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moonstruckme · 3 months

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poly!marauders x reader helping her move into their shared flat! maybe a little angst cuz she doesn’t wanna impose but also fluffy

Thanks for requesting!

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

“Angel, we’ve got it,” James says again, warding you off with a playfully stern look when you get too close to your own dresser. Sirius, clutching the other end for dear life, looks less confident. “Go start putting things the way you like them, we’ll handle the rest of the big stuff.”

You give Sirius a guilty look as you do what you’re told, going into the kitchen where Remus is opening your taped-up boxes with a butter knife.

“Best to stay out of their way,” he advises you. “Jamie will fully let go of that dresser before he lets you near it, and we’ve got a busy enough day ahead of us without taking Sirius to A&E.”

You grin. “Too true.”

Remus makes a funny cooing sound as he pulls your heart-shaped measuring cups out of a box. “Oh, these are precious.” His bottom lip curls softly. “Is it odd that this feels sort of like opening gifts? Do you have a zester? I’ve been pining after a zester for months.”

“I do,” you say, somewhat giddy at the prospect of having your things amongst theirs. “It’s in the other box, though.”

“Fuck, it’s like Christmas.” Remus tears into that box, leaving you to the first.

It helps that you already have a sense of where things go in the boys’ flat, having stayed here many nights over several months before they’d asked you to move in. You grab the next thing out of your box and reach for the cabinet behind Remus, minding his head as you open it, and look for an empty space on the top shelf.

“Oh.” The word drops limply from your lips.

“Hm?”

“You already have a blender.”

“Yeah, Jamie’d never get by without one,” says Remus with a fond eye roll. “He all but lives on those protein smoothies.”

“Right. Yeah, I forgot.”

“You can put yours in there next to it, love.” He looks at you over his shoulder, a slight bemusement in his expression at your dispirited tone. “He leaves that thing dirty in the sink all the time, it’ll be nice to have a backup.”

“Okay.” You slot yours in beside it, but your eyes fall to the neat stacks of plates and bowls on the shelf below them. Somewhere in the bottom of one of these boxes, you have your own plates and bowls, mismatched and collected from different stores over time. These ones are uniform, a matched set. “Do you think my dishes will go okay in here?”

“What do you mean?” Remus turns around, following your gaze to the cabinet. “We’ve got plenty of room.”

“I know, but…” But with your dishes added onto theirs, they’ll be stacked nearly to the top of the shelf. More than anyone needs. “You all picked yours out together, and mine don’t match. I don’t want to add things you don’t like.”

“You won’t be.” Seeming to sense you need it, he wraps his arms around your shoulders, standing with your back to his front. “Darling, we picked out these dishes because when we moved in here, all three of us had only been using paper plates. It wasn’t a big decision, we just needed to feel like adults.” You can hear his smile close to your ear. “Don’t worry about matching, alright?”

“Alright,” you say, sinking into his hold, but your mind is already cataloging every way you could be intruding.

Your glasses won’t go with theirs either, and neither will your pots and pans. The cabinets will be full to bursting. By the window, their little kitchen table has three chairs. The couch in the living room is only big enough to fit three, the armchair they’d bought to accommodate you when you started coming over regularly sitting off to the side. Separate.

“Hey,” says James, popping into the kitchen. You’re partway through unloading your kitchen things, your guilt mounting with every overstocked shelf. “Do you want to come tell us where you’d like your dresser? We’re having some trouble, it’s a bit of a tight fit.”

“Yeah,” you say weakly, following him down the hall. Remus, the unofficial master of logistics, comes behind you.

In the bedroom, Sirius is trying to jam your dresser in between a nightstand and the wall, shoving it with his shoulder and threatening to take off the paint in the process.

“Stop!” you and Remus say in unison, him rushing forward to grab Sirius while you hang back, open-mouthed.

“You’re scuffing the wall,” Remus tells Sirius, not unkindly. “Don’t try to make it fit if it doesn’t, love.”

The words ring around in your head, an omen.

“I don’t need it,” you say. All three boys turn to look at you, various degrees of befuddled. “It doesn’t fit, it’s fine. I can get rid of it.”

“It’ll fit,” says Sirius. “We’ve hardly tried yet.”

“Angel, you love that dresser.” James looks like a confused puppy, clearly having caught onto the fact that something’s wrong but unsure what it is.

You shrug, trying to look nonchalant. You do love it, truthfully. It’s been with you since you moved into your first place, collecting tiny scratches and absorbing the coalescent scent of the candles you keep in the top drawer. It’s been the hallmark of every home that’s ever been your own, but this place isn’t just yours. Your boyfriends are already doing a lot by sharing their space with you, and you don’t want to be more trouble than you’re worth.

“It doesn’t fit,” you say simply. “It’s okay.”

“We can put it right there,” Remus says. The three of you turn, and there is a wall by the door, entirely blank. You’d completely forgotten about it.

“Perfect. Genius, Rem.” James beams at Remus, his expression gentling when he looks back at you. “Okay, lovely?”

“Yeah, thanks.” You smile weakly. Sirius makes a tsking sound, regarding you through narrowed eyes.

“You’re being weird. Spill.”

You shrug again, arms wrapping around your middle of their own volition. “I just didn’t think about how much stuff I have until now,” you admit. “You guys already have everything perfect in here, I don’t just want to…cram my stuff in when it’s already the way you like it. I don’t know, it…” You study the floorboards, unable to look at any of them. “It feels like I’m butting in a bit.”

For a thick, dreadful moment, the boys are silent.

“We want you to have your things here,” Remus says softly, “because we want you here, dove.”

“Alright, let’s not act as though that was ever in question.” Sirius shoots you a smile, dimming a bit when you look at him sheepishly. “Sweetheart, obviously we want you here. Why would we have asked you to move in if we didn’t?”

You nibble the inside of your cheek. “It’s okay if you’ve changed your minds. You guys work together so well already.”

“We work together with you even better.” James comes up behind you, wrapping you up in a hug like he’s unable to help himself. He sets his lips on your shoulder, words buzzing against your skin. “It wouldn’t feel right if you were here and none of your stuff was. There’s plenty of room, but if in some places there’s not then we’ll make room. We want you here, okay?”

You nod, trying to make yourself believe it.

“Let’s have a break,” Remus suggests. “There’s lemonade in the fridge.”

“Yes please.” Sirius is quickly onboard. “I can feel the soreness coming on already; my muscles have never been so terribly abused. I’m going to need a massage tonight, definitely.”

“I’ll do it,” you offer. James keeps you tucked under his arm as you all start back down the hall. “Seems like the least I can do.”

“In that case, I think my thighs are taking the brunt of it. Better pay the most attention to those, sweetness.”

“These are privileges which you shall have from this night onward,” says James, mashing a kiss into your hair. “Welcome home, angel.”

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ravengards-rogue · 6 months

Text

WHAT SET YOU FREE, BROUGHT YOU TO ME BABY.

rdr2 men + short blurbs about their favorite sex positions.

ft. arthur morgan, john marston, javier escuella, and charles smith.

✧ tags : SPOILER HEAVY, fem + afab!reader, unprotected sex, light angst (in the horny post is crazy im sorry fdkjjkds), very gendered language, javier says one thing in spanish (thank u @nanamimizz), a little sprinkle of plot with each (and some canon divergency), john co-parents w abigail, otherwise just horny. 18+

✧ wc : about 1.4-8k each (6.3k total)

✧ a/n : sorry for making a multi character post for the cowboy game its cooking me to death. my john bias is showing rip. title is from rebel yell by billy idol but i listen to the bvb cover

sorry about charles and javiers but if i edit this anymore im going to level an entire city using hollow purple technique. please rb if you enjoyed i worked kind of hard on whatever this is.

sorry for . the THIRD repost of this i promise i wont after this. its just really bugging me. PLEASE

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ ARTHUR MORGAN + PRONE BONE ;

It’s an odd feelin’ for Arthur.

Wanting something, he means. Wanting anything as much as he wants you. He’s lived a less than quiet life up until now. And he ain’t the brightest, certainly, but living this kind of life teaches you many lessons. One of them being, it’s better not to covet anything. Coveting something you’re not entitled to, well—it’ll lead you places you wouldn’t want to go with a gun.

Arthur has made the mistake of coveting love before, dreamed of a future so completely out of his reach he almost convinced himself it was possible. Dreamed of it so foolishly he’d even go visit a woman he very well ought to forget. It’s his problem, his burden to bear - always desiring outcomes unsuited to him.

He’s just that sort of man he reckons. But he learned his lesson. He tries (tried?) to stay away from it after that. Tried not to pine too much for normalcy when such hopes had failed him twice. The loss of his child completely on his account and the loss of his love at the same fate.

So, wanting you - well, he feels like the world's dullest fool. Really. How is it that Arthur had fallen in love with someone again? It had all just happened so quickly. You were another woman he’d saved from the O’Driscolls, though it wasn’t like you were no damsel. A lot of those men were dead by the time they arrived. That sort of perseverance would stick with you while you traveled together. Much like Sadie, you didn’t take well to housework - you liked to earn your keep. Though you’re not nearly so trigger happy.

You’re quiet, thoughtful, well-read. Plus you’re good at making money. That’s why Dutch don't complain about you joining them, he figures.

(Arthur tries not to pry into it too much at first, but he eventually learns that you’re gambling. Which is how you’re able to make such a fast turn around. A prim little lady like you makes for a fine poker player, and you love to play men out of their money. He thinks it’s one of the funniest and most interesting things about you. He can’t help but love you a little more for it. )

When the feelings in him start to stir, Arthur tries to overlook it. Arthur convinces himself, time and time again - that there’s no way he’ll grow more tender about you. Eventually, it’ll die down. You’re a decent woman is all, a kind one - who’s easy for him to love and even easier for him to confide in. In your time together, you often come to Arthur and you always seem to have some profound wisdom he is so sorely lacking. Someone easy to love, who does not expect much from Arthur at all. It’s only natural a lonely, covetous man like him would start to dream about you. He tells himself, it will pass eventually. Should he simply let it run by him, it will pass. But Arthurs a fool, you’ll remember.

Of course, by the time he understood all that - he already loved you enough that he couldn’t bear it. It was already too late and it wasn’t going to change any time soon. Especially not while everything changed around him.

So, Arthur is undoubtedly a fool, but he’s lucky. He felt divinely blessed when you’d returned his feelings for him so politely. A coy little smile on your face, a laugh like you thought he was silly for being doubtful. Arthur tried to explain himself but you wouldn’t hear a word of it. Maybe that’s another thing he loves so much about you. There’s nothing he ever needs to explain.

In any case, all Arthur seems to do lately is want you. Wants you when it’s inconvenient. Wants you before he wants liquor or a cigarette or some other vice. Any time anything goes wrong, you’re the first thing his mind can conjure up for relief. That pretty smile and that self-assured way of living. It’s hard to get time alone in camp. And Arthur is a man in love, so any touch could be enough to set him on fire. Last week you hugged his waist a little before giving him a kiss goodbye and he had to listen to you laugh yourself into a fit as he waited for…little Arthur to settle down.

He don’t get many chances to be with you. Lay with you in that way that grown folk in love do. Though, if the two of you book it somewhere for a few days - the camp knows better not to ask where you’ve been. But it’s not often you get to really be together, where it’s peaceful to do that. Someone’s always hounding one of you to do something.

Arthur is a lucky man though, like he said. Today he had time. Today he’s alone with you in a beat up little saloon and today he gets to do as he likes. He gets to be greedy. And it’s an odd feeling for him, really, to want something so bad he disregards everything else in the world for a little while.

Feeling you, though - absolves the guilt for wanting. He’d be stupid to want you any less desperately.

Arthur’s favorite way to have you is on your stomach. Laid flat, just barely pushed up against him as he fucks you deep. You’ll fuck like rabbits for a little while and Arthur will wear you out just like this, maneuvering you until you’re pinned all underneath his weight. You lose any fight you might have, too exhausted to worry yourself with pleasing him - and when you’re like that, you let Arthur take care of you.

(He really ain’t talented at much, but he’s good with his hands. Being dexterous is part of being a talented shot. When Arthur has the time to spread you sweet in his lap and make you cum all over his fingers, he does so for as long as he can. At least until you beg him so sweetly otherwise. The same hands, soiled with gunsmoke, look so good so deep in you. At least in his eyes.)

Wet and pliable and helpless. Arthur loves you like that. He knows, he knows you’re anything but - but he’d be damned to pretend this don’t feel best. Tight, wet cunt so welcoming from all the pleasure he’s ripped out of you. Your bodies pressed together, your heartbeat pulsing through your skin. All sticky, honeyed need and animal desire as Arthur lets all of him sink on top of you. His heavy, lumbering form crushing you in - trapping you somewhere you can’t run from him. The curve of your spine pushed against his chest, ticklish.

Every inch of his body that so wholly wants for you, Arthur aches to make you feel. Burn it in you lest anything happens that risks your forgetting.

He can feel his hips meet your ass, backside squished against him - desperate for deeper friction. Whining. You’re whining to him so pretty, a pillow pushed underneath you to give friction to needy clit.

Arthur can feel how much you want more. Maybe Arthur is greedy, but he likes that look much better on you. Your pussy is sucking him in so tight, silken walls pulsing with every shallow little measured thrust. Arthur lets his arm wrap around your neck, your face pressing into his bicep. You moan again and he laughs.

“Arthur,” Your words come out in a messy slur. He lets his scruffy face press against your neck, a kiss behind your ear. He wants to kiss you all over. There’s not enough hours in the day. “Oh, god, Arthur,”

“Still feels good, then, I’m guessin’,”

“Shut up,” You huff and press your cheek into his arm. He doesn’t bother stifling his laugh. “Still feels…big. Stretchin’ me out—hicc—so much,”

You really don’t try to rile him up - but you do a damn good job of it anyway. He groans, grunts as he pulls back and pistons himself in you. A gesture half-way between a kiss and the warning shot of a gun. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes, noisy and vulgar. Arthur don’t pay it much mind. He laughs against your shoulder.

“One of these days, that moutha’ yours is gonna get me in real trouble.”

You giggle back at him

“What kinda trouble is that now?”

Even from your side glance, you’ve got that lovely little smile on you. Fuckdrunk and ingratiating, like you know he’s wrapped so tight around your fingers. And he is, like nothing else in the world could have him. A wave of possession curls up over Arthur, makes him press more of himself into you. Onto you. Another deep push of his cock, sliding against the tenderest parts of you. Staking some silent desire in you. He wants and wants and wants, and hopes that whatevers above him can forgive him for making the same mistake thrice.

“Dunno,” Arthur comments, teeth grazing your shoulder and kissing the indentations “Got our whole lives together to find out, I reckon.”

“I’ll hold you to it, Mister.”

Arthur laughs. “Hope you do, Miss.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ JOHN MARSTON + COWGIRL ;

John doesn’t say that he loves you lightly.

Hardly a thing he says can be said that way. Could never afford too. In an alternate universe where nothing goes wrong in his life, maybe - but he has a hard time picturing what the hell that’d look like. A version of himself so untainted, without all of the violence and blood and gunsmoke? Foreign. John can’t picture it worth a damn.

Who John is without a deadbeat father and a dead Ma is somewhere far beyond his reach. Ain’t nothing about his life, at any point, lighthearted.

On top of all that mess, he’s got a boy at age four with a woman he ain’t married too. And that relationship is always on rocky waters, even though John’s decided to do right by his own flesh and blood sometime ago. Most things in the world he should feel good about he doesn’t, and most things he should understand render him clueless. He’s a mess on multiple accounts, and he still doesn’t know how exactly he’s meant to approach this life of his. He knows what he should do, but nothing about how to do it.

John doesn’t come to love you easily ‘cause he wouldn’t know easy love if it hit him in his face. Quickly and painfully, but not easily.

Your return to the gang was an odd one. You were an old presence and your disappearance was an even older story. John thought he’d never gonna see you again for sure. You’d been a part of the gang back long before all of the nonsense that took place in Blackwater and you left about the time Arthur’s boy died. John don’t remember why you left exactly. He thinks it was a fight with Hosea, of all things.

Dutch weren't too happy about it neither, but Dutch back then didn’t make a show.

So you left, and John buried every feeling he ever harbored. You found all them again up in Colter, where you’d been living out your days lately. According to you, in the middle of riding, you thought you’d heard Arthur. So, somewhat recklessly, you went chasing him. Didn’t matter if he was just something your mind conjured. According to you, if it was him, it was at least worth checking to make sure. You’d reunited with Arthur and after some tears, he rode with you back to camp.

Upon your return, the gang welcomed you with open arms.

You’d done a lot in your time alone.You spent most of that time just like that, a ghost wanderin’ the planes. You weren’t gonna stay with ‘em, but Arthur insisted and Hosea did too. That wasn’t enough to compel, so John was last to chip in. You should stay, at least until Valentine.

(Silently he thought, you should stay so John can trace memories of you. It was so long ago, he should’ve forgotten all of it. You were a year older than John and always on his ass but easy for him to talk to. Didn’t fuss over his failures. You just barely grew into your womanhood when you set your sights on running away. You wanted more than this life, and John never really forgave you for it. His first heartbreak, maybe - but it’s all too blurry for that.

You understood him though better than anyone, and one day you were gone. Nothing’s really the same.)

You changed tremendously and not at all. He missed you. God, did he ever. Missed you a long time. Didn’t realize how much until you came back and everything in him felt right again. Your return stirred up old feelings and everyone noticed. He wasn’t trying to keep it a secret, but he really wasn’t trying to fall back into anything with you. Not how he did.

Just like you did back then, you read John like an open book. And just like he did back then, he loved you all too helplessly for it. It was just all too easy again, to be with you.

You stayed out of the way at first, for the sake of his family.

But, John ain’t a half-decent man even when he’s trying to be. So he set himself on being with you. It wasn’t easy - most things with him aren’t as you’ll see. Having you around again straightened what was left of his common sense, at least. He told Abigail before telling you. He figured you wouldn’t even reply unless that was all out of the way. That turned out as well as you’d expect.

It was settled between the two of you thereafter. He’s lucky she didn’t toss him into the street.

Everything works out in a way. As best they can between broken people. You make peace with each other. His boy loves you like a third parent (you’re better with him than John is). Abigail commends you for straightening out such a worthless man though she’s a little melancholy. John just tries to stay out of the way. You’ll be together in the end. There’s a plan with the five of you.

But until it all falls apart, he doesn’t get all that much time with you.

There’s moments like tonight, though. Rare ones. Together out robbin’, cooped out some place in the woods where no one is around. A place so shaded by nightfall that John can absolve himself of every sin he’s ever committed in his life and pray at the altar between your hips. John is convinced he might find worship like he’s always hearing about there whenever he touches you, the marred skin of his hands and knuckles reading the scripture of your body with careful precision.

You might turn him into a literate man yet.

John glances up at you. Only the light of the fire and the moonlight there to accompany as he watches you over him. You’re beautiful. John couldn’t picture a single thing more perfect in his life.

Your hands against his bare chest, nails digging into the flesh as you lean forward. Your palm dug into the dirt, John finds his own hands rested at your hips. John looks at you awe-struck, cock twitching at the mere sight. His heart settles in his throat, but he’s calm all at the same time. With you, he forgets. All of it. The worst of himself.

Bare naked and so close, he watches your face as you strain. You feel soft. Every inch of you in comparison to him is. A bead of sweat slides down the valley of your breasts. John cranes his neck up to catch it with his tongue, licking a stripe up to your neck - letting his teeth sink into the space between your jaw and neck. You want to make it last and John doesn’t blame you. It’s so rare you get to have each other so unrestrained. John can feel all the ways you want him, can see it in your face - all pinched with need. You’re holding yourself back, trying to get it to last as long as the night will allow. It’s cute in a way.

It’s different than how he’s used to seein’ you, all cocky or otherwise. You’re needy like this. Just needy. His stomach turns with lust, jolting through him like a strike of lightning. His cock twitches against your folds, sliding against them. Pure admiration watching the sticky mess of his pre-cum and your own arousal mix together and smear on your mound. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, faint and tender as you fall forward just a little. John laughs against your neck.

“Darlin’,” He says with a huff. Not malice. Something akin to bliss, where he can rarely afford it “Have I done something to piss you off today?”

You pick yourself up and look down at him and frown. John kisses the corner of your mouth, resisting some crude desire to fuck up into you.

“Just,” You grunt as the tip of his cock passes over your throbbing clit, your whole body wracking to a shiver. John looks awed. “Pent up. Goddamn it,”

John figures it out quickly after that. It’s this part of it he likes. The proximity. The closeness. Feeling the tremble in your hands as they struggle to keep up right, muscles strained in your forearms. Being able to hold you, to keep the pace or let you take the lead. The clear view of your face as pleasure travels up through your spine and melts into you. He grabs your hips, the fat dimpling underneath his fingers as he moves you along. He can’t wait. You don’t bother to protest seeing John can’t seem to bear it anymore. You collapse into his chest, your tits pushed flat against his pecs.

His cock throbs near painfully, sliding against your soft cunt before finding himself lined with you. He thinks to himself that it’s this he was looking for, as he tucks your face against his neck and lets his tip stretch you out slowly. Such a vice like grip, stretching - resisting him like your whole body can’t anticipate the sensation of fullness. You gasp against his throat.

“John,”

What a sweet sound from your mouth, even sweeter as he bucks himself up. Keeps you steady and lets his cock stretch you full, feel you deep. “That’s right, my angel. Didn’t think you’d remember my name when you’re all worked up like this.”

“You’re,” You gasp and John thrusts, thrusts hard until he’s buried to the hilt. You shudder, walls pulsing around him as he bottoms out and John laughs like the terrible man he is. He fucks you again, over and over - a wicked little smile watching “Awful. Just awful, John Marston,”

“Ain’t that the truth,” He hums against your mouth as his hand snakes between your bodies, thumb rubbing against your clit. “Wonder what kinda woman that makes you,”

“A foolish one,”

John laughs.

“I sure do love you for it,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆JAVIER ESCUELLA + SIDEWAYS ;

Javier hasn’t thought about much other than surviving.

It’s been like that. Been like that for a while, probably much longer than he cares to admit. He’s sure any sane man would suffer the same plight if they lead the same life. Anything but survival is little more than a pipe-dream, so Javier tries not to go for anything too strongly. In that aspect he’s like many of the members of the gang he’s in, perhaps that’s why he sticks to them. There’s that phrase Hosea’s always saying - that misery loves company. Javier will take any decent company he can get. He’s desperate for it just like he’s desperate for most things - inwardly, silently.

Some of that desperation may be symptomatic of who he is. After he killed a man in a crime of passion for a woman he loved and ran from a government who would sooner exile him than change, Javier decided to not dream anymore. Every revolutionary who dreams too hopefully pays the price in blood.

(Javier thinks there’s probably nothing in the world as true as this. A form of gospel. He remembers the first dream he ever had after his uncle passed. Not a nightmare but a dream. He remembers the exact feeling of waking up, cold and confused. What is a dream, except a memento of survivor's guilt that loyal people cling onto fruitlessly. When hope starts to feel like a debt he’s going to waste his life paying back, Javier loses sight of everything. The beginning of the end in some way.)

His mind doesn’t occupy itself with anything bigger than that. Since Dutch found him starving, there was never a desire to try and live off aspirations. He pays his penance with loyalty and honor. Practices some form of humility and tries, not too desperately, to carve a place for him to fit. All without drawing too much attention or caring too much. If you ignore the bleeding in his fingers, his penchant for knives over guns, and his refusal to talk too long about the place he comes from - it’s nearly believable that none of it matters.

Except loyalty. All Javier honors is that. It’s the only thing he has some part in choosing, so he choses it every time. Living like that didn’t make any difference to him. He was surrounded by mostly decent people. He didn’t hate the life he was living.

It wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. His directionless-ness, his floating. Hadn’t since he joined the gang. At least not to anyone but him. He didn’t know what he’s meant to do or if he was meant to proceed with this forever. He was (is) loyal to Dutch. To the gang.

He hadn’t thought much about what comes after.

And it didn’t matter until he met you

He’d sworn off love after seeing where it got him, at least until he could love more dispassionately. When the women bring you back from their outing from Valentine and beg Dutch to let you stay, Javier doesn’t think much of it all. He thinks you’re pretty, if it counts for anything. But he doesn’t let himself linger on you too long.

But that’s the sequence with you two, really. The whole time. He doesn’t linger until he does. It doesn't matter until it does. He doesn’t think about you until it’s all he can think about.

You go for him first. And it’s in little, unimportant ways that might not mean shit to you but mean a whole lot to him. You have some kind of tenderness about you that you wear deep, runs through your blood like love ran through his once long ago. Some softness he can’t really measure with his own. It’s not that that gets him. It’s that sometimes you look at Javier like he's … someone you want to see. He forgot what that was like all together. It felt foreign to him the first time it happened. Seeing how you light up when Javier is around.

You wanted to see him. You noticed that he’s gone. If he sang by the campfire - you’d sit by him and listen. If he was out in the trees keeping guard, he’d hear the soft call of your voice to Grimshaw ask Where’s Javier? And sometimes the girls will make fun of you - but you wouldn’t deny anything they said. It’s so small and ordinary. He would’ve never considered himself simple before meeting you. Nothing is simple. Nothing.

(But then, Javier thinks of the kinds of songs he sings and the way he takes care of himself and the clothes he wears and maybe Javier has some kind of affinity for preciousness that explains all of it.)

When Javier confesses his feelings for you - he finds the affair to be like most things between you. Ordinary love, not really between outlaws but people. It’s up against a tree while you share a drink and he’s looking at the curve of your mouth and the plum color Karen’s so kindly put on you. And his head fills with kissing you so he does. A breathless confession between alcohol stains and the feeling of your hands curled in the lapels of his suit.

From there, Javier is your lover. He’s not interested in the business of secrets, but he tries not to let it show too much. Not that he doesn’t want to. He wants to show you off more than anything - at least some part of him does. But the other part wants to keep you away from prying eyes, keep his love for you only where the both of you can see. If he could keep that pretty lovestruck face you make all to himself forever he would.

When he gets a chance to whisk you away from everything, Javier jumps at the chance. Not often, but Javier makes time for you. Makes time to indulge in love he thought he’d never find again.

That’s why he’s here with you in the middle of nowhere, a ghost town where no one knows you.. A reserved room with a bed and lowlights all to yourselves.

Javier can’t keep his hands to himself and he doubts you expect him too.

For Javier, this sense of proximity is what intoxicates him most. The warmth of your bare skin in the slivers of yourself exposed. Javier is fond of finding you like this after a long day of horse riding. Of sneaking touches to your waist as you push back against him to sleep, only to find his desire for you - laid clearly. He likes hearing you whimper feeling his length poke against your back, the embarrassment when it dawns on you that he wants you after all. Always surprised, even though Javier tells you it so often. Whispers it along your neck and shoulders whenever you’re at camp together.

You like the feeling of his hands so Javier always starts with them. He squeezes your hips. Planes his palms over your chest before squeezing your chest, pushing the fat between his fingers. You like the way they look when they grope you, his chin resting against your shoulder as you spoon. In the lowlights of a cheap hotel - Javier gets the perfect view of your silhouette. Your body is sensitive over the fabric of your gown, heat prickling through you.

Javier who is always so gentle with you, rouses so deep listening to your whining as he explores your body. The suffocating closeness of a single bed intoxicates him.

“Javier,” Your voice is sweet and thin. Plays in Javier’s head like music and makes his mouth curl up into a catlike grin as you push back on him. You look slightly over your shoulder, lips pushed into a pout. “Please,”

He tugs at the fabric of your nightgown. The top half pulls haphazard underneath your tits, nipples perky and sensitive to touch while the skirt pools at your waist. What gets Javier like this is the desperation. Wanting so much but not being able to look too long. A way for you to mirror him, it’s a matter of possession. In some stupid way. Bunching your clothes up, pushing the fabric of your panties to one side, letting his arm wrap around your waist to touch and tease. All of these are imprints of his longing, tucked faithful into your side as he whispers sweet nothings into your skin.

His cock twitches as it pushes past your folds with finality, your hands curling up at your sides. You whimper softly, let your cheek rest against the sheets as Javier takes you on your side. Terribly close, you fuss as you feel him slide every inch into you slow, your hands reaching back for purchase. It’s the fit of you against him so perfect, the silent strokes of intimacy, the hush-hush giggles between the sheets that Javier loves most about fucking you like this. Too enamored with you to look too closely, he lets his eyes flutter closed. He could get drunk just being in your space.

He carves out space for himself inside of you, feels your cunt accommodate for him like it loves him. A feverishness breaks out as his forehead rests on the space between your shoulders, an uncharacteristic whiny quality in his words.

“Ser mío,” Javier says - as a reflection of what he really wants, to belong only to you. “Belong to me.”

Darling as you always are, you nod softly.

“All yours, Javier,” You whimper, finding his hand. “Forever,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ CHARLES SMITH + MATING PRESS ;

Wandering.

He’s been doing it his whole life. Not something he’s proud of. Or ashamed of either, really. Just how things have gone for him until now. Charles doesn’t think his life has been any better or any worse than anyone else's. At least not when he weighs it with the same kind of pragmatism he does most things. It’s been a hard life, and a miserable one in so many ways. Still, it’s not something Charles is too keen to dwell on.

There’s just something thematic about loss in Charles' life in a way he finds completely unpleasant. It’s more constant than anything. Loss of his home, loss of his mother, loss of his father in an attempt to find what’s best for him. It’s some overarching message that hangs over his head like a shadow. Everywhere he goes, trying to rectify his own solitude seems to come back to him. It doesn’t help that it’s an unfair world to start with, and would’ve been if he had just been black or just been native. But Charles is both, and has lived a life that reflects that specific injustice thoroughly.

There’s not really anything Charles can do about it, at its baseline. When he left his father, the name of the game had simply been survival. He was well-equipped enough for that at least. But after survival comes trying to live and trying to live isn’t something so simple. Jumping in and out of gangs who thought they could get away with slighting him or generally being surrounded by unpleasant people. Trying to find something in pages of book and scripture, or in the way water ripples when it rains.

He’s never felt any one way towards the gang. Even when he joined them all the way back in the Grizzlies. Lost in the cold, they’d crossed paths as Charles was out hunting. A lot of it feels like a blur. Of all the folks he’s met in his travels though, Dutch treats him fair and the rest of them (or most of them) are decent, honest folk. Charles stays in the Van Der Linde gang for such simple reasons as trying to stay alive and be somewhere that isn’t actively hostile towards him. He’s a good gunman, and a better fighter. The inner workings of gang politics and forging connection isn’t at the forefront of his mind, with the exception of the kindest few.

The Van Der Linde gang is just a place where he can figure out what his purpose is meant to be, even if he doesn’t find it there. He’s never expecting anything to come out from his loyalties to it.

Of all the things Charles expects of his life in the Van Der Linde gang, love is at the very bottom of the list.

Maybe it’s about time he stops being surprised by these things happening to him one or way another.

You were a member of the gang far before him, and someone Charles took to quickly. You’d joined the gang not too long after John from what Arthur tells him. Though the brunette speaks about you more fondly than he does his brother. A problem child at the start, according to Arthur - always getting into all sorts of trouble. Something you seemingly feel embarrassed about now and refuse to bring up. Charles has a hard time picturing it having only known you as you are.

The woman you’ve grown into is someone else completely, and Charles sees that in you all the time. Compassionate like Hosea but charismatic like Dutch, and clever. And you’re beautiful, too, though Charles feels a little shallow admitting that’s part of what drew you into him.

It wasn’t Charles that approached you first. You were the one who spoke to him, as often as you thought necessary but never in a way he found invasive. He doesn’t know what it is exactly about you that charms him near instantly. You’re enigmatic to a fault. It’s like you always know exactly what to say and exactly when to say it. Even more than that, you’re a terribly pleasant person to be around. Subtly warm and free of assumptions. When Charles talks to you about anything, you listen without making him feel like it’s any sort of burden to you. You don’t pry, don’t make missteps. Treat him fair, and then some.

It’s unbearably simple, just how quickly and how easily he comes to adore you. And, in some ways, Charles knows better than to believe that his purpose is loving someone. There’s more to it than that, surely - after everything.

But then, he’ll watch you do something. Watch you do some kind of menial work that he could do for you instead. Thinks of skinning animals for new clothes and chopping wood and rubbing the soap off of you and all of a sudden it makes him feel anchored. Everything he could do for you. You anchor Charles easily, with a wispy smile. Make him want to find purpose in life with you. He never wants to be somewhere you’re not.

He confesses it to you just like that, and like you do with most things - you accept and reciprocate without making too much of a fuss.

For Charles, making love is an extension of wanting to ground himself in you. A distant siren song - the intersection of lust and bone deep adoration. Like most things, you’re the one to approach first every time. A soft hand on his forearm, a whisper that you want him. It’s with ease that he draws you away. Drags from you camp during nightfall with his horse and blankets and picks a spot with the perfect view of the stars.

Charles watches you under the glow of moonlight, his vision adjusting to you easily. Naked underneath him, laid on your back with your legs folded at your knees - heaving deep breaths. He can see the sweat beading down your skin, your chest rising and falling - and the perfect view of your pussy. His hands and mouth are wet as you breathe out. He finds himself smiling at you, his own erection pressed against your thigh, pre-cum leaking out in a mesmerized haze.

You lift your hands up and he leans down, surprised as you wrap them around his neck and pull him closer to you. Your mouths meet like that, and Charles laughs against your lips as you kiss him so eagerly. You blink at him, pretty. You’re always prettier than he remembers you being the last time he looks.

“Charles,” You frown at him. “It’s impolite to keep a lady waiting,”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Sorry, my love. I don’t want to hurt you,”

“Well, I’m fine with it,” You repeat, almost petulant. Charles frowns. “‘Sides, it ain’t my first time taking you, you know?”

“Well, I’m not fine with it.”

You pout, looking at him all endeared. Charles couldn’t help but love you even if he tried. “You ain’t gonna hurt me. C’mon. Please?”

“Please, what?”

You look at him aghast before breaking out into a faux-scandalized giggle. “Now you—please fuck me. Pretty, please.”

Charles feels something tickling against his spine hearing you say it. He couldn’t imagine getting sick of you in his whole life. “Yeah, that’s good to hear.”

You make an indignant noise but it’s silenced quickly as Charles positions himself against your entrance. He has plenty of discipline when it comes to matters like these, but right now - he feels like he’s going to lose his mind. Not nearly enough patience to wait. He lets his hands go up underneath your knees just to have something to hold onto.

You make a little gasp as the tip of his cock pushes into you. Your walls are so soft, likely after all the orgasms he’d given you prior. You stop him in a shocked gasp, and Charles immediately readies himself to pull out. As if sensing his hesitance, you shake your head.

“Charles,” You gasp, the words caught in your throat and hoarse “Deep. Want it deep,”

His abdomen tightens, cocking twitching hard at your words. He agrees silently to your desires.

When it comes to sex, there’s very little Charles dislikes.

But this is his favorite. He’s simple but no other position lets him see you so close. He likes the way your eyes widen as he pushes up underneath your knees and folds you underneath his weight. How you look pinned down under him, the perfect view of your eyes rolling back into your head and the proximity from your face to his. He lets his cock stretch you out slowly, throbbing each time your nails dig desperately into arms trying to keep your composure. Fuck you feel so tight like that. Soft pussy, dripping and sticky. You suck him in relentlessly, and Charles groans as he bottoms out. You take every inch of him so well. So perfect like the rest of you.

Your eyes flutter open as he stays there, buried in you in complete bliss. You’re dazed.

“Kiss?”

Surprise followed by adoration, he abides by your request easily. Overwhelmed with it as he presses a chaste peck to your mouth, he laughs. “As many as you want.”

Anything you want, Charles thinks, he would give to you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

#arthur morgan x reader #john marston x reader #javier escuella x reader #charles smith x reader #rdr2 x reader #rogues love letters #red dead redemption 2 x reader #THIS IS THE LAST TIME. THE LAST FUCKING TIME !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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mypoisonedvine · 1 year

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 || dark!jonathan crane x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || since you're the only one of his coworkers at arkham who doesn't seem to be intimidated by his intelligence, jonathan decides it's time he finds out what does scare you... and how he can embody it. unfortunately for you, turning into your greatest nightmare doesn't prove very difficult for him.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 5.5k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || EXTREME AND EXPLICIT NONCON (18+ only and please proceed with caution), drugging and kidnapping, paralysis, traumatized reader, forced orgasms/overstimulation, degradation, humiliation, choking, slapping, unprotected sex/breeding, misogyny, jonathan is very much in character which means he is incredibly evil and has incel vibes (I know y'all are not about to get mad at me for writing a villain being a villain and not uwu babifying him...)

When you interrupted and corrected your colleague, Dr. Crane, about the correct combination of pharmaceuticals for a certain schizophrenic patient in the asylum who happened to have diabetes, you thought nothing of it. After all, the whole point of staff meetings was to discuss and debate these things, and you weren’t about to let him damn-near poison a patient by giving him something that would interfere with his insulin. You weren’t trying to be snarky about it, but you did sort of make a joke about how dangerous his suggestion was— and you didn’t notice the way Jonathan’s nostrils flared and jaw tightened when some others chuckled at what you said.

When you received an email from your therapist’s office informing you that there was evidence of a break-in in her building, but that the police were unable to officially determine if confidential client files were compromised, you thought nothing of it. It was a big complex, these things happen, and you knew from being a clinician yourself how tricky the laws could be surrounding that stuff: she had to email you, legally, if there was any chance your file could’ve been accessed, and that didn’t mean you had any reason to fear your private therapy session notes had been read. Besides, who would want to read about you and your boring life, diving into your mundane hopes and fears and daily stresses?

And when Crane came into the office with tea for you, you thought nothing of it. Sure, you seemed surprised when he popped into your office with cups in hand— you asked him why he had two cups of tea, assuming they were both for himself, and he laughed. Just that was out of character, he wasn’t much of a chucklehead or anything. “Green tea, right? With lime and honey?” he asked, setting one cup down for you. You were still taken aback, but you had to admit defeat.

“Yeah,” you said, taking the cup as he sat down across the desk from you. “Yeah, that’s my order— I didn’t know you drank tea.”

“Sometimes,” he informed you, hoping his poker face was holding up as he watched you take a sip. He couldn’t help but stare at your lips wrapping around the little hole in the lid, the print of berry-red your lipstick left behind. His heart was racing already, more than he expected.

When you finished the first sip, you smiled at him and let out a small, nervous laugh. “Thank you,” you finally said. So, yes, even though you clearly noticed this was slightly odd behavior, you thought nothing of drinking the tea. That was one thing he hated about you: the thoughtlessness. You didn’t seem to second-guess yourself much, if anything you were a little on the cocky side. He found it so irritating— that confidence. Sure, you were smart and you deserved to take yourself somewhat seriously, but the way you walked around this place— the way you ignored him so easily, or spoke over him if you wanted to, or ignored his suggestions when he gave them… you were a bitch, basically. You clearly thought you were better than him— better than everybody else— for no reason at all. Just because you were pretty and had a good job you thought you could get away with anything, surely; pretty girls always think that way.

He made casual conversation with you as you sipped the tea, asking questions he already knew the answer to, hoping to catch you in a lie. For the most part, your stories matched up with what he’d learned from that file. But, you left out the gory details— you left out the best parts, really.

You mentioned where you went to medical school and that you transferred mid-way through due to ‘stress’, but you didn’t elaborate on what really happened to you. You mentioned having your own therapist— something you said passionately that every client-facing mental health professional should have— but left out what you were actually being treated for, not to mention the PTSD diagnosis.

He had to hide his smirk behind the paper cup every time you seemed to lose your train of thought— it wasn’t like you, so focused and determined all the time. No, it was the drugs finally kicking in. You went for bigger gulps of tea each time your eyes looked heavier, hoping the caffeine would work— but the trace caffeine in your green tea was nothing compared to what he’d added.

You tried to warn him that you were suddenly not feel up to par— that he needed to leave, and you might try to wake yourself up— but he just sat and waited. He watched you try to get up, and lose your balance. He watched you stumble, trip, and ultimately fall onto the floor limply. He watched your eyes flutter shut and the final ounce of energy to fight it fade; he quietly took a final sip of his tea.

You woke up on the floor. You could barely feel it beneath you, but you knew it was the floor— it was cold, and hard. And you were looking up at the dark ceiling, at the fan spinning at the lowest speed; so you were definitely on the floor.

Jonathan was standing above you, not too far off, flipping through papers. You couldn’t move— no matter how hard you fought to, you couldn’t. You barely managed to turn your head, but it felt more like it rolled to the side on its own. You tried to yell for Dr. Crane’s attention, for help, for him to explain what happened to you, but even your mouth couldn’t move. The best you could do was breathe harder— actually, you were pretty sure your body was trying to hyperventilate, but you were too incapacitated to even have a proper panic attack.

He heard you, though; he looked away from the papers and grinned down at you. “Comfortable down there?”

You started to put together a few things. One, that the last thing you remembered was being in your office, and now you were in your apartment. Two, that those papers were photoscans of chart notes— obviously you couldn’t make out the words from here, but the format gave away that it must have to do with a patient.

And three, that Crane was neither surprised that you were paralyzed on the floor, nor interested in helping you.

He half-rolled the papers in one hand and playfully hit the other hand’s palm with them. “These have been quite interesting… revealing, to say the least,” he informed you, like it was a compliment— something you should be proud to hear. “You’re quite the enigma, Doc!”

He sat down beside you on the floor, leaning on his hand first to find his balance with a little sigh; he seemed amused, actually, and your heart began to race.

As he started to read aloud from the page in front of him, you felt nauseous. He was reading patient data, describing a client who was receiving individual counseling— or that’s what the CPT code indicated, at least. As he listed the client’s demographic data— age, race, gender, height, weight— it became eerily obvious what he was doing. You refused to believe it until he went on: “Client was recommended to Dr. Min Zhang for individual therapy concerning PTSD following sexual trauma.”

Your therapist. This was a file he’d copied, which belonged to your therapist. And it was obvious whose file it was.

As you tried with all your might to scream, Jonathan flipped a few pages ahead.

“Session fourteen, eleventh of June,” he continued. “Client expressed frustration with an increased recurrence of nightmares and flashbacks to her assault. Up until now, she has struggled to explain what triggers her anxiety without having to actually elaborate on the circumstances of the event.”

He stopped, but you weren’t exactly relieved. In fact, you were horrified. He had a little grin on his face when he looked at you, but you could finally see the rage in his eyes. Suddenly, you realized how long it had been there. You had sort of picked up on it before, the resentment he had towards you— and it didn’t take a Freudian expert to figure out that he was threatened by you, especially as a man. He didn’t respond well to feeling upstaged and he clearly had an issue with women. Maybe not that issue— he was good-looking and well-off, he didn’t need to have any issues with women if he didn’t want to— but an issue nonetheless.

“Now,” he added, smiling wider than you’d ever seen him smile before, “client states she is ready to describe the incident in full detail.”

He set the papers aside for a second, leaning over you and almost looking… giddy, really.

“I won’t read you the rest, I’ve already pretty much memorized what goes on from there. It was fascinating— seeing how what happened that night connected to the fears you still have today… the nightmares. You said that you still feel sick at the smell of alcohol, you still don’t like to wear pinstripe skirts, and even just the wrong few words can make you feel like you’re right back there where it happened— on the floor of your apartment.”

All you could do was look up at him, and you felt your eyes get hot as they welled with tears.

“Not this apartment, obviously— the one by your old school,” Jonathan sighed, “but this will have to do. And the smell of alcohol, well, I wouldn’t want to let anything cloud my experience— but I dabbed a little gin on my wrists, what do you think?”

He held his hand up by your face, caressing your cheek for a second, and you imagined yourself pulling away— turning your head and shrugging his touch off of you with a grimace. But nothing happened, of course, and you were entirely helpless as the acidic stench of liquor became apparent. You couldn’t give your typical outward reaction of a frown, but inside, you felt just the same as always: your stomach twisted, your heart pounded, your head swirled.

“Smell is such a… primal trigger of memory, isn’t it?” he mused, watching your face reverently. “I can see it in your eyes, it’s affecting you even more than I expected. You act so fearless at work— but I knew you must have been overcompensating. God, you’re terrified— I would say you’re paralyzed, but, well… it would be too literal, I think.”

You knew that Crane studied fear and phobias, even trauma occasionally, as a personal interest within the field. It was normal to have a favorite subtopic, and to conduct related research on it— but obviously, this was far from normal, this was absolutely deranged. You knew that part of this was vengeance, in his own mind at least, but you didn't feel like you'd done anything actually wrong to him. And the rest of it, well, it seemed like some twisted experiment, but if you were able to speak you would've tried to remind him that this 'research' wasn't going to get him published or advance his career— but of course, that wasn't what he wanted. He just wanted to humiliate you.

“I was worried I didn’t have enough to work with, you know,” he added. “I knew I couldn’t get you to where it happened, if I could even figure it out since you never filed that police report… and the skirt, well, I considered it. It sounded pretty exciting to dress you up like the night it happened— what I would give to know everything you were wearing that night, but I don’t have a ton to work with. Obviously, you don’t own any pinstripe skirts anymore, so I would’ve had to buy one… and I wasn’t quite ready for the looks I’d get shopping at Macy’s, so…”

Carefully, he reached up to take off his glasses, folding them and setting them down on your coffee table.

“You know how detail-oriented I am— I mean, I went to all this, didn’t I?” He continued, reaching down and brushing his fingers for a moment over your leg. It was so instinctive to pull away that it took you a moment to realize you hadn’t… because of course, you couldn’t. “But it’s impossible to recreate it all perfectly. Clearly, I don’t need to— if only you could see it, Doc, you look… you look so weak. Pathetic.”

Since the only thing you could do was look around, you tried to look away— to not give him the satisfaction of seeing the terror in your eyes. He grabbed your face and turned it until you looked up at him.

“Did you think you’d be able to face your greatest fear? Perhaps with a bit more dignity?” he mused. He looked different without the glasses on; and, ironically, you felt like he could see you even better now.

It was obvious that he enjoyed lording complete power over you, but a quick glance down to his suit trousers made it clear just how much he enjoyed it. You quickly darted your gaze away, but it was too late; he started to climb on top of you, staring at your face uncomfortably close, and worked on opening his belt and fly.

“Fear rules us all, doesn’t it? Everything you did, it was guided by your fear that it would— well, why paraphrase? Let me find exactly how you put it…”

He picked up the papers again quickly, licking his thumb and flipping around until he found the right entry.

“Yes,” he said, “here it is: client states she lives in almost constant fear that it will happen again.”

So that's what this was: his disturbed take on exposure therapy.

As he tossed the copied charts away for the last time and reached up under your skirt, he leaned down and whispered in your ear— and you couldn’t even flinch from the harsh sounds of his words. “It took you over fifty sessions to admit it,” he recalled, “to tell her the whole truth. Not just what he did to you… what you did.”

With a small growl, he yanked your panties down your legs and rubbed your thighs with far too much aggression, such that you expected bruises from his hands— just like the ones you’d had before.

“You said he made you do it,” he continued, “you couldn’t help it, right? But you said nothing’s ever felt like that— that you’d never had such a powerful orgasm.”

You would’ve vomited, except that that, too, requires your muscles to not be paralyzed. Rolling your skirt up and spreading your legs, he positioned himself right between them, rubbing his cock's leaking head around your hole.

“Your greatest fear isn’t really that it’ll happen again, is it?” Jonathan taunted. “You’re afraid someone’s going to find out how much you liked it.”

With that, he punched his hips forward and speared you on his cock.

It had been years since you'd had anything inside you, even your own fingers. You couldn't even remember if being penetrated hurt like this during your assault, and you would've sworn before that you remembered every detail perfectly. But this was so real, not a memory or a nightmare. You couldn't cry out from the sting.

"God, it's tight," he groaned, "I bet you weren't this tight when it happened— you'd been whoring around, hadn't you? Letting all kinds of guys use you… just ran into the wrong one and got your drink spiked. But now…"

He hissed through his teeth, tightening his grip on your hip.

"Now it's all mine, isn't it?"

Inside, you were screaming and kicking and pleading for mercy. You imagined you would be angry and violent, beat him to death with your heel or something, but you wondered if you'd be forced to bargain with him— apologize for whatever you did to upset him, promise you wouldn't tell a soul about this as long as he left you alone. But either way, it didn't matter… on the outside, you were useless, laying there and letting him use you.

"What made you come so much before? Did he have a big cock, is that it?” he asked with a snarl. “Did he know exactly how to touch you? Or was it just that you’d been craving it, needed it really rough to get off properly? Is that why you came while he raped you?”

It was a biological response, you told yourself like you had over and over, I couldn't help it, it wasn't my fault, it was a biological response— it wasn't my fault, I didn't like it, it was a biological response.

“I think I know what it is,” he mused, looking down at you with heavy eyes and almost purring as he watched your limp form bounce on the floor. “I think you wanted to be put in your place. You act so liberated, so empowered— but you’re a creature of instinct, like anything else. You need someone to remind you how weak you are, I know, fuck, I know you do…”

He fucked you just a bit faster, grunting and tightening his fist on the floor by your head.

“You haven’t been able to have an orgasm at all, since then,” he stated— almost making it like a question, with the way he said it, but he obviously already knew it was true. He sounded shockingly sympathetic— not even pitying, not condescending, for once. “I’m sure for a while you didn’t even try, afraid it would remind you— but that’s the thing, you can’t finish unless you’re reminded.”

You almost surprised yourself when you heard a whine come from your throat; he smiled proudly.

"It's wearing off, I think," he noticed. "I only gave you a small dose. Can you move at all? Can you beg me to stop?"

You opened your mouth to try to say everything you'd wanted to since you awoke, but all that came out was a moan. You hated yourself for that, and he laughed happily.

"You don't want me to stop," he decided. "Feels too good?"

I fucking hate you, you wanted to scream, you sick son of a bitch, I fucking hate you—

"You didn't say it outright, but he must have said something to you— during, maybe after," Jonathan theorized. "You didn't say what it was, but you told your therapist about having a vivid flashback after being accosted by a delusional homeless man on the street. He called you a bitch, seemingly for no reason… is that what your rapist said to you? Did he say you were a stuck-up little bitch?"

As burning hot tears striped your temples, you curled your fingers over and over— maybe you could move your arms if you really tried…

"He was fucking right about you. You think you're so much fucking better than everyone else," he growled. "You think you're so fucking smart, and special. But you're no fucking different, you're nothing—"

You whined and reached up, weakly trying to push him off of you, but all you could do was limply grasp at his shoulders.

"Nothing but a stupid—" he grunted the word as he slammed himself into you— "fucking—" he did it again— "bitch."

"No!" you finally heard yourself sob, clutching a weak fistful of his white shirt, but he grabbed your hands and shoved them back down to the floor.

“God,” he choked, holding your wrists tightly until you whined, “it’s so much better when you can fight— fuck, it’s so much better. Keep struggling if you want, Doc, you’re still too weak for me…”

Your legs moved a little, but they felt heavy. Sensation was only just beginning to return to them, like pins and needles, and it stung; you winced as you managed to squirm a bit beneath him.

"That's it," he praised, "this is probably just how you did it before. Too drunk and too desperate for cock to really do much, but trying so hard to look like you hate it— I understand, you don't want anyone to know that you need this. They'd never look at you the same again: the smart, accomplished psychiatrist who likes getting treated like fuckmeat. What would they think of you if they knew?"

"No…" you said again, too weak and traumatized to say much else— but it wasn't what he said that made you say no, it was the pulse of pleasure inside your cunt. He must have felt it, and if he didn't, he surely felt the next; yes, he did, because he smiled down at you excitedly.

"It's happening, isn't it? You're gonna come."

He held on tight to one of your legs, gripping your thigh and staring uncomfortably into your eyes as he kept going— faster and rougher with each thrust. You choked on your throat, trying to stop any part of this, but the pleasure was undeniable; it still hurt, yes, and you still felt so angry and sick and numb, but something familiar and desperate was tightening in your gut. It’d been so long since anyone touched you… you’d forgotten how natural it could feel, even when it was so horrible.

"I read it in your file, but I still couldn't really believe it,” he laughed quietly, “I couldn't believe you came over and over while being raped— but here you are, wow, look at you… you’re so beautiful when you’re scared.”

A long, heavy sigh fell from your lips; your eyes got heavier, and your whole body seemed to relax— in a way totally different from the medication-induced paralysis.

He cooed at you, seeming oddly proud, and you were oddly compliant as he picked you up and pulled you into his lap.

Tears streamed across your cheeks as he held you close, one hand around your back while the other moved your hips against his. “There you go— come for me, I wanna feel it— another one, baby, for me…”

It wasn’t much longer before another one came— from what you remembered, it was a lot like the first time, this terribly wonderful way your body protected itself from the trauma by immersing you in pleasure. Of course, Jonathan helped you along by rubbing your clit with his thumb, excited to watch you surrender to ecstasy even when you begged him to just stop and leave you alone.

Of course, your protests were less and less believable as more of your strength and mobility returned— you could’ve tried harder to get away, but instead you found your hips rocking with his, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. No, you didn’t want this— you never wanted this— but you found the way he spoke to you impossibly comforting even while it was still deeply upsetting. “Tell me about the nightmares, darling,” he whispered— some impossible mix of pleading and ordering.

“A-almost every night,” you whimpered. “I… I got used to it, but I used to… I used to wake up and think I was still…”

"They felt so real, hm?" he presumed, and you nodded. “It’s real now… you don’t have to be afraid of the dreams anymore, it’s all real— I’m right here.”

You couldn’t tell if he was trying to scare or comfort you; he pet your hair, clinging to you tightly, kissing your face and neck along the lines of the tears soaking your skin.

You felt his grin against your cheek when another wavering moan echoed in your chest, and he laid you back on the floor to hover over you again. “Was that your third one, already?” he noticed. “This is so much easier than I thought… you needed this so badly, you poor girl.”

A quick wave of panic settled over you when his hand wrapped around your neck. “W-wait,” you pleaded instantly, as if you really feared he would just strangle you to death right then and there. Your hands, still weak and tingly, reached up to his arm, and you felt his cock throb inside you— of course that was what he wanted, to see you react in fear again. So many other emotions were at play right now, even some you didn’t know existed (like whatever the word would be for longing for the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, or feeling like the only person you can trust is the person hurting you the most), but fear was still going to rule it all as long as he had any say.

"How many times did you come before?" he demanded to know, nostrils flaring as he fucked you harder. "Tell me how many times you came when he raped you."

"I— I don't—" you stammered.

"Say it," he ordered.

"I— I don't know!" you yelped, whimpers falling to silence as he tightened his grip on your neck.

"You don't fucking know?" he snarled at you, watching you fight for air. You clawed at his shirt, his wrist, tried to pry his fingers away, but he just sneered as he stared at your numbing face. "You don't know how many times you creamed on your rapist's cock? Bullshit."

"I—" you gasped when he let go of your throat, "I lost count…"

He went from livid to ecstatic in a second, laughing proudly and dipping down to kiss your neck passionately. "Good girl," he mumbled against your skin, fucking you even faster. "That's what you need to do for me now— come for me until you lose count."

“I— I can’t,” you choked, grabbing at his shoulders as he seemed to overwhelm you just by pressing his weight down on top of you. “I’m sorry— you… you proved your point, I— I just need a break—”

Even though the drug he’d injected you with was wearing off, you realized you were just as limp and helpless as before… after all, some of the most powerful chemicals come inside the body. You didn’t even fight it when he put his hand over your mouth, spitting out a quiet but hateful shut up and continuing with his quick and forceful thrusts into you.

He kept you conscious and lucid by occasionally hitting or choking you, talking to you, once or twice even ordering you to kiss him. Like you mean it, he’d said, slapping you as punishment for doing it wrong. Truth be told, you hadn’t kissed anyone in so long that you’d really been trying your best the first time. Sometimes he told you to beg him for more— or to beg him to get off of you— and yet he would usually punish you for speaking at all. He was completely unpredictable, and you figured that was part of the plan: take away any shred of control you might try to get by making it impossible to follow his rules. Keep you confused and crying, keep you fearful, keep you obedient.

But, he did seem to enjoy when you could only just choke out a broken please. He laughed at you, pinching your sore clit in response until you sobbed and tried to jerk your hips away. “‘Please’ what, honey? You mean, ‘please keep fucking me, Doctor Crane, you’ll make me come again?’” he taunted. “Something like that?”

“Please… please,” you swallowed around your whines, “please just… finish, and go…”

“Oh,” he purred, “you want me to come?”

You’d specifically not phrased it that way, but, yes, that was what you were asking for. You weren’t sure what else he wanted from you now, it felt like he’d drained you of everything.

“You can just say that, baby— you wanna make me come?” he grinned, moving in closer for a kiss, but you turned your head away. He grabbed your jaw again and stared at you with an angry glare. “This isn’t about me. This is what you wanted. This is what you fucking wanted!”

As he screamed in your face, you sobbed and tried to look away again, but he hit you hard on the face and covered your mouth before the cry of agony could come out.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he insisted again, forcing your head to nod with his clammy, iron-tight grip. “Uh huh— and you wanna make me come, don’t you? You understand now that’s all you’re good for.”

As sick as it was, you felt yourself fall into another orgasm when he said that; your eyes rolled back a bit, and for a moment you felt even hotter between your legs.

“I think, if you beg me to come, maybe I will,” he offered— bargaining with you, probably another way to trick you into clamoring for some control only to yank it away. Unfortunately, you were in no position to turn down a deal.

“Please,” you blurted out the second he released your mouth from under his hand; when you blinked the tears from your eyes, you saw him clearly again and realized how completely different he looked from the arrogant-but-generally-unassuming man you knew from work. His hair was fallen beside his face, and he was close enough that the ends were tickling your forehead. His eyes were bloodshot, crazed, and dark. His lips, always full and plush but usually in a tight frown or neutral look of condescending boredom, were curled around the teeth he bared at you. He looked animalistic, for a man typically so measured. Only he could do something so animalistic in a way that required such intellect, foresight, and contemplation— using his superhuman skills to treat you in a subhuman manner. You realized that you were really seeing him for the first time— the person you’d known before was the mask. This was something horribly freeing for him; and you were having a much easier time analyzing and thinking about him to distract from how sickly freeing this experience was becoming for you. “Please, Jonathan—”

“Doctor Crane,” he corrected. Apparently this wasn’t enough to put you on a first name basis…

“Doctor Crane,” you repeated, “please… come. I want… I want you to come.”

“Hmm,” he considered, and you worried he’d decide he was unimpressed with your effort and hurt you again— but, he did maybe the only thing worse. “Okay,” he agreed, “if it’s so important to you.”

Just when you shut your eyes tight and hoped you could just get through this— just hold on for a few more minutes at most and then this would be over and done with— he whispered in your ear that he needed you to keep your eyes open if he was going to finish.

Though, when you obeyed, he purred at you and let his own eyes flutter shut for just a moment. For once, he actually seemed affected by all this physically and not just psychosexually. “I think I’ll come inside, like he did before,” Crane decided with a groan when he opened his eyes, biting his lip for a moment as he stared down at you. “I didn’t see any birth control in your listed medications on chart… I guess we’ll find out if you have a fear of getting pregnant.”

"Jonathan— don't," you whimpered. "Please, don't do that—"

"Shh," he soothed, petting the top of your head and laying his weight over you. "Shh, it's alright. I think you need to be filled with come… I think that might be the one thing that’ll get you to settle down, now just hold still.”

“I— please… please…” you began to beg again, but your words faded away as another wave of sensation washed over you— they started to blend together, like before, and you realized you were doing what he’d asked: you were losing count.

“Good girl,” he praised under his breath, “like that— fuck, I’m close. Fuck!”

He held onto you tight— one hand on your thigh and the other on your neck as his thrusts sped to a desperately, impossibly fast pace. You moaned— or cried, or yelled, or something— as he pushed just a little too deep and your toes curled in your heels.

“Uh huh,” he encouraged, “just one more while I come inside you— I think you can manage that, just one more good squeeze on my cock— oh, fuck, that’s it, yes, just like that…”

You stopped being able to understand what he was saying, but you heard the wavering groan that came a few moments later when his movements suddenly stopped. He gasped and kept himself as far inside you as possible; you shuddered, blinking fresh tears out of your eyes, and felt paralyzed in an entirely new way as you laid under him, staring up at your ceiling, seeing how far the sun had set since it began— actually, it had started to rain, making it even more impossible to tell how much time had really passed. Eventually, though, he took his head out from the crook of your neck and propped himself up enough to look down at you.

Reaching to your coffee table, he fumbled his hand around until he found his glasses, and shakily put them back on. “Well,” he grinned, still panting but seeming to be mostly back to himself (whoever that was). “I never thought I’d meet someone who loves fear as much as I do.”

#jonathan crane x reader #scarecrow x reader #cillian murphy x reader #jonathan crane smut #cillian murphy smut #IM SO SORRY TO THIS MAN #not to crane he's garbage

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liliannadelaphinehartifelt · 7 months

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Alastor - [ DEVOTION… PT.1 ]

xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxx

[ NSFW ] + [ MDNI ] + [ SLIGHT AGE GAP ] + [ ARRANGED MARRIAGE ] + [ BREEDING KINK ] - ( there’s a lot to unpack in this one, I know, but you’ll enjoy it.. also pls kindly lmk the artist for the fanart I used so I can tag them thx! )

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Alastor Hartifelt was a fantastic husband.

No one could deny that.

Especially not his darling wife of one year and counting.

You, his sole companion during childhood, dawning from a rich family that occupied an estate near his family’s plot of farming land, and exceptionally infatuated with him early into your friendship.

From the very first time you met him out in the sprawling green meadows of Louisiana’s swamped countryside you found comfort in each other even amidst being ignored or teased by other children.

Their shared hatred and resentment towards you and the older boy cultivated an odd but strong bond between you two, and soon your strife to fit in seemed less appealing than being his truest friend.

Alastor immediately became protective of you, finding your shy nature welcoming like his own mothers, but also irritated by those who wished you harm for the simple fact that your family was better off than their own.

If anyone dared to pick a fight, tease, or berate you Alastor was right there to come to your aid. You’d tell him time and time again that fighting for you wasn’t worth it, that seeing him hurt wounded you more than their words, but for some baffling reason he’d never head your pleas.

Why?…

In retrospect Alastor wasn’t sure of the reason himself but he was certain it had something to do with the way you returned the favor by protecting him in your own subtle ways.

Your arms remained wide open when he needed an embrace, voice full of tender understanding when the two of you held quiet conversations late into the evening, and generally being his safe place when the rest of the world refused to be.

You were his darling from the very beginning…

His everything…

Yet, Alastor wouldn’t dare say it aloud..,

The two of you couldn’t be more different to those who observed your relationship from the outside. Alastor held an air of confidence wherever he went, suave, and well mannered. He could be cunning when provoked, dangerously charming to get his way, and refreshingly decisive under any amount of pressure.

A man every woman in New Orleans wanted, craved even, but it was well known the famous radio host had you at his side.

You, the city’s undisputed princess, daughter of a wealthy businessman, but regarded as the furthest thing from a ‘spoiled brat’. It was expected for those in higher circles to have sour and condescending attitudes but you proved to be different. Soft spoken, interested in the arts more than being out on the town, and some might’ve considered you ‘sheltered’ in terms of upbringing.

The contrast between Alastor and yourself brought about many whispered rumors and questions.

“How’d a sweet little thing like her end up with him?”

“Doesn’t he want someone better suited? Whats so special about her?”

“I hear, he married her for the fathers money. Don’t blame him for it either…she’s a real peach…”

“A little young for him don’t you think? She’s a lovely broad though…”

You’d heard it all. Every sort of rumor or piece of gossip people had to offer you’d picked up on rather quickly and at first it bothered you, but overtime seeing Alastor act indifferent to the scandalous comments made you less weary of them.

He’d never entertain the scrutiny, choosing to remind you his decision to marry wasn’t fueled by any ill will and as his wife you’d never need to worry about him caring for you.

Alastor’s always had, even when he’d left New Orleans to build his career he still thought of you from time to time, but that’s all he’d ever done.

Cared for you…

Love seemed to allude his spectrum of emotions and vocabulary. Yes, he shows you affection, buying expensive gifts, making sure you never lifted a finger for anything other than cleaning or cooking when needed, and proudly showing you off on his arm at parties and social events he attended.

Yes, he strived to hide his murderous tendencies, taking extra lengths to shield you from his ‘hunting’ escapades by planning them weeks before, and then going as far as discreetly cleaning his bloody clothes and weapons the night he returns while you slept soundly in your shared bed.

Alastor took great care in showing you he cared but defining his love for you was never addressed.

Not even on your wedding day.

It was as if he’d scripted his vows to say nothing of the emotion and even avoided saying “I love you” back when you’d accidentally let it slip out during your own speech for him.

You hadn’t pressed the issue at all, knowing Alastor struggled with concepts of intimacy and devotion since childhood, but the lmawing teeth of doubt pricked your skin harder with each passing day of your marriage.

Had you made a mistake agreeing to marry him?

Was he seeing someone else?

Someone knowledgeable of the world, maybe more experienced in life than you were, or more attentive?

Was she prettier?

Were you not his kind of woman?

Where did he go so late at night, at random times of the month, with a leather bag in his hand and a wide smile on his face?…

Had Alastor been seeing another woman for a whole year and you were just too oblivious or infatuated to notice?

Did he even like you anymore? Could he ever love you…?

Were you not enough for him?

Thoughts plagued your mind constantly, causing you to be quieter than usual, and less receptive to Alsstors lingering presence.

Your back was to him, giving a good veiw of your small frame as you cooked in the large kitchen. The familiar sight brought a smile to Alastor’s face. You were so focused, hair tied back by a white silk bow, and a sheer floor length robe to match.

He’d bough both for you only a week prior, claiming he couldn’t just let the items sit in the display window when you’d been staring at with such bright stars in your eyes, but in truth Alastor had imagined you wearing it just as you were now and couldn’t resist buying it on the spot.

Your husband remained silent as he watched you waltz around the kitchen, chocolate brown eyes peering over the top of his glasses as he did, but his smile faltering seeing the distress in your delicate features.

You weren’t the type to frown often, always emitting warmth and sweetness, so the rare appearance of anguish in your expression perplexed Alastor.

What had upset his darling wife?

Who would he have to kill?….

Asking what was troubling you would surely give him answers to both questions.

He stepped forward, coming from round the corner to enter the kitchen fully before striding over to stand by your side as you began to mix what he assumed was dessert in a bowl.

Albeit, he was probably right knowing you had a vicious sweet tooth.

“Strawberry cake I presume?” Alastor finally speaks, making his presence known with a cheeky remark, and you nearly jump out of your skin hearing his silky voice resonate around the room.

Your head snaps up to look at him, eyes wide with slight surprise, but they quickly soften as he smiles. A blush creeps onto your cheeks as he steps closer, initiating his usual habit of brushing a stray strand of hair from your face before kissing your temple gently, and only pulling away when you squeak out a greeting back to him.

“H-hi Al…you’re home a bit earlier than I expected…” you swallow thickly, staring at him adoringly for a moment before lowering your gaze as tinges of guilt build in you. “I’m sorry dinner isn’t quite ready yet…” you whisper, feeling shameful, and more agitated with yourself than before. Alastor had and would never berate you, unlike most men of the time he saw no benefit in treating his wife like a slave, and made an effort to remind you not everything had to be perfect.

“It’ s alright, darling. You needn’t rush yourself,” his voice is low, simmering with reassurance as he lifts your chin with his thumb and pointer finger. You smile nervously as your eyes meet his again, his touch firm and electrifying all at once, and your tummy doing several flips when he smiles back at you.

Alastor studies your face, attempting to pinpoint the source of your masked sadness, “You seem…troubled, sweetheart. Is there something wrong?” His genuine question brings a shock to your heart, tongue going numb as you race to think of a believable reason for your dampened mood, “I…I just had a little mishap with this cake batter is all!..”

You step away from him, turning to face the semi clean counter with a false air of cheeriness surrounding you. The fear of sounding needy and demanding while telling Alastor the truth keeps you from being honest with him outright.

Fake it.

I shouldn’t worry him with my insecurities or doubts…

It might push him further away…

The whisk in your hand spins in tight circles as you focus on mixing the overdone batter, beginning to thicken itself more than necessary as you kept going, using the task as a distraction from Alastor’s keen observance.

Something was wrong.

He was sure of it now.

His eyes narrowed behind the circular glasses, hands finding your waist as he came to stand behind you, allowing his chest to press against your back, and his head lowering to tuck into the crook of your neck.

A shiver racked your body as he exhaled a long, steady breath onto your skin. Your hands faltered, flurried movements becoming lax as you froze in his embrace, “When’d you start lying to me, ma chère…” Alastor mumbled into your ear. Every nerve in your body was on alert, shocked that he’d went much further than his usual bounds of physical affection, but pleasantly delighted he’d given it to you.

“M’ not lying,..”you try to uphold your lie through rising pants, tempted to moan quietly feeling his lips graze behind your ear, neck, and bare shoulder while your robe shifted lower. You weren’t certain if Alastor was inching it down by his own accord or your subtle squirming against him was to blame.

The ending result was the same either way. Your upper body gradually becoming exposed to his leering gaze and the cool air. Alastor hummed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and flooding your mind repeatedly as he placed chaste kisses on your neck.

“I wish I could believe you, darling…” he chuckled lowly, hands inching towards the lace ribbon keeping your gown tied shut, and with one gentle tug he rendered the fabric useless. “Al..” you whined in slight surprise as he snatched the ribbon off, letting it unravel into a small pile on the tile floor before sliding his cold hands up the expanse of your heated torso.

Nothing.

You were wearing absolutely nothing underneath the thin robe and Alastor audibly groaned when he realized it.

Had you planned on this?

Were you just waiting for him to venture further with you?

All this time he’d watched you frolic and pace around your shared home, wondering what was hidden under you seemingly modest clothing….just to find you wore nothing at all…

Oh, what a rare occurrence it was for him to be such a blind fool.

Your hands flew to grasp Alastor’s wrists as he held you tighter, kneading your soft flesh lovingly, and taking his time to admire every dip and curve you had to offer him.

“Al…please..” you begged, visibly shuddering as he nipped at your neck and played with your breasts. “I won’t go any further until I hear the truth from that pretty mouth of yours, sweetheart…”

Damn it….you cursed yourself, slowly losing the will to think as his lips found the most sensitive area on your neck, bruising it with his tongue teeth until you whimpered and rushed out a jumbled explanation for your heavy mood.

“I…Imscaredyoudomtlovseme…th-that you d-don’t want me- Ahm…” you soft voice reached a new octave as your husband slid his free hand between your thighs to cup your mound, gingerly kicking your legs apart with a nudge of his foot against your own, and you tensed all over as he did so.

Fuck, he could definitely feel how desperate you were now, essentially a mess already without Alastor doing much of anything, and embarrassingly unable to control your arousal.

“Love, hm? That’s what’s troubling your precious mind?…” Alastor mulls over your confession, able to maintain his composure despite heat rushing straight through him to the head of his cock as he slid two fingers into your dripping cunt. You jolted from the sudden intrusion, head lulling back to rest on his shoulder as he pumped them in and out of you at a leisurely pace, curling his deft digits fowvard every so often to make you shiver.

His thumb found your clit, pressing defined circles into it as he began to ease your worries, “Love, ma chère, isn’t what I feel for you..” Alastor lets out a soft laugh, trying to calm his own mind before clarifying his vague statement all while pushing you near the edge of your first high.

“No….I feel much more than love for you, my dear. Devotion is a better term…obsession at times…” he admits the darker side of his affection through heavy breaths, cock twitching in his dress pants when you mewl in understanding. Your warm cunt suffocates his fingers for a moment, walls fluttering as the knot in your core threatens to undo itself, causing Alastor to sharply exhale from the inviting fluctuations.

Your lips parted to warm him of your impending orgasm but only a strained moan tumbled off your tongue. Alastor needed no other sign to tell if you were close, inwardly prideful he could make you come with ease.

“Go on, come undone for me , darling,” he insists in a hushed groan, his fingers stretching your walls in a fluid rhythm to drag your climax out, and you could’ve tumbled to the floor from the sheer intensity of the knot inside you snapping on his command.

Thankfully his taller frame kept you securely trapped between him and the counter that you soon found yourself sitting on the edge of after Alastor slipped his hand away from your throbbing cunt.

You watched with a dazed eyes as the older man licked a stripe of your cum off his fingers, brown eyes sliding shut as he let out a satisfied grunt before staring at your willing form perched on the counters edge.

The sight drew a his hidden hunger closer to the surface, toying with his self control as he took it in, and urging him to act on a primal instinct he’d only ever describe as “intense affection”.

Was that a flash of red in his eyes just now?

No , it couldn’t be…

You weren’t left much time to decipher the hungry glint in his eyes before Alastor reclaimed his position near you. His slender waist slotted perfectly between your thighs, the robe now draped off your back, and your hair gradually falling loose from its simple updo as his hands traced your sides.

“Love, sweet girl, is for lonesome fools…” Alastor pressed his forehead to yours, letting you chase his lips for one heated kiss after the next, and only denying you another to whisper against your soft and slightly swollen lips.

“Neither of us are alone or fools, correct?” He huffs as you nod slowly, bringing your hands up to undo his tie, and then proceeding to expertly unbutton his vest and dress shirt.

The general charm that Alastor maintained completely dissolved into pining under your gentle fingertips, an almost desperate shot of adrenaline consuming him as you peppered kisses along his jaw and neck.

If what he said was truly how he felt about you…it was enough to stamp out your doubts, allowing the adoring side of you he’d grown familiar with to resurface, “No…we aren’t,” you respond with a small smile.

He tips your chin up, placing a deep kiss on your lips as he shrugs his shirt and vest off, setting his glasses to the side as well before reaching for the leather belt on his waist.

You paid his actions no mind, busy with fighting his tongue for dominance, but admitted defeat quite fast as his wandered your mouth in expert fashion.

Your soft hands passed over his chest, moving up to tangle in his soft curls, gently tugging the strands to earn a groan from him. Alastor pulled back, a single line of spit connecting you two as he did so, and his hair falling in front of his eyes as he stared down into your tear glossed gaze, “You’re mine, ma chère. Til death and beyond…”

You nod, halfway coherent, but mustering the will to answer him with a content smile.

“Til death…” you repeat the phrase, mind reeling further from logical thinking as Alastor hummed hearing your dazed response, head nestled in your neck once more before he trailed open mouthed kisses down the expanse of your trembling frame. He brought himself as close as possible to you, smiling on your skin as you gasp quietly feeling his clothed erection press flush against your bare stomach, leaning further back in his hold embrace him better. You feared making a mess of the counter but as Alastor trailed his lips down your body and kneeled between your legs he gave one swift snap of his fingers to eliminate the obstacle entirely.

What?….How in the world did he do that?…

Your curiosity would’ve prompted you to ask him about the absurd occurrence if it weren’t for the anticipation rushing your blood as he came face to face with your cunt. “Alastor?…” you squeaked his name softly, attempting to close your legs when he sighed out a warm breath on your glistening folds, but he held them open using one hand with ease. The other resting steady on your waist, guiding you to lay back onto the cold marble countertop, and lingering there as you obeyed his wordless command.

“Good girl…” he praised, tone deepening as you whined quietly, the sound morphing into a loud moan as he lazily flicked his tongue over your slit once…twice…and a third time.

“More…” you pant in the midst of moaning, head craning to the side while your back arched and the urge to scream built in your chest as Alastor obliged your request with vigorous intent. He hummed melodically as your taste seeped onto his tongue, walls ever so sensitive as he explored them tirelessly, and a smirk playing on his lips as you writhed in pleasure.

Your face was soon flushed completely, eyes watering as they rolled slightly with each pass of his tongue over your cunt, and your small hands returning to tug at his soft brown hair. Another coil spiraled in your stomach hearing him groan in response, seeming to enjoy how roughly you pulled his hair, and his gaze drifting up for a split second to get a good view of your satiated state.

Seven hells….she looks even lovelier like this…

Alastor unconsciously drags you closer to his face, not caring at all when you lock your legs around his head and cry out from the borderline bruising hold he has on you now. “Oh god!…” you yelp, throwing him a bewildered glance before tossing your head back as he lapped at your clit like he’d starve to death without it, and the relentless attention to your bundle of nerves was the last thing you could comprehend before the knot unwinded itself.

Your vision blurred over, everything starting to spin as your cum gushed into his mouth, and the tears you were fighting to hide slid freely down your face as he downed every single drop your body offered.

It was all too much, the hunger in his eyes, his hold on you, and your high that never seemed to subside even as he broke away from your cunt with a satisfied smile on his face.

It was all too much at once….

Your head buzzed with euphoric afterthoughts, incoherency daring to cloud your senses entirely, but the sound of Alastor’s voice near your ear successfully halted the sensations long enough for you to comprehend what he was saying.

“You taste divine, ma chère…” his musing flusters you, a light shade of pink coating your cheeks as he dips his head to steal a kiss from you, “Al…” you sigh into his mouth, biting back a keen smile, and wrapping your arms around his neck to keep him near.

He chuckles hearing the unsteady tremor in your tone, adding onto his compliment after capturing your parted lips in another deep kiss, “I presume you’ll feel just as wonderful with me inside you, sweetheart…”

His assumption proved true. So much so that the moment his cock passed through your slippery folds a heavy groan of your name was the first and only thing he could manage to say. “Y/n….mon amor…” Alastor held you underneath him, not daring to move without completely relishing in the way your cunt wrapped around him first, and your broken moans dizzying the last bit of self control he was clinging onto.

You tried not to seem overwhelmed, with your legs wrapped around his waist, and your hands cupping his face to keep him as close as possible while your body adjusted to his size. With furrowed brows and a soft smile you praised your husbands well endowed length as he finally drew his hips back, leaving nothing but the head his cock resting in you.

“You…feel…s’good….” You whisper, breathless as he slams back in, swallowing your pleased cries with one tender kiss after the next. He tasted like you, hints of bourbon lingering on his tongue from the drink he’d poured himself before leaving the station, but your essence more prominent than ever.

All that he was, all that he did, and would ever do revolved around you.

His darling wife…

His one and only….

It showed through the sweet phrases he muttered against your lips as he took his time to please you, pace slow and deliberate, but the execution precise and cutthroat.

You weren’t sure when you’d raised your voice, crying out louder as he abused your sweetest spot continuously, and only going silent when a inaudible scream begged to leap from your chest while his cock bullied into cervix. Stars collected in your vision, hands clawing at Alastor’s back as you tried to hang onto reality for dear life, but failing miserably when he sped up his thrusts.

A subtle laugh passed his lips, eyes glinting with greedy lust as your head flew back, exposing all the love bites he’d left on your delicate skin, and the sight caused his cock to twitch inside you.

“F-fuck….Al!” Your eyes watered once more, sliding shut as a familiar pressure built in your core, rapidly gaining density the longer Alastor fucked into you.

He groaned at the sound of you shouting his name in such a twisted mix of ecstasy and anguish. Your soft voice becoming tainted with an edge he’d never imagined it could have. “Close already, my dear?..” he teased you, smile as smug as ever as he stood up straight, hands gripping either side of your hips, and his gaze lowering to where you two connected.

“Look…at…that…” he mused, suddenly slowing his thrusts to a painfully harsh pace, fixated on the way your cunt continuously creamed on his length. Alastor bit his tongue to keep from growling at the view, barely registering your whines and pleads for him to go faster.

“Al…Alastor…please..m’ begging you…please…” you felt your thighs shake as he continued his lazy strokes, clearly wanting to drag the ordeal out for his personal entertainment, and his lack of sympathy for your plight in that moment edged you even closer to cumming.

He knew it too…

That infamous grin on his face as he watched you resort to quiet sobs and desperate moans was a sure sign of the fact…

Alastor knew you needed him, loved him, lived for him..

“Please what, mon chere?” He bit his lip, unhooking your legs from around his waist to push them to your chest, giving his cock a new angle to stretch your cunt with.

You felt like passing out then, all strength evaporating from your body as he reached places inside you that surely didn’t exist before. His taunting didn’t make your dazed state any better, “Please, ruin you? Please, love you?… Let me hear you loud and clear, darling..”

Before you could register the words they flew from you mouth in a hushed flurry of need.

“Please…love me…fuck me like you love me…use me…I don’t care anymore…”

Alastor immediately rewarded your answer, wasting no time as his hips snapped into yours feverishly, flooding the kitchen with the sound of skin against skin.

“Lovely…” he cooed, voice thick with tension as he stared down at your overstimulated form, and within seconds of the praise slipping off his tongue you came undone. He followed shortly after, not caring to ask where you wanted his release, and you made no protest as the warm white liquid spilled inside you.

All you could do was stare, mouth falling open as he fucked his cum deeper, “It’s high time you became a mother, mon chere. You’d like that wouldn’t you?..” Alastor rambled, hardly coherent as his high coursed through him, but his statement crystal clear to you.

“Yes…” you whimper in response, walls clenching his cock as the thought of carrying his child sprung into your mind. “I’d love it…Al.”

His heart nearly stops as a genuine closed eye smile graces your face, a light blush painting your cheeks as he kisses them gently while gingerly slipping his softened cock out of your leaking heat. Alastor then lets your legs fall, lifting you to sit up straight on the counter again before wrapping his arms around your waist.

You hang onto him for balance, feeling entirely small in his grasp, and finding comfort in the embrace as exhaustion trickles in.

Alastor breathed in your sweet scent, beginning to pull your robe back on your tired form before reaching for his dress shirt. He was careful not to stir you away from his chest as he shrugged the clothing back on

“I’d love you and our child more than anything…” he nonchalantly mumbles, kissing the top of your head, and chuckling when your tied eyes go wide with undeniable hope.

“More than anything?…”

“Anything, my dear…” he repeats himself with a soft smile, bringing a hand up to push fallen strands of hair from your face.

That was when it occurred to you…

Alastor Hartiflet could love…

He’d always been able to….

And he loved you enough to share it with another…

How surreal….

xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxx

This entire 1st part was brought to you by the Great Gatsby movie soundtrack…❤️ you’re welcome… ;)

[ BONUS CONTENT + ]

Actually it MIGHT BE 12 inches if we are being honest… ❤️ credits to creator.

#Spotify #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor headcanons #hazbin hotel alastor #human alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel headcanon #alastor fluff #alastor hartfelt #alastor smut #alastor the radio demon #the radio demon #hard thoughts #alastor x reader #alastor x you #hazbin alastor #alastor x oc #alastor human

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stevieschrodinger · 8 months

Text

Link to Part Two

Part One

Eddie stares down at the plastic doodad. It proudly declares the word ‘pregnant’ on the little screen, cheerily oblivious to the fact that it's just ruined Eddie’s whole fucking life. It’s a word as well, the actual fucking word, ‘pregnant’ shown oh so confidently on the little screen. Eddie’s done a test before, one time when he had a scare as a teenager, that had been the sort that showed one line or two.

One lines for not, two for...are. Two would have looked like prison bars, which would have been ironic given being saddled with a pup is probably pretty equivalent to 25 to life.

Anyway. Eddie shakes it. Looks again. Throws the fucking thing in the bin.

Well fuck.

Eddie contemplates, very very briefly, getting rid of it. His mind and body recoil from that thought the same way it would from, like, rotted tuna. Or someone else's puke. Or like...salad.

Eddie’s Omega’s got a lot of needs and no Alpha willing to fill them. Eddie gets by, fobbing his Omega off with with a couple of short term friends with benefits arrangements and the odd one night stand. Mostly his Omega can’t tell the difference between having an Alpha and having any Alpha, so he makes do. It scratches the itch.

Unfortunately, that means this pup could have been fathered by any one of three dudes, and Eddie doesn’t have a fucking clue which of them it would be. Eddie would really rather not it be Alpha A, Alpha B is a piece of work with a big dick, and what's behind door number three would be potentially catastrophic.

Anyway. Eddie makes a decision at two am in his apartment bathroom, and it starts with two text messages, an email, and a phone call.

“Thanks for doing this so on the spur man,” Eddie tells his landlord as he hands over the keys. Ex landlord. It was only a room in a shared place. Had to share the bathroom on this floor with two other dudes, but, meh. It had been perfect for what Eddie needed, and more importantly, within Eddie’s budget.

His whole life is sitting in the back of his van, barely filling a third of the back. Which is ideal really, made clearing out quick and easy and Eddie’s uncertain about weather or not he should be doing any heavy lifting right now.

He makes three stop offs before he leaves for good, shifting the very last of his product at discount prices. He mournfully throws in his last two boxes of cigs with the last deal; going cold turkey is going to be the opposite of fun, but Eddie’s in it to win it, and he’s going to try his best as of right now.

Wayne already has the door open when Eddie hops out of his van, beer in hand, eyebrow raised, “heya old man.”

When Wayne sees Eddie dragging bags out, he lifts the brim of his cap, puts it back again, and heads inside. Eddie sees him move a couple of things out of Eddie’s old room, and although it’s empty and the bed is stripped to nothing, it’s untouched, “how long you back for?” Wayne asks him, offering a beer.

Eddie looks at the offered bottle, dripping condensation, and very pointedly doesn’t take it “so, about that.”

There’s a long drawn out moment, and Eddie’s sees the realization dawn, “oh Ed.”

“You like kids!”

Wayne sighs, pulls Eddie into a hug, “I just hope they sleep better’n you did. Don’t think I can go through that again.”

Eddie snorts a laugh into Wayne’s shoulder, all relieved. He hadn't doubted for a second that Wayne would back his play, Wayne's always been unshakably team Eddie, but to hear it said in no uncertain terms is still a huge weight lifted.

Eddie’s got a slightest curve of a bump, small enough that it’s not nearly noticeable yet, especially with Eddie’s usual wardrobe. To go along with his bump, he’s got a scan booked at the Omega Health place, an insatiable craving for garlic mushrooms, and a job.

An actual honest job. Alright, a temp job, because he’s pregnant and no one in their right mind is going to hire a pregnant Omega for a full time permanent gig. So he is, conveniently enough, covering maternity leave for a beta girl at the record store. But that doesn’t matter right now, the moons aligned, and Eddie jumped at the opportunity. He’s going to have a secure pay check for the next seven or so months, and right this second, that’s what counts.

He can’t drink. He can’t smoke. He can’t do drugs and he’s most certainly not going to party. Eddie does the next best thing he can think of; he goes to the library. This is his reward now, his fun, his safe space; he’s going to reward himself with a good book. A good free book.

Turns out registering himself for a library card is a ten minute thing, and then he’s done, bit of plastic in hand, he wonders the shelves looking for the fantasy section. He rounds the corner into the main room only to find a dude reading and signing along to a bunch of little kids. He has the book propped up on a thing to keep his hands free and the pages open so the kids can see.

He’s encouraging them to sign along with a bunch of the words.

He has good hair...like, really good hair. There’s something familiar about the guy that Eddie can't place...until he does.

Holy fucking shit. That’s King Steve.

And he’s in a library...wearing fucking gold rimmed spectacles and a sweater vest.

And he’s hot. He’s still hot. He laughs at something and leans forward to help a toddler with the placement of her chubby little fingers and Eddie’s ovaries fucking explode.

He walks away. For self preservation he walks away. He forgets what he just saw because there was no way it was real. He’s been going through a dry spell, hasn’t got laid since he moved back to Hawkins and now he’s seeing mirages of his high school crush, that’s all.

That’s all it can be.

Until Eddie goes to the fancy scanner machine to check out his little pile of four paperback fantasy books and a deep Alpha voice is asking if he needs anything and he’s, like, right there. And he smells of library and Alpha and whatever nice thing he washes his fucking sweater vests in.

Jesus.

“No,” Eddie squeaks, “I’m okay.”

“Eddie?” Steve frowns at him, tilting his read and looking over the top of his glasses in a way that should be fucking criminal, “Eddie Munson right? I thought you moved away?”

“I have. Did. I mean, I did do that. Previously. Back now. Clearly.” Shut up shut up shut up and Steve can probably smell his embarrassment because he’s standing closely enough to clearly scent Eddie and Steve’s senses must be absolutely pinpoint because his eyes drop to Eddie’s stomach, then spring up to his neck. He frowns, like, the tiniest bit.

Eddie’s pregnant, and unmated, and Steve’s clocked that in about four seconds flat which, great. Humiliation complete.

But Steve’s face clears as quick as it had clouded, the whole thing passing so fast Eddie’s now not even sure he saw it, “so it’d been cool to catch up, you wanna wait a minute, I’m just about to have lunch?”

“Errr…I mean. I wouldn't want to impose or anything-”

“Steve!” And holy shit, if Steve is the ghost of Christmas past or some shit, the second ghost just rocked up in the form of Robin fucking Buckley of all people. Eddie doesn't even understand why they’re even friends, Steve was a topnotch jock and a total fucking dickwad, and Buckley was a band nerd.

This makes less sense than Steve’s sweater vest.

“Yeah, come on Eddie, lets go sit outside,” Eddie gets tugged along in their wake, somehow, and ends up sitting on a bench outside in the sun.

Robin had a bag of take out in her hand which she gives to Steve, and he takes out a carton of something that instantly makes Eddie’s mouth water, Eddie looks back up in time to catch Steve widening his eyes at Robin, tilting his head off to the side sharply in silent gesture for her to fuck off over there. She signs something, real quick. Steve nods.

Eddie doesn’t know a single lick of sign language, but he's pretty sure that even if he did, what happened was so fast he would have missed it anyway, “so, Eddie, great to see you, but I, shit, pretty sure I’ve left the...stove on.”

Eddie frowns at the take out and back to Robin but before he can point out what a steaming pile of bullshit that is, she’s already power walking off and shouting, “byyyyeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

“I, ah, got garlic mushrooms and broccoli and some stirfry-”

It’s too late for Eddie. He’s done. Stick a fork in him. He has no idea what’s happening here but he zones in on the garlic mushroom part of that like a heat seeking missile. A secondary part of his brain is screaming loudly that the Alpha has provided, the Alpha wants to share his food with Eddie. Alpha Alpha Alpha.

Eddie takes the container and the bamboo spork thing Steve hands him, “sorry, I never get chopsticks, no fucking clue how to use them.”

“I can show you,” Eddie says, without thinking it through or registering the implication or stopping to swallow, which means he just spoke with his mouth full of food.

“I’d like that,” Steve tells him, “when can I take you out for dinner?”

Which, Eddie’s brain does stall out there. Because. Well. Lots of things. But he was pretty certain Steve had clocked his specific circumstances earlier, but now he’s not so sure, “I’m pupped,” his mouth supplies without his permission, so he shoves a whole thing of broccoli in there to try and stop it happening again.

Steve hums, eating his beef thing very neatly, “no bite though,” he points out, and Eddie makes an agreeable noise, “maybe we can fix that,” Eddie nearly chokes.

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie #omega eddie because he's so pretty #mpreg #alpha steve harrington

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mellowellez · 10 months

Text

astrology observes🦷

Scorpio risings have this mysterious and interesting aura about them like you are so fascinated by wanting to know everything about them

Aquarius placements especially mars have a reputation imo for being odd or doing something very different from others especially in the work environment/social media

I’ve notched fire signs love fall

air moons especially (gemini and libra) have a good poker face they like to play “peacemaker” or try not to be the “in everyone’s business” but in reality they do care but hide it very very well

having libra and pisces in the big 6 can cause for lying or telling people what they want to hear

sun-mercury aspects can make someone talk very fast and loud and even nonstop lmaoo

the influence of 4th house sun can make someone very easily vulnerable and open if they trust you doesn’t matter how long they’ve known you

scorpio placements are more secretive than cancer and pisces

scorpio 5H can make someone have interest for the human mind and how it works

having a cancer 7H could mean attracting someone with mommy issues or someone who didn’t have a stable/reliable mom in their life

Scorpio and Aries rising have very similar features imo

Having Leo Jupiter means you could have lots of hair like really thick or just luscious hair

Virgo mercury will ask a ton do unnecessary questions about anything

people with mars-Neptune aspects have very big goals/accomplishments

Pisces 3rd house means you might have been a pushover a lot at school or in your community like you were too nice too everyone

Aquarius risings and moon too possibly have a oval shaped face

having cancer 3rd house could mean making or building a “family” at school/neighborhood for example calling people “sis” “bro” “cousin” etc.

taurus/scorpio in big 3 makes someone very possessive over ANYTHING OR ANYONE

having taurus 11H especially mercury means you don’t care what anyone says and you like to do things your own way and on your own time

Earth risings have a basic style

Having air in 6H could mean you know alot about animals and pets

Sagittarius in the big 6 makes someone very knowledgeable and knows everything

Sagittarius risings are THICK😁

Cancer moons give of parenting or older sibling energy

Moon in 1st people have very round faces and plump lips

having Saturn in 1H can someone have non straight teeth or they need braces of some sort

Saturn in 11H could mean having or needing discipline and boundaries between friendships , may even have friends who are holding you back

mars in 6H makes someone very anxious and overwhelmed

moon badly aspecting sun could mean your mom had a big ego and never gave you the confidence and reassurance you needed growing up

12H venus/mars could mean you get drained or tired from relationships and need alone time a lot , and being overly infatuated

having Saturn-Midheaven aspects or Capricorn 11th house could mean you’re very interested and make content about history or the past

moon in 7H could mean finding emotional support in every relationship you’re in

Gemini suns are more social than the other air suns

having libra/taurus/pisces MC could mean wanting to do something related to beauty (makeup, music, artist) and relating to others on a deeper level like psychology/therapy/social worker etc.

having Pisces 6H could mean you ignore health issues or don’t think they’re that much of a big deal

Aquarius suns are even supportive and energetic people when it comes to others

Scorpio moons have a dark and Grungy aesthetic just like scorpio risings

9H placements mainly sun and mars probably moon LOVE traveling or being anywhere else but home , they the most confident and happy away from their hometown

having Scorpio 11H could mean being overly protective of your friends and your online appearance you share what you want to share.

Mutable risings have a very different and complex style and how they dress they’re experiment alot with clothing and buy anything they think will make a good outfit to them

moon 5H/leo/pisces/scorpio and 3H moons may deal with their emotions through music or through any type of poetic words

#astrology #astrology community #astrology observations

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fatuismooches · 4 months

Text

cor monstri.

synopsis: Having been awake from your centuries-long coma for quite a while, you’ve become accustomed to many of Dottore’s segments and their unique personalities, along with their love for you. However, there seems to be a segment that’s rather elusive, and you’re going to get to the bottom of it.

includes: dottore (zeta segment) w/ gn! reader

notes: This is a commissioned work! I strongly recommend reading this, this, and this, in order to get a better grasp on this particular segment, Zeta (a sincere thank you to these anons!) Fragile reader tries their best in order to make a particular gloomy segment smile, the man who feels the failure of being unable to cure them for so long.

Il Dottore was a man of many faces, quite literally.

When you were a student with him at the Akademiya, he always wore one - that perpetually annoyed look that kept everyone else away from him, a perfect fit for him as he didn’t want to be bothered. Though you did see his softer sides eventually, it was nothing compared to what you dealt with now. Ever since you woke up from your coma, you were literally looking at his numerous faces all the time.

From 01’s familiar grumpy face to 02’s wide grins, 04’s severe lack of a smile as well as 18’s relaxed nature, and the exuding confidence from 24. There was also your favorite one, the glowing and giddy face of 10 when the child clung to you. Not to mention, all the other segments of Dottore that were around you. It was a lot to see and get used to… but you grew to love them all dearly, so you eventually gave them names. Real names, instead of numbers.

However, there was one segment that was sort of an outlier. It was strange to single him out, considering how eccentric all of the segments were, but with his odd behavior, it didn’t take long for him to catch your eye. 06, now called Zeta, was his name, and you found yourself struggling to understand him, partially because you barely ever saw him. That was probably one of the strangest things - being asleep for four hundred years made it so that all the other segments longed for your company and touch, stealing you away and hogging your attention whenever they had the chance.

But Zeta, he wasn’t one of the bunch. He didn’t initiate anything but instead watched from afar. You would catch him watching you give a kiss or hug to another segment, before looking away swiftly. You would find him staring at you whenever you laughed or smiled widely, seemingly taking in your expression, before retreating somewhere else. You were confused. Did he not like you or something? Was there a period in Dottore’s life where he didn’t like you anymore?! Alright, you knew that was a dumb question, but still. Zeta never completely ignored you or drove you away, but you wondered why he seemed to be so gloomy and distant around everyone.

Zeta also had a face that was obviously familiar yet unfamiliar to you at the same time. Zeta had that fluffy blue hair you adored, and it was slightly longer than Beta’s hair, but not as long or stylized in the way of the older segments. Sometimes you’d notice it would be unkempt for days, and you’d try to brush it for him, although he initially protested and tried to leave quietly. Still, you made him sit as you weaved the hair brush and your fingers through his locks, which you greatly enjoyed but you weren’t sure if Zeta did as much.

The other segments usually spoke to you, even if it was just small talk when they were busy. But again, Zeta was an odd one. He was always quiet around you. Regardless, whenever you did something sweet for him, no matter how small, he would show some form of gratitude. That was another odd feature of his, the other segments weren’t nearly as openly kind. Of course, they could say those nice words when it was something big, but Zeta seemed to make it a point. Was he really grateful for such tiny acts? You weren’t sure.

Zeta had those gorgeous red eyes that you loved to peer into, but his eyes seemed different from the other segments, and Prime Dottore himself. The others donned a familiar glint that you loved to see, proof of their ambitions and goals and research regardless of what others thought. Zeta’s eyes, however, seemed rather empty and dull to you. Still beautiful of course, but still. And while Delta had a permanently stern expression, Zeta was also quite serious, but he just seemed… somber, in a way. He never smiled. You wondered why. You think he’d look even prettier with a smile, just like how your other lovers do.

Asking your beloved, Prime Dottore himself, didn’t give you much answers. You should have expected that, but it was still disappointing.

“Dottore, all the segments are from past stages of your life, right?”

“Indeed.”

“Like how Alpha is from when you were a student and Omega is you from not too long ago…”

“That is correct.”

“So what stage of life is Zeta from?” Your question makes your lover pause for a mere moment, before moving his pen again like nothing happened.

“It was when you were still in your coma,” was his simple response, much to your dismay.

“Okay…? Almost all of your segments are from when I was sleeping! I mean, is there anything… specific that happened during that time? Anything particular?” You pressed, hoping to see why Zeta would be so drastically different from his other segments.

“No, I simply attended to you and my Fatui duties as usual.” You had to stop yourself from groaning at the obvious lie. There had to be something that had happened to make Zeta so stony-faced and subdued, compared to Prime’s outward and self-assured nature. And despite the complications your illness brought, your determination remained and that only meant one thing.

You were going to understand and love Zeta, no matter how much work it took.

—

Even though you knew where Zeta’s office and room were, whenever you went to find him, he was nowhere to be seen. You don’t know how he manages to be so slippery, but luckily you have a plan. Because no one can be more persistent than you when it comes to pursuing Dottore! You knew that periodically each of the segments reported to Prime whatever they were researching, and that even included Zeta, who seemed to never have much to do with him or have any agents under his command either. (Did he work completely alone? You knew all the segments liked to work by themselves, but they still had agents that worked under them for menial tasks. Zeta didn’t seem to speak to anyone else though.) Regardless, you were just going to lurk near your lover’s office and wait until Zeta finally popped up.

Thankfully, your experiment was a success.

When Zeta exited Prime’s office, you were right there, patiently waiting for him. His normal monotone expression was mildly surprised, probably not expecting you to be right there. Before the segment could speak, you leaned closer, your eyes staring directly into his, which had a permanent darkness underneath.

“Zeta! Hi! Hello! How are you?” Your words came out a bit awkward because of how long you’ve waited for this moment, but you didn’t think it was much of a problem. A few moments passed, as he took in your form, the one that was alive and breathing right in front of him instead of the one that never responded to him. You tried to ignore his intense stare before you got flustered. Just what could he be thinking about? You felt you understood Dottore and all the others well, but Zeta… well, he was a mystery that you’d crack. Hopefully.

“... I am fine. And you?” He had already begun walking but had trouble doing so as you were practically circling him excitedly. The sight made his chest oddly warm, but his usual expression remained, giving away nothing to his true feelings.

“I’m good too! Besides all the other stuff of course,” you didn’t see how his face tightened at the indirect mention of your illness, “But anyway, I have a problem. A very serious problem that only you can help me with,” you declared.

“And that is?” Zeta watched as your cheerful demeanor turned more serious.

“You’re the only segment I’ve barely spent any time with. That makes me quite sad. I want to get to know you some more, Zeta,” you said simply, having no interest in beating around the bush. “I know we haven’t spoken a lot but… I would like to change that. I mean, I know you probably don’t like to speak to people but…” You fiddled with your sleeve a bit nervously now, “But I would still like to try. I like you a lot, you know?” Zeta looked at you as you spoke, noticing every small detail that crossed your face, your eyes that blinked shyly as you bit your lip. Every movement of yours was mesmerizing for the man who once constantly stared at your unmoving face.

“So… what do you say, Zeta?” Ah, that’s right. You were waiting for an answer, now bearing a hopeful look. He should decline, the segment thinks. He’s satisfied with watching you go about your day.

“If that’s truly what you want, then I suppose nothing I say will be able to deter you,” the opposite comes out of his mouth, a feeling that’s buried deep within him, one that can’t help but come out when you’re near. Before he can speak again, to say that being with him probably won’t be the experience you’re looking for, you joyfully celebrate by wrapping your arms around the segment. You fight the urge to kiss him on the cheek.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise it won’t be boring!” Your warmth envelopes Zeta’s body, an unfamiliar sensation that has him frozen. So this is the sweetness that Prime and the other segments indulge in every day? And yet in his mind and body, your coldness from long ago still permeates him. From when you weren’t even able to respond to his words. Before you can notice something is wrong, he tentatively places his hand on your back, making sure his fingers do not twitch from how starved he is for you.

And then your days with Zeta officially began.

—

Rather quickly into your attempt to understand Zeta, the most important thing for you was to get to know him. Talk with him. Figure him out. You found that this task was difficult yet simple at the same thing. Zeta answered your question concisely as you expected him to, but… that was it. He was to the point and nothing else, not the conversationalist like his other segments. It left you with a lot of gaps to fill. Especially since you had no exact idea of what era of Dottore’s life he was from.

But still, you enjoyed your time with Zeta.

You learned that his area of research was medicine, creating and modifying new types for the Fatui’s use. But more importantly, he helped to create medicine for you. You didn’t expect that - you thought only Prime would do such a thing, but Zeta was incredibly skilled. You learned that he did indeed work with no one else at all, having “no interest in dealing with them,” according to the segment.

You also learned that he was immensely attentive toward you, especially when your illness seemed to affect you the most. His eyes followed you when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, examining your body language and expression. If you were dizzy, he’d force you to sit down. If you looked to be more tired than usual, he’d make you go to sleep. The most you had heard him speak so fluently without stopping was when you had the “audacity” to still visit him while you were running a slight fever.

Well, perhaps you should have expected that considering the others would react in a similar way, but you felt as though he was especially serious about it. While the other segments could entertain your excuses to an extent, he wouldn’t. It made you wonder if his stronger feelings had someone to do with his personality. You felt bad for worrying him… perhaps you should try to cheer him up. Actually, making him smile too. Yes, that would do nicely. But how? You weren’t sure if the tricks (more like a bombardment of affection) would work on Zeta. Still, there was no harm in trying.

I. plan a - attack with affection!

“Zeta~ whatcha doing?” You had come up from behind him as he sat in his chair, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Zeta instantly takes note of your warm breath on his neck, the rise and fall of your chest, but ignores his longing for more.

“Reviewing the effects of the medicine on the others,” he replied, neglecting to mention who exactly was being tested on. You sighed, enjoying the fluff of his hair, but slightly disappointed at how he didn’t seem to be fazed whenever you touched him.

“Don’t you think you should take a little break? You’re always working,” you advised as you kissed the stoic man on the cheek. Pretty much all of the segments were constantly working or engrossed with their research, but many found some time to slack off with you, even for a few minutes. Well, it was more like you forced them to do so, but that was beside the point.

“I do not have time to spare with such things,” is Zeta’s immediate answer. All this annoying Fatui work he has to do takes up so much of his time when he should be focusing on helping to cure you. It’s extremely irritating for the segment, but of course, you don’t know that. You whine a bit, nipping his cheek to get him to reconsider, but the consistent somber look remains.

“At least let me keep you company,” you said. Before he could protest or accept, you had already pulled his chair out to make yourself comfortable on his lap. This technique always worked, tested multiple times by you. You had to fluster him at least a little bit! His deep red eyes bore into yours before he sighed.

“If that is what you would like,” he said as he continued to work on analyzing the records in front of him. You were content with lying against him, head braced against his shoulders. At some point, you noticed his hand now rested on your thigh and then moved up your body, which you delighted in.

“You are very warm,” Zeta finally commented after a while of silence.

“Me? Warm?” You were a bit surprised because you were used to being told that you were pretty cold, mostly due to your illness, but Zeta didn’t seem to think so, considering how his arm was snaked around you firmly.

“Yes. Quite warm.” At least compared to all those centuries ago, Zeta thought. You looked at him curiously.

“Do you like it?”

“I do. It helps with focusing.” You almost giggled at that. Here you were trying to distract him, but he said you were helping him focus.

“Then let me warm you up some more,” you whispered, hands slithering up to his shoulders as you pressed your lips against his neck, leaving long kisses down to his collarbone. You then kissed his cheek, trying to gauge his reaction. Still, he wasn’t even blushing, as composed as always… well, a lot of the other segments were like this too, but you hoped you’d be able to see a similar expression as when you teased Alpha.

“Come on Zeta, don’t I deserve some kisses too?” You teased, as your lips got dangerously close to his, nearly brushing each other. You felt him stiffen up at how close you were, his eyes struggling to stay focused on his papers.

“Is it ever possible for you to show restraint?” You smiled at the snarkiness - even though Zeta was more a lot subdued than the others, you still could be a victim of his sarcasm.

“Of course I can. Just not when it comes to you. You’re just too cute,” you said before locking your lips with his, finally indulging in such pleasure. At first, Zeta’s lack of response made you worry that he didn’t want it, but soon enough he kissed you back. It was gentle at first, a bit unnoticeable, but after a few moments, he kissed back harder, catching you off guard. You pulled away, trying to regain your breath, but he then kissed you again, not letting you escape from his grasp. The kiss was greedy, and the way his fingers dug into your arms was as if he felt you would slip away if he didn’t hold onto you hard enough. Of course, you welcomed the feeling along with your beating heart, although you were speechless by the end of it, only staring at the segment with your mouth slightly ajar. Zeta had an amused glint, a refreshing look from his normally empty gaze.

“Why so surprised? Is this not what you asked for?”

“I- Well, yes, it was. And I am not disappointed,” you quickly replied, hoping to seem not too bothered by that sudden assault. Looks like he flustered you instead of you flustering him… but you know what? It was still a win!

“You know what this means, Zeta?” You looked at you silently, beckoning you to continue.

“Mission accomplished! I got you to take a little break, didn’t I?” You giggled at the success of your little plan, while Zeta’s eyes softened a tiny bit, the bags under his eyes looking a little less dark.

“... I guess you did.”

Plan A resulted in a semi-success and failure, but you think you’re a step closer to seeing a smile on Zeta’s face.

II. plan b - gift him something nice!

Gifts were always a good way to make someone smile. How could one not smile, after seeing someone else go out of their way to get something that was thoughtful? No one, that’s right, well, except for Dottore. Some of his segments, to be more specific. You remember quite well when you used to gift Dottore things in the Akademiya, he would always be suspicious of your ulterior motives. Thankfully, he’s changed now, because it would be difficult to have your partner of four hundred years wary of your intentions.

However, you were unaware of what kind of gifts Zeta would like. All the segments had their own preferences that you took into consideration, but you had only gotten to know Zeta recently, so you weren’t sure what he’d like yet. Should you cook for him? You could, but you had already given him a lot of tasty treats. You wanted to get something better for him. In the end, you simply decided to ask him.

“Zeta, what do you like?” You questioned, as you idly observed what he was writing. You think it was something about selling stuff to another Harbinger.

“What do I like?” He repeated. It was an odd question because he thought you’d know such things by now, but he still humored you. “Successful experiments, for one.” You giggled.

“I know that. I mean… if you had to receive something right now, what would it be? A gift, you could say. I could even make something for you!”

“A gift? That’s right, you used to be quite skilled with your hands,” Zeta reminisced about your past creations from when you were a student, more to himself rather than you from his expression, as he ran his longer fingers over the palm of your hands absentmindedly. A good pen that didn’t break would be nice, but he knew that was probably impossible.

“I do not require anything at this moment. There is no need to bother with it.” You hung your head in disappointment, which you should have expected, but you were unwilling to just give up like that.

For a while, you brainstormed. You thought for ages about what gift would be best for Zeta, and one day it hit you.

A picture frame.

Recently you had become knowledgeable about the “Kamera”, a device that took “pictures”, which were images that were captured permanently. It was fascinating to see yourself reflected back at you like that. Zeta liked to stare at you, his preferred method of communication to be honest. So would it not be a nice gift, a picture of you that he could look at whenever you weren’t around? And you could decorate the picture frame cutely! It was perfect! You were excited.

You didn’t bother asking another segment to take the picture for you, because you knew they’d get jealous if they found out what you were preparing for Zeta. You rather not have to think of over a dozen poses to do for each of them right now. You settled on a simple smile for the picture, placed some stickers along the frame that definitely didn’t match the vibe of Zeta’s office, and then put it there one day for him to come and see. You decided not to say anything, wanting to see his reaction.

As soon as he walked into his office, he immediately noticed you lying down, poorly pretending to be reading, and then his eyes wandered to the new addition on his desk. Zeta sighed at your determination, a trait he did admire about you even if you were annoying about it sometimes. Taking a seat, he then looked at the gift you had presented him with. The picture of you glowed back at him, a pretty smile that belonged on your face. It reminded him of the smiles you had back in the Akademiya. There were also the heart stickers that you plastered along the frame, that was simply so you. [Name].

“It is good. You seem adept with a Kamera, which is not surprising.” Your heart stuttered at the praise.

“It is fun to use. We should take some pictures together! I need to add them to my scrapbook.”

Zeta only hummed in response, his mood unusually better than usual, and glanced at the photo for a few more seconds. He then moved it to a better position and returned to his work. You held back a smile.

Plan B was definitely a success!

III. plan c - make him laugh!

Something that always made you laugh was when Dottore or the segments laughed. You always found it captivating to see how different their laughs were. Segments like Alpha and Delta rarely laughed, and when they did, it was more like a scoff. Omega’s laugh, which was usually when he was amused, whether it was genuine or in a mocking way, always made your heart flutter. Beta’s laugh, where you joined in with his hee-hee-ho-hos. So naturally, you wondered how you would get Zeta to laugh. Yes, you knew that you hadn’t even gotten the segment to smile yet, but maybe getting him to laugh could be a step in that direction.

Should you pull out some of your favorite terrible and corny jokes? Well, that probably wouldn’t be very effective - those jokes only served to make you laugh at the segments’ disgusted and humorless expressions. Especially with a segment like Zeta, you think that for all of the loving looks he gave you, he might give you one that made you want to crawl into a hole.

Maybe he was ticklish? It was worth a try, actually - Zandy always ran away when you tried to tickle him, and when you tried to tickle Dottore back in the Akademiya, you think he nearly broke your arm. It didn’t work on the older segments, but maybe it would on Zeta!

On the day you put your plan into action, you were in the perfect position on his lap, examining the best spots on his body that could possibly be ticklish. His ears and neck, or perhaps you should just go for his sides instead. Your hands curled into his shirt automatically, fingers moving up to his side when Zeta spoke.

“I would prefer if you pulled these tricks on the others rather than me, especially when I’m working.” It took a few moments for you to process his words before you sat upright, trying to defend your innocence.

“Hey! I wasn’t going to do anything!” You said, pulling your hands away, but Zeta looked at you blankly.

“There are times when I cannot figure you out, and there are times when you are a very obvious person. This time is the latter.” You pouted at the half compliment, half insult as you snuggled into his shoulder in embarrassment, but Zeta spoke again.

“However, I recommend going for the neck if you are still insistent,” he said, and you immediately regained your energy as your hands gripped his shoulders, wandering dangerously close to his neck. “Though, I believe using your lips would be more effective,” Zeta added on, and you paused as you thought about what he was implying.

“... You’re just trying to get me to kiss you, aren’t you?”

“I am simply giving the answer you seek.”

“You know, you’re just lucky I like giving you kisses,” you mumbled, before giving in to his request. Well, that backfired, but this outcome wasn’t at all bad!

Still, it seems like Plan C resulted in a failure…

IV. plan d - try to discover the truth!

You’ve spent a while with Zeta by now, learning quite a bit about his likes and dislikes - how he didn’t have a preference for being kissed, satisfied with your soft lips being anywhere, how he hated being bothered by any other agents even if it was only occasionally. How his favorite places to kiss you were your wrists and chest, along with the hollow of your neck, exactly where your heartbeat was, and how he quickly became agitated if you showed even the slightest sign of discomfort from your illness.

You loved Zeta and all his little quirks.

But you still had little information as to why he was so dour all the time. It hurts your head sometimes, after listening to Beta’s exuberant rants or Omega’s effortless charisma or even Prime’s endless discussion of his latest research, to Zeta’s quietness that came with dull eyes staring at you. Sure, you had gotten him to open up a bit, but it was just too strange for you to let go of. Maybe you could just ask him, but you didn’t want to be rude… but if you wanted to make him smile, you wanted to know why he was so serious yet so down all the time…

The next best solution was to investigate his stuff. Yes, it wasn’t the nicest thing ever, but you needed answers. You had already glimpsed around Zeta’s office a bit, because you liked to help him wherever you could, and you didn’t see anything that could be a clue. So the next best place was his room. Granted, all the segments’ rooms were pretty bland and empty, but it was still worth a shot.

After you woke up from your coma, the segments started leaving their personal rooms unlocked, because you loved to wander into them and take naps on their beds. Even though they hardly visited their own rooms, it was a nice surprise to come back to the sight of you sleeping peacefully, definitely falling asleep to the scent of their shirt. And it wasn’t like anyone else could find the location of their quarters. Therefore, it wasn’t hard to slip into Zeta’s room.

Of course, his room was practically a copy of all the other rooms. Regardless, your eyes swept through the room, landing on the desk with drawers (because for some reason, they still could work in their own rooms.) That would be a good place to look. Taking a seat at the desk, you found nothing but boring reports, talking about some Patient E43 or X12 or whatever, nothing you were interested in.

Pulling open the drawers, some more loose papers were scattered about, none catching your eye, until you came across a notebook stashed toward the back. It was oddly familiar to the one you remember reading from when you first woke up, that you found in Prime’s office. Curiously, you picked it up and began to skim through the writing, taking note of the date that was from around two hundred years ago.

“It has been centuries since I last heard [Name]’s voice. I must keep replaying their annoying laugh and nagging tone in my head before I forget how they sound in this deafening silence.”

“Pierro spoke to me today. He didn’t say anything outright, but I knew what he meant. My research has slowed, but can’t these other idiots can operate without me? I have important matters to attend to.”

The entries went on, and on, and on, all detailing numerous failures and unsuccessful attempts of Dottore’s. Then, you got to the ones where the date got closer to the current time, a couple of decades ago.

“Even though my hands brush their skin every day, I seem to still be unaccustomed to the coldness of their body.”

“Their pulse is always the same. A dreadful, slow, heartbeat, that is nearly nonexistent. I despise it. And yet no matter how many trials I run, it remains the same.”

You continued to flip through the notebook that detailed so much about what he did in your coma, unethical actions that bordered on desperation. Even if he didn’t directly say his feelings, you could feel them flowing through you. Suddenly, Zeta’s nature made complete sense. It was due to the overwhelming failure he felt, even guilt, you’d say. Even you thought it was an uncharacteristic thing for him to feel - you rarely ever saw Prime display guilt unless it was a serious argument. But it was the only explanation, from these entries at least. Your heart suddenly began to hurt. You caused Zeta all this pain, in a way…

“Are you finished?” The voice now made your heart spike with surprise as you slammed the notebook shut, scrambling up from your seat to see none other than the segment, looking at you with an expression that seemed to say he wasn’t really surprised.

Now, this was just the most classic, cliche thing that would happen in one of the romance novels that always made you mad, but now that it was happening to you, you felt immense embarrassment.

“I- um, well,” you sputtered, trying to find an explanation, but there was none. “I’m sorry, Zeta. I’m sorry.” You avoided his gaze while he sighed.

“Go ahead. Ask what you’ve wanted to ask since the beginning.”

“Did you write this?” Your voice was quiet, the sadness layering over it thickly, as you put the notebook back where it was. No need for it anymore when you had Zeta in front of you.

“Yes and no. The more recent writing is from me. The earlier ones are from Prime himself, though I suppose you could consider it me as well since I am him from that stage of life,” he said as he began to walk toward you, until he was standing in front of you, taking note of your downcast look.

“Zeta… all of this, I don’t…” The vast emotion you felt from the writing made your head swing because you never thought Dottore could feel so… strongly, in that kind of way.

“Those fools from above tried to take you away from me… they tested me,” he breathed in your scent, finger tracing along your neck to feel your pulse. You tried to ignore how quickly you were heating up by the close proximity. “But they failed. Of course they did.” The malice in his voice then dissipated as he stepped away, gritting his teeth, and you already missed his warmth.

“But I…” You quickly interrupted him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it tightly.

“You did not fail me, Zeta. Don’t say that,” you murmured as you brought his hand closer to your face, nuzzling it to your cheek. “I’m alive and breathing in front of you, aren’t I? That’s proof enough of how hard you worked. You don’t need to worry anymore,” you tried to comfort him.

“It is not enough,” he snapped, leaving you silent, as he then realized he didn’t mean to direct that tone toward you, stroking your cheek as a quiet apology. “I should have been able to wake you up sooner. I should have been able to cure you by now. If I was successful, things wouldn’t be the way they are now.”

Your heart couldn’t help but ache at the segment’s pain. You had no clue that he or Dottore himself felt this guilty when you were sleeping. The only thing you could do was hug Zeta, enveloping him in your arms. It was then you realized that even though you wished you could rid him of his sense of failure and guilt right now, you knew you couldn’t. It was a key characteristic of his at this phase… so you could only promise him something.

“Zeta… I can’t change the past or how you felt back then… but I can promise that my heart will never stop beating for you ever again. My arms will be here when you need them, I’ll talk to you so much you’ll miss the quiet, and I’ll make sure I keep you so warm you’ll overheat. I’ll never keep you waiting ever again,” you said gently but firmly, fingers curling into his shirt, hoping your words would reassure him a little bit. Zeta remained motionless for a few moments, and you worried that you said something wrong, but he then wrapped his arms around you too, holding you tightly.

“I will hold you to that, [Name],” he said, his voice still tinged with his regrets but also held something a bit softer.

“Of course.”

“There will be consequences if you go back on your word.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“Yes, darling. You need not worry again.”

“Hmph…” Despite his gruff words, the way he held you said it all.

Plan D seemed like a failure on the surface, but you think you were pretty successful.

V. plan e - get a smile on that face!

It had been a little while since your numerous encounters with Zeta, and it was from then that you found out how clingy he could be. Nuzzling into your soft body, holding onto you when you said you were leaving, not wanting to relinquish you to the others. Now that you knew what he went through, you easily understood why though. However, you didn’t mention it at all unless you wanted to be ignored.

And now that you had gotten him to speak a bit more, you were blessed with the usual Dottore you knew and loved - more quips and banter filled the room, instead of the once-normal silence. Still, he liked the quiet between you two better, preferring to observe everything about you and take note of every change you went through, no matter how tiny it was. In a way, it made you more embarrassed than when the other segments would fluster you with words.

More importantly, you were able to become a bit more skilled in convincing Zeta to take breaks. You didn’t want him to constantly work on either his Fatui duties or your medicine, even though he was made to do so. So now you had convinced him to take merely a ten-minute break on your bed after he had finished a nightly check-up. It was always interesting to see how his touch would be fluttering and unsure at first, and then become firmer as he continued to take your presence in. And right now, he was taking in how you were fiddling with his fingers and playing with them. A sure sign that you were thinking of something.

“Is something wrong?” The blue-haired man questioned, as he ran his hand through your messy hair. Zeta liked seeing you like this, even if you tried to shoo him away from how disheveled you looked. It was much more preferable than seeing your unsettlingly perfect appearance and unmoving body, even if you kicked him in your sleep sometimes.

You sighed as you then turned on your side to face him, squinting your eyes at him carefully. Out of nowhere, you then moved your hands to the sides of his face, squeezing his cheeks in an effort to pull up his lips. Of course, it was over as quickly as it started as Zeta quickly removed your hands, scowling at you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He said, not appreciative of the sudden tugging of his face. You only pouted as he held your hands hostage.

“I’ve spent this much time with you, and I still have yet to see you smile…” You buried your face into the soft pillows to lessen your disappointment.

“A smile?” The segment scoffed. “Is that what you were after the whole time? How meaningless.”

“It’s not dumb! It’s very important to me,” you protested. “Please, can I get a smile? A grin? Even an annoying smirk would do!” You pleaded with Zeta, seeing as it was your last resort, considering all your other plans didn’t work. Unfortunately, it looked like it wasn’t going to work on him in the slightest.

“No.”

“With sprinkles and cherries on- mhph!”

“Go to sleep,” he interrupted you as he pressed a finger to your lips, silencing your plea, before getting off the bed, already returning to his work. Sadly, your arms weren’t long enough to drag him back in time.

“Zeta,” you whined, wanting to indulge in his embrace some more although the blankets were already quite warm. “Don’t go so quickly.”

“Your eyes are drooping. The medicine is kicking in, so go to sleep,” his dry response made you grumble, but you knew he was looking out for you in his own way.

“Fine… good night, Zeta. Love you.” The segment had no response other than switching off the lights, and letting you get your rest.

You fell asleep thinking that hopefully, Plan F would finally get him to smile, not aware of the small smile that graced his lips.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #dottore fluff #genshin dottore x reader #genshin dottore #dottore angst #il dottore #genshin il dottore #fatui harbingers x reader #fatui x reader #zandik x reader #genshin impact dottore #dottore genshin #genshin impact x you #fragile reader <3 #divider by cafekitsune

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bunnys-kisses · 25 days

Note

hi bunny. can i get a sugar pie and blueberry bars with a side of mocha coffee and pina colada for alex albon please xx

bakery menu

want to submit your own order? then hit up the menu! there are a ton of items to order! so please, submit your orders in!! as for this anon, thank you so much! i think that albon is an under appreciated driver, so to give him some more love is is great! thank you for the amazing combination of prompts! enjoy!! order up!

sugar pie (“gonna let daddy hear ya?”) + blueberry bars (“gonna make you a mamma and you're gonna make me a daddy.”) + mocha coffee (breeding kink) + pina colada (pregnancy) served by alex albon (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, slight daddy kink, breeding kink, pregnancy, alex is a sweetie and spicy, dirty talk

alex albon. he was a superstar, with his good looks and charming personality. you and alex were a power couple, fans thought you two were a good fit.

you could recall a million and one things that he had done for you over the time you had been together. one of the fondest memories you had of him were when your feet were killing you while in heels. and he gave you his shoes and walked home in his socks. you were a priority to him. and you loved him so deeply

but sometimes, in the privacy of your shared home. he could run his mouth like a motor.

the gaps between races were often filled with lingering moments of intimacy. it wasn't odd that the first thing an f1 driver would want to do when they got home was to just make love to their partner. days, sometimes weeks apart, the intensity could be overwhelming.

“gonna make you a mamma and you're gonna make me a daddy.” alex smiled at you before he took his t-shirt off his torso, exposing his toned body to you. the sight made your heart stutter.

you were both tired and a little gross. you had spent all day in your pajamas waiting until alex got home and he had been on a multi-hour flight and then stuck in traffic to get back to your shared apartment.

but neither of your cared.

you had told him the morning of that it was the start of your ovulation cycle and to alex, the longer it took him to get home, the smaller the window was. the two of you wanted to start a family.

you took the baggy shirt onto you, you could feel your lover's gaze on your body as the shirt hit the floor. followed after were alex's sleeping shorts that you borrowed (stole) and eventually you were left in a bra and panties. alex got himself out of his jeans, and his socks. soon his underwear was on the ground and as were yours.

"gonna let daddy hear ya?" he teased as he patted his thigh, enticing you to come closer.

you giggled, "oh yeah, daddy. come and give me a baby." you pushed him onto his back and he got further up the bed to give you room to straddle his waist.

he loved the sight of you on top, he held onto your hips when you grasped his cock and got yourself situated onto it. you slowly sank down and groaned when you felt it up into your stomach. he held onto you a little tighter and let out a soft groan.

"holy shit."

"i know. daddy's got you." he chuckled a little, with that smile that melted the hearts of millions.

you felt a flutter in your stomach. you loved him, everything about him. the perfect lover, and eventually the perfect father. you braced yourself on either side of him and really started to work yourself onto his cock.

his breathing shuddered as he admired you. he said, "i love you. i love you so much, you're perfect." he held on a little tighter, like a lifeline.

"i sort of like it when you call me daddy, sounds good when you say it." he chuckled as he rubbed your soft hips, letting you take him all. he met your pace as you gained confidence with it, he could feel the blood rush to his head from the feeling of himself buried inside of you.

you were perfect. you had been his number one cheerleader since the beginning. he remembered when you first met, it was the first week since he signed with formula one. and you accidentally dropped your entire ice coffee into his lap when you tripped in the coffee shop.

while you begged for him to send you the dry cleaning bill he just told you that you could pay for dinner. and it was like when thunder met lightning, the moon met the stars,

and now you two were going to have a family.

"call me daddy again." he said softly.

you moved your hips up and down, letting alex meet it. your hands ran across his toned chest, admiring every inch. you said, with love in your voice, "daddy."

he groaned a little bit, "oh, i'm going to be thinking about that when i'm back on the road." he squeezed your hips a little tighter and felt a leap in his chest.

"you're perfect." you giggled, you meant it from the bottom of your heart, "daddy."

"not as perfect as you." the two of you started to move faster. the heat between you two felt like a heavy force. you moaned and he almost whimpered.

perfect pieces of a whole puzzle.

his pace lost is rhythm as he chased after his orgasm, you were the same. he could feel the heat blooming in his chest as he moved up and down against you. he panted heavily, needing air as he moved against you. you held onto his shoulders as you continued to bounce on his cock. your back arched as you held onto him, your hole fluttered around his cock as you climaxed.

you tensed up and felt the knot in your stomach unwind as the pleasure washed over you. but regardless of how intense the feeling of the climax was, you continued to ride him. you held on tightly as you made sure that alex got to finish. after all, he was the other half of this. if you came, he came.

he panted and praised you as you continued to work his cock. he swallowed harshly before he felt it all come a head and climaxed. he made sure that he got it as far as it could go.

you stopped and then simply dropped onto his chest. your cheek against his collarbone as his cock slipped out of you. you felt really good, you both did. he wrapped his strong arms around you and kissed the top of your head.

"i think we should get something to eat."

you nodded, coming back to your senses, "yeah, that sounds great." you laid beside him and snuggled up naked. you kissed his cheek and asked, "take out?"

"you read my mind."

"is he... crushing you?" george asked as he looked down at you on the couch.

you were resting against the arm of the couch with alex's hand across the slope in your middle. he was snuggled up next to you while in his racing uniform.

you were only a few months pregnant, but alex couldn't get enough of you. somehow you getting pregnant was the good luck charm he needed, because he seemed to be racking up the points in the second half of the season.

you looked at george and shook your head, "nope. he's pretty comfortable though." you chuckled before you ran your fingers through alex's hair.

"a few more minutes." alex said softly as he pressed his cheek further up against your swollen middle. he loved you, he loved the kid you were having.

you laughed a little bit, "he's not going anywhere. but if you could could you get another bottle of water. it's hot today!"

alex was immediately seated up right once more, "you should've said something, love. i'll go get that for you." and then got up to go get you another bottle of water.

you chuckled then called, "thank you, honey!!" <3

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mickyschumacher · 1 year

Text

𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐂𝐀𝐊𝐄 .ೃ࿐

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you and lando have a pretty healthy relationship; communication is a breeze between the two of you. and while that seems good, it doesn't help lando is horny 24/7. even the beach isn't safe from him.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ (minors dni), established relationship, some fluff, blowjob, slight handjob, breastplay, poor humour LMAO aka old creepy mens' dicks, no time concept lol, basically lando time!

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: bf!lando norris x fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 3k+

𝐀/𝐍: now playing: ice cream cake – red velvet! OKAY YES IK I HAVE REQUESTS BUT I HAD WRITER'S BLOCK TILL THIS OKAY? is it not obvious by the word count? 😭 alexa, play 'easy on me' by adele :( also new banners after i messed around one day! ♡︎ // proof-read-ish!

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

⋆ •°. ｡ .°• ⋆

You had met Lando two years ago purely on accident. You were at a coffee shop in Brighton, he was visiting a friend there. You ordered a hot chocolate and he had ordered a long black. Somehow the both of you had swapped cups and were wincing at how sweet or bitter the drink was.

Lando had turned his cup around to see who the cup belonged to. Upon seeing your name, unlike a normal person who would ask the barista for another cup or a refund, he had shouted your name across the room.

Lucky for you, you were the only other customer there since it was a slow day. Nevertheless, you looked up in shock. Who yelled out your name? Why? How did they know your name?

You actually purposely avoided eye-contact with his table just in case he was some weird guy. But Lando got your attention after telling you from across that room that you had some sweet taste in drinks.

You raised a brow. Was this some sort of new catcall you didn't know about? But then you had caught the barista's handwriting on 'your' cup. Lando, Long Black.

You scrunched your nose at the cup and looked at him. "You're quite bitter."

It was at that point when Lando had got a clear shot of your face and found his heart racing faster than normal. You were pretty, no gorgeous, no beautiful, no... surreal. Your face was contorted into a grimaced expression at his order which he found amusing. You looked like, what he still claims to this day, part of the shop's couch. The couch was brown and you were wearing a brown sweater.

Honestly, Lando couldn't find the whole situation anymore endearing. So with whatever confidence he had leftover, he walked up to your table and smoothly asked, "Can I get you a sweeter one with my number?"

Now this was when you first had probably got a look of Lando. He had a certain... boyish charm, if you will. The wide grin, sparkling blue eyes, face dotted with the odd freckle or beauty mark. To say he was attractive was an understatement. He looked like one of the main characters in the rom-coms you would binge when you needed a pick me-up.

You said yes. Obviously.

And here you were, two years later. At the beach with Lando, Charles, Carlos, Daniel, and their partners. You were all caught up with F1, always available for Lando. Your perspective of him had changed quite a lot since you had met him. In a good way, of course.

You initially saw him how a lot most of his fans and the media see him. A comedian by day and a moodmaker by night. Always smiling and cheery. Positive and optimistic. But the reality was that Lando struggled with the mental and physical aspects of F1. He didn't always have the confidence and he was stressed and depressed.

But as Lando always said in his interviews, he had found you.

'The best thing that had ever happened to him,' according to Lando himself.

Anyone could see that the two of you loved each other with your entire beings. Neither of you left any stone unturned in your relationship. Most people were jealous of your relationship. The drivers, the media, and especially the fans.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

━━━━━━━━━━━

One thing about Lando that you had learned quite soon after your first time together was that Lando was insatiable. He was sex-driven, horny, full of lust, aroused... all the words in the dictionary for a man like this... 24/7.

One day, you asked him why. Lando only responded with pulling you closer to him, leaving a trail of kisses from your jaw and down to your neck, and saying "You."

You wouldn't say anything did it for him. No in fact, it was specific things that he couldn't take his mind off once he thought about it.

Take right now for example.

Carlos had decided to treat everyone to ice creams, ice lollies, and juice on your trip to the beach in Playa de Bolonia. Innocently and naively, you had chosen the pink ice lolly out the chilly bin. Lando had also not thought anything of it.

Rather Lando had being eyeing you with every spare glance as you were wearing his favourite bikini, the one he had bought you for Christmas as a prank gift in the nice British winter thinking it had been the funniest thing ever. Obviously, he thought you were going to were it but another thing you had learned was that Lando's humour quite often was unmatched and spontaneous.

The bikini itself was simple. An orange, of course, two-piece. The top was held up by two moderately thin straps and hugged your breasts quite nicely. The bikini bottom was as normal as it could get, clinging to your hips. On top of it, you wore a white thin-laced cotton coverup, loosely tied together.

You would say it was an average beach look. Lando would disagree. It was as if God himself had carved you and decided to put you on Earth as reparations for the bad in the world.

But back to the point.

As mentioned, Lando hadn't really thought of the ice lolly. He was too busy trying to get Daniel back with a water gun. Like you said, boyish. It wasn't until he had finally got him back and decided to go sit down with you and grab himself some ice cream.

But when Lando sat down and looked at you, his mind had suddenly turned into shambles. There you were. Under the shade, peaks of sun shining on your skin, holding that pink ice lolly to your mouth.

Lando wasn't quite sure what was worse. The faint pink colour similar to his cock or the way your tongue travelled down the length of it to collect the melting sugary liquid. Or how your lips pressed up on the tip of the ice and pressed down to take an inch more of it into your mouth as if it was his own cock.

To make matters even worse for him, you had failed to capture some of the melting droplets. Lando keenly watched as they fell to your bare part of your chest and even had landed right where he knew your nipple was. His eyes widened ever so slightly and his breath paced when you frowned at the event and used your finger to wipe the sweet liquid off your skin and into your mouth. Some of it had gone too far down, probably pooling near your breasts like he imagined.

What sent him overboard? When you had spotted the stain on your bikini top over your nipple and attempted to rub it away, only making the stain worse and a small bump for your pebbled nipple.

Lando gulped nervously, pants incredibly tight. He closed his eyes and held his hands over his newly-formed hard on, wishing that his mind wasn't full of everything he had just seen. Your lips... your breasts... the way your eyes looked down at the popsicle... if only that was his cock....

"Lando? Dude, do you need to go to the bathroom?" Pierre's voice cut through the air.

Lando snapped his eyes opened and your eyes looked over to your boyfriend.

"W-What?" The British male queried with slight panic. He was not getting caught with a hard-on in front of his friends... there was no way in Earth...

Pierre raised a brow, gesturing to his pants. "You're ice cream is all melted. You need to take your eyes off Y/N at least sometimes, Lando, otherwise you'll never finish... your ice cream, that is," He teased.

You looked down at Lando's pants where his hands laid, covered in the white vanilla ice cream-turned liquid. You and everyone let out an amused laugh at Pierre's joke, shaking your head.

You stood up from the sandy grass you were sat on, dusting yourself off. You extended your hand to Lando, "Come on. I bought extra stuff in the car. Honestly, I thought you were going to lose your trunks by Daniel pantsing you in the water but I guess not."

A howl of laughter came from Charles and Carlos while Daniel cursed himself for not doing it.

Lando blinked, pulling the finger at his fellow drivers. He sighed, grabbing your hand and awkwardly standing up from the area, managing to cover up his bulge swiftly.

The two of you headed to the car as Lando briefly threw out the sticky wrapper and stick into a bin nearby. You opened the boot of the car, grabbing his trunks. "Jesus, could it get any hotter today?" You asked, closing the back door.

"It really couldn't," Lando mused, walking hand-in-hand with you, making you release a groan.

"Lando... now my hand's all sticky, you idiot," You complained, trying to pull apart from his hand.

Lando rolled his eyes, arriving to the empty males changing room. He was about to enter when he saw you stand outside and not follow him. "What are you doing? Come in."

You narrowed your eyes. "It's a male changing room. I'm not going in. What if there's some old man trying to change? I do not need to be scarred for life. My DMs is enough, thanks."

"First of all, there's no one here," Lando stated before shouting a loud 'Hello' into the room, making you redden with embarassment. "See? Secondly, I'm sorry, let me get this straight, your DMs are full of old men's dicks?" Lando looked at you incredulously.

You grinned, shrugging. "It's called being a woman, Lando. You wouldn't get it."

Lando rolled his eyes once again, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you into the changing room.

The room was the opposite of most changing rooms. It was tiled well, clean and fresh as opposed to musty, damp and with paint-chipped walls. There were also no leaky taps or showers or even any graffiti. It was slightly comforting to know that at least people respected some of their public rooms, even in Madrid.

"Wait, also, what if I get old? You don't want to see my shrivelled dick? It should turn you on!" Lando asked with a dramatic gasp.

You looked at your boyfriend through the mirror with a dumfounded expression. Turning, you threw his trunks at his face. "Go change," You laughed, shaking your head.

Lando grinned underneath the trunks as you turned the tap on to wash your sugar-coated hands.

Lando had removed his trunks, left naked with his hard, reddened cock slapping against his stomach, and was about to put on the new ones when a thought passed his mind.

You paused your hand-washing and froze when you felt Lando's arms wrap around your stomach, pulling you close to his bare body. "Lando," You yelped, feeling a shiver cross your body, "What are you doing?"

Lando peered down at you through his thick eyelashes. He tucked his chin into your shoulder, placing a brief kiss. "What?" He asked innocently, "I'm just washing my hands. I can't get the new ones dirty either."

You watched through the mirror as he pressed his body into you, washing his hands under the tap, ridding the tackiness on his hands.

You sucked in a sharp breath, feeling his cock push into your backside. It was bare, you realised, as the heat spread into you. Your eyes flickered to Lando through the mirror, squinting at him. He wasn't...

Lando caught your eyes staring hard at him. "Don't look at me like that," He whispered into your ear, a loose grin hanging on his face. His wet fingers travelled to the poorly tied lace coverup you wore, undoing the knot with ease. The coverup fell against your shoulders, revealing your bikini and body in all it's glory.

"You have to clean up as well," Lando shrugged, eyes fixated on you through the mirror. "You made a mess," He murmured, wetting his fingers with the water once more before placing it against your chest.

You pressed your lips tightly, feeling his fingers drive down your skin and underneath your bikini top. Lando's fingers brushed your hardened nipples, making you shudder under his touch. His fingers trailed across your breasts, wiping away any of that sticky residue that you had missed. Bringing his fingers to his mouth and taking a wide lick of them, Lando grinned at you. "You know... I can't stop picturing you sucking my dick like that ice lolly. Never thought I would be jealous of an ice lolly."

You couldn't help but smile in amusement. You pulled away from his hold and turned to face your boyfriend. "Yeah?" You hummed, hands trailing down his chest. Lando had been working out a lot more these days for F1; compared to before his abs had become more prominent and toned. You loved Lando no matter what he looked like, but there was something about the way his skin flushed when you touched his torso.

Lando's breath hitched as your hand had ever so naturally found it's way to his cock. His cock, if you could say it, was pretty. It was average in length and with a nice, filling girth, stretching all of your holes wide.

Your fingers brushed across the tip of his head, just grazing his slit. You could feel Lando jolt in your hands as he muttered, “Fuck.”

You opened your mouth, letting a drop of saliva full into his cock. Hand wrapped around it, you gently rubbed natural lube up and down his shaft. Lando’s jaw clenched at the warm liquid nestling around his cock, letting a sharp exhale through gritted teeth.

Slowly you sunk down to your knees. The tiled floor was cold against your burning skin but it didn’t matter: you were too focused on what was right in front of you; cockdrunk. Your tongue darted out to swipe your lips before pressing a light kiss to his cock. Lando could feel himself twitch, aching to be in your mouth.

He watched as your lips opened like they did on that ice lolly. Going down in his cock, your lips stretched and your mouth hollowed.

Lando groaned at the warmth surrounding his cock. He bit down on his lip, watching his cock disappear into your mouth. Your eyes were on him as you sucked him, teeth barely grazing his skin.

"Fuck, you look so pretty like this, Y/N," Lando sighed out, "On your knees for me. I can't imagine the mess you made between those legs of yours, hmm?"

You moaned in response, sending a vibration around his cock. You briefly pulled away from him, making Lando grunt in slight annoyance at the loss. "These lips, my pussy.... all yours," You winked at him before returning to his cock.

Lando tensed at your words, letting a grin overtake him. "Yeah? Let's see about that throat, baby?" His hands reached your half dry and half damp, salty hair. Wrapping those long tresses around his hand and wrist, he tightened his grip. He could feel you open up your throat as he guided his cock down the tighter tunnel.

Lando's rasping groan made you clench your thighs, holding a barrier to the wetness leaking at of you. You could feel him begin to move his hips, beginning to push his cock into your throat.

Fighting the urge to gag around his cock, you tried hard to relax your cheeks and mouth, allowing every inch of him to be seated in your throat.

He flickered his eyes to you. Watching you take him in his mouth was a pleasure of its own. Your big eyes were glassy with tears of arousal and a haze of lust, sweat and saliva lingered at every edge of your skin, and your lips were puffy and red. Trailing his eyes further down, he spotted your bare neck in dire need of kisses, but that wasn't the most striking thing about it. It was the slight bulge of his cock in your throat making it's presence known.

Jesus...

Lando instinctively closed his eyes upon feeling your hands touch his balls. You rubbed them gently, feeling your head bob at an increased rate to match the sudden pace of Lando's cock in your throat.

"Fuck, fuck... I..." Lando moaned. "I'm gonna cum!" Lando hissed out, feeling a familiar bubbling feeling overcome. His thrusts become harder and faster, your nose flushed with his skin.

His moans became irregular and higher, chasing his release. "Fuck...." A guttural groan fell from his lips. Hot, salty white strips of his cum coated the inside of your mouth, swirling around after each drop was sucked from your lips. Almost painfully, Lando removed himself from your mouth. His chest rose up and down as he breathed out heavily.

An admiring smile came from Lando while he pulled you up to meet his face. He pushed your sweaty hair back. "That mouth of yours is evil," He narrowed his eyes playfully.

"You should shut me up then," You quipped back, sticking out your tongue that still had his cum on it.

Lando's eyes sparkled with amusement before he brought his lips to yours, darting his tongue into your mouth. The urgency in the action was understated. God, he could taste himself in you. His hands encapsulated your waist, flushing your barely clothed body to close his naked one. Your own hands travelled everywhere across his chest as the two of you kissed each other.

The muffled moans from you made Lando want to hear them out loud. Slowly he moved from your lips to your jaw. "Let me hear you, baby," He breathed out, placing smaller kisses as he reached your neck.

You let out a small whimper, neck tilting so Lando could get more access. Lando grinned at the sight of your bare neck, leaving small little nibbles across your skin. His lips eventually became settled in an area between your ear and collarbone, beginning to suck at your warmth.

"Lando," You moaned, "No, the others will realise."

Your refutes were ill-attempted even for yourself. You were dazed at the suction of his lips. His nose buried into your neck while he created a fresh layer of purple against your sun-kissed skin.

Lando released himself from your neck, eyeing down his creation with a smirk. "There. If they couldn't tell from your hair, they'll definitely know now."

You narrowed your eyes, turning to the mirror only for your eyes to widen in shock. "Jesus fucking Christ, Lando," You peered at the big purple brown splotch on your skin. "As if the 20 minutes we've spent here wasn't enough," You whined.

Lando laughed softly, standing behind you with his arms around your waist and chin resting on your head. "Well... if you make it through the shame, I can't wait to properly fuck you when we get home. You must know how much I love the way you look when I’m inside you."

Your head fell against his chest with a pout. "Why not now?"

Lando grinned before pressing a kiss to your head "Like you said... it's been 20 minutes."

#mickyschumacher #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 x you #f1 imagine #formula 1 #f1 smut #lando norris fanfic #lando norris smut #lando norris x reader #lando norris

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merakiui · 6 days

Text

promising young man.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, one-sided student/teacher relationship, obsession, dark thoughts, jealousy, delusion, brief descriptions of blood/gore, violence, death, murder, brief nsfw note - riddle's perfect world comes crashing down with the arrival of foreign exchange student azul ashengrotto.

He meets him in Intro to Psych.

Azul Ashengrotto struggles to parse English, but he’s dressed like a businessman with his pressed suit and leather Oxfords. The only thing that reveals his status as a student is the black backpack he carries to class. Riddle’s seen him around campus a handful of times. It’s hard to miss him when he seems to throw himself into social circles with practiced grace.

This is the first time he’s ever had class with him, though, and so now he gets to see him in a classroom setting. There isn’t much about him that immediately strikes Riddle as odd. He’s well-dressed and prompt with a polite tongue. Every time he speaks in his thick accent, the one that just commands admiration and attention, that tiny Italian flag pinned to the strap of his bag becomes even more apparent.

Riddle’s not sure what he’s doing in this class. Perhaps he’s aiming to study law as well. He’d hoped to find more people with similar academic hobbies and interests and, while he’s yet to form any lasting bonds, he’s been wondering what sort of person Azul is.

On the first day of class, he introduced himself with confidence: “Buongiorno, amici. I am Azul. I look forward to the year with all of you.”

Though the structure and pronunciation of English proved awkward in his mouth, that didn’t stop him from opening himself to others. He’s friendly and outgoing, always welcoming conversation when it’s thrown his way. Riddle finds it impressive. If he were in Azul’s shoes, he’s certain he’d feel just a little lost attending school in a new country, far from home, surrounded by people who speak a completely different language. But Azul is resourceful, a dab hand at communication despite the barrier in vernacular. Perhaps that’s where his charm comes from.

Riddle thought the two of them might get along.

But then Azul proved academically formidable, and then you began to pick his brain after class, during time that was specifically reserved for Riddle so that he could discuss psychology with you.

So now Riddle sits in his seat, impatiently awaiting his chance.

“The law over in here is fascinating,” Azul says, leaning closer as you show him something on the desktop computer.

“What’s it like where you’re from?”

“Mm. How to explain… The law is…”

“It follows a civil law tradition,” Riddle pipes up, casually flipping a page in his textbook. He does it for show. He’s aware it probably makes him look like an arrogant know-it-all.

You peek past the screen at him. “Oh! Riddle, you’re still here. Hello!”

He hums, warming under your gaze. “I always am.”

“What was it you were saying about the Italian legal system?”

Azul stares at him. An unhappy frown tightens on his face.

Uplifted with pride, swimming in the clouds, Riddle elaborates: “I’ve only just started researching it, but it’s very interesting. In the realm of criminal law, trials are often led by judges or a select few to form a panel unlike the juries we have here. Of course you’ll find differences everywhere. All countries have justice systems and law enforcement. Still, it’s fascinating to compare and contrast the fine details.”

From across the room, Azul’s stink eye has never been more obvious.

“Ah, that’s right. I’ve heard a few things regarding the way cases are handled over there. From what you know, Azul, would you say the system is harsher here than it is there, or is it the other way around?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Azul says, and that polite mask of his slips for a second. “I’ve never done crime.”

Riddle snaps his book shut and rises from his seat. “Let’s hope not. You’ve a promising career ahead of you.” He smiles sweetly at Azul like he’s particularly stupid.

Azul tracks him as he packs his belongings away and strides towards the door. His brilliant blue eyes are dark. “Ci fai o ci sei?” he mutters, clicking his tongue discreetly. “Rompipalle…”

Riddle will later learn these are slang phrases. He’ll learn a lot of things later—things he thought he’d never need to learn.

Thinking it a joke, you laugh and wave your hand about dismissively. “Aren’t you going to stay, Riddle? I watched the first episode of that podcast you recommended.”

Riddle perks up at that. “You watched it?”

“This past weekend, yes. It’s a riveting series. They really dig deep into the facets of a criminal.”

“Don’t they just?” He hugs his textbook close to his chest, nearly vibrating out of his skin. Finally, the moment he’s been waiting for—an opportunity to speak with you. “I’m amazed at how much time and research goes into each episode, and they always treat each case with tact. It deserves so much praise.”

Azul glances between the two of you. Riddle is sick with satisfaction. Once more, his blue hues land on him.

“You like criminals?”

“Not in that way, of course not.” Riddle shakes his head. What a preposterous assumption. “I find their minds to be exceedingly, bewilderingly captivating.”

Azul blinks back at him, owlish. He doesn’t seem to grasp most of what Riddle’s just said.

“In short, I think they’re a fine learning experience.”

“An experience? Non capisco.”

“For those wishing to pursue a career in criminal justice or law. Think of it like watching a tape from a criminal investigation. It’s important to study the interview techniques and tactics utilized by detectives to understand what’s most successful in gathering a proper confession.”

Azul nods along. “Ah, capisco.”

“We’ll cover things like that later in the semester. Don’t feel so overwhelmed, Azul.”

“I’m not. I learn as I go. Grazie, Professor. You’re very kind.”

“I’m happy to help. If you ever need anything, my office hours are on that sheet I gave you. I had a colleague of mine translate the syllabus for you. If you have any questions or need accommodations of any kind, let me know.”

“I will.” He fixes the strap of his backpack and, after bidding you a final farewell, stalks past Riddle out the door. His footsteps echo down the hall until eventually they’re no more.

“Riddle, if you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you.”

“Of course. Anything,” he says hastily, his heart stumbling in his ribs.

“If you wouldn’t mind, could you help Azul out? I notice he struggles taking notes during lectures. If you’d be willing to share your notes with me so that I can get them translated, that would be great.”

Riddle doesn’t want to share, but this is an opportunity to be praised in spades. “I’d be glad to. I’ll scan and email them after each class.”

“Thanks, Riddle. Your notes have always been so organized. This is a huge help. I’m sure Azul will be just as grateful.”

I’m not doing it for him, he thinks, bitter and envious.

But he just smiles, standing a little taller when you compliment him.

Your notes have always been so organized.

What is he getting so territorial for? He’s had you for four classes in past years. Azul’s only known you for a few measly weeks. That’s nothing compared to the special bond you have with him.

Riddle isn’t worried.

1 September, 20XX.

Dear Diary,

(Name) Rosehearts has quite the lovely ring to it. Far more musical than that of (Name) Ashengrotto. I’m almost certain he sits there in class, silently drooling over Professor. Just last week, he took my seat at the front. The gall to do such a thing! Can you imagine? He must know that seat is the best for getting a perfect view of Professor. It’s childish to bicker over seating arrangements and I refuse to stoop to his level. That said, the seat is mine. Professor’s time is mine.

I’ve deigned to share my notes, but only because Professor put such faith in my abilities by personally asking me. Even though it’s foolish, I’m tempted to sabotage the notes so that Azul will have incorrect study material. But that would be unfair and an infraction upon all that I stand for when it comes to academic fairness. Thus, I’ve refrained from doing anything of that sort. I’m certain Professor would disapprove.

It makes me happy to know Professor listens to the podcast I recommended. I wish we could discuss it at length, but Azul is always there and he takes up so much of what little time there is. It’s infuriating. I wish he would just drop out of the class. That way it will be just Professor and me, as it was intended.

Perhaps he will once the coursework comes knocking.

Sincerely,

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle slumps forward over his desk and combs his hands through his hair.

“That rotten Azul…” he sneers, his face scrunching into something sour. “He’s always monopolizing your time… Does he not realize how important it is to me—how much I look forward to talking to you? And you smile at him… You look at him with those sweet eyes of yours and he’s completely undeserving of such treatment! It never does anyone any good to be greedy, yet there he is…”

He inhales deeply, holds it for a few seconds, and then exhales.

What am I supposed to do? How can I make this right again?

Azul isn’t breaking any rules. It’s not a crime to seek you out for conversation after each class ends. But therein lies the issue. There is nothing wrong with that. It would be wrong if, say, there was an illicit exchange between the both of you. Like a taboo relationship of sorts…

Riddle startles in his seat, his eyes blown wide.

Azul isn’t having a secret affair with you, is he? Not that it could be considered cheating when you’re not yet married (and Riddle intends to keep it that way). He has a plan. When he graduates, there will be no formal barriers holding him back from starting a relationship with you. He can email you freely without the need to circle back to academics. He can invite you for tea or coffee and the two of you can chat about things that aren’t school, and it won’t be weird or overstepping boundaries. Because he won’t be your student anymore. He’ll be Riddle, your former student. And former students have better odds than current students, do they not?

He’s thought it out carefully. He was raised to be responsible, to do everything right.

And though he’s thought of it in passing—considered what might happen if he were to try to play at being a seductive siren—he’d never truly act on such folly. But Azul… It isn’t too impossible to theorize he might be sleeping with you for a better grade. What if he’s forced you into it? What if he has some sort of wicked blackmail? What if you’re holed up in your office every day, scared for your career, while Azul bends you over the desk and uses that boyish charm of his, that silky-smooth accent, to coax the sweetest of sounds from—

Riddle shakes himself free of that thought. He’s not going to imagine it any further. He doesn’t need to be plagued with graphic imagery, gross as it may be.

Even though he chases the fantasy from his brain, it returns to poke at him. He gazes at his lap, noticing the substantial strain in his pajamas, and groans.

It would be easier if he wasn’t where he is now. Logically, he’s aware he doesn’t have much of a chance. Neither does Azul. Unless he’s sleeping with you in secret. Then he has a chance. But he’s not. He can’t. That’s against the rules.

And even if he was, it wouldn’t be very fair for him to do the very thing Riddle’s abstained from.

His hand closes around his dick. He feels pitiful as he pumps himself to scandalous visions.

It’s not fair.

He should have a chance. In a perfect world, he’d have you. He’s earned this, hasn’t he? He’s worked so hard. So why isn’t he allowed to have you?

It’s not fair.

Why does Azul get to relish in your attention when Riddle’s left alone in the shadows? Why can’t you look at him like you used to? Why can’t you praise him for knowing all the answers? Why can’t you tell him good work when he does just that? Why must you coddle Azul? Riddle thinks he can speak perfect English. He’s just playing it up to look weak and pathetic—to garner your sympathy!

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

He’s the good one. The one with perfect marks. The one with perfect attendance. The one every professor holds in high regard.

Riddle squeezes himself and sucks in a breath through grit teeth.

He’s not funny like Azul. He doesn’t have that awkward charm Azul has. He can’t speak another language fluently. He’s never traveled out of the country. He thinks he knows everything, but he only knows so much.

He can fascinate you with the intricacies of his mind, each fold primed for education, but Azul can do better because he has social experience.

Riddle can’t believe it. He, of all people, is jealous of someone.

Cum oozes from his dick and coats his fingers in a pearly-white. It isn’t satisfying.

Right then, he thinks his world would be better if Azul stayed in Italy.

Or maybe it would be better if Azul wasn’t in his world at all.

On his way out of class, Riddle stops Azul in an empty corridor.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

He blinks back, oblivious. And then he smiles, revealing a row of perfect teeth. “What I’m doing?”

Riddle won’t say it. He can’t. Because then he’d be admitting the truth Azul’s trying to pry from his heart, whether that’s his intention or not.

“You know very well what you’re doing.”

A silent head tilt is his reply.

His temper is nearing its boiling point. It’s been on a low simmer ever since Azul first bewitched you, and it’s threatening to spill over.

“I see the way you and Professor look at each other during class. You may think it discreet, but I know.” Riddle folds his arms over his chest, feeling very proud of himself for successfully playing Sherlock. “I can tell there’s nothing formal about it. So how long has this been going on? How long have you been flouting the rules?”

Azul stares at him. His shoulders shake with his chuckle. “You’re funny.”

Riddle startles. His accent—

“I’m here to learn just as you are. What I do outside of the classroom is none of your business, so it would please me greatly if you could stop prying.”

His eyes narrow into vicious slits. “If you lay a hand on—”

“Oh, I’ve done more than that.” Azul smooths the nonexistent wrinkles in his sweater vest. The same brand of sweater vest that Riddle wears. “But you have no proof. The courts here will want that, won’t they? Or is it harsher here? Will you need to peer inside Professor to see for yourself? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never committed a crime.”

Disgust pools in his stomach. He feels like he could vomit, and it isn’t because he’s appalled by the conspiracy Azul’s proposed. It’s because he should’ve been the one to do it if it was that easy. Instead, he musters a mean glare.

“Who are you, Ashengrotto? What do you want?”

“I’m just a student like you. I want to learn lots from Professor.” He brushes past Riddle, his voice a melodious hum. “And some things can’t be taught in the classroom.”

Riddle opens his mouth to let the angry tirade fall, but he chokes on the words. There’s so much he wants to say, but all of it will come out accusatory. And that’s where Azul has him pinned. It’s all baseless accusation.

He doesn’t want to believe it. Surely you wouldn’t… It’s impossible! An academic and social infringement! It’s wrong!

It should’ve been him.

Later that evening, cooped up in his room, Riddle scrawls furious lines in his diary: He’s a liar. A cheat. An embarrassment to this institution. I should be the one who holds Professor. I should be there in Azul’s place. I’ve worked so hard. I deserve it. I’ve earned it!

He can’t let this madness go on any longer. He won’t tolerate it.

Looking at it logically, Riddle has illustrated the negatives and the positives in his notebook.

If Azul’s insinuations are true, then all Riddle needs is valid evidence. Unfortunately, that would mean you might lose your job given the circumstances. If it’s consensual, both of you are equally at fault. If it’s not, Riddle hopes Azul will burn in a terrible blaze.

But if you do happen to lose your job, it would relieve some of the weight burdening his situation. He could start a real relationship with you. It’s plausible! Perhaps not very realistic, but there’s always a shred of hope to be found in misfortune.

Riddle wonders if he should just ask you and save himself the headache.

He gazes sidelong at Azul, who has since claimed that seat for his own, and chances a glance at his open notes.

That’s Riddle’s handwriting.

He’s sure of it. That’s his handwriting. He writes his notes in cursive. He writes in a perfect, elegant slant. His letters always connect. There’s no denying it; that’s his handwriting on the page.

A disturbing thought crosses his mind: Has Azul been practicing my handwriting?

It sounds impossibly silly. Who would devote so much time to something so witlessly fraudulent? Riddle wracks his brain for a reasonable explanation. Why would he need to practice someone else’s handwriting? Riddle could understand if Azul struggled to write in English. Most of his work is submitted in his native language. You allow this exception even though Riddle finds it unfair. Maybe it’s because you treat Azul’s work like it’s something special, and you jump through all of these hoops just to get it translated. Why can’t you treat his work with that same amount of care?

Riddle drags his pen along the page, scribbling mindlessly. Why is he doing that? He has nothing to gain from writing like me.

But then Riddle realizes the notebook is the same as his. The same color, in fact. He wonders when Azul purchased a new one. Did he purchase a new one, or has he always had this one?

Riddle looks down at his notebook.

That’s Azul’s handwriting.

He blinks twice and rubs frantically at his eyes. When he looks back at Azul’s notebook, it’s to a page filled with Azul’s stylish scrawl.

Have I…been copying him this entire time?

No, surely not! He would never plagiarize. That’s one of the biggest sins of academia. He couldn’t live with himself if he did that!

Besides, he’s not the copycat. It’s Azul in his sweater vest, boasting the same writing implements as Riddle, using the same brand of notebook. Riddle’s not copying him. It’s Azul. It must be.

It can’t be Riddle. He’d never do such a thing.

After class, you call Riddle up to your desk. He hesitates, his heart thrumming wildly, and shuffles over.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Riddle, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.” You withdraw last week’s assignment from a folder and set it down. “You wrote this, did you not?”

Riddle scans the typed document. “I did, yes.”

“May I ask if the Italian was intentional?”

“The Italian?” he parrots, confused. “I don’t understand what—”

In between brilliantly articulated paragraphs, he’s sprinkled in Italian words and phrases.

He coughs out a rattled laugh. “I must have been studying it for another assignment before I did yours. I…can’t believe this happened. It was fully unintentional. I’m very sorry.”

His face is flushed cherry-red. He’s never felt more humiliated.

“It’s not a big deal. I just wanted to ask. It definitely confused me.” You take the paper from him, smiling that understanding smile he loves so much. But then, rather intrusively, he wonders how many times those soft-looking lips have been on Azul, wrapped around him, sending him to cloud nine… “I actually asked Azul to translate it for me. He said all of it was written correctly. You must be very adept in your Italian.”

“I… I suppose I am,” he answers after a tense minute.

His brain is swirling like sediment stirred up on the ocean floor. When did I pick up Italian? I’m not taking any language courses this semester. I don’t even own an Italian dictionary… Just what in the world is happening?

“Ah, you don’t have to look so pale! It’s not going to affect your grade. I only wanted to fulfill this nagging curiosity of mine. Thank you for all the good work you do.”

Riddle nods mechanically. When you ask if he has time to stick around and discuss more psychology podcasts, he shakes his head and mumbles a feeble excuse.

He tears through his desk and all of the drawers in his room in search of it. If it’s not there, he can relax. If it’s not there, he can chalk it up to stress. If it’s not there—

It’s tucked away in his bookshelf. A little pocket dictionary. English to Italian. And it’s been bookmarked and annotated.

Riddle pulls it from the shelf in a baffled daze. When did he get his hands on this? More importantly, when did he read through it? In a hurry, he empties the contents of his backpack and flips a few pages in his notebook.

His notes from class. Dated for today. Written in Azul’s script. And at the top of the page, an exact copy of his signature, a name that isn’t Riddle’s: Azul Ashengrotto.

Riddle peers at his trembling hands. He flexes his fingers, curls them into a fist and then unfurls them.

He seizes his psychology textbook next and skims the chapter index in search of an answer. He lands on it. Page 371. Dissociation.

Two minutes into a phone call with Trey, he’s asked a simple question: “Are you speaking with an accent?”

Riddle bristles. “Of course I’m not. Of…course I am not,” he says, sounding the words out. His brow furrows. Why does my tongue feel so clumsy in my mouth? “I’ve always spoken this way, have I not?”

“I can’t say. I mean, come on, Riddle. You’ve gotta be pulling my leg.”

“You know very well I don’t pull legs, Trey.”

“You told me buongiorno when I picked up.”

“I did not!” he snaps, scandalized. “I said good morning as I always do.” And then he pauses. “I… I did say good morning, didn’t I?”

Trey’s silence is answer enough.

Riddle sucks in a sharp breath. Neither of them says anything.

Eventually, Trey speaks. “Do you want me to come up there? I could bring you a tart or…something. You sound…tired.” He chooses his words carefully. “Silly question, I know, but I’ve gotta ask. You’re not overworking yourself?”

“No, not at all.”

“And you’re getting enough sleep? What about food?”

Riddle frowns even though Trey isn’t there to see it. “I’m fine, Trey. Midterms are coming up. I’ve got to focus. I refuse to fail.”

Again, the other end is quiet. A minute later, Trey says, “Do you have time this weekend?”

“This weekend?” Riddle flips his planner open to this week. “I do.”

“All right. Is it cool if I visit?”

Riddle almost declines, so it surprises both him and Trey when he replies with, “Please.”

“I’ll be there,” he promises, and the call ends before Riddle can say grazie.

Trey brings six strawberry tarts. Riddle shares three with him over tea at the campus café.

“So what’s up?” Trey points his fork at Riddle. “You sound like yourself, but you don’t seem…fine.”

Riddle chews thoughtfully. He can’t confide in Trey because Trey wouldn’t understand. Because he’d apply Trey Logic to everything, and Trey Logic is almost always sensible. Riddle doesn’t want to hear it.

“I submitted an assignment in Italian,” he says instead, casually, as if it’s not a big deal.

Trey looks at him like he’s grown a third eye. “Since when do you know Italian?”

“I dabble.”

Trey laughs. Upon seeing Riddle’s serious expression, the humor sticks in his throat. “Oh, you meant that. Well. That’s…good then? If it’s for a foreign language course—”

“It was for psychology.”

“You…wrote in Italian…for a psychology assignment?” he reiterates, attempting to parse it. He drags his fork through his cut of tart, but he doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Why?”

“I couldn’t say. It perplexed me to no end when I realized it. My professor thought it was curious.”

“It is. I mean, you don’t find that just a little…unusual?”

Riddle stares at him over the rim of his teacup.

Trey tries again. “Was the Italian correct, at least? It wasn’t all nonsense?”

He nods. “It was as if I was translating and switching between words. Like using the Italian word in place of an English word.”

“Huh…”

“It’s not very impressive. I can do much better than that.”

“I’m not doubting your capabilities. I’m just…trying to understand why.”

Riddle smiles. “Why not? I think it’s very good to study another language. It opens more doors for opportunity, and it’s a challenge that proves rewarding in the end.”

“Is that it?”

“Precisely.”

The conversation comes to an abrupt halt there. Trey changes the subject. They chat the afternoon away.

Later, Riddle returns to his diary.

He writes an entire entry in perfect Italian. Workbooks pile up on his desk; he’s not sure when they got there. He’s filling them out so fast his hand gains new calluses.

Azul visits your office around the same time Riddle used to. Now it’s Riddle who trails after him, hoping to catch him in the middle of a nefarious scheme. He’s not sure he’s ready for whatever he might learn, but he swallows his rage and carries on.

Azul turns just as Riddle ducks around the corner, perfectly out of sight. He waits until he hears the tell-tale click of those pristine Oxfords against linoleum before continuing. Azul walks right past your office and then he’s gone. Looking both ways, Riddle creeps further down the hall.

Where is he?

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whirls around, startled, and is about to unleash verbal tyranny when he stops short. You stand there, looking positively puzzled.

“Are you looking for something, Riddle?”

“No… I—” He cuts himself off. “Actually, I was hoping I might discuss something with you. The final project.”

“Oh, of course! Did you come earlier? I stepped out of my office for a second. Sorry if my absence had you looking all over.”

Riddle falls into step with you. “It’s quite all right.”

He’s not sure what he hopes to find by sitting in front of your desk, gazing at the familiar interior of your office. He manages to get through all of the questions you ask him regarding the final project.

“I have too many ideas,” he lies, “and I’d like assistance in narrowing the topics down to one.”

He glances slyly at the floor. Would Azul be bold enough to hide a voice recorder or a camera somewhere? Or is there something of Azul’s left in here? A cheeky means of marking his territory, maybe?

Riddle turns up empty.

He stalls the conversation expertly for ten more minutes. During that time, he can’t locate anything from his semi-thorough observations.

Maybe it’s hidden in your desk. Maybe there’s nothing at all.

No. No, there has to be something.

He thanks you for your help and, shouldering his backpack, leaves.

Just as he turns down the hall, Azul steps into his path.

“Your mind is exceedingly, bewilderingly captivating.” He snickers like a devil. Riddle wants to punch him. “So many ideas. Where do you have the space for all of that?”

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop.”

“Oh, is that so?” Azul taps at his phone and then turns the screen towards Riddle. There’s a picture of him in the hall, looking awfully disoriented. “It’s not very polite to stalk now, is it, amico?”

Riddle narrows his eyes. “How easily that accent comes. Almost like flipping a switch.”

“Non capisco.”

“You should know you’re going to ruin your life and Professor’s.”

“I’m not.” He smiles cryptically. “You’re going to ruin it for me.”

Fed up with his attempt at mind chess, Riddle stalks past him in a huff.

You walk into class five minutes late, disheveled and breathless. You’re babbling about a meeting that ran late, but Riddle can’t trust that.

Meetings don’t end in frazzled hair and crooked ties.

What’s even more damning, perhaps, is when Azul Never-Late-to-Class Ashengrotto walks in fifteen minutes after you. He sits in the seat beside Riddle. There’s not a hair out of place on his person. Except there is. The glass face of his luxury wristwatch is smudged with a fingerprint.

Riddle wonders what forensics would have to say about that.

He phases in and out of focus during the lecture. He can’t stop searching you for fine details. He can’t stop questioning Azul’s presence beside him.

How dare you? he thinks. How dare you defile my professor? What makes you think you have the right to do such a thing when I’ve been working hard all this time? When I’ve been nothing but perfect…

He glances at his notebook. A single phrase has been scrawled over and over, so manically that the lines loop and overlap in angry criss-crosses. Lo voglio morto.

At the end of class, Riddle catches Azul in the hall.

“I would like to review with you for our upcoming midterm.”

“What an honor.”

Riddle hums. “Let’s compare our notes tonight. You can stop by my room after dinner.”

Azul grins like he can read through Riddle. Like he’s in on a joke Riddle’s not privy to.

“I would be happy to study alongside you,” he says, his accent thick.

Riddle imagines a rope around his neck. A rope of thorns and barbed wire, pressing into his jugular until, inevitably, it severs his head clean off.

Azul arrives on time. He really does feel like an echo of Riddle. Same school supplies. Same notebooks. Same fashion style. Same manner of writing.

Riddle shuts and locks the door behind him. He doesn’t waste time waltzing around the subject.

“You’re the reason Professor was late today.”

“You’re mistaken. I simply lost track of the time.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what is? I had nothing to do with Professor’s tardiness. If it bothers you so much, why not tell Professor to be more conscious of the time?”

Riddle grits his teeth. He’s sick of this. Sick of these mind games. Sick of all this mental chess.

Sick of the fact that he gets to have you when you should have been Riddle’s from the start!

“You’re a liar! Do you know the gravity of your actions—the severe consequences that’ll undoubtedly befall Professor? Do you know you’re jeopardizing a brilliant mind all for your own immature fun?”

Azul holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Those are harsh accusations. They could ruin my life, you know.”

“Oh, like that’s such an issue.” Riddle scowls.

“Your room is quite nice, I must say.” Azul looks around, his hands in his pockets. He spies the many Italian workbooks lining Riddle’s shelf, and a slimy smirk pulls at his lips. “Imitatore,” he marvels, his eyes bright with an eerie sort of joy. As if he’s just discovered a particularly filthy secret and can’t wait to tell someone.

“If it isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

“And what makes you think Professor would ever entertain you?” Azul rounds on him, still smiling. “Professor loves me most. There was never any room for you.”

Riddle hears the distant crackle of something fraying. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I? All I did was take your best characteristics and make them even better. Italian lovers are a romanticized ideal abroad. You were never an option, let alone a consideration.”

How dare you. How dare you. How dare you!

Azul steps towards the door. “Addio. Le mie condoglianze.”

That something inside Riddle finally snaps, and with it goes his restraint. He grabs Azul’s wrist and yanks him to the floor. There’s a struggle for survival. During the scuffle, Azul claws at Riddle’s arm and face. Riddle kicks him down. And then his fingers wrap around his psychology textbook—all 800-something pages, a hardcover—and he brings it down, brutal like a guillotine.

“How dare you walk away in the middle of a conversation!” he berates, lips curled in a monstrous sneer. “How dare you touch what isn’t yours—what you didn’t earn!”

He thinks he sees a real smile on Azul’s face, but in the midst of blind rage he can’t tell.

He sees red. He feels red. It splatters his room in a mess of broken bone and pulpy gore. It flecks his face, warm and thick and soupy.

It all ends with Intro to Psych.

Riddle is bathed in blue light, afloat on a chaotic sea.

Distantly, in the back of his mind, he can hear his mother in hysterics: What have you done?! Do you have any idea what you’ve just done—the future you’ve so carelessly thrown away?! All of my hard work?! Do you realize what you’ve done?!

And he does.

If there’s anything Riddle has ever been one-hundred-percent certain of in his life, it’s this. He sits on the steps to his dormitory, battered and bloodied, and bites into the strawberry tart clutched between crimson-stained fingers.

Despite the crisp autumn air, he feels warm.

An officer approaches him just as he’s licking his fingers clean of strawberry and blood.

He holds his arms out before the woman can say anything. He already knows what comes next.

Riddle has always wondered what criminals think and feel in the aftermath of grisly crimes. He can’t feel much of anything other than hollow relief. Maybe that’s just the adrenaline snuffing logical thought and remorse. He thinks everything and nothing all at once. He’s sure he’ll feel it all come crashing down when he’s sat in the station for questioning and then the reality of his actions will seep in, awakening him from a vile, murderous dream.

Right now, he isn’t concerned with that.

You lived filthy and you died just the same, Riddle thinks as he’s led to a police car. And now there’s no part of you Professor will ever want.

#happy very belated birthday rido <3 #yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere riddle rosehearts #yandere riddle rosehearts x reader #yandere riddle x reader #yandere riddle #tw: student teacher relationship #tw: death #tw: murder #tw: blood #tw: violence

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escelia · 2 years

Text

This is a follow-up/one-shot based on the fic I wrote here, which was based on the prompt by @ghostreblogging

I'm really having fun with Big Brother Danny AU~ big thanks to everyone taking the time to read it!

Not So Normal

Daniel Fenton-Wayne had been with the family for a while now. To say that he was odd would be an injustice because he wasn't really. At least, not compared to the rest of the costume wearing vigilante family. Danny was a civilian, albeit a strange one. Danny and Damian were close in age, and everyone could tell that Danny wanted to be a good big brother; he'd never had the chance to before. The strangeness came in when Damian brandished his many weapons toward Danny, and he... caught him mid launch. Just snatched the little bird out of the air for a hug. Damian had thought he was putting up a fight, but it was clear that Danny wasn't struggling. He seemed so casually unbothered by Damian's behavior, but he was normal, ya know?

Damian sneers and waves his fork menacingly at Danny during dinner?

"He's fine! He's like, what, 10 years old?"

Damian growled that he was clearly 12 and threw himself over the table at him.

Damian threatens him with his swords?

"Damian! No!"

"Nooooo! Don't discourage him! He might lose interest!" And even as the rest of the family assured him that that would be a good thing, he handed Damian the blade and asked if lessons were on the table so Damian could have a "competent sparring partner." He still tried to stab Danny after that.

As concerning as it always was when Damian tried to stab someone, they were all relieved that Daniel seemed to be able to handle the demon brat better than most. Eventually the baby bird would warm up to him and stop stabbing him so often, but until then, Danny could handle himself.

~~~~○•○•○~~~~

Let it be known that Damian did not have a favorite brother! They were all imbeciles with poor taste in humor and mediocre fighting skills. That being said, Danny did have a leg up over the others for inquiring about sword lessons to improve his fighting prowess, even if he was already surprisingly adequate for a civilian. Well, that and other things that Danny had admitted only to him in the months he'd been with the family. It was strange being the one he confided in, but he felt a sort of pride that, even though he'd tried to stab Daniel, he was still the one he went to when he needed to talk about stuff he hadn't told the others. So perhaps it wasn't that surprising that when he'd gotten in trouble, Danny was the one Damian called for.

Patrol that night had been boring and quiet. Too quiet. Way too quiet for Gotham, which meant that something bad was brewing. Batman had handed Robin off to Nightwing for the night while he poured over all the reports and data from the last few weeks to figure out what the rogues of Gotham could have planned. Nightwing was ashamed to say that the Joker had gotten the jump on them. He'd tied the two up, leaving their comms on so the rest of the bats could hear all of the terrible things Joker had planned for them. He included terrible reminders of how he'd murdered Jason and how he couldn't wait to pluck the wings from Batman's other birdies. Damian wanted to rip his throat out for that, but he was in no shape to fight. His family was in danger, so he called out to the only other person he trusted.

"DANIEL!" Damian screamed long and loud for his brother, the plea surging forth from deep in his chest. Dick looked horror stricken that his baby brother had called out for the one member of the family that wasn't a vigilante, painting a huge target on his back. But even as he could hear the commotion coming through the comms and see the panicked look on Dick's face, he called for Danny again. His brother would help. He would come!

The room's temperature dropped in an instant, their panting, panicked breaths fogging the air while the lights flickered. The Joker paused in his maniacal laughter to observe the Lazarus green pool forming on the ground between him and the birds. Frost and ice cracked through the concrete of the warehouse as a head of white hair with a crown of crystalline ice rose through the small pit and the Joker's veins flooded with dread at the too wide, too sharp smile on the thing's face.

"Don't worry, I'm here. You're safe," he cooed comfortingly back to Damian, his voice an otherworldly echo in the large space. "But you?" He gestured to the Joker with claw-like fingers. "Well, let's just say, I've been d̵͔̦̩̒̒̊ẙ̴̧͓͕̺ḯ̸͖̪͔n̶͉͛g̵̻̾͒͜ to get my hands on you."

It happened so fast that no one really knew if the Joker screamed or not. In one moment, the boy's body had morphed into a cloud of inky black scattered with what looked like honest to God stars that smothered the Joker, and in the next, he was gone. The being who, upon closer inspection, definitely looked like Danny if he had white hair and green eyes and was a literal Eldritch creature, was untying them with care.

"Danny?" Dick questioned. He acknowledged him with a quick nod before turning back to Damian, the one who had called.

"You came," the youngest mumbled.

"You called," Danny answered with a soft smile. "Did you think that I wouldn't?"

"No. I knew that you would. You're not incompetent like the others."

"You guys heard that, right? That was definitely a compliment!"

Damian huffed but sagged in relief once he and Dick were both untied.

"You- you're-" Dick stumbled over his words in astonishment. "Danny, you're a meta?"

"Technically, it's a medical condition, but details," he responded, waving off the rest of the question with a cheeky smile.

In Nightwing's ear Bruce asked to speak with Danny. He removed the earpiece and tapped Danny's arm with it, gesturing to his ear. The "meta" slid it on just in time to hear his adoptive father shout.

"We will be talking about this as soon as everyone gets home safe, am I understood!"

"Loud and clear, boss man!"

"Let it be known that I knew something was weird about Danny!" He heard Jason exclaim. "No offense man."

"None taken, my Revenant sibling mine."

"Where did the Joker even go?" Someone over the comms asked. Danny thought it was Steph.

"I sent him to clown jail. I hate clowns. I've literally never met one that hasn't tried to kill me or my family."

Upon learning that the Joker wasn't the first homicidal clown that their, before now, seemingly normal brother had met, the comms erupted into chaos. Danny tossed the earpiece back to Nightwing before whisking them away back to the cave under the manor. He had a lot of explaining to do.

#danny phantom #dcu #dp x dc prompt #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #danny fenton #damian wayne #big brother danny #danny can tell when his brothers need him #its a ghost king thing #jason totally knew something was weord about danny #protective danny #ghost king danny #joker gets sent to clown jail #fanfiction #fanfic #oneshot #ignore any editing errors #no beta we die like danny

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felixknow · 11 days

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Pathetic!

han x reader/ (afab but one comment could be read as amab), friends to lovers, teasing, mutual pining/lust, blowjob, premature ejac., pathetic!han, loser!han and confident but simp!reader, 3k

Based on how Han... Adjusts... Himself...

Your friend Jisung has a… peculiar habit.

You first noticed it when you agreed to a silly dinner party with your old trainee friends. Everyone decided to dress up in their prettiest dresses and most handsome suits to go to McDonalds at 10 p.m. and even though the food was greasy and near-tasteless, the company of your friends made it one of your favorite meals you’d ever had.

It was when everyone was cleaning up and getting ready to leave that you first noticed Han’s odd habit.

You were the last two to get up from the table. Most of your friends had already drifted toward the trash cans and the exit, and as you stood you watched as Han, who was not paying attention to you, unabashedly grabbed his penis through his pants and manually readjusted it.

Your eyes widened and you turned on your heel away from him, shocked but vowing to yourself that you’d never tell a soul you saw it, and sure you’d never see it again.

Until the next time it happened.

And the next.

Considering the years you’ve spent in this friendship, it feels odd that you’ve only noticed this habit recently, but maybe he’s having some sort of issue, perhaps? Maybe his shaving routine has changed, maybe he’s wearing new underwear, maybe he caught something-- you don’t know and it doesn’t feel like your business at first. Or at the second, or third, or fourth occurrence.

It’s when you start to catch onto what makes him adjust himself so blatantly that you realize that it is your business. In fact, it starts to feel like it’s because of you.

There’s the time in the pool with your friends where you watch him off to the side in the shallow end readjust himself after you finish a splashing war with two of your friends, which somehow manages to nearly knock your top off.

There’s the summer sleepover where your tank top was lower cut than you intended, and through the glow of the firepit you could just make out the shape of Han squirming, his hand firmly latched between his thighs for a few moments.

There’s the time you and several of your mutual friends attend a SKZ fan meeting to support your favorite superstar, and sitting on stage Han tries his best to be casual as he adjusts himself moments after excitedly waving to your group, but boy is it obvious to your trained eye.

Almost every time you’ve seen Han in the past few months, there’s been a moment when his hand inevitably ends up wrapped around his cock, despite his pants being in the way.

It always comes after the lingering looks. It happens after the slight flick of his tongue across his lips. The prolonged eye contact. The rosiness of his cheeks when you come too close. The dramatic flair of him draping himself across you, or the grabby hands as he asks you to cuddle with him, or the feather-light touches on your back or your hip as he passes you in a narrow space.

There are two things you’re certain of at this point in your friendship:

Han Jisung is attracted to you, and you are so, so attracted to him.

Once this becomes fact in your mind, the game begins.

How long does it take to get Hanji to touch himself?

On some nights, it’s hours. On some, it’s minutes. Once it was even the very first thing he did when you walked in the room (maybe because you’d spent the previous night partying with him and may have drunkenly danced with him one too many times, or maybe it was because you’d texted him that morning that you’d had fun with him and want to go dancing with him again, or maybe it was because it was another movie night and you’d come in short pajama shorts and a t-shirt with a “fashionable” rip across your chest).

The second phase of the game starts after that night.

When will Hanji notice that I’m trying to bother him on purpose?

(The answer is “not until you tell him outright,” but we’ll get there.)

You have fun playing with him. At first it’s acting like you didn’t realize he was behind you, so you back up until your butt touches his hip or his crotch. Then it’s accidentally sitting so close that you nearly sit on his lap. One time it’s having “accidentally” put on too much perfume before getting in the car with Hannie after he offered to drive you to your friend’s place for dinner. Another it’s wearing a white top on a day when you know it’ll be rainy, and “accidentally” forgetting your umbrella so you show up to Han’s apartment with a mostly see-through top.

Each time you catch it, either from the corner of your eye or while outright staring at him. His hand goes down while he’s either looking away or trying to act casual. He grabs his penis through his pants so fully that you can see the complete outline of it as he shifts it to the side or pushes it down or otherwise readjusts.

It makes you wet, being so close yet so far from seeing it. Sometimes when he grabs it you swear you can see the defined tip or the swell of his balls pressing on the fabric as well, but it’s over as quickly as it began. Sometimes just the press of his hand down on his lap like a nervous little virgin unsure of how to control himself turns you on so bad that you’re squirming in your seat.

Oh, god how you’d fuck him. How you’d wreck his entire world. If only he wasn’t so god damned oblivious.

No matter how many times you try to catch his eye and pointedly look down to his crotch, or how many times you pull your top lower while directly in his line of sight, or even shake your ass when you know he’s watching-- he says nothing. He does nothing.

You know he notices. Oh, how he notices. His face turns red. He pulls a pillow into his lap. His voice cracks. He can’t make eye contact with you. He stutters. He stares at your chest when he thinks you aren’t looking.

And he wants, oh he wants so bad.

It finally comes to a head on the night you know for absolutely 100% certain that you’ve given him a boner.

It’s a game night with two of Han’s fellow SKZ members. You’re sitting on the floor in front of the couch and Han is behind you (at your design, of course). One of his legs is under him, and one of his legs is hooked over your shoulder. You keep your arm locked around it while you play Mario Kart, claiming that you need it because of the way you’re sitting. “I can’t hold my arm up at the right angle without it,” you whine. “I have to keep my controller all the way up here--” you gesture to holding the controller at your chest level rather than in your lap-- “otherwise the sensor doesn’t pick up.”

No one calls your bluff-- you’re lucky that when Felix handed you the controller he said that it was the finicky one that didn’t like to cooperate all the time. Thank you, Felix.

Every time you win, you throw your arms up and reach for Hannie behind you. He either gives you his hands and he leans his head down and you pet his hair. When you lose, you turn your head to his knee (or, after he shifts lower in his seat, his inner thigh) and nibble or just rub your face as if you’re hiding it in shame.

Within 10 races you know you have Han wrapped around your finger. Any time you turn your head to look back at him, he’s already looking at you. He can likely see straight down your top, and the combination of that with you touching his thigh leads to him needing a pillow in his lap to prevent the whole group from noticing his little, ahem… problem.

And then comes the break.

“Should we pause and get dinner?” Minho asks

“I was just thinking the same thing,” you chime in. “But the issue is I really want pizza from that one really good place that refuses to do delivery. Like, come on, your orders get mixed up a couple of times and you require ID to pick up food? It’s the 21st centuryyyyy,” you whine, throwing your head back against Han’s thigh.

“Oh, pizza sounds so good,” Felix says with a satisfied groan. “I can go get it if someone comes with.”

“Mm,” Minho acknowledges, climbing to his feet. “Let’s go. We can order on the way.”

After a brief discussion of what everyone wants, the two clear the apartment, and then…

Han clears his throat and shifts in his seat.

“Do you wanna play another round while they’re out?”

You put your controller down and spin around so you’re sitting on your knees, now face-first at Han’s crotch-- or rather, the pillow on top of his crotch.

“No, honestly Hanji, I’m so fucking sick of waiting.”

“What--” You grab the pillow and try to move it, and his eyes widen, his face a pure expression of shock, and he fights you to keep it in place. “No, no! I need that-- Y/n, stop!”

“Hanji, when are you going to tell me that I turn you on? I’m so tired of waiting.”

“You-- What? How did you--”

“Am I wrong?” you ask, finally letting go of the pillow and letting him hold it. You give him your best doe eyes, blinking up at him innocently. “That’s what you’re hiding, right? Because I keep touching you and because you can see my boobs, right?”

Han tries to say something but he flounders, barely making a full sentence.

“Hanji, I’m tired of you teasing me,” you whine. “You touch your penis in front of me all the time. When’s it my turn?”

“Y/N--” he gasps. You take the chance to grab the pillow once more and yank, swiftly removing it and throwing it across the room. His legs come up and his hands go down-- he tries to cover himself and hide, but you see the tent in his pants and even notice the dark spot forming on the crotch of his gray sweatpants.

“Oh, Hanji, you poor thing. Isn’t that throbbing?” you ask, sliding one hand up his leg, gently coaxing him to relax and slightly open his legs for you again. “I know mine is. Why don’t you let me take care of it?”

“Your… You’re…?”

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered. You’re such a sweet little thing. I could just eat you up.” You keep gently touching him, running your fingertips up and down his calf until he rests his leg on the ground again, now only his hands covering his tent.

“How long have you liked me, Hanji? You should have told me. I’ve been trying to encourage you, but I don’t think you’ve caught on, have you?”

“No,” he admits softly. “I thought… I thought maybe you liked that I was fawning over you?” he says unsurely. “I noticed a few times you were really close to me on purpose…”

“Yeah?” you ask, gently touching his hand while lying your cheek on his thigh. “Like when?”

“Like that time you were talking to me in the kitchen and then you bent down to get something and touched my… um, touched me with your butt. It was straight out of a movie.”

You giggle and manage to intertwine some of your fingers with his gently.

“You could have said something, you know. You blushed so dark I thought your head was going to burst. You were so red.”

“I was afraid you felt my dick through my pants,” he says defensively, but softly, almost like he’s afraid to speak too loud and burst the bubble that surrounds the two of you. “I was so hard.”

“I get you hard a lot, huh? Pretty much every time I see you I catch you touching yourself.”

“What?!” he asks, eyes wide, once again in that delicious look of shock.

“You have to readjust yourself. I see you. It’s really obvious the way you grab it, you know.” You voice drops to a whisper as you separate his hands and finally get a good look at his crotch. “It’s kind of…” your hand reaches out slowly, giving him the chance to stop you, but he doesn’t. “Like this,” you say, wrapping your hand around his shaft through his pants. Instead of trying to push his dick down or to the side, you drag your hand up until it rolls over the tip and off of him entirely.

Han moans, lifting his hips up slightly to chase the feeling of your hand. You smirk but try to bite your lip to hide it, wanting to keep the innocent yet frisky facade you’re upholding.

“No,” you say softly, wrapping your hand around his cock again. “I think it was actually more like this.” You twist your wrist slightly as you move down his shaft then back up, once again sliding your hand over his tip. This time you press your palm against it, slightly pushing his dick to the side.

“Hmm,” you hum, licking your lips. “No, that’s not quite right. Can you show me, Hanji?”

“Huh?” he asks through a shuddering breath.

“Show me how you grab yourself, Hanji. And then I wanna do something for you.”

“Okay…”

Han’s shaky hand reaches down and he grabs his dick, pushing it down and to the side. He shifts his hip, tries to act casual while trying to tuck his boner into a tighter area of his underwear but it does nothing to hide his erection once he releases it.

“Mm, always seeing you touch yourself has made me so jealous. And you get to play with it whenever you want. It’s my turn to touch it, isn’t it? Can I touch it, Hanji?

“You already did, to be fair,” he says, his normal cheeky self still shining through his nerves. “But, I mean, yeah… if you want to you can do whatever… if you want… I mean… What do you want to do?”

“What do I want?” you ask, smiling up at him. “Oh, Hanji, if we did everything I wanted, no one would hear from you for weeks.”

His face reddens again and he laughs softly.

“If I had known we were thinking the same thing, I would have asked you to do this a lot sooner…” he admits. A wide grin spreads across your face and you hum happily, tugging on his sweatpants.

“Let me suck your cock, Hanji. I’ve been waiting so long.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” he says, lifting his hips and pulling both his pants and his underwear down swiftly. His cock springs free, bouncing a little from the movement, and you have to bite back the “aww” that comes up your throat. It’s just so fucking cute with its pink tip and its honey shaft like the rest of his pretty skin and it looks so suckable and instead of saying anything you hum happily as you greeidly suck him into your mouth, barely giving him a second to adjust to the feeling before you’re bobbing your head and trying to gather as much spit in your mouth as possible to give it a good, wet glide.

Han moans loudly and unabashedly, throwing his head back and sinking into the couch, fully letting you consume him.

“Oh, fuck,” he whines, hips jerking up slightly. “Oh, fuck! Wait, wait, wait,” he says, sitting back up and gently guiding your head off of him. “Y/N, I think I almost came,” he whines, and your jaw drops.

“Hanji, that was fifteen seconds. That wasn’t even a minute.”

“I know,” he whines, chest heaving as he pouts and tries to calm down. “I don’t know, it just hit me and I felt like leaking.”

“-Leaking?”

“That’s what it felt like!”

“Hanji, don’t tell me you call it ‘leaking’ when you cum.”

“No! I don’t! I’m just saying this one felt like a leak like I was just gonna let it all down. You were sucking me like a straw and it was just gonna all come out.”

You stare at him for a few silent seconds and then, in shock at your own revelation, say “You are so wimpy. And pathetic. And it makes me so fucking horny.”

Han laughs just as much as he whines, throwing his head back and covering his face with both his hands.

“Y/Naaaaahhhhhh,” he whines. “You can’t insult me and then say it makes you horny. I don't know what to thiiiiink.”

“Think about my pussy, your bed, and hopefully the nearest condom.”

Han peeks at you through his hands for a few seconds and then nods frantically, trying to sit up and get to his feet.

“Okay, okay, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Let’s go! What are we still doing out here?!”

As Han gets up, his sweatpants and underwear nearly trips him while he tries to step past you. You giggle, covering your mouth and watching his naked butt as he rushes down the hall to his room.

Oh, god, how you’re attracted to him.

#han x reader #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #han fake texts #han one shot #han fic #han smut

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