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iamred-iamyellow · 5 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Last Christmas

♥ masterlist | request rules | 12 days of ficmas

♥ pairing: ex!lando norris x fem!reader x oscar piastri

♥ synopsis: last christmas was vulnerable. even more so after you opened up to your best friend lando and him comforting you turned into his confession of love... but the next morning a picture of his girlfriend—whom he never told you about, was the first thing you saw. out of what you'd call destiny, you befriend the two people he's closest too: his teammate and his new girlfriend.

♥ smau - fc: women on pinterest - as always none of the pictures are mine

♥ warnings: swearing !!!

♥ a/n: lando is a bit of a dick in this but it’s only bc its important for the plot lmao! <3

-Christmas Eve, 2023-

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by carmenmundt, georgerussell63, charles_leclerc, and more

yourusername when you’re insecure could be me could be her, you just run to whoever is winning

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user1 alright who broke our girl’s heart

user2 i’ll break his face

alexandrasaintmleux 🫂

lilymhe love you 🫶 call me whenever you need

iamrebeccad we’re here for you ❤️

user3 guys WHAT HAPPENED 😭

user4 @/user3 whatever it was is clearly huge because all of the wags are here

user5 oh so this person SUCKS sucks

user6 the sabrina lyrics

user8 SAID THAT IT WAS ME AND YOU FOR LIFE !!

user9 NOW YOURE KINDA ACTIN LIKE I DIED!!

user10 my wife is getting her heart broken by a man 😞

user11 not the mascara running girl he didn't deserve you anyway whoever he was

carmenmundt if you need anything I'll always be here <3

yourusername ty carmen 💋

user12 i know lando just hard launched his girlfriend but i hope he’s still able to be there for yn 😓

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by landonorris, yourusername, oscarpiastri, and 1,019,943 more

mclaren who’s ready for bahrain?

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iamimogen me !

♡ by landonorris

yourusername i’ll be there as always <3

oscarpiastri it’s been a while! can’t wait to see you again

user1 awww osc

mclaren what oscar said!!

blondie_wdj @/yourusername you’re always welcome in the garage

user2 being best friends with a driver means your also best friends with his engineer

blondie_wdj @/user2 so true

user3 i can’t wait to see lando’s gf in the paddock

user5 and her and y/n to be friends

user6 I hope there's no tension between them

user7 @/user6 lets not pit women against each other before they've even met !!

user9 where's yn's man

yourusername no idea 😔

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yourusername after party

tagged; @/oscarpiastri

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user1 STOP is that imogen?

user2 she’s so hot i fear 🫣

oscarpiastri finally made it onto your ig 🙏 I used to dream of days like this

yourusername you are now one of my elite employees

user8 the way lando isn't even in the pictures lmaooo

yourusername @/user8 he wasn't approved by the council

user3 so here for ynoscar tbh

user4 that's what I've been SAYING

user5 so glad lando has a gf so yall finally stop shipping her w him and let the oscarinas have something

iamimogen great to meet you 💕

♡ by yourusername

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

-Time Skip-

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f1gossip y/n and imogen were spotted hanging out all night after the monaco grand prix. could this be the beginning of a new friendship?

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user1 I BEG YOUR FINEST PAEDON?!

user4 they're so fucking cute oh my god

user2 i love it when the girl bsf and gf are besties 🥹

user9 it's mr steal your girl

user8 Imogen break up with your boyfriend ‼️

user7 yn lando Imogen poly when

...comments have now been disabled

-Hungarian Grand Prix-

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yourusername BUDAPEST, HUNGARY 📍

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user1 @/oscarpiastri again

user2 how did you recognize him by just his back? 😭

user3 crying because why is yn posting oscar more than lando posts his girlfriend

user4 RIGHT? I don't think I've seen her once on his main or jpg but Imogen posts him all the time :/

user5 its kind of weird since lando used to post dozens of pictures of yn

user6 anyone else notice that he hasn't liked or commented on any of yn's posts in months or am I insane?

user5 @/user6 YES I HAVE

user8 guys I think they went through a friendship break up or something

user4 @/user8 do you think its because of Imogen?

user8 @/user4 maybe

user6 @/user4 I don't think so since yn is with her all the time. I just haven't seen yn talk to lando publicly since last year

mclaren it's always nice to see you!

yourusername valid: all days paddock pass when?

mclaren 👀

user9 hungary is such a random race to go to lol

user10 she's mclaren's good luck charm trust

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yourusername YESSSSiogvdrs;okfeLI

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user1 SHES SO US

user7 SCREAMING

user3 ARE WE GONNA TALK ABOUT THE FACT THEY LET YN STAND DOWN THERE

user2 honorary wag !!

user4 oh the sheer amount of pictures she took of him

user5 that's a proud girlfriend if I've ever seen one

user6 she didn't even greet lando...

user10 she was probably caught up in the moment

user6 @/user10 me when I lie

user10 HELPPP 😭 I don't want to admit her and lando aren't hanging out anymore... they were literally best friends

user9 lets focus on the positives: oscar won and he's 100% into yn

-F1 Winter Break-

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iamimogen loving winter 🤍

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user1 she’s SO gorgeous

yourusername the prettiest

iamimogen @/yourusername no you!!

user2 stop i still love that her and yn get along 🥹

user3 right they’re so sweet

landonorris ❤️

alexandrasaintmleux stunning

iamimogen 💋

francisca.cgomes hottie

iamimogen love you 😘

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iamimogen I'm dreaming of a pink christmas

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user1 lando you need to step up your game

user2 him STILL not posting pictures about her is crazy...

user3 EXACTLY

user4 the way they've been publicly a couple for a year 💀

user7 pink pilates princess core

iamimogen you know it

user12 I feel like I'm the only one who thinks her and lando are cute 😭

user6 no they're cute there's just something... off?

user10 @/user6 exactly. I love them but what the fuck is going on with them and yn

user9 the only place were gonna find lando and yn together these days is Imogen's likes

user5 LMAO

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yourusername photo dump 🩰🎀

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user20 @/iamimogen not yn copying you 💀

yourusername omg i had no idea she invented the color pink. @/iamimogen i’m so sorry queen i had no idea 🫶

iamimogen @/yourusername that’s ok just make sure to give creds next time ❤️

user1 PLSSS they’re so unserious

user2 im obsessed with their friendship wait

user3 they’re so fucking funny

user4 OSCYN HARD LAUNCH I REPEAT OSCYN HARD LAUNCH

user5 oh I fucking knew it

user6 its a christmas miracle

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yourusername stole your boy and your girl

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user1 THE GASP I GUSPT

user4 jaw is on the floor.

user3 LEAVING THE COMMENTS ON IS CRAZYYY

user5 what a bad bitch move

user7 SHUT UPPPP

user6 so this all WAS about lando?! I'm genuinely so curious now I need to know what he did!?!?!?

user8 oh my god yn is my favorite person

user9 y'all remember that post of her like sobbing last year? was that about lando...?

user10 FUCK OFF IMAGINE IT IS

user12 begging for a story time

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

end notes: i’m really fighting my demons (the urge to make a part two where yn ends up with imogen…) anyways I'm back with super late christmas fics haha !! they'll all be posted out of order from now on lmao

taglist; @sainzzreputaticn @theseerbetweenus @yawn-zi

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verysium · 2 years ago

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attractive things bllk characters (unintentionally) do?👀

i received this ask and decided to write this entire thing through a caffeine-powered fever dream. may have gone a little overboard. please pray for both your sanity and mine. thank you anon for your strong sense of imagination (or delusion, whichever you prefer.)

nagi lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face, and you accidentally (or not so accidentally) get a good look at the droplets running down his abs and v-line. he also does the doorway lean while waiting for you to get ready. since he's so tall, he puts his one arm up on the top of the door frame while scrolling through his phone. when he feels drained of energy, he clings to you like a koala, face buried into the crook of your neck.

rin pushes his hair back when his bangs get in the way, and it shows off his ridiculously sharp side profile. sometimes you have to pause mid-conversation because the direct eye contact gets too intense. he has the brightest turquoise eyes in existence, and they stare right into your soul. pair that with the height difference and him towering over you. hang onto your ovaries because this man is about to snatch them. if isagi or sae are anywhere remotely close within your vicinity, he will personally drag your chair closer over to him. you know, the whole nick jonas chair pull thing? he also unintentionally clenches his jaw when pissed, the vein popping out and everything.

barou is polite to his elders. he holds the door open for others. he tips extra at restaurants. he is kind to service workers. he's just a gentleman overall even though he likes to act tough. he rolls up his sleeves while cleaning or cutting up vegetables, and you can see the veins bulging in his forearms. wears those form-fitting aprons where you can see the outline of his waist and the muscles in his back. he is not immune to raging pit bull moments, but he will calm down immediately when you ask him to.

kaiser requires physical touch to function. all concept of personal boundaries goes poof in his little ego-driven brain. he holds your chin so you look up at him while he's talking. also has that husky growl when he wakes up in the morning. he speaks german. what else is more attractive than that? if you stroke his ego, he will puff his chest out like an emperor penguin and flash that movie star smile. does not slow down his pace for you, and will laugh at your expense when you trip in heels and fall. but then he feels guilty about it and begrudgingly picks you up and carries you home. however, before that he will make you swear on everything holy to never tell isagi about his moment of weakness. (tbh kaiser is a menace and has some serious self-esteem issues. pls avoid dating a man like him in real life until he is fully mature. i still love him tho.)

reo mansplains but not in the condescending way. he does so in the "omg i'm so excited to finally get to share something with you and you're never going to believe it" sort of way. rambles on and on about his interests and gets that little glint in his eye when he's passionate about something. also not sure if this counts but he gets extremely depressed when you don't message him back within five minutes. what do you mean you were busy? he was out here dying from a literal famine. he needs your affection to survive. last but not least, he is good at styling. he knows what colors work best for you, and he will put together three new looks for you in record time.

hiori dreams that you left him for good and wakes up crying with his arms around you. will refuse to let you leave the bed even if it is just to get a glass of water. his rare moments of emotional vulnerability are what gets to you.

shidou does not condone any of your bad decisions. you want to get shit-faced and party until early morning? no complaints from him. you want to wear sexy outfits to the club? say less because he's about to enjoy the view and knock out the front teeth of every guy who dares to ogle you. i don't know if this qualifies as being attractive, but he would never be the controlling type. you can dress and act however you want. unfortunately for you though, this is also a textbook case of the blind leading the blind. if you get horrendously hungover, so does he. if you get pulled over, he's going to be too blackout drunk to even comprehend the officer's words. you can count on him for a good time, but not anything else. do not take any of his advice at face value.

oliver likes to show you off even if he doesn't notice it himself. any talk with his team, and he will find a way to make the entire conversation about you. at this point, the entire u-20 team is done with him. they placed bets that you two wouldn't last more than a month due to his philandering reputation, but the universe seems to think otherwise because you and oliver hit the six-month mark and are still going strong.

ness guards your drink with an unnecessary amount of protection. while you left to go use the restroom, he was looking left and right, and the hairs on the back of his neck were prickling every time someone even came close to your cup. he also shoos away any person who opens their mouth while standing next to your drink because apparently the condensation from their breath could be dangerous. definitely covers your cup with both hands even if it has a lid. no suspicious shit is happening on his watch.

yukimiya is well-read, and he wears glasses. he has a copy of every single classic out there in existence and will fangirl along with you over your virginia woolf collection. he was written by a woman with two cats and a wine glass. not much else to say.

loki absolutely clears the entire carnival/arcade game. you want that giant teddy bear that costs over three hundred ticket points? say less because he's about to win the whole damn pot. of all characters, i would say he's one of the only green flags. like celery green.

isagi always looks for you when he enters the room. intentionally or not, he always seeks your presence. if someone says a funny joke, he turns to you to see if you're laughing or not. also does that somewhat creepy stare thing where he just looks at you quietly while you do mundane tasks. internally he is screaming cus what do you mean you actually like him?

chigiri gives you that thankful little smile whenever you stand up for him. i feel like people don't understand how goofy he can get as he's canonically good at doing impressions/impersonations. also has the prettiest laugh. if he ever cuts his hair, i think i'm going to get a nosebleed.

noa unconsciously says yes to every question you ask of him. he'd be giving bastard münchen a hard time (and denying isagi's requests) but then immediately once you come over, he's automatically acquiescing to everything you say. the rest of the team is low-key shocked you can win him over so easily. when they confront him about it, he just shrugs and goes "y/n is always right."

kurona's entire existence is attractive. he's just perfect. nothing is ever wrong with him. will let you check out his shark teeth and lightly pokes your finger to leave an imprint. hopefully you'll always remember him that way. he's also quiet so he will listen to everything you say and give ample weight to your words.

sae is my baby girl so he gets a whole section dedicated to himself:

absentmindedly plays with your hair. when you're sleeping in his lap, he'll gently run his fingers along your scalp. sometimes in the morning when you're sitting up on the edge of your bed to do your makeup, he'll come up from behind you and brush back your hair. might also press a kiss to the back of your neck.

helps you put on your face mask. when he's shopping, he will buy you lotion along with his own skincare products. says that it was just a convenient store run but you know he personally made sure to get you the best quality ones.

this is canon because i said so: when he gets out of the shower, he slings the towel over his neck or his shoulder. he also involuntarily flexes his biceps when he bends down to grab something. has the world's most defined deltoids.

when you're stuck in large crowds at the airport, he puts his hand in your back pocket to keep you two from getting separated. if the TSA pat-down is anywhere too personal for his liking, he will openly glare at the officer once you've passed the security checkpoint.

bonus point: when you two brush your teeth early in the morning, he has that little bed head where his shorn-off bangs stick up in cute little tufts here and there. will have a dead look on his face, but his eyes soften when he catches your gaze through the mirror.

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tw1sters · 14 days ago

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⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ husband? never heard of him.

When Jake stumbles into your office attempting to flirt with you, all you can do is humor the fact that your husband seems to have forgotten you.

▸ PAIRING: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Wife!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Pure fluff, slight amnesia, injured Jake, sexual jokes ▸ WORD COUNT: 1.6K ▸ A/N: wrote a quick small idea because i love a good secret relationship and a flirty hangman

The crash outside piques your curiosity. You abandon the latest report you’re working on and get up to swing open your door right on time for a certain blonde aviator to spill into the infirmary. Jake barging into your office is not news; he barges in probably more than he really should, particularly when you’re with patients.

“Boundaries” becomes the most used word in your relationship.

Only thing is, this time, he’s looking at you with big, surprised eyes. The tinges of blue around his emerald eyes are even more prominent when they’re blown up. “Who allowed you to look this good, Doc,” he says with a swagger in his step, eyes droopy now as he leans against the doorframe.

Before you can question him, Rooster walks through the door, a pitying look at Jake. “He’s on the good stuff. Maybe too much of it.” You quirk an eyebrow. “Sedatives.”

Your eyes dart briefly to Jake who is still eyeing you with interest but now he has taken over your chair, propping his chin up on his palm with his elbow on your desk. That smug smile, albeit a little sleepier, is still plastered across his face.

“He crashed earlier–” The smile wipes off your face quickly and Rooster instantly adds, “Nothing big, managed to get out, but he landed wrong cause he ejected too close to the ground. We had to take him to the hospital. Most of it’s around his ribs, but he’s okay.”

Drifting over to Jake, you cup his face and tilt him to look up at you. While he’s busy giving you dark, flirty glances, you are checking him for any signs of permanent damage. He has a few scratches on his face, you notice now the new band-aid he’s sporting on his cheek.

You’re on your knees then and you’re slowly unbuttoning his uniform. If he’s really injured here, he should probably be wearing something more breathable. You remember he packed an extra short-sleeved shirt this morning.

“Whoa, at least take me out to dinner first,” Jake teases, which earns a roll of your eyes.

“Told his dumb ass he should be going straight home but he insisted on making a pit stop here. Something about getting a second look. He might’ve also said something along the lines of visiting the pretty doctor.” Your eyes snap up to Rooster, who holds his hands up in defense. “His words, not mine.”

Humored, you look at him playfully, accusingly. “So you don’t think I’m pretty?”

“That’s not what I said!” Rooster immediately replies, face flushing crimson. “Anyways, before I dig a deeper hole for myself, I’m going to leave him in your very capable hands. Whenever he’s done, one of the guys can drop him off at home.”

“I’m going to wrap up soon so I've got him, don’t worry.”

“You got his address?”

You fight to keep a straight face. “Yeah, it’s on his records.”

“Awesome, thanks, Doc. See you tomorrow.” With that, Rooster makes his exit, the door slamming shut behind him.

You wait a moment and thank the heavens that Jake has the false reputation of being an incorrigible flirt. That will hopefully throw off any suspicion of your relationship.

When you know you’re in the clear, you inspect Jake a little more closely. There are bandages wrapped around his abdomen and you wonder how severe the accident was if they had to give him sedatives. Then again, it’s entirely possible that Jake was being a little bitch and they gave it to him just to shut his mouth.

Aside from the minor injuries, he seems to be in pretty good shape. Physically at least.

Mentally – you look up at him and he’s still smiling stupidly at you – he’s perhaps not quite there yet.

“Jake, honey, I’m going to need to move you to the bed.”

“So soon?” His eyes blow up comically before the expression falls away to a confident grin. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

A disgruntled sigh slips past your lips. Even when he’s drugged up, he still manages to be insufferable. You position his arm around your shoulders and slowly help him to his feet. Jake leans his weight on you, but more so because he really likes being this close to you. The man is heavy to say the least. All six feet of him. You lead him carefully towards the infirmary bed with him nuzzling into your hair the entire time.

He hums thoughtfully and grins against the side of your head. His hot breath tickles your neck right as you plop him on top of the comforter. He avidly refuses to lie down, instead scooching his way in until he’s sat with his back against the wall.

Jake turns to you, grinning smugly with teeth in full view.

“Damn, darlin’, you smell so good. Do you have a boyfriend?”

You’re just sitting down on the edge of the bed when you hear it and freeze. “Come again?”

“Sweetheart, we haven’t even come once,” Jake retorts, seeming all too pleased with his joke. The ‘we’ is cute, very considerate of him to include both of you in the conversation. However, you’re too distracted by his question.

“You’re asking me if I have a boyfriend.” You repeat, incredulous.

Jake nods aggressively, likely jumbling his head even worse.

A smile tilts the corner of your lips. You raise your left hand, showing him the back of it. “I’m married actually.”

“Married?” He gasps, completely aghast. He looks crestfallen and then stares at the ring in annoyance. “I mean, of course, you’d be married. You’re so smart, and so pretty. You also embarrassed Rooster? God, you’re fuckin’ perfect. Who’s the lucky person? Do I know them? Are they on base?”

“You do know him, very well in fact. He is on base.”

A growl rises from his throat. “He better watch his back, I’ll get him if he even thinks about slipping once.”

“Really? How would you do that?”

“I could fight him.”

You chuckle. “Right, you’ll fight him. That might be a little hard.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s pretty tough. He’s tall. Very strong. Very handsome too.”

Jake scowls. “Alright, so he’s Mr. Perfect because you’re also perfect. Well, if I ever catch him not being perfect, I’m going to swoop in for the kill. Neither of you will ever see me coming.”

A grin stretches across his face at your laugh. “Good to know, Seresin. I’ll make sure to warn him.”

“Hm, so you’re really married,” Jake repeats again in a deep, disappointed sigh. He takes your left hand in both of his, looking down at the spectacular rock on your hand. He lets out a low whistle before he grimaces, realizing who he’s complimenting.

Actually, not even realizing who he’s complimenting.

“He did good, your husband.” Jake turns your hand, letting the diamond catch the sunlight. The facets sparkle, speckling the room with blinding polka dots. “Gorgeous ring for a gorgeous girl.”

Heat creeps up your cheeks. “Thank you.” You pause before dropping another bomb on him. “I should also probably tell you that you’re also married.”

Jake jerks back, nearly getting whiplash from how quickly he turns to look at you. “I am? To who? I think I’d know if I was married.”

“A very lucky woman.”

“Well, shit.” Jake grunts. “Well, if I married her, then I’m sure she’s as perfect as you.”

“Probably more alike than you think,” you mutter under your breath.

Jake is smiling at you softly and you see his eyes begin to close. His eyelids flutter, struggling to stay open. It’s as if he is striving to commit your face to memory. “I think I’m kinda sleepy, Doc.”

“Well, you best get your rest then.”

“When I wake up, if you happen to be single, you let me know right away. Or even before I wake up, that might just do the trick.”

“You got it, Hangman.”

–

“I had the strangest dream,” Jake tells you on your drive home.

He’s in the passenger seat, his head still spinning a little from the heavy slumber. He had woken up when everyone else was long gone and found you flipping through your novel, waiting for him. He didn’t seem to remember what happened just an hour prior, so you let it play out, told him he just slept the entire time.

“Hm, what about?”

“I was flirting with this woman,” he says, sounding even more confused than you should be. “I promise, sweetheart, I’d never hit on anyone else. I haven’t hit on anyone else, not since that time I flirted with you when you first joined.”

You hide your smile, focusing instead on the road. “Yeah, was she pretty?”

Clearly, a part of him does think so because he hesitates before responding. “Would you be upset if I said she was? I can’t even remember her face. I just remember thinking she was so fuckin’ stunning.”

“Should I be concerned about this fictional woman?”

“Definitely not,” Jake scoffs, crossing his arms over your chest. “Dream woman could never compare to you. The real deal.”

You let out a little mm-hmm as you pull out something from your pocket. His dog tag dangles from your hand, glimmering right next to the wedding band he keeps around his neck. “Rooster gave it to me before he left. Said you dropped it in your landing.”

He gratefully accepts the necklace and clasps it around his neck. “Thank you, did he ask about the–you know.”

“You mean your wedding ring? The one you’ve been wearing since you married me a year ago? The one you keep secret from your squadmates because no one knows you’re married and you let them believe you’re still a cocky, unbearable flirt?”

Jake laughs. “That’s the one.”

“Yes.”

“And what did you say?”

You smirk, “Told him it was a purity ring.”

“Darlin’,” he groans, “I have a reputation to maintain.”

divider credit: @cursed-carmine

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin fic #top gun #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #hangman x reader #jake seresin fluff #top gun fluff #glen powell #glen powell x reader #glen powell fanfic #my work #drabble

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robbysreaders · 28 days ago

Text

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader word count: 1k whoops!! notes: i wrote it thinking of the couple from all my other jack x reader blurbs but they can all be read standalone! Also I stole some of this from ER S2 E10 bc Shep gave me Abbot vibes in that scene lol

You’ve been planning this barbecue for weeks. It finally feels like summer in the city, and you and Jack agreed it was time to start integrating your friend groups — a real "see how the worlds blend" kind of thing.

He’s already met your friends. They’re obsessed with him, obviously. And you’ve stopped by the bar a few times for post-shift drinks with his people. But this? This was something a little more planned. A little more intentional. And you have a sneaking suspicion he’s hoping to set up your friend Olivia with Shen, but that’s a whole other story.

You’re a bit stressed.

Sure, it was your idea together, but with Jack’s schedule (and his, let’s say, casual approach to logistics for all things outside of patient care) most of the planning has fallen on you. And you’ve only been dating officially for three-ish months.

He did go with you to the grocery store on his most recent day off, which only reminded you why you never grocery shop with him. Jack handles produce the same way he handles incoming traumas: focused, grim, and entirely too intense. You watch him inspect an avocado like it might code on the cart if he squeezes it wrong. He lets out a low huff every time you toss something in the cart that wasn’t on your shared list. You roll your eyes. He side-eyes your impulse-buy lemonade. It's a whole thing.

Still, the day-of, he’s been great. His townhouse is bigger than your apartment and has a small backyard that he’s clearly invested in — fire pit, outdoor furniture, and even those outdoor string lights you once offhandedly said would be cute. He’s prepped all the food and is fully committed to manning the grill all night.

That doesn’t stop you from snapping a little when, two hours before guests arrive, he decides now is the perfect time to repaint the baseboards.

“Seriously?” you say, exasperated. “That’s what you think people are going to notice?”

He blinks, caught mid-brush stroke. “They’re chipping. I already had the paint out.”

You throw your hands up, immediately regretting your tone. “Sorry. I’m just stressed. I’m worried your friends aren’t going to like mine.”

He sets the paint down, walks over, and settles his hands gently on your hips.

“Baby,” he murmurs, eyes soft. “You’ve never seen my crew at a real party. I’m worried they’re gonna make me look like a fool.”

The party’s in full swing by the time you finally get a breath. Laughter drifts from the yard. Drinks clink. Someone’s put on a playlist that’s very heavy on 2000s throwbacks. You duck into the kitchen to refill the chips when you hear footsteps behind you.

Jack leans in the doorway, smiling, “Not very good hosts if we’re both inside.”

There’s a beat — just a little too long — before he says it, casual as anything: “I love you.”

You blink. Freeze. He grins, that cocky, endearing little smirk. “I do. I said it. I do. I think i even want you to have my babies.”

“Jack,” you say, half-laughing, “you’re drunk. And probably have heatstroke.”

“I’ve had one beer. And I’ve been wearing a hat. I mean it. Every word. I think we’d have really good ones. I think they’d look nice. I think we should spend every day together and throw parties all the time and do this.”

He’s inched closer, now practically nose to nose with you.

“Jack…” you whisper, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and giddiness, arms resting on his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

He doesn’t back off. If anything, he steps even closer.

“I know it’s sudden. I know it’s out of the blue,” he says, voice low but steady. “But I said it. And I don’t take it back. You don’t have to say it back. I’m just… happy. So happy. And I wanted you to know. Okay?”

The back door creaks open. “Found any more—oop. Okay, I’ll, um. Bye.” Samira spins on her heel and disappears before the door even fully closes again.

You stare at Jack, totally unaware of the interruption, still stunned. There’s this moment suspended between you, like time is trying to decide whether to speed up or stop completely.

“Say the first part again,” you whisper.

He softens instantly. “What, the ‘I love you’?”

You nod.

“I love you,” he says.

You lean in and kiss him. And he kisses you back like it’s something he’s been meaning to do his whole life. Like now that he’s started, he doesn’t plan to stop. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he murmurs between kisses, each one soft and sure and just a little breathless.

You laugh, smiling against his mouth. “I think… maybe… we should head back out.”

He rests his forehead against yours, still catching his breath. “See? That’s why I love you. I need someone responsible in my life. Need me to bring anything out?”

“Yeah,” you grin. “The chips.”

“Got it. Love you,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads for the back door, all ease and satisfaction.

You hesitate, just a second, then call after him.

“Hey… Jack.”

He turns, one hand already on the doorknob.

“I love you too.”

His grin spreads slow and wide — full, unfiltered, proud — and he winks like he just won something.

“Yeah you do.”

The party winds down in a blur of campfire light and half-finished drinks.

Olivia and Shen are tucked in the corner, deep in conversation, completely oblivious to the fact that half the party is placing silent bets on when they’ll kiss. You’re tucked against Jack’s side on the patio couch, his arm around your shoulders, your knees pulled up and your head resting lightly against him. Your friends are chatting around you, the last embers of the fire pit glowing low.

Jack’s talking to Robby, low-voiced and relaxed, when you hear it. “Thought we were gonna have to wrap this thing up without you,” Robby teases. “Heard you were getting climbed like a tree in the kitchen.”

You tense, heat rising in your face. But Jack just squeezes your hip — gentle, grounding — and replies, cool as ever:

“What can I say? I’m in love.”

#jack abbot #jack abbott #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #the pitt drabble #the pitt imagine #dr. abbot #dr. abbot x reader #dr. abbott #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #p attempts to start writing #strictly casual

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solxamber · 4 months ago

Text

Caught in the Crossfire || Vil Schoenheit

You and Vil, partners in crime, find that the line between business and pleasure is thinner than you'd like to admit when you can’t outrun the feelings that come with sharing a life together

Or: Mafia Boss! Vil x Mafia Boss! Reader

The eggs are perfect. Light, fluffy, with just the right amount of seasoning—not too overpowering, but enough to whisper of extravagance. The coffee is dark and rich, paired with a delicate pastry that crumbles just right under the pressure of a silver fork.

It’s the kind of meal that makes a person momentarily forget the bloodstains on their cufflinks or the fact that their bank account balance looks more like the GDP of a small country than a personal savings figure.

Across from you, Vil sits with his usual effortless elegance, wearing a suit so sharp it could cut glass. His long fingers tap against the rim of his teacup as he listens to you talk about the new shipment coming in tonight—an assortment of weapons, high-grade, the kind that people don’t just buy, they invest in.

He nods along, occasionally stirring his tea with slow, deliberate movements, because of course Vil would find a way to make stirring tea look like a power move.

“Do you need backup?” he asks.

You consider it. Technically, your men have it handled, but technically, your men also said they had it handled last time, and then one of them accidentally blew up an entire warehouse because he thought a grenade pin was “more of a suggestion than a rule.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” you say, sipping your coffee.

Vil hums approvingly. “I’ll send a few of mine. Not the new ones, obviously. I refuse to be represented by incompetence.”

And honestly? You respect that.

The city outside is a hellscape of crime and corruption, an urban jungle where power is measured in blood, influence, and how well one can survive a fight.

Unfortunately, not everyone in this godforsaken city understands the rules.

The café doors slam open with a force that makes the entire room go silent. A group of unfamiliar thugs strides in, their boots scuffing against the pristine marble floor, and you can feel the collective eye twitch of the waitstaff.

These guys are new—young, eager, dressed like they learned everything they know about organized crime from bad action movies. One of them, some overconfident idiot with a stupid amount of gel in his hair, swings a gun around like a prop in a school play.

You sigh.

Vil sighs.

The staff also sighs because they’ve clearly worked here long enough to know how this is going to end.

“Alright, listen up!” the leader barks, and wow, his voice is nasally. “We’re taking over this joint, you hear me? Hand over your wallets and—”

He doesn’t get to finish.

Because by the time he utters the words hand over, you and Vil are already moving. It’s practically second nature at this point—the quiet efficiency of two seasoned professionals dealing with yet another group of morons who have no sense of self-preservation.

Vil moves with the precision of a man who has choreographed his entire life. One swift motion and his cup of scalding hot tea is in the face of the closest thug, who shrieks as if he’s been dunked into the pits of hell itself.

You, meanwhile, grab your fork—your lovely, silver, overpriced café fork—and embed it in another guy’s hand before flipping the table for cover.

The entire thing is over in five minutes.

By the end of it, the floor is littered with groaning bodies, a few broken noses, and one unfortunate soul who got knocked unconscious with a plate of eggs benedict (rest in peace, you perfect, fluffy breakfast delight).

The remaining patrons barely react. The waitstaff steps over the bodies to continue serving, because they, too, have adapted to the reality of running an establishment in a city where mafia heads hold weekly brunch meetings.

Vil fixes his sleeves with a look of mild irritation, as if the real crime here was the inconvenience. “Honestly,” he mutters. “Didn’t their mothers ever teach them basic manners?”

You shake your head, dragging your chair back into place. “I swear, the new generation has no sense of etiquette.”

And just like that, the two of you sit back down and resume your meal.

Vil’s office is immaculate, as always. A glass desk, perfectly arranged décor, the scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air like it pays rent. If someone walked in without context, they’d assume they were entering the workspace of a world-renowned fashion mogul.

Which, technically, isn’t wrong.

Except instead of discussing upcoming collections or brand endorsements, the two of you are currently overseeing a money laundering operation disguised as a high-fashion venture.

And Vil is not impressed.

“This,” he says, voice dripping with disdain, as he gestures at the collection laid out before him, “is an atrocity.”

You glance at the designs, then back at him. “Vil, it’s crime. Who actually cares what it looks like?”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The glare Vil levels at you could freeze over the entire eastern seaboard. You’re not a weak person—you’ve stared down rival bosses, assassins, and law enforcement without so much as flinching—but something about the sheer disgust in Vil’s expression makes you reflexively sit up straighter.

Across the room, Epel, who had made the grave mistake of being in the vicinity, excuses himself immediately, because the last time he witnessed this level of ice-cold judgment, he had nightmares for a week.

“This—this mockery—is a crime against fashion,” Vil continues, gesturing sharply at a particularly offensive garment. “Look at this cut! Look at these fabrics! The stitching alone looks like it was done by someone having a seizure!”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Vil. We are actual criminals.”

“Yes, and even criminals should have standards,” he snaps, crossing his arms. “Honestly, what’s the point of laundering money through fashion if it’s going to be this hideous? I refuse to be associated with whatever this is.”

You don’t have the energy for this argument. Not today.

“Fine,” you say, standing up. “If it bothers you that much, let’s go shopping.”

Vil’s expression flickers, then settles into something vaguely victorious. He snaps his fingers, and in seconds, his coat is draped over his shoulders like a royal mantle. “Finally, some sense,” he mutters.

You blink. “Wait, now? I meant, like, later—”

But Vil is already walking out the door, and you have no choice but to follow.

You are a mafia boss. A feared, respected individual whose name carries weight in every criminal circle. You have made decisions that have shaped the underworld itself.

And yet, here you are.

Standing in an absurdly expensive boutique, dressed in an outfit that costs more than the GDP of a small country, while Vil meticulously adjusts the buttons on your cuffs.

“How,” you say, staring at your reflection in mild disbelief, “did I get here?”

Vil doesn’t even look up as he smooths the fabric on your shoulders. “Because you had the audacity to suggest that fashion doesn’t matter while standing in my office.”

You exhale slowly. “I meant for money laundering purposes.”

“And I meant for every purpose.” Vil steps back, tilts his head slightly, then nods in approval before turning his attention back to the racks of clothing. “Now, try this one.”

You look at the garment he’s holding up. “That’s the exact same color and design as the last one.”

Vil shoots you a withering look. “It is not. The cut is completely different. Honestly, I pity you sometimes.”

This has been going on for an hour.

An hour of Vil forcing you into one designer piece after another, adjusting your collar, critiquing your posture, and making you question every life decision that led to this moment.

“I run an entire criminal empire,” you mutter under your breath as Vil hands you yet another outfit.

“Yes, and you dress like you just rolled out of a getaway car.”

That’s not even an insult. That’s just factual.

You glance at the boutique’s security cameras and briefly contemplate faking an emergency to get out of this. Maybe start a small fire. Stage a kidnapping. Something.

But then Vil fixes the lapel on your coat, his fingers brushing against your collarbone, and for a brief, dangerous second, you forget that you’re supposed to be annoyed.

“…Fine,” you grumble. “One more outfit.”

Vil smirks. “I knew you had some sense.”

There are a few unwritten rules when it comes to surviving in your organization. They’re not complicated. In fact, they can be summed up rather succinctly:

Don’t talk back to the bosses unless you’ve got a death wish.

Don’t disrespect Vil's design choices unless you really have a death wish.

Don’t, under any circumstances, assume Epel Felmier is weak.

The third rule, in particular, is the one that most fresh recruits fail to grasp. Which is why you and Vil are currently seated comfortably, sipping on expensive coffee, watching the inevitable unfold like a slow-motion car crash.

Epel is standing in the middle of the training yard, casual as ever, looking every bit like the deceptively polite farm boy he used to be. Across from him, a new recruit—one of the unfortunate ones with more bravado than brain cells—grins like he’s just won the lottery.

“Didn’t think this family let kids in,” the idiot sneers, cracking his knuckles.

Oh, you wish you could say you were surprised.

You glance at Vil. He exhales, already unimpressed, and gives a small, imperceptible nod.

And just like that, Epel moves.

It’s not an elaborate attack, nor is it the kind of long, drawn-out fight scene you’d see in a movie. No, it’s fast.

One second the recruit is standing there, cocky and smirking, and the next—CRACK.

His jaw—his entire jaw—is just gone.

You don’t even think Epel used that much force. He just twisted his wrist, landed a clean hit, and now some poor fool is lying on the ground, making the kind of wheezing sounds that definitely mean you’ll have to call a doctor (or a mortician, depending on how bad the damage is).

The yard is silent.

Some of the other new recruits shift nervously. The smarter ones make a mental note to never, ever say anything remotely condescending to Epel.

You, meanwhile, casually check your watch.

“Four minutes,” you announce.

Vil sighs, already reaching into his coat.

“You thought he’d last fifteen minutes?” you ask, grinning as he hands you his card.

“I had hope,” Vil says flatly. “Clearly, that was a mistake.”

Epel dusts off his sleeves, looking more annoyed that his knuckles got dirty than the fact that he just sent a guy to the hospital.

“Any of y’all got somethin’ else to say?” he asks, tone deceptively light.

Silence.

Smart.

You pocket Vil’s card, smirking. “Well, that was entertaining. Dinner?”

Vil nods. “Dinner.”

And with that, you leave, stepping over the still-twitching body of the idiot who learned the hard way that Epel Felmier does not take disrespect lightly.

In the world of organized crime, certain unspoken rules govern the way things operate. Territory lines must be respected. Alliances must be upheld—until they aren’t. And when the time comes to commit heinous acts of violence, one must do so with a sense of style.

But above all else, there is one sacred, immutable law:

Do not disturb dinner.

Every week, without fail, you and Vil sit down for an elegant, civilized meal. A small, fleeting moment of luxury amidst a life otherwise filled with extortion, backroom deals, and the occasional high-speed chase through the city.

It is a time to unwind, to drink expensive wine, to complain about incompetent subordinates and how—for the love of all things holy—does one completely botch a simple shipment of illegal arms?

Which is why when your phone rings—you’re already irritated.

Vil barely spares you a glance, swirling his wine in one hand, as if waiting to see whether he should be entertained or bored by what happens next.

With a long-suffering sigh, you pick up.

“Yeah?”

There’s a brief pause, the sound of someone clearing their throat, and then a voice that is clearly trying (and failing) to sound intimidating says:

“We have your man.”

You blink. “My what?”

“Your man,” the voice repeats, a little less sure of himself now.

Vil raises a perfectly sculpted brow, setting his glass down with a soft clink.

“…I don’t have a man.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Yes, you really do.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Oh my god. Who?”

The voice hesitates. Then, like he’s dropping the ace up his sleeve, he announces:

“We have Rook Hunt.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Vil exhales slowly, lips twitching into something resembling amusement. He looks as though he wants to offer the poor idiot on the other end a moment of prayer.

You, on the other hand, have to suppress the sheer urge to cackle. Instead, you take a deep, deep breath and say, in the flattest tone imaginable:

“Oh noooooo. Not Rook.”

The guy picks up on the sarcasm, but it’s too late to back out now. “Yeah, uh—he’s terrified.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Begging for his life. Real mess.”

“Sure.”

“Crying, actually.”

You glance at Vil, who lifts his glass again, the universal sign for let’s see how long this idiot keeps digging this grave.

“Okay, listen,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “Do me a favor real quick.”

“…Yeah?”

“Check who the actual hostage is.”

There’s a moment of absolute, ringing silence.

Then, far too faint to be directly into the phone, you hear:

“Wait, why does he still have a knife? Why does he still ha—OH GOD—”

And then, screaming.

Absolute, visceral, panicked screaming.

The kind of screaming that can only come from realizing, far too late, that you were not, in fact, the hunter but the very stupid, stupid prey.

The line goes dead.

You lower the phone, considering your options. Then, still grinning, you turn to Vil.

“Should I have warned them he carries extra knives?”

Vil takes a slow sip of wine and, without missing a beat, says, “They’ll figure it out soon enough.”

And oh, they do.

Because exactly thirty minutes later, Rook strolls in, positively beaming, covered in blood (that is definitely not his), and carrying a suspiciously thick folder of intelligence on who, precisely, had the brilliant idea of kidnapping him.

Vil doesn’t even look surprised. If anything, he looks slightly disappointed that Rook let them die too fast to give a proper monologue.

You, meanwhile, are just sitting there, staring at the bloodied mess of a man you call an associate, and thinking:

Yeah. They figured it out.

It was supposed to be simple.

A mission so straightforward that you almost felt insulted having to do it yourself. But no, apparently this was too delicate to leave to your subordinates, so here you were—sitting in a dimly lit bar, nursing a glass of expensive whiskey, and attempting to charm some information out of the city's most indiscreet criminals.

And in theory, this should have been easy.

You and Vil weren’t just mafia bosses; you were masters of persuasion. Your entire existence revolved around the ability to manipulate, deceive, and seduce when necessary. You could talk a man into selling his own kneecaps if you wanted to.

But there was one glaring problem this time.

Vil.

Because for some godforsaken reason, he seemed dead set on sabotaging this mission at every turn.

The moment you leaned in to flirt with a target, flashing your best smirk, Vil’s hand clamped onto your wrist, yanking you back as if you were about to throw yourself into traffic.

When some well-dressed (if mildly repulsive) businessman slid up beside you, whispering something undoubtedly sleazy in your ear, Vil scoffed so loudly that the man flinched.

You kicked him under the table. He kicked you back—harder.

And when you tried giggling—the universal signal for “yes, I’m interested, please tell me all your criminal secrets” —Vil exhaled like you had personally betrayed him.

It reached a boiling point when you were about to land the final hook—batting your lashes, trailing a hand over your target’s sleeve, just a few seconds away from getting him to spill everything—when Vil, in an act of sheer malice, suddenly pulled you into his side and drawled,

“Apologies, darling. They have an unfortunate habit of attracting the wrong sort of people.”

Your target, now looking incredibly alarmed, muttered something about needing the restroom and fled.

You closed your eyes. Counted to ten. Considered murder.

Then, with a saccharine smile that probably terrified half the bar, you grabbed Vil by the arm and dragged him into a private back room before slamming the door shut behind you.

“The hell is your problem?!” you hissed.

Vil looked utterly unbothered. “I’m looking out for you.”

“Looking out for me?” you repeated, incredulous. “You’re blowing the mission!”

His arms folded gracefully across his chest. “You deserve a higher class of admirer. Not some low-life with a cheap watch and a bad dye job.”

You stared. Your hands twitched with the overwhelming urge to shake him senseless.

“Vil,” you said, very slowly, “I am not into that guy. This is a mission. You know, the thing we do instead of dying?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s still demeaning to—”

You shook him.

Physically grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

Vil let out a strangled sound of protest, looking utterly offended, but you didn’t care.

“I AM HERE TO MANIPULATE A MAN INTO TELLING ME WHERE THEY’RE STORING THEIR SMUGGLED GUNS,” you all but shouted. “I AM NOT HERE TO DATE HIM.”

You shoved him away, storming back out of the room with all the fury of someone whose mission had just been single-handedly ruined by the world’s worst wingman.

Vil stood there, unmoving, watching you leave.

Something bitter welled up in his chest. Something unpleasant and sharp, something he didn’t want to name.

But instead of examining it too closely, he merely smoothed down his suit, exhaled, and begrudgingly followed you back out.

You had learned, over the years, how to let things go.

You had learned that sometimes, no matter how much something tugged at your mind, demanded an answer, it was better to step back, breathe, and let time sort things out.

Which is why you didn’t press Vil about whatever the hell was going on with him.

It was easier to not acknowledge the way he kept interfering with your missions.

Easier to not question the sharp looks, the lingering stares, the way his voice would curl around your name like it was something precious when he thought no one could hear.

It was easier to not ask why his irritation felt personal.

Because you knew, if you asked, you might not like the answer.

So instead of adding to whatever storm was brewing inside Vil, you sent Rook and Epel to finish the job.

And yet—despite your best efforts—you still found yourself in front of Vil’s office door, knocking lightly before stepping inside.

It was just tea. Like always. A ritual built over time.

Except—this time, you were bruised.

Your knuckles were raw, shoulders aching from the kind of fight that couldn’t be avoided, no matter how skilled you were at maneuvering through this world. You had faced worse, of course. It was nothing.

But Vil took one look at you and his expression—once neutral, if a little distant—collapsed.

His cup slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor. Neither of you acknowledged it.

The next thing you knew, his hand was on your wrist, grip firm but careful, urgent.

You didn’t fight it when he dragged you to the bathroom, not saying a word, the tension in his body wound so tightly you thought he might snap in half.

He forced you to sit on the counter, hands moving automatically to pull out a first-aid kit.

“Vil,” you started.

“Be quiet.”

There was no bite to his voice, but the quiet urgency in it stopped you all the same.

You huffed. “I can just call my medic—”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and whatever he was feeling—whatever he was holding back—made your words catch in your throat.

You let him work in silence.

The press of antiseptic against raw skin, the brush of his fingers as he wrapped your wounds, the careful tilt of his head as he studied his handiwork—all of it felt unbearably tender.

Too gentle for the world you lived in.

When he finished, he exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself. Then, to your shock, he leaned into you.

His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath warm against your collarbone. His hands—once poised, always careful—clutched at the fabric of your shirt like he was holding himself together.

“Never do this again.” His voice was quiet. Almost pleading.

Your stomach twisted. “Vil, I’m a mafia boss too. What do you expect me to do? Knit sweaters and run charities?”

He lifted his head then, and when his eyes met yours, you understood.

This wasn’t just frustration. Wasn’t just exasperation over your recklessness.

It was fear.

It was something far deeper, something he had never said out loud, something you had ignored every time he pulled you back at the bar, every time he scoffed at your flirting, every time he lingered just a little too long when adjusting your tie.

The realization hit you like a bullet to the ribs.

You swallowed hard. “...I’ll be a little more careful. If I can.”

His shoulders sagged, and he nodded. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he let himself lean into you again.

You didn’t stop him. You just held him, his arms around your waist, your hand cradling the back of his head, feeling the way his breath finally evened out.

And in that moment, you understood—Vil hadn’t just been acting like a jilted lover.

He felt like he was one.

The plan had been brilliant. Carefully orchestrated, every detail accounted for, every possible hitch considered.

Yet somehow, somehow, you had managed to go from one of the most feared mafia leaders in the city to someone currently hiding in a safe house with Vil fucking Schoenheit, hiding from both law enforcement and some very, very powerful enemies.

You weren’t sure which was worse.

"Explain it to me again," you sighed, pressing your head against the wall. "How exactly did everything go to hell in under three minutes?"

Across the room, Vil sat on a chair, legs crossed, looking far too composed for someone who had nearly been arrested, shot at, and insulted all in the span of an hour.

“Simple,” he said, inspecting his nails like you weren’t on the verge of losing your mind. “The deal was never going to go through. It was a setup. A trap. Which, if you’d just listened to me in the first place—”

You groaned. “Oh, please. If you knew it was a trap, why did you even agree to go with me?”

He flicked his gaze up then, sharp and assessing. “Because you have an appalling habit of running headfirst into danger, and someone needs to be there to drag you back out of it.”

You opened your mouth to argue—then promptly closed it, because, okay, fair point.

Still. It was one thing to walk into a trap, knowing it was a trap. It was another thing entirely to somehow piss off some of the most powerful figures in the city and get half the police force on your tail.

How had it all gone so wrong?

Rook and Epel had managed to escape somehow—how, you still didn’t know, but you were too exhausted to question it. The last thing they had said before vanishing was a quick assurance that they’d “fix it soon.”

Which, coming from them, could mean anything.

Great. Fantastic.

And that left you and Vil, holed up in a safe house in the middle of nowhere, waiting for things to blow over.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “This is not how I thought today would go.”

Vil hummed, stretching elegantly. “Yes, well. Adaptability is an important skill in our line of work, isn’t it?”

You shot him a flat look. “We are literally in hiding. This is not a power move.”

Vil tilted his head, giving you a slow, deliberate once-over. “It’s only hiding if you look desperate.”

You did look desperate.

There was a smear of dirt on your cheek, your shirt was torn, and you were pretty sure you had a bruise forming on your ribs from when you’d had to dive behind a car earlier.

Vil, meanwhile, looked like he had just stepped out of a high-profile photoshoot. Despite the chase, the chaos, and the very real possibility of getting arrested, he somehow managed to remain immaculate.

You hated him a little bit for it.

You groaned, slumping down onto the couch. “At this point, I’d rather get shot than deal with your attitude.”

Vil let out an amused hum. “Dramatic as ever.”

There was a beat of silence. You let your eyes close, just for a moment, trying to gather your thoughts.

Then—softly, almost too quiet to hear—Vil said, “Are you hurt?”

The question made your eyes flick open. You turned your head just enough to see him watching you, expression unreadable.

“…I’ll live,” you muttered.

He exhaled sharply, then stood and walked toward you with measured steps. Before you could protest, he reached out, fingers brushing over your jaw, tilting your face slightly to the side.

“You’re bleeding,” he murmured.

You hadn’t even noticed.

His fingers were gentle, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Then—he leaned in slightly, gaze flicking down to your lips for the briefest second before his expression hardened.

“Be more careful,” he said, voice softer than usual.

You swallowed. “Vil, I can take care of myself.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his hand lingered for a fraction of a second longer before he pulled away, stepping back.

“Of course you can,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

The safe house was nice. Too nice.

It was one of your better ones—a sleek, modern apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows, a fully stocked bar, and furniture that looked like it belonged in some high-end magazine. The kind of place designed for luxury, not hiding.

And now you were stuck in it. With Vil. For two whole weeks.

You stared at Rook’s message again, rereading the words like they would magically change into something better.

It’ll take about two weeks to fix everything. Hold tight, mes amis. I’ll pick you both up soon.

Two weeks.

Fourteen days of living with Vil.

Fourteen days of pretending like you didn’t know exactly how he felt about you.

Fourteen days of not thinking about how you felt about him.

You dragged a hand down your face, exhaling slowly.

This is fine.

You were a professional. A leader. You had spent years navigating crime syndicates, surviving betrayals, outplaying enemies who wanted you dead.

You could handle this.

Vil sighed dramatically from across the room, pulling your attention back to him. “If we’re going to be trapped here for two weeks, we’re going to need ground rules.”

You raised a brow. “Ground rules?”

He folded his arms. “Yes. Firstly, you will not track dirt into the house. Secondly, if you insist on ruining your diet with instant ramen at ungodly hours, do not expect me to partake. Thirdly—”

You tuned him out.

Two weeks.

You were so screwed.

You should have expected this.

The moment you stepped into the bedroom, you knew. There was only one bed.

You stood there, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. Vil, standing beside you, let out the longest sigh of his life.

“Of course.”

“Why is there only one bed?” you asked, because surely if you kept asking, reality itself would shift and reveal a second one hidden somewhere.

Vil pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. Perhaps because this is a safe house, not a five-star resort?”

You scowled. “Still. You’d think there’d be at least a couch—”

“I am not sleeping on the floor.”

You crossed your arms. “Well, I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

A tense silence.

A battle of wills.

Finally, a compromise.

The bed was big enough. You could share. You would be adults about this. You would put a pillow barrier between you, and that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t the end of it.

The first time you woke up was because you felt something warm in the crook of your neck. You blinked blearily, still half-asleep—only to realize Vil had somehow migrated across the bed, an arm draped around your waist, his face tucked against your throat.

He was softer like this, relaxed in a way you’d never seen before.

You could feel his steady breaths against your skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest. He looked peaceful, like for once in his life, he had let go of everything. The weight of expectations, of appearances, of the cold ruthlessness that came with being a mafia leader—it was all gone.

You could wake him up.

You should wake him up.

But you didn’t have the heart to move.

You just lay there, staring at the ceiling till you fell asleep again.

The second time you woke up, it was different.

It was the feeling of wetness against your collarbone.

Vil was crying.

Silent, broken tears, his body trembling against yours. His fingers curled slightly into your shirt, barely holding on, like he wasn’t fully aware of it himself.

Your chest ached.

You had never seen Vil cry. Not once.

Should you wake him? Should you just hold him and hope it chased the nightmare away?

But then, before you could decide, he suddenly jerked awake with a sharp breath. His hands shot up, covering his face as he turned away from you, shoulders rigid.

You hesitated only for a moment before you moved, shifting across the bed to sit closer to him.

“Vil.”

“Go back to sleep.” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

You ignored him, reaching out to rub slow, soothing circles on his thigh. You could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles were taut like he was barely holding himself together.

Finally, after a long moment, he let out a shaky breath and met your eyes.

“…Promise me something,” he murmured.

You frowned. “What?”

“Hire a bodyguard.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “Stop throwing yourself into fights. Just… just run your turf without brawling, please.”

Your instinct was to protest. To remind him that this was just how things worked. You were a mafia boss, you couldn’t just sit on the sidelines—

But then you saw the way he looked at you.

Wrecked.

Like he had already lost you a thousand times in his nightmares.

The words died in your throat.

“…Okay,” you said instead. “I’ll try.”

He exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath, and slowly leaned into you. You shifted slightly, letting him rest against you, arms wrapping around him without a second thought.

He fell back asleep like that, curled up in your hold, like you were the only safe thing in his world.

And you—

You lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how long you were both going to pretend you felt nothing.

Morning came, sluggish and unkind, dragging in the weight of everything unspoken.

Vil was seated at the dining table with his usual elegance, flipping through the morning paper as though nothing had changed. His hair was sleek, not a single strand out of place, his makeup flawless even in the early hours. If not for the faint redness around his eyes, you might have thought you had hallucinated last night entirely.

But you hadn’t.

You could still feel it—the ghost of his weight slumped against you, the quiet tremor in his fingers, the way his voice had cracked when he begged you to stop getting into fights.

Meanwhile, you looked like you had crawled out of a shallow grave.

The bags under your eyes were so deep they should’ve been classified as emotional baggage, and you felt like you had spent the entire night being run over by the concept of feelings.

Vil was ignoring it.

You could see it in the way he didn’t so much as glance at you, the way he casually sipped his tea as if the two of you hadn’t shared something unbearably raw just hours ago.

Fine. If this was how he wanted to play it, you’d let him.

But you were going to make him break first.

The first move was subtle. Elegant. A test of control.

Vil had just finished cutting his breakfast into perfect, bite-sized pieces, his every movement effortlessly precise. You watched as he lifted a forkful of omelet to his lips, gaze still fixated on his newspaper, when you struck.

“Can I have a bite?” you asked.

He barely looked at you. “Then take one.”

And so you did.

Only instead of reaching for your own fork like a normal human being, you leaned over and took a bite straight from his.

Vil froze.

You chewed slowly, deliberately, your eyes locking with his over the rim of his teacup.

“Not bad,” you mused, as if you hadn’t just committed the equivalent of social treason.

There was a long, painful silence.

Then, very, very carefully, Vil set down his teacup.

“Do not step into my personal space.” His voice was calm, measured, betraying only the faintest trace of strain.

You hummed, tapping your fork against the table. “Didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

His fingers tightened around his utensils.

You smiled.

Point, you.

The second move was bolder. Personal.

Vil was seated on the couch, a book resting delicately in his hands. The warm afternoon light spilled through the windows, painting golden edges along his profile, catching on the fine lines of his perfectly manicured fingers.

Without hesitation, you walked over and collapsed onto the couch, resting your head directly in his lap.

Vil stiffened.

You tilted your head up, looking at him with a lazy grin. “Comfy.”

He stared at you, utterly still, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, contemplating whether to jump or push you off first.

The moment stretched, long and uncertain, and for a second you thought maybe he’d shove you away.

Then—slowly, painstakingly—he inhaled.

And turned a page.

Didn’t acknowledge you. Didn’t say a word.

But he didn’t move you.

You grinned.

Point, you.

The third move was cheating, really.

Vil was cooking dinner, standing at the stove with an almost infuriating level of grace. Even in exile, even in a safe house, he carried himself like a king in his palace—untouchable, unreachable.

So naturally, you did what any sane person would do.

You walked right up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, and leaned into him completely.

Vil jerked.

You felt the sharp inhale he took, the way his shoulders went taut as you pressed against him.

Then, with the ease of someone who had made a career out of pushing buttons, you tilted your head so your chin rested on his shoulder.

“Smells good,” you murmured, voice warm with amusement.

Vil did not breathe.

Then, with painstaking care, he raised his spatula and flicked it back toward your face.

You dodged it, laughing. “What, no taste test?”

“What is wrong with you today?” His voice was sharp, an edge of something dangerously close to exasperation.

You blinked up at him innocently. “What do you mean?”

Vil turned, and finally—you saw it.

The tightness in his jaw, the flicker of something raw in his eyes, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly where they gripped the spatula.

For one, breathless second, you thought—

But then he let out a slow breath, stepping away from your hold.

His voice was cool, measured. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

Your fingers twitched.

So close. So close.

You stepped back, watching as he turned back to the stove, his grip on the spatula tighter than necessary.

Fine. You could wait.

But Vil was going to break.

And when he did—

You weren’t going to let him run.

Somehow this was his breaking point.

Not the stolen bites of food, not the way you laid your head in his lap, not the way you pressed against him while he cooked. No, it wasn’t any of those things that made Vil finally shatter.

It was this.

The moment was so casual, so simple, that for a split second you thought you had gotten away with it.

You had leaned over, plucked his juice from his hands, and taken a slow, deliberate sip from his straw—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for the first time in days, Vil did not react with cold, cutting silence.

No, he reacted violently.

Before you could even lower the glass, he was on you.

A sharp inhale. The scrape of a chair against the floor. Then suddenly, you were caged against the wall, his arms bracketing you in, his breath warm against your cheek as he loomed over you.

His usual icy composure was gone.

And in its place—

Raw, unfiltered emotion.

“Are you having fun?” His voice was low, rough, his usual clipped elegance ruined by the way his words trembled with frustration.

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, lips still parted from your sip. “Vil—”

“No.” His hands slammed against the wall beside you, cutting off your escape. His whole body was tense, vibrating with barely restrained emotion. “Answer me.” His voice cracked, his breath uneven. “Are you enjoying this? Playing with my feelings? Toying with me like I—”

You stilled.

He wasn’t just mad.

He was hurting.

You opened your mouth, a thousand things on the tip of your tongue, but before you could speak, his expression twisted into something desperate, something almost—broken.

“Do you think this is a game?” His voice was sharper now, his hands clenching into fists against the wall. “Do you enjoy making me hope? Every time you throw yourself into danger—every time you let me hold you, let me want you—you make me believe that maybe—”

His breath hitched.

Then he tore his gaze away, his jaw tightening like he was swallowing something down.

“Why do you do this?” he whispered, raw and vulnerable. “Why do you make me hope when I know you’re going to leave? This is unbearably cruel, even for you.”

The words slammed into you like a gut punch.

“Vil—”

“I know how you are.” His voice was unsteady, his fists trembling. “You live for chaos. For danger. You chase after thrills like you can’t survive without them, and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I can’t—I won’t be left behind.” His voice cracked. “Not by you.”

Something inside you wrenched at the sheer grief in his voice.

He had been holding this in for so, so long.

And you had pushed him too far.

Slowly, carefully, you reached out.

Your hands found his face, fingers brushing over his cheekbones, tracing the fine tremble in his jaw. He flinched—once, like he was afraid to believe in your touch—but then he melted into it, the fight in his shoulders loosening just slightly.

“Vil,” you whispered, letting your thumb stroke against his cheek. “I’m not playing with you.”

His eyes flickered up to yours, uncertain, vulnerable.

“You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.” Your voice was steady, sure. “Who else could match me like you do?”

Vil swallowed hard. His lips parted, but no words came out.

You leaned in, so close that your breaths mingled.

“I don’t intend to run,” you murmured. “You’re stuck with me for life, you know.”

He broke.

A shattered breath—then his lips crashed against yours.

The kiss was messy, desperate, perfect.

His hands dug into your back, pulling you impossibly close, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. Your fingers tangled into his hair, anchoring him, grounding him, whispering without words: I’m here. I’m not leaving.

When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his breath ragged. His eyes searched yours, like he needed to confirm it, to believe it.

And then, with a rough, shuddering exhale, he grabbed your wrist—

And pulled you toward the bedroom.

You didn’t resist.

Because some things weren’t meant to be said.

Some things were meant to be shown.

The moment Rook and Epel stepped into the safe house, Epel froze.

It was comical, really—the way his eyes widened, the way his mouth fell open, the way he looked at you like he had just witnessed a crime far worse than anything you’d ever committed.

Because, well.

No coat could hide the marks Vil had left on your neck.

They weren’t subtle.

Not in the slightest.

Epel’s expression was caught between horrified and deeply impressed. His lips moved, but no words came out, and you could see the moment his brain short-circuited.

So naturally, you grinned at him and winked.

Epel made a noise that could only be described as distress.

Meanwhile, Rook—oh, Rook—

He was delighted.

His eyes sparkled, his entire face alight with unrestrained joy, as if the mere confirmation of your relationship was the greatest artistic masterpiece he had ever laid eyes upon.

“Ah, l’amour! The greatest conquest of all!” Rook clasped his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. “Such passion, such fervor! I knew this would come to pass—what is fate, if not an arrow that flies true to its mark?”

Vil, to his credit, only sighed, adjusting his sunglasses as if they could somehow shield him from Rook’s theatrics.

You, on the other hand, laughed.

And maybe it was because you were happy.

Because for once in your life, you weren’t running.

The drive back to Vil’s base was filled with Rook waxing poetic about the beauty of love, Epel staring out the window as if trying to erase the past ten minutes from his memory, and you, leaning against Vil with a smile that you couldn’t quite hide.

When you arrived, when the car door closed behind you, when the others left to give you both a moment—Vil turned to you.

His gaze was steady, unreadable.

And then—softly, carefully—

“Would you consider moving in with me?”

Your breath caught.

Because it wasn’t just an invitation.

A silent plea that meant stay.

Stay with me.

Stay, even though you have every reason to run.

Stay, even though we’re both tangled in this life of chaos, of crime, of things we can’t undo.

Stay, because I love you.

And you—

You laughed.

Because it was so Vil to ask something like that with all the grace and poise of someone discussing a business deal, despite the warmth in his voice, despite the way his fingers lingered against yours.

You laced your hand with his, squeezing gently.

“Of course,” you murmured. “You’re stuck with me forever now. Crimes and all.”

Vil exhaled—relief, affection, something deeper.

And then, just before pulling you in—before pressing his lips to yours, before kissing you like he meant it, like he had no intention of letting you go—

He smiled.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #vil schoenheit x reader #vil x reader #vil schoenheit #vil schoenheit x you #vil

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getaapologist · 2 months ago

Text

Draw Slow When You Take From Me

Pairing: Vampire!Geta x female!reader

Warnings: 18+ only, MDNI. Seriously. Blood! (this is about vampires, so), mention of the menarche, consumption of the menarche, sex.

Word Count: 4.0k

A/N: It's finally here. This is just my immediate thoughts that poured out when I first started thinking about this AU. I would always be willing to explore different things, perhaps pre-wife, or even other household members. Mine is sweet, mostly. If you're looking for something more... well, more, check out @prettycalla 's contribution. I promise it's so amazing (better than mine!). I also owed some people a Geta period thing, so I combined the two. I apologize in advance.

Geta looked down at you as you slept. He could hear every heartbeat, each individual ventricle pulsing, valves closing, a wet symphony. Waves breaking. Your steady breathing filled the room. He could smell the jasmine oil you dabbed behind your ears, at your wrists, between your breasts.

He was far too hungry to linger tonight.

“Mmm, come to bed,” you spoke sluggishly, reaching out to tug on his robes.

“Later, mea lux,” he smiled, a deep pit in his stomach. It grew the closer he got, but he shoved it down so he could lean over and nuzzle at your cheek. He could smell the sunlight soaked into your skin. So tempting. “After our meetings.”

After the feed. While the bloodlust raged.

“Please,” you begged, your hand gripping the back of his neck to try to keep him there.

A brief flash of panic. His mouth watered and he swallowed it down.

“I am busy, and you are…” He gently pulled your hand away and lifted his head, his eyes dark. “Distracting.”

Eyes dark, but unmistakably full of love for his new blushing bride.

A tamed shark.

“You will keep your word?” You smiled up at him, tone playful. “I do not care the hour.”

He kept his smile soft, lips shut tight. A nod. As he moved away, he allowed his mouth to open, the sign of his affliction not visible to you.

“I will keep it.”

Geta grimaced, looking down at the woman currently slung across his lap. He could see her impatience, staring up at him out of the corner of her eyes, stretching her scarred neck out.

Inviting his thirst. Yet his stomach soured.

“Brother, are you alright? You’ve hardly touched your meal,” Caracalla giggled, pushing yet another of his concubines from his lap, blood fully covering the lower half of his face, his neck, staining his robes. He feasted like he was starved. “You keep on like this and you will slip up.”

A mocking laugh at Geta’s efforts.

Geta let out a frustrated growl, his anger at his brother’s suggestion pushing his muscles into action. The woman let out a panicked yelp as Geta hauled her up to his mouth, his teeth sinking in unkindly.

As the hot, sweet liquid slid down his throat, he gulped eagerly, forgetting his earlier apprehension. He clung to her, his grip so tight it would leave marks. Even though the concubine occasionally winced, her face soon settled into a soft, blissful expression.

A nice trick. A gentle fever. A distraction from the threat of impending death.

The woman’s hand slid up his thigh, hoping for more from him than his hunger for her blood. A jolt of revulsion twisted his spine and he pushed her down to the marble floor, her neck still weeping.

“E-Emperor?”

“Leave us,” he ordered, waving her away. She left reluctantly.

“You know, maybe you should give some more thought to turning her,” Caracalla suggested, moments before sinking his canines into another waiting neck.

A relieved sigh. A hand gripping his robes.

Geta turned away, Caracalla’s words echoing in his head.

No. Never.

The thought of never hearing your heart race for him again, never being able to leech the warmth from your skin into his?

Unthinkable. Not worth considering.

“Try not to kill anyone tonight, please,” Geta stressed to his voracious twin. “Silence is expensive.”

“I make no promises, brother,” Caracalla grinned, looking every bit a monster as he lapped at a still-bleeding neck. “That dreadful meeting worked up a mighty appetite.”

Geta stood, wiping at his mouth, feeling ill and far from sated. But he would not feed on another. He could handle himself just fine.

Discomfort. Cramping low. A glance down confirmed your fears.

There would be no heir this month.

It was hard not to grieve, even if it never existed. It was your one responsibility now, and you had hit your first stumbling block.

Juno had not given you her favor.

The realization was uncomfortable, but there wasn’t anything to be done. Perhaps your offerings were not enough, too humble to wish for the child of an Emperor to take root.

For a moment you allowed yourself to lay there, knowing that getting up would be an ordeal in and of itself.

Geta could come back at any moment. He would surely want a clean bed to sleep in. It needed to be stripped. You needed to bathe. So you moved into action, despite the late hour.

As you worked, you wondered what Geta would make of this. Would he be upset? You honestly weren’t sure.

During your short time here at Palatine Hill, things were certainly unusual. People warned you that there was illness festering in the palace. That there was something strange going on. Dark rituals, or illicit affairs. The usual fantastical gossip. They told you that your husband-to-be was slowly being driven mad by his brother’s shocking antics.

That at least seemed closer to the truth.

But you didn’t believe any of it until you were forced to marry under the moon, a quiet ceremony with minimal guests. Your new brother had been irritable all evening, Geta having to pause his conversation with you to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. More than once, he himself had disappeared to retrieve Caracalla more wine, instead of asking a servant nearby for a topping off.

And there were these late night meetings every few days, meetings that you were not to attend. Meetings that lasted quite a while. It would be enough to worry any new bride.

Adultery was forbidden, yes, but would that truly stop an Emperor?

No. He’s shown you nothing but love and devotion. Even if he sometimes grows irritable, or will not walk in the sunlight, he has fulfilled all of his husbandly duties, quite well. And on the nights he returns from his meetings, he is insatiable–

No. Focus. Change your clothes. Strip the bed.

All the ruined linen was carried off by a waiting servant just outside the door, replaced with clean, fresh bedding.

Now, to bathe.

As you turned to leave, Geta stepped into the room, his dark eyes big and searching. Nostrils flaring.

“Mea lux, are you alright?” His voice was strained. Muscles tensed in his neck as he took slow steps closer.

“Yes,” you answered, building up your nerve to tell him there would be no heir this month. “Geta, I–”

He interrupted you, eyes raking over you, voice frantic and unsteady. “Do you have a cut? Where is it coming from?”

Your face felt hot as his hands tugged and pulled at your limbs, inspecting your skin. “My love, what?”

He sank to his knees before you, hands bunched up in the fabric of your slip. A moan fell from his lips and he pressed his forehead into your belly, breathing heavily. Your hands attempted to bring his head up, but he fought you. It was like trying to bend a metal bar.

“Geta?”

A low rumble in his throat. Hunger stirring. Salivating.

He did not consider this.

“You bleed.”

Heat traveled up your neck, to your ears, your face. “Yes. I’m sorry, Geta.”

“I do not care about heirs,” he muttered, his face pressing into the fabric of the slip, his inhales deep and languid.

Large hands released the fabric, sliding around to grip the back of your thighs, hauling you in closer, if that was possible.

Your hands found his shoulders and you very nearly fell over. “Geta!”

He hugged your legs, his face dipping lower, and suddenly you were trying to fight him again, your self-consciousness not able to tolerate this.

“Geta, let me go, I am unclean,” you hissed at him.

“I cannot,” he whined.

“What do you mean? Let me go!”

His grip only grew tighter as you squirmed, his face pressing closer. Testing his will.

He promised himself he wouldn’t ever let this get to you. He wouldn’t allow Caracalla’s carelessness to infect you. You were pure, his. He loved you.

And yet here you were, able to give him such a gift.

He needed it.

Each inhale full of iron sent a buzzing through his brain, a wave of pleasure he felt all the way down to his toes. Even when he fed, he never felt like this, so lost to it.

Weak.

“I cannot control this urge, I am sorry, mea lux.” Pain was laced through his voice. “Please, you must go.”

“Geta?” Soft hands pressed at his cheeks, his shoulders.

“Go!” he yelled, pushing you away from him.

Mild fear gripped you, not used to seeing him like this. Something was very wrong. But he was resolute, unable to look you in the eye. You obeyed your husband, taking a few steps back towards the door.

“Wait,” he begged, reaching out for you.

As you neared him, he struggled to breathe, opting to instead open his mouth, the smell overwhelming.

Clarity, then.

His hands shot up defensively. “Do not listen to me. Go, get out of here. I cannot be trusted!”

He could hear vividly how your heart raced, a different rhythm than what he was used to. Too fast. Uneven, as if it were scrambling to escape your chest.

“Geta, are you alright? Do you need–”

“Go!” he roared, getting to his feet.

“I-I will go get Caracalla–”

You were swept up and dropped unceremoniously onto the bed.

“No,” he growled, his eyes black as pitch. “You will not go near him.”

“I won’t,” you placated, hands on his arms.

Guilt coursed through him, even as he enjoyed the erratic racing of your heart. It was a miracle he hadn’t already fed, the aroma enough to seriously strain his convictions.

“I am sorry,” he sighed, his nose pressing against your cheek, moving down, pausing over your pulse, tongue slipping out to lick your skin.

No.

“Geta, are you unwell?”

A pained sound was torn from his throat, but he did not answer. His hands slid down until they reached the edge of the slip. He parted your thighs easily, fingers sliding up, your mumbled warnings not heard by him.

Wet. Warm. Viscous.

He pushed off the mattress and brought his fingers in front of his eyes, his breath leaving him in delight.

A relieved moan poured out of him as he slipped his red fingers between his lips, eyes falling shut.

Heat filled your face at the sight. You had always been told that the Emperors were a bit… unusual. But surely they didn’t mean this.

“Mea lux,” he drawled, bliss easing the stress from his voice. He looked quite satisfied. “This is… divine.”

Licking his lips, his dark eyes fell down to you. As his lips parted, you saw them. Long canines, not unlike a wolf’s, but perhaps more pointed.

Unnatural.

He tongued at one of them and a deep-seated hunger filled his eyes. “I need more, mea lux,” he spoke, lowering himself until his nose pressed against your soft belly again.

The fabric of the thin slip was pulled taut, up off your abdomen. He bit through the linen, the sharp canines making easy work of it. A loud ripping sound filled the room and cool air washed over you, now laid bare for him.

“Geta,” you flushed, nerves worming into your gut. “This is–”

“Please, mea lux, I am still so hungry…” he whined, lips brushing low, his tongue leaving behind a wet line. “You would not deny me this, would you?”

His voice was all sweetness, but edged with mania.

“I have not bathed–”

“Good,” he growled, hands firmly pushing your thighs apart.

He heard the transition, the moment when fear left you and your heartbeat settled into a more familiar rhythm. It made him salivate, his breathing matching yours, his desire growing for more than just your blood.

Your embarrassment only lasted until his tongue met the skin of your inner thigh.

Soft, satisfied sounds rumbled from his throat with each stripe of skin he cleaned. He was immersed in it, each little taste making him stray further and further from himself.

Your hand gripped his shoulder.

Slow. Or you will frighten her, he told himself, his desperation only barely restrained. There was something about you that always made it easier.

The blood alone was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, but mixed with your own desire for him? Truly a gift from the gods. He would not let a bit of it go to waste.

Dark eyes met yours.

“Do you have any idea how delicious you are?”

“Me?”

He made a sound of assent before pushing his face into your warm, wet center, eyes shut in relief.

Eyes rolled back. Sighs full of relief from both of you.

Geta wondered if this was what his victims felt, what kept them coming back for more. If it was anything close, he could understand. He could live here.

There was no room for cleanliness or concern for anything other than the taste on his tongue. The sounds ripped from his throat were obscene, the sounds he was making, even more so.

Wet smacking, deep grunts, the slick pop of flesh leaving his suction.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise.

It didn’t matter. You were seeing the stars. It was almost too much, the way it felt. So wonderful, in fact, that you couldn’t even begin to spare a thought for how loud you were. It was everything you’ve ever needed.

Tremors in your muscles, all down your legs. That was all the warning you were able to give before your body seized, your thighs attempting to clamp shut around his head.

Wave after wave pushing out low moans until they finally stopped.

“Geta.”

You pushed at his shoulder. The sensations were too much to bear.

“A moment longer,” he mumbled, lapping up anything else he could.

When there was nothing left, he resurfaced. It should have been horrifying. Streaks of blood spread over the bottom half of his face. His tongue was already swiping at his bottom lip, collecting what was within reach.

But you weren’t scared of him.

“Are you feeling better?” you asked, watching him closely.

His eyes were still dark, but there was some light returning. He wiped at his cheeks, licking away any remnants from his palm.

“Geta?” You moved over to him.

He caught your wrist as you reached for him, his grip tight. “Not… yet.”

You waited, wrist still in his hand, watching him lick his fingers completely clean, his face almost entirely back to its usual state.

“Geta,” you spoke, your voice merely a whisper. “What happened to you?”

“I am the monster you married.” He looked up at you, eyes shining in the warm firelight.

A monster. Surely not. Yet the proof spoke for itself.

“How did this happen?”

He took in a deep breath, let it out. “I’m not exactly sure. I didn’t see how it started. I just… I went to check on Caracalla, and the next moment I was sitting up from the floor, and he was crying over me, his wrist in my mouth. That was a few months ago.”

“And now you…”

“Feed.”

You felt dizzy.

“At first it was awful. You know what my brother is like. Unrestrained in everything, including this new appetite. I was having to pick up after him, to protect him. I think he understands now, the value in keeping his food source alive. At least, I hope he does.”

“So tonight, your meeting…?”

He nodded, pulling your wrist into his lap. “I don’t take pleasure in it. I want you to know that.”

“Is that why when you return, you are…” Heat filled your cheeks.

His full lips curved into a grin. “Yes.”

Relief. Concerns stuffed down deep melted away. He noticed.

“What is it?” Damp fingertips smoothed circles over your wrist, your pulse.

You drew up your knees, holding them close. “I thought maybe I wasn’t enough, or you were still set in your ways…”

He sighed deeply. “Not a chance, mea lux. Do you know why I still married you, knowing what I have become?”

You met his eyes, intensely curious.

“I am selfish. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And so graceful. I resolved to make it work. I have made it work, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” you admitted.

“Tonight was… I was reckless.” His other hand smoothed up your arm, to the crook of your elbow and back, slowly exposing himself to more of you, testing his hunger. “I did not take enough. It was stupid of me, I put you in danger.”

“But I am fine.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Are you… you’re still…?”

A nod.

His eyes raked up your arm, to your neck, staring hard at the pulse there. He could feel it beneath his thumb, at your wrist, a millisecond delay. If only your heart didn’t beat so nicely. Hard and strong, not a lullaby, far worse, the opposite. A siren call. Normally tuned out, but now…

“Mea lux, I need more.” His grip on your wrist tightened slightly. “Can I have more?”

You would give him anything he wanted. Yes, even that. Your imagination filled in the gaps. You understood what this was. What would happen.

Why did it excite you?

“Yes.”

He moved over lightning fast, immediately nuzzling at your neck. Only seconds passed between giving him permission and his teeth slowly sinking into your skin.

Like he was trying to be careful.

They were sharp, piercing. Forcing a gasp from your lips.

Your hand pushed at his head until a soft, warm wave washed over you. Your fingers tangled in his hair instead as you let out soft, relaxed breaths.

Dreamlike. The lights all had halos, radiant like stars.

A sound you felt, each of his steady gulps, his grip on you tightening.

And then you felt that warmth spread out, your free hand sliding down his clothed back.

A warning growl.

Heat like the sensation of the sun on his skin filled him as the fresh, rich blood poured down his throat. But yours was sweeter, like what he remembered honey tasting like. Even better than that.

He would take his fill, and absolutely not a drop more, he promised himself.

He couldn’t afford to get carried away, or distracted, even as your hand sought his hip. Even as it pulled him in closer, even as he settled between open thighs.

Open, inviting, warm, soft, plush, velvet–

Your gasp woke him from his trance.

He was already buried deep, so lost in you he didn’t even realize.

He moved to lift his head from your neck but your hand pushed him back down, pressing his lips to the wound as your thighs squeezed at his hips, urging him to continue.

The blood smeared over his lips until he opened his mouth, lapping at the trickle. And then his hips began to move.

The Elysian fields. He could see them. The closest he would ever get to them was right here. He never wanted to leave. But he knew he had to.

One final drag of his tongue and he moved to your lips, pressing his mumbled gratitude against your mouth as his hips continued to move.

He tasted of hot metal but you didn’t care. Never before had you felt this good, this free. You already wanted a next time. And there were others that felt this? That got to experience this?

No. Only you.

He lifted his head. Looking down at you, watching you so relaxed, so blissful, coming apart. He felt such relief.

A squeeze at his hips, your thighs tightening. A whispered “more.”

It was all the urging he needed.

He let his hands move to your hips as he sat up, drawing you in along with each thrust. Your legs were unable to hold on, giving up their grip, your hands covering his, back arching.

Your sounds could probably be heard out in the hall, or down in the gardens, not that anyone would be out at this hour.

It didn’t take much more, especially at that pace, that angle–

A great tide.

It was brutal as it crashed over you, leaving you gasping, trembling, clinging to what you could reach of him. Clenching firmly around him.

And he followed you. Collapsing. Gasping. Pushing in even deeper. Cheek smearing blood as he buried his face in your neck. Not to bite.

More than a minute went by.

He finally pressed a gentle kiss to the marks he’d left behind before sitting up, pulling the tunic up and off, revealing the smear at his collar, the rest of his torso.

“We’ve made a mess,” you commented, your eyes following the trail down from his mouth, his chin, his neck, even a little on his chest.

“We have,” he agreed, eyes fixed to your neck, the stain in the fabric beneath you.

“I need to–”

As you moved to sit up, Geta was there, pushing you back down. “Rest, my love. I’ll take care of it. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”

A nod.

And so he got to work, cleaning up his mess. A moist cloth wiping you clean, strong arms moving you to the other half of the bed. Smoothing your hair out of your face. Then he cleaned himself. Full, sated, he gave no thought to any lingering traces, the washbasin now reddish-pink.

Geta returned to your side, resting a hand on your cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m tired,” you confessed, pressing a hand to his, eyelids already only half-open. The blood loss didn’t help things.

“Sleep, mea lux. I will look after you.” He meant it.

A soft smile. “Thank you, my love.”

It didn’t take long after that for you to slip into a steady slumber.

Geta allowed himself a moment to study you, to admire you, before he was up, walking over to the door.

He shrugged on a robe and held it shut before opening the door, eyes falling to a young servant who immediately turned bright red.

“Please, bring breakfast, fruit, whatever is ready.”

The servant nodded, walking quickly down the long hallway.

Geta slid the door shut quietly, looking to where you slept. You looked so relaxed. You were a vision, the only thing marring it being the wound at your neck.

Guilt crept up on him until he could hardly breathe. The one thing he told himself he’d never do, and he caved as soon as it was offered to him. He should have put up more of a fight. He should have left the room the moment he realized.

But he didn’t. And he had unburdened himself of a big secret. It did feel better not having to hide it from you, but there were other things that now needed discussing.

A gentle knock.

Geta took the tray and shut the door up tight. He set it down on a small table at your bedside and got to work straightening the thick woven tapestries now used to cover the archways that led out onto the terrace. Once he was satisfied that no sun would be breaking through as he slept, he climbed into bed, pulling you in against his chest.

He listened to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat.

'Mea lux' translates to 'my light.' Get it?

Taglist: @prettycalla ; @europixie

[you can join the taglist here]

[Masterlist here]

[ Read @prettycalla 's HERE!! ]

#emperor geta #emperor geta x female!reader #emperor geta x reader #gladiator ii x reader #gladiator 2 x reader #joseph quinn x reader #emperor caracalla #Joe quinn x reader #vampire!geta #vampire au

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petew21-blog · 4 months ago

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My brother's friend Billy

This is my brother's friend Billy. They have been friends since I can remember. And ever since I knew him, I was obsessed with him. I looked up to him, but I was always blown away how beautiful he was. It didn't matter that he and my brother bullied me. Whenever he touched me, I was in heaven.

Especially amazing was the moment I found out, how to shapeshift into other people. All I needed was one piece of clothing worn by that person and I would become them. At first it happened to me when I used my brother's shirt instead of mine accidentally. I immediately shifted into his exact copy. I was shocked, but curious to explore more. But someone was coming close to my room, so I quickly threw away his shirt, put on mine and waited for the changes to shift back.

And that's when my quest to get Billy's clothing started. But it was really hard to get clothes from someone who didn't live at our house.

One day our parents decided to visit grandparents for a weekend and leave us alone at the house. My brother obviously invited Billy and some girls. They invited me to join them too. I mostly spoke to the girls and from time to time checked if Billy did take of some piece of clothing.

They got drunk pretty soon and moved to my brother's bedroom. I waited outside the door for the moans to stop. After some time I decided to enter. It was dark and they were all sleeping already. God knows what they did together...

I checked for some underwear, shirt or something else that would be Billy's. Finally I found a sock. I grabbed it and carefully left the room.

I entered my room and locked the door, stripping myself, leaving only my underwear on. I sniffed the sock. It was dirty and slightly wet. This sock was on his beautiful foot! I was about to become my dreamy guy. The one I desired the most.

I took my dick in one hand and started jerking off. With my second hand, I clumsily tried to get it on. After a few unsuccesful attempts I managed to do it.

I felt the changes. I felt as my hair elonged into his. My face changing structure. My body enlarging, but my abs protruding. My legs became hairier.

My feet were finally his. I put his leg to my nose. What others would describe as a cheesy disgusting smell, I couldn't get enough of. It was so strong, manly and Billy! I look exactly like Billy!

As my hands explored my beautiful feet, my forearms brushed over the hairy legs. I continued to feel my big, full lips, my pointy nose. My hairy pits that I inhaled for a long time and licked even longer. I also tried to lick, make out and suck Billy's hot biceps, trying to do a hickey on it. Then my left hand gave more attention to the forming tent. I threw away the underwear binding me from the proper enjoyment.

I was now completely naked. Billy was naked in my bed! Or atleast his body. I started humping my bed and touching myself in the process. I felt so strong and horny.

I grabbed my phone to take some photos. I need to document this!

I did many shots of his body from above, close shots of his feet, his pits, his gorgeous dick, his ass.

I did shots that would be amazing for me to jerk off to in case I would have to give back his clothes

I loved his veiny arms. His nipples. His lean and tight body.

I felt more and more like Billy. I wanted to be with his body all the time. To smell his scent. To have him for myself.

When I took last photo of Billy's body on my bed, covered in a towel, there was a knock on the door.

I looked at the phone. It was morning already! "FUCK"

I took off Billy's sock and put on my own clothes, putting his sock in my pocket.

I opened the door.

"Hey, perv. Did you take Billy's sock? He can't find it anywhere, so I need to check if you did not jerk into it?"

"Fuck off. Of course I didn't take it. Didn't he leave it in the living room? You guys partied there pretty hard. Maybe he threw it somewhere"

They all went to look in the living room, which gave me chance to put his sock under my brother's pilllow.

They did not give up the search and eventualy found it, which made me a bit sad, because now I didn't have any clothing that would turn me to Billy.

I became obsessed with the photos I took when I was shifted into him. I jerked off to those photos every day like 5 times.

But something changed in me. When Billy came over, he played videogames with my brother or talk about girls. As I observed him move, laugh, fart and talk about fucking pussy, I felt disgusted. That's not the way he should be treating that body. I treated it better. He doesn't deserve it!

I realised I was not obsessed with Billy. I was obsessed with his body. Therefore I made a plan to make his body mine. I shapshifted into my brother, lured Billy into our house and took care of it.

Yeah, maybe there would be a less messy way to do that. Maybe I should have seen a therapist before all of this. Maybe leaving traces of my blood in my room and leaving my brothers fingerprints on the knife were a bit too much. But what was I suppose to do? My old body would be missing and I had to pin it on someone. And who better then the guy who spent the most time with Billy? He would definitely find out that I'm not the original Billy.

You can call me cold or heartless. But watching from my car as the police dragged away my ex-brother for possible murder of my old body was satisfying. I am now completely Billy and there is no one stopping me.

There is only one thing left. What should I do with Billy's dead body in my trunk?

#male shapeshift #Shapeshift #Shape-shifting #Male shape-shifting #gay to straight #obssessed #Obsession #foot feddish #feetpics #Creepy

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sleepdeprivedfrfr · 5 months ago

Text

"Tsuki, light mine next!" Your tiny hands fiddled with the firecracker while staring up at Katsuki in awe.

"Wait your turn!" Another boy yelled.

Katsuki glared at the boy and snatched the fire cracker from your hands, lighting it, and threw it on the floor. The other children watched in amazement, while you clapped at the mini explosions on the ground.

"Your quirk is so cool Tsuki!" You cheered earning a prideful smirk from Katsuki.

"That's nothing Y/n, watch this!" Katsuki stood next to you and lifted both of his small arms above his head, which was comically larger than his small body, and opened his palms up to the sky and let off a much larger explosion than the fire crackers.

Many of the children squealed at the loud sound then cheered at the loud explosion. You were the closest to Katsuki and the sound boomed loudly in your ears, causing you to yelp and cover your ears with your hands. Katsuki was now surrounded by the rest of the kids who cheered and clapped for him.

There was a high pitched ring in your ears, you squatted down with your hand remaining over your ears and eyes squeezed shut.

"Y/n are you okay?" A soft voice rang out followed by the sound of small footsteps against the gravel. You looked up and met a pair of familiar soft green eyes and nodded your head.

"I'm okay Zuku." You said as you grabbed Izuku's reached out hand, he looked at you with his same worried look he carried too much for a six year old.

"What are you doing here Izuku? Get lost already." Katsuki gripped your hand and pulled you to his side, the other kids stood behind him laughing at the poor boy.

Izuku frowned and fiddled with hands,

"I heard you guys play-"

"Don't be so mean Tsuki." You freed your hand from Katsuki's grip, his eyes widened and his expression turned into a pout.

"Don't talk to him Y/n, or you'll turn into a loser too." Katsuki snarled and grabbed your hand pulling you away from a now teary eyed Izuku.

You could feel the sadness seeping from Izuku, a pit formed in your stomach as you stopped in your tracks causing Katsuki to lose his grip on you.

"Why are you so mean to him Tsuki? He's my friend." You said innocently.

"Why do you care so much about him? You have me, I'm your best friend. Our quirks will make us the top heroes one day, and he's a quirkless loser Y/N!" Katsuki said angrily.

A wave of guilt suddenly washed over the little blonde boy, it was unusual for him to feel that way, but for some reason, he was calmer around you and matched the emotions you often felt. The usually temperamental boy often found himself dragging you around with him unconsciously for that reason.

"He was just trying to help me." You turned around and ran after Izuku.

The feeling washed away as he watched you grab Izuku's hand and smile at him warmly, the green haired boy even had the nerve to wipe his tears and return your smile. Katsuki's hands balled up into fists, he kicked the dirt before walking off with the rest of the children following him.

Why did you treat him so well? What was so special about him? Why did he get all of your attention? Katsuki couldn't wrap his head around it.

What made the stupid broccoli haired boy better than him?

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

this is the first chapter of my own fic on my wattpad, lmk how it is and if I should continue! (Ik it’s not great but I’m coming out of a 4 year slump lol) I’m also aware Tsuki or suki is a girls name but trust me it’s on purpose ;p

likes, comments and reblogs appreciated!

#bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x you #katsuki x you #mha bakugou #mha x reader #my hero academia #my hero acedamia #anime #romance #anime romance #sleepdeprivedfrfr writes

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sugaredrhubarb · 8 months ago

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A QUICK GUIDE TO AO3 CUSTOMIZATION FROM SOMEONE WHO KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT CODING

ft adding pink to everything and my secret to writing long comments

note: I originally posted this to twt but if that place burns in a fiery pit I spent too long on this for it to disappear, so I'm putting it here too :)

so many people know way more about this than I do, but this is a step-by-step walkthrough of the changes *I've* made, and hopefully it works as an introduction people can build from for whatever they'd like to do

There are a lot of images in this post! (click to enlarge)

to start, AO3 skins

site skins change how the AO3 website appears when logged in (even on mobile), mine is pink and blue!

I'll have my skin turned off throughout the post so the guides appear as they will for you

to create, edit, and view skins, go to the "skins" tab from the left-hand menu. you can also view public site skins from there or from the button in the preferences.

public site skins are made by other users. i would really encourage previewing and exploring them to become familiar with the possibilities (maybe you just want to use one of them and now you're done!)

to create your own skin

on the skins page, click "create site skin"

if you don't know CSS (same), use the wizard! clicking on the "?" will give more information about each option

I only use the colours section you'll see a link right there for hex codes I use pink as a header colour and bue for accent but lots of people change the background colour and that looks really cool!

submit

The next step (optional!!!) is to add CSS from a public skin to your own. I use "ByLine" by Branch. this separates the tag categories and adds spacing to make them easier to read.

here is a before and after using the fic "Landslide" by @roosterbruiser as an example

to see the CSS of a skin, click the title

copy all the text below the CSS heading

in the skin creator/editor press the custom CSS option and paste all the text into the CSS box

you can have both wizard and custom CSS settings, in mine you can see the header and accent colours as well as the CSS

level up: USERSCRIPTS

userscripts are small pieces of code that modify a website. for AO3, this may involve adding shortcuts and buttons or even advanced tagging functions (computer people, I'm so sorry if this is wrong, I'm trying). I use Greasy Fork and Tampermonkey.

This is how I write long and formatted comments!

Greasy Fork is an archive of userscripts and Tampermonkey is a browser extension and userscript manager. You don't need to use these two in particular. please use your common sense when downloading anything or adding permissions to your browser.

Greasy Fork guide on installing scripts

Install Tampermonkey on Chrome

there are TONS of user scripts for AO3. This is another good opportunity to explore all the possibilities. there are lots of more complicated options I haven't explored.

scripts for AO3

i use this floaty review box

and this comment formatting

EDIT: if you use chrome you might need to turn on developer mode in your chrome extension manager - you can google "tampermonkey developer mode" and it should explain that :)

to install (once you have Tampermonkey installed):

open the script you want in Greasy Fork and press install

Tampermonkey will open, press install again

clicking the Tampermonkey extension will let you toggle scripts on and off, and opening the dashboard will let you view, edit, and delete scripts

i find i can only have a few turned on at a time before they cancel each other out, but that depends on which ones you're using and someone more savvy might be able to fix that

how to use the floaty review box - write more comments!

there will now be a "floaty review box" button at the top of the work, it will open a floating text box you can move anywhere on the page. highlighting any text and pressing the insert button will paste the text with italics into the box

anything you type in the review box will appear in your comment at the bottom of the page!

if you have also installed the comment formatting script, you'll be able to highlight any text in your comment and use the new buttons above the comment box to format it

thats all ive got! Hopefully this is a good starting point to get familiar with some of the terms and basics for skins and scripts <3

if you want some inspo for how to comment on fics i made a whole fic rec list on twitter based on comments I've left, it's here. i have a masterlist of recs there mostly for darklina/reylo and similar ships.

the tag #reading with ru has cod recs and me talking about books

#please no one follow me from this im never helpful otherwise #ao3 skins #ao3 #fanfic #ao3 community #fandom #ao3 resources #im sorry if the image quality is awful lmk if I should clarify any of the text!#floating comment box #floating review box #ao3 guide

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nagaytoe · 7 months ago

Note

Got a req! Howlw about some angst? What would happen after the bad end?

Evanescent

(Adj.) Soon passing out of sight, memory, or existence; quickly fading or disappearing

Solivan Brugmansia X Reader

TWs: Murder, attempted murder, weapons, just a lot of death in general, loss of loved one, shifting blame, like one mention of necrophilia

Word count: 2.3k

I am currently cooking up 3 more scenarios of what could've happened after the bad end on day 2 but this is the first one that's actually finished (there were just too many ideas popping into my head so ofc i have to write for all of them lmao)

Requests: open

Disclaimer: i tried my best to proof-read it and tried using they/them pronouns but when i first wrote it i used she/her, i just hope i got all of 'em lol

Also, apparently 'whose' can also be used for objects as well and not just for people??? Sounds wrong to me but if the internet says it's right then lets hope its right haha

SPOILERS FOR DAY 2 OF THE KID AT THE BACK

Sol was inconsolable, his face buried in your neck, tears staining your shirt. His arms were wrapped around you but you didn’t reciprocate the gesture. How could you anyways? You were dead. Stabbed by Sol's only friend, Hyugo, who was currently cleaning up the gory scene.

---------------------------------------------------

Just a few moments ago you stumbled upon a horrifying view: Your friend, best friend, and your first love, Jericho Ichabod, laid on the dirty ground of a shed of which door you just broke down, his head barely attached to the neck.

Your knees gave in beneath you as soon as you gazed upon Crowe, grabbing his body, shaking it and willing him to wake up again. How could this happen? He was well liked, nice to everyone he met, who would think about taking his life? You barely registered footsteps behind you because of how loud you were sobbing, but the clanking of metal on the ground didn't slip past you. Turning around, your eyes are met with the sight of someone you didn't expect. You expected a gang leader, a thug, everyone but the one who actually stood in front of you.

Solivan Brugmansia

Just yesterday you befriended the seemingly timid boy and now he was soaked in blood, his red eyes wide as your gazes met.

“[____]...?” Tears of his own started to well up in his eyes which currently roamed over your hunched figure.

“What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here, you need to leave!” By the end of his sentence he was yelling, tears streaming down his face.

Truly a miserable, pathetic sight.

“You killed him, you killed Crowe, didn't you?” Anger was bubbling up in the pit of your stomach. On the inside you were praying to whatever god was watching from heaven above, if there even was one to begin with, that all this was nothing more than a bad dream, hoping insistently to wake up. However, this was a nightmare you were not permitted to ever wake up from.

“I only did what I should've done years ago.” His words caused you to huff in disbelief, “You're not even gonna deny it, huh?”

“I would never lie to you, [____]” Was he fucking serious? He just killed someone, but at least he's not a liar? What the hell was wrong with him?! You were enraged, he had no reason to kill Crowe, to play god by ending his life and taking your love from you.

“Why? Why did you kill him?!”

"BECAUSE I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU AND HE TRIED TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME! I COULDN'T SIT BY AND LET THAT HAPPEN… YOU'RE MINE! MINE ALONE!” he finally snapped, showing his true colors. Was everything he showed you before just a facade? It had to be.

The words he just spoke left a disgusting taste in your mouth. Love? Love?! How dare he use this sweet word in such a disgusting fashion? How dare he taint it in order to justify his vile actions? It made you sick to your stomach and you were blinded by rage as you lunged at him.

“YOU MONSTER!”

You unbuckled the strap of his choker and pulled on it, strangling him in the process.

“YOU LOVE ME?! I LOVED HIM! HE WAS EVERYTHING TO ME! MY BEST FRIEND, MY FIRST LOVE, MY SAVIOR! YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME, I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU! DON'T YOU DARE IMAGINE YOU KNOW ME IN THE SLIGHTEST! I WILL MAKE YOU PAY FOR WHAT YOU'VE DONE!”

Sol was clawing at your wrists by now, but it was no use, every action of his seemed slow and heavy, as if it took a lot of effort, almost as if he was paralyzed.

His hands fell to the side and just as you thought you managed to avenge your love something sharp pierced through your chest.

Here you were, taking your last breaths in the arms of the person you despise most.

“[____], please… please stay with me… don't leave me [____]...” his pleas were a stark contrast to what he is screaming at the person who stabbed you.

“HOW COULD YOU!? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!”

Then he went back to sobbing into your shoulder. He seemed completely out of it, switching between grief and anger every other second.

You couldn't seem to make out the words your killer was saying, everything they said was incoherent, except for the last two words:

“No witnesses.”

---------------------------------------------------

“What do you plan on doing? Hold them until they start rotting?”

Hyugo was standing in front of Sol, who was still sitting on the ground, sobbing and cradling you in his arms. After he managed to clean up the scene, the only thing left to do was the disposal of your corpse.

“Just kill me alongside them.” Sols voice was quiet, barely above a whisper and it was strained from crying and screaming so much. It hurt Hyugo to see his best friend like that.

“You know very well I can't do that.”

“YOU WERE ABLE TO KILL THEM THOUGH! I JUST GOT THEM BACK AND YOU TOOK THEM FROM ME!”

Hyugo couldn't hold back his anger anymore. How could Sol still fail to see that this would've never worked out either way?

“THEY TRIED TO KILL YOU!”

Hyugo sighed deeply in an effort to calm himself before continuing, “Even if I had only knocked them out, do you think they would’ve forgiven you for killing Crowe-”

“Don't you dare bring up that bastards name. All of this is his fault anyways. If it hadn't been for him… me and my sweet [____] would still be together now…”

Sols voice was laced with venom as he gripped your body tighter. You have stopped breathing by now, the color has long drained from your face and the warmth of your skin has vanished. All that was left was an empty shell of who you once were.

Just yesterday, you were breathing, talking, laughing. Now? Now you will never be able to do any such thing again.

“It was you or them, Sol. I need you to understand that. Do you truly believe they could've loved you back after finding out you killed someone? Do you think the two of you would have lived happily ever after?” The blue haired man was trying his best to reason with his best friend, but to no avail.

“We could've made it work, I know that we would have… We were destined to be together, there wouldn't have been any other way…Maybe I should just keep them…”

“Sol.” Hyugo put his hand on the taller males shoulder, who was still sitting on the sheds ground. “We need to bury them.”

Sol seemed to be pondering for a moment, the hold he had on your body relentless.

“I can't… I can't let them go. They're gonna be really scared if we bury them and leave them in the darkness forever…”

“Sol, I'll repeat myself one last time. We need to bury them. What else are we supposed to do with their body? Keep it?” Hyugo put his hands on his hips, his patience wearing thin.

“I see no reason to not keep it…” the males words were muttered, but his friend was still able to hear them.

“You can't be serious! Do you know what happens to a body when it decays? They'll have 2 weeks at best before there's nothing left of them, except for the bones.”

Sol knew his friend was right, but how was he supposed to let go of you?

“They deserve a gravestone… a funeral… they deserve a memorial and not to be buried in the woods like some dead animal…”

Hyugo sighed. He knew that there is pretty much nothing he could do right now to convince Sol to do the right thing, he will keep arguing until he gets his way.

“What's your plan?”

Sol considered his options for a few moments before responding,

“Let's call the cops, make it look like an accident or shift the blame onto someone else”

Hyugo scoffed, “And what do you plan to tell them? We don't exactly have an alibi and there aren't that many families with Katanas either, you know? The only other family I can think of right now is Subarus.”

Red eyes met Hyugos teal ones, it's obvious an idea struck Sol. “That's right…”

Hyugo immediately cut Sol off before the latter could finish his sentence.

“Absolutely not! I will not drag my brothers family into this.”

“He doesn't even like you!” Sol retorted.

The shorter males eyes grew wide for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure.

“You know what? Do whatever you want. Keep their body like some necrophilie if that's what you desire.” Turning on his heel, Hyugo began walking off. He already took care of everything necessary, cleaning the scene and disposing of the weapons alongside Crowes body. He was not in the mood to argue with someone whose judgment was clouded and wouldn't even listen to him in the first place.

Sols rage grew stronger by the minute. How dared he? Hyugo killed his one and only soulmate in cold blood, like they were nothing and now he walked off just like that? No… No, he won't. Sol won't let that happen. He couldn't let him disrespect you like that. Carefully lowering your body to the ground and standing up, just as Hyugo walked out of the cabin, Sol quickly lunged at the shorter, unsuspecting male.

If there was one thing he knew, it was that Hyugo might be good with weapons but he wasn't all that strong physically.

Well, at least he was weaker than Sol. Since Hyugo buried his katana alongside any other evidence all he can fight with were his bare hands.

“SOL, GET OFF OF ME!”

Sols hands wrapped themselves around Hyugos throat, just like yours were wrapped around his not even half an hour ago. Pressing his friend's head into the dirt ground, Sol is blinded by rage. Hyugo clawed at the taller males wrists, kicking him but Sols grip won't loosen. Letting go of the hands that were wrapped around his throat, Hyugo felt the dirt ground around him for something he can potentially defend himself with and sure enough - he managed to grab ahold of a rock, swiftly smashing it against the side of Sols head.

The taller male staggered and collapsed on the floor next to Hyugo, who hit the exact right spot to knock someone out.

Hyugo stood up, dusting off his clothes and sighing. What a mess. He knew that he needed to get rid of the body, even if it'll drive Sol further into madness.

So that's what he did. He buried [____]s body deep in the forest before sitting down by Sol's side, waiting for him to wake up.

—————————

Sol didn't attempt to kill Hyugo again after the first time, though part of the reason might be the ax Hyugo found in the shed and kept on him afterwards for self-protection. Either way, Sol acted like Hyugo didn't exist. To him he was dead anyways.

He tried his best, tried to go to school but the next days there were hell. People talked, gossiped, conspired as to what could've happened to [____] and Crowe. Were they kidnapped by the mafia? Did they commit suicide together? Did they run away together? Did they join a cult? People made up all kinds of stories in order to make sense of the situation, but only Sol and Hyugo were the ones who knew the truth.

After a few days, Sol stopped going to school. He couldn't handle it any longer.

Every time he sat in his classes he would draw you, instead of paying attention to what the teacher was saying.

Every time he sat in art class he was met with the sight of your unoccupied seat.

Every time lunch break rolled around he would go to the library where the two of you met and sit down in the seat he sat in on that day.

After school he would go to your apartment complex and break into your apartment to lay down on your bed, hugging your sheets and pillows, pretending they were you.

Hyugo never told Sol where he had buried you, too anxious about what Sol might do were he to know where you've been buried.

Not even a week passed before Sol decided what he had to do next.

On monday, almost a whole week after your death, Sol went back to school. The place where he first saw you, where he fell for you and in of which proximity you had died. Though, instead of attending class, he walked up the stairs to the school roof. The cool november breeze brushed over his face, twirling his hair and swaying single strands from side to side.

He climbed over the fence, briefly sitting down on it.

There was no further purpose in living, that, he was sure of. He lost his only purpose and what meaning does life have if it has to be spent without you, his darling?

All he could do was atone for his sins.

His mind is occupied with memories of you as he leapt forwards, clutching his fist to his chest where his heart resided.

“See you soon, pumpkin.”

Everything went dark as his body met the ground. There was no pain, there was no afterthought. All that's there is nothingness.

Of course, to the people now surrounding his body there was a gruesome scene, perhaps they would prefer nothingness as well. But if there was nothingness, there would be no note either, tucked away in his fist.

“In the forest”, the note read.

Sol promised to atone for his sins and he would never lie to you, remember?

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