#i cannot afford for something to go wrong here

[maitimosrighthand]

141 x Succubus male reader( oc )

This is part 2: Here is part one

Authors Note: ( not beta read )

Most of the characters in this story will be their usual hybrid type. Ghost( Demon ), Soap( Wolf ), Gaz( Eagle ) and Price( Dragon ).

Please note that this series will eventually contain +18 contents. Minors do not interact.

Yes this will contain heats and ruts. You horny bastards 🫵

( The reader or oc (idk) is described as rather feminine. Not like that but well they are a succubus so they are that way. Gooner bait. It’s genetics.

Just like Price‘s sexiness-

Chapter 2: Lets start a bar fight!

You tried finding a local bar or something similar. A brothel would do just fine as well.

It’s been some time since you last ate and the medication that could possibly satisfy your hunger has been getting more expensive by the minute. It’s not because they were selling bad, no it’s because they’re normally used as aphrodisiacs against or for animals and hybrids. So not only are they used by everyone but you also need to state reason and amount of what you need to have as well as some other information like residence.

And a mercenary cannot exactly give away their location. So the only way you occasionally got some was from someone in a back alley. And those usually did not taste that good since they were mostly self made.

You passed by some people who looked drunk so you continued into that direction hoping to find a bar. And soon enough you smelled the scent of excitement. You did not need to go inside smelling and tasting it from outside was more than enough, so you leaned against the wall of the bar and scrolled on your phone seeing nothing worth while until…

„New law regarding Hybrids? Is this legal?“ the headline stood out to you. It could have been your average fake news if not thousands of people talking and commenting about it online. You were too scared to tap on it. You were sure that everything you were about to read in there would certainly not be very mind stimulating. You were about to click on it nonetheless until the door next to you opened up. „You coming in or not?“ a raspy voice said. He must be drunk already since you could smell the booze from his clothes.

„No thank you. Waiting for someone.“ you tried avoiding him. He was about to say something when your phone started to ring. Perfect timing. You quickly answered. „Hey.“ and walked away. You did not know who it was but for some reason no one answered you. You took the phone away from your ear and looked at the caller. It was Asher.

„Are we doing the silent treatment? What going on?“ You heard her signing before she asked: „What are you doing at this bar? You can’t afford that. Now get in! I‘ll sponsor you one drink.“ When you turned around and looked through the glass you saw Asher sitting there waving at you.

Well ok. One couldn’t hurt right?

You shoved the man and the door aside to enter the bar. The location was a bit run down. Some wallpaper was coming off and the lights would flicker on occasion. The worst however was the penetrating smell of vomit and drugs.

Sitting down next to Asher you were about to look what on the list but she had already ordered a whisky for you. „I don’t necessarily like whisky and you know that. So what’s this about?“ „Stop complaining.“ And that’s all she said. The silence after stretched on for longer than comfortable. Something had to be wrong with her, apart from being drunk. You assumed it had to be something personal, considering how she has not yet told you about it.

Your thoughts were spiraling. Was she caught or had you done something wrong? There must be something wrong. Family? Maybe her wife was acting up! Oh you knew it, it had to be-„I am pregnant.“

…

„You got to be kidding-.“ you started quickly correcting yourself. „I mean, congrats! Yay. But uhm. Was it planed?“ She only gave you a glare. That probably meant yes. Considering the situation you gulped down the whole glass of whiskey in one go.

The burn traveled down your throat distracting you from any other thoughts that may from in this situation. You regretted it immediately. „You said you‘ll pay?“ „Yes.“ Soon another drink followed alongside some deep talk with a lot of unresolved feelings. Until it was almost 2am and the bar closed. This was usually also the time when drug dealers would decide to leave for home and sniff their own stuff.

Yet for some reason the two of you were drunk enough to find one and buy a bunch of medicine for you to last the next few weeks. You weren’t sure if you actually paid that night or if you beat him up because of some moral compass you totally had.

The only thing you were sure of was ,that when you woke up in a hotel on a sofa, it was a not a good idea. Your head was spinning and you felt worse than you did before the night. Random smells flooded your nose and you quickly realized your were in a love hotel.

A quick glance and you were sure you went here alone. You decided to text Asher and see if you left her behind or something.

—————————————————————-

Quick question, did I leave ya to die somewhere?

Nah. I think you did however throw up on me. Get your head out of the clouds and then view the next mission Details I have you last night.

Alright you old woman. Geez. Did I do something?

No. But it’s important you have to be there soon.

—————————————————————-

You looked around the room after freshening up in the bathroom. You found some documents scattered around but about 3 pages were missing. You could still read most of the information on the ones you had.

It was about an illegal trading scheme with aphrodisiac‘s in the backstreets. It wouldn’t have been a big deal but it was claimed to be from a succubus. „Great so I am in this?“ you cursed at the papers. You were uninvolved but be honest, how many succubus did you know in this region. Close to zero, just you. Asher must be interested because this would make you a suspect if it got out to police.

„Location: Warehouse 023 on the north side of the local town called Wesber.“ you read out loud before realizing you were in that exact town. You quickly grabbed your stuff and made sure to hide anything suspicious like weapons and stuff.

You carefully opened the door before slipping away quickly and soundless. While it was in the morning you probably should at least check the warehouse out from the outside so that your mission would not go south in the evening.

Well that plan was partially built on the fact that no one noticed you.

But that didn’t work out.

It had been a gun that was suddenly pointed at the back of your head when you tried to inspect one of the nearby vehicles, you had been thinking of sabotaging them but that was hardly in your field of expertise. You couldn’t be perfect at everything.

Then the gun hit your head. A shiver ran down your spine while your head tried to understand how you did not hear them coming.

A growl came up behind you and moments later it smelled like fish. ‚A demon!‘ was your last thought before your body went into overdrive. Things moved to fast and too slow at the same time. Your claws thrashed around you with force successfully injuring your opponent a few times in the process. Using that short span of surprise you placed some space between each other.

The demon now in front of you regained his composure too fast, seemingly not having been hurt at all. ‚Did I miss?‘

He appeared behind you faster than you could follow barely missing you with his claws. This wasn’t good. You weren’t in the best condition to begin with and now someone equally strong if not stronger was fighting you.

Your last chance would be to appear as the person he desired the most but you weren’t sure if it’s as effective on other demons.

In a short moment you tried to get a better picture of your predator. Tall, muscular, completely black and was that black smoke? ‚Shit, I need got to get out of here.‘ You barely managed to use illusions on that guy before he attacked again, this time however faltering in his attack. ‚It worked‘

Using this opportunity you launched yourself at him getting a clear hit to his chest poisoning him. This however took a toll on you and now retreat was the only option.

Your chest was heaving and begging for more air while you ran. Partially due to the running but also out of fear. Fighting other demons was not good. You were merely equipped to deal with desires and emotions of your victims. You may be a bit faster but not nearly as stamina having as that guy.

And he had muscles.

Stop lusting you damn horndog.

You had to admit your last meal had been too long ago. Maybe you really should go back to that hotel.

„Oof.“ was the only sound escaping you as you ran into something during your lusting thoughts. „Verdammte scheiße.“( Fucking Shit) was the only thing escaping you as someone tried to restrain you. You tried hitting them but you were quickly overpowered by the multiple people on your enemy side.

„Get the syringe and knock him the fuck out!“ A voice screamed. It was fairly deep and sounded like someone who‘d smoke at least one pack of cigarettes a day.

Or maybe he‘s just old.

A syringe was inserted into your neck. You waited for your vision to blacken but you only felt better by the second.

…

‚Thats my own damn poison you idiots!‘ you then bit one of the men holding you down. „Tastes like wet dog!“ Before escaping the clutches and attempting to catch them in your illusion.

In the middle of it they seemed calm. „It should take effect soon.“ The man with the hat spoke calmly. „No it won’t! You cannot use my own-…“

You stiffed. Those were the men you had helped yesterday! „What the hell are you doing!“ you screamed at them maybe just a bit angry. „Identify yourself.“ A man seemingly calm asked you.

„None of our business. We have him. Let’s get him to Laswell! Wait why am I feeling so tired?“ Your last resort. Putting them to sleep with your singing. ‚Shit this is harder than I thought. They must be beasts too-‚ then it went dark.

You had used to much of your already none existing energy.

…

—————————————————————————

Carefully the group got closer. „What do we do Price?“ Gaz asked inspecting the passed out man. „We should probably- holy shit! Ghost?“ The man now bleeding finally arrived at the scene. His breathing ragged. Soap immediately came over to him but Ghost went right past him towards the unconscious body.

„He isn’t who we were searching for. He panicked thinking I was his enemy, my approach may have been wrong.“ „Tell us the whole story at the base. Gaz, Soap pack him up!“

[ghost-in-the-stalls]

Moving is already so fucking stressful but this time I'll be in a position where if something falls through, I won't be able to just fix it myself. And that's so much worse

[angelesca]

a soon-to-be-husband's plan for successful marriage! w.c. ~900

requested by: @kimura-uzuri lots of kisses as per the request, suggestive, all of them are idiots in love and mega pathetic (just how we like 'em amirite) added some extra characters & stretched the prompt, but the core remains the same - hopefully you don't mind :)) (!! written before playing 3.1! only seen some bits and pieces)

anaxagoras's "all according to calculation" love letter!

to my dearest, if you were to reject me, i think i'd cry with my one eye since our fateful encounter, i've found myself... happy agitated, with these bothersome feelings aglaea said it was "love". hah. what does she know?, aroused by, simply, your presence in my orbit. it nags endlessly, claws at my throat when i breathe, these insignicant matters should afford me no pleasure... yet, the heart is no longer a master of itself, desperately wrestling from your grip, but inevitably chained to your smile that is interwoven with my memories. i also cannot forget how you suplexed me after our first kiss my lips spring and curve at an accord of their own when you spare as little as a glance at me. to who else can be ascribed such a feat? congratulations i guess a scholar's instinct is to question in the face of adversity. and questions must be accompanied by answers. as i write this to you, i have finally sumrised the truth. why i feel what i do, i must acknowledge it now... i adore you. i am eternally yours-- i must spend my life with you. ... *unintelligible scribbling*

anaxagoras looks up from his page, staring at you. "did that work?"

work? it didn't even try. "what? what are you- why did you read me a whole love letter? i didn't even know you had it in your bones to write sappy romance."

anaxagoras's eye twitches. he took that to heart. his formula for the perfect proposal is breaking, time to move onto plan b.

you throw your hands on your hips. "what's with you?" kiss. "you just came home after-" kiss. "-being away for so long." kiss. "is something wrong with your head?" kiss. "stop that! it won't distract me from your failure of a proposal."

"tch." anaxa clicks his tongue, slumping defeatedly like a child who got caught red-handed. so much for his perfect plan. well, when all else fails, there's only one final strategy: "well? are we getting engaged?"

you sigh. "you could've said that in the first place..." kiss. "..."

little did you know, that was a display of anaxagoras's restraint. the power of a scholar comes from more than their words, you learned the hard way, sore in bed the next day.

phainon's "super special, totally epic °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°" checklist!

1. i miss my partner so much... (´-ω-`) must return to okhema 2. buy a ring (maybe ask aglaea?) (ugh, i can't let mydei know or he'll tease me) 3. ??? 4. become husband!!! (☆ω☆)

step 1. miss my partner... check. duh. ┐(‘～` )┌ return to okhema? check.

step 2. buy a ring. check. aglaea, with a stifled chuckle, gladly helped the clueless phainon pick out a ring perfect for you. after all, someone who pairs an orange shirt with purple pants could hardly be trusted with picking out an engagement ring. successfully avoided mydei's keen eyes.

step 3. ???

phainon stares at you. "???"

"???" you stare back.

"???????????" phainon took the third step too literally. what is this doofus doing?

realising that his plan is falling apart, phainon panics. "c-c-c-c-can i k-kiss you?" his lips unconsciously push together, pouting, as if practicing his kissing on your ghost.

you frown. "why are you asking like it's our first time doing it?"

"oh, right..."

you playfully roll your eyes. "come here, you."

phainon skips over, brightened, lowering his head for you. you press kisses on them. then, ten more for good measure, because, well, phainon and kisses just go well together, clicking like a puzzle.

"haha, that was nice." phainon's cheeks were red as tomatoes, pressing his hands on them like a youthful maiden in love. then, he latches onto your arm, intertwining. "let's settle down soon. i'm so tired of fighting bad guys all day," he mumbles.

"settle down? like family?" you ask.

"whatever you desire: children, dogs, cats, potted plants. i'm okay with anything you want, as long as you want it," phainon beams. "i just want to start a new life with you!"

beneath all the sweet words, phainon feels that he forgot something integral... something something... become husband... well, whatever. as long as you're happy, phainon can't think of much else when you're calling out his name at night. ( ‾́ ◡ ‾́ ) the neighbours are tired bro...

(days later, you found the engagement ring left in his pocket before taking his clothes for laundry)

mydei's "conquer and overcome all adversities" (is he still talking about proposing?) goal!

1. propose

mydei holds out his hand. "let us form a legal, committal union under a contract."

your jaw drops. mydei had just returned home and these were his first words after being apart for so long? "s-sorry?"

mydei huffs. "you know what i mean."

"you mean a marri-"

COUGH COUGH.

...?

you scrunch your eyebrows. "you want to marr-"

COUGH COUGH.

... mydei is blushing, eyes glossy. how could one word have such an effect? scratch that, how has he made it this far into the relationship? romance was certainly not in the kremnoan dictionary.

you take a deep breath. "mydei, you can just say the word."

"the word."

you sigh. this was too slow. "fine. i agree."

"agree?" mydei looks at you expectantly.

"to establish a legal contract that binds us together."

"oh," mydei smiles. "well, let us make haste." he swings you over his shoulder easily, as if carrying feathers. now, it's going too fast - he really can't set a pace.

"hey! what the-" by the time you realised, you were already at an altar, face-to-face with your husband-to-be. never in your life have you witnessed your body being covered in so many marks the night after the wedding, and your lips were definitely bruised.

you sternly warned mydei, and what is repressed comes back stronger, as he hugged you 24/7, stealing your waist instead of lips. a kremnoan warrior always stays conquering, even when proving his eternal love for you.

a/n: i just found out there are anaxa chibis but its too late im afraid. pea head anaxa for life who's with me also here's some behind the scenes! originally i wrote this for phainon's step 3:

phainon gets on his knees and- oh, oh my god- "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE-"

"phainon???" his name barely leaves your mouth as a breath, for you can hardly construct words, let alone a sentence.

LMAOOO it was way too much. anw ty again! i had fun writing it! sorry this was kinda short, i wrote this up as quick as i could. but if you'd like me to re-make the request bc it was too silly, lemme know xx

[witherby]

hello! great work so far :-) im getting into batfam myself and been loving the platonic/familial works you do w littlest wayne! was wondering if you'd ever do an teen y/n or just an older one? I'd love to see you tackle the idea of a robin y/n or jaybe just some angsty kid stuff,,,,,, hope you had a good new years!

-- :33Anon

I love angst with my whole heart and soul, and I'm happy to write it with a slightly older Reader. Hope you don't mind I've commandeered your prompt to showcase the ability you guys voted on.

This one's a long read so I'm splitting it up. This part is roughly 2400+ words.

The Littlest Wayne: Uncertain Home

(Part 1/2)

Masterlist is Here!

Uncle J'onn is looking at you curiously.

He's been doing that a lot, lately. When Daddy brings you to the Watchtower to be babysat so he can go save the world, one of his co-workers that they can afford to spare gets put in charge of keeping an eye on you. Usually it's Uncle Hal, but this time it's J'onn and he's in his natural form, which you don't mind. Green is your favorite color, and his whole body is green! He's nice and calm, and tells you lots of stories and plays any game you want, even if it's hard for him not to cheat and read your mind. He says it's instinct. You don't hold it against him because you still have fun.

Lately, though, when he talks to you, he tilts his head a bit. He usually does that when he can't understand something.

You wipe your face, checking for cookie crumbs. All clean. You search your shirt for any weird marks or stains. All clean. You scrunch your nose and puff out your cheeks, pouting.

"What's wrong, uncle J'onny?" You ask him. Daddy says the way to get honest answers from someone is just to be forthcoming (Dicky told you what forthcoming meant when you asked him later), so you are. "Did I do something wrong?"

That seems to snap his train of thought. J'onn shakes his head and goes back to sorting out the jigsaw puzzle pieces for you. You're good enough at this to do 100-piece puzzles, now, and when you get really stuck you don't even cry anymore!

"Nothing is wrong, Flittermouse," he says, watching you start putting the edges together first like Dami taught you. "You are simply...changing. Differences are not inherently wrong."

"What's inherably mean?"

"Inherently. It means instinctively, or something that is "set in stone." A rule that does not change. I am stating that change is not something that is always wrong. It's not a firm rule."

You pout and try to process all of that in your brain. It was a partial answer. Daddy says that means people might want to hide something from you.

"What's changing?" You ask him. "I got older a week ago. Is that what you mean? I'm four, now. Grandpappy says I'm getting so big and growed up. He says to not do that so fast. I dunno how, though. He's silly."

J'onn hums. His eyes look away from you as he considers what to say. You put one whole edge together before he speaks again.

"You know that I am not a human, correct?"

"Yeah, I know," you say. "I don't care. I love you. And auntie Diana. And uncle Clark. And uncle Barry. And —"

"Thank you," J'onn gently interrupts. "Do you also know that, sometimes, humans are born not entirely human? That sometimes they get special abilities?"

"Yeah, I know that," you repeat.

"I suspect that —" he cuts himself off, hesitates, then starts again. "Little one. You are showing signs of being one of those humans with special abilities."

"I am?" You ask. You perk up. "Can I fly?!"

You immediately abandon the puzzle and climb onto your chair, about to jump off of it to try and fly around, but J'onn catches you by the back of your shirt before you can hit the ground.

"You cannot."

"Aww...then I don't wanna be a megahuman," you complain, stomping your foot.

"Metahuman."

"Whatever."

"I am sorry," J'onn says, "I did not mean to upset you. I do think you are developing powers, however."

"Not fly powers?" You frown.

"No, not flight powers."

"Boring," you say, blowing raspberries. J'onn cracks a smile at your antics and you giggle. "Help me do the puzzle, please!"

"Alright," he relents, sorting more pieces for you. You're both quiet for a while, and you get the whole frame done before he speaks again.

"Little one. Do you know your father's rule about metahumans?"

"Yeah," you say, grinning, because you're a great listener. You pitch your voice down and make it scratchy. It's adorable in your four-year-old tone. "No metas in Gotham. I am Nighttime. Raaahhh."

J'onn huffs in amusement. "Right. He usually means what he says, does he not?"

"Yeah," you agree, "daddy is a bad liar. He lied and said he didn't eated the last cookie once, but he did eated it. Alfie was mad, 'cause it was for Dami, but Dami didn't care. He likes brownies more than cookies. I like brownies, too."

"I figured," J'onn says. He's not looking at you again. This time he's frowning.

"Do you want brownies?" You ask, figuring that was the issue. "I don't have any. I can ask for some when Daddy comes back. I'm good at sharing, 'cause I'm a good noodle, like Jay says."

"No, but thank you for offering to share. Jason is right, you are a good noodle."

You preen. "I know!"

J'onn drops the subject again and helps you complete the puzzle. You squint at every piece in concentration and politely ask him if he can dim the lights so you can work better. He complies, and after another hour and a half, you have a completed image on the table.

"Yay! We did it!"

The sounds of chatter and footsteps appear down the hall moments later, and you spring to your feet in delight.

"Hello!!!" You shout.

A chorus of "hello!" greets you in return from multiple heroes, and the rest of the Justice League files into the room one by one. They don't look too roughed up, so the mission wasn't very dangerous. That's good. You stand by the door and offer them hugs. Everyone complies, to your endless delight.

"Daddy!" You cheer when you see him, running and hugging Batman's legs. He scoops you into his arms and you grin and point at the table. "Uncle J'onny and I dided a whole puzzle! I didn't give up!"

"Good job, Mouse," Bruce says, reaching out to adjust the light. "You did it in the dark?"

"Yeah," you grin, kicking your feet. "Did you punch bad guys?"

"I did."

"Did you win?"

"Yes."

"Can we have ice cream?"

"Maybe after dinner." He carries you down the hall and towards his temporary quarters, the place he'll stay after a particularly tough mission when he can't make it home right away, and deposits you gently on the bed. "I have to debrief with everyone, and then we can pack up and go home."

"Okay, daddy," you say, already digging through the nightstand for a toy to play with. "I stay right here!"

"Good job," he says again, kissing the top of your head, and leaves you alone with a small wave.

--

The next time you need to be at the Watchtower, it's with Uncle Clark and Auntie Diana. The mission wasn't a super dangerous one, so they both got to stay behind and entertain you.

Today, you're a cashier at your world-famous grocery store. You have the best ingredients all over the world.

"Welcome to the groshy store, what do you want stranger?" You demand, getting into character. Clark looks mildly offended.

"Whoa, hello. That's a lot of 'tude for a paying customer," he says.

"You didn't buy nothing yet! Whataya want!"

"Uh. Some carrots please."

"All out."

Clark narrows his eyes at you. "Can you check in the back?"

You turn around. You turn back.

"All out. Whataya want!"

"You barely looked!" He insists.

"FRESH OUTTA CARROTS, BUB. WHATAYA WANT."

"Oh my goodness, now there's yelling. I think I need to speak to a manager."

"Okay!" You shuffle across the room and grab Diana's hand, leading her back to Clark. "This is the manager. Auntie, tell him all the carrots are gone. He can't have any."

Diana covers her mouth to stifle her laughter. "You heard them, stranger. There are no carrots here."

"Well, aside from the blatant nepotism, auntie, I think you're hiding the carrots from me," Clark huffs, crossing his arms. "I need them for my soup. Guess I'll go to the grocery store across town. I hear they're nicer."

"No," you gasp, "wait. Okay maybe I have one secret carrot. I go get it."

You leave their giggling forms and run over to the toy box that was set up for you on the watch tower, thrusting your hands inside to dig around. You squint your eyes, but all the bright colors are hard to distinguish properly. In the dark spaces, deeper into the box, is where you cast your focus. Instinctively, you follow the trail and close your hand around a plastic carrot. You lift your hand triumphantly.

"Okay, got it!" You cry, only to startle when you find both Clark and Diana kneeling beside your toy chest. Diana picks you up around the waist and takes several steps back, and Clark's eyes turn that funny shade of blue they do when he's using x-ray vision. "Umm, I gotted the carrot already. It's in my hand."

"Are you injured?" Diana asks you, expression deadly serious. You frown and shake your head. "You're certain? I could sense something in that box with you."

"No, I'm fine," you promise. Clark stands up and his eyes go back to normal. He shrugs, brows furrowed.

"There's nothing in there but toys."

"Yeah," you nod, "toys and dark spots."

Both heroes look at you. You squirm in Diana's hold shyly.

"Um, want to pay for the carrot?" You ask, holding it up. "It's only ten dollars. Orrr one lollipop." You whisper conspiratorially. "I can be bribed."

Diana and Clark exchange glances. Clark gingerly takes the carrot from you and puts it back in the toy box.

"Sold. Let's go to the kitchen and pick out which flavor you want."

You grin, forgetting about the game, and Diana puts you on the ground so you can follow excitedly after them. With a couple "pretty please's" and your lethal puppy dog eyes, you even manage to get two lollipops. You ask to be hoisted onto the counter so you can swing your feet as you enjoy the candy, and both heroes perch on either side of you.

It's quiet for a while. It feels like that weird, anticipatory quiet you felt with Uncle J'onny, but you don't know what for, so you wait for one of them to speak. You finish off one whole sucker and open the second one when it happens.

"Mouse?" Clark eventually asks, "can you explain what you meant about your toys? That there are dark spots in there?"

"Yeah," you say, "shadows. Dark spots. Light not touching."

"And you can...feel shadows?"

You hum, thinking it over. "Um...yes. Kind of."

Clark and Diana look at each other again. They're frowning. You frown.

"Can you tell us what you mean by that?" She asks.

"Um. I wanted the carrot, for uncle Clark," you say, "so he can buy it at my groshy store. And the dark spots showed me where it was, and I grabbed it."

"Did they also help you complete the jigsaw puzzle, when you were with J'onn?" Diana asks. "It was quite dark when we got back." You nod.

"Yeah. Easier to do in the dark. It's not cheating!" You blurt. "I didn't cheated!"

"Okay, ya' didn't cheat," Clark agrees, gently patting your back. There's a slight drawl in his words which usually shows up when he's stressed out. "We're just curious, is all, darlin'. Seems you've got a... A special talent, we can call it."

"It's a power. They're a metahuman, Kal," Diana says simply, "and you know Bruce's rule."

The rule? Which one? Always brushing your teeth before bedtime? Or maybe no sweets until you finish your dinner? Hmm, but you haven't had dinner yet. That doesn't make sense.

"No metas in Gotham. I'm very aware, Diana."

"Then you see the problem."

Oh. Now you think you know why uncle J'onny was upset that day.

"Now wait a minute," Clark says. He looks genuinely angry, which confuses you. Did they not like that you could ask the dark for help? They had superpowers, too. You figured they would be happy. "They're his kid."

You are. You're Daddy's little Flittermouse, scampering around and bringing joy. That's what everyone tells you. They love you.

"You've seen how hard he works to keep us out of Gotham," Diana says. "We can be trusted to babysit, but we can't enter the city? What does that tell you?"

"That's different. He's territorial, we all know that. He's not a monster, Diana. He would never hurt them —"

"I'm not saying he is. I'm not saying he would. But I am saying that he doesn't bend his own rules. He does not make exceptions."

Oh.

You sit almost numbly on the counter and watch Clark and Diana start to argue over your place in Gotham. Over your place at home.

You think about Daddy's rule about no metas in Gotham. You think about your new ability to interact with shadows.

Oh.

The lollipop tastes like ash on your tongue and the tips of your fingers feel like tv static. When you blink, your eyes sting as they well up with tears. You've been so good about not throwing fits, about not being a crybaby, about being as strong as your super cool daddy and brothers and grandpa.

But you can't call them that anymore, can you? They don't want metas in Gotham, and that's what you are, now. You can't live with your family anymore.

Large, fat tears roll down your cheeks and your bottom lip wobbles. You whimper and both Diana and Clark whip their heads around to look at you in shock.

"No, oh no, don't cry," Diana coos, "you don't need to worry. Your father isn't —"

You bat her hands away when she reaches for you and jump off the counter, running underneath Clark's cape. They don't catch on to what you're doing in time.

Clark practically rips it off and fans it on the floor, floating above it with wide eyes. Diana kneels next to the fabric and frantically pats it, searching for you.

But there's nothing. You've fled into the shadow Clark's body cast and allowed the darkness to swallow you.

[aurumalatus]

𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 [𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞]

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 700

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst, drabble collection

summary.

in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.

author's note. this is just a short prologue to show how things end (yay happy endings!), but the two have a lot of trauma to go through before they reach endgame. i love kinich's character and design so i'm excited for this! interaction is highly appreciated :)

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣

Kinich thinks he’s loved you since forever.

He has no way of proving that, of course; those years are long gone, and even if he had the opportunity to ask, he’s not sure his younger self would have a comprehensible answer. He can only see now that he’s come so far, when the memories are too murky to make sense of but the warmth remains—when he thinks of your smile and feels something akin to the weightlessness of grappling and flying through the trees.

He says “forever” because he really has no idea when it started—the realization came far after the feeling. He’d been before school age when he met you for the first time, and it’s been over a decade since then.

“Kinich!”

Your call interrupts his thoughts, and his gaze is drawn skyward—you’re standing somewhere far above him, on one of the walkways lining the cliffs of the Scions of the Canopy. You’re waving so wildly and ridiculously that it almost makes him smile.

“Are you coming down?” he calls through cupped hands, well-acquainted with this kind of long-distance communication. Sound tends to echo well between the cliffs here, and he’s sure you heard him when you offer an enthusiastic thumbs-up in return. 

“Yup! I bought a few things, so I was hoping you could help me carry them home!”

Kinich rolls his eyes teasingly. “Somehow I doubt that you have enough Mora left to afford my services.”

You pout in reply. Ajaw decides to appear then, a malicious puff of smoke over Kinich’s shoulder. “Of course not! You better not be making fun of me, letting some mortal treat you like a servant! The Almighty Dragonlord, K’uhul Ajaw, won’t take this kind of disrespect—”

Ignoring his wordy introduction, you call down to Kinich again. “I’m coming down! Think fast!”

“—Don’t make me lau—wait, what?!”

Even Ajaw yelps in surprise as you take a running leap off the walkway, freefalling fast down the plane of the cliff. If he were any younger, Kinich might’ve had a heart attack. But you’ve been pushing your luck with him for years, and it comes as instinct when Kinich grapples up, deftly catching you in his arms with a light ‘oof’.

You’re holding a few boxes in your arms, he notices, and you smile. 

“I bought some Puff Pops for us to share later. I was thinking we can do some climbing, or there’s this cave I’ve been meaning to explore.”

His heart does a sort of flip that cannot be attributed to the way you fly through the sky. It’s all so much: the sensation of your warmth pressed against him, the scent of the wind rushing past, and the laughter of his tribe members below. Their eyes shine as they watch the two of you pass above them, chuckling at the familiar sight. 

And really, he can’t remember ever being this happy. When he thinks of how much it took to reach this point, the heartbreak and trauma aren’t the first things to come to mind. Instead, it’s you. The way you held him, the way you cried for him, the way you chased him. Always laughing, always in love.

Too lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice your curious stare for a moment. You poke at his cheek, and he startles, nearly dropping you both.

“Is something wrong?” you ask shyly, suddenly self-conscious of the box in your hands. “We don’t have to do any of that. Really, if you have a high-value job or something, I understand.”

Ajaw decides to butt-in again, reddened with rage. “Yes, all of that sucks! I mean, seriously, don’t you have anything better to do—”

“No, it’s great,” Kinich murmurs in reply, flicking Ajaw away with a strong hand—the Saurian’s roar dissipates with the wind. He holds you tighter against his chest. There’s nothing worth more to him than you. “That all sounds really, really amazing.”

As the two of you burst through the trees, laughing the whole way, he thinks that it doesn’t really matter when he started to love you. All that matters is that he doesn’t stop.

Kinich thinks he’ll love you forever.

[bitchy-craft]

PICK A CARD: what would drive you to kill? (18+) *a little cringe*

Hello and welcome to this new reading of mine! In here I will tell you what would drive you to kill. I hope you enjoy it and find it interesting!

masterpost > paid readings > patreon masterlist

for the extended version of this reading and 80+ exclusive and extended pac's check put my patreon

Pile 1:

What would drive me to kill?

The people I love. Easy. No hesitation. My friends, my family, my brothers and sisters. I don’t care who it is or why, if they try to hurt the people I love, I’ll lose it. Fully. I’d go blackout if I had to. Because you don’t touch my people. Ever. You don’t even look at them the wrong way. I’d rather be someone who protects with words. Who hugs it out. Who talks through it. But this world doesn’t always let you do that. Sometimes people cross lines that can’t be uncrossed. And in that moment? I wouldn’t be kind. I wouldn’t be sweet. I’d be done. I’d kill for them and still hold their hand after. I’d wash the blood off and help them fall asleep that night. They’d never even have to know. I’d carry it alone, I’d take the weight, the fear, the aftermath, if it meant they get to live their life safe and untouched.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 2:

What would drive me to kill?

When it’s survival or death. When someone forces me to pick between them or me, and I’m sorry, but I’ll pick me every single time. I’ve been through too much to let someone take me out. I’ve crawled out of places so dark most people wouldn’t even know how to breathe in them. I’ve seen things that rewired my brain, I’ve healed from things I never even talked about. I’ve had to rebuild myself using scraps; no map, no help, just stubbornness and a pulse. I had no one. So if someone tries to end that, if someone thinks they can take away the little bit of peace I’ve found, the safety I scraped together with bloody hands? No. I’ll kill before I let that happen, and I won’t feel bad about it either, because I know what it cost me to survive.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 3:

What would drive me to kill?

A memory, or a moment. A past version of me who stood there and did nothing, or couldn’t, or wasn’t strong enough. That version of me still lives in my chest, it still cries when no one is around. It still shakes when certain things come up. I don’t talk about it much, not because it wasn’t real, but because it was too real. Something happened, and that broke me in a way I didn’t even notice at first. By the time I was aware of it the damage was already done. I don’t even know what version hurts the most; the one that froze, the one that stayed silent, or the one that couldn’t fix it. And even though people say it wasn’t my fault, even if they try to reassure me that over and over again, I still carry it like it was; like I should’ve known better, as if I should’ve done better, as if I failed someone who didn’t deserve it. So now? If I ever see that again, if I ever hear that same scream, that same panic, that same desperate begging, something in me will break loose. No mercy, no pause, no waiting. I won’t freeze again, I just cannot afford to do so.

extended reading > paid readings

[dreamersparacosm]

under the checkered flag - epilogue blurb 3!

prompt ; in which you take a ride (literally and figuratively.)

warnings ; this is straight up you riding him in his race car. that’s all folks.

request ; linked here

part of the under the checkered flag universe

Jungkook’s racecar wasn’t made for comfort—not with its stiff leather seats and unforgiving angles—but that’s the last thing on your mind when his lips are on yours, your body slotted on top of his in the driver’s seat of his Ferrari F40. The car smells like leather and gasoline, with the lingering remnants of burnt rubber from earlier races, his cologne lingering in the upholstery, invading your nostrils and bloodstream.

It’s like something out of an elaborate Fast and Furious AO3 fanfiction (and you’re pulling some inspiration from them in this moment.)

It all started like this: Jungkook had pulled his racecar into his driveway, the low purr of the engine settling into silence as he parked, fingers still drumming against the wheel like he wasn’t ready to let go of the rush just yet. And maybe you should have let him have his moment when you stepped out of the house to welcome him, but when you had seen the bright red vehicle, the sleek body practically begging to be taken back onto the road, the words were tumbling out of your mouth.

“Can I ride in it?”

And of course, he could never say no to you.

Not when you were standing there in that damn sundress, soft fabric brushing against your thighs, looking at him with those eyes that made him weak in the knees.

He had just sighed, a little dramatically, like he had to pretend he wasn’t already unlocking the passenger side door.

“One ride,” he had muttered, but you didn’t miss the smirk playing on his lips as he added, “Don’t get any ideas.”

And yet, here you are now: straddling him in the front seat, chair reclined as far back as it can go, getting all the wrong ideas.

He’s so damn hot like this, half-lidded eyes watching you through dark lashes, tousled hair begging for your fingers, his grip flexing against your skin every time you shift. You, however, feel like a teenage girl sneaking kisses with the bad boy behind the school bleachers.

It’s laughable how desperate you are for him, how insanely good he looks in the most casual outfit yet it’s doing so much to you. Your lips trail down, moving from his mouth to his jaw, your faded lip gloss leaving shiny marks on his golden skin.

He’s close to giving in — you can tell by the way his breathing is more strained than ever, the way his tattooed hand tightens on the back of your head as your lips wander, the way your name falls from his mouth like he’s begging himself to not give into you. He cannot afford to explain to his manager why he so desperately needs to clean the inside of his car.

“What are you doing?” His voice is low, laced with amusement and disbelief, despite him knowing damn well what you are alluding to.

But you don’t hesitate, your mind already made up, voice muffled against his pulse. You are a woman on a mission. “We are fucking in this car.”

Jungkook is short-circuiting. There’s no other way to explain it. Because you, his sweet, sweet girlfriend, the one who used to trip over her own words just talking to him, who blushed if he so much as teased you, who once nearly choked on a sip of wine when he casually mentioned how good you looked in red, just looked him dead in the eye and said, “we are fucking in this car.”

Like you hadn’t just sent his brain into a full system reboot.

He blinks at you. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure.

“I—” he starts, then stops, swallows hard, shakes his head as if he’s trying to clear it. He’s trying to think of something, anything about how this car is worth more than a small house, about how many races it’s won, about how it’s been with him through every victory, every moment of his career.

But then he really looks at you. The straps of your sundress are slipping slightly off your shoulders, the fabric bunched up around your thighs, exposing more skin than should be legal, your breasts sitting perfectly, rising and falling with every heavy breath you take. Your lips are swollen, slick and pink from his kisses, your eyes glazed over.

Suddenly, Jungkook doesn’t give a shit about the car. Doesn’t care about the fine leather seats, the pristine dashboard, the million-dollar vehicle that built his career. Doesn’t care about anything but being inside you.

“Fuck it,” he breathes against your mouth, his voice hoarse. “You wanna fuck in this car? We’ll fuck in this car.”

Jungkook’s lips are hot, open-mouthed, trailing down your throat, the metal of his lip ring cool against your burning hot skin. “You look so good right now,” He moans wantonly, making no effort to hide behind his usual stone-cold appearance.

He pulls your tits free, the fabric of your dress pooling around your waist, leaving you exposed to the parking garage in his house (because, well… you two never even made it out of the driveway) and Jungkook loses his mind. See, the thing about sundresses, they’re deceivingly innocent. A little fabric, a little flowy, a whisper of fabric against the skin. But on you? On you, they’re a goddamn hazard. You don’t wear them like normal people do. No, you wear them around the house, barefoot, hair tossed up like you couldn’t be bothered, and, most egregiously, with nothing underneath. This is one of those times where he’s questioning where the fuck your underwear is.

His mouth is on you in an instant, lips closing around your nipple, tongue laving over the sensitive bud. His eyes meet yours as he shucks just hard enough to make you dig your nails into his scalp and beg for more. “Jungkook, ah—“

“You like that, baby?” He murmurs against your skin, his voice so cocky, so smug. He’s sucking his way across your chest to your other breast, making sure to devote just as much attention to it. He pulls off with a wet pop, his lips bright pink, his breath heavy.

You roll your hips slowly, dragging yourself against the throbbing bulge beneath his pants, every press of your soaked core against him. “Didn’t know my car turned you on so much,” He teases.

You have fully lost the ability to speak, no words exiting as you drag your clitoris against the rough fabric of his jeans. Anything, something, to feel some kind of stimulation and relief.

His hands fly to his belt, fumbling and pulling at the leather strap, the metal clinking loudly in the quiet of the car. His chest heaves as he yanks it free, all the while you giggle breathlessly, still rolling your hips against him, making it so much worse, but also making it so much better. “God, I cannot wait to be inside you,” He mutters, mostly to himself.

His jaw clenches as he finally manages to shove his pants down enough to free himself, his cock springing up, his tip red from how much he’s been holding back. “You’re really about to ride me in my fucking car?” He exhales, his pupils blown so dark that they swallow up every trace of color in his irises.

“What?” Your lips curve into a wicked little smile, tilting your head, mock innocence dripping from your voice. “You scared?”

That little act you have going on really does it for him. “Never, baby.” He grits out.

You lift yourself just slightly, aligning yourself with him, the tip of his cock nudging against your entrance. The stretch is so intoxicating that you need to muffle your moans into the palm of your hand, mewling from the immense burn as you bury him deep inside you. His hands move down to the curve of your ass, his large hands leaving prints on your skin.

“Fuuuck,” His head falls back against the headrest of his seat, right against the Ferrari logo. “Why are you always so fucking tight?”

“Oh my god, Jungkook,” You nearly cry out, hands flying to his clothed chest to try and stabilize yourself. You lean down, pressing your bare tits against him, the space inside the car trickling with humidity.

Jungkook is watching you like a man possessed, gripping the soft flesh at your hips so tight it borders on bruising.

But, you don’t care. You don’t care about the way your head keeps bumping against the top of the roof, don’t care about the way your thighs burn, don’t care about anything except how good he feels inside you, how every little bounce sends shocks of pleasure up your spine.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants, “Riding me so good like you always do, yeah?”

“S-so good, Kook,” You gasp, the only sound in the car being your head repeatedly slamming against the roof you’re certain there’s a concussion in your future.

“Careful, baby,” he mocks, but his tone is shaky, uneven, “Gonna break my car if you keep hitting your head like that.”

You huff, frustration bubbling, but you won’t stop, not until you get what you need. “Don’t care,” You whimper, moving quicker, the wet sound of your juices coating his cock filling the small space, drowning out everything else.

Your hands cup his face, fingers threading through his damp hair, trying to kiss him, needing to taste him, but every time your lips get close, your consistent bouncing only allows for you to brush your lips against his. “Holy shit, you look so sexy right now,” He moans against your mouth. “You’re so perfect, so so so perfect.”

Your walls tighten around him because he means it. His words aren’t just filthy whispers in the void. They’re real, honest, it’s unfiltered adoration poured into you. “Can tell you’re close, baby. God, you look so hot when you cum.”

Jungkook nearly cums right then and there with how tightly your walls are clinging around him. He can tell you’re close, eyes nearly rolled back into your pretty little head. Usually, he’s good about holding out. Really good. He can last for ages, a result of all the fucking you two have been doing ever since you began dating and he realized his girl was nothing short of a freak. But something about how you struggle to hold his gaze, hips frantically moving up, down, in figure-eights, eyes fluttering shut, tits bouncing near his throat where he’s holding back a string of curse words… well, it’s fucking hot. He realizes he might cum before you, and his hand reaches down, finding your clit with ease and rubbing the bud with the pad of his thumb.

Your whole body jolts at the added intensity, the pleasure hitting like a freight train, thighs trembling violently“I, fuck, I can’t—I’m—”

You can’t even finish the sentence, your orgasm ripping through you so hard it almost hurts, your entire body convulsing as you scream his name. And you don’t even realize he’s finishing too, caught up in your own haze, until you feel a rush of warmth inside you as he finally spills into you.

The car reeks of sex, the windows fogged up. Your body just kinda.. collapses on top of him, heartbeats slamming against their respective ribcages. His arms stay lazily wrapped around you, fingers tracing nonsense patterns along your spine, cock slowly softening inside you.

“You know,” Jungkook whispers in your ear, his voice lazy, “I’m gonna have to spend a stupid amount of money getting this car deep-cleaned now.”

You groan against his chest, swatting weakly at his arm. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

He laughs, “I’m serious, baby. This is a million dollar car. Do you know how much of a pain it is to clean the upholstery?”

You lift your head, propping your chin on his chest to glare at him, “You’re literally a millionaire. You’ll survive.”

Jungkook hums, pretending to mull it over. “Yeah, but I’d rather spend my money on spoiling my girl, not on my car.”

You groan again, hiding your face in his warmth, and he chuckles, full and satisfied.

And yeah, maybe you did just ruin his precious racecar, but if the way he’s still holding onto you is anything to go by, you’re pretty certain he doesn’t mind.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

[chuulyssa]

after dark. (l lawliet)

↷ A/N ─ apologies for slightly drifting off canon ryuzaki here. i mean, who doesn't like a dom detective /j also not proof-read yet ahhh i have school < / 3

also !! im switching to one post a week because of academic stress im sorry :(

★ COUNT ─ 1.6k

!! TAGS ─ l x reader, f!reader, dom!lawliet, smut, teasing, dry-humping, fingering, choking, degradation, praise kink, nicknames (good girl, bad girl, etc.), cockwarming, unprotected sex, p in v, slight (?) exhibitionism

★ PROLOGUE ─ you try to convince your workaholic boyfriend to take a break

SMUT, 18+, MDNI

You frowned at your boyfriend's hunched position on his chair, crouched in a highly uncomfortable posture with his knees bent against the palms of his hands and his head drooped in a trail of thought.

"Did you hear me?" you snapped your fingers in front of his eyes sternly.

He hummed in response, not looking up from the huge computer screen in front of him.

"Hello? Ryuzaki?" you repeated. "It's 2am. Bed. Now."

"Hm, no," he said softly. He lifted a finger to his chin and rubbed it thoughtfully, trying to decipher a new clue.

You felt frustrated at his lack of response, but you knew his work was equally important. Still, you leaned in closer to rest a hand on his shoulder.

"Honey, seriously, it's time for bed now. You've been at this for hours," you insisted.

He sighed, finally tearing his gaze away from the screen to meet your eyes.

"I can't just leave this case unsolved, Y/N," he explained in a small voice. "There is something here. Something really, really important. It seems so close to me yet so far away." Your concerned eyes met his tired ones. He continued, "This is crucial for the case. I cannot afford to slack off, and you know that, darling."

You took a deep breath in. Of course, you knew how significant this case was, not just to him but also to the entire police force. But that didn't mean you would allow him to jeopardize both his physical and mental health.

"You can pick it up tomorrow. Your health is much more important than this, Ryuzaki."

He shook his head vigorously and returned his attention to the computer screen. "I told you. I can't afford to slack off. At all."

Your frown deepened. So this was how he wanted to play. Well then, he'd get exactly what he wanted.

Without a word, you placed the still-filled coffee mug on the table a good distance away from him and tapped his bent knees. He raised his eyebrows and confusedly put his legs down. Immediately, you sat on his lap.

His fingers paused over the keyboard. Perfect. His attention was now fully on you.

"Is something wrong?"

You didn't answer, instead choosing to wrap your arms around his neck and lean in for a soft kiss. Ryuzaki widened his eyes and leaned backwards at the unexpected move.

"What are you doing?"

"Forcing you to take a rest," you said, kissing his lips once more.

He blinked but eventually gave in to the kiss. His hands ran up and down your back, knocking the fork off his desk. His fingers went up to your hair and got tangled in it. He pulled away shortly after to look at you in the eyes.

"Is this going to go where I think it will?" he asked, to which, you gave a little nod. He nodded back at you and shifted you so your back faced him, your ass rubbing against his crotch and instantly hardening it.

He slid a hand inside your pants and under your panties, brushing your clit. You gasped, taken aback by his bluntness.

"Ryu-"

"This is what you get for trying to distract me from my work, love," he whispered into your ear, his other hand holding you close to him so you couldn't escape.

His fingers worked faster on your clit, and you leaned your head back against the crook of his neck, arching your back at the blissful sensation. L slowly slid a finger inside you, and you let out a loud moan. His breath was heavy against your ear and his frequent whispers of "Yes, that's right. Such a good girl," and "So obedient for me. So good," drove you crazy.

Suddenly, he stopped. You whined and tugged at his shirt, gesturing for him to continue assaulting your pussy. He shook his head with a little smirk on his face and ran a finger all the way from your hips to your clit, dragging the fabric of your panties down. You bucked your hips up excitedly, allowing him to completely strip your bottom down.

You sat on his clothed crotch once more, anticipating the magic of his fingers on you again. But he merely caressed your thigh and typed something on his computer with the hand he was holding you with. You pouted and turned halfway to meet his eyes and dug your teeth into his neck, earning a barely heard intake of breath from him.

His fingers automatically slid back inside you while your teeth licked and sucked on the skin of his neck and collarbones. L turned you back around to face his desk and brought a hand out to choke you lightly from the front. You gagged, enjoying the feel of his pretty hands wrapped around your throat.

"You're being a naughty girl, Y/N L/N," L growled into your ear. "Do you really want punishment?"

You stopped. This was one of the rare moments where your boyfriend actually behaved this way - talking about punishment and ordering you to be submissive. Usually, he was one to settle down to lazy, morning sex. Needless to say, you were more than happy to accommodate his current desire. You nodded furiously.

L smiled before putting a hand in front of your face, covering it as if shielding it from something. Out of the blue, he stood up a little, making you skate forward. He gently laid your head on the desk so that your breasts were now practically floating in between the desk and his chair.

You were still seated on his lap, but he lifted his hips, tightening his grip on you so as to prevent you from falling over. L then frantically yet so calmly unbuttoned his pants and slid his boxers down with one hand. He pumped his thick, hard dick a few times before rubbing it against your pussy.

"Apologize," he commanded you.

Your words were incoherent as you tried desperately to say sorry to him for your behaviour. They were interrupted by loud whimpers and moans of need.

"Ryuzaki, please," you panted, your face pressed sideways into his desk. "I need you inside me- ah! Please, don't tease-"

"I said, apologize," he ordered firmly.

You were leaking now. The liquid from your stimulated pussy was dripping all over L's chair, but he did not seem to care. With tears in your eyes, you yelled out, "I- I'm sorry! Please!"

L nodded in satisfaction, patting your ass proudly. "Good girl. Now, a reward for my pretty baby."

He entered your pussy slowly and carefully. It seemed as if he wanted nothing more than to savour every inch of your tight, wet pussy. He knew your body so well - perhaps because of his detective tendencies. Because when his dick entered you, he immediately swung it around to hit your most sensitive spots, making you curl your toes in pleasure.

He pulled back and thrust back inside, repeating the process for what seemed like a thousand times, each thrust earning howls of praise from you. You were a screaming mess, hands running all over his desk, typing senseless words on his keyboard which you were sure would earn you another punishment soon.

"Ryuga, please, faster," you begged, and L obliged, picking up the pace by raising his hips even higher. The faster the movements became, the louder you began to babble.

He tried to keep as quiet as possible throughout the scene, occasionally letting out a few grunts as you told him to go rougher and harder on you. He smacked your ass once, making you shut up and enjoy him as he filled you in completely.

"Oh, god, you little slut," he said between breathless panting. "How horny are you for me, huh? Not even letting me work in peace," he smacked your ass and you cried out, your moans probably waking up the entire hotel.

L was now pounding into you with all his might, your body practically bouncing up and down on the desk uncomfortably. His dick was thrusting in and out of you and his balls were hitting your clit repeatedly at an inhumane speed.

"Now tell me who you are?" he slapped your ass hard.

"I'm- I'm your slut," you whimpered, trying not to pass out with the pleasure you were receiving.

"And what do you want?"

"You-"

He hit your ass even harder, making you yelp in pain.

"Wrong answer. Try again. What do you want?"

"For you to- to fill me up with your cum."

"That's right. Good girl," he growled, his hands latching onto your hips, and his nails digging into your skin to hold you in position. "I will come inside you now."

You nodded shakily. L let out a loud groan for the first time as he came hard into you, filling your pussy with his hot cum. You moaned along with him, jabbering inaudible sobs of his name, coming shortly after him.

For a while, the two of you stayed in the same exact position; your face pressed up against the table with your ass in his lap. His dick was still inside you, unwilling to let go of the warm feel of your pussy. Slowly, he pulled you by your neck back against his chest and pushed his chair forward.

He pressed backspace on his keyboard to delete the words you accidentally wrote, and, with one hand on the side of your hip even now, continued his investigation, leaving a kiss on your neck every few minutes. As the clock struck 4:30am, you slowly drifted off to dreamland, your boyfriend not paying any heed to your concerns. But you had learnt your lesson now, hadn't you?

© chuulyssa, 2024 - do not copy, plagiarize or repost my works on any platforms. do not translate.

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

Hello, yes, I did the thing!

In which Hans spends the duration of a feast whispering filthy things into his bodyguard's ear. 2.7k words, rated somewhere between M and E (there's dirty talk but they don't fuck on-page).

⚔ ⚔ ⚔

With one hand on his sword and the other curled at his side, Henry looks around the room. The fine banqueting hall is full of chatter, nobles discussing - well, whatever it is they talk about when a war isn't on. Tonight, for once, he doesn’t have to care.

He's acting in official capacity this evening: not as a false noble, but as Lord Capon’s bodyguard. Which means that while Hans gets to strut about the hall in his obscenely tight pourpoint, Henry has been dressed head to toe in the finest armour Capon can afford.

Which means, of course, that it is very fine. 

Hans knows the difference between armour where the expense comes from aesthetics and that which is actually useful, at least. The armour is surprisingly light, well made and moveable. But there's still a stiff layer of metal between Henry and the rest of the world: between him and Hans’s flesh.

Hans himself is in his element this evening. He swans about like he owns the room, chatting up nobles and charming serving girls. Once, it would have made Henry jealous, watching Hans pour his attention upon other people. But now that bite is gone: Hans is his, just as much as he belongs to Hans.

He knows full well that Hans is aware of this, too. It's a fight with no true sting. He may be whispering into the ear of a blushing kitchen girl, but he's looking at Henry, waiting for a response. 

Even Hans’s smiles are filthy. After the initial shock of consummation - something that left them both softly reeling - Hans is back to being his true, typical, randy self. And now uninterested in a string of bath wenches and merchant's daughters and eager ladies, the full unconstrained force of Hans’s passion is pointed squarely at Henry. Henry has never been in a joust, but he suspects the the feeling he gets in his chest when Hans stares at him across the hall is akin to the feeling of being struck with a lance.

It's addictive. Henry isn't some pure untouched virgin, but it's never been like this.

He watches as Hans detaches himself from a group of lords and saunters over. Henry lets himself drink in the sight of him, his hair falling in his face, that God-cursed waist. Hans is looking at him with equal hunger. Henry swallows heavily under his mail.

“Everything alright, my Lord?”

It feels a little odd using such formalities, but no one here knows them. They don't know about Lord Capon and his odd relationship with his page-turned-guard. They have to play a part, tonight.

Hans grins. His teeth flash. “Quite alright, Henry,” he replies. “Nothing to report. If anything it's quite dull.”

That it is. “No invaders today then?”

“Doesn't look like it.” Hans licks his lips and steps closer, lowering his voice. “At least, not yet. I am fully expecting an invasion…” he draws the word out, “upon my person later tonight.” 

Hans reaches out - Christ, it's such a tiny movement that no one else would even notice, yet it makes Henry sweat - and rests a fingertip gently against Henry's breastplate.

“So you best be prepared.”

Henry cannot manage a true response before Hans sweeps away, immediately dragged into another conversation. 

So it's going to be one of those evenings. Hans's tongue is skilled in more ways than one, but his favourite use for that particular muscle is using it to drip sweet words into Henry's ear.

Although sweet may be the wrong way to describe it. Hans speaks utter filth, and he does so constantly. It doesn't matter if they're in Hans’s chambers or on the road or in a tavern or attending a fucking feast, Hans will be there, a string of sumptuous promises tripping from his lips.

His promises are often absurd, often overblown; bawdy and keen and salacious. He is not, perhaps, the best wordsmith in Bohemia. But something about his words makes Henry trip over himself.

He takes a breath, trying to regain his composure. The chances that he'll be needed as a bodyguard are slim, but the part of his brain that is always alert is clamouring at him. Hans and his syrupy promises are of no use to either of them if they're dead.

Still, he can allow himself a little indulgence. That pourpoint really is indecent, and the new hose - which Hans claims are extremely fashionable - are so tight that the bastard may as well not be wearing any at all.

Henry shuffles on the spot, finally ripping his gaze away. It's going to be a long night.

“Henry!” Henry’s head snaps around at Hans's demanding tone. “Over here, would you?”

It seems that Hans’s requirements are for a more personal bodyguard. Henry makes his way over. Hans's smile is devilish.

It's going to be a very long night.

Henry places himself by Hans's side. Hans could be planning all manner of things: he could have detected a genuine threat, and wants Henry close. He could be showing off how important and wealthy he is to require a personal guard. Most likely, he's bored, and desperate for someone else to talk to.

The man Hans is talking to looks Henry up and down. His nose wrinkles, but he's clearly spotted the expensive armour. 

“So this is the one you've been telling me about, Lord Capon? Your bodyguard?”

Showing off, then, Henry thinks.

“Indeed it is,” Hans boasts. “My God, you should see him fight. He can do things with his sword that would have a man on his knees, begging for release. A relentless swordsman.”

He catches Henry's eye. Hans gaze flicks down: eyes, sword, the spot where Hans damn well knows Henry's cock is half-hard behind layers of metal and cloth.

“Is such protection required at a simple banquet?”

Hans turns back to his new friend.

“You are clearly uneducated in the banquets I have attended in the past,” Hans grins. “He is absolutely required. Him and his sword.” He glances again at said sword. “I hope you brought some oil for that thing. Would hate for you to go in unprepared.”

“Absolutely,” Henry responds. “Nice and slick, sir.”

The other man doesn't seem to realise what's going on.

“Well done on finding yourself such a capable man,” he says, ignoring Henry entirely. “If only we could all be so well-guarded.”

“I count myself extremely lucky,” Hans says, preening a little. “Come, let's find more wine.”

As he leads the nobleman away, he shoots a look over his shoulder back towards Henry. He smiles, then in a slow, languid movement licks his lips.

Henry grips the hilt of his sword a little harder and follows him.

It's a short while after that Hans is sauntering towards the tables, where their hosts have laid out a fine spread. He looks at the morsels on offer, then, with deliberate slowness, takes an overripe plumb between thumb and forefinger and pops it into his mouth. Juice drips slowly down his lip. His wine-darkened tongue darts out to chase it.

Not once does he break eye contact.

“Now that looks like something I want in my mouth…”

Henry stills as Hans leans past, reaching for a plate just behind him. Hans steps closer, bending down in such a way that when he speaks, only Henry can hear him.

“Although I can think of one thing I’d prefer to have my lips around,” he says. “But the filling isn't nearly as sweet.”

He rights himself, a kolach in his hand. No one else is around: no one close enough to eavesdrop, at least.

“How long do you think it would take them to notice,” he drawls, “if I dragged you behind that curtain—” he gestures with his head, but Henry can't break his gaze— “And got on my knees for you? Do you think they’d hear you moan?” 

Hans grins. God, those teeth, that forked tongue behind them. Henry can hardly breathe. It takes all his self control not to tug Hans into a kiss right there and then; to Hell itself with their unsuspecting audience. But he tightens his shoulders, sets his feet, focuses. Still, it feels like there’s a fucking fire in his belly.

Before he can mount any suitable reply, Hans leans back. He hasn’t moved that far away, yet it feels like miles.

“Bit hard with all this on, though.” Hans flicks a nail against Henry's armour with a ping. “And they'll definitely notice if you take all that off. Some poor bastard will trip over it.”

“I suppose you'll have to wait,” Henry mutters, finally regaining the ability to speak. 

“Not so fast,” Hans laughs. “I bought this for you for a reason. It's got plenty of movement in the knees, I made sure of that. Your cock might be covered, but your mouth—” he looks at Henry’s mouth like it's a sugar-coated tart, ready to bite— “is perfectly serviceable.”

Fuck. Henry wishes he were as quick as Hans in this game; Hans can tease and tempt like there’s no tomorrow, but Henry’s attempts to riposte often get smothered by the fog of lust that Hans inevitably leaves his mind swimming in. Before he can respond with much more than a mumble, Hans gives him an enormous smile and heads away from the food.

“Come on, bodyguard,” he calls over his shoulder. “And grab something to eat, will you? I don’t want you complaining about how hungry you are later.”

Henry does as he’s told.

It continues like this all night. Hans is always cockier when he’s bored, and this evening - stuck with people whose most interesting stories are about escaped pigs or fucking taxes - he is extremely bored. He gets even bolder, waiting until whoever he’s speaking to has only just turned away before leaning down and muttering something to Henry, voice low and dark:

I wonder how this wine would taste licked off of your neck? 

I hope you can remember how to do that thing with your fingers.

I wonder if you’ll still call me ‘My Lord’ when I’ve got my hand wrapped around your cock.

It’s terribly risky, Henry knows - any one of the guests could hear Hans and call him out. But then again, who would argue with him? Who would risk the ire of the Lord of Pirkstein over what could easily have been a misheard command? And who would risk the ire of his bodyguard? 

That, he suspects, is why Hans does it. It’s the risk. He loves playing the part, getting away with something, being something other than the men around him. He loves riling Henry, too: loves heating his cheeks and boiling his blood and getting his prick stiff without even touching him.

He’s lucky that Henry loves it just as much.

The evening is, at last, coming to a close. Drunken nobles are stumbling to their rooms and horses, the hall thinning out. Hans is preparing to make the final rounds: a memorable goodbye is more important than a generous greeting, after all. He’s chatting to an elderly widow, who is keen to take him to talk to someone before he leaves, when he pauses before she can drag him away.

“One moment, my good lady. I just have something to tell my bodyguard: one can never be too careful, after all.”

She’s heard of Hans’s previous adventures. She gives him a knowing smile. “Of course, Sir.”

Hans quickly darts forwards, angling his head down towards Henry’s ear like a man bestowing a deeply important and thus, utterly secret, command.

“When we return to my room, I'm going to ride you harder than you ride your fucking horse.”

And then he lets the widow lead him away without a look back. Henry feels as if he is cooking beneath the armour. He needs to get it off before he bursts into flame. But all he can do is stand there like a fucking statue, waiting for his lord to finish his business. Every hair on his body is on end, every nerve ending alert, his palms sweaty and his mouth dry. He’s thankful, yet again, that the length and thickness of the gambeson beneath his armour conceals how obviously aroused he is.

Finally, finally, Hans does one final, maddening round of the room and comes to join Henry’s side again. He gives him a look of contrite innocence. Henry isn’t sure if he’d rather slap it off or kiss it off.

“Shall we?”

Henry doesn’t need telling twice. He’s close behind Hans all the way through the courtyard and up the staircase and into the guest chambers that Hans has been given for his stay. He wonders if Hans can feel the heat coming off of him, radiating out of his skin and off of the armour like it’s been warmed by the sun instead of the burning in his belly.

“So!” Hans claps his hands and turns around as soon as Henry has locked the door behind him. “Dice?”

Henry makes a low noise in his throat. Hans laughs.

“You’re so easy, love.”

He makes his way over, slowly, languidly; like a cat stretching in the sun. He runs a gentle hand down Henry’s jaw. It’s not nearly enough. Henry grabs him before he can resume his teasing, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him into a desperate, breathless kiss. Hans hums, allowing Henry to manhandle him, held against the sturdy metal of his armour.

The fucking armour.

“Can—” Henry breaks the kiss. “Can you help me get this stuff off?”

Hans grins. “Of course.”

He steps back. He does— nothing.

“Hans?”

Hans has that sly look back again. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking what?”

“How good it makes you look. Do you think you could fuck in it? Asking philosophically, of course.”

Right now, Henry doesn’t feel like he can even breathe in the armour. “I don’t know,” he says, simply.

“Maybe we should test it out.”

“Hans.”

Hans is back on him, back into the push and pull of this little dance. He kisses Henry again - softly, this time, dragging a hand around to the nape of his neck and tangling in his hair. He smooths his other hand down Henry’s armoured chest, grasping at the gambeson beneath. Henry can’t help but laugh; he won’t have much luck against the armour, no matter the strength of his desire.

“You won’t be able to—”

Hans is on his knees. The floorboards thud beneath him. Henry’s legs are dressed in hose and plate, but that doesn’t stop Hans. He reaches beneath the fabric of the gambeson, tracing his fingers beneath the edges of the armour, cupping Henry’s balls and his straining cock; or what he can cup, as trussed up as Henry is.

Henry’s breath comes out in a gasp - Hans - but Hans does not stop. He coaxes Henry even harder, apparently pleased with himself.

“You know,” he says, “I think you could fuck me like this…”

“Hans—”

“What was that?”

“Lord fucking Hans, help me out of this god damned armour so I can fuck you.”

“Oh alright.”

He stands again, swift and sure. He looks downright delighted with himself. And, Henry can tell, now they’re face to face, just as flushed and eager as Henry feels. He doesn’t draw it out, this time, but reaches up and quickly sets to work on all the straps and buckles keeping the armour in place. As it loosens around him, Henry sags, finally free, finally able to breathe. Hans even gets back to his knees to remove the leg plate, tossing it aside with a lack of care that does not match how much he’s been bragging about the expense of it all.

Now dressed only in his hose and the light undershirt that he’d worn beneath the gambeson, he tugs Hans to his feet and pulls him to his chest. Henry can feel him at last; feel the soft warmth of his body, the lithe brush of his hands. He buries his face in Hans’s neck, nipping and nibbling and coating it in little kisses. He grabs his waist, the fine fabric sliding beneath his hot palms. It’s too much to bear after an evening trapped in that maddening armour with Hans’s words pouring into his ear.

They’re both stripped in moments, the too-tight hose bundled on the floor beside Henry’s armour.

Hans slings a leg over Henry’s thighs. He perches atop him like a lord, his cock jutting, his strong arms flexing.

“Now be a good, well-trained guard,” he drawls, “and get that sword of yours ready for me.”

[grimrester]

i am really so sorry to continue harping on about the watcher entertainment streaming service. but this kind of stuff (internet content as a business & marketing it as such) is truly my obsession, and i think i will implode if i don't talk about some of the takes i'm seeing.

i'd like to emphasize again i don't have strong feelings about watcher either way. i like ghost files, i watch mystery files sometimes, i watched worth it back in the buzzfeed days. i don't watch any of their shows religiously.

anyway, here's the main things i keep seeing crop up and my thoughts on each:

"watcher has 25 employees they have to pay, and employing people in this economy is good, so we should be banding together to pay them."

employing people is good if you currently have the capacity to pay them. i checked watcher's linkedin page, and many of their employees were hired within the last year or two. if they hired people they cannot pay with the business model they had before, something is seriously wrong with their internal bookkeeping/decision making. it means they either didn't know they couldn't pay these people long term, or they did know and were content with risking newly hired employees' livelihoods on a huge content pivot in the next year.

of note is that none of their employees' titles have anything to do with managing the finances of the company. they are the size of a small business but have no one aside from the figureheads of the company in charge of their finances.

this is the kind of company decision making that leads to downsizing and layoffs, which can be devastating. but you know what's worse than laying off a portion of your staff? laying off everyone because your business is going under.

"not everyone can afford the subscription, but those who can should pay it to support the watcher team."

no. $6/month for a couple hours of content (depending on what shows you actively watch and the natural fluctuation of their release schedule) is a fundamentally bad value. i can pay that much for a few movies on amazon. i can pay that much for dropout, if i want to support a smaller business instead.

and to be totally frank, even if people do sign up, i don't think they'd get enough to compete with the amount they get through patreon/sponsorships. and the fact that they didn't know how many of their subscribers would realistically sign up is a bad sign.

a pretty good conversion rate of free to paid subscribers of a service or content is 3% (usually accomplished through a free trial). given the very poor reception of the announcement, let's say about 1% of their 3 mil youtube subs pay for their service. that's 30k people paying for their new platform. that's $180k a month in their pocket.

(they currently only have 12k subs on patreon so we are being generous here.)

a sponsorship deal (based on my googling, i have less direct experience with this) is anywhere from $10-50 per 1000 views. they've gotten about 1 mil views on their last few videos. 3 mil subs is nothing to shake a stick at, but let's say they're on the lower end of the payscale at $25 per 1000 views. that's $25k a video, $100k a month if they release 1 video a week. their lowest patreon tier is 5 bucks, so even if all their subs are at that tier, that's another $60k, so $160k total. it's entirely likely they're bringing in much more than that when you factor in merch, adsence, etc.

did anyone on their team crunch numbers on how many people would need to sub to make the switch worth it? did anyone do market research on how many people they could convert to paid users? because if not, if they really didn't have a game plan for this, the subscription service was always doomed to fail.

"this was their only option to continue making the content they want to make, with the production value they want."

i watched their announcement video. a key point in that video is that they have done sponsored videos and that's what used to pay for their content, but they did not like the amount of creative control the sponsor had over the content.

look, i get that's no fun. we'd all love creatives to be able to make whatever they want. but when you are a small business with a team of employees relying on you, you have to think about making money, sometimes at the cost of creative liberties.

and they had so many other options to make money for the projects they want to make without jumping to a subscription platform.

they could have started actually promoting their patreon, and maybe done some restructuring of the tiers. why not a highly produced, special series just for patreon members? or a special high-budget episode of each series, while the main series is lower budget?

bite the bullet and continue taking sponsorship deals on some less-produced shows, while axing sponsorships from the ones the crew feels more passionate about.

schedule larger, blowout-production shows only when they can be afforded. this is what Notorious Amongus Guy streamer jerma does. he saves up for big productions like his baseball or dollhouse streams, so he can really get creative with them.

they had other options and they've tried very little, especially when you compare them to other content house business at similar scales. try guys and good mythical morning both put out significant content with significant staff, and have had to diversify their income streams with auxiliary products, shows with widely varied levels of production, etc. but it seems to be working for them. watcher has merch and that's about it, and seems to only want to increase the production quality of ALL their shows.

really, all this just boils down to a terrible business decision. it's hard to say if the watcher team is working with a consultant or anyone outside of their team, but they certainly don't have anyone internally who is experienced with running a business like this. to me, it seems very much like they got in a room together and did some extremely optimistic income ballparking with no research behind it.

and that might have been fine for three dudes running a channel alone, but if they're a business, they have to start making decisions like one.

[hivemuthur]

A Deer and a Man - Ch.6.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit - pure filth :v

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 7,6K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family’s wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author’s note: What's up Viktor Nation? First: @mithrava and @rennethen thank you for all your help with proof reading and helping me putting this into sort of historically accurate setting. Playlist on Spotify. I can't believe it's over!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

For the first time in your life, you take your mother’s advice. And it is, to say the least, difficult. Maintaining a calm, composed façade while a tempest rages inside you is not unfamiliar, but the effort becomes infinitely harder when it is laced with longing—not for something, but for someone.

And Viktor is a worthy opponent. Neither of you plays this game out of spite; it is fear that guides you, the quiet worry that one wrong move will send the other bolting. From your perspective, your heart is already bare—it is his turn to pick up whatever you left on the library floor.

The days pass in a rhythm that neither of you dares disturb. Conversations are polite, words exchanged with careful precision—utterly unhostile, yet utterly empty. The thrilling tension that once crackled between you, charged with unspoken desire and sharp-witted challenges, has dulled into something else entirely. A tension of stress. Of careful treading.

Once in a while, he tries—you have to admit that. There are moments when he edges closer to something deeper, where his words hover on the cusp of meaning, where his eyes search yours as if waiting for permission to proceed. But each time, you falter. You do not know what to give him, what is safe to surrender. Your mother left you no further instructions.

Every day ends with you torn between giving up, knocking on his door, or screaming into the pillow of your own bed. You choose the latter and promise yourself that tomorrow, you will be braver. Until you see him—slouched over his coffee, exhausted by something beyond your reach.

Until one day, the wind howls against the windowpanes, rattling them like an impatient hand demanding entry. Inside, the house feels smaller than ever, every room suffocating with its stillness, its emptiness. Your notebooks lie abandoned, their pages filled with thoughts that have nowhere else to go. The piano holds no appeal. Eliza, dear Eliza, would offer kind words and warm company, but even that feels unbearable—words would make the frustration real, give it form, and you cannot afford that.

So, you take your mother’s advice more literally than she likely intended. You step through the door without a word, a book tucked under your arm, and let the wind take you.

In your mind, Viktor follows. He finds you before you reach the gate, seizes your wrist with a desperate sort of heat in his touch. He says your name like it is both an apology and a demand, like he has realised too late that he cannot let you go.

But there is no hand at your wrist. No voice calling you back. The wind is your only companion, and it cares nothing for your foolish fantasies.

You walk. Past the house, past the garden, beyond the familiar paths you have taken before. The land stretches wide, unbound by human hands, unfolding in an endless sprawl of untamed beauty. The hills roll like waves frozen in time, their slopes marked by patches of gnarled trees, black against the grey sky. Fields stretch beyond sight, the grass bending and thrashing beneath the force of the wind, caught between dance and struggle.

A river carves its way through the valley, its waters wild, swollen from recent rains. On the banks, delicate flowers cling to the earth beside jagged stones, their petals trembling with each gust. Above, the sky churns, clouds thick and restless, shifting between light and shadow, as if the heavens themselves cannot decide whether to bless the land or break it.

Here, beauty does not exist without violence. Here, softness and savagery do not contradict but coexist. And yet, for all its ferocity, the landscape does not rage against itself. It simply is.

You sit upon a smooth, flat rock, letting the world settle around you, pressing your palms to the cool surface as if to ground yourself in its vastness. The book opens in your lap, but for a long while, you do not read. You only breathe. And for the first time in days, your mind is quiet.

Back at the house, more than one mind is restless.

At first, your absence is barely noted. The house is vast, and you often take solace in its quieter corners, slipping away with a book or a blank sheet of music. But as the hours stretch and Eliza’s calls go unanswered, a ripple of concern spreads through the household.

It is Eliza who worries first, pressing her lips together as she checks the library, the sitting room, even the piano bench, expecting to find you lost in thought. When she does not, her steps quicken. The kitchen staff shake their heads at her inquiry. The drawing room is empty. Your bedchamber, undisturbed.

Then, the matter reaches Viktor.

He notices your absence in a far quieter way. A missed meal, an empty chair where you ought to have been. He is good at reading patterns, after all—seeing the way things are supposed to fit together. You have been in his periphery for days, a ghost of yourself, barely tethered to the present. Even when you sat across from him, you were elsewhere. And now, you are nowhere at all.

Viktor sets his fork down. The thought is irrational—this immediate coil of unease in his gut—but it does not loosen. He does not ask where you are yet. He only stands, slow and deliberate, as he leaves the otherwise empty dining room.

It is easier to look for you than to think about what he has not said.

He has tried. He swears he has tried. The words have reached the back of his throat, caught there, strangled before they could see daylight. You have let him speak before—really speak, about things beyond the polite nothings you trade now. But each time he has tried, something stops him.

Sometimes, it is you. A wary glance, a flicker of hesitation when he nears the subject too closely. Other times, it is himself—the heavy hand of caution gripping his shoulder, the fear that one wrong step will send you running.

And then there is the contract. A foolish thing now, a ghost in the air between you, binding him tighter than his own hesitation. What use is freedom when it tastes like regret? What use is it when, instead of granting him solace, it imprisons him—his thoughts spiralling in all the wrong directions? One particularly harrowing thought slices through his heart. He tries to chase it away, yet to no avail. What if?

Upon visiting room after room, he finally finds Eliza. She startles, her fingers tightening around the apron she’s wringing between them. She recovers quickly, smoothing her expression into one of careful neutrality, but Viktor catches the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she asks, voice light but not quite steady.

Viktor studies her, his grip tightening on the cane at his side. “Eliza.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for pretences. “Where is she?”

Eliza’s composure cracks for the briefest moment before she dips into a small curtsy. “I am so terribly sorry, but I do not know, my lord.”

It isn’t enough. His pulse beats hard in his throat, his mind filling the absence of answers with the worst possibilities. “Who is she with?” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, sharp and urgent, betraying more than he wants to.

He knows the contract’s terms, remembers them too well. The very thing he once clung to as assurance that he would not hurt you, not cage you, is now a blade twisting in his gut. The notion that you might have given up—truly given up—and gone ahead with your initial deal, cuts deeper than he is willing to admit.

Whatever you please, with whomever you please. A term he regretted since the beginning.

Eliza’s brows draw together in something like surprise, as if she cannot believe he would even think it. “With no one, my lord.” Her voice is quieter now, something knowing and gentler lacing her words. “She left on her own.”

Before Viktor can react, before he can feel or say anything, a thunderclap splits the sky outside, shaking the very air around them. His head snaps toward the window, where the light has already dimmed, the once-placid sky now churning with bruised clouds.

Where you are, the storm is already raging.

You hadn’t noticed it at first—too lost in the hush of the hills, in the way the vastness of the land swallowed the smallness of your troubles. But then a thick drop of rain lands squarely on the open page of your book, the ink smudging beneath the sudden weight of water. Another follows. Then another.

Hastily, you snap the book shut and rise from your rock of solitude, a cold wind biting at your exposed skin. The first proper gust sends a shiver down your spine, but it is not until the rain comes in earnest—buckets of it, slanting and constant—that you realise how terribly unprepared you are.

You grip the book under your arm, shielding it as best you can, and start back toward the house. There is no avoiding it now; you will be soaked to the bone before you even reach the gates. The walk feels shorter on the way back, and whatever had calmed inside you now feels even softer, as if the tempest in your heart has poured out to be echoed by the storm raging around you.

Rain pours in relentless sheets, drenching you through and threatening to dissolve the book in your hands. You contemplate abandoning your shoes altogether—clogged with mud as they are—but the sheer absurdity of the thought makes you feel strangely light. Home looms on the horizon, and you almost laugh at yourself: a fully grown woman, trotting through the muck in a drenched dress, holding a book over her head as though parchment could shield her from the downpour.

A silhouette emerges in the distance, growing clearer with each step until you can make out Viktor approaching, his coat draped over his head. The mere thought of him sparks something sour in your chest at first, yet the fact that he came out after you—in the middle of a storm—warms you enough that your initial scowl evaporates.

“Thank God,” he exhales as he reaches you. He sticks his cane in the mud, hands grip your shoulders abruptly before pulling the coat from his head and draping it over you. It’s no use—the thing is already soaked through—but the gesture alone is enough.

“Now you’re a believer?” you laugh, swiping rain from your face to see him better.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his fingers come up to brush wet strands from your forehead, and your heart stumbles when he murmurs, “You know what I mean. Are you hurt?”

Before you can reply, his cold hands cup your face, his thumbs ghosting over your cheeks. You wonder if he notices the heat blooming there.

For days, the feelings had been easier to hold at bay—kept at a careful distance, left to sit absently beside you at the table or dissolve into silence when you passed each other in the corridors. But now, with his touch grounding you in this moment, the illusion shatters. The ache rushes back, stronger than ever, no longer something you can pretend away. His hands, warm despite the chill, cradle you with a gentleness that weakens your resolve, his fingers steady despite the storm raging around you. And his eyes—full of worry, of something close to tenderness—search your face as if you are something fragile, something to be handled with care. The sheer attention of it, the way he truly sees you, steals whatever words you might have said.

“No,” is all that is able to leave you. His gaze burns into you, so intense that you have to look away. “Just wet,” you add softly.

The moment he is certain you are unharmed, Viktor can no longer suppress the tumult of emotions churning within him. Insecurity rages, jealousy—uninvited and fierce—surges to the forefront of his mind, raw and stinging. Without thinking, his hands grasp your shoulders with surprising intensity, his voice taut with restraint as he demands, "Where in God’s name have you been?"

“I—” You start, caught off guard, searching his face for the root of his frustration. But you tell the truth as it is. “I wandered. Too far to make it home before the rain.”

“Who were you with?” The accusation comes faster than his mind can stop it. It is vile—he knows that—you have given him no reason to doubt you, yet he must know. He has to.

Offence flashes across your face, your expression hardening as you straighten and tilt your chin in defiance. “Myself,” you say proudly.

“Do not lie to me, girl,” Viktor growls, his face inches from yours, his breath hot despite the chill of the storm. He swipes a hand through his dripping hair, water trickling into his eyes.

“I do not.” Anger rises in you now, sharp and indignant. You wrench your arms from his grasp. “And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

“You are my wife,” he says, and the words surprise even him. His tone surprises him—self-explanatory and wounded, as if you have done something wrong. His hands surprise him most of all, when, in desperation, they come to your waist, pleading for you not to go. Apology, guilt, need—everything tangled together, because Viktor has no idea how to say what he truly wants to.

“On paper,” you say quietly, one last attempt to hold your ground.

“No.” His grip tightens at your waist as he presses his forehead to yours. “You foolish girl,” he breathes, eyes squeezing shut as his lips barely graze yours. “You don’t know the first thing.” His voice is raw, his fingers digging into the damp fabric at your hips.

“How right you’ve been,” he murmurs at last—before sealing his mouth over yours.

The tension that has stretched between you for weeks—unspoken words, lingering touches, stolen glances—snaps all at once. Viktor moves. His mouth crashes against yours, not gently, not sweetly, but with hours, days, weeks of restraint unravelling in a single, desperate instant. He groans low in his throat as he tastes you—rain and warmth and home—and his hands pull you flush against him, fingers gripping at the small of your back as if he means to fuse you to him.

Water soaks through both of you, but neither of you care.

You gasp against his lips, and Viktor seizes the opportunity, deepening the kiss with a fervour that steals the air from your lungs. His tongue sweeps against yours, demanding, devouring, sending heat searing through your veins. His hands, once gripping you so tightly, soften—one slipping to cradle the back of your head, the other splaying wide against your lower back, keeping you pressed against the solid warmth of him.

Your fingers find purchase in his soaked curls, tugging, eliciting a sound from him that makes your knees weak. He groans against your lips, the sound guttural, wrecked, as though this—you—are the very thing holding him together. He kisses you like he is starving, like he has spent his whole life waiting for this moment and can finally, finally taste freedom.

When you break apart, it is only for air. He does not let you go—his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your rain-slicked lips, his fingers trembling where they cradle your spine. His eyes, dark and blown wide with want, search yours, as if trying to make sense of what he’s just done.

He takes your hand and places it on his chest, the rattling inside thunders through your fingers. "My heart aches for you," Viktor clamours, muffled by the rain pouring down upon you both, his voice raw and raspy.

Hot breath fans against your lips, trembling as he clings to you as though letting go would tear him apart. "All of me… aches for you," he says loudly, the words tumbling from him in a pained plea, as if the very act of speaking them is both agony and relief.

His hands come back to tighten around you, fingers dig into your flesh and fist your hair, as though he fears you might slip from his grasp. "I want to worship you, body and soul, as I vowed," he breathes, the words catching in his throat, his lips grazing yours between each shuddering syllable.

"From the moment your lips touched mine, I was undone." His voice falters, thick with longing, as though the very memory of it is too much to bear. He presses his forehead to yours once more, exhaling sharply, as if on the brink of breaking.

"From the moment I saw you playing that wretched sonata, I wanted you." The confession escapes him like a broken thing, something ripped from the depths of him, his need so raw it borders on torment. His mouth hovers over yours, trembling, his breath unsteady, waiting—begging—for you to close the unbearable distance once more. “From the moment I’ve met you I have been a deer, startled and scared of you capturing me but I am no longer.”

And you stand there, his lips on yours, speaking of an unbearable love that has tormented him since the very beginning of this journey. Your heart feels as though it might burst, and for the first time—perhaps ever—words fail you. Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. Instead, tears spill over, the weight of his confession striking deep, touching the very core of your being. He has bared his soul to you—here, of all places—in the mud, in the rain.

Before your mind can summon an answer, your arms wind around his neck, fingers tangling in his rain-soaked hair, pulling him closer—deeper—until nothing remains between you. In this kiss, you try to convey everything your heart drives through your veins. Your lips ache, swollen from the force of his devotion, and his tongue—hot, insistent, unrelenting—feels nothing short of sinful against yours. And you want to sin with him, more than you have ever wanted anything.

When the kiss breaks, Viktor breathes heavily, yet a calmness washes over him. As much as he would love to stay here, far from everyone, his practical mind takes over. “Let’s get you home,” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and retrieving his cane from the mud.

The journey back to the house is a clumsy one, filled with laughter and unspoken confessions lingering in the space between your bodies. The mud sucks at your shoes, threatens to steal them from your feet entirely, and more than once, Viktor nearly stumbles, caught between his cane and the treacherous ground. You reach for him instinctively, and when his arm slips around your waist in response, you smile and place your hands on his.

By the time the estate looms before you, the storm has softened into a steady downpour. Algernon rushes out to meet you, a look of pure horror crossing his face as he takes in your drenched and mud-splattered forms. Ever the devoted butler, he brandishes an umbrella as if it could somehow remedy the state you’ve both been reduced to.

“My lord, my lady—” He barely gets the words out before you both dissolve into laughter, Viktor’s hand swatting away the offered umbrella.

“I believe we are well beyond saving,” Viktor remarks, shaking water from his free hand.

You nod, wiping the rain from your brow. “It is a noble effort, Algernon, but I fear no umbrella could salvage us now.”

Surrendering with a put-upon sigh, Algernon steps aside as the two of you make your way inside. Mud trails behind you, streaking the floor, but neither of you care. Your shoes are discarded in the hallway, and you twist the water from your hair, watching the rivulets drip onto the stone.

Eliza appears a moment later, her face a mixture of worry and relief. She hesitates as though torn between embracing you and scolding you outright. Before she can decide, you reach for her, smoothing your hands over her shoulders.

“It’s all right,” you say gently, offering a tired smile. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Eliza exhales, her tension easing, though the concern does not fully leave her. “Come, let me draw you a bath, my lady. I’ll have warm towels sent up and—”

“No need,” Viktor interjects. His arm finds its place around your shoulders once more, his hold neither forceful nor uncertain, but deliberate. His voice is steady, brooking no argument. “I will... take care of it.”

A hush falls over the room. The weight of eyes upon you is unmistakable, the quiet, watchful sort of curiosity that cannot be helped. But you do not care.

You keep your gaze on Viktor as he looks straight ahead, guiding you forward. Only when you reach the top of the stairs do you falter, stopping by habit at the threshold of your own door. He nearly keeps walking, and when your pause forces him to a halt, he turns to you, hesitation flickering across his face.

Then you take the first step. Without a word, you move forward, past the familiar safety of your room, and he follows. He leads you down the hall, through the dim glow of candlelight and the quiet of the house, until he reaches his door.

It opens with a soft creak, and you step inside together, fingers still intertwined. The air in Viktor’s chamber is warmer than the hallway, scented faintly of parchment and oil, but it does little to chase the chill clinging to your skin.

You stand there, neither of you moving, uncharted waters spreading before you. The rain outside has dulled to a gentle patter against the windows, the only sound between you save for your breaths—his, steady but heavy; yours, shallow with anticipation.

Viktor’s eyes search yours, his grip on your hand loosening only so he can reach up, his thumb skimming across your cheek. The gesture is tender, reverent. His lips part as if he means to say something, but instead, he lingers, his brow furrowing as though he cannot quite believe this moment is real.

Then he exhales, shaking his head slightly, as if clearing his thoughts. “I will draw you a bath,” he murmurs, his voice quiet. He turns, about to step away, but before he can, your fingers curl around his wrist, stopping him. He barely has time to register the shift before you pull him back to you, your lips capturing his in a kiss that is anything but hesitant. It is deep, insistent, brimming with a need that has long since stopped being bearable.

He makes a sound against your mouth—a sharp inhale, half surprise, half surrender. His hands find your waist, hesitant only for a second before they tighten, pulling you close.

You break away only long enough to whisper, breathless and sure, “I cannot wait any longer.” Your hands tangle in his hair, holding him there. Your forehead presses to his, your lips brushing as you give him your confession. “I want you now.”

It is all that Viktor needs. It is more than enough—beyond anything he could have hoped for. He exhales, long and deep, and takes your hands in his.

“My wife,” he murmurs, bringing your knuckles to his lips. In a voice meant for you and you alone, he whispers, “Ask anything of me, and I will give it to you.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, and when he speaks again, it is as if his words are woven directly into the fabric of your being.

“You have bewitched me, body and soul, and—” His hands, still chilled from the rain but impossibly gentle, cup the base of your skull. His thumbs brush over your temples, reverent, trembling slightly as he breathes, “I love, I love, I love you.”

Heart, soul, and body seized, you let him guide you backward toward the bed. His fingers ghost along your back as he undoes each button—blindly, yet deftly, as though he has been preparing for this moment for the longest time. The ribbon at your waist slides free at his touch, and with steady hands, he eases the dress from your shoulders, baring the soaked chemise that clings to the contours of your body.

His lips find yours again, tender, slower, as the moment gets extended in time. Hands skim over your arms, then down, finding purchase at your waist before trailing higher. Through the damp fabric, his palms cup the curve under the hill of your breasts, thumbs grazing over the hardened peaks. His breath hitches, and a low, reverent sound escapes him as he squeezes gently.

“Forgive me for being such a fool,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours for a fleeting moment before his lips begin their descent.

He kisses down the column of your throat, lingering at your pulse before trailing lower, tracing a heated path to the curve of your collarbone. His mouth moves with purpose, and the wet layer of second skin clinging to you catches on his lips with a pulling, teasing touch. Where his breath and lips travel, warmth spreads; where he moves away, cool air rushes in, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

When his tongue swipes over where he knows you must ache for more, you gasp, your fingers burying in his hair. The tug makes his breath stutter, his heart wonder whether it’s a hesitation or eagerness.

“I love you,” he reassures into your chest. “My wife, I love you.”

Time folds around you, warping in the face of the moment you have longed for, the one you never let yourself believe would come to pass. It still feels impossible, like grasping at fog in the dawn—slipping through your fingers, becoming real where he touches you. You are trembling, though not from cold. The weight of waiting and yearning presses into your ribs like the wind before a storm, swelling until it threatens to break you apart.

Your fingers slide from his hair to the nape of his neck, where it clings to his skin in dampness. You tug to make him look at you. His eyes, burning gold even in the dim light, find yours at once.

“Viktor, I have never—” The words come fragile, barely more than breath. An unnecessary confession meets his kind eyes, and you realise he knows.

A quiet understanding settles over him as he nods thoughtfully, his hand gliding over the curve of your stomach, a grounding touch. “You know I won’t hurt you,” he murmurs.

And he won’t. Because you are not prey beneath him, not something to be taken. Now you are the wild creature caught in a snare, and Viktor is not the hunter—he is a man who has found you bound and trembling, and with steady hands, he grants you freedom.

Those hands slide down your sides and his mouth follows, pressing into your stomach, hums fall between each kiss. A tremor passes through him as he sinks to one knee before you, steadying himself on the edge of the bed. His palm presses against the back of your thigh, urging you to part for him. And then, with an aching slowness, he leans in.

His face presses against the apex of your thighs, and he inhales deeply—a shuddering breath that seems all-consuming. Heat pools, not only from the warmth of his lips but from the want that boils over, spilling right where his mouth lingers.

“Let me have you,” he pleads. "I beg you.”

Mouth agape, you lift your chemise—a non-verbal answer. You grasp it around your hips and lift, inch by inch, revealing your skin to him. Where it goes, Viktor’s hands follow. With its lift he rises, palms tracing up your body in a scalding touch. You rid yourself of your last layer shielding you from his eyes and stand naked before him, waiting and nervous. The air kisses your bare flesh before he does.

Through the kiss, his hands find yours, guiding them to his neck. Fingers on fingers, he ushers your palms to his buttons. You undo them one by one, yet your pulse pounds like rainfall against glass, impossible to still. You don’t know when it happens, but at last, his damp shirt gapes open, revealing glimpses of pale skin beneath.

You slip it from his shoulders and pause. Valleys of alabaster stretched flat over his chest lay before your eyes, marked by dark points of freckles and birth marks. Below, his stomach is hidden by layers of leather and suddenly you feel guilty for ever complaining about your breasts being bound. You search for permission within his eyes, and once more, his hands answer. He guides your fingers to straps and buckles and mutters a calming, trustful, “It’s alright. Here—”

You are granted a secret map to his ribs, when your arms crowd his frame and work blindly at the back—the brace gives with a small hiss, ungluing itself from him, pulling on the skin as you take it off. Underneath his flesh is tender, dent and blushed where the leather clung to it.

A shuddery breath escapes your mouth when you seek purchase of your forehead against his, and your hands trying to convey the feeling of awe press flatly to his stomach. Belly button sucks in on instinct, startled by the touch, meeting his spine before he relaxes into a breath and presses his naked chest to yours. He shudders then, as the meeting of skin and soul ripples through him.

Emboldened, you lean in and press your lips to his collarbone, tasting salt and rain. He sighs, the sound low and unguarded, and his head lulls back, offering more. Like the earth drinking in the first warmth of spring, he yields to you, welcomes you, as though you are the sun breaking through his endless winter.

Your hands begin their journey lower, trembling around his waist. Slowly, you dip your fingers past the clasps of his slacks, easing them down. He exhales when you free him, his arms loosen at his sides, fingers twitching as he stops himself from threading them into your hair and pulling your face flush against him.

There is one more cage stopping you from having him bare. It hugs his leg tightly, an embrace of metal tempered by Jayce’s hammer. The eye of Viktor’s knee stares at you when you mirror your husband and lower yourself to kneel. He leans to help you, guiding your fingers to where they should unclasp and pull, set him free if only for a moment. The brace falls heavy around his ankle, and without hesitation, you offer your shoulder for him to steady himself as he steps out from the last remnants of metal and cloth.

Your eyes remain fixed ahead as you take him in—half-hard, resting in the crease of his thigh. And Viktor does not need to guide you anywhere. Because just as he did, you lean in, pressing your cheek to the side of him, inhaling deeply through your nose as your eyes flutter shut. The scent of earth, rain, and soft skin fills your lungs, warming you from the inside out. Only then does his hand find your hair—because he can’t help himself.

The thought—insistent—may have first invaded his mind the moment he laid eyes upon your lips, only to return, night after night, as a recurring vision in the solitude of his room, mere walls away from you. But another, more pressing thought eclipses the last when he finally beckons you upward and whispers, his voice taut with restraint, “Please, lay down for me.”

You obey as you vowed—the mattress gives beneath you as you settle, breath unsteady, fingers twitching where they rest above your heart. Viktor follows, bracing himself between your legs, and with a  slowness that has your breath stuttering, he lifts them over his shoulders, wrapping his arms around your hips. His fingers press into the soft flesh, and he yanks you closer, his belly pressing into the bed.

Light of the day has vanished, and the night air kisses your skin where the clothes no longer shield you. He is careful, so careful, and yet you still tremble when his breath ghosts over the curls at the meeting of your thigs. He presses a kiss to the inside of your leg, and when you flinch, a hum, slow and deep, comes to reassure you. “There is nothing you must hide from me.” His hands squeeze gently at your hips, lips trailing lower. “Let me love you as you are.”

He bows his head, and you exhale—a breath long held finally set free. To see him better you prop yourself on your elbows only to fall back down in a seizing cramp when warm lips come to your centre—soft at first, a mere press, a breath, as if testing what can be done. Then firmer, more certain when Viktor begins to chart the shape of you with his mouth. A shiver rolls through you, coiling low in your belly, curling like ivy around your ribs.

His tongue is your tormentor—seeking, learning and teasing, and when you give away a sharp gasp, a low chuckle rumbles across your skin. His arms tighten around your thighs, holding you open as he delves deeper. And above all things—eager and careful, Viktor is meticulous, as he always is. You are certain a map to your undoing is being crafted in his brain.

Heat spreads in molten waves, pulling you under, swallowing you whole and your breath starts coming in fractured syllables. Viktor hums against you, the vibration alone makes you whimper. He is enjoying this, you realise with a fresh wave of disbelief. The way he lingers, drags his tongue in long, lazy strokes only to pull away and watch the way you writhe and have you reach blindly for him.

When he parts from you, just barely, you whimper at the loss. But then—oh—he presses a kiss to the aching place he has abandoned and murmurs, voice hungry and adoring, “You are even lovelier like this.”

He does not wait for you to answer—does not give you the chance. Instead, he dips his head once more, lips sealing around you in a way that has your neck exposed, your hands flying to his hair, pulling him closer, though you hardly know whether you mean to push him away or drown beneath his touch.

You choose to drown. Finding purchase in his curls, your hips press down, moving of their own accord against his lips as the tide swells within you. Heat surges through your veins, pooling low, taut as an overripe fruit on the verge of bursting, an eggshell cracking under pressure, a kettle whistling furiously, its handle too hot to grasp.

Your restraint shatters as his name spills from your lips, followed by a sharp, helpless fuck. Viktor nearly smirks—he wants to tease, to remark on how sweetly filthy your mouth is and how much he’s missed hearing it—but he does not dare stop now.

His tongue delves deeper, coaxing you over the edge with aching precision. Pressure crests, then snaps—your body seizes, taut as a bowstring, before releasing all at once. You break beneath him, limbs trembling, thighs quivering against his shoulders. The aftershocks roll through you in shudders, little earthquakes that leave you breathless, utterly undone.

You clasp a hand to your forehead and inhale deeply, and before you can say a word your man is beside you, lips glistening with your slick, eyes happy and complete. Affection surges through you when you wrap yourself around him, straddle his lap and sink your tongue into his mouth, kissing him greedily, tasting yourself on his lips and whisper a breathy, “God, I love you.” Before his startled chuckle forms into an answer you cut his breath off again, licking into his mouth, mussing his hair and teasing his cock with your ass and Viktor groans, overwhelmed, helpless hands come to steady your hips.

With this, you calm yourself. His tongue moves in an unhurried, gentle rhythm, his eyelashes brushing against your warm cheek with every slow blink. Your hair, still curled and frizzled from the rain, falls around you both like a heavy curtain, shielding your faces from the world.

Curious, you reach behind yourself, where he is hard and aching for you. Wetness beads at the tip, spilling like tears of pleasure, and as you spread it across his flushed skin, his hips jerk instinctively, seeking more of your touch.

His hand wraps around yours, guiding you, fingers threading through your own as he strokes himself with your joined touch. The sensation is close to unbearable—too much, too soon, after too long. A groan breaks from his throat, and his jaw tenses as if he is trying to restrain himself, to keep from losing control and joining you in little death too soon.

He feels foolish at the way his body reacts, at how the simplest brush, a touch close to innocent almost ends him. He presses his forehead to yours, breath uneven, and when he finally guides your hips lower, his length standing proud at your entrance, he whispers, “Slow.”

You nod, eyes glazing over him, taking him in as you sit up. His chest hollows with each breath, a sheen of sweat clinging to him like a satin veil. Strands of damp hair plaster to his forehead, and his throat bobs with a swallow as he looks at you—eyes full of reverence, of adoration so boundless it takes away your fear. Never have you seen a man this pretty.

Your hips lower to take him, and an unfamiliar stretch unlocks your jaw, making your mouth hang agape. Your fingers had done Viktor no justice, just as his did none to you. He is real and hot and solid, filling you in a way that leaves you breathless, caught between hesitation and wonder. A whimper escapes you as your body adjusts, as he parts you, claiming space within you that had never been taken before.

And you want it to belong to Viktor. A long moment passes in breath-filled silence as you accept him whole. He throbs within your muscles but does not rush you, waiting—always waiting—for you to move first. And when you do—oh, his poor soul nearly leaves his body.

Hands tremble as they brace against your thighs, his grip unsteady, barely grounding himself in the reality of you. When your hips begin to roll, he watches, helpless, as he sees himself peeking from the darkness of your curls, only to lose the sight again when you drag yourself up along his navel.

Daring to test his fate, Viktor presses a hand to your stomach, urging you to lean back. You obey, arching for him, palms braced on his thighs. And there—there is his fantasy made flesh.

His breath stutters as he sees it: himself, deep inside you, pressing against the taut plane of your belly, bulging beneath your skin. A sight he barely dared to dream would feel this intoxicating. Fascinated, he smooths his fingers over it, tracing the outline solemnly. Just as in the confines of his mind, your hair spills back, teasing against his thighs, and you move—slow and torturous. A rhythm of your own making, agonising him, locking him in the perversion he has dreamt of countless nights.

And you—God, you are full. Claimed in a way you had never imagined, the sensation unlike anything your fingers could have ever prepared you for. Not pain—something richer, deeper, something that makes you feel shaped for this. For him. But this time, you are not merely taken. You are taking. You are the one in control, the one choosing how he claims you, deciding how deep, how slow, how much he will be lost inside you.

Viktor curses, voice rough, and the sound ignites something in you, a power that spurs you to move again, to ride him deeper. He groans, his grasp flexing against your belly, then lower, until his fingers find where your bodies join. And then—oh.

A brush of his thumb. Once. Twice. A slow, teasing circle over your clit, like a scientist he is, testing a theory. Your breath snags, thighs tensing. Encouraged, he presses again, firmer this time, his touch finding a rhythm, coaxing pleasure to coil deep and hot in your gut.

Viktor watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, mouth parted as if he means to speak but cannot find the words. His thumb moves in slow circles, in tandem with the languid rise and fall of your hips, as if guiding you to ruin at a pace you dictate. And you let him, lost in the sensation of being utterly filled, utterly known.

Then, voice hoarse, he finally breathes, “Had I not been here, feeling you—God, seeing you—I would never believe it to be true.” His free hand, the one not lost between your bodies, slides up your ribs, splaying over your sternum, as if to hold this moment inside you, as if to brand it into your very bones.

Your lashes flutter, and you cover his hand with your own, pressing it against your chest, against your heart that beats wildly beneath his palm. “It would not be true without you,” you whisper, and the honesty in it undoes him.

Viktor groans, something guttural and raw, his fingers flexing as if to grasp every part of you at once. His hips jolt beneath you, breaking the rhythm, and you cry out, the sudden force of it igniting something deeper. His thumb falters, then presses harder, more insistent, chasing your pleasure as his own unravels.

“You—” His voice fractures, shaking like his hands as they map over your body, overwhelmed by this. This heart given to him. “You are—” He does not finish, because his mouth captures yours instead, open, desperate, as if he could drink the words from your lips, as if you alone make them true.

Holding hands at the edge of the mountain, you step forward with your eyes closed. A yapping dog of reason tries to stop you, but you long lost your sight for anything else than each other. Your bodies fall into one another—fast and seizing. Muscles contract, and what Viktor gives, you take—you draw his hot seed into you with the quiver of your core, tightening, milking, binding you as one. Your souls—two fools at the beginning of their journey—find solid ground on the invisible bridge of faith.

It unravels into breaths, into mouths seeking each other again—no longer grasping, only wanting. And you fall once more, this time into a tight embrace, joined by hearts, by hips, by hands tangled in each other’s hair, sweat mingling with the scent of rain you carried in from the fields.

You dream of them—sunken into mist that twirls around the trees, resting heavily upon the grass. The valley stretches wide, endless, as quiet as breath. Somewhere within it, a stag stands, noble and still, his antlers a crown of patience. Near him, his mate, delicate but steadfast, her ears flicking at the whispers of the wind. They do not startle, nor flee, for there is no threat here. No snare, no hunter—only the hush of dawn and the hush of their existence, intertwined.

You sleep upon the flat of Viktor’s chest, your fingers resting in the gentle ditches of his ribs, rising and falling with the tide of his breath. Peace holds you both, in body and in dream, where nothing must be said to be known.

Dawn peeks through the window, pale and silver-edged, stirring you from slumber. Viktor does not wake yet. You turn your head, watching him. Angelic, spent, and weightless in rest, his lips curve at the corners with a smile that lingers even in sleep. It is the expression of a man at peace, and it tightens something deep within you.

Quietly, you slip from the bed and move to the window, drawing the curtain shut—but you pause. There, beyond the glass, in the hush of morning, you see it.

A stag. Proud and slow, he feeds upon the grass at the edge of the forest. His hide gleams faintly in the light, the soft bristle of his fur shifting with the breeze. Beside him, a doe—graceful, watchful. She moves with him, unhurried, as if they have all the time in the world. Together, they exist beyond any tether, any force that would claim them.

You watch, transfixed, until warmth curls around your belly—Viktor’s arms, pulling you gently against him. His chin settles in the crook of your shoulder, and for a long moment, he says nothing, seeing what you are seeing.

Then, at last, his voice, soft and knowing: “My beloved.” He exhales, his breath fanning over your skin, and you feel it—a quiet, smiling revelation settling into your bones. “If I were ever a man in this equation, I fear I was a foolish one.” You turn to nuzzle into him, your lips brushing his jaw as you whisper, “I’m afraid neither of us, at any point, has been a man, my husband.”

[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part eight

More lore! Work and life have kept me busy busy busy but trust I am still here for this fic and will be finishing it! (Also if you can't tell I started writing this fic after I first watched the Seaver episodes and thought I can write this so much better and with so much more angst)

Warnings: Rossi being Rossi, Hotch doing something he really shouldn't be doing but he thinks it's justified and maybe it is so who's to say if he's in the wrong!

You first knew something was different about your dad when you were ten.

There were the usual, obvious things that confused you as a kid. Like when he’d go away for long stretches of time, only to return like nothing had happened and act like he was never gone at all. Or when he’d return with these extravagant gifts, as if that made up for the birthday party he missed, or the big recital. Or when you heard your parents arguing, your mom tearfully asking if there was someone else, and screaming “I don’t believe you!” when your dad insisted there was no one.

There are the less obvious things that confuse you now, things you look back on when you want to analyze his behavior. Why he traveled so far to find his victims, why he tried to live a double life, why he did any of it at all. You dip your hands into the memories day after day and each time you come up empty handed. Why did he let you get kidnapped, only to help them find you? Was he ever behind your kidnapping at all? You don’t know. You’ll never know.

Even if you could ask him, you don’t know that you would. Your mom picked you up, changed your name, and moved you away for a reason. She gave you a fresh start. She’s the reason you are where you are, and you’re not going to throw that away. 

You had no idea Rossi worked on your father’s case all those years ago. You knew the BAU had gotten involved briefly at one point, but not who. 

What are the odds and what kind of bad luck streak do you have to have to be working with one of the investigators who helped catch your father?

The ceiling offers you no answers. You left the precinct as quickly as you could, wanting to take a hot shower and crawl in bed and pretend to be asleep when Hotch or Rossi inevitably knocks on your door later.

Rossi knows. He must. Why else would he look at you like that? And if he does, how long has he known? Has he told Hotch? Would he tell Hotch, or would he keep it quiet? Does he know that part of your file is sealed? Does he know you discussed it with Strauss, keeping that part of your life sealed because it isn’t relevant, not after all the work you did to create a separate life?

You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep asking this many questions, but how are you supposed to stop? 

You’ve worked too hard to create a life completely separate from your father to let it all unravel like this. You knew it was risky going into this line of work, let alone the BAU, but with a name change and two decades worth of distance, you thought it was deep enough in the past. You thought you had buried it far enough below the surface.

You cannot afford to have it haunt you like this, to interfere with your work so badly that you flee. You have to figure this out. And you have to get yourself under control.

+++

Hotch and Rossi are, like most nights, the last two at the precinct, trying to squeeze out some final leads before calling it a night. They don’t get far, and it’s Rossi who caves, saying they should get some rest for once. Hotch is quicker than usual to agree.

“What was that about earlier? About The Strangler?” Hotch asks. “Since you worked it, do you think we have a copycat on our hands?” 

It’s a poor excuse for a subject change, and Rossi is onto him in a second.

He shakes his head. “No, we don’t.”

Hotch grabs his cup and heads for the door. “And…Y/N? She seemed shaken up.”

Rossi raises an eyebrow, changing the subject slightly. “You two seemed to be getting along today.”

Hotch lets out a laugh as they exit the precinct. “We’ll be back to our usual selves tomorrow, probably, don’t worry.”

“I hope not,” Rossi says, rounding the car to hop in the passenger side. “You’re the only people who like to hear you two bickering, you know.”

Hotch rolls his eyes, sticking the keys in the ignition. “I don’t like arguing with her. She just insists on it.”

“And you push her buttons.”

“I don’t try to.”

Rossi only smiles to himself, always happy to rile Hotch up in whatever way he can, especially when it comes to you. It’s too easy to do it.

Rossi is able to convince Hotch to head back to the hotel, but not to grab a drink at the bar.

“I think I’m just gonna head to bed,” Hotch says, pausing outside the elevator. “You should too.”

“I will,” Rossi smirks, though he turns toward the bar anyway, nodding to Hotch as he presses the up arrow for the elevator.

Rounding the corner, Rossi finds a familiar face perched on a bar stool, nursing a glass of red wine.

He watches you briefly, gauging whether you’d like to be left alone. He can’t tell. He decides to slide onto the stool next to you, waving the bartender down to order two fingers of whiskey.

You won’t look at him. You won’t look anywhere other than your wine, but you knew Rossi and Hotch had come back. You could hear Hotch’s voice from the lobby, your body tense as you prepared for them both to make their way here and see you not at all asleep like you said you’d be.

You meant to sleep. But your mind was wide awake, and before you knew it, you were dragging yourself downstairs for a glass of wine, hoping the alcohol would tire you out.

And now, apparently, the price you’ll pay is a conversation with Rossi.

Seeing as he’s here alone, you figure there’s no sense in hiding behind cryptic sentences and silence. Better to rip the band-aid off now, while no one else is around.

“How long have you known?” you ask, studying the stem of your glass instead of looking him in the eye.

The bartender sets Rossi’s whiskey down in front of him. Rossi nods to him, and hands a black card over. “Another glass of red for her, please. On me.”

You swirl the remaining swallow of wine in your glass before downing it. The bartender replaces it with a silent smile before leaving you both alone.

Rossi takes a sip of his whiskey, studying the array of liqueurs along the wall across from him. “Do you remember meeting me?”

It’s not an answer to your question and it confuses you. “Yeah? You told me ‘good luck’ with Hotch because I was late.”

“No,” Rossi shakes his head with a fond smile, turning his head to look at you. “You were young.”

You wrack your brain, trying to remember when you might’ve met him. You come up empty, but you’re not surprised that you don’t remember. Your memories are hazy at best from those times, but the few you do remember are vivid. Just none of them include David Rossi.

“It was brief,” Rossi says, taking your silence for the answer it is. “After we had found you, and we needed to talk to your mom about some of what your dad admitted to while we had him in custody while we searched for you.”

That day comes back to you in fits and starts, flashes here and there. A much younger David Rossi floats into your mind, but with no words to accompany him, except—

“Didn’t you offer me a cup of coffee?”

He laughs quietly. “I did. I was trying to lighten the mood.”

“It worked,” you say, remembering with a smile. You pause. “So you’ve known the whole time?”

He shakes his head. “I thought I recognized you the first day, but I ignored it. It wasn’t until tonight that it clicked all together. You are twenty years older, you know.”

“Hey,” you feign hurt, punching him lightly in the arm. “You too, old man.”

“Don’t remind me,” he chuckles, taking another sip of his whiskey. “Have you told Hotch?”

You practically snort into your wine glass. “God, no.” You pause to take a long sip, needing it to steel your nerves. “Only Strauss knows, because she saw my background check before I asked to have some of it sealed. My father and original name were part of what I decided to have redacted.” You take a deep breath. “My mom moved us away and changed our last names for a reason. A fresh start. A new life without being haunted by what my father did.”

Rossi nods slowly. “Well you’ve got everyone suspicious after how you acted earlier.”

You grimace. “I know.” Not your finest moment.

“Why not get it over with and tell everyone?” Rossi asks. “Or at least Hotch?”

You roll your eyes. “He’ll look at me differently.”

“Will he?” Rossi argues gently. “How do you know?”

You give Rossi a look. “Because I know him.” 

Rossi hums. He doesn’t need to say anything to prompt you to continue.

“He already hates that I’m here — as if working with him is any better — and I’m sure he’s looking for any reason he can to tell Strauss to get rid of me,” you scoff. “The last thing I need is him saying I’m unfit for the job just because I’m a little shaken up at a random mention of the man who nearly killed me and my mother.”

Rossi goes still beside you, turning his head slowly.

You sigh, finishing off your second glass of wine. “You’re telling me none of you suspected he had tried anything with my mom and me?”

Rossi shakes his head. “We were never told otherwise, and your mom—”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug. “She loved him.”

Rossi frowns at your dismissal, resting his hand on the bar, but not touching you. “No one will fault you if you need time.”

“I’ve had two decades of time, Rossi,” you cry, placing your forehead in your hand. “I thought that was long enough.”

This time, he does reach for you, resting a hand gently on your shoulder. He’s never seen you this broken up, not even when you were thirteen, after they found you, when they all expected you to be upset. You were put together back then, your brain having not had any time to process it all. Now, you’ve had the time to process, you’ve lived your life in between, and it still haunts you. Because it always will. Because these things don’t just go away, no matter how badly you want them to.

“It’ll always be hard,” Rossi says. “I’m sorry I can’t say it goes away.”

You snort, burying your face further into your hand. “I wish it would. He’s dead, I wish he’d stop following me around.”

“You couldn’t have chosen a different career?” Rossi teases, shaking your shoulder a bit before letting go.

It does make you laugh, because he’s right. “I know. What was I thinking?” Your mother tried talking you out of it, but you never listened. She eventually came around to the idea after she heard you talk about how much you loved helping people, but it always worried her somewhat.

“I have no idea,” Rossi says, smiling around his whiskey as he finishes it off. “I’m having another, would you like one?”

You shake your head, sitting up. “No, no…I should actually go to bed now, I think, but thank you. For the wine and the uh, conversation.”

“Anytime,” Rossi says, squeezing your shoulder one more time. “Get some rest.”

“You too,” you give him a pointed look, eyeing the new whiskey the bartender sets down.

“I’ll sleep good after this,” he picks up the glass, raising it toward you.

You roll your eyes as you head back toward the elevator, strangely feeling lighter — and not because of the alcohol. You’ll begrudgingly admit, talking it out with Rossi helped.

But that doesn’t mean talking to Hotch about it will have the same effect.

+++

Back in his hotel room, Hotch takes a shower and crawls into bed. He tosses and turns for an hour, staring a hole into his eyelids. He gets up to take a walk around the room, hoping it’ll help. All it does is make him pause when he spots his briefcase, knowing what lies inside.

The files he asked Garcia to pull weren’t unusual. Just your background check, with one condition. To unseal whatever was hidden. 

Because he had thought it was odd for you to have parts of it sealed, let alone that Strauss agreed to let you. But it wasn’t something he particularly wanted to argue with Strauss about. 

After seeing you stop breathing entirely at the mention of The Strangler — an obscure case, one truly infamous only to Reid and his eidetic memory — Hotch is worried. That’s the only name he can think of to give the feeling swarming in his chest.

He’s worried about one of his agents, and dammit, he feels like that is a justifiable enough reason to do some digging. If it concerns the well-being of one of the agents he oversees, he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t try to get to the bottom of it. Even if they seem hellbent on keeping it hidden.

That’s all the convincing he needs to do for himself before he walks over and snatches his briefcase off the desk, opening it with a click. 

Your file lies right where he left it, along with Penelope’s sticky note. Her gel writing makes him pause.

Should he be reading this?

What’s his alternative, though? Asking you outright? That will only start a fight, or worse, you’ll quit on the spot. You’ve made it clear that you don’t want to tell him what’s going on, and if he pushes too far, you’re both liable to say things you can’t take back.

This is better. It’s going behind your back, but it’s better. Is it really betraying your trust if it’s clear you don’t trust him? You don’t even like him, which you have made abundantly clear. 

You seemed to open up a little to him today, but that doesn’t mean tomorrow you won’t be right back to the way you were yesterday. There’s no way to know for sure.

So, Hotch stops the back and forth, and pulls the file out, flipping to the second page. Then the third. Then to what was sealed.

The words jump out at him too fast for him to understand them, his heart thundering in his ears as he reads.

Your name — the one he knows you by — is not what you were born with. Well, your first name is, but your middle and surname are changed entirely. Your original surname was Adkins.

Adkins. Like—

His eyes scan further, finding the inevitable on your birth certificate. Your father. Carson Adkins.

You were fourteen when your names changed. Fourteen when you moved to Washington state. Fourteen when your mother changed her surname, too, back to her maiden name — the one you now have. Fourteen when your life started over.

Because when you were thirteen, Carson Adkins, The Strangler, threatened to end it.

[leonstoenailunderhisbed]

Professor, I didn’t cheat.

Summary: reader is a top student at her university. always exceeding in her courses and even taking the liberty to do study groups with other students to help them. Professor Kennedy finds out that the reader and this other student have the same thesis for an upcoming paper. What happens when he confronts y/n after class?

Warning: fem reader. Professor Leon. make out. breast play. creampie. age gap. CONSENTED.

a/n: I HATE my political class. I don’t understand anything😭 I was put in a group full of of guys and I deadass felt so out of place

(pt.1) (pt.2)

You always took notes during his lectures. You always made sure to jot down every single detail, even if it was something that you could search online. Your studies were important to you. You wanted to be the best so you strived for academic success. Many students valued your ambitious character but others were jealous.

Today’s lecture was more of an exam day. You always aced your tests, given that you studied the night before. You were one of the first students to finish their exam. You and the girl next to you finished at the same time and walked up to Leon’s desk to turn it in. You took your backpack with you as you laid the exam flat on his wooden desk. He gave you a curt nod, and then one to the other girl.

You both walked out of the classroom without any issues.

Until Leon emailed you that he wanted to have a private conference with you.

You panicked. What could have possibly have gone wrong? Or maybe he knew of an opportunity that you could take, like a job or a scholarship you should apply. Most professors did that, they helped their best students.

So when you walked to his office Monday morning, your gut feeling sank as you noticed the look on his face. It was a mixture of disappointment and disapproval. He motioned for you to step up to his desk, “Y/n, glad you’re here. Please, take a seat.” He sat down on his desk chair while you took one of the chair in front of his desk.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here,” He began as he shuffled through some papers.

What could have possibly called you for? Nevertheless, you responded, “Yes, Professor, I am.”

He looked at you for a brief moment before laying a piece of paper in front of you. It was your exam, not graded yet, but it was yours. You furrowed your brows in confusion and then looked at him, “This is my exam…what’s wrong with it?”

He cleared his throat and rested his hands on his desk, “Look, I’m going to be straight with you. You’re an excellent student. The best student I’ve had so far.” He began slowly but you felt anxious, where was this going to?

“However, academic integrity is part of the student conduct every student must follow. I cannot grade your exam, y/n.”

It was as if time stopped. Your eyes widened, your heart was beating out of your chest. The silence was deafening, the pit in your stomach dropped heavy. “If you don’t grade this exam, I’ll fail the course,” you replied anxiously, “I can’t afford another class, I’ll have to wait for other scholarship opportunities to help me pay.”

He looked at you with sympathy but that didn’t mean he believed you, “Look, I know it’s stressful but that’s life. You don’t get an easy grade from cheating off a friend.”

“Cheating off a friend? Sir, with all due respect, I am not friends with anyone in the class,” you began to feel defensive. You didn’t know anyone, you only talked to them for projects. The professor raised his eyebrow as he stared at you.

“Someone told me that you copied from them. I won’t name the student since that’s between me and them,” he leaned forward onto the desk, “You’re an exemplary student, it hurts me to say this to you.”

All you could do was stare at him, someone actually wanted to ruin your grade and reputation. While you remained silent, he spoke, “Look, you have amazing grades and your participation has been outstanding. I’ll give you another chance. Retake the exam but it must be in my office.”

You furrowed your brows, “Why should I retake an exam if I didn’t cheat? I guarantee you, I would never lie on an exam. I am aware of the consequences that comes from cheating off of someone.”

Leon sighed and leaned back against his chair, “You’re stubborn, that’s good in a student.” He paused for a few moments, staring at you in silence, almost analyzing you. “Tell you what, I’ll investigate this further, however I still want you to take the exam again. If what you say is true then the retake of the exam will be extra credit for your grade.”

Extra credit? How can you say no to that? You sighed defeatedly and nodded along to his words, “Fine, I’ll retake the exam.”

He smiled softly and gave you a short single nod, “Good, come to my office on Wednesday at 12:30.”

You nod again and stood up to leave his office. His eyes trailed behind your back as you walked away from his office. Now all you had to do was wait for Wednesday so you can retake that exam, but first, should you find the person who accused you of cheating?

Wednesday came and you, lazily, made your way to his office. It was 12:25 as you were walking the halls of offices. The Dean’s office, some other professor’s office and then there was his. With his name plastered in the door in gold, Leon Scott Kennedy.

You knocked three times and heard a soft ‘Come in.’ You stepped into his office, immediately met with the smell of coffee, you forgot how much coffee this man consumed but honestly, who doesn’t consume coffee in college? “I’m here,” you spoke awkwardly as you looked at him. Your breath hitches in your throat as you scan him, he looked strangely hot. His tie was loose, his suit jacket hung on the back of his chair and his sleeves were rolled up. You were to see how toned and muscular his arms were, the watch on his left wrist made his hands look bigger for some reason. His hair was messy but it made him look godly.

“Ah, you’re here, good,” He motioned for you to sit down at the chair in front of his desk. “Take out your laptop, I published the exam for you. It should be there.”

You walked over to the chair and sat down in front of his desk, you pulled your laptop out of your school bag and began to scroll through your student account, “I see it.” You mumbled softly.

“Let me know when you’re ready, you have 90 minutes to complete the exam,” He replied politely. You could tell he was proud that you decided to retake it. With a soft sigh, you nodded and began to work on your exam. You leaned back against the chair as your laptop rested on your lap, you answered one question after another. It was an easy exam, you’ve taken it before.

Leon was watching you attentively, his eyes scanning over your relaxed figure. He noticed the way your hair seemed a little bit messy and how your brows scrunched up together in deep thought. He felt proud because he knew you were an ambitious student, you were everything he wanted in a student. Studious, hardworking, hot- wait a minute, hot?

He quickly looked away and focused on some miscellaneous files, he shouldn’t be thinking about his students. He kept stealing glances at you as you worked on your exam and he couldn’t help but feel hot. His eyes lingering on parts of your body, as if truly seeing you for the first time. He sees you as an attractive woman.

“I finished,” you mumbled softly as you looked up from your laptop, he quickly turned his gaze to his computer to check if you finished it. With a firm nod he responded, “Yeah, I see it. Good job, you got another perfect score.”

Of course you did, you were the smartest in his class. This was easy for you, light work. You closed your laptop and began to pack up but not before he tried to stop you, “Hey, wait- don’t leave yet.”

You looked up from your bag to look at him. He clears his throat and continues, “I still have to put in your grade and we need to talk about the cheating accusation.” You nodded and remained quiet as he kept speaking, “I decided to grade both your exams and use this attempt as your extra credit. You’re a great student and it would be a shame if anything bad were to happen to you that could affect your future.”

Your eyes widened, you couldn’t believe he was being this considerate. Most times when a student s caught cheating, a lawyer gets involved. But he was being nice, too nice even.

“What happened to the investigation?” You asked with furrowed brows. “I decided to drop it. I see that you scored the same on both tries so I guess that means you weren’t lying,” he replied as he maintained eye contact. His foggy blue eyes piercing into your soul. It didn’t help that his appearance made you feel butterflies.

“Actually, I also wanted to talk to you about this scholarship I found. It might be good for you,” His hand motioned for you to come up to him and his computer, you got up from the chair and walked to stand behind him. The screen showed a website of a scholarship due next semester. You heard him talk about the details but all you could focus on was the scent of his cologne. He smelled good albeit his messy look. He turned around in his chair to look at you and your faces were merely centimeters away from each other. You looked down at him and he looked up at you from his chair. It wasn’t on purpose but your gaze fell to his lips. Your gaze switched from his eyes to your lips and you didn’t notice how he slowly brought his hand to your cheek. He cupped your side of your face and brought you down to his face.

It wasn’t meant to happen but you felt your lips against his lips. The moment the two of you joined together as one in a kiss felt surreal. His lips tasted like coffee. His other hand traveled to your waist and pulled you down to his lap. You straddled his hips and gripped on his hair as you two emerged into a passionate and sensual kiss. His tongue brushing against your bottom lip, eliciting a gasp from you as he forced his tongue inside your mouth. The man was old but he knew how to kiss so good. You moaned into the kiss and felt his cock hardened against your clothed core. Causing your panties to grow a wet spot from the arousal. You shifted slightly against his hips, grinding up against his erection. Your kiss turned hot and messy, saliva dripping down as your chest is pressed up against his. His hands traveled down from your waist to your hips, fingers digging at your skin.

He put hind hands on the back of your thighs near your ass and picked you up. He gently laid your back down on his desk, not caring about the files falling to the floor right now. His mouth moved to your neck as he began to nibble and suck on your skin. Red marks terrorizing your sensitive skin as you moaned and gasped. Your hands gripped on the back of his hair as his hands began to travel to the inside of your shirt, touching your stomach and swiftly making their to your breasts. He growled against your skin as he pushed his hand inside your bra and felt the hardened nipple.

“Take it off,” I mumbled against your skin and pulled back. He helped you take off your shirt as you began to unclasp your bra, revealing those beautiful titties to him. Their color only making him water the mouth, he dropped down to one of your breast and began to suck hard on it while his hand manhandled the other. You arched your back as his tongue moved swiftly across areola of your breast. The salivating skin coating your breast as his teeth grazed your nipple. Your moans and whimpers escaping your mouth as he destroyed your breasts with his mouth and hand. You felt good.

He pulled back from your chest and looked down at the marvelous sight before him. He leaned down to kiss you again before softly whispering against your lips, “Let me know if you want to stop.”

You nodded your head and watched as his hands traveled down to his trousers and began to unbuckle his belt and buttons. He pulled his pants down to his thighs and pulled down on his boxers. His erection jumping from the enclosed space, hitting his abdomen with a thwack as precum had been leaking. He was large, the tip a rosy tone of pink with a vein protruding from the side, his cock leaned to his left and you could swear you saw it twitch. It was a spectacular sight. His hands quickly went down to take off your pants, pulling them to your ankles before taking them off completely. His noticed the wet spot in your panties from your presumably wet cunt.

His index finger pressed down against the fabric covering your clit, the slick of your folds seeping through the fabric as you shut your eyes tightly and moaned quietly. He smirked and began to circled your clit through your panties, he wasn’t aware you were into this but he obliged.

Just as you were near your orgasm, he pulled his finger back and pulled your panties down towards the floor along with your pants. He stood in between your legs and aligned his throbbing tip with your entrance, “I wish I had the time to prepare you but I’ve got a meeting after this,” he mumbled as he pushed himself into you, not giving you time to respond as your mouth became full of moans.

He made sure to fill up with his cock until his balls made contact with your ass, your jaw fell slack as you rolled your head back against his desk. Leon slowly began to thrust in and out, not fully pulling out, he was kind enough to let you adjust to his size.

Once he was sure you were doing good, he began to thrust into you. Pulling out and pushing back in with force, causing the desk to grind against the floor. He leaned down and put his hands on either side of your head. Your hands traveled to his hair and back, clawing your nails through his shirt.

The sound of skin clapping and the smell of sweat and sex covered the room. The air felt humid as both of your breaths became heavy and labored. You felt his tip touch your cervix, sending a wave of pleasure over you through a whimper. He kept thrusting, making sure to hit your g-spot and cervix. He may not have fingered you but he was still a gentleman, he wanted to make sure you enjoyed this just as much.

Your moans began to cut short as your breathing increasing, you arched your back and felt the band in your lower stomach stretching to a snap. And soon enough, your pussy clenched around his cock. Your orgasm milking and pulsating as he thrusted in you while you were experiencing your high. You closed your eyes and the darkness was clouded with stars.

His own thrusts faltered a little bit as he felt you clench and pulsate around his member and without a second thought he couldn’t contain his own cum from spilling inside you. His hot and thick juices shooting into your womb as he slammed his cock into your cunt for one last time. He kept himself buried inside you as he tried to catch his breath. Both of you panting and sweaty.

He slowly pulled out of you and watched as his cum dropped down from your cunt to his desk, the sight making his cock throb again but he couldn’t indulge himself for a second round as he had a meeting to attend. He helped you clean yourself up with some tissues he had and handed you your clothes from the floor. You both began to dress yourselves as the aftermath of what you two had done began to settle into your heads. He looked at you with a smirk and kissed your cheek, his stubble grazing your skin.

“I’ve got to now, sweetheart,” he whispered as his hand cupped your cheek like he did previously. “You should let me take you to dinner some time.”

You could only nod as you were still feeling dumb from the sex, “Yeah…”

He chuckled and pressed a light kiss on your lips before leaving you in his office.

Who knew a professor could fuck so good?

[starrrcane]

Spilled coffee

sevika x reader angst chapter two

summary: you realize if sevika is to truly become a leader of zaun she cannot handle any distractions

warnings: profanity, sad sevika :(

The words Sevika said in Silco’s office wouldn’t leave your mind. “He became weak for her. Just like Vander did”

It had been days, but they echoed in your head like a broken record. You turned them over, again and again, trying to figure out if there was something deeper in what she said. Silco and Vander both—leaders who had lost their edge, distracted by the people they loved.

And Sevika? Now she was the leader of it all. Zaun rested on her shoulders. And you...

You started to wonder if you were becoming her distraction.

She was barely home anymore. Most nights, she slept at the office. Even when she was with you, her mind seemed miles away, drowning in the weight of leading a revolution. The two of you hadn’t shared a proper conversation in days. Could she really afford to split her focus between Zaun and you? Could anyone?

The thought ate at you until you couldn’t ignore it anymore. Sevika would never walk away from you—she was too loyal, too stubborn. But you could take matters into your own hands. She didn’t need another person to weigh her down. You loved her too much to let that happen.

And so, one night, you started packing. It wasn’t an impulsive decision. You’d been thinking about it for days, even looked into finding a small apartment on the far side of Zaun. Just something to give Sevika the space she needed.

It wasn’t like she’d notice much of a difference. She wasn’t around enough for it to matter.

You were halfway through clearing out your side of the closet when you heard the front door open and close. Your heart sank. Of all the nights, she had to come home now.

“Why didn’t you come to the door to greet me?” Sevika’s voice called out, slightly playful but tinged with her usual irritation. She appeared in the doorway, her expression softening when she saw you.

But then she stopped in her tracks. Her eyes darted to the suitcase lying open on the bed, then to the ransacked closet, your empty drawers, and finally, to you.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her tone sharp with confusion.

You turned around slowly, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I’m just packing up,” you said, keeping your voice as steady as possible.

Sevika’s brow furrowed. “What the hell?” She stepped further into the room, her voice rising. “To go where?”

“Just… somewhere to stay,” you replied, avoiding her gaze as you folded another shirt into the suitcase.

“What do you mean, ‘somewhere to stay?’” she asked, her tone softening now, a thread of concern weaving through it. “What’s going on?”

You sighed, gripping the edge of the suitcase. “I just think it’s better for me to go. For now.”

Her face twisted with confusion, her sharp features softening into something almost vulnerable. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked, her gray eyes wide and searching.

“No, love,” you said quickly. “I just—” You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “I just need to leave for a bit.”

Sevika’s lips parted slightly as though she was about to say something, but nothing came. For a moment, she just stood there, watching you like she was trying to piece together a puzzle she didn’t even know was missing pieces from the start.

“You don’t mean that,” she finally said, her voice quieter now. “Don’t go. Stay. I want you here. I need you here.”

Your hands shook slightly as you zipped up the suitcase. “I can’t stay here.”

Her voice cracked. “Why not? What did I do wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

You hesitated, unable to meet her gaze. “I just… need to get away from you a while.”

“Away from me?” she asked, her voice breaking entirely.

“Yes,” you said before you could stop yourself.

The silence that followed was unbearable. You finally turned to look at her and saw the raw hurt in her eyes.

“Oh,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her shoulders sagged, and she took a small step back, as if the distance between you might shield her from the pain. You could see her mind racing, spiraling, trying to figure out what she had done to drive you away.

You snapped the suitcase shut, avoiding the way her hands twitched as if she wanted to reach out to stop you. When you started toward the door, she finally spoke again, her voice trembling.

“Wait.”

You paused, but you didn’t turn around.

“Please,” she said, the desperation clear now. “Just tell me why.”

You tightened your grip on the suitcase handle, your chest aching. “I can’t.”

And with that, you walked out, leaving Sevika standing alone in the doorway, her unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air.

[mcflymemes]

INDIANA JONES AND THE LAST CRUSADE (1989) PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue from the film, adjust as necessary

i hate these guys.

this is a new experience for me.

it happens to me all the time.

you lost today, [name]. but that doesn't mean you have to like it.

may we go home now, please?

i've got a lot of fond memories of that dog.

he sticks out like a sore thumb. we'll find him.

does anyone here speak english?

what are you hiding?

archaeology is the search for fact, not truth.

forget any ideas you've got about lost cities, exotic travel, and digging up the world.

we do not follow maps to buried treasure, and "x" never... ever marks the spot.

70% of all archaeology is done in the library. researching. reading.

we cannot afford to take mythology at face value.

help me get us out of here.

are you kidding? i made all that up.

she talks in her sleep.

try not to talk.

give me your other hand. i can't hold on.

i can get it. i can almost reach it.

[name], let it go.

those people are trying to kill us.

i didn't know you could fly a plane.

our situation has not improved.

i'm as human as the next man.

i'm like a bad penny, i always turn up.

throw down the gun or the girl will die.

no! don't shoot!

please do what he says!

[name], what are you doing here?

head for the fireplace!

why are you sitting there resting when we're so near the end?

don't look at me like that.

i would have done anything to get it. you would have done the same.

i'm sorry you think so.

i'll never forgive myself.

thank god... it's fake.

look, can we discuss this later?

i came here to save you!

look what you did! i can't believe what you did!

i'll never forget how wonderful it was.

you have chosen wisely.

did you intend to leave us standing on the doorstep all day?

now look, i've gone and caught a sniffle.

don't take that tone with me!

this is the second time i've had to reclaim my property from you.

that belongs in a museum.

why are you trying to kill us?

my soul is prepared. how's yours?

what have you brought?

i'm sorry about your head. i thought that you were one of them.

you came back for the book?

is that what you think of me?

who gives a damn what you believe?

follow me. i know the way.

i find that if i just sit down to think... the solution presents itself.

in this sort of race, there's no silver medal for finishing second.

we didn't talk. we've never talked.

what are you complaining about?

you could go down in history.

you're going the wrong way.

the pen is mightier than the sword.

are you crazy? don't go between them!

my reputation preceeds me.

it would make me very happy.

shooting me won't get you anywhere.

we're well out of range.

you call this archaeology?

we are on the verge of completing a quest that began almost two thousand years ago.

we're just one step away.

since i've met you, i've nearly been incinerated, drowned, shot at, and chopped into fish bait.

we're caught in the middle of something sinister here.

you're a great deal like your father.

how dare you kiss me.

leave me alone. i don't like fast women.

you say this has been just another typical day for you, huh?

you're meddling with powers you can't possibly comprehend.

if only i could have been there with you.

[zznblr]

exes and ohs 𐙚 c.yj

chapter two: and that's a bad thing

written • 935 words

may 30th 2025, 7:58 pm

you’re sitting at the counter of your store sorting through a box of cds, when the windchimes jingle. you glance up just as yeonjun stumbles into the doorway. he is juggling a pizza box in one hand and his laptop in the other, his face scrunched up in concentration as he tries not to drop either.

his black hoodie is slightly askew – one sleeve is rolled up higher than the other. as he shifts his weight to keep everything in place, his sneakers scuff against the worn wooden floor and he clumsily steps towards the counter. he sets the pizza box down with a quiet thud. the cardboard edges crinkle under his touch and the scent of cheese wafts into the air.

“can’t believe you started without me,” yeonjun teases.

you look up at him, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “well, there were like five people here the entire day,” you say, adding another cd to the growing stack in front of you. “so, i had a lot of time on my hands.”

he leans against the counter. “okay, now that i’m here, we can take a break.”

“we?” you raise an eyebrow. “you haven’t done anything yet.”

“i thought you had something to show me.” he places his laptop on the counter. yeonjun flips open the pizza box and grabs a slice, his eyes flicking over to you as he takes a bite.

“ah, yes.” you lean back slightly. “my surprise.” he straightens his posture. you take a breath. “you know that super rare original fela kuti vinyl that i told you i needed.”

he nods.

“well,” you continue. your smile grows wider as you lean forward. “i found it on ebay.”

“so, when does it get here?”

“when i start getting hundreds of customers an hour.” you sigh, grabbing a slice of pizza from the box. “it’s like more than 500 dollars and i unfortunately cannot afford to spend that much money on a record.”

yeonjun raises an eyebrow as he chews, his cheek puffed slightly from the bite. “you might have to get a second job.”

you prop your elbow onto the counter and rest your cheek against your fist. “don’t quit your day job to become a motivational speaker.”

“i don’t have a day job.”

“exactly.”

he doesn’t answer right away. he just sets his half-eaten slice back into the box and wipes his fingers on a napkin absently. he walks to the back of the counter and reaches for a box of cds, pulling it toward him with a slow drag, the edge of it catching slightly on the counter’s uneven surface.

he turns to face you. “where do you want me to start, boss?”

it takes you a while to process what he is saying. he is very close to you. close enough that you catch the faint scent of fabric softener and his cherry blossom shampoo. you look away from him and back to the boxes laid out in front of you. “uh… you can um– you can start with these.” you pass him a disorganized stack. “just sort them out alphabetically and don’t mess up the dividers like last time.”

“i didn’t mess them up.”

“you alphabetized the doors under d.” you take the stack of cds that you were previously organizing and walk towards the shelves.

the two of you fall into a steady rhythm. his movements are slower than yours. he is hesitant. his knee bounces under the counter, tapping a steady beat against the wood. from where you stand at the shelves, you steal a glance at his profile – his hair falling into his eyes, the little furrow of his brow as he focuses, his lips pressing into a flat line when the print is too tiny.

you go back to sorting, sitting beside him. yeonjun pauses, staring into space. his fingers glaze over the plastic casing of the cd in front of him.

“what are you doing?” you shift, turning to face him. “what’s wrong?”

“it’s nothing.” his lips press into a thin line.

you shift slightly closer, searching his expression. his gaze lingers on the stack in front of him. his fingers absently pick at the corner of the cd on top.

he sighs, long and heavy before he begins to speak again. “my brother is getting married.”

you blink. “and.. that’s a bad thing?”

his mouth opens, then closes. he hesitates, staring at the screen before exhaling sharply. “yes,” he admits, then pauses. “wait, no.” a frustrated sound escapes him, and he presses the heels of his hands against his temples, rubbing slow, deliberate circles. “i don’t know. i don’t talk to my brother and he invited me. and i don’t know.”

“are you going to go?”

“god, no,” he scoffs. “no, my brother is an asshole.” his jaw tightens. “i don’t even know why he invited me. we haven’t spoken in years.”

“maybe this was an attempt to rekindle your relationship?” you offer. “like he wants to make things better.”

“why does everyone keep saying that?”

“because it’s a logical explanation?” you respond dumbfoundedly.

“he would need a personality transplant if he ever wanted us to be okay again.”

you reach out, resting a hand over his. his fingers twitch beneath yours before they relax slightly. “you know you don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do,” you say softly.

yeonjun lets out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction. he doesn’t say anything right away, just stares ahead.

“yeah,” he says finally. “i know.”

previous masterlist next ʚ♡⃛ɞ his ex is getting married to his brother. he’s totally okay with it. he’s very happy for them. of course, he’s going to the wedding. and he definitely did not pay his next door neighbor five hundred dollars to be his plus one at their destination wedding.

taglist: @beomgyusluver @yeovnjin @mari-18s-world @usuallyunlikelyfox @iluvjjunie @boba-beom @beaabz @yezznn