destroy.

But the Void sees her too. Wants her. Recognizes the entity buried inside her—the one who looks back when she stares too long into the dark.

Because inside Bob, something dark stirs.

And inside her, something just as dark answers.

Arabella Montenegro doesn't believe in salvation. Not for herself, not for anyone else.

But somewhere between salt circles and moonlit rituals, between banter, bitten lips, and stolen touches—the witch and the void begin to burn.

And when they finally touch, the world will never be the same.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ROBERT 'BOB' REYNOLDS ╱ THE SENTRY/VOID

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ARABELLA MONTENEGRO ╱ ENCHANTRESS

𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐅𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐍 © 2025. DO NOT STEAL, REPOST, OR COPY THIS STORY TO TUMBLR, WATTPAD, AO3, OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM. Moodboards and graphics made by @houseofaegon DO NOT repost or reuse without credit. chain divider by @cursed-carmine

♱ ˖ ࣪ . taglist: @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans (if you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know in the comments. love, bri.)

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undyingdecay · 3 days ago

Note

Thoughts on mean Dom yelena? 🫣

(writing this near brought me to tears i need her so bad, more then bob)

yelena definitely hits you. quick slaps to the cheek, your ass, and even your clit within teach. not open-handed blows meant to hurt, but sharp, stinging little things that leave heat blooming in their wake — reminders you’ll feel long after the moment’s passed. she uses the excuse of ‘an eye for an eye.’ yelena bruises easily, her pale skin soft enough that sometimes you’ll accidentally scratch, bite, or squeeze too hard, leaving crescent-shaped marks and faint red streaks along her thighs, hips, collarbone. it doesn’t hurt her. you doubt you could hurt her even if you tried. that woman was built to take punishment, to dish it out, to wear bruises like a trophy.

but nonetheless — for every bruise you give her, she gives you ten.

she counts them out, too. marks you up like it’s a fucking game. a flick to your cheek for every nail mark. a stinging slap to your clit for every hickey she finds. your thighs a patchwork of hot, tender spots from her palm. the sharp crack of her hand against your skin echoing through the room, followed by her low, amused laugh when you jolt or gasp, too dumb with arousal to stop her.

“stop crying, you aren’t a child,” she remarks, voice thick with that accent you’d crawl over glass for.

yelena’s really into oral. really into it. she thinks you look the prettiest with your face between her legs, your lips slick with her, arousal clinging to your cheeks, chin, and nose. the messier the better. she’ll grab your hair, threading it tight in her fingers, pulling just enough to make your scalp ache. smearing herself across your skin like warpaint. it isnt about tenderness — it’s about claiming. about seeing you marked up, glazed over with need, your face a filthy, soaked mess because of her.

she likes to scare you sometimes too. grabbing you by your hair and locking her thick, powerful thighs around your head. the sudden squeeze making your ears ring, the world narrowing to the wet heat of her cunt and the steel trap of her muscles. you feel light-headed, dizzy, your brain flickering between pleasure and panic because surely you were going to suffocate.

“you’ll lose more air if you panic. i’ll let go when i cum.” she coos at you, her accent heavy and mocking, a smug little smirk in her voice. she knows you’re scared. knows you’ll panic, squirm a little, but never actually stop licking. you better fucking hurry up then.

and god, she loves watching you work for it — your tongue desperate, lips aching, spit slicking her thighs. the heady scent of her thick in your nose, coating your tongue. she keeps you there until your face is soaked, until you’re gasping against her and your eyes are glassy with the threat of tears. and she’ll laugh. pet your hair mockingly, call you her “pretty little mess.”

i can see yelena also really liking being called daddy. not in a soft, coaxing way, either. she wants it wrecked. wants it pulled from your throat like a sob. a desperate, stuttered ‘daddy’ when you’re too far gone to remember your own name. she loves it when your voice cracks, when your hips twitch and your thighs shake from overstimulation and you still find the strength to whimper it for her.

and when you do — when you finally croak it out in that broken, ruined tone — she smirks. tugs your hair harder, leans in real close so her breath ghosts over your ear.

“good little thing,” she’d purr. “say it again.”

and you always do.

#god and tribbling with her #your arousal mixing together only for her to force you to clean yourself off her later #.ᐟ.ᐟ #⤷ yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova mcu #yelena belova smut #yelena black widow #yelena belova #yelena x female reader #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#marvel #mcu

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loricciardo · 2 days ago

Text

TAG YOU LATER, charles leclerc.

pinned rules masterlist

pairing. charles leclerc x indie musician!reader

summary. an up and coming american indie musician tags charles leclerc on instagram after he wins the austin grand prix, never expecting him to see it; let alone comment. when he gets hooked on a dreamy demo she shared, not realizing she’s the one who made it… things spiral fast.

tags. female reader, fluffy, slight cussing, SMAU, usage of y/n as name is unspecified, unaddressed hate comments, reader is an american from texas,

author’s note. hey!!!! i’ve never in my life written a SMAU so i hope this isn’t too shit 😭 feedback is always welcome and appreciated!!!! lots of love ALSO I RUSHED THE END IM SORRY!!!

request are open, not proofread, based on this ask. looking for beta readers! x

🎶 stranger to me (demo) — by your band

liked by charles_leclerc, yourbandmate1, gracieabrams and 3,478 others

yn still not over yesterday. charles leclerc on the podium in my home state??? unreal. also if you see a girl sobbing during the anthem… no you didn’t.

tagged charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari

view all 368 comments. . .

charles_leclerc Merci ❤️ I didn’t see anyone crying I promise 😅 Also great song choice

↳ yn not you actually seeing this 😭😭 wait. wait. you listened to it?

↳ charles_leclerc Yes! On repeat actually. Who is the artist?

↳ carlossainz55 Mate… 😂😂😂

↳ charles_leclerc ????

↳ ferrarifan1 oh charles is dumb dumb

ynluvr128 Wait. Wait. Wait. Is this happening.. in real time?!

random IMAGINE THE CHARLES LECLERC is in your comments what is going on 😭

f1gossipgirl wtf is charles doing here lmao

random Another clout chaser 🥱 F1 isn’t the same anymore with all these wannabe WAGs

yourbandmate1 Way to promote the song go girl xo

↳ yn I DIDNT EVEN MEAN TO

↳ yourbandmate2 well it went up in streams sooo keep doing this 💝💝

charles_leclerc has added to their story!

🎶 stranger to me (demo) — by your band

yn has replied to your story:

yn okay so um. hi 😅 i didn’t want to say anything publicly because i was kind of dying on the inside and it just felt weird to announce but

yn i’m the artist btw

yn or… well my band is 😭 i wasn’t gonna release it but now charles leclerc listens to it apparently so that’s cool

charles_leclerc Wait

charles_leclerc No no no

charles_leclerc You can’t just casually be that good and expect no one to notice 😅

charles_leclerc That’s so cool. You’re seriously talented yn liked this message

yn thank you!!!!! 🤍🤍

yn i’m kinda glad you didn’t know 😭 it feels less weird that way

charles_leclerc Makes sense

charles_leclerc But now that I do know… it’s even more impressive

charles_leclerc You’ve got something special. The lyrics are very well written

yn that means a lot especially coming from someone who’s used to yknow…

yn engines n shit idfk 😭

charles_leclerc Hey!!!! 😡

charles_leclerc I write music too

charles_leclerc Well

charles_leclerc I mess around on the piano sometimes but still

yn wait for real??? youre a musician too??? what can’t you people do 😭

charles_leclerc “Musician” is a very very strong word I’m afraid

charles_leclerc I play a few basic progressions when I can’t sleep

yn honestly relatable af

yn that’s how stranger to me happened

charles_leclerc It’s a sign chéri. It seems to be working well for you ❤️

yn i’ll take that as encouragement to keep making sad little ballads then

charles_leclerc Yes! Please do

charles_leclerc I need new stuff to listen to. You have a very specific vibe and I’m addicted now 😅

yn well damn

yn guess i have to finish my next song 😭 charles_leclerc liked this message

charles_leclerc has followed you back!

liked by bandmate1, yourband, bandmate2, charles_leclerc, tatemcrae, and 7,269 others

yn currently writing songs i swore i’d never let anyone hear. funny how quickly that changes sometimes. #MaybeWeWillShareThisOne #OrWillWe?

tagged yourband, bandmate1, bandmate2, bandmate3

view all 1,655 comments. . .

ynfan this era of her is so raw i’m obsessed

charles_leclerc 👀 Now you have to release it liked by yn and 5,279 others

↳ fan1 omg CHARLES AGAIN??

↳ hater i can’t tell if he actually likes her music or just wants in her pants LMFAO

↳ fan2 He is here before the fanpages are 😭

↳ fan3 is he not embarrassed 💀

carlossainz55 @charles_leclerc Did you switch careers or what?

↳ charles_leclerc I can’t just appreciating good music anymore?

↳ fan he’s SWEATING in these comments lol

lilymhe I vote yes for release DM me the drop 😌

↳ yn only if you pinky swear not to leak it 🤙

↳ lilymhe What do you take me for? 🤙

↳ fan omg not lily being in on it too

↳ fan soft-launch SQUAD confirmed

bff1 drop. the. demo. or we riot.

↳ yn y-y… yes maam 😅 (help she is holding me at gun point)

musicblogger22 I love watching you lean into this. your sound deserves to be loud 🔥

bandmate3 YESSSSSSSS 🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌

↳ bandmate3fan i want u so bad

f1gossipgirl ok but are we just ignoring the way Charles is basically soft launching in her comments?

↳ yndefender girl what??? 💀 they’re just friends???

charlesfan876 she’s literally milking this attention lol

ynhater4 girl one song on insta doesn’t make you a musician 😭

↳ ynHQ and yet he’s in her likes and you’re in the comments 🫶

f1updatesdaily can someone explain to me why this random singer is suddenly everywhere with the drivers??

random i swear if she doesn’t release this one i’ll cry

yncharlesshipper He’s gonna end up in a song isn’t he 👀

↳ fan he’s already inspired one idk what y’all mean

f1updatesdaily 📸 Spotted: Charles Leclerc out in Las Vegas with American singer-songwriter YN of yourband following the Vegas GP.

The two were seen walking around the Strip late at night after grabbing food. Fans were quick to recognize YN from a recent post where she tagged Charles after his Austin podium, where he left a suspiciously flirty comment. 👀

She is behind the indie track Stranger to Me that Charles recently shared to his story last week.

More than just a coincidence? Swipe ➡️ for more.

#F1 #CharlesLeclerc #Ferrari #VegasGP #WAGWatch #WhoIsShe #YnLn #LasVegas

view all 2,465 comments. . .

ynmusicfan THE WAY SHE’S BEEN LOWKEY FOR YEARS AND NOW THIS??

wagupdates she’s been on a few spotify editorial playlists lately too?? i’m smelling gold diggerrrr

fan “stranger to me” is about to chart isn’t it 😭

wherestheferrari not the guy who plays piano falling for a girl who writes sad songs

↳ charlesfan26 meant to be!!!! we love yn in this house 🏠

ynupdates IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS?!?!?!

fan3 not the indie girlies entering the F1 universe now 😭

f1slayyy unpopular opinion but i kinda love this for him

f1anon Y’all she’s American and 4 years younger than him… plot twist

↳ yndefender2 am I the only one who thinks the gap is a little weird 💀 Charles is ancient

f1hatersunite fame-hunting 101 lol

charles_leclerc has added to their story!

yn has replied to your story:

yn are you trying to start rumors or are you just feeling bold today

yn also?? favorite sound????? i’m blushing pls

charles_leclerc Both are true

charles_leclerc Also you blush really easily, chéri

charles_leclerc It’s cute yn has liked this message

f1girlie CHARLES. LECLERC. JUST POSTED A GIRL ON HIS STORY. NO TAG. NO CONTEXT. I’M UNWELL.

lovedovedance wait wait WAIT is that the same girl who dropped stranger to me??? the vibes matchhhh

leclercdaily She had headphones on. “Favorite sound.” He’s either dating her or she made him a playlist that changed his life

goferrari69 not charles soft launching his manic pixie dream indie girlfriend while i cry over my physics exam

ynlovebot OKAY BUT. the caption. the framing. the fact she’s not tagged??? that’s real. that’s intentional. yn x charles era is here

delusionaldutch i fear this is the girl from vegas.

leclercgf we lost girls. wrap it up.

maxverstappenshrine me pretending i don’t care while zooming in and enhancing like i’m on NCIS

charlesloverreal no bc if this IS her then charles has TASTE. this is what a yearning man

haterhoe69 not another one of them falling for the ✨artsy✨ american girls 💀 y’all are weak

carlossainzstannie atp if she gets invited to qatar i’m logging out permanently

liked by charles_leclerc, taylorswift, georgerussell63, scuderiaferrari, bff1, and 20,369 others

yn wrote a song and found a soft place to land. 🤍truly forza ferrari 🏎️🇶🇦

tagged charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari, qatargp

view all 14,972 comments. . .

charles_leclerc Even your captions are poetic. Love you ❤️ liked by yn and 17,252 others

↳ yn ❤️❤️ forever?

charles_leclerc Is that even a question, chéri?

fan OH MY GOD

leclercsleftdimple that deep ass kiss just healed my trust issues

ynupdates her caption?? charles’ comment?? everyone shut up this is love

lando We’ve been knew but congrats Ig

↳ yn jealous much?

↳ lando Of him? Not a chance

↳ yn i meant jealous of me. we know you want a homoerotic relationship with charles liked by 162 others

↳ landofan THIS IS SO??? 😭

leclercnation she writes songs AND makes our boy smile like that?? wife material confirmed

hater27 i tried to hate but i listened to her song and now i’m just confused

WAGupdates this is why we never trust a man’s instagram story. full relationship arc in 4 posts

carmenmmundt She’s beauty, she’s grace, she’s everything. He’s there. Love you.

↳ yn sending all my love carmen 🤍🤍 you’re welcome to hang out in the ferrari garage anytime george pisses you off x

↳ georgerussell63 Excuse me??????

↳ yn everyone is a ferrari fan! forza ferrari george

pierregasly finally. my timeline is at peace.

gracieabrams literally crying at this softboy era you unlocked 😭🫶

lilymhe Miss you girlie!!!!

↳ yn can we date instead

174 notes · View notes

ev3nesce · 2 days ago

Text

play pretend

summary: It's the end of the week, and your last task is a routine checkup with Dr. Zayne. You're childhood friend, the only stability in your life. You wouldn't trade him for anything, and if that means keeping your feelings in check, then so be it. But when the topic of an unwanted suitor comes into question, your check-up is lost to a game of pretend. Do you have the strength to let him pose as your boyfriend for a quick fix, or will you forget where the line between real and fake is drawn? Spoiler: you forget.

tl;dr: plot with porn?? going yearn for yearn with Zayne 😼

zayne x fem reader

authors note: this is purely self-indulgent LMAO I was so hurt by the new main story update that I had to write a cutesy first fuck. And yes there IS a build up to the smut people lock in I’m here to fix your attention spans. Alsoooooo there's nothing else on this account cause I got too embarrassed to post a fic on the main. Can’t have friends and fam stumbling upon smut written by my own hands. Haven’t posted a fic of any kind in years so please be kind 😘 also cross-posted this on AO3

one-shot; smut (p in v, unprotected, fingering); 9.8K words

Hands subconsciously smoothing out your still-pristine uniform, you smile at the familiar nurses who breeze by. It’s an exchange that, no matter how frequent, still strikes you as, well… funny. Never would you have pictured yourself on a first-name basis with half of Akso Hospital. Not without help, at least. You suppose such a privilege comes with the package deal that is Dr. Zayne.

Zayne, whose office is two more turns to the left. Your fingers absentmindedly fix your hair for the nth time.

Thanks to your hasty stride, you’re a tad out of breath. And late. In hallways where staff and patients vanish from view, you shamefully jog, only to awkwardly press the brakes when those familiar faces attempt to greet you. Of course, they let you go quickly, for this is not an unusual occurrence. While you’re punctual in any other professional setting, your unique situation with your primary care physician seems to influence some tardiness. Maybe it’s because you know that, behind all the mockery and lethal side-eyes, he doesn’t really care. Not anymore; months of buttering him up and trying to coax a long-lost bond from him have undoubtedly paid off.

But this time, it wasn’t your fault. You physically cringe at the fresh memory moments before you throw the door to Zayne’s office wide open, uncaring of what you might be interrupting. Most of the time, you had some decency to knock during your lateness. Naturally, manners were the least you could offer as an apology. Today, however, your head was a foggy mess.

“Sorry—“ You blurt out. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Zayne sits comfortably at his pristinely organised desk, and—as dramatic as ever—he does not look your way. The soft clicks of his slender fingers typing on the keyboard are the first to greet you. The reflection of the computer screen on his glasses is especially harsh at this hour as the last remnants of sunlight slip away. Beyond the wall of windows, the vibrant Friday night life of Linkon begins to stir, its pulsating energy a stark contrast to the air of serene focus in this room.

“Again.” He hums absentmindedly as you sheepishly enter and shut the door. Those tired feline eyes remain on the computer screen. “What’s the excuse this time?”

The thought of why coaxes an awkward laugh out of you. “Nothing interesting.”

Zayne’s brows ever so slightly pinch at the sound, and he finally throws a glance your way. No doubt he registers your exhausted, flustered look as you settle into a chair. “Even children are more creative when lying. You look…dishevelled.”

“No, I don’t.” You definitely do.

“Overworking yourself again?”

“What? No.”

You brace yourself for the onslaught of questions his words threaten. Whenever the topic of your work’s physical demands comes up, the conversation becomes a never-ending back-and-forth. He insists you need to take a step back. You insist he’s overreacting. Despite your best efforts, neither of you can sway the other.

“Then what?” He presses. “Something interesting?”

You frown as the picture of your desk back at work comes to fruition, decorated with a flamboyant yet stereotypically boring gift, one that you could not bring with you. Following it is the unfavourable closeness of the gift-giver’s desk to your own.

“I was just about to leave work—on time, mind you—when I got given a gift, so I got held up in conversation.”

“A gift?”

“Some flowers.”

“Flowers?”

There’s an inexplicable flutter in your stomach as you hint at the event to Zayne, a cringe pressing in on your shoulders, though you can’t quite justify why. Perhaps it’s the invisible, warning whisper of unspoken boundaries years in the making, as if flirtation and romance were forbidden topics in his presence. Like standing barefoot in the cold. Like a puritan child burdened with silent shame, hesitant to speak on the prospects of young love before a disapproving parent.

The very idea of acknowledging your own desirability feels taboo. And yet, beneath that suffocating truth, a sinister and smitten urge blooms. It is a fragment of your heart eager to dangle those delicate ideas in front of him. Could you coax even an inkling of jealousy from those otherwise unreadable eyes?

Zayne busies himself for a brief, silent moment, arranging papers that are presumably yours into a neat pile and grabbing simple equipment from the drawers. You’re following gaze is spurred by the conflicting apprehension and interest. The dull scratch of a pen on paper, a breath, your heartbeat. Finally, he rests his chin on one hand and taps the pen against his desk.

“Who gave them to you?”

“One of the guys I work with. We happen to be stationed together often.”

“A co-worker, huh?” A moment ago, you could have sworn the usual indifference in Zayne’s face had softened. But what you’re looking at now isn’t exactly a soft look. “I presume he didn’t just want to give you flowers for the sake of it?”

“He also asked me to dinner.” You pretend to find interest in the distant view of neon lights outside the window. “Tonight.”

“What did you tell him?”

Are the taps of his pen on the desk becoming more aggressive?

You shrug as if your answer is painfully obvious. “That I was busy. Maybe another time.”

“Why not tell him no?”

“Well…I don’t know.” You shrink in on yourself slightly, as if confined by the physical manifestation of social pressure. The man you were talking about, while friendly enough, was oftentimes difficult to deal with. Not outrightly so, but it was the little things: the subtle knack of being argumentative, an ego as inflated as a balloon ready to burst. All while you had to see him every day? …You had really drawn the short end of the stick here. “I felt bad.”

Something about your answer makes Zayne sigh. He drops the pen and reaches for the blood pressure monitor. As he speaks, his tone is both exasperated and annoyed. “Don’t worry about being polite with those things. You’re just giving him hope by saying ‘another time’.”

You shrug off the thick, leather-like jacket of your Hunter uniform reserved for office work and present your arm. Beneath it is a tight, white button-up. You try not to be aware of the few unfastened top buttons.

“What if he’s one of those ‘pay for everything’ types and takes me somewhere fancy?” You tease as Zayne wraps the band around your forearm. “One date might not hurt.”

Zayne’s grip on the arm band shifts subtly, slender fingers tugging the band unexpectedly tight. The coarse fabric presses against your pulse. His brow furrows — an indication of focus, but on what, you wonder? Zayne’s medical prowess is above the mechanics of velcro or the calibration of blood pressure machines. The clinically harsh overhead lights cast a white halo behind him that cuts sharp lines across his jaw.

“What happens when he expects more than one date?”

“You never know. I might be swayed in his favour.”

The weight of Zayne’s stare is noticeable only when he looks away, turning his focus to the machine’s screen. “You can have fun without going on pointless dates. Especially with someone you work with.”

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I’m mostly joking, but a girl can dream.”

Zayne raises a brow. “Dreaming about your coworkers? How professional of you.”

“You’re one to talk about ‘professionalism’,” you retort with a hmpf. “You’re my doctor, after all. I thought there were strict rules about interpersonal relationships with patients.”

“Rules, yes.” Scarred fingers reaching blindly for his stethoscope. As he speaks, there isn’t much authority in his voice. Instead, it’s almost quiet, far away as he sinks into thought. “But we’re friends first.”

“It still surprises me, though.”

“I’d be more surprised if you went to someone else.”

Now it’s your turn to raise a brow. “How so?”

“Well, I know your medical history like the back of my hand, you’re comfortable with me, your condition is compatible with my specialisations…” A hint of mischief burns in the few bright specks of his otherwise dark eyes. “And I highly doubt anyone else would want to put up with you.”

Your face contorts as if his words attack your senses like a bitter lemon slice. “Ouch, Dr. Zayne. Am I that much of a pain?”

“More like a constant headache.”

Zayne reaches forward, and instinctively, you straighten up, welcoming the further tests. But the chest piece of the stethoscope isn’t in his hand. Instead, he leans down, one hand wrapping around your chair legs. The low groan of wood against wood cuts through the room as you slide towards him. He does so with ease. Incredible ease and attractive ease.

Though his uniform usually leaves little to the imagination, the white coat pulls taut, offering a delicious view of firm muscle. You swallow hard, almost ashamed at how easily the casual display of strength weakens your knees. The man opposite you is otherwise unbothered, straightening to fix the stethoscope in his ears.

Considering he’s about to listen to your racing heart, you look away, searching for a quick fix. Any sight except him will do. Your eyes fall to the floor…and to the very usable wheels on his own chair.

“In that case, maybe I should switch to someone else.” The cold metal presses in the open V of your button-up, right below your collarbone. “You’re so busy. I’d hate to overwork you.”

Zayne looks up at you through his lashes as he draws close. “Now you’re being dramatic. You wouldn’t last a week.”

“And what makes you so confident?”

He chuckles. Clearly, he’s enjoying the back-and-forth. “Because I know you. You’re stubborn, never listen, never follow any of my advice. Besides, you’d miss me too much.”

Your heart flutters right beneath the stethoscope.

“I do listen.” You choose not to acknowledge the latter half of his answer.

“Prove it then.”

You tilt your head, confused. He makes a zipper gesture over his lips. Oh.

For the duration of his observations, you keep quiet, allowing him to focus on the task at hand. Just as he sets the metal against your chest for the last time, your phone dings. The double chime is unmistakable: the secure messaging platform used for Hunters. You often exchange words with your colleagues through it, but at this time, those who didn’t have your personal number wouldn’t bother you.

Your heart flutters again—this time for the wrong reason. Spurred by morbid curiosity, you fish your phone from your pocket without disturbing Zayne. Through the notification centre you scroll until the dreaded name pops up. Great.

“What’s with that look?” Zayne questions.

There’s not much more to say than the message itself. You flip your phone around to show it.

Sooo… how busy on a scale of 1 to 10 are you really tonight?

Zayne adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. A subtle squint creases the corners of his sharp, cat-like eyes, the faint glint of curiosity quickly giving way to something sterner. The amused tilt of his mouth from moments before fades, replaced by a slight frown.

“This is the flower culprit?” His tone is painfully dry as he pushes back to grab a pen and paper, jotting down something probably related to your heart rate.

You hum in thought. “Time to come up with a good excuse, since I have nothing to do after this.”

“Or, and hear me out on this…” Zayne turns to face you, pen still in hand, as he leans back and spreads his legs. The sarcasm in his voice cuts rather than teases. “You just say no.”

Exhausted with even the thought of it, you sigh. “You don’t get it. He’s just a little…much. He tried something with Tara a while back, as if he shares a single similarity with her type, and he’s only just moved past the aftermath.” You huff a laugh. “My guess is that the only thing that will deter him is making myself incredibly uninteresting or pretending I have a boyfriend.”

“What awful options.”

Though you wouldn’t agree, you don’t argue, instead continuing to wonder aloud. “The second option would be the most effective. Two birds with one stone, even.”

Knowing him, a rumour will start at work that you have a boyfriend. A perfect excuse for the earlier gesture just being friendly, considering the flowers were presented with a considerable audience. The rumour wouldn’t be bad if there was an inkling of truth to it. Opposite you, Zayne folds his arms and taps the pen against his arm in a slow but forceful rhythm.

…Could you use him as a scapegoat?

The idea creeps in, sly and tempting, an offer as distracting as the taps of his pen. But no — you snuff that worrisome flame the second it sparks. The guilt it brings is akin to admitting aloud the things that cross your mind in his absence. Pretending would be more than a harmless lie, should he agree; it would cheapen your priceless bond. At least to you. The idea leaves a bitter aftertaste.

“What happens when he asks for proof?”

“Maybe I’ll get one of my friends to play along,” you respond matter-of-factly, although the finer details are nothing more than an afterthought to you. In all honesty, you’ll probably ignore the message, but for some reason, you have yet to drop the conversation.

“And who exactly are you going to rope into this?”

God, it’s like he’s determined to highlight every flaw in your plan. You grin. “Depends on who can be most convincing. Maybe I’ll hold an audition.”

Zayne taps the pen a few beats faster as you become stuck in a standoff-ish staring contest. Why, you’re not so sure. There should be nothing left of value in this conversation.

“I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.” You lean forward, anxious for his answer.

He tosses the pen onto his desk. “What if…I helped you out?”

You couldn’t be more thankful that the stethoscope is no longer in his hands. There’s a beat of silence as you look back at him with eyes wide in astonishment. Just moments ago, you had disregarded the idea with a sound resolve, considering it distasteful and disastrous for yourself. Now, with the offer coming from him, your stance has shifted.

He could convince you to get away with murder. You stifle a laugh.

“You? Could you be convincing?”

“So you doubt my acting skills, huh?” He seems to relax at your light laughter, even flashing you a grin of his own. Your routine checkup has been abandoned entirely. “I’ll have you know I’d do perfectly well.”

“Prove it then. Time for your audition.” You clap your hands together twice before leaning against his desk, arm on the surface and chin in hand. “Question one: Imagine we’re going out for dinner. Where will you take me?”

Zayne looks out the large expanse of window as he considers your question with genuine depth. As he does so, he leans against his desk, vaguely mirroring your own position. “Somewhere we can have privacy, but not so secluded that it feels forced. Good food and candlelit tables. Cozy. If I really wanted to impress you, which I probably do, we could go somewhere exclusive.”

When the answer comes to its conclusion, his eyes slowly drift back to meet yours. Still unreadable. Typical. The carefully crafted response renders you speechless for a moment. You remind yourself not to let it show, pursing your previously parted lips.

“We’ll split the bill fifty/fifty,” you add after a moment.

He scoffs. “Silly of you to think I’d let you spent even a cent.”

Don’t smile.

“…Okay, question two: Where do we go after?”

“After…we could walk around the city if it’s a nice night and stop at some of the food stalls for something sweet—like the one I took you to after work the other week. Then I’ll drive you home. A little aimlessly, though, so I can waste time and spend more with you.”

Like the one I took you to. You raise a brow. “Nothing extravagant?”

“What, is this supposed to be a first date?”

“What if it was?”

He flashes a look of mock offence, as if the answer could not be clearer. “Realistically, how extravagant do I need to be to win you over? We’re not strangers.”

“But just like you said, we’ve done those things before. What makes this special?”

A tsk. “If you weren’t seeing the situation in a different light in accordance with our different relationship, I’d be a little worried.”

You bite back a smile. “Fine then. Question three: I get that text while we’re out and show you. What do you say?”

“Tell you to text him something straight forward so that there’s no wiggle room. ‘I’m busy with my boyfriend, can’t talk’ should do it. Simple. If he questions the legitimacy, send him a picture where he can’t deny what we are.”

Reality suddenly draws you from the conversation’s alarming immersion. How did you get here? When did the conversation take this turn? Did the offer leave his lips on a whim, or was it brewing the second you mentioned receiving flowers? …Why? Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to even consider a version of the answer where there’s real jealousy in Zayne. This was a conversation between two friends, where one is in an awkward predicament and the other is offering a clear escape.

Except it wasn’t clear.

You could lie or swallow your pride and reject your colleague, but instead, you were hanging on Zayne’s every word in a daze. Though his descriptions were simple, it was almost as if you could taste the remnants of a shared dinner on your tongue, feel the chilly evening air on your cheeks and the warmth of his hand in yours as you strolled aimlessly through the streets. Imagining it isn’t an impossible task, either. Most of the outings you shared were the taunting shell of a date.

Zayne watches with an immeasurable intensity as silent seconds tick by, waiting for an answer. Should you agree? The date was only theoretical—no harm, no foul. Just a story to tell your colleagues. At most, a picture was all you needed. You match his gaze for a moment longer. Then…

“Alright. Fine.” You drum your thighs as you announce: “You’re hired.”

Zayne leans back in his chair at the news, grinning as if he’s just won a childish game of tug-of-war. “Before we start, I have one condition.”

“And that is?”

“As your employee, things will remain strictly professional, right?”

Those simple, serious words douse out the little spark in your chest—something you’re grateful for, and yet stubbornly wounded by. You snort. “I’d be worried if that wasn’t the general consensus already.”

With a hum, Zayne is the first to look away, eyes drifting behind you to the expanse of Linkon City. For once in this strange interaction, you recognise the look on this face: thoughtfulness. Oh, how you wished to pick apart his brain. Should the universe allow it, you would dive into his mind and make a nest of those fleeting thoughts otherwise destined to be unheard. In this moment, you can’t help but admire him from afar. You could swear a merciless ocean stands in the way, or a glass wall thicker than bullets could pierce. Then he stands with an outstretched hand, and suddenly, you’re back in his office, acutely aware of your physical closeness.

You place your hand in his with underlying hesitance. Before he shakes your hand, he pulls you to your feet. Warm fingers delicately apply his strength.

“Deal.”

“Deal,” you echo. You can’t help but feel surprise at his formal, dedicated approach. “Should we take a photo now, or should I just text him first and see if he believes—?”

“Photo first.” He’s quick to cut you off, shrugging off his pristine white coat in the process and haphazardly throwing it over a chair. “Who knows how long it might take for him to reply? We don’t have all night. By the time he does, I might be long gone.”

While that could be true, you knew your colleague would be waiting with bated breath for a reply. But you don’t bother to challenge Zayne in that regard and instead reach for your phone. “As you wish, Doc-tor. …How should we stand?”

Wordlessly, he takes you by the elbow and gently shuffles you to stand before him, your back to his chest. Over your shoulder you watch, quiet and nervous. There’s a pathetically large gap between the two of you. When you don’t step back to close it, he chuckles.

“You can come closer,” he says. Then, in a more sheepish tone, he adds, “If you’re okay with that.”

You’re affirmation is nothing more than a hum, too cautious to give voice to nerves that may betray you. You’re step back is carefully calculated; not too far so that every inch of you is flush with him, not too quick to suggest eagerness. Zayne leans against his desk in an attempt to adjust his towering height according to yours. As a result, you find yourself standing between a pair of large, spread thighs that faintly brush your own.

Zayne’s movements mirror your deliberate caution, slow and measured. His hands first guide you by the shoulders, then shimmy you by your sides. Then, at a pace so gruelling it was like he wished not to disturb you, his arms slowly snaked around your waist. Each movement is made in such silence that you wonder if he’s even breathing. Were you? His arms hover an awkward inch away, giving you the opportunity to smack his wrists and lecture him on the professionalism he just swore to. You don’t. Of course you don’t. So he comfortably settles them, and you wonder if that opportunity was wasted.

Maybe if you leave your camera facing the ceiling, you won’t have to face the situation you’ve found yourself in. But unfortunately, time was moving at a very real pace, and standing around doing nothing would be just as bad. Stealing yourself, you raise your phone, nervous to make eye contact with your own self. Zayne cranes his neck to fit in the frame. Warm breath fans across your neck and ear as he does so. You shiver.

“Smiling is a must,” he murmurs.

All you can do is nod, swallow, and smile as he instructs. Though it’s a nervous, timid smile, it is one nonetheless. Satisfied, your finger ghosts over the shutter button, only to forget all about it as he leans in a little closer, voice little more than a whisper in your ear.

“Smile wider.”

You can’t help but giggle at the feeling of his breath on your neck. It transcends the physical barrier of your skin, travelling down your spine tauntingly, leaving behind an overwhelming desire to chase the high. At least you don’t need to force a bigger smile—you take the photo the second he elicits the vulnerable reaction, capturing the fleeting appearance of a genuine smile and crinkled eyes. Though beneath it all, the ache of this hollow pretence remains.

“That tickles,” you say in a tone that is borderline accusing.

“Sorry.” His voice remains quiet and breathy against the shell of your ear, this time with a hint of playful remorse. “It was intentional.”

“Mm-hm.” Focus. “I’m going to take one more.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Kiss me on the cheek.”

You’re not sure what possesses you to make the request. Sure, from an outside perspective, it is reasonable enough considering the act you’re mutually playing. But such a simple approach disregards human complexity. If he accepts, is that a reflection of blind obedience, or does it stir something deeper, enticing him beyond the agreement? If he refuses, does that mean he respects those boundaries out of disinterest or fear?

“…Okay.”

That’s all he says. You’re as clueless as you were ten seconds ago. Shooing away the silly internal debate, you turn your head more his way.

You are entirely unprepared for how he complies.

Nimble fingers trace a path beneath your jaw before finding purchase on your chin, tilting it with a subtle insistence. Fingers splayed, his grasp is all-consuming and possessive—perfect for a photo and detrimental to your moral compass. His free hand finds purchase on your hip, consistently firm despite being nowhere in frame. Were you always this close?

The final graze of his lips against your cheek is devoid of his hand’s inescapable demand. Instead, the kiss is gentle. Cheeks red and heart racing, you have half the mind to take the photo. Then another. He lingers long enough for you to take three, your face in different stages of submission.

When you lower the phone, his touch disappears with it. What he doesn’t do is usher you away. Curious.

“Got enough photos?” He asks after a moment. The casual nature of his question is almost laughable.

“More than enough. Now to see if it was worth it…”

Zayne peers over your shoulder as you navigate to the message that caused this all. The quickly crafted response reads with little room for argument.

Look, I think you’re great and I appreciate the flowers, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I have a boyfriend, and he thinks I should convey that I’m taken to spare both you and me, which I agree with. I am not and will not be free to spend time with you outside of work.

It’s read immediately. The first message follows soon after.

Come on, y/n.

He continues to type. Then comes the second message.

What boyfriend? I’ve never heard of or seen any boyfriend. You don’t have to lie to me. Just give me a chance, sweetheart.

Sweetheart? You scoff aloud in offence. The gall he has to not only doubt you, but throw in a pet name is beyond you. Nevertheless, you couldn’t ask for a better opening. You don’t miss a beat before attaching the photo of Zayne kissing your smiling face with a simple: this one. You can’t deny the satisfaction it gives you to prove him wrong, regardless of the real truth. A soft laugh sounds behind you.

“A photo was worth it after all.”

“I see what you mean, now,” he muses. Though there’s a slight smile on his face, there’s a line between his brows that can’t be missed. “He’s got some nerve, calling you ‘sweetheart’ and all.”

“Sounds like someone is still in character,” you tease, nudging him with an elbow.

“Hey, I’m just making sure the message is clear,” he retorts in mock defence. “Can’t have anyone calling my girl ‘sweetheart’.”

Your breath barely has time to steady before a familiar chime sounds, drawing your attention to the unlocked screen in your hand. A shocked gasp escapes you at the few bold words staring back defiantly. What, it reads. Can he not share? Any words of indignation are snuffed by Zayne’s hand closing firmly around your wrist, angling the screen his way. The shift from subtle indifference to something far more intense is evident in that now-familiar frown.

“Ignore it.” The playfulness is gone.

“Someone really wants to get in my pants.” You sigh. “Well…work is going to be a little awkward. Thanks for your help, though.”

He huffs a laugh, though there's nothing humorous about it. “You’re welcome. Just let me know if he tries to bother you again.”

You half-turn in your spot between his legs and poke him in the chest. “What would you do then, hm?”

“I don’t know…” He trails off as he grabs your wandering hand and settles it back at your side without letting go. He continues, eyes watching where his fingers toy with your bracelets. “Maybe I’d come to the Association myself.”

“Too bad Tara knows you.” It’s a miracle your voice doesn’t waver. The pictures have already been taken; there’s nothing more to fake. “She’d see right through the act. Or should I swear her into secrecy?”

You’re unsure of how long the two of you have been absentmindedly inching closer. The room has shrunk entirely, walls dissolving as tunnel vision settles in. No longer can you pick up the sterile scent of antiseptic that clings to every surface of the hospital, nor do the fluorescent lights bother you. Now, the only tangible thread tethering you to this moment is him. Zayne. Your breath catches in your throat. A dead giveaway. His eyes flicker back to yours. Is it possible that the featherlight drag of his fingertips over your wrist has caught your pulse?

At this distance, you could count each gold fleck in his heavy-lidded eyes. Now, that look is a characteristic you’re less confident in labelling as fatigue. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he’s found in your eyes, his gaze trickles downwards. Over the imperfections of your skin to the curve of your lips, down your neck, skirting the scandalously low neckline of your button-up.

“I can be plenty convincing.” There’s a soft sensuality in the way each word leaves his lips, foreign and addictive. “No one would have to know it’s an act.”

His index finger teases your inner arm before finally making the jump to your waist. Suddenly, you can’t find the line between real and fake, hypnotised by a hazy want. You lay your hand over the one on your hip and speak with hesitance.

“You’re…doing a good job of convincing now…”

Now there’s a hand on either hip, angling you to face him entirely. His words are little more than a breath in your ear. “You think so?”

A moment of clarity draws your anxious attention to the unlocked door. Though it was late in the evening and Zayne should be leaving by now, you were also no expert in the inner workings of Akso Hospital. How often do people walk in unannounced? Would he get in trouble if someone saw him like this? In you’re peripheral, Zayne tilts his head to follow your gaze, curious. Then he laughs, the sound soft and deep, and boldly caresses your hips upon the understanding of your anxiety.

“Don’t worry.” Without lifting a finger, a subtle frost blossoms over the handle. Soft cracks echo as mounds of ice creep along the locking mechanism. The surrounding wooden frame glitters. “No one can open the door.”

You lift your chin in an attempt to tease. “Why would I be worried?”

“No reason.” His fingers continue to deftly draw circles on your hips, slow and intentional. When he leans in again, his lips almost graze the skin of your jaw. “Sweetheart.”

Not only were the lines blurred, they were gone entirely. That fact is enough to feed your confidence. Timid fingers skim over forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. Jagged scars rise to meet your fingertips. They whisper stories you’ve been too wary to pursue. Zayne’s biceps are pronounced beneath the black fabric of his dress shirt, his shoulders broad and inviting. Your travels come to a shy halt just short of his collar.

“You’re a tease.”

“Don’t make it so easy.”

“You’re not making this easy, either.” His grip tightens with those words.

“What do you mean?”

“Playing this game with you…” His voice wavers then, torn between sanity and delusion. “I don’t know where to stop.”

You’re unsure of what to say or do. A chill is emerging from the tips of his fingers, so cold that it seeps through the fabric of your skirt. Zayne is naturally the embodiment of his Evol; cold and unforgiving to those who don’t know him. There’s a subtle, physical aspect to the manifestation, too, from the sharpness in his features to an arresting chill that follows him. But this is different. The temperature in his hands is dropping rapidly, so much so that the shocking cold almost has a bite to it. Is he…aware that his Evol is activating? You shiver.

“You’re hands are cold,” you whisper.

Those few words connect with him like a punch—a harsh reality check. It’s evident in the way that his entire frame goes rigid, the clouded look in his eyes overshadowed by a minor horror. The daze is gone. So is the cold. Zayne withdraws his hands entirely, sinking further against his desk.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick with tangible guilt.

Without missing a beat, you lean forward to match his slight escape, grabbing his hands and bringing them back before he can protest. The act is not a sensual show but instead an admittance of trust.

“I’m not afraid of it, you know,” you try with a small smile. “I don’t mind if your hands are a little cold.”

“You…don’t?” he asks, earnest in his perplexity.

You nod. He swallows.

“Why?”

Once you recognise that his hands won’t move, you slowly drape your arms over his shoulders. The expression on his face is akin to that of a wounded puppy. You’re both surprised at how quickly his hard exterior has melted and saddened by his martyrdom. Instincts rooted deep in your flawed heart pull you in, resting your cheek in the crook of his neck—a place equally as cold. Your fingers, which trace alone his nape, make contact with what you can only guess is a fine film of frost.

You sigh. “Well, you know my Evol can help ease it. If it hurts you, I can help. Besides…I’m not as delicate as you think I am.”

As you speak, the physical apprehension in his body eases. With it is the release of a shuddered breath as his arms tentatively encase you.

“You trust me too much,” he says with a light scoff.

“Sometimes you can be so dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

You lift your head to squint at him. “Hm… Agree to disagree.”

You’re faces are incredibly close. The question of how close or why is entirely out the window. This wasn’t some pretend play anymore. You find nothing artificial in the position of his hands, in the way his gaze dances between your expectant eyes and parted lips. Not in his voice, not in the subtle red hue on his cheeks, not in the complaisant confessions of his ragged breaths. Nowhere. The substance that supported an illusion is suddenly weightless, dissolving alongside the frost beneath your fingertips.

“You truly are the most stubborn woman I know,” he mutters. His own stubbornness is endearing, but you’re tired of this game of cat and mouse.

“So you don’t want to kiss me?”

Eyes less guarded than ever before stare back at you as if you’ve spoken another language.

You withdraw your hands and tilt your head away, half-joking, half-nervous by the lack of response. “No answer? Fine. I was offering, you know—“

Blinded by his previous dumbfoundedness, you don’t anticipate the speed of his reaction. Cold hands force you’re face back towards his. His head is slightly bowed, reverent eyes staring up through thick lashes. It’s as if he’s cradling an object of worship, like you’re a deity to whom he must repent. For he has sinned, disgraced by an ailing infatuation that has festered over the years, devolving into a mind-numbing greed.

Instead of the gentle tone that his words have melted into, a low, husky voice rings in your ears.

“I never said I didn’t want to kiss you.”

His thumb slides towards your lower lip, gently tracing the dip below to substantiate his claim. Air seems to escape you at the feeling of his breath, of his hands, at the way his gaze triangulates between your eyes and lips.

“I think about kissing you all the time.”

His nose brushes against your cheek as he cranes his neck, breath fanning across your neck. All you can muster is a whispered, “Oh?”

“When I’m at home.” A warmth against your collarbone cuts through the overarching cold as his lips finally press down. Your heart stutters violently. “When I’m at work.” He kisses the expanse of skin between your neck and shoulder. One hand angles your head from the nape of your neck, fingers fervently tangled in your hair, the other cradling your waist. “When I’m with you.”

Another at the curve of your jaw. While his lips are warm, his breath comes out cold between each peck, each word. The conflicting temperatures are both shocking and enticing.

“I’m tired…” He kisses your cheek for the second time today before pulling back to catch your eyes in earnest. “Of fantasising about it.”

Your faint smile flickers, a fragile torch that illuminates the path he no longer resists. Restraints shed, your breath mingles, and his lips come crashing against your own. It is unlike the nurturing kisses against your skin. In fact, it is anything but gentle; desperately crushing, a confession condensed into a press of mouths. Slender fingers explore the landscape of your lower abdomen, insatiable cartographers drawing maps of mystical lands. Here, he stakes his claim. A low groan echoes deep in his bones and resounds against your equally curious hands.

You suppress a groan of your own as you melt into putty kneaded by Zayne’s precise hands. Lower they go, pulling you closer by the hips, tracing the waistband of your skirt, testing how close to your ass he can get.

The results are in: he can get very close.

His grin doesn’t go unnoticed as his hands dip down with purpose, massaging the plump flesh. You’re hum of content is an addictive contingency. His grip becomes brusquely firm. You kiss him harder. Suddenly, they drop down to your thighs, and the floor disappears beneath you. A sharp gasp of surprise escapes your lips at the loss of support. Instinctively, your hold around his neck tightens, fingers grasping at the fabric of his black button-up.

Zayne’s grip on you is unwavering as he spins you both. Muscle flexes beneath your touch. One arm hooks beneath your knees and supports you effortlessly. The other reaches behind your back, pushing half of his desk’s contents onto the floor in one fluid swipe. Loose paper flutters towards the floor like fragile autumn leaves, settling soundlessly as pens clatter everywhere. The book on dream analysis that you had teased him about reading just last week lands face down with an accusing thud. It faces the ceiling with open pages, displaying the annotation of an electroencephalography.

When Zayne sets you down on his desk, the action is gentle. The hand that helped to support you pushes apart your knees, allowing him to settle between and press a quick kiss to your lips.

“Sorry,” he says between peppered kisses. “Should I have asked before I did that?”

You chuckle against his mouth. “It’s fine. I’m giving you consent entirely. …Unless it’s something outrageous.” The latter part you add with a teasing tone.

“Is this too outrageous?”

Forehead rested against yours, he looks down to where his hand settles on your thigh. Your legs are spread wide to accommodate him. As a result, your skirt rides up dangerously high. Any higher and nothing would be left to the imagination. Slowly, his hand slides forward, aiming directly for the improper scene. You both watch in silence for a moment as he traces the raised hem, massages your thigh, then retreats slightly, only to repeat himself again and again. He meets a higher milestone each time. The urge to beg for more is debilitating, yet all you can do is shake your head, pathetic in your submission to desire.

When his lips meet yours again, his pace is slow, vaguely cautious, echoing that of his hand. Each kiss grows deeper and deeper, pushing you further back each time. The wooden surface of Zayne’s desk presses into your back before you know it.

Angling one of your thighs against his hip, he settles over you with a new closeness. You’re skirt is as good as gone. The fabric bunches around your waist as he pushes your thigh up further. Neither of you pays verbal mind to the physical manifestation of his desire that presses against your aching core.

…Were the two of you really about to fuck in his office?

Zayne was always prim and proper. In the way he dresses, in his sophisticated speech, in his profession and borderline-OCD cleanliness. You would never peg him as the type to yield to sinful wants in scandalous places. And yet here you are, arching your back off his desk and accepting the hungry sweep of his tongue. The only thing protecting him from disciplinary action is the ice embedded in the door. You pray that all the times he insisted on his Evol’s temporal durability were not lies.

When his mouth is drawn back to your neck, your eyes flutter open. They adjust strangely to the overhead lights as little spots glitter in your vision. Confused, you squint. Instead of the specks disappearing, their forms refine into tiny snowflakes drifting through the air. They’re too faint to survive long; as soon as they settle in Zayne’s hair and on the desk, they melt into nothingness.

A question is brewing on the tip of your tongue at the sight. Though it’s quickly lost to the uninhabited corners of your mind when his fingers glide over the edges of your panties and directly across your clothed cunt. Your cheeks flare. There’s no hiding the desire that pools between your legs.

“Is this all it takes to get you so wet?” His voice is a purr against your skin.

You pout. As if you couldn’t feel his erection a second ago. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is how long it’s taken to get you like this.” A shameful whimper builds in your throat as he circles his fingers with added weight. His free hand creeps over your mouth. “Shhh. You can stay quiet for me, can’t you?”

With wide, begging eyes, you nod with a muffled mm-hmm. Before retracting his hand, he circles above your clit a second time, then a third, testing your obedience.

The ecstasy that burns beneath your skin from the slightest of touches is obscene. You would think that you’d been trapped in hours of foreplay, denied even the thought of release. But still, it is not enough. The feeling was akin to wearing layers on a cold day, yet still shivering. Like biting into a promising fruit that hasn’t hung from the vine long enough. It just wasn’t right, wasn’t enough. You roll your hips in an attempt to convey as much.

“Impatient?”

Through a sigh, you answer, “Just a little.”

His teeth graze your ear. “Then use your words. What do you want?”

What an unfair question to ask now, with your mind clouded in drunken lust. Articulation was difficult. So was trying to pinpoint exactly what you wanted. There were too many things you could want and not enough words in the dictionary to do them justice. So instead, all you can offer is, “You. I just want you.”

Thankfully, he seems to understand. His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties. Lifting your hips with one hand, he uses the other to shimmy them down to your ankles. A single beat isn’t missed before the adept fingers of a surgeon slide between your folds. His mouth is back on every exposed inch of skin he can find, needy and hot. You hide quiet pants behind a bitten lip. You almost pierce the swollen skin when his fingers finally find entry.

“Keep quiet,” he reminds you in a soft voice as his index and middle fingers curl. “Only I get to hear you like this, right?”

You nod, eyes fluttering close. But your agreement doesn’t seem to be enough. He catches your rolling head and forces a moment of sobriety. Acknowledgement from every legible medium, including that of your eyes and mouth, is what he truly wants.

“Right, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Yes, Zayne. Just you…just…”

You’re words die out into a sharp inhale as he presses down on your clit. He pumps in and out in tandem with the exterior pressure, stimulating screaming nerves that turn your knees to jelly and your jaw slack. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of your arousal around his fingers, your bitten-back moans, and the wet kisses trailing from your chest to your jaw, then to your mouth and back.

A small part of you wishes for him to bite down. To leave a mark that was unmistakably his. But, although you were little more than a stranger to Zayne’s sexual nature, you could almost hear him calling hickies childish.

The steady rhythm he’s set calls for release. Like the sliver of morning light on the horizon, you can feel it approaching, an all-consuming warmth that flutters deep in your stomach and creeps up your legs. Your inner walls flutter around his fingers in an announcement of his skilled work’s reward.

“Right there,” you pant, head rolling, and fingers tugging at his hair. “Don’t stop—“

Except, he does exactly that.

You whine as he retracts his fingers, looking at him with indignation, silently demanding an explanation. Only smugness stares right back. Euphoria sinks back into the confines of your bones at the absence of stimulation. You can barely get out the question of why before he cuts you off.

“Believe me when I say I could please you for hours without question,” he says with a quick kiss before withdrawing to tower before you. “But I don’t know how long we have. I can’t let you have all the fun.”

You’re about to roll your eyes when he raises two glistening fingers to his mouth. His eyes remain trained on you as he glides his tongue over the remnants of your arousal before sucking them clean. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight.

“Sweet,” is all he says, as if he’s describing one of the new desserts sold at the cafe across the street. Your cheeks turn bright red.

Satisfied with the taunt, he reaches for his belt, and suddenly you’re reeled right back in. Your unashamed gaze tracks every movement with hunger as he undoes the buckle, then the button below. When he reaches for the zipper, he averts his eyes. Now it’s his turn to feel shy. The top of his boxers comes into view, followed by a mouth-watering outline of the exact thing you crave.

One hand hovering at the waistband, he settles back over you. A palpable shift in the air has taken place. Gone is the initial display of hunger and desire finally brought to light. In this moment, as he looks down with eyes full of affection, there’s a sense of pure, shared intimacy. Not the exhiliration of stupid decisions or a quick fuck. No. Zayne was not one to hook up with someone on a whim. Nor were you.

“You’re sure about…this?” He asks. The previous displays of confidence are nowhere to be found. You don’t think he can even bring himself to say the word, as if an explicit understanding would chase you away.

“What, having sex with you?” You kiss the tip of his nose with a smile. “I couldn’t be more sure.”

You catch an amused yet curious look on his face before he presses a slow kiss to your lips. Your heart races at the sound of shuffling fabric. Then you feel it. You can’t fight the urge to look.

Zayne holds the entirety of his impressive length in one hand. With ragged breaths, he teasingly drags the red, weeping tip across your folds. At the sight of it in his hold, of the tip circling your clit…You can only hope that he fits.

“I’ll go slow,” he says quietly. You’re almost unsure if he’s talking to you or himself. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much? If you want to stop at all—“

You try to give him a smile as sincere as possible instead of the giggles that threaten to arise. Nerves are obviously kicking in on his end. Not that you aren’t nervous. God knows you are. But suddenly, he can’t meet your gaze for more than a few seconds, and it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever done.

You quickly cut him off before he can ramble. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Zayne nods, presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and sinks into you.

If your senses weren’t already overwhelmed by him, they were now. The stretch aches at first, his sheer size foreign and unforgiving. Your jaw falls slack at the feeling, and a stuttered gasp leaves your lips. Zayne echoes the sound. Slowly, he pushes further with each roll of his hips, acutely aware of the initial shock. He sweeps away stray hairs plastered to your skin.

“You’re doing good,” he encourages, though he quickly begins to lose his coherence. “So good… You feel so…”

He cuts himself off with a low groan, and his head falls to the crook of your neck. Another careful thrust, then another. Finally, he bottoms out...and his teeth sink into your skin.

It takes everything in you not to cry out his name at the overwhelming sensations. Just moments ago, you wrote off the idea of leaving this room with physical reminders. Now, Zayne’s tongue was gliding over the fresh indents of his teeth to soothe the sting. Today was a day for many firsts.

Resisting the urge to sing your praise is becoming more and more of a punishment. You can only hope that the soft whimpers and incoherent strings of ‘yes’s and ‘keep going’s are enough. Zayne muffles his own voice with the press of his mouth to your skin, desperate and low. Where his throat leans against your chest, the reverberation of ecstasy echoes. What neither of you addresses, however, is the lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and each scraping groan of the desk legs in tandem.

When your fingers tug his hair, his tempo becomes sloppy. Heedless and disorganised, like he’s barely holding on. You’re own high is re-emerging from its previous denial. Nothing seems to register anymore, not beyond the connection of your bodies, not beyond this room, not before this moment. Every sense is reduced to your simple need for him. Sensibility no longer exists, like ink bleeding on damp paper, words blurring beyond recognition. What were the ethics of fucking your doctor? Ecstacy. That’s what.

You squirm in his partial hold, hips aching with the gruelling pace. When your eyes flutter and roll, he hums in content, suddenly slowing down.

His face contorts into something reminiscent of sympathy, brows pinched and eyes pooling with an inescapable intensity. “Right there?”

Each syllable sounds with a deep roll of his hips. When you whimper out a drawled mmh-hmm, he suddenly picks back up. He’s so close, reaching so deep that his pelvis grinds against your clit. You’re an overstimulated mess of tangled limbs and ragged breaths.

“Zayne—“ You’re legs begin to tremble, inner walls fluttering with that telltale sign. “Fuck—I’m going to—“

When you can’t finish the sentence, he captures your slack lips in a messy kiss.

“I know.” He trails a hand down to draw slow circles into your clit. “I’ll pull out—“

While it was the most sensible course of action, not an ounce of you wanted that. Spurred by a fraction of sobriety, you look up at him and speak solid yet shaky words.

“You can cum inside me.”

Glazed eyes look back, attention caught entirely. Parted lips attempt to form words that are lost to open-mouthed groans. He shudders. “Fuck. Are—are you sure?”

“You know I’m on birth control.” Hiding a devilish grin, you clench around his length. He sinks further into your embrace with muttered curses. Had you ever heard him say such obscene things before? “Please.”

“How could I say no to you, gorgeous?”

His words are barely more than a whisper, lost to the scrape of the table and slap of skin. You’re shared sobriety is spent in the short exchange. Your head rolls back, nails digging into a clothed back; his teeth graze against the inches of flesh that spill out of your bra, an indicator of delirium. Everything dissapears behind eyes screwed shut.

The song of sex is threatening to reach its crescendo, each melodic note vibrating through your entire being. Like a tide pulled by unseen moons, a shared pulse that races beyond the confines of mortal flesh. You hold him close in the moment it engulfs you, and despite Zayne’s intoxicating effect, you are suddenly very sure that this is right. The explosion of pressure in your hips that shakes your legs is right. The perfect alignment of your bodies is right. The stuttered moans as he paints your walls white are right.

For a moment, you two bask in a comfortable silence, arms slung around his shoulder and his head in the crook of your neck. When he lifts himself to hover at eye-level, you can’t help the girlish giggle at the sight of his pretty face and that pretty blush. He smiles back, albeit confused.

“What?” He asks as he absentmindedly fixes your hair.

“You’re cute,” you whisper back.

“Cute?” He laughs. “Wouldn’t be my first pick of words, but I’ll take it—“

Zayne, who leans in to kiss your forehead, stops just a hairs breadth away when a jarring knock sounds. It cuts through the moment like a distasteful dose of medicine. Both your heads whip towards the door as the handle jiggles. Every function in your body stops. But, for the nth time today, your lucky stars seem to align; the embedded network of ice keeps the door firmly shut.

The relief isn’t long-lived, though. Underwear God knows where, half of Zayne’s desktop scattered on the floor, hair a mess and skin splotched in shades of purple… You cringe at the disgraceful scene. Zayne sighs, fixes his clothes, and momentarily drops down to fish for your underwear—the first step to regaining modesty. When he slips it over your ankles and up thighs glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, he offers an apologetic look.

“That’s my karma for ignoring the time,” he grumbles.

You slide off the desk and into your underwear, aided by his fingers at the waistband. As he sits them on your waist and pulls down your skirt, you reach up to fix his hair.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, as if it truly was your fault. Well…half of the accountability was yours to claim.

“Don’t apologise.” Stealing a quick kiss, he adds, “Trouble.”

He slips from your grasp before you can retort.

From the view of the door, the criminalising array of pens and paper on the floor is mainly hidden, save for maybe an item or two. But even a single paper was evidence enough. Anyone witness to Zayne’s perfectionism would know as much. But by the time you recline in the chair, he’s already reaching for the thawing door handle. His tall frame blocks the view of the hallway as he pulls the door half open.

He nods. “Yvonne.”

Yvonne. Her presence teeters on the precipice of a blessing and a curse. A blessing, given your growing companionship with the kind nurse from Zayne’s division, yet a curse for precisely the same reason. She had the confidence in your connection to claw something juicy out of you in private, no doubt. Considering how often she brings up the gossip between nurses regarding Zayne and your relationship, this was information right up her alley.

Yvonne shifts her weight to the side to peer in the room—an act of curiosity you read clearly. When your eyes lock, the spark you were picturing stares right back. Interesting, her lively eyes seem to say. After wiggling her fingers in a small hello, she turns back to Zayne with a raised brow.

“Everything okay, Dr Zayne?” she asks plainly. The question is anything but plain. “This door was locked.”

Zayne’s grip on the door turns white knuckled. He clears his throat. “Everything is fine. I must have locked it by accident.”

It takes everything in you not to lose yourself to laughter. Zayne’s quick wit would one day be the death of you, but now his lack of sensibility would be the death of him. Yvonne scoffs at his jarringly poor excuse.

“Accident, huh?” Her amused gaze dances between the two of you, painfully knowing behind the war of words. “I see. Maybe be more…aware next time.”

“I will.”

She hums, posture straightening to indicate seriousness. “Well, I brought those files you requested. Sorry for not bringing them earlier—they slipped under my radar.”

“…Right. Yes. Thank you, Yvonne.”

She purses her lips for a moment and regards him with a scrutinising look. Seemingly satisfied, she says, “That’s all. It’s about time you head home, Dr Zayne. You two have fun now.”

With a wink your way, she disappears down the hallway. Zayne is quick to shut the door. You snicker.

“What’s so funny?”

“You ‘accidentally’ locked the door? Good one.”

“…Shut up.”

His words are accusing and gruff, but there’s no bite to them. He crosses the room in a few strides, taking in your features with a new softness. The two of you simply stare for a moment. Almost subconsciously, his fingers reach forward and skim the curve of your neck, following the path of fresh bruises peaking from your shirt collar.

“Sorry for those…” he murmurs absentmindedly, lost in thought. “I don’t know why I did that.”

You chuckle. “You don’t?”

He hums. “Heat of the moment. Hickies are childish, but I…I just couldn’t help myself.”

“You may think it’s childish,” you challenge, “but I quite like them.”

A huff resembling something between a sigh and a laugh tumbles from his lips as his fingers graze the curve of your cheek. Delicate and loving, he handles you with a softness you could only read about in tragic odes. You meet his eyes with a look you can only hope shows a sliver of your own overwhelming affection. Although, regardless of the ache between your legs and skin flushed with sex, you can’t shake the disbelief.

When did the quiet boy you shared stolen sweets with on your grandmother’s porch turn into this accomplished man who dictated your every thought? When was the first time you stole a tentative glance at your childhood crush? On the playground, perhaps. Or maybe outside the store that sold popsicles in the ruthless heat of summer. Those were memories you often basked in. Now, you begin to wonder when he first mirrored your shy gaze.

“So,” he starts quietly, pulling you from the memories of shared smiles with a very current, very real kiss on the forehead. “About that fake date…”

#lads zayne #li shen #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace #x reader #smut #zayne smut #zayne x you #l&ds zayne #author has zayne brainrot #zayne x reader

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psin314 · 2 days ago

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Hello! I was scrolling through your BSky and was wondering the story behind your OCs Sean and Eugene, also if you plan on doing more art for them.

glad you asked anon! so so glad!!! sean and eugene (i call them yush) - one of my strongest ocs hyperfixations ever, i love them so much. but i'll try to tell about them as short as possible. (everything's under the cut!!)

also more art? easy. i made them in 2019...

funny pics:

pretty pics:

spicy pics: somewhere on their th pages.

a little about the world they live in (i unofficially call it ryzhebes. i made it in 2017 and it still doesn't have a proper name...):

it's almost like our world but hell and heaven, angels and demons + witches exist here too. hell and heaven look pretty ordinary and modern, no lava pools or screams of horror and pain. satan is a tired workaholic, and god uuh angels say he's a nice guy. demons and angels mostly don't care about humans (also humanity doesn't know that all this exists), but some of them love to have their vacations there (all of them can use "magical" disguises to hide their supernatural features and look like humans). after death humans go either to hell or to heaven, where they live a slightly better or slightly worse second life. of course there are some naughty demons (or even angels) who love to do shit like in movies like the exorcist but there aren't that many of them. (i can write more info about this universe if anyone's interested, but let's keep it short for this post.)

so! about my boys. the first version of them was much darker with catholic guilt and a suicide attempt but I don't want them to suffer so they're simply in love and very happy now.

eugene black is a 42 yo demon, a tattoo artist with an engineering degree who knows 20+ languages. loves to drink beer, smoke cigarettes and act like a cool guy in leather with a motorcycle (he can't afford a motorcycle. he lives with his mom. but he can afford a leather jacket and pants.) (also he's silly.) he's a stutterer, has problems with pronouncing the letters d t p, sometimes n and m. and he doesn't really care. loves to talk. sensitive and romantic guy, will do everything for the people he loves. loves his family, has 5 siblings. has health problems, needs to eat a lot, almost all the money he has he spends on food and still can't gain weight much. has a supernatural ability - can teleport wherever he wants, just needs to know the place or see the needed place on the map. (he uses math and physics for this but no one would understand him anyway.) has problems with teleporting from closed spaces.

father sean farrell is a 30 yo catholic priest from ireland. traumatized childhood, father issues, long depression episodes but he's mostly okay now. although anxiety can't leave this man alone. very kind, supportive, understanding and friendly person. he is very non-aggressive and easily controls himself during an argument. loves to listen and help people. although he's a simple priest, goes to the gym and plays rugby regularly. he's… big and strong. (also getting tired physically everyday helps him fall asleep peacefully.) never been in a romantic or sexual relationship before eugene.

how they met.

1994. eugene lost a bet to his friend and had to go to any random church and steal something. hungover, somehow disguised, he went there in the morning and got right to mass. he had to stay and listen. but somewhere along the way he fell asleep. unexpectedly for eugene, someone started trying to wake him up, holding him by the shoulder. it was this priest who was reading mass. the sleeping man smelled of beer and cigarettes, but he slept so soundly that sean was even a little scared. when he finally woke him up, eugene mumbled something unintelligible (probably his name??) and ran away. sean didn't understand anything. and eugene fell head over heels in love, because the priest turned out to be very pretty.

eugene returned to the church in the evening. in his demon form, because he thought that he would quickly go there, steal what he needed and leave. but he crossed paths with father sean there, who was delayed there to clean up. eugene didn't lose his composure, said hello, joked, tried to come up with a reason for his presence. but sean was silent and looked at him strangely. eugene looked at his hands and realized that the priest was now seeing a demon in front of him. as soon as he raised his head, he received a thick bible book in his face. eugene tried to calm him down, sean wanted to hit him with the book again. but eugene managed to grab him by the wrist and carry him with him to hell.

they fell on top of each other on the road near eugene's house. sean was starting to get hysterical, but eugene, sitting on top of him, grabbed him by the hands and very angrily asked him to calm down and that nothing bad would happen. surprisingly, this calmed sean down. he noticed eugene's nose was bleeding and gave him a handkerchief… (sean thought it was because of the bible blow but teleportation took a lot of eugene's strength. now he'll have to wait until he rests to be able to bring sean back.)

sean looked around, hell looked… nice. normal. an ordinary suburb of a small town. trees are blooming, it smells like normal evening air and and the rain that has just passed. then they went to eugene's house, luckily his mother wasn't home, he made sean some green tea and told him a little about hell, demons, himself and his stupid bet. sean was mostly silent because he was in shock. then a couple of hours later he brought sean back. they went their separate ways.

eugene couldn't stop thinking about sean, he fell in love, he wanted to see him again. sean couldn't sleep either. he had to rethink his whole life, but it didn't work out very well, there was too much of new information. as a result, eugene returned to the church after some time. this time sean noticed him first and immediately ran to him, to discuss reality.

they started talking to each other. first on the topic of the universe, and then moved on to personal topics. started seeing each other more often. it didn't affect sean's faith much in the end, although he almost had 7 nervous breakdowns at once. being a priest still made sense and he continued to do what he always did. he already sort of knew that all this existed. just not in the form that he imagined.

(yes, there are no classic demon-priest relationships here, where the demon seduces the priest and destroys him. it's a romcom. :))

well and yes, after a few months their talking to each other turned into romantic interest. sean slowly fell in love with eugene. he didn't really care that eugene was a man, he wasn't homophobic but he couldn't come out yet. he was naturally worried that eugene was a DEMON and also... celibate yeah. he had never had a relationship, but what he felt for eugene was a very pleasant feeling.

so a few weeks later of what should i do what should i do, one warm evening, sean kissed eugene, and then quickly ran away, because they almost got seen. they met that same night, in the park, in their usual place, where no one would see them. sean wanted to tell eugene that he did it by accident without thinking, they need to stop this, but this time eugene came to kiss him and sean forgot about everything. now they were kissing properly. sean didn't know what to do, this was all wrong, but he really liked eugene. they talked about it and decided to have secret meetings.

after some time it led to sex ofc... after it sean was kind of happy, but also worried even more. one part of him said that this needed to end, and the other part said that he loved eugene. sean told him about it again. they both came to the conclusion that they love each other. eugene didn't want to ruin sean's life so he doesn't mind becoming the priest's secret wife.

im talking to much sorry, and this part to this day isn't properly explained haha sorry x2 i just want them to be happy.

well, in the end. they continue to date and love each other, keeping their secret. (eugene's whole family and his best friends know that he's fucking a priest.)

(sean said that eugene's like a star for him, that of all the billions of shining stars, he found the brightest one. and eugene didn't know that he can say things like that. maybe i'll redraw and repost it someday idk.)

#asks #my oc #oc eugene black #oc sean farrell

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ducksido · 2 days ago

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hellohello! I don’t exactly sure if your request is open but if it’s not you can ignore this until you jave time. I just read the overblot boys and reader who’s afraid of spider and i love it so much, but can you reverse it? Since I personally adore spiders (each member of my family have tarantulas or jumping spiders as pets including me lol). Thanks a lot by the way! Have a great day!

Riddle Rosehearts

He spots the little creature on the window sill and immediately raises his voice: “Unacceptable! We have an intruder—” Cue you, calmly walking over and cupping the spider in your hands. “No need to panic, Riddle. It's just a little jumping spider. Look at those cute eyes!” He’s frozen, watching in horror as you coo at it like it’s a baby. “You… like them?” Once he’s sure it’s not dangerous (and you’ve assured him it’s Jeremy the Third and perfectly safe), he’ll allow it—but he gives the spider detentions in his head.

Leona Kingscholar

A chill nap is ruined by a tiny eight-legged shadow crawling across his tail. He jolts up, snarling— “Who brought this demon into my room!?” You walk in, casually scooping it into a jar and setting it on your desk. “That’s my pet, Mochi.” He glares at the jar like it personally offended him. “You keep it on purpose?” Refuses to sleep in the same room as it. Will make snide comments like “Did you feed your murder bug today?” but softens when he sees you smile at it.

Azul Ashengrotto

He screams. Full on, no dignity, banshee shriek when he sees a spider crawling on his contract ledger. You gently pick it up with a leaf and smile, “She just likes the warmth of the paper. Isn’t she adorable?” Azul: 😨 You: 😍 He tries so hard to rationalize it—“They’re good for pest control, yes, okay, but you can’t seriously want to… feed it?” When you name it “Inky,” Floyd starts trying to put a little top hat on it. Azul nearly dies from the stress.

Jamil Viper

He sees it on your shoulder and nearly incinerates it with magic out of instinct. “Stay still, Y/N—” You turn, holding up your hand calmly so the spider walks onto it. “It’s okay, she’s my pet. Her name is Cleopatra.” He stares at you in stunned silence. “...Of course it is.” Eventually warms up to her and even reads up on tarantulas. You catch him once saying, “Hey, Cleo… you’re the only calm one in this house.”

Rook Hunt

You show him your pet spider and he is delighted. “Quelle beauté étrange! Such an elegant hunter, non?” He’s the only one who matches your enthusiasm. Would absolutely help you make an enclosure look like a miniature forest. Names your spider something poetic like “Petite Ombre” (“Little Shadow”). May also write a haiku about her.

Vil Schoenheit

He sees the spider and instantly goes: “Absolutely not. I don’t care if it’s endangered. Get it away.” But when you gently lift it and explain, eyes glowing with excitement, Vil… sighs. “If you must, at least give it an enclosure that fits our aesthetic. I’m not having an ugly plastic box in my dorm.” Ends up buying your spider a terrarium with mood lighting and custom moss.

Malleus Draconia

Sees you holding a spider like it’s a baby and is fascinated. “You keep a familiar with so many eyes? Intriguing.” You tell him, “Her name is Queen Mab,” and he absolutely nods in approval. Would try to speak to her like she’s a royal advisor. You now have spider-sitting help from one of the most powerful beings in the world.

Bonus: Grim

“WHAT IS THAT? WHY IS IT STARING AT ME?!” Tries to fight your spider on sight. You hold it up to him: “Say hi to Bubbles.” “NO.” You have to make a “no touching Bubbles” rule after Grim tried to swat at her once. He insists she’s plotting his downfall. You secretly think she might be.

#twst #twst x reader #twst wonderland #twst yuu

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moondustbaby · 10 hours ago

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letter g - grinding on blue collar!rafe’s lap after a long day at work? like he’s telling her about his day while she sits in his lap and she wants to take his mind off it or something like that?

also i love your writing so much i think i check your account everyday for new works lol ❤️

G – Grinding

blue collar!Rafe x wife!Reader

✨1k celebration post✨

mdni 18+

He’s still in his work clothes—jeans dirty, white tee stained with sweat and sawdust—sprawled in the recliner with you curled up in his lap, straddling him.

You’d meant to let him finish talking about his day. Really.

But the way he smells—like sweat and pine and that musky Rafe scent that does something to your brain—and the way his big, rough hands are resting on your thighs while he talks?

It’s a problem.

“So then Tommy tells me he’s measured the whole damn door wrong—again—and I’m like, buddy, we’re on a schedule here, you can’t just—”

You shift your hips forward slowly, dragging yourself along the hard bulge in his jeans.

He grunts.

“Baby…”

“I’m listening,” you say sweetly, rolling your hips again.

His hands tighten on your legs. His voice catches.

“I just—I needed to vent for like five minutes, that’s all—”

You grind down harder, smirking. “Mhm. Keep going. I’m paying attention.”

“You are not,” he mutters, eyes narrowing.

But he’s already losing it—already shifting in the chair, already hard and twitching under you, already groaning when you start grinding in tight, needy little circles that have your whole body shivering.

“You looked so stressed,” you whisper, pressing kisses to his neck. “Just wanted to help.”

He grabs your ass in both hands, dragging you down harder. “Helpin’ me by soakin’ my jeans, is that it?”

You nod against his cheek.

He growls low in his throat. “You better be ready to take care of what you started.”

And by the time he flips you onto the couch and rips your panties to the side—he’s already forgotten all about Tommy and the door.

a/n: because sometimes your man’s had a long day and the only thing that’ll fix it is grinding down onto his lap until he forgets his own name. huge thank you to the sweetest nonnie ever for this request 🥺🫶

♥️ lani

nsfw a-z

✨1k celebration schedule✨

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bewitched-hours · 21 hours ago

Text

Forsaken | 007n7 x Robot!Reader (Platonic)

My friend suggested a fic with the reader being a robot but with an AI kinda like Neuro-Sama(iykyk) and I thought it's be whole to see 007n7 in dad mode again so yeah-

Reader's pronouns will be They/Them for this one!

You couldn't remember anything. Your chip was pretty much fried.

You were forsaken for actions you didn't remember. Your lifeless, robotic body was simply found by Builderman and although he was ecstatic to fix you up, you quickly proved to be a challenge.

You didn't show emotions but your programming was clearly flawed.

You'd have moments where you would crash out of nowhere or overheat for seemingly no reason. Usually this resulted in you either collapsing or completely freezing up because your AI had no idea what it was meant to do.

So, 007n7 was called to check on your code. It was like looking at a digital junkyard.

He had to eventually try to rewrite your entire code, removing concerning lines that indicated at you being built originally for brutal killings. He didn't even want to know if it was for better or for worse but seeing as you were brought to the Survivor cabin, it was likely for the better.

When you powered back on, he even tried to make you feel more lifelike. He had you learn on your own to mimic emotions and develop a personality.

He was actually quite proud of it despite the other survivors not really caring all too much.

You were rarely chosen for rounds, mostly being left behind to keep the cabin clean and prepare everyone some snacks and drinks for their return. Wether a round ended in victory or not, you still encouraged that they celebrated it.

007n7 didn't even program the latter into you. You had simply watched the others handle the kitchen and learned from observations and experimenting. Most of what you made was Pizza though because it was usually Elliot in the Kitchen.

But as time went on, you became more and more lifelike. And the other survivors treated you more like a person than an AI upon noticing it.

You had such a gentle and cheerful personality, only carefree outside of rounds and getting serious when you were in one. You had even grown protective over your fellow survivors and they didn't need detective work to know you were beginning to favour the ex-hacker.

Whatever, they figured it was because your code somehow recognized him as your 'creator' of sorts.

But 7n7 wasn't exactly thrilled by the way you treated him. It was too much like you were seeing him as a 'father', and it honestly scared him.

He was still grieving over failing his son and now he accidentally made himself the father to an AI? He couldn't even begin to figure out how he should feel about it.

At first he tried to discourage the behaviour, telling you not to see him as 'Father' and call him by his name. You listened, but only added to your coding to call him by his name, not changing his dynamic to you in the slightest.

Then he switched to a more neutral stance after the others began teasing him on having two kids now. He began being more gentle with you but usually tried to find excuses to send you off without questions. Of course, you would never dare to question your creator's commands. So you usually went off to do whatever ridiculous task he had given you before idling again.

But then he finally broke, and it felt as though the icy walls he had built began melting. He even started calling you "Kid" instead of your name half the time. For some reason, it made you happy. Especially when he messed up the artificial hair you've made yourself with a light chuckle.

He just couldn't escape it. You were his child now and upon changing the dynamic status for both 007's and c00lkidd's directories, you also began to learn of a new emotion...

Guilt.

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

#forsaken roblox #forsaken x reader #forsaken x y/n #forsaken #roblox forsaken #007n7 forsaken #fluff #platonic forsaken x reader #robot reader #you're getting adopted #fatherly behaviour

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meanderingwistera · 2 days ago

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The Empress

< Previous chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter >

Summary - You have prepared for years to take over your Father’s kingdom. You have studied everything from politics to mathematics to philosophy for your future role as Queen.

But when a proposal too good to pass up crosses your Father’s desk your wishes are pushed aside. You are sent off to marry a King from a larger neighbouring kingdom, despite your protests.

Now you have to navigate a new land, people and a Husband who keeps his secrets far from your reach.

Pairing - King!Satoru Gojo x Queen!Reader

Content - Fluff, afab!reader, arranged marriage, court politics, historical setting, Gojo is down bad, reader is oblivious to Gojo’s feelings, Shoko being a wonderful friend (as per usual), more lore about Gojo’s parents because I can, Reader makes allies with more people

Word Count - 3.9k

A/N - Don’t mind me also setting up lore for my next x reader connected to this one lol

Chapter 3 - Tea

You meet your new personal guards first thing the next morning after your short conversation with Gojo. You step out of your rooms to be met with two men. They wear much lighter armor than you expected.

The first guard has blonde hair and a stern look on his face. The other has brown hair but his demour seems to be the exact opposite, he has a grin on his face and is rocking back and forth on his feet.

“Your Majesty,” The blond man says and bows to you, “I am honored to serve you.”

The brown haired man bows deeply as well, “There is no higher honour!”

“What are your names?” You ask and beckon them to stand so you can get a better look at them.

“I am Nanami Kento.” The blond man, Nanami, introduces himself.

“And I am Haibara Yu, your Majesty.” The brown haired man, Haibara, says excitedly.

“I am happy to have you have your protection.” You tell them with a soft smile.

The walk to your office is short, it is close to your wing of the castle.

You sit down at your desk and look over the stack of papers you have to look over today. The financial report for this last looks good. Still for your peace of mind you like to add everything up yourself so you know for sure that everything is in order.

Haibara and Nanami are stationed at either side of the door, silent but observing. It doesn’t feel like Pierre, calm and stern, no this feels like another test. Haibara doesn’t seem to be scrutinizing you but Nanami is looking you over. He tries to not make it obvious but you can feel his gaze on you.

You can’t blame them for scrutinising you, you are a foreigner with no ties here other than your husband who you never see. But you can push back.

Looking up abruptly you look at Haibara, “What do you know about tea parties?”

The man blinks in surprise before considering the question.

“Not much-” He admits, “my sister liked going to them. There is a lot of socialising?”

“That is true, but it is more than that. It is much like a battlefield. You have allies and those who are enemies. Sure from the outside it seems like a fun party but there are many layers to it.” You explain and sit back to look at them. “So if a new Queen needs to make a good first impression when should she throw a tea party?”

“You should strike first.” Nanami says matter of factly.

“Exactly!” You say and finish the letter you were writing, “Please let Duchess Ieri know that I request her presence as soon as possible.”

Haibara walks up and takes the letter of summons you give him, “I will see to it Your Majesty.”

Duchess Ieri carries herself with the same grace as she did when you first met her. You can see why she was a candidate for your current position. She would be more suited if you were being honest but now is not the time to ponder on what ifs.

“Your Majesty,” She bows low to you but you can see the sly smile she has on her lips, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

You smile back at her pleasantly, “I am planning a tea party and would like your advice.”

The Duchess looks happy and walks up to your desk, her brown eyes sparkling with amusement.

“How may I be of service?”

“Tell me about the women of the court. What are they like and the current trends among them?” You ask and she obliges you.

“Currently I have the most influence, since I am the only current Duchess that was in talks for being Satoru’s Queen.” She starts.

“After that I believe that Lady Itadori and former Marchioness Itadori have a significant amount of sway with the court. Duchess Tsukumo is rarely seen at public events but not sending an invitation would be ill advised.”

“Then you have Viscountess Nobara who is in her older years but wise, she is also raising a granddaughter. Marchioness Mei is cunning and will do just about anything for money so be careful around her.” Duchess Ieri explains to you.

“So when making the guest list these people are a good place to start?” You question her and she nods.

“Despite Kaori being a former Marchioness, not inviting her would be a wrong move, there is no current Marchioness so you would slight the whole family. And her daughter is currently overseas. I am rather biased with myself but who isn’t. Mei would not care if you invite her or not but she is a good friend to have when you need something.”

You nod and write down the names on the paper you started to put down the things you would need for the tea party. Kaori seems to be the one to impress since you want to be on good terms with the noble families that have a good amount of sway on the court.

You write all of that down and look back up.

“The trends will be set by you soon but for now, brighter colors are in because of summer.” She tells you and you scribble that down too.

“Where would be the best place here to hold it?”

She seems to think hard about this.

After a minute’s pause she speaks, “If you want to make an impression there is a green house full of roses that bloom year round, but that was the previous Queen’s gift from the previous King.”

You will have to tread carefully then.

Though it may be good to ease the nobles into your reign by bringing up the past. You of course will have to get Gojo’s permission first so that people don’t think you are doing whatever you want.

“Would that seem too much to the other nobles?” You ask her.

“Not if done correctly,” She says, her brown eyes alight with mischief, “we can frame it as Gojo showing how much he adores his new queen by letting her use the greenhouse so adored by his mother.”

You grin wide, you like her.

“That is perfect, thank you Duchess.”

“Call me Shoko, Your Majesty.” She says with a deep bow.

You laugh at her forwardness, “Thank you Shoko.

Satoru groans and leans back in his chair. The mounting paperwork stares at him as he shuts his eyes for a moment.

When he was young he was told that he could do anything when he became king. He now knows that they were lying to him because all he really does these days is paperwork and avoid you.

Even if he doesn’t want to avoid you, he will make you as comfortable as he can while you are here. He is sure that you hate him so maybe he is also a bit of a coward who doesn’t want to face that head on.

“Your Majesty?” Haibara calls out to him from behind the door to his office.

“Come in Haibara!” He says and sits up in his chair.

The door opens and Haibara steps in, his face has his familiar smile.

“How is she?” Satoru asks him.

“Well! She is excelling in her role so we have heard and she is planning a tea party.” Haibara reports. “She also wanted me to ask you if she could use the greenhouse for the party when I gave you my report.”

Satoru startles a bit because he had never told you about your guards reporting back to him. You must have figured it out. He smiles fondly at your intelligence, you probably could beat him in that regard.

“Let her know that she is free to use anything at her disposal, and may I ask when the party is?” Satoru says and leans forward, intrigued.

“A week from now.” Haibara answers him.

In the back of his mind Satoru knows that he shouldn’t drop in but his heart rails in his chest. He wants to see you among the various roses that he had run through when he was younger under his mother’s careful watch.

Satoru wants to watch your eyes trace the delicate petals in hopes that your eyes may do the same to him someday.

Maybe stopping by, for just a moment, would be okay.

You had forgotten how fun event planning was. Most of the time back home the Queen, your stepmother, took care of it but when her illness flared up you would take over the process. It was fulfilling to see it all come together the day the event was to be held.

The greenhouse is beautiful all on its own.

From the intricate golden designs on the walls to the stunning types of roses it houses, the building needs no additions. You had made the decision to move some of the pots in the center to make way for more room but the pots are to be put back right after the party ends. The previous queen’s influence is so evident in every part of this place and you want it to stay that way.

“Your Majesty!” Haibara calls out and you turn to face him. “Where do you want this to be placed?”

He holds up a chair that was dragged in here earlier.

“Put it near the head of the table.” You gesture to the right side near the end of the table. Haibara sets the chair next to yours and walks back over to you as you look at the long table to check it.

Once you deem your work done and to your standards Riko practically drags you to your room to get ready. The maids help you into the dress you chose and then are shooed out as Riko takes over. She fusses over you for nearly an hour before she deems her work done. Your makeup and dress match the shade of the roses in the greenhouse.

“It’s perfect!” Riko exclaims with pride, “My best work yet.”

You giggle at her words and look in the mirror. Humming in satisfaction you look over the dress with a keen eye. The delicately stitched roses on the hem are your favorite part of the dress and will be at home in the greenhouse.

The guests arrive soon after you make your way down to the greenhouse. Duchess Tsukumo had sent a letter back two days after the invitations went out letting you know that she would not be attending because of her work schedule and thanked you for the invite.

Shoko and Utahime are the first to arrive.

“We are honoured to receive your invitation, Your Majesty.” Utahime says, bowing to you.

“I am thankful for your attendance and your help with putting this in motion.” You say as they rise back up.

“It is truly no problem.” Shoko says with a smile. Smiling back, you beckon them in.

Kaori Itadori arrives next in a soft green gown that reminds you of an emerald. It is definitely her color. She is graceful and has a smile that could melt glaciers. Her gentle expression almost disarms you from your carefully crafted image.

“Your Majesty.” She says and bows to you. “I am happy to still be in your vision despite my elder son having taken over from my late husband.”

“I believe it is best to be on good terms with all the people who will be in my care.” You admit to her with a grin.

She stands tall and returns your smile by widening hers, “The Itadori family is honoured.”

The guest trickle in after that.

Viscountess Nobara watches you with a critical eye but her gaze softens when you bring up her young granddaughter.

Marchioness Mei hides behind a bright blue fan and sultry smiles. You don’t crack her facade but you do see some respect forming in her eyes.

Hitomi Geto, Duke Geto’s mother, is one of the last to arrive. It is clear that he takes after her. The soft crescents of her eyes and their lavender color are identical. She mirrors his manners and his diplomacy. You smile warmly at her deciphering gaze.

Once every seat is filled with women from all the noble families you sit down. The air is still tense, most people don’t know you. Their first impression was of your disastrous wedding night and you need to course correct.

“Thank you all for being here,” Your voice carries over the table, “I am still new to this country so I am thankful for the warm welcome.”

There are a few whispers across the table but Shoko speaks up.

“We are happy to have you here with us, Your Majesty.” She reassures you calmly but her eyes wander to the rest of the table.

A chorus of affirmation follows her words.

The women of the court see Shoko deferring to you and seem to accept it. They are more lively after that, asking questions and sharing the latest gossip. You learn who controls most of the conversations and who are quiet.

You also learn the name of the woman who tried to present her daughter to Gojo. Baroness Zenin keeps her glare subtle but you can feel her simmering rage from the head of the table. It is off putting at first but you soon learn to ignore it.

With Shoko, Utahime and now Kaori you feel like you have formed a good relationship with two noble families. But you are not one to leave things half done.

“Lady Geto, I would like to thank you for raising your son so well.” You start and she looks over at you in interest, “He has helped me with the transition from my homeland.”

Hitomi Geto smiles genuinely for the first time. Her eyes hold a light not previously in them at the mention of Suguru. She also has the same crows feet at her eyes as her son.

“I thank you for your compliments, Your Majesty, he has grown up well.” She says to you and you see the frigid facade crack just for a moment.

Kaori speaks up as well, “He is the most respectful of our sons, Choso is a shut in most of the time.”

Hitomi laughs at her remark and you join in.

“I will have to meet him at some point.” You say and Kaori nods.

“We would be honoured to have you come to our estate sometime, Your Majesty.” She smiles at you.

“I think I will take you up on the offer.”

An hour passes in a flash. You feel yourself relax into the role of Queen you are playing. Eventually a question is asked that gives you pause.

“How did you end up marrying the King?” A girl around Riko’s age asks.

You try to come up with a good answer, because you can’t tell her the truth. You can’t tell her that you don’t really want to be here or have this role.

So you craft a beautiful lie for her.

“It was love at first sight actually,” You say and look down bashfully. “We met at his coronation and everything happened from there. He courted me in private for a year before our wedding was announced.”

It wasn’t fully false, you had met him briefly at his coronation but nothing happened.

The girl gasps in delight, “What was your first impression of him?”

You hum in thought, “Bright, he seems to light up the room when he enters.”

Soft ‘aww’s erupt from the table at your remark.

You just wish that you were telling the truth about this. They all seem to have a fondness for their King, and he doesn’t seem like a bad guy, but you don’t feel like you belong here.

“Am I interrupting?”

The sound of Gojo’s voice startles the whole table. He saunters into the greenhouse with an easy going smile. One hand is in his pocket as he takes long languid strides to the end of the long table where you are seated. You almost gawk at him because he wasn’t supposed to be here.

“My King,” You say, trying to keep it together, “What brings you here?”

Gojo stops next to you and takes your hand, raising it to his lips.

“Is it a crime for a man to see his wife?” He says slyly as he kisses your hand.

He is still as avoidant as ever.

You feel heat creep up your neck. No one would deny Gojo’s attractiveness and you are no exception. In fact you are sure that this is the first time you have seen him this close to you. At the ball all those years ago you had never gotten close enough to see his eyes so vividly or the exact shape of his grin.

“You must have many things to do.” You say with a nervous laugh.

“The Duke found a spot in my schedule to see how you are doing for a second,” He stands tall but still has a hold of you hand in his, “but I must be off.”

“We are honoured to have your presence for even just a few moments, Your Majesty.” You say and he lights up like a firework.

“I will see you later, My Queen.” He says and walks out of the room as if he didn’t just give you a heart attack.

The second he is a speck on the horizon all the women whisper to each other. Some look pleased, others are surprised. You smile in realization that your husband has given you a gift. For the past few weeks you have been weaving this lie yourself but it looks like Gojo will help you continue to weave it.

“The King must love you very much to let you not only use the greenhouse but check up on you regularly.” Hitomi comments with a smile.

“He has been most welcoming and supportive throughout the first month of this marriage.” You admit with a bashful smile.

Under the layers of your carefully created mask you feel your mind whirl with some confusion. You had only asked him for help with public appearances that the both of you were present at. So why did he show up when he didn’t need to?

You feel exhausted as the last few guests leave. Playing the role of host is fun but draining. Your knowledge and control of the court doesn’t stop you getting fatigued by the whole of it.

“I hope your visit to the Itadori estate still stands, we will be happy to have you, Your Majesty.” Kaori Itadori says and takes both of your hands in hers.

You want to melt into her warmth. She reminds you a little of your Mother. Both of their demeanors are pure spring and sunlight. And you could use a lot of that right now.

“I will find time in my schedule to visit. I still need to meet your son after all.” You squeeze her hands and she grins.

“Good! Hopefully it may habituate Choso enough to get him out of the house to find a wife!” Kaori exclaims and you can’t tell if she is joking or not.

“You must have a hard time trying to get him out of the house if you need to enlist Her Majesty’s help.” Hitomi jokes and sashays over.

“We are much in the same boat Hitomi, your son doesn’t seem to want to marry either.” Kaori says and lets go of your hands to cross her arms.

“Suguru is married to his work at the moment but I hope in time he will settle down.” Hitomi explains, her expression is the picture of innocence.

After Hitomi says goodbye the two of them leave bickering back and forth. You huff in pure amusement at their retreating remarks.

Shoko and Utahime are the last to leave.

“They grew up together, practically sisters in anything but name.” Shoko explains with an amused laugh, “We never really got to see this side of them until we were older.”

“You grew up with the Duke, Lady Itadori and Satoru right?” You ask curiously, Gojo’s first name slips from your lips easier than before.

“The four of us are almost the same, except for the Duke and Lady Itadori. They hate each other with a fire equal to fifteen suns. It is rather entertaining to see them go back and forth.” Shoko muses.

“I will be very happy to meet her when she gets back from abroad.” You say with a soft smile.

“She will like you,” Utahime says with a bow, “you have already won us over.”

You can’t help but smile at her words. When you first came here a month ago you thought that you would hate it here. You thought of it as a prison sentence to marry Gojo but the people around you are changing that idea.

And you don’t mind it.

That night you lay down in your bed with the closest thing to a genuine grin since coming here. It feels good to be making progress on your plan to win over the court.

You already have Shoko and Utahime on your side. The former Marchioness Itadori seems to be on your side but you are still a bit cautious around this new alliance. Then the former Duchess Geto is holding back and watching you. You just hope you will pass whatever test she is giving you.

The one family you will be avoiding is the Zenins. You will at least wait for Baroness Zenin’s anger to pass before trying to mend the broken relationship between them and you.

You roll over on your side and see the book you picked up in the library the day after the wedding. It sits with a pile of history books on your nightstand. You pick it up to have a closer look at it.

The lavender book isn’t as thick as the history books but it has a good number of pages. You flip the cover open and trace the initials on the inside. Who could they have belonged to before being put in that library?

The first page is filled with the same handwriting and your eyes trace down the page. It doesn’t read like a book at all, it sounds like a diary. You read the first few lines to get a better understanding.

The woman writing this diary writes about her life helping in her father’s sword shop. She helps him keep the books and sharpen the blades that come to them. Her account of her life is detailed and straightforward.

Flipping through the pages your eyes catch on a diary entry from the middle of the diary.

‘We had a rather peculiar visitor. He was quite tall with eyes like the blue core of a flame or frigid ice. His demeanor made him almost unapproachable but we need the money.

He looked startled when he saw me take his sword from his hands. It was a beautiful blade, the steel was well made and maintained. I helped Father sharpen it before giving it back to the man.

The man paid before storming off…’

The eyes described make you think of Gojo’s, but you wouldn’t describe his eyes as cold.

They are warm, like the ocean on a hot summer day. Or sunlight on the small creak behind the castle back home that you and your siblings would play in the water on hot days. Gojo’s eyes are deep, vast and shine a shade of blue that is unforgettable.

Not many people have blue eyes like that so you wonder if they are related somehow. You will have to ask Gojo about it eventually.

Taglist- @hyori2 @tenaciousavenueavenue @joyfulweaselbananapanda @miakxn @lovystar @moonz33 @linny-bloggs @straykeeks @vi0let-writes @procastinatingbitch @ughhmenna @sassylav

#tea parties and lore abound 👀#I hope you guys like Geto’s Mom- I wanted to make them similar to each other #we will see more of her and Kaori in the Geto x reader fic after this!#blue’s fics <3 #gojo satoru #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen

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