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missarchive · 6 months ago

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guys my age - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

who? professor spencer reid x student fem!reader

category: slow burn, forbidden love.

content warnings: NSFW MDNI! age gap! (spencer is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s). dubious content. freakish obsessed reader, freakish obsessed spencer. dom!spencer, but reader is pretty controlling. borderline stalking. unprotected p in v. forbidden love. power dynamics. smut. spencer cums inside :]

word count: around 8k

a/n: hi all!! this is my first post, i used to write wayyy back in the day but after a long three years and finally finishing my degree, i now have all the time in the world to write again. feedback is greatly appreciated <3

The lecture hall was alive with murmurs, but you couldn’t hear them. All you could focus on was the moment that door would open, the instant he would walk in. Dr. Spencer Reid. His name consumed you, whispered endlessly in the back of your mind, an invocation that made your pulse quicken. You had done your research long before the semester began—his credentials, his publications, the infamous cases he’d worked. He wasn’t just brilliant. He was untouchable. But not to you.

You sat deliberately in the middle row, far enough back to observe him fully, close enough to feel like he was speaking directly to you. The moment he entered, time seemed to slow. His presence was overwhelming, his voice a melody that wrapped around you, dragging you under. Every movement he made—the way his fingers toyed with the edge of his lecture notes, the slight adjustment of his glasses��was a spectacle.

“Good morning, everyone. Welcome to Advanced Criminology. I’m Dr. Spencer Reid.” His voice was smooth and confident, with an underlying warmth that immediately put you at ease.

For the next hour, you sat transfixed as he delved into the complexities of criminal behavior, weaving together case studies and theories with an ease that only someone with his expertise could manage. He had a way of making even the most intricate concepts accessible, his passion for the subject evident in every word. By the end of the lecture, you were utterly captivated—not just by the material, but by the man who delivered it.

Perfectly ironed white shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms. The same black suit pants you’d seen countless times when you closed your eyes. Unruly curls lay in a perfect mess, somehow each strand just fit. His eyes held knowledge, they commanded attention. They looked at you with such an intensity, you wondered if he could see right through you. Sure, he wasn’t blind. Dr. Spencer Reid was a genius, after all. But, as he walks around his classic oak desk, fingers grazing against the wood as he leans up against it, you wonder if he knows the effect he has on you… On everyone.

Your old professor had resigned, much to your dismay. However, that was quickly resolved once you learnt of the new, much younger professor who was assigned to take his place. Spencer Reid, a name that seemed like a curse every time it was spoken. You’d just have to settle for admiring from afar, for now.

He was perfect. No, he was more than that. He was yours.

In those first weeks, it became routine to linger after class, pretending to ask questions about criminological theories when all you wanted was his attention. You started tracking his habits: the exact time he arrived on campus, where he grabbed his coffee, the path he took to his office. It wasn’t enough to listen to him during lectures. You needed to know him. Needed to understand every nuance of his life.

Your notebooks filled slowly. Not just with his words, but with sketches of his hands, his profile, even the way the light hit his hair during evening lectures. You memorized his mannerisms and read every book he recommended—not just to excel but to mirror his thoughts, to create a bond he couldn’t ignore.

Each interaction became a drug, a fleeting high that left you craving more. The way his eyes lingered on yours during class wasn’t a coincidence. You were sure of it. The moments his voice softened when addressing you were evidence of something deeper. He felt it too—he had to.

Dr. Reid, for his part, seemed to enjoy your curiosity. He would patiently answer your questions, occasionally sharing anecdotes from his time in the field. There was a depth to him that intrigued you, a sense of vulnerability hidden beneath his intellect. You couldn’t help but feel a growing admiration for him—one that you knew was dangerous to entertain.

It happened on a rainy Friday afternoon. You had stayed behind after class to discuss a particularly challenging case study, and the conversation had spilled into his office. The rain pattered against the window as you sat across from him, your notes spread out on the desk between you.

“I’m impressed with your analysis,” he said, his eyes meeting yours. “You have a natural aptitude for this field.”

The compliment sent a flush of warmth through you, but you quickly pushed it aside. “Thank you, Dr. Reid. That means a lot coming from you.”

For a moment, the air between you shifted, the professional boundary wavering ever so slightly. He seemed to sense it too, clearing his throat and looking away. “Well, uh, keep up the good work. I’m looking forward to seeing your perspective on the next assignment.”

As you gathered your things and prepared to leave, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something unspoken lingered between you. It was subtle, like the faintest trace of electricity in the air, but it was there. And it terrified you.

The weeks turned into months, and the connection between you and Dr. Reid continued to deepen. It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what you told yourself. You simply couldn’t help the way your conversations seemed to flow effortlessly or the way his insights resonated with you on a level that felt personal.

There were moments when you caught him watching you during lectures, his gaze lingering a fraction longer than necessary. And then there were the times when his praise felt almost... intimate, as if he saw something in you that went beyond your academic abilities.

You knew it was wrong. He was your professor, and the power dynamic alone made any kind of relationship inappropriate. But the more you tried to suppress your feelings, the stronger they seemed to grow. You found yourself yearning for his company, for the way his mind worked, for the rare glimpses of vulnerability he shared.

And you weren’t entirely sure he was immune to it, either.

It was during a late-night office visit that everything came to a head. You had been working on your final paper and were struggling with a particular section. Dr. Reid had offered to review it, and you had jumped at the chance, grateful for his guidance.

As you sat across from him, discussing your ideas, the tension that had been building between you finally reached its breaking point. There was a moment of silence as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching yours.

“You’re incredibly talented,” he said softly. “I hope you know that.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, and before you could stop yourself, you replied, “It’s easy to feel that way when someone like you believes in me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. He looked at you, his expression a mixture of conflict and longing. “This...” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “This can’t happen. I won’t elaborate further, but you’re a smart girl… I know you know what I'm talking about.”

You nodded, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I know.”

But even as you said it, neither of you moved to leave. All you received was a curt nod. The pull between you was undeniable, and in that moment, it felt as though the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

The night of the gala was your chance. You spent hours perfecting your appearance, knowing he would notice you in a way he never had before. And when he did, when his eyes locked onto you with that unreadable expression, it was like the entire world fell away.

When he led you to the corner of the room, your heart pounded, not with fear, but with anticipation. His frustration, his struggle to maintain control, only proved how deeply you had affected him.

“What are you doing?” He demanded, his voice low and sharp.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Reid.”

His jaw clenched, his composure slipping. “You know exactly what I mean. You’ve been crossing lines all semester.”

You stepped closer, the scent of his cologne intoxicating. “And what if I have?”

His gaze burned into yours, his control fraying with each passing second. “This has to stop.” He said, though his tone lacked conviction.

But you knew better. You had studied him, unraveled him piece by piece. He wasn’t as strong as he pretended to be. And neither were you.

“Maybe I don’t want it to.” You whispered, your voice trembling with both fear and desire.

For a moment, his eyes softened, as if seeing the truth of your obsession for the first time. “Obsession is a dangerous game.” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You would burn the whole world down if it meant keeping him close.

The world outside of Dr. Reid’s orbit ceased to matter. Friends became an afterthought. Classes, even the ones you’d once excelled in, were nothing more than obligations. Every moment not spent in his presence felt wasted. His words were etched into your memory, his voice a constant echo in your mind.

You found excuses to linger near his office, pretending to read in the hallway or jotting down notes on topics that had long ceased to matter. Sometimes you’d see him through the small window of his door, head bowed over papers, fingers absently running through his tousled hair. Those moments were sacred.

And then there were the nights.

Your dreams became a battleground, the lines between fantasy and reality blurring. You would see him, hear him, feel the phantom weight of his gaze. Waking up was a cruel joke, pulling you from a world where he was already yours. More than once, you had the fleeting urge to knock on his door late at night, under the pretense of needing help.

But you stopped yourself. Barely.

For now.

When he praised you in class, it felt personal, intimate. You lived for those moments. The way he would say your name, how his eyes would flicker with something unreadable—those seconds were your lifeline. But it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. You needed more.

You started keeping track of the little details. The brand of pens he used. The scuff on his leather satchel. The faint hint of lavender in his cologne. You’d bought the same scent, spraying it on your pillow just to feel closer to him at night.

One evening, you followed him. It wasn’t intentional, not at first. He left the lecture hall as you lingered, and without thinking, you gathered your things and trailed behind him. He walked briskly, head down, weaving through the near-empty campus. You stayed far enough back to avoid suspicion but close enough to study him.

He stopped at the local bookstore, his long fingers running over the spines of books with a reverence that made your chest tighten. You hid behind a display, watching him as he browsed. When he left, you waited a few moments before approaching the same section. He had lingered near the true crime section, and you traced the path of his fingers, touching the same books he had touched.

It became a ritual after that. You discovered his favorite haunts: the coffee shop where he always ordered black coffee with two sugars, the quiet corner of the library where he would sometimes sit and read, the park where he walked on Sunday mornings. You were careful, meticulous, ensuring he never saw you. But you saw him.

Every time you caught a glimpse of him, it felt like a secret, a moment that belonged solely to you.

The gala had been your boldest move yet, and the way his gaze lingered on you that night had only fueled the fire. His warning echoed in your mind, but you dismissed it. He said you were crossing boundaries, but you knew better. He was simply scared. Scared of what this meant. Scared of what you meant.

You decided to leave him something. A token, something small enough to avoid suspicion but personal enough that he would know it was from you. A first edition of one of the books he had mentioned in class. You placed it on his desk after everyone had left, your heart racing as you imagined his reaction.

The next day, you waited, anticipation coiling in your stomach like a serpent. When he walked into class, the book was in his hand. His eyes scanned the room, lingering on you for a moment too long before he placed it in his bag without a word.

It was a victory.

But victories, you realized, were fleeting.

One evening, as you left the library, you spotted him walking toward his car. The parking lot was empty, save for the two of you, and for the first time, you didn’t bother to stay hidden. You followed him openly, your footsteps echoing against the pavement.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face you.

“Why are you following me?” He asked, his voice sharp but not unkind. His eyes held a mixture of curiosity and something darker, something you couldn’t quite place.

Your breath caught, but you forced a smile. “I wasn’t following you, Dr. Reid. I just happened to be walking this way.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “This isn’t the first time, is it?”

The accusation hung in the air, and for a moment, you thought about denying it. But then, something inside you snapped.

“No.” You admitted, your voice trembling. “It’s not.”

His expression shifted—confusion, disbelief, and something else flickered across his face. “Why?”

The word was a whisper, barely audible, but it was enough to unravel you.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep—I can’t focus on anything but you. You’re brilliant, and kind, and perfect, and I—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “This isn’t healthy.”

You took a step closer, desperation clawing at your chest. “But it’s real. You know it is. I see the way you look at me. Don’t pretend you don’t feel it too.”

He took a step back, shaking his head. “This has to end…now. Do you understand me?”

But you didn’t believe him. Not really. Because you had seen the way his hands trembled when you were near, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you. He was scared, yes, but not of you. He was scared of himself.

And that, you realized, was all the encouragement you needed.

Dr. Reid’s words echoed in your mind for days after the encounter in the parking lot. This has to end. But the way he said it, the way his voice wavered ever so slightly, betrayed him. It wasn’t conviction; it was fear. Fear of what you had awakened in him.

You were sure of it now. He wasn’t immune to you. Not entirely.

The proof came in small, fleeting moments—too subtle for anyone else to notice, but to you, they were glaring signs. The way his eyes lingered on you during lectures, his gaze softening before he quickly looked away. The way he adjusted his tie when you walked into the room, as if suddenly self-conscious. And then there were the compliments, so carefully worded that they might seem innocent to others, but to you, they felt personal. Intimate.

Still, he kept his distance. Even when you sought him out after class, he kept the conversations brief, his tone polite but clipped. It was maddening, the way he seemed to hold himself back.

But then, there were cracks.

One afternoon, you arrived at his office under the guise of needing help with a research topic. He hesitated before letting you in, his hand lingering on the doorknob as if debating whether this was a mistake.

Once inside, the air between you was charged. He sat across from you, his hands folded on the desk, but his gaze flickered to your lips more than once as you spoke.

When you handed him a stack of notes, your fingers brushed, and he pulled back quickly, too quickly.

“Sorry.” He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, leaning forward just enough to close the space between you. “It’s okay.”

For a moment, his composure faltered. His eyes locked onto yours, and the tension was unbearable. You could see it in his face—the war he was waging within himself.

Then, just as quickly, he stood, turning his back to you as he busied himself with a stack of papers on the shelf. “Your analysis is impressive,” he said, his tone suddenly distant. “You’re clearly passionate about the subject.”

The shift was jarring, but it only solidified your resolve. He wasn’t rejecting you. He was protecting himself.

That evening, you stayed late in the library, poring over the materials he had assigned. As you packed up to leave, you noticed a familiar figure in the far corner. He was seated at a table, his long fingers flipping through a thick volume, his expression distant.

You froze, your heart pounding. He hadn’t noticed you yet. For a moment, you considered leaving, but the pull was too strong.

You approached slowly, the sound of your footsteps drawing his attention. When he looked up, his eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unguarded crossing his face before he composed himself.

“Staying late?” He asked, his voice calm, but his fingers tightened on the edge of the book.

You nodded, setting your bag down on the table. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He gave a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I find the library... peaceful.”

“Me too.” You said softly, taking a seat across from him.

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the unspoken tension that had been building for months. His eyes flicked to yours, then away, as if he couldn’t decide whether to meet your gaze or avoid it entirely.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “You should be careful, you know. Spending so much time in my office, lingering after class—it’s not... appropriate.”

Your heart twisted at the words, but his tone was anything but stern. It sounded like a warning, but it felt like a confession.

“Do you want me to stop?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked down at his hands, his fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to reach for something—or someone.

“It’s not about what I want.” He said finally, his voice strained.

But it was. You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his gaze lingered on you when he thought you weren’t looking. He wanted you just as much as you wanted him. He was just better at pretending otherwise.

The next day, during his lecture, you felt his eyes on you more than usual. He paced the room as he spoke, his hands gesturing animatedly, but every so often, his gaze would drift to you, his words faltering for the briefest moment before he recovered.

It was intoxicating, knowing you could unravel him like this.

After class, as the other students filtered out, you stayed behind, your heart racing as you approached his desk.

“Dr. Reid,” you began, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you.

He looked up, his expression unreadable. “Yes?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words, but before you could speak, he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re relentless.” He said softly, almost to himself.

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

“I just want to understand you.” You said, stepping closer.

He shook his head, a faint, almost bitter smile playing on his lips. “You already understand too much.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you felt impossibly small, the air thick with tension. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the way he fought to maintain control, but you also saw the flicker of something darker, something he couldn’t quite suppress.

And in that moment, you knew: this wasn’t over.

It was only just beginning.

It started innocently enough—at least, that’s what you told yourself.

The male student, a classmate you barely knew, had approached you after lecture to ask about the upcoming project. His name was Ethan, and while he was polite and charming, you couldn’t muster much interest in the conversation. Still, you smiled and nodded at his jokes, your polite laughter echoing in the near-empty hall.

Unbeknownst to you, Dr. Reid had lingered behind, tidying up his desk and organizing his papers. His sharp ears caught the sound of your laughter, a melody he had grown far too familiar with—and possessive of.

He looked up to see you standing near the doorway, your body language relaxed as Ethan leaned in slightly, his tone conspiratorial. Spencer’s grip on the edge of the desk tightened.

Ethan’s laugh was loud, too loud, as if he wanted to broadcast how much he enjoyed your company. Spencer’s jaw clenched. He knew this was ridiculous. He was your professor, and it wasn’t his place to interfere with your social life. But the sight of another man so close to you, taking liberties he couldn’t, made his blood boil.

When you glanced back into the classroom, likely to gather your things, your eyes met Spencer’s. For a fleeting moment, his mask slipped, and you saw something dark and raw flicker across his face. It was gone just as quickly, replaced by his usual calm demeanor, but the image stayed with you.

“Everything alright, Dr. Reid?” You asked, stepping inside and leaving Ethan to wait by the door.

Spencer straightened, clearing his throat. “Yes. Just... finishing up.”

Ethan peeked his head in. “Ready to go?” He asked, his tone casual but his presence invasive.

Spencer’s eyes darted to Ethan, then back to you. “You should be careful with your time,” he said, his voice quiet but pointed. “The project deadline isn’t as far off as it seems.”

You frowned, confused by the sudden shift in his tone. “I’ll make sure to stay on top of it.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, as if debating whether to say more. Instead, he turned his attention back to his desk, his movements stiff and deliberate.

The next few days were marked by a subtle shift in Spencer’s behavior. During lectures, his eyes seemed to find you more often, but they were no longer soft or conflicted. There was an intensity to his gaze now, a quiet possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine.

When Ethan approached you again after class, Spencer’s reaction was immediate.

“Miss L/N.” He called out, his voice carrying across the room.

You turned, surprised to see him still at his desk. “Yes, Dr. Reid?”

“Could you stay for a moment? I’d like to discuss your recent paper.”

Ethan hesitated, clearly waiting for you, but Spencer’s sharp gaze left no room for argument. “I won’t keep her long.” He said smoothly, though his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Ethan nodded reluctantly. “I’ll catch you later.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Spencer’s demeanor shifted. He stood, his tall frame looming as he approached you.

“Is he bothering you?” He asked, his tone casual but his eyes anything but.

“Ethan? No, not at all. Why would you think that?”

Spencer’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He seems... persistent. I just want to make sure you’re not feeling pressured.”

You couldn’t help but smile, amused by his sudden protectiveness. “I’m fine, Dr. Reid. Really.”

He nodded, but his expression didn’t soften. “Good. I’d hate to see someone distract you from your potential.”

The words were innocent enough, but the way he said them—the way his eyes lingered on yours—made your breath catch.

It wasn’t long before his jealousy became harder to hide.

During a group discussion, Ethan made a point of sitting next to you, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned over to share his notes. Spencer’s gaze locked onto the interaction, his hand tightening around the marker in his grip until his knuckles turned white.

When Ethan made a joke and you laughed, Spencer interrupted sharply. “Let’s stay on topic, please. This isn’t a social hour.”

The class fell silent, startled by his uncharacteristic tone. You glanced at him, surprised by the edge in his voice. He avoided your gaze, turning back to the whiteboard with rigid movements.

After class, as students filtered out, he called your name again.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, his voice softer now. “I was... out of line earlier.”

“It’s okay.” You replied, though you couldn’t hide your confusion.

He hesitated, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for something. “You have to understand,” he began, his voice dropping lower, “that I only want what’s best for you. Not everyone has your best interests at heart.”

“Are you talking about Ethan?”

Spencer’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer directly. “Just... be careful who you trust.”

The weight of his words hung heavy between you, and for the first time, you wondered if his concern was more than professional.

Later that evening, you found yourself thinking about him again, replaying the moments when his composure slipped, when his obsession peeked through the cracks. You didn’t know whether to be scared or thrilled.

But one thing was certain: Spencer Reid was unraveling, and you were the one pulling the thread.

The days that followed were an intricate dance of tension, each interaction with Dr. Reid pulling you closer to a dangerous edge. His jealousy, once simmering beneath the surface, began to bleed into every corner of your academic life, coloring the way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you, the way he made his presence impossible to ignore.

It started small.

Ethan asked you to partner up for a case study project, and though you agreed, the arrangement didn’t go unnoticed. During the next lecture, Spencer called on you repeatedly, his questions increasingly challenging, as if testing your limits. The rest of the class shifted uncomfortably, sensing the deliberate scrutiny, but you met his gaze head-on, refusing to falter.

Afterward, he lingered at the podium, watching as Ethan hovered near your seat, leaning down to talk to you. The sight made his stomach churn. He didn’t like how Ethan’s hand rested casually on the back of your chair, how his laughter seemed designed to draw your attention.

“Miss L/N, a word?” Spencer’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding.

“What’s this about?” You asked, crossing your arms.

He tilted his head, his gaze piercing. “I noticed you and Ethan are working together.”

“We are,” you said carefully. “Is there a problem?”

His jaw clenched. “No... as long as you’re confident he’ll contribute equally. He strikes me as the type to let others carry the weight of the work.”

You frowned. “That’s not fair. He’s been helpful so far.”

Spencer leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. “Helpful isn’t always the same as trustworthy. Just keep that in mind.”

You stared at him, the intensity in his tone sending a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t just warning you—he was staking a claim, subtle but unmistakable.

The breaking point came during a departmental mixer, an event meant to encourage networking among students and faculty.

You had hesitated to attend, but Ethan insisted, offering to walk you there. Spencer spotted you as soon as you entered, his sharp eyes narrowing when he saw Ethan’s hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd.

He approached you moments later, his movements precise and deliberate. “Miss L/N, a pleasure to see you here.”

“Dr. Reid.” You greeted, your smile nervous under the weight of his gaze.

“And Ethan,” Spencer added, his tone clipped. “Enjoying the event?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Ethan replied, oblivious to the tension. “I was just telling Y/N about a conference coming up in D.C. She’s thinking about attending.”

“Is she?” Spencer asked, his eyes locking on yours.

Ethan nodded. “I might go too. We could share accommodations to save on costs.”

The suggestion made Spencer’s blood run cold. His mind spiraled with images of you and Ethan alone, the boundaries he fought so hard to maintain crumbling under the weight of his jealousy.

“That won’t be necessary.” Spencer said abruptly.

Both you and Ethan blinked in surprise.

“I mean,” he added, forcing a smile, “it’s likely the university will have funding options available for individual accommodations. I’d be happy to look into it for you, Miss L/N.”

“Thank you, Dr. Reid.” You said slowly, sensing the undercurrent of his words.

Ethan opened his mouth to protest, but Spencer cut him off with a glance so sharp it left no room for argument.

Later that evening, Spencer’s restraint finally snapped.

You stayed behind after the mixer to gather your things, only to find him waiting for you outside the building. The night air was cool, but the tension between you burned hot.

“You didn’t have to wait.” You said, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“I wanted to.” He replied, his voice low and steady.

You walked in silence for a moment, the quiet punctuated by the rhythmic click of your heels against the pavement.

“Why do you do it?” He asked suddenly.

“Do what?”

“Let him follow you around like that. Laugh at his jokes. Entertain his attention.”

You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him. “Ethan’s my classmate. I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”

“It is my concern.” He said, stepping closer. “You don’t see the way he looks at you. The way he talks to you.”

“And how do you look at me, Dr. Reid?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, your voice trembling.

His breath hitched, his carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble. “You know how I look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve known all along.”

The admission hung in the air, dangerous and electrifying. You stared at him, your heart pounding as he took another step closer, his presence overwhelming.

“This can’t happen.” He said, though his words lacked conviction.

“Then why are you here?”

He didn’t answer, but the intensity in his gaze spoke volumes. His hand twitched at his side, as if he was fighting the urge to reach for you. The distance between you felt razor-thin, and for the first time, you wondered who would break first.

The silence stretched between you, taut and electrifying. Spencer’s jaw tightened, and his hand briefly raked through his hair—a telltale sign of his internal struggle. He was balancing on the edge of control, teetering between his professionalism and the unrelenting pull you had on him.

“You should go home.” He finally said, his voice low but strained, as if forcing the words out against his own desires.

You didn’t move. Instead, you tilted your head, studying him with a boldness that matched his intensity. “Is that what you want?”

His sharp intake of breath gave him away. “What I want doesn’t matter.” He said, but his eyes betrayed him, dark with longing.

You stepped closer, drawn to the crack in his carefully curated armor. “It matters to me.”

“Don’t.” He warned, but the word lacked strength, a faint plea wrapped in desperation.

You hesitated, caught between the thrill of provoking him and the awareness of the risk you were taking. Still, the magnetic pull between you was undeniable. “If you really wanted me to stop, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Spencer’s restraint snapped, just for a moment. He reached out, his hand hovering near your arm before he jerked it back as if burned. His expression twisted in frustration, his usual composure unraveling.

“You think this is a game?” He hissed, his voice harsh. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“I’m not the only one doing it,” you shot back, emboldened by the fire in his eyes. “You can’t stand it when anyone else gets too close to me. Admit it.”

His silence was deafening, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the faint twitch in his cheek.

“I see the way you look at me,” you continued, your voice softer now, almost coaxing. “It’s not just admiration, Dr. Reid. It’s something more.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He muttered, turning away, but you caught the tremble in his voice.

“Then prove me wrong.” You challenged.

Spencer turned back to you, and this time, there was no mistaking the raw emotion in his gaze. “You want the truth?” He said, his voice dangerously soft.

You nodded, your pulse quickening.

“I think about you more than I should. I notice every detail—every time you laugh, every time you tuck your hair behind your ear. And when I see him talking to you...” He broke off, shaking his head. “It takes everything in me not to...”

“Not to what?” You pressed, your heart pounding.

His lips parted, but he seemed to catch himself, stepping back as if the space between you might restore his self-control. “Not to cross a line I can’t uncross…” He finally said, his tone heavy with regret.

But the heat in his gaze told a different story—a story of a man on the verge of losing himself to the very thing he’d been trying to resist.

The tension between you didn’t dissipate. If anything, it grew, seeping into every interaction like an unstoppable tide.

In class, his gaze lingered on you longer than was appropriate, his voice faltering slightly when he called on you. During office hours, his questions delved deeper, as if searching for something he couldn’t articulate.

But it was during a casual seminar that the cracks in his professionalism began to widen.

You had arrived early, taking a seat in the front row. As you flipped through your notes, Spencer entered the room, his eyes immediately seeking you out. He paused, visibly unsettled, before making his way to the podium.

As other students filtered in, Ethan arrived and, to your surprise, took the seat beside you. He leaned in, his tone light and teasing as he made some comment about the seminar topic.

Spencer’s expression darkened. He began the session, but his usual measured tone was tinged with an edge that made the room feel heavier. His eyes kept drifting to where you sat, his words sharper whenever he addressed you or Ethan.

When the seminar ended, Spencer was quick to dismiss the class.

The classroom emptied, leaving the two of you alone. Spencer stood behind the podium, his hands gripping its edges.

“What was that?” He asked, his voice tight.

“What was what?” You replied, feigning innocence.

“You know exactly what I mean.” His gaze pinned you in place. “Him. Sitting next to you. Acting like he—” He broke off, shaking his head as if trying to compose himself.

“Acting like what?” You pressed, stepping closer.

“Like he has the right to your attention,” Spencer snapped, his professionalism unraveling further. “He doesn’t. Not the way I...”

He stopped himself, his chest rising and falling with restrained emotion.

“Not the way you what?” You asked softly, your voice carrying a mix of curiosity and challenge.

His eyes burned with an intensity that made your breath catch. For a moment, you thought he might close the distance between you, shattering the boundaries he’d been clinging to.

Instead, he exhaled shakily and stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “This needs to stop.” He muttered, though the words seemed directed more at himself than at you.

But even as he said it, the tension between you was palpable, an invisible thread pulling you closer despite the chaos it threatened to unleash.

The air between you felt suffocating, charged with a tension that had been building for weeks. Spencer stood before you, his normally composed demeanor unraveling with every passing second. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight as he tried to steady his breathing.

“I’ve tried,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve tried to keep this professional. To keep my distance. But you...” He looked at you then, his gaze piercing and raw. “You make it impossible.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of exhilaration and fear coursing through your veins. “What are you saying?” You asked, your voice trembling.

“I’m saying that I can’t pretend anymore,” he admitted, his voice low and filled with something dark and desperate. “Every time I see you with him, every time I see you smile at someone else... I can’t stand it.”

You took a step closer, emboldened by the vulnerability in his confession. “Then don’t pretend.”

Spencer’s eyes darkened, his restraint crumbling as he closed the distance between you in an instant. His hands cupped your face, his touch firm but reverent, as though he’d been starving for this moment.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me…” He murmured, his voice shaky with need.

“Then show me.” you whispered, your breath ghosting against his lips.

That was all it took. Spencer’s mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was as fierce as it was desperate. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as though he needed you to breathe. The kiss was everything—pent-up frustration, unspoken desire, and a need that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged. “This is wrong.” He muttered, though his hands still gripped your waist, unwilling to let you go.

“We don’t have to tell anyone.” You countered, your voice soft but insistent.

Spencer’s eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then his resolve broke entirely. His lips found yours again, this time slower, more deliberate. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a claiming, a declaration that you were his, consequences be damned.

Without a word, he guided you backward until you felt the edge of his desk against your hips. His hands roamed your sides, skimming over your curves with a possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he admitted between kisses, his voice hoarse. “How many nights I’ve stayed awake, thinking about you. How hard it’s been to stay professional when all I want is to make you mine.”

“Then stop holding back.” You urged, your fingers clutching at his shirt as though afraid he might pull away.

Spencer’s response was immediate. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you onto the desk with ease. His touch was everywhere—your hips, your back, your neck—each movement filled with a hunger that bordered on obsession.

“Tell me you want this.” He said, his voice low and commanding as his lips brushed against your ear.

“I want this,” you breathed, your hands tangling in his hair. “I want you.”

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense. “You have me,” he promised, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve always had me.”

In that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There were no rules, no boundaries—only the two of you, finally giving in to the undeniable pull that had been drawing you together all along.

He is the first to break the silence, his voice low and husky.

"Tell me what you want."

You hesitate for a moment, the words stuck in your throat. Then, quietly, you say, "I want you, Spencer."

He moves closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "Tell me exactly what you want."

You swallow, feeling your heart rate quicken. "I want you to touch me, Spencer."

"Where do you want me to touch you?" He murmurs.

"Everywhere." You whisper, leaning into his touch.

He traces his fingers down your neck, his touch featherlight. "Here?"

You nod, your breath hitching as his fingers ghost over your collarbone.

He moves his hands down further, trailing his fingers across your chest. "I need words, sweet girl."

"Yes," You breathe, feeling your arousal growing.

He hums in approval, hands moving lower still, caressing the curve of your breasts. "And here?"

"Yes…" You repeat, arching into his touch.

He cups your breasts through your shirt, squeezing gently. "What about here?"

"Please…" You whimper, your voice barely audible.

He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "What else do you want, Y/N? Tell me."

You can feel your face flushing, but you can't stop the words from tumbling out of your mouth. "I want you to take my clothes off, Spencer. I want you to touch me everywhere."

He lets out a soft groan, his hands moving to unbutton your shirt. "God, Y/N. I've wanted you for so long."

Your shirt falls to the floor, leaving you exposed. His eyes roam over your body, hungrily taking in every inch of bare skin.

"You're so fucking beautiful." He murmurs, his fingers tracing patterns across your stomach.

You gasp as he leans in and presses a kiss to your neck, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. His hands move lower, dipping below the waistband of your jeans.

"Spencer…" You moan, your hips bucking against his touch.

"Yeah, baby? What is it, sweet girl? Tell me what you need." He breathes, his fingers dancing along your inner thigh.

"I need you." You whimper, desperate for more contact.

He pulls away from you, his hands moving to undo his belt. He pulls his pants down, his hard cock springing free. Tip flushed pink, the same shade as his swollen kiss-bruised lips. He grabs your hips and lifts you onto the desk, his body pressed against yours.

"Is this what you want?" He asks, his voice rough with desire.

"Yes." You gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He pushes his cock against your entrance, his eyes locked on yours. "Say it, Y/N. Say you want me."

"I want you, Spencer." You moan, feeling him slide into you.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groans, thrusting into you. "You're so tight."

You cling to him, your nails digging into his back as he drives into you, again and again.

"Feels s’good." You babble, feeling the tip of his cock deep in your cervix, his hand coming down to rub calculated circles on your clit.

Spencer was a man of logic, of knowledge. But nothing could have prepared you for how skillful his hands could be in such a sinful context, hands you’d spent hours marking into the pages of your notebooks.

He fucks you harder, his pace frantic. "Such a pretty pussy, Y/N." He groans, dipping his head into your neck to nip at your skin.”My pretty pussy.” He delivers a quick slap to your pussy, sending a shock of pleasure through you, clit throbbing painfully.

"Oh, god, Spencer…" You cry, your orgasm quickly approaching, unable to stop it no matter how much you want to prolong the feeling.

“You wanna cum for me, baby? Cum all over my cock?” He stares down at you with a look you know will be ingrained in your mind for as long as you breathe.

It doesn’t take long before your orgasm crashes over you, pulsing through you in waves, back arching off the bed as you reach out for anything to ground yourself. Hands finding the back of his head, pulling him into your chest.

He follows soon after, his cock pulsing inside you as he empties himself into you, collapsing on top of you, his chest heaving.

You look up at him, your eyes bright with satisfaction. "Do you think it was worth it?"

He smiles, stroking your hair. "I’d do it all again if it meant I could have you this way just one more time."

The first rays of dawn filtered through the blinds of Spencer’s apartment, casting faint golden stripes across the room. You stirred slightly in his arms, your body cocooned in the warmth of his embrace. Spencer had always been a light sleeper, but he hadn’t moved all night. His arms remained securely around you, as if even in sleep, he was afraid to let go.

For a moment, the world was still, the only sound was the gentle hum of the city waking up outside. In the quiet, you allowed yourself to revel in the stolen tranquility. These moments were fleeting, precious—time you carved out in secret, hidden from the eyes of the world.

“You’re awake.” He murmured, his voice low and rough with sleep.

You tilted your head back to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “So are you.”

“I don’t think I slept much,” he admitted, his fingers brushing idly along your arm. “It’s hard to sleep when I know every moment with you has to be hidden.”

You frowned slightly, guilt tugging at you. “I hate it too,” you said softly. “I hate that we have to pretend in class, that I can’t just... be with you without worrying who might see.”

His hand tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. They were warm, but behind the softness lay a steel determination. “It’s not forever,” he promised. “The semester is almost over. Once you’re no longer my student, no one can question us. No one can tell me it’s wrong to feel this way about you.”

You leaned into his touch, comforted by his words but still anxious about the risks. “Do you ever think about what would happen if someone found out?”

“Every day,” he admitted without hesitation. “But I think about losing you more. And that’s a risk I can’t take.”

The weight of his confession settled over you, heavy and grounding. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “I’d risk it all for you, Spencer. You know that, right?”

He nodded, his expression softening as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I know. And I’d do the same for you. But until it’s safe, we have to be careful.”

The reminder of the outside world, of the boundaries you had to navigate, was sobering. Yet it didn’t dampen the connection between you. If anything, it strengthened your resolve.

Days in class were an intricate dance of restraint and subtlety. You sat in your usual spot, taking notes diligently as Spencer lectured at the front of the room. His demeanor was calm, professional, every word deliberate. To the untrained eye, he was simply your professor, and you, his attentive student.

But beneath the surface, every glance, every fleeting moment of eye contact held a world of unspoken words. When he paused to scan the room, his gaze lingered on you a fraction too long. When he walked past your desk, the faintest brush of his presence sent a shiver down your spine.

After class, you remained behind under the pretense of asking a question. The other students filed out, their chatter fading as the door closed behind them.

Spencer glanced at you, his professional mask slipping slightly as he leaned against the desk. “Is this about the assignment?” He asked, his tone neutral but his eyes betraying a flicker of warmth.

“No,” you admitted, lowering your voice. “I just... I wanted to see you.”

His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, and he nodded toward the door. “Wait for me outside. I’ll finish here and meet you in the library.”

The library had become your haven, a place where the world’s watchful eyes couldn’t reach you. Tucked away in the farthest corner, surrounded by shelves of dusty books, you found refuge in each other’s company.

Spencer sat across from you, his hand resting lightly over yours on the table. “You know,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the library, “this hiding... it’s maddening. But there’s something exhilarating about it too.”

You raised a brow, your lips quirking into a teasing smile. “Oh? Dr. Reid enjoys breaking the rules?”

A low chuckle escaped him, his fingers brushing against yours. “When it comes to you? I’ll break every rule there is.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, you simply looked at him, your heart swelling with a mix of love and longing. “One more month,” you whispered. “Then no more hiding.”

“One more month,” he echoed, his voice filled with quiet determination. “And then I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”

Until then, you would continue this delicate balancing act, cherishing the stolen moments and weathering the secrecy together. Because in the end, he was worth it. And you knew that no matter how many rules you had to break, how many boundaries you had to navigate, you would never let him go.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds x reader #bau x reader #spencer reid smut x reader #missarchive

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rainrot4me · 2 days ago

Text

A Hunter's Moon

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

──────────────────────────────── smokey eyes - lincoln

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Beneath late summer nights, Jack always found you. Human and monster, two different worlds separated by a picket fence. But when he didn't return, you set out to look for him. You find him in rut, in pain, in the ache of something like love—and what kind of friend would you be if you refused him?

✦ . Characters: Eyeless Jack x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Friends to lovers, partial-canon backstory, rut/heat cycles, mentions of blood and violence, gore, cannibalism, predator/prey relationship, chasing, biting, vaginal, cunnilingus, multiple positions, rough sex, animalistic sex, belly bulge, clawing, begging, partial non-con, creampie, breeding, knotting

✦ . Words: 15.5k

✦ . Note: Monster fucker nation please stand, this one is for you. Very gross, very scary, but ohhhhhhh so good and yum and UGHHHHH. Feast my children. Don’t tell the others, hurry hurry hurry, we can’t let them know that this is what we’re into.

────────────────────────────────────────────

You always loved June.

It was one of those syrupy summer nights, the air thick and soft, clinging to skin like a second, invisible layer. Cicadas droned lazily from somewhere deep in the woods, their chorus blending with the distant hum of traffic beyond the trees. The sun had long dipped behind the hills, but the heat of the day clung on, reluctant to let the world rest.

Your backyard was a patchwork of dim porch light and moonlight, the fence throwing long shadows across the brittle grass. Beyond the fence stretched the treeline, thick and dark as spilled ink, pulsing with the unseen eyes of the forest.

The fence was old—weather-worn wood, sun-bleached, as tall as your chest, and starting to splinter in spots—but it was your fence. Your spot. The place where every night, like clockwork, you would stand on one side with the glow of your kitchen lights behind you, and he would linger on the other, half-concealed by the darkness of the pines.

You heard the faint scuff of boots on dried leaves, the rustle of branches catching on old denim. You didn’t even have to look. You knew it was him.

“Late again,” you teased, leaning against the picketed wood. Fireflies darted around overhead, slow and golden, tiny lanterns against the night.

Jack shifted closer. Tall, broad-shouldered, the faintest glint of moonlight catching the wet curve of the dark mask he wore, the slits where eyes should have been yawning and black—just two gaping sockets, still managing somehow to see you. The copper tang of dried blood still clung faintly to him, mingling with the loamy smell of the forest and his favorite cologne. All wrapped up in an oversized gray hoodie and old wrangler jeans.

“I had…business,” he rasped, voice rough like something left too long in the dark.

You studied him, heart twisting. Once, things had been different.

You met Jack in college, before everything changed.

He was Eyeless Jack to the world now—a name passed around in hushed rumors and panicked police briefings—but once, he was just Jack. Jack Nyras, pre-med major, scruffy-haired and half-insomniac from too many late-night study sessions. You’d first bumped into him, literally, outside your genetics class when you spilled an entire iced coffee down the front of his hoodie.

Instead of getting mad, he laughed. That laugh, even now, you remembered with a painful fondness: easy, warm, too big for his slight, lanky frame.

After that, you were inseparable. You sat in labs together, sharing notes, studying for hours until your brains turned to mush. Sometimes you’d catch him drawing twisted little sketches of incredibly detailed body parts in the margins of his anatomy book, black ink dripping from his pen like nightmares, doodling hearts and vein patterns and every bone you could think of. He’d grin sheepishly if you pointed it out.

“Just to blow off steam,” he’d told you.

If only it had stayed that way.

But something was off that last semester.

It started with Jenny. A bright-eyed, over-eager girl with too many questions about death, about gods, about what might live on the other side of everything. You’d seen her hanging around Jack, pressing him for his knowledge of anatomy and the occult. You hadn’t thought much of it—she was a weird kid, but who wasn’t in college?

Until the night they took Jack to a ritual.

You hadn’t known where he went, at first. A text left on read. A worried voicemail. Then nothing. You had no clue.

They’d dragged him to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town, where Jenny and her cult had tried to summon a demon—and they’d needed a human sacrifice to open the door. Jack. Your Jack.

They had held him down, cut his eyelids away so he could never look away, and scooped out his eyes with brutal, surgical precision. You would have nightmares about that for years: those empty, bleeding sockets. Then they poured something black and slick, like tar, into the holes—a living thing that pulsed and smoked, thick with hatred.

It was supposed to let a demon pass through him, a doorway wearing a human face. But something went wrong.

Instead of a perfect vessel, Jack became the demon’s prison. The possession took root, warping him, twisting flesh and bone. His skin turned an unnatural gray, hard like stone. The black voids where his eyes once were never stopped weeping that tar-like ichor. Needle-sharp teeth split his mouth, rabid and hungry.

Jack was the only one to survive, if you could call it surviving.

When he came to you after, it was in the dead of night, half-collapsed against your back porch door, trying to hold his guts inside his ribs with clawed, shaking hands. He was weeping. You’d never heard a sound like it, the noise of someone whose soul had been torn in half.

“Don’t look at me,” he begged, voice raw, inhuman already. “Please.”

But you did. You looked. You saw him for what he had become, and refused to turn away.

You kept him alive those first weeks, when he didn’t know what to eat, didn’t understand the pull inside him. You watched him break down on your kitchen floor, apologizing over and over. You helped him find ways to stay hidden, to scavenge what he needed to keep from losing his mind completely.

When Slenderman came for him—a towering, impossible shape between your backyard trees one night—you thought you’d lose Jack for good. But even that faceless horror couldn’t break the bond you’d built. Jack still came back, slipping from his grip in brief windows, always returning to the same spot at the back fence, where your world met the dark.

You wondered if part of him fought that puppet-string control just to see you again.

The truth was, you had every reason to fear him. You’d seen the news reports, the evidence photos, the torn bodies left in his wake. The world would call you naive, maybe even insane. But you knew him. You’d seen him laugh over spilled coffee. You’d watched him hold a scared freshman’s hand in a bio lab when they passed out during a dissection.

That Jack was still there, tangled in the ruin.

So you never turned him away. Even now, years later, you stood by your back fence on humid summer nights, waiting for the quiet scuff of his boots through the weeds. You told him about your boring, safe life—air conditioners and late shifts and microwave dinners—and he told you, in broken pieces, about the horrors he couldn’t help but feed on.

And despite all of it, despite the monsters clawing at his mind, you stayed. Because sometimes being a friend wasn’t bright or easy. Sometimes it was raw and heavy and stubborn, refusing to let go of someone even when the world said you should.

If you wanted, you could forget that night he’d stumbled from the woods, half-monster and half your friend. You could pretend this fence was a line dividing your worlds.

But you didn’t.

Because he was Jack. A biology major, obsessed with genetics and a little too competitive at beer pong. Now, the woods had become his kingdom, the darkness his only safe harbor. But some things hadn’t changed: the way he still leaned forward a little when you spoke, or how he listened more than he talked.

“Rough night?” you asked gently.

He tilted his head, a gesture oddly canine in its curiosity, “Rougher for them.”

You sighed, but there was no real fear in it. If there was one truth in your world, it was that he’d never hurt you.

“I had a pretty boring day,” you offered, voice light, trying to balance out the shadows in his. “Work was slow. Mrs. Carter’s cat had kittens, I saw them in her yard. Oh—and I got a sunburn.”

His head dipped, as if acknowledging the small tragedies of a normal human life. “Show me,” he said quietly.

You laughed, brushing your sleeve up to reveal pink skin. “See? Totally my fault. I fell asleep in the hammock.”

He reached forward, clawed hand resting on top of the fence, close but not quite touching. “You should be careful,” he murmured. “The sun can be quite dangerous this time of year.”

That startled a laugh out of you—a small, real sound. “Wow, Jack, you going to lecture me on skin cancer now?”

A faint, rasping chuckle answered, like dry leaves scraping together.

You both fell into silence, the comfortable kind. The night seemed to wrap around you, humming with late-summer heat, thick with scents of honeysuckle and crushed grass. Somewhere far off, an owl called.

You studied him across the fence, trying to read the shape of him. You could still see the slope of his shoulders, the faint twitch in his jaw when he was worried. The eyeless mask made him look monstrous—but you’d stopped seeing it that way long ago. Nowadays, you were just upset you couldn’t see his cute smile.

“Jack,” you said after a while, softer now, “are you…okay?”

His shoulders rose and fell. A sigh? Maybe.

“I don’t know if I even remember what ‘okay’ feels like,” he murmured. “But… this. Talking to you. It helps.”

Your heart pinched, warm and a little sad. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

You saw him shift closer, a whisper of movement, enough that the shadows seemed to lean toward you. You swallowed, wishing you could reach over the fence and touch him, just once. Instead you let your fingers curl against the peeling paint. “I’m glad you still come back,” you smiled. He just nodded.

“You should go inside soon,” he rasped. “It’s too warm to sleep, but… safer. You should eat some dinner.”

“Will you stay out here a while?” you asked.

He dipped his chin, the faintest promise. “Yeah. I’ll keep watch.”

It was nothing, and it was everything.

Crickets sang to fill the hush that followed.

You stepped a little closer, pressing your palm to the wood between you, pretending you could feel his heartbeat through the fence. If he even still had one.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, trying to smile.

He nodded once again, a barely-there motion. “Same time.”

“Goodnight, Jack,” you said softly.

“Goodnight,” he answered, voice steady, a vow carried on the warm summer air.

And then, like a dream dissolving, he stepped back into the gloom of the pines. You caught one last glimpse of his silhouette before the night swallowed him whole.

The fence was still warm under your hand, the cicadas still singing. You exhaled, steadying herself, knowing that tomorrow he’d be there again—your friend in the woods, monster and boy, killer and companion.

And you would be there too, waiting for him.

── .✦

The day crawled by, the hours sticky and dull. You’d scrubbed your kitchen counters twice, answered a handful of emails for work you barely remembered, and even tried to read a book on the back steps—but the words blurred in the heavy evening heat.

All you could think about was Jack.

Ever since that night, years ago, your days felt incomplete until you met him at the fence. Those small conversations, traded across weather-ruined ply-wood, had become your strange ritual, your fragile thread of normal.

Tonight was no different. As the sun began to drop, you practically inhaled your dinner—pasta gone rubbery from the microwave, but you didn’t even taste it—swallowing mouthfuls so fast you nearly choked. Then you ran a hand through your hair, smoothed the wrinkles from your shirt, and stepped outside.

The air was still and damp, the kind that made your arms itch. The cicadas thrummed their endless song, hiding the hush of the woods. You leaned on the fence, peering into the tree line.

Nothing.

You waited, shifting your weight from foot to foot, hoping you’d see the pale glint of his mask moving between the trunks. But the woods stayed silent, the sky growing darker by the minute.

Maybe something came up. Maybe Slenderman needed him. Maybe he was hunting. He was usually late anyway.

You tried to reason with yourself, but the night stretched on, thick and empty, until the mosquitoes started biting and you had no choice but to go inside.

The next night, you came out early, practically running through the kitchen just to get to the fence faster. But again—nothing. The woods felt wrong, like a silent accusation, each leaf unmoving in the hot breeze.

The third night, you could barely stand to eat. You pushed your food around the plate, your stomach a hard knot, fingers picking at the torn edge of your thumbnail until it bled. The skin around your cuticles was raw from worry, your breathing shallow and thin.

Three days, you thought, three days is too long.

He had never gone three days without showing up, not since that night you saved him from bleeding out in your basement.

A cold panic clawed at your throat. You pictured him cornered somewhere, wounded, or worse—devoured by whatever lived inside him. You pictured Slenderman tearing him apart like a dog with a ragdoll, or the police finally catching him, gunning him down before he could explain he was more victim than monster.

Your fork clattered to the plate. You couldn’t take it.

You stood so fast your chair scraped a painful shriek across the floor. You grabbed your flashlight, heart pounding against your ribs like it wanted out, and stalked out into the night.

The fence gate to the woods creaked open, a hesitant protest that felt far too loud. The path beyond was half-eaten by weeds and dark as ink, but you forced yourself through, lungs full of warm, wet air that smelled like dirt and dying leaves.

If Jack wasn’t coming to you—then you would go to him.

You stepped across the fence line, your safe little world snapping shut behind you like a broken jaw, and let the darkness swallow you whole.

── .✦

The woods closed in around you the moment you crossed the fence line, swallowing up the distant hum of the highway and the yellow glow of your back porch light. Out here, everything was shadow layered on shadow, the air thick enough to choke.

You stepped carefully, branches scratching your shins, the beam of your flashlight bouncing across the undergrowth. Every so often you caught a flash of color—a scrap of paper, a mushroom cap, a piece of trash—and your heart would leap in false hope, only to crash back down when it wasn’t him.

Where are you, Jack?

You tried to keep your breathing quiet, tried not to think about the thousands of unseen things rustling in the tall grass. Your imagination filled the darkness with monsters: faceless giants and hollow-eyed shapes, hands reaching.

A branch snapped somewhere ahead, sharp and loud. You flinched, heart hammering up into your throat. Your flashlight jerked wildly, sending yellow arcs of light through the undergrowth.

“Jack?” you called, voice soft and strangled.

No answer. Only the startled flutter of birds erupting from the canopy, taking to the sky in a rush of frantic wings. You staggered back, hand clamped over your chest, adrenaline scalding through you.

You swept the beam of the flashlight across the trees, willing him to be there—a dark mask, a familiar slouch, anything—but the woods only gave you more silence.

Panic built behind your ribs like a scream. You tried to swallow it down.

“Jack?” you called again, a little louder this time, your voice carrying through the trees.

Nothing.

The darkness pressed in. Every stick crack, every scuttle of an animal felt like claws reaching for you. You forced yourself forward, one step at a time, your sneakers sinking into damp earth.

You called again, and again, each time a little braver, though the sound of your own voice nearly terrified you more than the silence did.

“Jack,” you pleaded, “if you can hear me… please answer.”

The flashlight beam wobbled as you clenched your shaking hand around it. The woods felt too big, swallowing your words whole. You had no idea how deep Jack had gone, or if he was even alive, or if you’d ever find him again.

But you had to try.

You would keep going. Even if it meant walking straight into a nightmare, you would keep looking for him, because Jack had never left you alone, even at his worst.

And you refused to leave him alone now.

You kept walking.

The night felt endless, the same dark trees repeating over and over until your legs burned and your feet throbbed inside your sneakers. Branches snagged at your sleeves, tearing tiny holes you barely registered. Bugs droned in the heavy air, the only thing keeping you company.

You lost track of how long you’d been out there—forty minutes, an hour, maybe more. Every step felt like you were sinking deeper into something that didn’t want you there.

Then your flashlight caught a rounded shape in the dirt.

You froze, breath stuttering, and dropped to your knees. The beam landed on it properly this time, and your heart broke in a single, sharp crack.

Jack’s mask.

It lay half-buried under leaves and mud, one side split down the cheek like something had struck it hard, the once-smooth paint now chipped and stained. It looked wrong, abandoned, like a piece of him torn away, like it had been sitting here for a couple of days.

“No,” you whispered, fingers trembling as you picked it up. It was heavier than you expected, damp with rain and sweat, smelling faintly of earth and blood.

“Jack!” you shouted, panic swallowing every scrap of caution you had left. “Jack! Where are you?”

Your voice rang off the trees, harsh and desperate.

Nothing answered.

You shoved the mask under your arm and pushed onward, scanning the cliff runoffs and dry creekbeds where you knew animals liked to hide, searching the tangled roots along the old trails, calling his name again and again.

“Jack! Please—answer me!”

The woods felt different now. As you climbed another steep rise, lungs burning, you realized it had gotten… quiet.

Way too quiet.

The cicadas were gone. No crickets. No night birds. Nothing.

Like the entire forest had been smothered under a heavy, waiting hush.

Your footsteps sounded painfully loud, each broken twig echoing off the trunks around you. You forced yourself to keep moving, scanning every hollow, every patch of shadow for a flash of gray skin or those ink-black tears—anything to prove he was still here.

But the silence felt absolute.

Crushing.

Wrong.

You swallowed, hard, the edges of the quiet closing around you until it felt like the woods themselves were holding their breath.

The stillness was so heavy it pressed on your eardrums, leaving you dizzy and unsteady. You clutched the broken mask tighter to your chest, heart hammering, flashlight flicking from one twisted branch to another.

That was when you heard it.

A wet, tearing sound, slick and raw, like someone wringing out a soaked rag. Then another noise—a sharp pop, like cartilage snapping.

Your stomach lurched.

You turned your flashlight toward the sound, its pale circle shaking so badly it barely held focus. You swallowed, took a single step, then another, trying not to crack any twigs, the silence around you making every breath sound huge.

You crept forward, through brambles that snagged your jeans, and finally reached the thick trunk of a pine tree. Its bark was rough against your palm as you steadied yourself, heart about to pound out of your chest.

The noises were louder here—slurping, chewing, flesh pulling away from bone.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a heartbeat, steeling yourself, then leaned to peek around the tree.

The sight made your legs go out from under you.

Jack was crouched low, his claws sunk deep in something—someone—sprawled in the mud. His face was buried in the corpse’s stomach, his mask gone, the ruined hollow of his sockets pressed to ruined flesh as he tore through it with those glinting, animal-sharp teeth.

Wet, black gore streaked his chin. Strings of it dripped from his mouth as he devoured what was left of the person’s organs.

He looked monstrous, more beast than man, moving in a brutal, mindless rhythm that made bile rise in your throat.

A scream clawed its way up before you could stop it, raw and terrified, tearing itself from your lungs.

The flashlight fell from your hands, clattering against a rock. Jack’s broken mask slipped after it, landing in the dirt.

Your knees buckled and you crashed to the ground, hands braced in the leaves as you gasped, the scream still echoing through the dead, silent woods.

Jack’s head snapped up, raw and slick with gore, strands of dark tissue clinging to his torn lips. For a moment, he just stared—or aimed those hollow sockets at you, emptier than any night you’d ever seen.

Then he let out a sound.

It was a low, throaty grunt, bubbling through whatever remained of the man’s organs, followed by a choked, strangled whine.

He shoved the corpse aside in a jerking, hungry motion, the wet smack of it hitting the ground making you flinch. Jack’s claws scraped through the dirt as he pushed upright, swaying on his feet. The moon caught the raw gleam of his teeth, stained black-red and sharp as glass. The front of his gray hoodie was stained dark, blood covering his chest and collar.

He took a staggering step toward you, hunched, moving in fits and starts—a predator not quite remembering how to use its limbs.

“J—Jack,” you stammered, voice cracking under the weight of your own terror.

Another grunt, this one higher, confused, almost hurt. But he kept coming, head tilted like he was trying to place you, thick lines of blood still running from his mouth.

You scrambled to your feet, hands scraping against sticks and dirt. Your flashlight lay where it had fallen, but you didn’t dare grab it—the thought of wasting a single second made your heart seize.

You ran.

Your legs barely worked at first, a jolt of panic burning through them so violently you stumbled. Behind you, Jack howled—a horrible, broken sound, like a wolf choking on its own kill—and then he charged.

You heard him crashing through the brush, smashing into trees hard enough to shake the branches overhead, snarling and sobbing all at once.

Your lungs tore with each gulp of damp air, your feet tangling in vines and roots. The world blurred, branches whipping your face and arms, your pulse a screaming rhythm in your ears.

You glanced over your shoulder—mistake.

Jack was close, horrifyingly close, lurching forward on all fours at times, then staggering upright, drool and blood flinging off his chin with every strangled cry.

The sound of him was horrible, like a nightmare given voice: gasping, wet snarls, a boy’s whimper trapped in a monster’s throat.

You pushed harder, legs on fire, tripping through a creek bed and nearly going down. Behind you, Jack crashed in after, water splashing like a thunderclap. He slammed against the bank and scrabbled up again, claws raking mud, his body moving with a terrifying, unstoppable hunger.

The night around you felt like it shrank, every tree too close, every shadow reaching. You could hear him breathing—wet, ragged, sharp—right behind you, the animal panic of a predator whose prey was slipping away.

Tears spilled hot down your cheeks, half from terror, half from heartbreak. Jack. Your Jack. Reduced to this. Hunting you like he didn’t even know your name.

He wailed again, an echoing, desperate sound that sent a fresh spike of adrenaline through your spine.

You scrambled up a hill, nails tearing into the dirt for grip, and felt him slam into the slope behind you, sending rocks and dead leaves skittering down around your heels. He tripped on a root, crashing to his knees with a scream of frustration, but he was already dragging himself up, unstoppable.

You felt pathetic, small and breakable, every instinct screaming to run run run run—

But there was nowhere to go, nowhere safe. The forest was a cage, and Jack was filling every inch of it, his cries ripping through the dark, hunting you down with mindless, monstrous determination.

You ran anyway, because you had to.

And behind you, he followed—crashing, wailing, unstoppable.

It only took one misstep of your foot, one trip—a rush of air and the thunder of clawed feet, and then he crashed into you with the force of a falling tree.

You hit the ground hard, the breath punched out of your lungs, dirt grinding into your palms. Before you could even scream, Jack was on top of you, pinning you to the forest floor with all his unnatural weight.

He snarled inches from your face, the sound raw and animal, splattering you with thick, foul-smelling gore. Blood dripped from his wide lips, fat droplets falling onto your cheek, sliding warm and sticky into your hair. You noticed it then, the absolute richness of his smell. Like his cologne, but so stout and thick you could’ve choked on it.

You froze, terror swallowing you whole, every muscle locked in place. His claws curled into the ground beside your head, framing you like steel traps.

“Jack,” you choked out, your voice breaking under the fear, “Jack, it’s me—please, please, it’s me!”

He leaned closer, so close you could smell rotted copper and damp earth on his breath. His hollow sockets flared wide, a horrible, empty focus. Another snarl tore out of him, spraying more blood across your face. Even the tips of his pointed ears were speckled with the stuff.

You raised your hands, palms open, pressing against the dampened fabric of his hoodie, feeling the quivering, rigid muscles beneath.

“Jack—Jack, please,” you sobbed, “you know me—it’s me, it’s me—”

Something in him stuttered.

The endless growling broke off, replaced by a high, confused whine. His head twitched, tilting to one side, like a dog trying to understand a new word.

His breath hitched, and then he bent down, nosing against your cheek, sucking in deep, shaky lungfuls of your scent.

His three black tongues emerged, slick and twitching, and began to sweep over your face in long, wet strokes, gathering up the blood he’d splattered there. It was revolting—warm, sticky, and far too intimate—and you flinched as he moved lower, tongues pressing to your neck, tasting, cleaning.

He breathed you in so desperately you thought he might inhale your entire soul. His chest heaved against your hands, shuddering with each inhale.

“Ssr—” he tried, voice grinding out of a throat that sounded half broken, “Mmn—Hah—”

You could hear it, buried in the monstrous ruin of his voice, “So-Sorr-ey—Mmn-sorr—Mnn-Miss yewhh—”

He kept trying to form the words, but they came out in garbled sobs and animal rasping, drool and blood dripping onto your skin.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t even breathe.

His tongues kept working, lapping gently at your throat, tasting, nuzzling, his claws scraping at the dirt on either side of your head. A pitiful whimper rattled through him every time he pulled away and tried to speak again.

It was like being pinned by a hurricane—something impossibly powerful and terrifying, but also heartbreakingly confused, lost, wanting only you.

You stared up at the empty sockets inches from your eyes, mind screaming, every nerve alight with raw, animal terror.

Jack’s blood-slick mouth hovered above you, trying so hard to shape human words, but all that came was a broken, hopeless cry.

Your heart pounded so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. Jack’s weight felt endless on top of you, a monstrous, crushing presence that smelled of blood and rot and something older, darker.

But… this was Jack.

You tried to remember that—your Jack, even buried in this nightmare. You preached about loving him and being there for him no matter what, but as soon as you’re faced with a horror, what did you do? Stupid.

You drew in a weary, shaking breath and reached up, fingers threading through the wild, tangled strands of his dark hair. The roots were tacky with drying blood, but you ignored it, combing gently, soothing.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice raw, “Jack… it’s okay. You’re okay.”

He whimpered against your throat, the monstrous rumble of his chest vibrating against yours. His tongues tried to drag across your cheeks again, desperate and sloppy, but you pushed him back with a shaking hand, steadying him.

“Stop—hey, it’s okay,” you tried again, voice firm but soft, like talking to a wounded animal.

He froze, breathing you in so deeply it hurt to hear, then slowly lowered his head until his brow touched yours. The blood was sticky between you, but the contact steadied him, just a little. You’d never have thought touching him, seeing him without his mask for the first time in months would’ve been like this. Fate has a weird way of working things out.

You kept your hand moving through his hair, gentle, grounding, and after another moment he shifted, claws pulling out of the dirt beside your head and instead curling around you, wrapping you in a terrifying, protective cage.

His hands—bloodied and sharp and so wrong—trembled as they ghosted under your shirt, rough against your waist, pulling you closer, pressing your ribs against his chest.

His entire body shook as he settled, breath ragged and uneven, the smell of iron so strong you wanted to gag. Still, you stayed, letting him hold you, even when every terrified instinct screamed to run.

Moonlight spilled through a break in the canopy, falling on the two of you in a cold, pale wash. It caught the gore still clinging to his jaw, the unnatural gray of his ruined skin, the inky stain of his hollow eyes.

Jack clung tighter, claws pricking your sides, breathing hard against your neck, confused sounds still rumbling in the back of his throat.

He didn’t understand. You could feel it in the frantic rhythm of his touch—he didn’t know why his body felt so raw, so starving, so desperate.

Jack stayed wrapped around you, claws trembling against your back, his breathing raw and frantic. His face was buried at your neck, those horrible tongues twitching against your skin, tasting you over and over as if it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Your head spun. He was so strong—you could feel it in every twitch of those monstrous hands, how easily he could have broken you. But he didn’t.

He was shaking, whimpering, lost.

“Jack,” you tried, voice cracking, “what is this? What’s happening to you?”

He made a mangled sound, low in his chest, trying to force words through a throat that wasn’t made for them anymore.

“Ca-c-can’t—” he rasped, wet and torn. “Can’t… s-stop.”

You swallowed, panic still clawing at your ribs. His claws flexed under your shirt, not hurting, but clutching at you like a lifeline.

“Can’t stop what?” you asked, heart hammering, “Hurting? Hunting?”

He shook his head, a violent, jerky movement against your neck, a fresh whimper breaking free.

“Smh-smell… y-you…” he gasped, voice breaking. “C-c-can’t… st-stop.”

Your mind was spinning, trying to piece it together. You thought of how he’d tracked you down, how he couldn’t stop licking you, couldn’t get enough of your scent, the way he was holding you now like he needed you to keep breathing.

Your stomach dropped.

Was this… heat? The word felt alien, but close. Or something like it. He was… an animal, twisted by what they’d done to him. Maybe his body had gone feral in more ways than just hunger.

“Jack,” you whispered, dread crawling up your spine, “are you… in some kind of… rut?”

He went still, pressed against you. A miserable, pained whimper came out, low and helpless.

“Dha-d-don’t… know,” he stuttered, voice thick with something raw and pathetic. “I… s-smell… yo-ou… need…”

It made your head swim. Of course he didn’t know. How could he? No one ever taught a monster about instincts like this.

His claws scrabbled at your back again, then curled around your waist, pulling you even tighter. His face pressed into your collarbone, those tongues working against your throat like he was trying to memorize you.

It was terrifying. It was heartbreaking.

“It’s okay, Jack,” you whispered again, voice catching, “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Jack trembled against you, his claws flexing and unflexing along your ribs, scraping your skin just enough to sting. His entire body was rigid, shaking, the way a bowstring might before it finally snapped.

A raw, pained groan crawled up his ruined throat, and then—he moved.

He shifted, his hips dragging against yours, grinding down, slow and clumsy, a desperate friction that made your blood run cold and your spine bow off the ground. He did it again, harder, a broken sob rattling out of him. He was hard, and so painfully, terrifyingly big.

It was so wrong—but so heartbreakingly human in a twisted way.

He didn’t know what he was doing. You could feel it in how he shook, how his claws fluttered against your skin like he was afraid to hurt you. But some dark, feral instinct had its claws in him now, and it wouldn’t let go.

“J-Jack—” you stammered, terror slicing through you like a blade, “Jack, wait—wait, please—”

He didn’t seem to hear you. Or maybe he couldn’t.

He only whimpered, grinding down again, more frantic, his entire body surging with confused, alien need. The weight of him pinned you, crushing you into the damp earth, making it impossible to squirm away.

Your words turned to babbling, desperate, tears spilling from your eyes.

“Jack, please, wait, j-just—just hold on—you don’t have to—!”

But he needed to.

His tongue, the longest of the three, licked up the side of your neck, tasting your tears, and his whole body shuddered in something close to ecstasy.

You were perfect—you smelled so good, so alive, so his.

Jack keened against you, hips ramming forward again against the center of your thighs, a hopeless rhythm he didn’t understand, only that it made the gnawing ache inside ease for the briefest second. You grunted with every press, legs clamping to close around his hips, but it was no use.

His claws roved under your shirt, skittering against your bare skin, so hot and feverish it felt like they might burn you.

You tried to hold on to him, hands bracing against his chest, trying to reason with him, but he was gone to you—lost to instincts so deep and cruel they drowned out everything else.

“P-please, Jack,” you cried, voice catching on a sob, “I know you’re in there—I know you’re in there, please just—”

He didn’t answer.

He buried his face in your neck, inhaling with a desperate, shaking gasp, then ground into you again, a brutal, guttural snarl tearing from his chest.

There was hunger, yes—but not for organs, not this time. It was a hunger that was aching, tearing him apart in places he didn’t even have names for anymore.

He needed you. And he couldn’t stop.

The heat in his body was a firestorm, swallowing everything that made sense, leaving only need. You smelled so good—the salt of your skin, the sweet tang of your fear, the soft, warm human scent that had always belonged to you.

His claws scraped against your ribs as he ground down, again and again, unable to stop, each movement more desperate than the last. A whine rattled out of him, high and pained, like it physically hurt to be this close and not inside you somehow. You matched his whines, your thighs shaking with how his cock rubbed against your cunt through layers of thick clothing.

Your hands clutched at his hair, pulling, nails digging into his scalp. You were crying, babbling, your voice cracking with half-formed pleas—but you weren’t fighting him, you didn’t think you could anyhow.

He latched onto that with something feral, something primal. You wanted him, some buried part of you did, or at least you weren’t kicking him off, and that was enough to break what was left of his reason.

His tongues flicked over your neck, tasting sweat and tears and heat, making him snarl in frustrated ecstasy. The sound vibrated through your chest, and you arched up against him without meaning to, hips meeting his with a helpless grind that made his claws clench hard enough to bruise.

The world was spinning, dizzy and molten, your voice cracking again as you gasped, “J-Jack—”

He couldn’t stop.

“Mhnn—M’sorry—”

He bit you.

His jaws snapped down on your shoulder, too hard, the sharp points of his monstrous teeth tearing straight through the thin cotton of your shirt and sinking into flesh.

You screamed—a sound tangled between pain and something far, far darker, some twisted surge of relief that made you go limp under him.

He tasted your blood, hot and coppery, and moaned against you, rutting his hips so hard you could barely breathe.

Your head fell back, tears streaming, your body alight with panic and arousal and a hundred things you couldn’t name.

“Ah—Fuck—!” you sobbed, hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even as you trembled from the agony of his bite.

He whined around the mouthful of your skin, drool and blood spilling down your shoulder, tongues fluttering against the broken flesh. His claws skittered under your back, catching on the fabric, desperate to feel you, to anchor himself before he tore you apart completely.

The smell of you, the taste, the way you moved against him—it was too much. It was everything.

Jack’s grinding grew more frantic, more nasty, sloppy and desperate, like an animal starved of touch for centuries, driven by something so foreign he couldn’t even name it.

You moved with him, rutting up to meet his rhythm, your voice breaking into half-sobbed moans as you clutched him closer, dizzy from pain and heat and the horrible, unbearable need radiating off of him.

It was messy, violent, a collision of instincts and terror and some warped, twisted need to save him.

It built like a storm, each frantic thrust of his hips dragging you closer to a precipice you couldn’t see, didn’t even know it was there until you felt the coil in your stomach. Jack was panting, growling, his claws scoring lines onto your ribs and back and all over as he rutted against you, mindless and unstoppable.

You were barely breathing, the pain in your shoulder mixing with something hot and carnal that had your hips moving up to meet his every time, your voice caught in your throat in sobs and broken cries. Your thighs feel open, legs coming around his broad hips to wrap around him, locking your feet together at the base of his back.

The smell of blood, sweat, the damp soil—it all blurred around you, your entire world narrowed to the way his hips slid against yours, his length pressed against your aching clit.

Jack’s tongues lashed against your skin, tasting you, claiming you, his breath so ragged it rattled his chest. His hips stuttered, harder, faster, his growl climbing into something high and keening—

You felt the tension snap inside you like a frayed wire, every nerve flaring white-hot as you choked on a sob, your hips jerking up, caught in that same unstoppable rhythm.

Your orgasm crashed through you, messy and raw, pain and pleasure and terror all tangled together until you didn’t know what you were feeling except that you couldn’t handle the pressure any longer.

He felt it too.

Jack’s whole body went rigid, a strangled, animalistic cry bursting out of him as he ground down hard, shoving you into the dirt so rough your bones ached. He shuddered, every muscle seizing, the heat of him smothering you as he came, mindlessly rutting through the last frantic pulses until his hips slowed to stutters.

For a long moment, there was only panting—his huge body draped over yours, twitching, shaking.

The forest was silent except for your breathing, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, the coppery sting of blood sharp under your nose.

Jack went still, finally, the frantic, feral madness draining out of him all at once like a burst dam. He slumped against you, heavy and limp, rasping out broken, rattling breaths.

You felt his face move against your neck, those horrible tongues twitching sluggishly, no longer hungry, just back to cleaning the blood that trickled from your bite.

A low, almost human voice crawled out of him, helpless and raw.

“C-cou-couldn’t—” he tried to say, and choked on a sob, “couldn’t s-stop…”

Your shaking hands found his hair again, combing through the blood-matted strands. Your voice was thin, ruined from crying, but you managed to get words past your cracked lips.

“I-I know,” you whispered, “Jack, I know…”

He let out a hoarse, broken whine, pressing his face harder into your throat. The pressure of his claws, still tucked under your shirt, turned gentle, almost soothing, stroking your bare skin in a clumsy mimic of affection.

The blind, animalistic need had quieted, leaving something raw and battered in its place.

He was Jack again, for now—shaky and confused and so, so sorry.

“D-didn’t… want to… h-hurt…” he stammered, one of his tongues licking a stripe up your jaw as if trying to apologize, “you smelled so-soo good…”

You swallowed hard, blinking against the tears.

“It’s okay,” you whined, voice paper-thin, “it’s… it’s okay. We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”

He let out a low, pitiful whimper and curled tighter around you, as if even after all that, he couldn’t bear to let you go.

You felt the heat of him, the ragged exhaustion, the sloppy, dazed nuzzles as he licked at the bite he’d left on your shoulder.

But then—you felt it.

Hard. Still hard.

Thick and throbbing, pressed against the curve of your hip, pulsing with a need that clearly hadn’t burned itself out yet. The realization shot a cold spear of panic through your gut, even as your mind reeled from the aftershocks of what you’d already survived.

“Jack,” you breathed, voice breaking, “wait—”

But he was moving again. A slow, rolling grind against you, the heavy ridge of him rutting over your thigh. You flinched, a fresh spike of sensitivity bursting through your half-numb body.

He whined—higher, clearer, more Jack than the animal—but still desperate.

“C-can’t stop…” he stammered, his voice raw and torn, but understandable now, “please… I need… more…”

Your heart lurched, hammering so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. You put your hands against his chest, trying to push him back.

“J-Jack—wait—just—just hold on a second—”

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

He loomed up over you, gray skin catching in a shaft of moonlight, eyes still hollow and leaking that inky blackness, but somehow so full of you, focused only on you.

A clumsy claw caught the hem of your shirt, tugging, tearing the cotton easily as if it were paper. Another hand fumbled at your waistband, his movements frantic, awkward, scraping your skin as he tried to pull your pants down. He tore his claw through your shirt, ripping the fabric in half, shoving it off your chest. The air was warm, but your flesh still crawled with goosebumps, crossing your arms across your bra.

“J-Jack—” you pleaded, voice cracking, “slow down—”

He shook his head, a course growl pulling out of his ruined throat, all three tongues lolling and quivering as he nosed at your bare shoulder, inhaling you like your scent was the sweetest perfume known to man.

“Sm-mells so… g-good…” he slurred, breath shivering across your damp skin, “It hurts… I need…”

He sat up off of you onto his knees and tugged harder, practically ripping your pants down your hips, dragging the fabric across your thighs and off your ankles, leaving you shivering in the warm night air, half-covered in blood and dirt and his own desperate scent.

Your head spun, panic and some horrible spark of want twisting in your belly.

His claws raked down your sides, leaving angry red lines in their wake, but his grip gentled near your hips, as if trying, clumsily, to be careful with you.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking around the word like glass, “I need it…”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was tearing at what was left of your clothes, his claws hooking into your panties and ripping them in a single, impatient pull. The elastic snapped, leaving you bare beneath him, the humid night air kissing every inch of your trembling skin.

Jack leaned back, just enough to see you fully—the sight of you exposed made him snarl, low and guttural, his hips twitching in a spasm of aching need.

You gasped when he tore at your bra, the clasps giving way to those claws so easily, leaving you naked, splayed out beneath him in the mud and leaves. His tongues ran over his lips, shivering in the night air, and he lowered his face to your chest, sniffing so deep it made your skin prickle.

Jack shifted above you, still breathing in those ragged, animal-edged huffs of air. His claws twitched at the edge of his hoodie, scrabbling almost clumsily as he started trying to yank it off, frustration roughening his voice.

“Too… h-hot,” he snarled, voice breaking as he tried to pull the oversized fabric over his shoulders, “can’t—too tight—”

It was ridiculous, in a way—the thing was big on him, he had to roll up the sleeves for crying out loud, but with the way his body strained and trembled now, even that roomy cloth felt suffocating.

You watched, dazed and shaking, as he finally managed to drag it over his head, the hood catching for a second on his head before he ripped it free with a growl.

The air hit his skin and he shivered, shoulders rolling. His body was… terrifying, and yet so painfully, heartbreakingly familiar.

His skin, that strange ashy blue-gray, gleamed with sweat, muscles standing out in sharp, tense lines. Broad shoulders, roped with lean, powerful definition, his chest heaving, his ribs showing the slightest hollow from days of half-starved hunting. Scars ran across him in jagged, uneven tracks, some healed rough, others still pink and new.

The moonlight skimmed over his abdomen, tracing hard-cut muscle under a shimmer of sweat, each breath flexing the taut cords of his stomach. His hips were narrow, but thick with power, and every line of him looked made for violence—but somehow so vulnerable in this raw, exposed moment. But the pièce de résistance was the trail of hair that started under his belly button and traveled down to somewhere unknown beneath his waistband.

He tossed the hoodie aside and leaned back over you, hair matted and damp around his forehead, claws spreading on either side of your waist as he growled, breath ghosting over your chest.

“Hold on now, w-wait—” you stammered, but the words barely left your lips before his mouth was on you.

He licked a broad, hungry stripe up the slope of your breast, then latched on, three tongues working over your nipple at once—hot, slick, inhuman. You cried out, body arching up, nails digging into his shoulders as the wet heat sent a jolt of electricity through you.

He moaned at the taste of you, his voice raw and desperate, his hands splaying out over your hips to pin you down as he moved lower, lower still, dragging those horrible, clever tongues across every inch of you.

When he settled between your thighs, you tried to close them—but his claws kept you open, spreading you wide, your body so exposed you could hardly stand it. You leaned up onto your elbows, fingers digging into the grass.

Jack paused for just a second, panting, his face hovering over your slick, his tongues twitching with anticipation. He let out a broken, hungry little whimper. Was he… was he fucking drooling?

“P-pretty…” he slurred, the syllables barely holding together, “so… pretty…”

And then he lunged, mouth burying itself against you with no finesse, no mercy.

You screamed, your back bowing off the ground as those three tongues moved with wild, sloppy desperation, lapping at you like he was starving. It was too much—the rough flicks, the obscene wetness, the teeth scraping gently at sensitive skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure and terror straight through your core.

You gasped, hips jerking, the spark of pleasure sharp as lightning through your belly. Jack let out a deep, satisfied growl at the reaction, circling your clit with the tip of one of his tongues, soft at first, then firmer, more insistent, making your muscles clench under him.

You fisted his hair, gasping, voice cracking as you tried to guide him, tried to survive the hurricane of sensation.

The second tongue joined the first, working in a counter-rhythm, stroking and licking at you until you were shaking again, barely able to think. He was playing with you—greedy and clumsy, but somehow still so achingly precise, watching you break apart under every drag of his tongues.

“J-Jack—oh my god—slow—please—!”

He didn’t slow. Couldn’t.

He added another.

His monstrous hands pinned your thighs even wider, his growls vibrating right through you, and he sucked at your clit with all three tongues, so intense you almost blacked out, eyes rolling far beyond the back of your head.

“Fuckk—y-you—taste—” he babbled into you, lost in it, “so fucking good.”

You felt his hips rutt against the ground while he devoured you, grinding for relief even as he tore every ounce of yours from you with terrifying devotion.

It was savage. Beautiful.

You were helpless, caught under him, trembling as the pleasure built again and again, nowhere to go, nothing to do but cling to him and pray you survived.

And Jack—he just kept going, lost in you, a monster starved for more than flesh.

Then, with a hungry deliberation, he shifted, tongues drawing lower, to the dripping entrance of your core. One slick tongue traced around the tight ring of muscle, circling, then gently pushed inside—the stretch was strange, hot, noticeable, and you cried out, fisting the dirt, hips rolling helplessly.

Jack shuddered like he could feel it, letting out a sound halfway between a moan and a growl that vibrated against your cunt.

Then a second tongue slid in next to the first, thicker, the two of them twisting, writhing, pressing against places inside you that made your toes curl and your spine curl off the forest floor.

“F-fuck—Jack—!” you sobbed, barely holding on.

He whined, eager, desperate to please, and a third tongue pushed at your entrance, stretching you even more, making you feel so full and so impossibly overwhelmed. He fed them in deeper, deeper still, moving them in slow, obscene thrusts as your body fluttered helplessly around them.

His claws dug into your hips, holding you steady, and he watched you break apart, those empty sockets somehow burning with a savage, possessive adoration.

“Cant stop—I can’t—” he stammered, voice shaking as much as you were, “So warm—”

The tongues twisted inside you, slick and hot and everywhere, while the tip of one still worked your clit in perfect, punishing circles—until your mind was nothing but static. You could feel your restraint dissolve, feel every muscle coming unbound with every pass of the muscles roiling around inside your gummy walls. All you could do was hiccup through tears that spilt down your cheeks, hands lost between fisting the grass and Jack’s messy hair.

He wouldn’t make you decide for long.

Jack finally slowed, his three tongues pulsing one last time inside you before starting to pull free—inch by inch, painfully slow, the writhing muscle dragging slick and hot against your walls.

You cried out, hands scrabbling through the dirt, thighs shivering so hard they nearly clamped shut around his head. Jack lifted, and the sight of him made your stomach twist—his face was covered in you, slick and glistening all the way to the hollows of his cheeks, dripping down the edges of his jaw.

He panted, claws still gripping your hips, and then—almost absently—he used those tongues to clean himself. They swept up over his chin, lapping across his cheeks, curling to drag away every trace of you with obscene thoroughness.

The longest tongue curled all the way up to the corner of his eye socket, slicking away a streak of blood, while the others worked over his lips and down to his throat, catching every drop.

It was monstrous, horrifying—but something about it was also devoted, his noises soft and grateful as he tasted you over and over again.

When he was finished, his face shone faintly in the moonlight, wiped clean by nothing but his own inhuman hunger, and he looked down at you with those hollow, endless sockets, panting, starved, still wanting.

“Taste so… mhnn—so go-good—” he stammered, voice breaking apart, almost overwhelmed himself.

Then, shaking, he leaned back on his haunches, claws fumbling at the button of his jeans, breath coming out in deep, stripped huffs. The denim was already soaked with sweat and stained with little flecks of gore, clinging to his muscled thighs.

“C-can’t—too tight—need…” he growled, frustrated, claws almost tearing the button clean off before he finally managed to wrench it open and shove the jeans down.

The second they fell, your breath hitched. You felt your stomach roll over on itself.

His cock was monstrous, huge even by impossible standards, flushed a dark bruised-blue that almost glowed in the slivered moonlight. Thick ridges ran along the underside, pulsing faintly, and the head was slick and shiny, drooling a bead of clear precum that dripped to the dirt below. Veins wrapped around the shaft like dark ropes, throbbing with each frantic beat of his inhuman heart.

It was obscene, the sheer size of it, the way it twitched and jumped with the smallest movement of his hips. Your body tensed, terrified and aching all at once, while Jack looked down at you with those endless, hungry sockets, a guttural, whiny sound escaping his throat. A noise a dog would make if you held food above its head.

“Sweet girl,” he rasped, voice shaking, “Want—hnn—want inside… please… pl-please.”

He was so hard he looked in pain, the length of him bobbing forward, heavy, glistening, terrifyingly perfect in its brutality. One clawed hand wrapped around the base, a poor attempt to steady himself as he leaned over you, every muscle in his lean, powerful frame quivering with raw, feral need.

You could barely breathe, heart hammering against your ribs, as Jack loomed over you—huge, starved, and desperate to make you his.

A wave of terror slammed into you, cutting through every dazed, sweet ache in your body. Your instincts screamed run, and before you could even think, you rolled over onto your stomach, dirt scraping your skin, legs wobbling as you tried to get your knees under you.

You were so weak, so shaky from everything he’d already done to you, but you managed to crawl forward, dragging yourself clumsy and frantic through the leaves. No fucking way were you going to take that thing.

“Jack, no—” you gasped, voice breaking.

But he snarled behind you, a sound so deep and hungry it rattled your bones.

“Don’t run…” he growled, words wet and cracked, “…don’t run, pretty girl…”

You made it only a few feet before his claws closed around your calf, the rough grip tearing a desperate cry from your lungs. Jack hauled you backward with terrifying ease, your fingernails clawing at the dirt as he dragged you until you were flush against him, your back pressed to the heat of his bare chest, his hips crowding up behind you.

He leaned over, breath scalding against your ear, and you felt the monstrous weight of his cock slide along the curve of your ass, so heavy and thick it made your whole body clench up.

It rested there, pulsing hot against your skin, smearing precum over your lower back and leaving your mind reeling with just how deep he was going to go.

“Don’t run…” Jack repeated, lower, almost a begging whimper tangled with the snarl, “n-need you…need all of you…”

He ground forward, letting the head of his cock catch between your cheeks, then angling his hips, slid his length between your thighs, pressing against your entrance just enough for you to feel the impossible stretch waiting.

Your breath came in sharp, terrified gasps, the world a dizzy blur as his claws dug into your hips, holding you pinned, his voice breaking as he panted into your hair.

“P-pretty…don’t run…gonna make you f-full…so full…”

The sheer heat of him, the solid, inhuman girth twitching and drooling against you, made your head spin. Your heart thundered like prey under a predator’s paw—helpless, trembling, trapped.

You tried to squirm again—a panicked, half-blind attempt to drag yourself away, the leaves and damp earth clinging to your elbows. But Jack’s low, animal snarl made your heart stop, vibrating through your ribs like thunder.

“Don’t,” he rasped, breath raw and uneven, “don’t run—gonna take you—”

His hips rolled, the bulging head of his cock catching against your clit, making you yelp and arch from the sudden jolt of raw, overwhelming pleasure. He dragged it up and down your slit, soaking you with slick precum, smearing it across your folds until you were trembling so hard you could hardly breathe.

Then he shifted, the tip nudging against your entrance, parting you, teasing just enough to send another bolt of fear straight through your spine.

You tried to move again, legs kicking weakly—but that only seemed to annoy him. A harsh growl ripped out of Jack’s throat, and before you could even scream, he slammed both hands onto your back, claws spreading wide across your shoulder blades and pinning you flat against the earth.

He pushed, his massive weight bearing down, forcing your spine into a sharp arch so your ass was high in the air and your chest crushed to the dirt. It was a humiliating, bestial pose—your body forced to submit, trembling, fully exposed.

“Stay,” he snarled, voice cracking around a broken whimper, “stay still—don’t squirm…”

You felt the head of his cock pressing again, harder this time, nudging into you with enough force to steal your breath, the tight muscle of your cunt burning already. You could barely process the stretch, barely believe it would fit, your walls already fighting the impossible intrusion.

Jack’s hips flexed, and the head started to push in, painfully slow, prying you open one quivering inch at a time.

“F-fuck—so tight—so…warm…” he stammered, panting above you, his claws tightening on your shoulders until they dug sharp enough to sting.

The pain was blinding, a burn that radiated through your hips and made tears prick your eyes. Your body shook, helpless, every muscle trying to clamp down and push him out—but he wouldn’t stop.

Jack rocked his hips forward, the head bobbing deeper, pulling out a fraction only to shove in again, each movement nudging him further and further inside until your walls were clinging to the first few inches of that monstrous, ridged length.

Your mind blurred, terror and overstimulation crashing together, as the stretch split you wider and wider—and Jack’s heavy breaths grew more desperate, his voice breaking into wild, devoted praise.

“Yeah—so good—so good—take me—need you t-to take all of me…”

And you realized, in that moment of absolute terror and helplessness, that he meant to fill every aching, breaking inch of you, no matter how much it hurt.

“Oh fuck— Oh, God—wait, Jack—”

Jack’s rhythm grew steadier, more determined, as he worked deeper—each push splitting you a fraction more, the obscene stretch lighting up every nerve in your body. Your breath came in ragged, sobbing pants, eyes screwed shut against the tears as your walls spasmed helplessly around him.

He was relentless, hips rocking, drawing out and then pushing a little deeper each time, forcing your body to mold around him. You could barely process how much was already inside—it felt like too much, so impossibly full, and still he hadn’t bottomed out.

“Hold on—hold on—just wait,” you hiccuped, reaching your arms behind you to plant against his hips, trying to stop him from going any further. You could already feel him bumping against your cervix, drooling tip nudging the deepest parts inside of you.

“Almost, pretty girl—almost there,” Jack rasped, voice wet and fractured.

You choked out a half-formed plea again, but it was lost in the dark as he pressed closer, his sweaty chest crushing against your back. He shifted his claws from your shoulders to dig into the dirt on either side of your head, caging you, pinning you, leaving you nowhere to go as you trembled under him.

And then—with a low, guttural growl—he leaned down and bit into the other side of your shoulder, teeth tearing your skin, white-hot agony blinding you. He locked his jaw tight.

Your scream broke the night, ripping from your throat, echoing through the trees. You pressed your forehead to the ground, heaving and panting into the grass.

In that moment of your rawest, most helpless pain, Jack shoved forward, burying the final brutal inches in one unforgiving thrust. The monstrous cock slammed home, hilting inside you so deep you could barely comprehend it, your body jolting forward from the force as if he meant to split you in two.

Your walls convulsed, spasming wildly around his impossible girth, every nerve alight with pain and pressure and a sick, brutal pleasure that made your head spin.

Jack’s breath rattled against your neck, hot and frantic, his tongues slipping out to lap at the blood welling from his bite as he held himself buried to the hilt, trembling over you like a beast barely chained.

“So—so warm,” he whined against your torn shoulder, voice shaking, “Feels so g-good, baby. So tight—”

And you felt everything inside you go tight and molten and unbearably full, helpless under the weight of him, pinned in a way you could never escape, your body forced to take every impossible inch.

You felt him shift—a subtle grind of his hips, the head of that monstrous cock grinding even deeper, making you jolt with a strangled cry. He couldn’t even wait until you got adjusted.

He let out a wet, shattered moan. “G-gonna move—can’t—can’t stop—hold still—”

And then he pulled back. Slowly at first, dragging that inhuman length from your spasming, quivering walls until only the tip was left stretching you wide, and for a heartbeat you thought he might let you rest.

But then he slammed back in, the force of it making your eyes roll up, punching the air out of your lungs in a weak sob.

“F-fuck—so—tight—” Jack stammered, voice raw, animalistic, clawed hands braced on either side of your head as he started to fuck down into you.

Each thrust was brutal, making you lurch forward, the wet slap of his hips against your ass echoing through the dead-silent woods. He was so deep, so thick, dragging against spots inside you that left your mind spinning, the pain a white-hot brand with every punishing push.

You tried to crawl away again—an instinct, a desperate, animal attempt to survive—but Jack caught you by the hips and slammed you back against him, snarling in your ear, “Don’t run—don’t you run from me. You’re mine—mine—”

His claws dug into your sides, angling you up so every thrust hit a new nerve deep inside, making your stomach tighten painfully around him. You could barely breathe, your body forced to take it over and over as he fucked into you like a starved animal.

Jack’s moans started to crumble, breaking apart into sharp whimpers and cries, his teeth dragging over the bite-mark on your shoulder, licking the blood and sweat. You felt him trembling, desperate, the force behind his thrusts growing frantic and messy, cock twitching with every pull out.

He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.

And under the moonlight, pressed into the dirt with his massive length tearing you open over and over, you realized neither could you.

It hurt. God, it hurt—but something in the pain had started to shift, twisting deep in your belly until it burned into something hotter, something needier. Each time Jack slammed forward, your cunt clenched, not just from the brutal stretch but from a raw, wicked spark that left you reeling.

You couldn’t help it—your hips began to rock back to meet him, your battered body chasing the next drag of that searing cock as it raked through your oversensitive walls.

Jack stuttered for a second, stunned, a growling noise pulling out of his throat as he realized you were pushing back. That you wanted more.

“Yeah, yeah—sweet girl—” he stammered, voice breaking, “feel so—so good—”

Your hands scrambled backward, clinging to the thick muscle of his arms, then up to dig your fingers into his shoulders, nails dragging across hot, sweaty skin. He was burning behind you, feverish, the broad line of his chest flexing with every ragged breath.

“Jack,” you gasped, voice catching, “t-touch me—please—Jack, please—”

That was all it took.

He let out a deep, snarling whimper, the sound rolling through his chest and into you, and then he was moving even harder, rutting into you with sloppy, frantic thrusts that made your thighs spasm and your vision blur.

His claws scraped the earth beside you as he tried to keep from ripping you apart, every thrust wet and obscene—slick squelching, drool dripping from his mouths down onto your back, strings of precum and slick soaking your thighs as his jeans pooled around his knees.

The raw, nasty sounds of him splitting you open filled the air, sticky and wet and feral, each thrust making you clench tighter, wanting more, more, no matter how much it hurt.

Jack’s hips smacked against your ass again and again, leaving stinging bruises, and still you pushed back, desperate to meet every brutal stroke. Your hands clung to him like a lifeline, nails raking across his skin, your body screaming for more even as it trembled under the onslaught.

Jack’s tongues slipped out again, drooling, laving down your spine, tasting your sweat, your skin, your pain—unable to stop devouring you in every way.

“Don’t—don’t stop—” you choked out, and he let out a hoarse, shattered laugh that broke halfway to a growl.

“Can’t—never—never stopping,” he gasped, rutting forward until your knees buckled, forcing you to collapse under him, pinned to the dirt by his weight and the vicious, monstrous cock ripping you apart.

It was filthy, raw, a primal mess of slick and sweat and drool and blood, and neither of you could seem to get enough.

Jack’s thrusts slowed momentarily, a slurred, choked sound catching on his tongues as he pulled out, dragging that massive length from your trembling, ruined body inch by inch. You gasped, nearly sobbing, empty in a way that made your insides clench desperately around nothing.

But before you could catch your breath, Jack’s claws wrapped around your hips, hauling you over like you weighed nothing, flipping you onto your back. The warm night air bit into your sweat-slicked skin, making you groan—then his shadow fell over you, huge and monstrous, his eyes boring down like twin bottomless holes.

You reached up, arms instinctively curling around his shoulders, holding onto the thick, corded muscle under his burning skin. His lean, powerful torso flexed with every breath, still dripping with sweat.

He lined up again, the fat head of his cock dragging through your slick folds, and you both moaned, bodies shaking with raw, hungry need.

“Jack,” you whimpered, voice small and cracked, “fuck me, c’mon—”

“Gonna—gonna put it back in, pretty—so warm—so good—” he rasped, leaning over you, three tongues lapping from his mouth and twitching as he stared down, almost mesmerized.

Then he pushed.

It was every bit as brutal, every bit as overwhelming as the first time, the massive length stretching you to your limit and then beyond, the head forcing your walls open until you thought you’d break.

Your back arched, a scream caught in your throat—but it didn’t get out, because Jack was already sinking deeper, deeper still, until you felt a tight, blunt pressure so far inside you that it made your vision white out.

His eyes went wide, hollow sockets somehow hungry, staring right at your stomach.

“Look,” he panted, a grin tearing across his blood-streaked lips, “look at you—”

You followed his gaze, and nearly broke—a distinct bulge pressing up under the roundness of your belly, obscene and impossible, shifting every time he moved.

“Oh my god—Jack—” you cried, eyes glassy, “that’s—fuck—”

“Inside,” he growled, voice reverent and broken, his claw pressing right against that bulge. You felt it, felt the way it shifted with the head of his cock, and a raw, helpless sob tore out of you.

“Can you feel me?” he crooned, barely human, claws stroking your hips, pressing harder against the bump in your stomach. “Can you feel me all the way here?—S-so deep, pretty girl—mine—”

You shook, nodding, tears slipping from your lashes as the pleasure spiked unbearably.

“Yes—yes, Jack—yours—yours—”

He let out a hoarse, ecstatic snarl and started pounding into you again, faster, harder, the force of each thrust making that stomach bulge jump under his hand. You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders, gripping for dear life as he rutted you into the dirt, tongues lapping at your face and neck, worshipping you. Each thrust knocked his cock against your g-spot.

“Never gonna—hah—let go—” he grunted between sloppy, punishing thrusts, “gonna fill you—make you full—of my babies—”

You couldn’t even answer, your body was on fire, arching and breaking under him, every nerve screaming for more as the woods spun around you.

It came faster than you could even register.

You couldn’t take any more—each brutal, slamming thrust was a lightning strike, fire rolling through your veins until everything inside you clenched, burned, and finally broke.

Your back arched hard off the ground, arms locked around Jack’s shoulders, mouth open in a silent cry as a devastating orgasm ripped through you.

“Jack—!”

Your walls squeezed him so tight he nearly lost his mind, your core fluttering and gripping him in pulsing waves, slick and scorching. Jack’s claws immediately wrapped around your back, holding you close against him as if he could fuse your bodies together.

He let out a strangled, desperate growl, eyes locked on you, breathing so ragged it almost didn’t sound human. Something in him seemed to snap—a feral instinct flooding through every monstrous inch of him.

“Pretty—so good—” he babbled, voice raw and cracking, “mine—mine—mine—”

Then he lurched down, seizing your mouth with a ferocity that stunned you.

His tongues plunged inside all at once, stretching your lips wide, thick and powerful as they explored every inch of your mouth. One curled under your tongue, another ran across your teeth, the third so deep it made you gag, stealing your breath.

You choked on the sheer overwhelming invasion, tears spilling down your cheeks, but couldn’t pull away—Jack’s hands were iron around your waist, crushing you to him, the feverish heat of him radiating through your trembling body.

His tongues moved with a filthy rhythm, tasting you, claiming you, drool mixing with your tears until everything was slick and desperate. He moaned right into your throat, rutting his hips hard against you while his tongues tangled deeper, worshipping you like you were air, water, salvation.

Your climax was still crashing through you, making your legs weak and shaky as you tried to breathe through the frantic kiss—but Jack wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t stop, lost in that blinding animal need to own you completely.

Your lungs burned as his tongues kept invading, every inch of you claimed and devoured. The taste of him—coppery, inhuman, mixed with the salt of your own tears—filled your senses until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

His cock was still pounding into you with a punishing rhythm, the tip punching so deep inside you that your stomach bulged again and again. Every thrust made your sensitive walls clench helplessly, overstimulated, still pulsing.

Jack moaned into your mouth, frantic, tongues twisting and licking and fucking into you while he fucked harder, losing any semblance of control. His claws dug into your hips, pinning you in place, pace stuttering as he chased the final edge.

“M’gonna—” he gasped, voice barely even a voice, just a devastating, hungry snarl against your lips, “gonna fill you—make you—mine—!”

You felt him tense, the length of him swelling impossibly inside you—then he buried himself to the hilt, the head smashing up against your cervix, and roared.

Hot, thick cum poured into you in heavy pulses, stretching you so full you could feel every gush, every wave crashing deep inside. Jack’s whole body shook above you, tongues still gagging your mouth, drool and tears mixing on your face as he pumped you full.

Your walls fluttered again, clamping down on him instinctively, milking every drop until he finally slowed, breathing ragged and wild.

He collapsed against you, still inside, still impossibly hard, arms curling around you protectively like he’d never let you go. His tongues finally pulled free of your mouth, leaving you gasping for air, lips bruised and slick with spit.

Jack buried his face against your neck, panting, lost and shaking, whispering in a hoarse, cracked growl, “Mine…always mine…”

You thought—prayed—he was done, but then you felt it: a new pressure, deep in your gut, stretching you wider from the inside.

Your eyes flew wide, panic spiking again.

“J-Jack? What’s happening?” you rasped, voice shaking, but he only whined into your neck, his hips rocking against yours, grinding in short, desperate ruts.

You felt it swelling—something solid, something burning, growing right at the base of him.

Oh god.

You tried to move, to shift, but his claws curled around your hips, locking you down hard.

“Stay,” he snarled, voice a warped echo against your throat, “don’t run.”

You gasped as that thick knot stretched you, forcing you even wider, burning with a brutal, almost cruel fullness. Your walls spasmed helplessly, trying to reject it, but Jack was stronger—so much stronger—and he held you down while he forced the growing bulb past the tightest part of your entrance.

It finally popped inside with a wet, obscene sound, lodging deep against your cunt, locking you to him.

You screamed, back arching off the ground, mind breaking under the sheer bruising invasion.

Jack moaned—moaned—a weary, needy cry, shoving his face against yours as if to soothe you.

“Can’t—can’t let go—” he babbled, voice dripping hunger and desperation, “mine—mine—stay—stay here—”

He ground his knot deeper, each tiny thrust making it swell even bigger until you felt like you’d burst. The fullness was blinding, overwhelming, his cock jerking and twitching inside you as another pulse of hot cum flooded you, trapped by the knot, locked away.

Your hips shook, pinned, no escape as Jack licked and bit at your neck, rutting slow, greedy circles against you even with the knot sealing you tight.

“Don’t—don’t run, sweet girl,” he panted, voice trembling, “can’t…can’t let you go…��

You felt every throb, every pulse, the unbearable stretch, your whole body trembling and on the verge of breaking apart under him.

Jack was still, but you could feel him trembling—muscles locked tight, claws flexing against your hips as though afraid you might vanish if he let go for even a second.

You squirmed, a whimper tearing from your throat as the knot shifted painfully, the pressure pressing right up against your cervix.

“Jack,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, “Jack, it’s too much—”

He whined, the sound broken and needy, burying his face against your cheek, tongues tracing clumsy, comforting patterns over your sweaty skin.

“Can’t—can’t let go yet,” he slurred, voice ragged and half-human, “feels too good—can’t—”

You felt him try to rut again, short, choppy motions that only made the knot grind harshly against every raw, sensitive part of you. A shocked moan escaped your lips, your body arching under him, pleasure and pain blurring together until you couldn’t separate them. You slammed your fist against his shoulder.

“Shh,” he crooned, breath hot against your face, “s’okay—s’good—so warm—so warm inside—”

His hips stuttered, forcing the knot to jerk inside you, and you could swear you felt another faint gush of heat flood your battered, filled-up core.

Your walls fluttered around him helplessly, milking every drop.

Jack whimpered again, as if even he couldn’t stand the feeling, and wrapped his arms fully around your waist, drawing you up against him until your chests were smashed together. You could feel his heart hammering through your skin, a wild, frantic rhythm that matched your own.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged, voice warbled and broken, “please—pretty please—don’t leave—”

You could barely breathe, dizzy from being stretched and locked in place, but you nodded, trembling, stroking through his sweat-slicked hair.

“I’m here,” you whispered, voice cracking, “Jack, I’m here, I’m not leaving.”

He made a sound like a sob—part growl, part weep—and curled around you, knot twitching inside you, sealing you so perfectly you could feel every tremor of his body through the hot, thick lock of him.

And there, under the hush of the woods and the silver light of the moon, you stayed tangled together, your breath mixing, no escape, no space left between you.

── .✦

The woods felt endless, but you clung to him like an anchor, your hands tangled in his hair, your cheek pressed against the rough planes of his shoulder. His knot still held you in place, keeping every inch of him buried deep, a constant, heavy pressure that refused to ease for what felt like an eternity.

Neither of you could move much, so you talked, your voices small and exhausted under the wide, quiet dark.

“Where…where did you go, Jack?” you asked, trying to steady your breathing as another aftershock rolled through you.

He rumbled softly, claws smoothing along your spine. “Didn’t know,” he rasped, sounding like himself again, raw and worn-out. “Felt…wrong. Everything was red. Loud. Inside my head.”

You nodded, heart twisting. “I thought you were dead,” you admitted, a tear slipping out, catching on the blood drying across your cheek. “When you didn’t come, I— I thought—”

His arms tightened around you, a protective squeeze. “Not dead,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, “I couldn’t control much, but… I knew I had to stay away. Knew if I saw you I would hurt you.”

You sniffled, breathing in the rich, earthy scent of him, still faintly metallic from all the blood. It was terrible—but it was him, and that was enough.

“I came looking,” you whispered, voice breaking, “I couldn’t just sit there, Jack, I— I needed you to come back.”

A pained groan rattled in his chest, his claws dragging up to cradle your face as best he could. “Pretty girl,” he rasped, almost gentle, “mine…always mine. M’so sorry…”

You felt him shift, hips jerking, the knot giving a final, deep pulse inside you. It made you cry out softly, but then you felt it: the swelling finally, blessedly going down. Inch by inch, the brutal stretch began to ease, and you could feel the heavy, wet fullness slipping from your body with a messy, shuddering slide.

Jack grunted as the knot popped free, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness, legs trembling uncontrollably.

For a moment you just lay there, both of you breathing hard, staring at each other. Then Jack leaned down, pressing a surprisingly sweet kiss to your cheek before sitting up, guiding you carefully.

“Come,” he murmured, voice steadier now, “let’s—let’s go.”

You nodded weakly, your body aching and filthy, but still reaching for him.

Jack helped you with fumbling claws, reached for your jeans with shaky claws to help tug your them back onto your ankles and into place, grimacing at the mud-smeared fabric. He growled under his breath, pulling your ruined panties out of the way and scowling at the torn, limp scraps.

“Shit,” you laughed weakly, voice hoarse and a little hysterical, “Jack, those were my favorite pair.”

He shot you a look through his hollow sockets, a low, embarrassed huff.

“And my bra?” you added, smirking despite the soreness. “Guess that’s toast too.”

Jack shifted, claws fumbling with the remains of your bra, what was left of the cups shredded and hanging from one strap. “Didn’t—” he rasped, voice cracking, “didn’t mean to.”

You snorted, half delirious, letting him help pull your dirty t-shirt back down over your shoulders, trying to keep what modesty you had left.

“Yeah, well,” you sighed, “you owe me a shopping trip.”

A surprised sound rumbled from him—almost a laugh—before he bent to fix his own jeans, dragging them back up around his hips, claws clumsy from lingering adrenaline. He tried to tug his hoodie over his head, only to growl when it stuck to his sweaty back, the sleeves twisted.

“Hot,” he grunted, voice frustrated, trying to shrug out of it. “Too…tight.”

You had to bite your lip to keep from giggling as you watched him wrestle with the oversized, shredded hoodie, muscles flexing and straining as sweat dripped down the lean, scarred lines of his back and chest.

“Jack,” you teased softly, “you’re gonna rip that too.”

He shot you a sulky look, then finally tossed the hoodie aside, leaving his bare skin gleaming under the moonlight.

You spotted his mask in the dirt, cracked and stained, and you picked it up with a shaky hand.

“Here,” you whispered, offering it to him.

He stared at it, hollow eye sockets softening, then took it gently from you. Jack sighed, then leaned down and scooped you into his arms like you weighed no more than a feather.

You couldn’t help a startled little laugh, clinging to his neck. “Jack—!”

“My sweet girl,” he repeated, voice quieter now, more sure. “Taking you home.”

Your heart ached at that—so familiar, so safe despite everything.

He turned, stepping carefully through the underbrush, still clutching you close as if you’d vanish if he let go. You rested your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed, hearing only the rhythmic pounding of his heart and the slow, steady steps through the woods.

The broken flashlight swung from his claw, the cracked mask tucked into the crook of his elbow, a battered promise that somehow, the two of you had survived one more night together.

The night air clung to your skin as Jack stepped carefully along the familiar path, carrying you easily in his arms. When you saw the glow of your porch lights through the trees, you almost sobbed with relief, clinging to him tighter—and he just kept walking, carrying you still. You could see the silhouette of your fence ahead, the place where, for so many nights, you’d waited on one side while he stayed on the other, the fragile, invisible line you’d both respected all this time.

But now—

Jack shifted you in his hold, reaching out with one clawed hand to unlatch the fence gate. It creaked open, spilling a pool of soft porch light across the grass. And just like that, he stepped through, crossing the boundary he’d never dared to cross before. It was almost ceremonial, the moment so huge it stole your breath.

He came through, you thought in a daze. He finally came through.

He didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, just carried you straight toward the back door, nudging it open with his shoulder. The house was cool inside, smelling of candle wax and lemon dish soap—so normal, so safe compared to the horror outside. The floorboards were faintly warm from the day’s sun, and the air conditioners hummed, washing over your sticky, bruised skin.

Jack set you down gently, claws steady even if you could feel him trembling. Then, without a word, he guided you to the bathroom, flipping on the light with an awkward flick of his elbow. You winced at the sudden brightness.

You didn’t even have to ask, he handled everything. Undressing you again, running warm water over your washcloth, holding you tight. He knelt in front of you, running the damp cloth across your arms, your belly, carefully dabbing away the drying blood and mess between your legs. His gray skin was flushed darker in patches, his eye sockets soft around the edges, hollow but somehow tender.

“Stay still,” he mumbled, voice low and rough, so much clearer now.

You let him clean you, trembling, heart pounding at every careful sweep of the cloth. He undressed too, cleaning the still bloodied and slick-stained parts of his body, running the rag over his jaw and neck. When he was done, you leaned against him, boneless and trusting, letting him gather you back up into his arms.

This time he carried you to your room, the house dim and quiet except for the chirping bugs outside. He paused at the foot of your bed, as if making sure you really wanted him there, the question unspoken.

You reached up and cupped his jaw. “Jack… just get in,” you whispered.

His shoulders slumped in relief, and he eased you down onto the mattress, then crawled in after you—still completely naked, still warm with the sticky night air and smelling of earth and moonlight and something feral you couldn’t name.

The sheets tangled around you both as he curled protectively against your back, claws twitching, breath tickling your ear. You could feel every line of his strong, scarred body pressed to yours, his skin so hot it almost burned.

He buried his face against your shoulder, exhaling shakily. “No more gate,” he rasped, like it was a confession. “No more fence.”

You nodded, tears pricking your eyes. “No more fence,” you agreed, voice soft and breaking.

Jack’s breathing slowed at your back, his chin nestled against the crook of your shoulder as if he might melt right into you. The cicadas outside carried on their summer song, but your room felt impossibly calm, impossibly still.

He shifted, clawed fingers brushing across your ribs, a hesitant stroke. “…Missed you,” he rasped, the words broken but more human than you’d heard in days.

You swallowed hard, reaching down to lace your fingers with his. “I missed you too. I was so worried.”

A pained noise rattled out of him, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. “Didn’t…know where I was,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “Felt…wrong. Everything smelled and looked wrong.”

You turned in his arms, close enough to see the faint scars along his lips, the smear of blood he’d missed near one temple. “Like…a haze?”

He nodded stiffly. “A dream. A bad dream.” His claws flexed in yours. “Couldn’t…stop. Needed—Need you.”

Your heart pinched at that, at how raw he sounded. You reached to smooth his damp hair away from his forehead. “That’s why you didn’t come to the fence?”

“Didn’t want you to see,” he rasped, ashamed, looking away for a second. “Didn’t…trust myself.”

You hugged him tighter, pressing your forehead against his. “Jack, I came looking for you. I wanted to see you. Even if you were… messed up.”

His body shuddered, swallowing a rough, pained sound. “Came…through the gate,” he mumbled, voice almost childlike, like he couldn’t believe it himself.

You smiled, despite everything. “Yeah. You finally crossed my fence.”

A huff of air against your cheek—maybe the closest Jack could get to a laugh. Then he shifted closer, pressing his hips into yours. You could still feel the heavy weight of him, even now, half-hard where he lay against you.

“Still…feel it,” he admitted, cheeks darkening, as if shy.

You gave a nervous little laugh, brushing your fingers through his sweaty hair. “Yeah, I can tell.”

He ducked his head, almost hiding against your neck, mumbling something soft.

“What, baby?” you asked, gentle.

His voice was so raw it cracked in the middle. “…Never gonna leave again.”

Your chest went tight, tears pricking your eyes. You cupped the side of his face. “Good,” you whispered, letting him hear how much you meant it. “Good, Jack. I’m not leaving, either.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years, then buried his face against your shoulder again, arms banding around your waist. The two of you lay tangled together in the sticky summer night, hearts pounding, no fences, no gates, no walls left between you.

── .✦

You woke slowly, warmth and stickiness pulling at your senses before your mind could even register what time it was. The curtains glowed with that syrupy gold of a sunrise, a hint of last night still vibrating in the walls.

But what really forced you awake was the strange, achingly sweet pull deep between your legs—a wet, rhythmic swirl that nearly made you arch right out of the bed.

Your eyes shot open, breath lodging in your throat, and you gasped as you fumbled the sheets off your chest—only to see a dark, familiar shadow moving below the covers, a low, wet slurping sound vibrating straight through your bones.

“J-Jack—” you whimpered, voice a strangled mess as you dug trembling fingers into the sheets.

The shape below the blanket shifted, and then a sudden, precise flick of a tongue against your clit made your vision explode in white. You barely managed to shove your hands down to find his hair, grabbing at the strands, when your body snapped—the orgasm crashing over you so hard your knees tried to slam together, your hips twisting helplessly.

Jack didn’t even stop, if anything, his hands pinned your thighs down harder, clawed fingertips dimpling your soft skin as he let you ride the crest of that wave. You were writhing, shaking, trying to push him away, but he only rumbled deep in his chest—a possessive growl that left your body going limp.

When he finally surfaced, crawling up over your body, the blanket fell away to show his face—drool smeared his chin, along with your slick, and all three of his tongues curled out to lap at the air before sliding back behind sharp teeth.

He was panting, like he’d been starved all night.

“J-Jack,” you tried to breathe, grabbing his shoulders as he hovered over you, “didn’t we… didn’t we handle this last night?”

A pitiful, rough whine left him, one of his hands curling against the pillow beside your head. “Not enough,” he croaked, voice shredded, raw. “Need…more.”

His hips dipped against yours, and you felt the hard, achingly hot length of him, smearing against your thigh. A tremor shot through you, panic mixing with want.

“Jack, please—”

“Need you,” he repeated, lower this time, a snarl clawing through his words as his claws scraped the bedding beside your head, inches from your skin. “More.”

His body pressed you down into the mattress, wild, unstoppable, like the night had barely scratched the surface of what he needed.

Your breath caught in your throat, tangled between fear and something so shamefully eager you could hardly stand it. Jack loomed over you, the heat rolling off his body, eyes like pits of pitch and night, starved even after everything.

He lowered his head, nosing along your jaw, breathing you in like you were the only thing left on earth that could save him. “Pretty,” he rasped, tongues flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat, “smell so good…can’t stop…”

His hips rolled against yours again, grinding, thick and hard, and you felt him shiver all the way down to the bones. His claws dug into the sheets beside your ribs, trying to hold himself back, but you knew there was no holding him back.

A flicker of sunlight broke through the curtains then, kissing the two of you in the warm glow—him hunched over you like a beast out of a half-forgotten dream, you trembling and wide-eyed, your hands knotted in his hair.

You swallowed, voice breaking as you dared to smile through the haze.

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered, and you meant it—even if you were terrified, even if everything hurt and burned and ached, you still meant it.

His head bowed, shoulders heaving, and a relieved, broken sound fell from him, more human than you’d heard yet. He pressed his forehead to yours, panting, clutching you like you were the last tether to what was left of him.

And then he surged forward, capturing your lips, those monstrous tongues wrapping around yours, and in that feral, messy kiss you felt every unspoken word he couldn’t form—how he loved you, how he’d always come back, how he could never leave you again.

The world outside kept turning—birdsong and heat, soft light and the creak of old wood—but you were wrapped in him, in that terrifying, impossible devotion.

There was no fence anymore. No boundary.

Just the two of you, locked together, in all the ruin and the tenderness you’d built. Your Jack.

Thanks for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

#creepypasta #smut #creepypasta fanfic #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x y/n #creepypasta x you #creepypasta x female reader #eyeless jack #eyeless jack x reader #eyeless jack x y/n #eyeless jack x you #eyeless jack x female reader #jack nyras #creepypasta eyeless jack #eyeless jack creepypasta #slenderverse #slender man mythos #eyeless jack smut

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babydoll372 · 2 months ago

Text

Creeper

Pairings: stalker!wanda maximoff x reader

Word count: 1945

Warnings: wanda is really creepy, filming without permission, photo taking without permission, masturbation (r), nude videos, degradation, slight humiliation kink, stalking, obsessive behavior

Some may call Wanda a stalker, some may call her absurd and obsessive, but all she did was embrace her passions. She adored photography, she loved sketching too, but most importantly, she worshiped the very idea of you, and what better way to spend her days than to combine all three? You didn’t know her well, Wanda liked to believe you did but truthfully you barely even knew her first name. The two of you shared an art class at your college, but that was it. What did you know about Wanda? Nothing. What did she know about you? Everything from your name to your home layout.

While at a community college, you lived with your parents in the home that you grew up in, just like Wanda did. Except you two lived five towns away from each other, but she didn’t care, she drove out every single evening to ensure she caught sight of you. When you were sleeping, she’d either ascend into your bedroom and take photos, or she’d linger outside your window and do the same. She had a box beneath her bed at home complete with captivating love notes she wrote to you without ever sending. Photos, artwork, envisions for your future, and so on filled this box. There was no distrust in Wanda’s mind, she had to have you.

She planned her arrival to class that next day, following you from a distance so she could get to class at precisely the correct time to sit next to you. That way she could finally talk to you or simply look at you closer up. Today you were wearing jeans and a cardigan, she couldn’t blame you considering the more frigid fall weather. At one point you removed the cardigan to reveal a plain white t-shirt that was tucked into your pants, making her bite her lip as she obscured her phone by her leg to take a picture and then feigned to use the device to text someone when in reality she was staring shamelessly at you. She had to ask to use the restroom merely to get a breather, and once she returned she vowed to herself that in the next forty-three minutes left, she would muster up the courage to at least emit a word to you. And twelve minutes later, she did.

“That looks really good.” She shyly confessed, peeking at your artwork. If anyone else saw it they’d think it was mundane, but it came from you; it was a jewel to Wanda. You looked over and beamed at her, and the woman swore she nearly fell over in her stool at the way your teeth were just barely detectable, your lips flawlessly plump, and your eyes ostensibly gleaming in line with hers.

“Thank you! What are you making?” There was now a flow of dialogue, just what Wanda needed. She tinkered with her paintbrush as you leaned over a bit to look, and she could get the remotest whiff of your perfume. She didn’t know how to describe what she was making without sounding insane, without telling you the entangled bodies she was painting were meant to resemble what her mind pictured most periods out of the day with you.

“Oh, uh, it- it’s..it’s meant to be a symbol of love between two, uhm..two women..” She tested the waters, wanting to see how you reacted to that information.

“Wow, I would’ve never thought of something like that…can I take a photo once you’re done?” She blushed, quickly bobbing her head in a form of agreement as she truly presumed she saw you look her up and down out of the corner of her eye. You must have, she knew there was a connection between you two.

That night Wanda again left with her camera, setting up in the bushes near your bedroom very uncomfortably, but none of that matters when she witnesses your body via your window. Your room faced layers of woods, trees were the only things that could be found for miles, you thought you didn’t have anything to worry about besides possibly an animal seeing you, which you couldn’t care less about. Little did you know the girl you just spoke to for the first time today was what you had to look out for. She snapped hundreds - thousands of photos as you undressed and got into pajamas. She then watched as you reached into your drawer, grabbing an item you held close to your palm. She furrowed her brows in confusion, observing you set up your laptop as you lay comfortably on your bed and lowered your shorts, displaying a bullet vibrator to be the culprit. She quickly turned the camera on record and didn’t move for the next half an hour as she watched you grow frustrated from a lack of orgasm, and ultimately give up. She was a bit disappointed to not see you reach that stage, yet it only fueled her desire to assist you in getting there.

Her drive was full, all of these photos being transported into the printer for her to store in her secretive box, and the videotape for her to keep in an album in her computer software. She had an entire album dedicated to videos of you - photos too, nothing could be put past her.

On the coming Monday in her art class, she had never been more elated to see you. The prior week the Professor informed the class that the next project would be paired, involving a sketched design between two people, and she had been preparing herself to ask you. She went out and bought some of the perfumes she saw on your nightstand in hopes you’d identify the scent and be lured to her, and she brushed her teeth four times this morning to ensure you weren’t turned off by a foul breath.

“Hey, Y/N!” She internally cursed herself, remembering last class she didn’t ask for your name. She hoped you’d pass it off and, surprisingly, you did. “Do you have a partner yet for the assignment? T-the paired one?”

“Oh, no, I don’t. Do you want to be mine?” You asked with a lifted brow and a slight grin, and for a moment she felt like you could read her every thought; she felt skittish but yet thankful.

“I’d love to! Uhm, maybe we could work on it outside of school? You know, to make sure we don’t fall behind..” She heard a tiny chuckle from you and feared the worst, clasping her lips together as she was ready for rejection.

“Yeah, whatever you think will help us pass. Any day works for me, we’ll go to my place, okay?” She didn’t challenge you for one second, and that proved to be the right move when a few days later she was actually walking into your house in broad daylight for the first time. This time, you were awake, fully conscious, and aware of her presence. She met your parents briefly, ate the food they made, and even went into your room with you - the same room she watched you masturbate in a few nights ago. She couldn’t help but glance at the bed and wonder what else you had done before. Wanda rested her laptop on the soft mattress as she sat alongside you, the two of you pondering between different concepts for the design.

"Can we use your laptop? Mine's dead and charging it will take forever." You groaned at just the reminder alone of the lack of battery you had, and Wanda agreed, although uncertain as she opened the screen and quickly closed all tabs beside one. She held her tightening bladder while you sat next to her, simply just to feel your arm barely grazing against hers, long enough for you two to find the ideal reference. She finally asked to use your restroom and instructed you on how to save the photo. As she left the room you skimmed the 'recent' section of her files to find it, only to click on the wrong PDF. Your eyes widened as you found a photo of you taken from outside of your room, your breasts on display as you were stretching a shirt over your arms. You glanced up to ensure Wanda was still in the bathroom directly across from your bedroom before clicking to the next image, and the next, and the next. Then came a video. You remembered the exact moment recorded, it came from just the other night. When your project partner came back in, her small voice sounded out as she closed the door behind her.

"Did you figure out how to save it?" She sat back down with a small plop, glimpsing over to eye the screen only to quickly haul it away when she recognized what was on it. She was standing again, holding her laptop close to her as her pupils were blown in shock behind her glasses, her face reddened. "I- I can explain, I swear!" She proclaimed, yet nothing followed it. She heard your scoff and lowered her head, ready to be scolded and forced to leave, reasonably so.

"You dirty little perv...I would've never suspected such a sweet girl to be so nasty." She swallowed shakily, slowly peeking back up at you when she saw your body move to be mere inches away from her.

"I really am sorry, you were never meant to find this." She mewled, wiping one of her eyes quickly as you cooed mockingly.

"Oh, I know, I know. You just planned to get off while being a little creep, stalking me while I was naked- while I was fucking masturbating. Were you hoping I was thinking of you, hm?" She slowly nodded in mortification, biting her lip as her mind reeled with the reminder. She could visualize the day you'd lie in front of her, purposely and knowingly, reciting the acts as you moaned her name.

"I just want you to like me too, Y/N..." She couldn't justify her filming, her photography, her deep obsession - all she could do was beg for you to allow her to stay, to move past what she did.

"...You're lucky you're cute, Wanda."

That night she went home with a kiss on her cheek and a large, mindless grin on her face, your lipstick print just barely evident. She didn't dare erase it, even after her twin brother teasingly pointed it out so that her parents would ask hundreds of questions. She ignored them, going to her room and sighing happily as she tucked herself into bed - pausing when she received a notification from an unknown number.

'For your little collection ;)' The text read, and she opened the video attachment with furrowed brows, her volume button instantly being attacked so no one could hear the loud moaning from your end, the whimpers, the groans. She heard her name multiple times, and her eyes couldn't decide between focusing on your pulsing clit vibrating against your toy, your tight hole greedily accepting two fingers, or your plump breasts slightly squished together by your arms. Previously, you couldn't reach your needed orgasm. However, Wanda felt drool pooling around her bottom lip as your legs shook violently, your body twitching as a result of the overbearing pleasure you were feeling. You slowly eased your fingers away from your hole after the vibrator came to a stop, and the woman on the other end let out a small moan as you licked the digits clean, wishing her a goodnight in your raspy, cultivating voice.

She was going to have a good night indeed.

#wanda maximoff x gender neutral reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff #Wanda Maximoff x reader smut #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda x you #wanda x reader #wanda x y/n #wanda marvel #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch x you #scarlet witch smut #scarlet witch fluff

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cupofteatoyou2 · 2 months ago

Text

balcony

(+18)

Barcelona hadn’t felt like home yet.

You were still moving around the city with the wide-eyed clumsiness of someone trying not to look lost, but always somehow ending up on the wrong metro line. Your Spanish was good enough, Catalan… barely there. Most days you kept your head down, your headphones in, and told yourself that adjusting just took time.

Your apartment, at least, was something you could make your own. It was small, but the ceilings were high and the light came in warm in the afternoons. And the balcony— it wasn’t big,but not small either —had sold you on the place the second you stepped into it. Just enough space for a chair, small coffee table, probably small couch in future and the quiet hope that maybe you'd start to feel like yourself again, even so far from what used to be familiar.

Your schedule was still awkward. Architecture classes were long and intense, all theory and pressure, with just enough free time to make you guilty for not doing more. You spent your mornings on campus, your afternoons sketching—or pretending to—and your evenings curled up on the bed, half-listening to music as you convinced yourself to work.

The first week went by like that. Quiet. Uneventful. No real contact with anyone besides classmates and your advisor. You’d seen glimpses of neighbors, sure—someone carrying a bike upstairs, an older woman with laundry baskets and bright pink slippers—but no one close enough to say hello to.

Your own balcony faced another. Separated by a thin divider, waist-high, painted in the same tired white as the rest of the complex. You’d never seen anyone out there. Maybe the apartment next to yours was empty.

So when you stepped into your living room that afternoon, barefoot, cup of tea in hand, the last thing you expected was to find a massive black cat staring at you like he’d been there the whole time.

You froze mid-step. Tea sloshed dangerously close to the rim.

He was sitting perfectly still by the sliding glass door, halfway between inside and out, tail curled neatly around his paws. The kind of black that looked almost blue in the sunlight. Broad head, golden eyes. Quiet confidence.

You stared.

“…Where the hell did you come from?”

No collar. No sound. He blinked once, like you were the one being strange.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped fully into your apartment.

You stood there, mouth slightly open, as he padded across the wooden floor like it belonged to him. No rush, no nerves. Just… calm. Like this was a routine visit.

You turned slowly to follow him with your eyes. “Okay.. Great.”

He paused near your low coffee table, sniffed your sketchbook, and then—because apparently this was his home now—curled up in the warm square of light spilling in through the window.

You blinked again.

“I didn’t even… I didn’t leave food out or anything.” You rubbed a hand over your face. “You just—broke in?”

The cat lifted his head slightly, then lowered it again with a deep, satisfied sigh. He was clearly not going anywhere.

You hesitated for a few seconds longer“Okay” you muttered, “Make yourself at home.”

After that first afternoon, you expected the cat to disappear.

Barcelona didn’t feel like the kind of city where things just showed up and stayed. Everything here moved too fast. The days bled together in a haze of heat, noise, and effort—so many things to learn, so much to adapt to. And yet, the next day, at exactly the same time, cat returned.

You’d barely noticed the sound—a soft scratch against the tile, the faint thump of paws—but there he was again, settling into the same pool of afternoon light by your bookshelf with a long, theatrical sigh.

You stared at him for a moment from behind your laptop. “You’re serious about this, huh?”

He didn’t answer. Just flicked his tail once and closed his eyes.

And so, day after day, he came back.

Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, but always after noon and always alone. You started expecting him. Started leaving the balcony door open just wide enough. Started refilling the little water bowl by the couch.

By day three, you’d caught yourself talking to him out loud. Not full conversations, but soft comments here and there as you worked through sketches and models. Your studio space was small, and quiet, and cat filled it with a presence that didn’t demand anything from you—which, weirdly, made it easier to think.

He wasn’t affectionate. Not exactly. He’d occasionally brush against your ankle or curl beside you on the couch, but mostly he existed like a shadow—steady and unbothered. You grew used to the shape of him in your space. Like a black spill of ink across the light. Like something that made your borrowed apartment feel a little more like home.

You wondered where he came from. Who he belonged to. But there hadn’t been any notes, no one knocking at your door, no complaints. Just the occasional sound from the balcony next door—faint music, the clink of a cup, a brief laugh that disappeared too quickly to hold onto.

Whoever lived there wasn’t nosy. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

Still, you caught yourself glancing over the divider more and more often.

The mystery of it made your chest itch.

On the fifth day, you came back late from a critique session and found him already waiting. He was sitting neatly just outside the door, staring in like you were the one running late. You let out a soft, surprised laugh and opened it without thinking.

“You’ve got some nerve.”

Cat walked in like he owned the place.

That night, he stayed longer than usual. You worked on your laptop while he snored softly under the window. And for the first time since you’d moved here, you didn’t feel the weight of distance as heavily as before.

On the sixth day, it rained.

You thought maybe that would break the pattern. Maybe you’d just imagined this weird ritual into something bigger than it was. But around four in the afternoon, when the skies were a dull, relentless gray and your mood was worse, you heard the faintest sound by the window.

You turned. And there he was.

Drenched. Displeased. Regal.

You hurried to open the door, and he padded in without hesitation, shaking droplets onto your floor like a dog.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, grabbing a towel. “You’re going to ruin my landlord’s precious fake wood flooring.”

He tolerated your fussing for about ten seconds, then walked off to dry himself on your throw blanket anyway.

That night, you boiled some pasta and set a small plate of plain tuna down beside your chair. You didn’t know if cats were supposed to eat tuna that often, but he was a guest. And honestly? He’d earned it.

You were stretched out on the balcony floor, cat a warm weight against your thigh, the sky above painted that deep indigo right before full night. It was finally quiet. No metro, no street shouting, just the hum of the city settling and the occasional flick of Bagheera’s tail.

You scratched gently behind his ears. “You really know how to pick a spot, huh?”

He purred like he agreed.

And then—

“Bagheera!”

A voice. From just over the divider.

Low. Rough. Confident.

You froze.

“Baaagheeera, don’t make me come get you again,” the voice added, more amused now. “I’m not in the mood to scale balconies tonight.”

You blinked. Slowly turned your head toward the divider.

Bagheera lifted his head too, alert.

Then a soft scuff—bare feet?—and a shape appeared, leaning lazily over the railing.

You stared.

She was…

God. She was something else. Messy bun, oversized hoodie, sharp jawline catching the light from her apartment behind her. Her eyes found yours instantly, like she’d been expecting you.

You said nothing. Too busy trying to remember how to function.

“Oh,” she said, a little grin curling one side of her mouth. “So you’re the one he’s been cheating on me with.”

You made a noise. Somewhere between a laugh and a choke.

She nodded toward cat, apparently named Bagheera. “He’s got a routine, you know. Leaves after lunch, comes back smelling like someone else’s couch.”

You looked down at the cat, who offered exactly zero shame.

“I… didn’t know he had an owner,” you said finally, voice embarrassingly small.

“Hmm. He does. Kind of.” She studied you for a second. “You live alone?”

You hesitated. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head, eyes flicking over you once—bare legs, oversized T-shirt, tea mug next to you—then back up, more amused now.

“Cool. Same.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence buzzed between you, charged.

Then she smirked. “Guess I’ll be seeing you around, vecina.”

She turned like that was it, already stepping back.

But you were still staring. Still holding her cat. Still… breathless.

She reappeared two seconds later with a blanket and leaned on the railing again, clearly not in a rush.

“You can breathe, you know,” she said. “I don’t bite.”

You flushed. “Sorry. You just—caught me off guard.”

“Yeah?” Her grin widened. “Guess I should’ve knocked first.”

“You’re technically outside.”

“So are you.”

Touché.

She extended her hand. “I’m Mapi.”

You took it, still dazed. “I’m Y/N.”

She held your hand half a second longer than necessary, then let go and nodded to Bagheera.

“He picks good people.”

And then she took him, her fingers brushing your arm with a warmth that lingered too long. No goodbye, no explanation—just a casual glance and a crooked smile before she slipped back through the sliding door like she hadn’t just turned your entire night upside down.

You sat there on the balcony for a long time after that.

The city quiet, your tea cold, your heart kind of wrecked in the nicest way.

It had been nearly a week since you’d seen Mapi.

Not that you were counting. Well. You were. A little.

After that first late afternoon—her standing barefoot and casual, Bagheera perched smugly in her arms, you still reeling from the fact that your mystery cat belonged to a very real, very attractive woman next door—she hadn’t come out again. Or maybe she had, just not when you were looking. Which was often.

Bagheera, on the other hand, had shown up daily. Like clockwork. Stretching across your floor like he paid rent. Following you from room to room. Sleeping beside your sketchbooks, stepping directly on your laptop keyboard, watching your every move with that regal, unbothered confidence.

You didn’t mind. He was company. Soft, quiet, steady.

And lately, your tiny balcony had started to feel like your favorite place to be.

A few days ago, you’d found a secondhand couch at a weekend market. The kind that looked like it was made for coffee shops and long conversations. A little beat up, perfectly squishy, and just narrow enough to wedge against your balcony wall beneath the window. The vendor helped you carry it home in exchange for a pastry and a grateful smile.

Now it lived out there permanently—blanketed and pillowed, sun-warmed in the day, breezy at night.

Tonight, you were curled into it, wine in hand, legs tucked beneath you as Bagheera snoozed along the backrest like a lazy panther.

The city hummed low around you. A breeze tugged at your hair. Your laptop was perched on a tray beside you, the screen casting soft light against the growing dark. Blue Is the Warmest Color played quietly. A movie you’d seen before, sure, but never on a night like this. Never while pressed into a couch under stars, with red wine on your tongue and the soft weight of a cat warming your side.

You didn’t mean to get so into it. But it sucked you in. The tension, the push and pull, the way longing built in silences more than words. Your glass was half-full and forgotten. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen.

And then the scene started.

The scene.

You felt the shift before it even happened. The way they looked at each other, breath shallow, eyes dark. The room blurred. Their fingers found each other slowly, reverently.

You swallowed. Shifted. The wine hit your bloodstream just enough to make the air feel heavier.

Onscreen, their mouths met. The first touch. Hands roaming, desperate and searching. The intimacy of it—raw, unhurried—tangled something low in your stomach.

You sat forward slightly, breathing shallow. Bagheera stretched, oblivious.

And then—

“Well,” a voice said lightly from the darkness, “this got interesting fast.”

You jumped so hard you nearly kicked your wine over.

Your head snapped toward the divider.

There she was.

Mapi.

Leaning over the railing like she’d been there the whole time. Hair pulled into a messy knot, arms fully tattooed, tank top hanging loose off one shoulder. Lit faintly by the golden glow from inside her apartment. A crooked smirk curving her lips.

You froze. Completely and totally frozen.

She tilted her chin toward your screen. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Looked like things were getting pretty… intense.”

You scrambled to pause the movie. The frozen frame was ridiculous. You slammed your laptop shut and threw your arm over it like a teen caught watching porn in a rom-com.

“I—I didn’t hear you,” you stammered, fully mortified.

Mapi grinned wider. “Clearly.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “You can’t just do that,.”

“Do what?” she asked innocently. “Existing?”

“Appearing out of thin air mid-sex scene!”

She laughed then. A full, rich sound that bounced between the walls. “In my defense,” she said, “you’re the one watching lesbian cinema with the volume at emotional devastation.”

You stared at her. “That’s not a genre.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Bagheera let out a dramatic yawn and stretched between you, like this entire conversation bored him.

Mapi leaned on the railing, still smiling. “I came out to call him, actually. Didn’t expect the free entertainment.”

You narrowed your eyes. “He’s ignoring you on purpose.”

“He’s got a type, apparently.”

You arched a brow. “Sarcastic neighbors who ruin perfectly good wine-fueled movie nights?”

She laughed again, and this time it wasn’t teasing—it was soft. A little warm.

“No,” she said, quieter now. “People who talk to him like he’s understands what they’re saying.”

You blinked at that. Your face warmed. “He can.”

Mapi smiles. “Most people treat animals like accessories. You don’t. He likes that.”

You looked down at Bagheera. He blinked slowly at you, then flopped back onto his side like he was too cool for this moment.

“So…” Mapi said after a beat, nodding toward your mostly-full wine glass. “You always drink alone on your balcony and get emotionally destroyed by French cinema?”

You gave her a dry look. “Only when I’m not being publicly humiliated by my neighbor.”

“That’s a shame,” she said, already stepping back inside. “I’ve got a bottle of rosé that could pair perfectly with your mortification.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

She reappeared a second later with two glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other.

Bagheera let out a little trill of approval.

“Move over,” Mapi said, gesturing to the couch as she stepped over the divider like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stared. Then you moved.

You stared as Mapi steeped over the divider. Literally.

One leg, then the other, barefoot and all like this was normal behavior and not a moment of sheer insanity. Her wine bottle tilted dangerously as she landed lightly on your balcony floor, casual as hell, like she hadn’t just scaled your wall like a hot lesbian raccoon.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered

“Relax,” she said with a grin, “the wall’s barely above my waist.”

“That’s not the point!”

Mapi handed you a new glass. “Then what is the point?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You looked at her, then at the wine, then at Bagheera who was now purring and rubbing against her ankle like she hadn’t abandoned him days ago. Traitor.

“I could be a serial killer,” you finally said.

Mapi poured. “You’re watching Blue Is the Warmest Color and drinking wine out of a stemmed glass on a couch you probably named. You’re not a serial killer.”

You stared at her. “You don’t know that.”

She lifted her brows, looking around at the pillows and the carefully draped blanket, the way you’d strung up two paper lanterns that swayed lazily in the breeze.

“Okay, fair. You’re an aesthetically pleasing serial killer.”

You took the wine and muttered, “That’s better.”

Bagheera jumped onto the couch between you like he’d been waiting for her to sit down all along. He promptly flopped onto her lap. She stroked his fur like it was second nature.

You hated how domestic it looked.

“Fine,” you said after a long sip, “you can stay. But you’re not allowed to judge me.”

She raised a brow. “For what, exactly?”

You gestured vaguely at the laptop, which was now partially hidden under a blanket out of sheer embarrassment.

Mapi smirked. “For the record, I wasn’t judging. That scene’s a masterpiece.”

You blinked at her.

“Like—cinematically,” she clarified. “Lighting, pacing, tension—ten out of ten. Should be studied.”

You choked on your wine. “You’re not helping.”

“Just saying. Could’ve picked something much worse. Imagine if I’d popped in during—what’s that one? ‘Below Her Mouth’?”

You slapped a hand over your face. “Please stop talking.”

She laughed, full-bodied and delighted. “Hey, I’m just trying to help you feel less mortified.”

“It’s not working!”

“Good. You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

Your brain short-circuited.

Your entire nervous system blinked like a neon sign: Did she say that? Did she actually say that?

Mapi just sipped her wine, looking completely unbothered.

You cleared your throat, trying to act like your pulse hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest. “So, you’re just… crashing balconies now?”

She shrugged. “Yours looked better than mine.”

“You don’t even know what mine looks like.”

“I do now,” she said, eyes scanning over the setup again. “Cozy. Thoughtful. Very queer. It’s giving…” She waved her glass around. “Main character energy.”

You gave her a look. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mapi beamed. “You like it.”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because she was right and you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. The silence stretched for a second, the clink of her glass against yours echoing in the small space. The city below murmured on.

Then, out of nowhere “Wait,” she said suddenly, squinting at your face. “Are you the one who sings to Bagheera sometimes?”

Your whole body seized. “No.”

“You are!” she said, grinning wide. “I knew it. He comes back humming.”

“I do not—I don’t hum to him.”

“Swear to god,” she said, nodding seriously, “last week he was practically purring in tune.”

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t worry. It’s cute.”

“Stop calling me cute!”

“Can’t. It keeps being true.”

You groaned and leaned back into the cushions, covering your face. Mapi shifted beside you, stretching her legs out, her thigh brushing against yours with the easy confidence of someone who had zero awareness of personal space—or maybe just no intention of respecting it.

Bagheera purred louder.

You peeked at her through your fingers. “Do you flirt like this with everyone?”

Mapi turned her head lazily toward you. “No. Just the ones who name couches and get emotionally devastated by French girls in beanies.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“Speechless twice in one night,” she said, smirking. “I’m on fire.”

You stared at her. Warm skin, wine-stained lips, eyes like she already knew your answer to questions she hadn’t even asked yet.

The worst part? She was on fire. And you were probably about to get burned.

Three days later You’re halfway through folding laundry on the balcony couch when Mapi’s voice floats up.

“Didn’t take you for the kind of girl who folds underwear in public.”

You nearly drop your panties off the railing.

You glare over at her—barefoot, tank top, leaning on her balcony door with a popsicle in her mouth like she’s the main character in a queer fever dream.

“These are boxer briefs,” you say coolly.

Mapi licks her popsicle slowly. “Even better.”

Day after that, You’re watering your plants in your sports bra. It’s hot. You’re sweaty. You forgot your neighbor exists.

Mapi leans over the balcony ledge. “Careful, cariño. That basil’s not the only thing getting wet right now.”

You choke on air. The basil is fine. Your self-control is not.

Once,You're lying on the balcony couch in a hoodie and nothing else, trying to ignore the sound of someone doing things to someone in a nearby apartment. It's loud. Too loud. The cat’s tail twitches.

Then Mapi’s voice cuts through “Either that’s a really good time, or someone’s watching your movie again.”

You look up.

She’s holding popcorn. And a glass of rosé. And she’s already climbing over the railing.

You blink. “You can’t just climb into my apartment.”

“I brought snacks.”

You let her in.

Not long after that, You’re adjusting your top. You weren’t expecting anyone. Mapi shows up leaning backwards over the divider like she’s bored and accidentally hot.

“Wanna see my new tattoo?”

You raise a brow. “What if I say yes?”

She smirks. “Then I’ll show you the one under my shirt too.”

Bagheera knocks over your wineglass like he’s had enough.

Once,You hear a weird tapping sound. Look up. Mapi’s trying to throw pistachio shells onto your balcony.

She misses. A lot.

When she finally hits you in the forehead, she yells, “Gotcha!”

You shout back, “That’s assault.”

She grins. “You like it rough anyway.”

You do not respond. You cannot respond.

Bagheera meows. Even he’s judging you.

Another time,You’re on the couch in silk pajama shorts. You stretch without thinking. Legs out. Head back. The laptop’s on your chest.

Mapi leans over and whistles. “I don’t know what’s shinier—your laptop or your thighs.”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

Then—“I was gonna ask if you wanted to come over, but now I think I’m gonna climb down instead.”

You stop breathing. She doesn’t climb. Yet.

Rain hit your windows in a steady rhythm, soft and hypnotic. Your lights were off—only the warm glow of your laptop screen lighting up your room, flickering over the walls like some low-budget art film.

You were in bed, sprawled under a blanket with a glass of wine balanced on your stomach, your legs slightly parted and your focus absolutely glued to the screen.

Below Her Mouth.

And below your blanket… well. Let’s just say, ovulation had you in a chokehold.

You weren’t even embarrassed about it. Not until—

tap-tap.

You froze.

The sex scene was peaking. Literally.

tap-tap-tap.

You blinked, leaned to the side, and slowly turned your head toward your balcony door.

Mapi León stood outside. Soaked. Hoodie sticking to her frame. Hair dripping onto her shoulders. And worst of all—smirking.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t explain why there was a half-empty bottle of wine on your nightstand and a woman literally getting railed on your screen.

You didn’t even press pause.

Mapi raised her eyebrows. Then, she pointed at the laptop, mouthed, “Seriously?”, and tapped again.

You scrambled up, tripped on the blanket, slammed the laptop shut so hard it clapped like a gunshot.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, rushing to the door.

You unlocked it, slid it open, and hissed, “What the hell are you doing?”

Mapi, absolutely unfazed, stepped inside your room like it was hers. “It’s raining. I brought wine. And your curtains were open. What was I supposed to do—ignore the live screening of lesbian porn?”

“It’s not porn, it’s art.”

She plopped down onto the foot of your bed, kicked off her soaked socks, and wiggled her eyebrows. “Right. Art that makes you squirm and squeeze your thighs together every five minutes.”

You were going to die.

Right here. In your room. In your underwear.

She glanced at the laptop. “You didn’t even pause it.”

“I panicked.”

Mapi leaned back on her hands, cocky and dripping onto your sheets. “You always this worked up on a Tuesday, or is it just that time?”

You groaned. “Get out of my room.”

“No.” She grinned. “I brought good wine, you’ve got good taste in movies, and that scene was getting interesting.”

“You climbed between balconies in the rain to crash my alone time.”

“I was bored. And wet. And curious.” She dragged her eyes over you—your flushed cheeks, your hoodie, the exposed strip of your thigh where the blanket had fallen. “And I’m very glad I did.”

You stared at her. “You’re actually insane.”

“And you,” she said, reaching to pull your blanket back over your legs like she owned them, “are dangerously cute when you’re flustered.”

You squinted at her, lips twitching. “What’s your plan, exactly? Seduce me over wine and stolen porn?”

She handed you the bottle and shrugged. “Depends. You gonna let me stay?”

The rain kept falling. Your heart kept racing. And your laptop, halfway closed, was still playing muffled moans you both ignored.

You took a sip of wine. “Fine. But don’t touch anything.”

Mapi grinned and slid up beside you in bed, whispering, “No promises, cariño.”

You’re trying to focus on the movie. Really. You are. You’ve even repositioned yourself twice—propped up against your pillows, blanket pulled to your waist, one leg curled beneath you like that’ll help. It doesn’t. Nothing helps.

Because she’s too close.

Mapi stretches like a cat, elbow grazing yours, and doesn’t apologize when she settles again with a satisfied sigh. Her bare leg brushes against yours with each small shift, warm and smooth where your knees touch under the blanket. Every movement she makes feels exaggerated, deliberate. Even when she’s quiet, she’s loud.

You’re painfully aware of her wine-stained lips and the way her shirt clings to her shoulder, slipping just slightly lower as she leans forward to grab the bottle. She does it slowly, like she’s giving you time to look. And maybe you do—just for a second. Just to feel the sharp sting of want rise in your throat.

She pours, not into her glass, but straight into her mouth, tilting the bottle back with a grin. Some of it dribbles down her chin, and she wipes it with the back of her hand, catching you staring.

“What?” she says, voice lazy, knowing.

You blink fast, looking away. “Nothing.”

She hums, the sound low and amused. “Thought so.”

“Why do they always make lesbian sex scenes look like a perfume ad?” Mapi mutters suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You snort, grateful for the interruption and the fact that she said something. “You complaining?”

“Not at all,” she says, head turning toward you. Her hair is still damp from the rain, curling slightly at the ends, and it smells like your shampoo now. Her eyes meet yours and stay there, steady and unblinking. “I just think we could do better.”

Your stomach flips. Your mouth opens, then closes again. You pretend to sip your wine, even though your glass has been empty for a while. She watches you do it like she knows.

Mapi leans her head on her hand, propped up by her elbow. Her fingers—rings cold against her skin—start idly playing with a strand of your hair.

“You’re really into this movie, huh?”

You try to sound casual. “It’s a good one.”

“Hmm,” she hums, like she agrees. But she’s not looking at the screen. She’s watching your mouth.

Her fingers move from your hair to the side of your neck, brushing barely there touches down the line of your jaw before pulling back just enough to rest again between you, dangerously close.

“Relax,” she murmurs, voice low, warm, and threaded with amusement. “You’re tense.”

You scoff, trying not to let your body betray you. “I’m not.”

“You are,” she says, her voice dipping lower. Her hand moves again, drifting across your forearm, her nails soft against your skin. The touch is featherlight—meaningless on its own, but combined with the look in her eyes and the curve of her smirk, it short-circuits your brain.

She’s not doing anything wrong. Technically. But your whole body reacts like she is.

Her hand finds your knee under the blanket and settles there like it belongs. She doesn’t move it, doesn’t squeeze. Just rests it. Warm and solid. Like a placeholder for something more.

“Do you always watch this kind of stuff alone?” she asks, voice teasing, like she’s trying to distract you.

You glare. “Do you always break into your neighbor’s apartment to flirt in the middle of a storm?”

Mapi leans in slightly, close enough that her breath tickles your cheek. “Only when they look this good doing nothing.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you.

On the screen, the tension builds between the characters—slow touches, quiet gasps, hands moving beneath clothes. Mapi doesn’t look away. But not at the movie. At you.

“You think that’s how we’d do it?” she asks softly.

You blink, trying to gather words.

“What?”

“That,” she says, nodding slightly toward the screen. “Would you let me take my time like that?”

Your pulse spikes. Her voice is silk-dipped sin. Casual, almost. But it lands hard. Heavy.

You try to keep it together. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re all talk.”

That gets you a slow, dangerous smile. Mapi shifts closer, until your thighs are pressed together. Her hand trails up slightly, fingers tapping once on the inside of your knee.

“You think I’m just teasing?” she whispers.

You nod, defiant. “I know you are.”

“Maybe,” she says, brushing a thumb along the seam of your shorts, just enough to make your breath catch. “But you like it.”

The characters on screen are moaning once again —soft, practiced sounds. In your room, it’s quiet except for the hum of rain against the window and the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears.

Mapi doesn’t kiss you.

She doesn’t move her hand any higher.

She just turns her attention back to the screen, like nothing’s happened, and starts sipping her wine again. But her fingers remain where they are—teasing, barely moving, still making those slow little circles on your thigh like she’s marking time.

You stay perfectly still, gripping your wineglass, pretending you’re not losing your mind.

And she sits there, smug and satisfied, like she’s got all night.

Because she does.

You’d barely restarted the next movie—a dirtier one this time, something more explicit, something neither of you pretended wasn’t intentional—when Mapi moved again.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate.

She just repositioned herself behind you, like it was the most natural thing in the world—pulling you back against her chest, wrapping you up in the blanket and her arms, her legs bracketing yours as her chin dropped to your shoulder.

You froze.

You could feel the shape of her body pressed into yours. The slow, deliberate way her hand slid across your stomach under the blanket. Her breath was warm against your neck. She said nothing—but every part of her touch said everything.

You stared at the screen, but you didn’t see anything.

Until the moans started.

On screen, the characters were tangled together—no build-up this time, just raw sex. Wet, slow, aching. No soft filters or background music. Just skin on skin, bodies grinding, the sound of breath catching and whispered, needy pleas.

And then—Mapi’s hand moved.

Her fingers slid under the hem of your shirt, just brushing your stomach. Light. Curious. Intimate.

You tensed instinctively—but she didn’t stop.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Just focus on the movie.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t dare to look at her.

You couldn’t.

She dragged her fingers lower, pausing at your waistband. Not pushing, just tracing. Her touch so light it drove you crazy.

“You’re good at that” she murmured.

You swallowed. “At what?”

Her hand dipped beneath the band of your shorts.

“Pretending you don’t want this.”

Your body twitched at the first proper touch—her fingers stroking you over your underwear, slow and unbothered, like she was just warming up.

“You’re soaked,” she whispered, tone rough now. “And I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

You gripped the blanket tighter, head falling back slightly against her shoulder.

“Still pretending?”

She didn’t wait for an answer this time.

Her hand slipped beneath your underwear, fingers gliding through slick heat, parting you with the same careful patience you’d seen her use on the pitch—measured, sure, deadly.

The moans from the movie only got louder. Dirtier. One of the characters gasped something desperate, breathless.

Mapi’s fingers slid deeper, just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips stutter forward.

She groaned low, right in your ear. “You hear that? That sound she’s making?”

You whimpered.

“She’s not even close to how good you’re gonna sound.”

Her hand on your stomach flexed slightly—possessive, steady—while the one between your legs moved with maddening control. She didn’t rush. Didn’t chase. She teased. She ruined.

“Focus on the movie,” she whispered, dragging her fingers slow and slick through your folds, circling but never giving you exactly what you needed. “Watch. Let it build.”

You tried. You really did.

But your eyes fluttered half shut, lashes brushing your cheeks as your whole body tilted toward her, open, aching.

“Don’t close your eyes,” she murmured. “You’ll miss the best part.”

You whimpered. “Mapi…”

She smirked against your neck. “You want it? Then take it. I’m right here.”

Her hand slid lower again, dipping in just the slightest bit, enough to make you twitch.

But then she stopped.

Just rested her fingers there.

“You’re gonna come for me,” she whispered. “But not yet.”

And then she pulled her hand out entirely.

You gasped in protest, hips jerking involuntarily—but she just held you tighter, lips brushing the shell of your ear as she reached for her wine again with the same lazy calm she always had.

She sipped. Settled. Pressed her mouth to your jaw.

Then

“Next scene’s coming up,” she said, tone wicked and smooth. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll let you ride my fingers when it starts.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak.

You just nodded—barely.

And she smiled.

Like she knew.

Like she was already planning exactly how slow she’d ruin you next.

The next scene started soft—just breathy kisses and hands sliding under clothes—but you knew what was coming.

So did Mapi.

She shifted behind you again, legs snug against yours, blanket slipping slightly as she pushed your shirt up with both hands, slowly, exposing your stomach to the cool air.

You didn’t stop her.

You didn’t move at all.

“You still pretending to care about the plot?” she asked, her voice already thicker, lower.

You managed a nod.

“Liar,” she said, and her hand slid back between your legs.

This time, she didn’t waste any time teasing.

Her fingers found you fast—slick, warm, desperate—and she groaned under her breath.

“You’re dripping,” she whispered. “All over me.”

You whimpered, back arching against her.

“Shh,” she murmured, kissing the curve of your jaw. “Just stay still.”

Her hand worked you slow at first, deliberately matching the pace on screen. The characters were grinding now, panting, the kind of sex that was all friction and hunger and heat.

And Mapi let you feel every second of it.

“Ride my fingers,” she whispered. “Go on. Take what you want.”

You froze. “What?”

She didn’t repeat herself. Just slipped two fingers inside, deep and sure, her other hand sliding up to cup your chest, dragging your back harder against her.

“Fuck—Mapi—”

“Quiet.”

She didn’t mean it.

She wanted you loud. She wanted to feel every sound in your throat before you could even make it.

And you tried, you really did—but the way her fingers curled inside you, the way her palm ground against you on every slow thrust forward—you couldn’t help the way your hips started moving, chasing it, riding her hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the moment.

“That’s it,” she said, tone impossibly dark. “Just like that. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

Her fingers moved deeper, sharper, filling you with purpose—while her lips dragged slow down your neck, biting softly, possessive.

The movie faded completely. You couldn’t see the screen anymore. You didn’t care.

Your whole body was centered on the rhythm of her—inside you, against you, around you.

You moaned, louder this time, and she just smiled, her breath hot in your ear.

“You wanna come, don’t you?”

You nodded desperately.

She slowed her hand again—just enough to make you cry out in frustration.

“Not yet,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I want you begging first.”

You almost cursed at her.

Almost.

But her fingers curled just right, and all that came out was a strangled moan.

She chuckled low, lips ghosting over your cheek. “Yeah. Just like that.”

“You wanna come, don’t you?” she whispered again, slower now—almost sweet.

You nodded. Frantic. Shamefully desperate. You couldn’t speak.

“Then ask nicely,” she said, and she stilled her hand entirely.

You gasped like the air had been stolen from your lungs. “Mapi—”

“Uh-uh,” she smirked, brushing her nose against your cheek, her breath hot and wicked. “Use your words, cariño. You were doing so well.”

Her fingers didn’t move. They stayed buried inside you, hot and still and maddening, like a threat and a promise at once. The only movement came from her other hand, the one now tracing lazy circles across your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. And the soft drag of her teeth against your neck.

“Please,” you managed, barely more than a whisper. “I need—fuck—I need it.”

She hummed, pleased. “Need what, baby?”

You could hear the smile in her voice.

“You. Your hand. I need you to—”

Mapi laughed, low and dark. “Qué guarra.” Her hand moved again. Finally.

But slower this time.

Cruel.

She rocked her fingers inside you with obscene patience, dragging against the spot that made your toes curl, but never quite fast enough—never enough to let you tip over.

You were moaning now. Quiet at first. Then louder. Whining into your empty wineglass like it might hide the sounds falling from your mouth.

And Mapi was eating it up.

“Look at you,” she muttered, her fingers pressing deeper. “Fucking dripping, shaking, grinding all over me—just from my fingers.”

Your hand shot down to grab her wrist, trying to force her to move faster. She let you. For a second.

Then she stopped again. Completely.

“Mapi,” you whined, hips moving helplessly.

Her mouth was at your ear in a second, voice all gravel and heat.

“Beg.”

Your whole body was shaking now, thighs trembling, your orgasm so close you could taste it.

“I’m begging,” you gasped. “Please, please—let me come.”

And finally—finally—her rhythm returned, harder this time, relentless, each thrust perfectly angled, her palm slick and fast against your clit now.

“Good girl,” she whispered. “That’s what I wanted.”

The movie was long forgotten. All you could hear was your own ragged breathing, the wet sounds of her fingers working you open, the filthy praise in her voice as she pushed you closer and closer.

“Come for me,” she growled, right into your skin. “Now.”

You broke.

Your whole body tensed, then shattered, collapsing back against her with a sound you didn’t even recognize as yours. The kind of orgasm that stole your voice. Stole everything.

She didn’t stop.

She worked you through it, coaxing every last twitch and whimper from your oversensitive body, until you had to physically grab her hand to make her stop.

She finally pulled her fingers from you, slow and smug, and wrapped her arms tight around your waist, kissing the back of your shoulder like nothing had just happened.

“Still your favorite genre?” she asked, voice playful.

You couldn’t speak. You could only nod.

Mapi grinned against your skin.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because I’ve got another one queued up.”

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just kisses the base of your neck, then lower, and lower—her breath dragging down your spine in lazy, warm waves. Her hands anchor you, one still pressing your thigh open, the other running possessively down your side. You’re trembling now, fully at her mercy, the movie long forgotten. There’s only her.

When her mouth reaches your waistband, she pauses. She kisses just above it, then nudges your shorts down with her nose, her hands making quick work of the rest. You lift your hips without needing to be asked. You’d let her do anything right now.

“You’re so wet for me,” she murmurs, voice low, dark with amusement, and fuck, you are. She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Because she does.

And then she doesn’t wait.

She buries her face between your thighs, and it’s immediate—hot and wet and intense. Her tongue moves with precision, like she’s mapped every reaction you’ve ever had and memorized the blueprint. She licks slowly at first, savoring you, dragging it out, teasing the edges before circling in.

Your back arches off the bed. You grip the sheets. You moan—helplessly, desperately—as she groans against you like she can’t get enough.

Every movement is practiced. Confident. She works you open with her tongue, flicking, pressing, sucking just enough to make you shudder. Her grip tightens on your hips, holding you down when you try to writhe away from the intensity.

“Stay still,” she growls against your skin. “Let me taste you properly.”

It’s filthy. It’s everything.

And then she pushes two fingers into you, slow but deliberate, curling just right, just enough. You choke on your breath. Her pace doesn’t falter. Mouth and fingers moving in tandem, dragging you higher and higher, building pressure like she’s tuning an instrument only she can play.

You’re not going to last. You know it. She knows it.

And she doesn’t let up.

Your thighs start to tremble. Your moans turn breathless. Her name spills from your lips like a prayer.

And Mapi?

Mapi just smirks, glancing up through her lashes like she’s still got so much more planned.

Your thighs are shaking uncontrollably now, and Mapi loves it. You can feel it in the way her mouth moves even slower, savoring every sound you make, every twitch of your hips she forces you to hold back.

She presses her tongue flat against your clit, dragging it slowly upwards, making you whimper into the dark room. Then she pulls back just enough to let her breath wash over your soaked skin — cool, teasing — before she licks into you again with a filthy groan that vibrates through your whole body.

"Fuck, you taste good," she mutters, voice wrecked, almost feral.

And then she sinks her fingers deeper, curling them deliberately, expertly, finding that spot inside you that makes you sob without shame. You clench around her and she just laughs—low and cocky—and pushes in harder, like she’s trying to ruin you on her hand alone.

Your head thuds back against the pillows. Your fingers find her hair, grabbing blindly for something to ground yourself. She lets you, lets you tug her closer, like she wants you desperate for her, wants you to lose control completely.

"You wanted to watch dirty movies," Mapi says roughly, pulling her mouth away just enough to smirk against your inner thigh. "Guess you're living one now, princesa."

You can't even form words anymore. You're too busy panting, trembling, so fucking close it hurts.

She doesn't let up. Her tongue flicks back to your clit, fast and rhythmic now, perfectly timed with the relentless thrust of her fingers inside you. Every drag of her tongue feels like lightning under your skin. Every curl of her fingers punches another gasp from your throat.

And she keeps talking, filthy and low, right against you

"Bet you wish they showed this in those movies, huh?" she murmurs. "This is how it’s supposed to be. Someone making you fucking beg."

You're already there.

Your stomach knots impossibly tight. Your whole body locks up, trembling violently. You're seconds away from falling apart, and she fucking knows it.

"Cum for me, baby," she whispers against your soaked skin. "Let go. Let me hear you."

Her fingers slam into you just right. Her mouth clamps down on your clit, sucking hard, greedy, dirty.

And you shatter.

You cry out, clenching so hard around her fingers it almost hurts, your whole body jerking helplessly as she works you through it, not stopping, not slowing down until you’re sobbing from the overstimulation.

Only then — only then — does Mapi finally pull away, licking her lips like she’s tasting something addictive, dragging her fingers out of you slow and deliberate, watching you with dark, blown pupils like you’re the most perfect thing she’s ever seen.

She crawls up your body, presses a slow, dirty kiss against your open, gasping mouth, and grins against your lips.

“Told you we could do better than the movie.”

Not long after that she whispers, lips brushing your ear. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just… fuck.”

She chuckles quietly, pleased, but there’s no smugness in it now. Just affection. That slow, lazy sweetness that only comes out once she’s had her fill of teasing.

“Come here,” she says, and you don’t need to roll over—because she’s already shifting you herself, hands guiding you onto your side, pulling your back into her chest again. She curls around you like she was made to fit there, strong arms wrapping tightly around your waist, her thigh tucking between yours.

The storm is still going outside, rain tapping gently against the glass doors. The movie has long since faded into the background, the screen now just flickering light that dances across the messy sheets and your bare skin.

Mapi presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the back of your head.

You feel her reach for something, and a second later, a warm cloth touches between your legs — slow, careful, her hand steady as she cleans you up. She doesn’t say much. Just breathes with you. Focuses on you. Every movement quiet and sure, like it’s second nature.

“I got you,” she murmurs.

And she does.

When she’s done, she tosses the cloth aside and gathers you closer, pulling the blanket up over both your bodies. You press your face into her arm, and she hooks her chin over your head, fingers drawing soft, lazy shapes into your stomach.

Neither of you talks for a while.

Just the quiet rise and fall of your breathing, the beat of the rain, the gentle weight of her touch grounding you like a heartbeat.

Then—

“That was better than the movie,” she says eventually, voice a little smug again.

You huff out a laugh. “You think?”

“Should’ve gotten an Oscar for that performance.”

You roll your eyes and elbow her gently. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it.”

And you do.

You don’t say it out loud. Not yet. But the way your fingers lace with hers under the blanket says enough.

She kisses your shoulder again, softer this time. “I guess we both agree that Next time,” she whispers, “I’m choosing the movie.”

You snort. “As long as you don’t talk through the sex scenes again.”

She grins against your skin. “No promises.”

#woso fanfics #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #barca femeni #barca femini x reader #barca women #fcb femeni #fcb femení #woso one shot #woso smut #woso fic #maria leon #mapi leon #mapi león #mapi leon x reader #fc barcelona femeni #barcelona femeni

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mmisosoupp · 2 months ago

Text

Things I think the haikyuu boys would do before dating you

(Karasuno ver.)

Hinata

•Most definitely confides in you.

•does anything that he can do to attempt to impress you. Weather being trying extra hard in his classes, trying a super cool new attack, or even just talking about things that he did that he deems a cool.

•is pretty touchy, not in a weird way. But he tends to somehow get his hands on you one way or another.

•He gets so hyped up seeing you at any sort of volleyball game, and he tries extra hard to do something cool and / or win.

Kageyama

•I personally believe he pays a lot of attention to things that aren't volleyball and that transfers to you. You tell him about a show you liked once three weeks ago? Yeah, he remembers and asks you about it when a new episode comes out.

•He tries his best to compliment you. He's not very good at it though, but I promise he tries.

•usally isn't a good listener, but for you he is, it's like a switch clicks on when you talk that has him zeroed into your rants and rambles

Yamaguchi

•He LIVES to complement you. There isn't a day where he isn't saying you look amazing or that he likes the way you did your hair that day.

•he's not very fond of touching. Like he would normally be very uncomfortable If someone tried to hug him. But every time you hug him, he melts into your touch, like he could be there all day.

•He will NEVER, and I mean never let you feel left out. He knows what it feels like to be left out and he wouldn't ever wish that on you.

•(metaphorically) dies when you get too close to him. His freckled face turns a bright shade of read.

Tsukishima

•somehow gets snarkier with you. But not in a bullying sense, he doesn't tease you more than anyone else. If you can tease him back, OH he has a field day.

•not only does he get snarkier, but he's also nicer to you. Especially if it's around other people who annoy him (hinata and kageyama)

It's kinda scary how nice he becomes.

•takes geuine interest in the things you talk about, especially if you do the same for him.

Tanaka

•you get the kiyoko treatment I fear. So if you don't like that, sucks to be you.

•another one who tries his hardest to impress you. He tries his best fo score extra points during a game or just look cool.

•is incredibly bashful. Dude, in private, he's internally panicking because he doesn't want to embarrass himself in front of you.

Nishinoya

•literally says I love you to you. "I love you, yknow that?" Good morning and goodnight texts "Goodnight, I love you" "Good morning, love youuu"

•gets you things that reminds him of you, a pair of socks with your favorite animal. Bought. A bracelet with your favorite colors on it. Also bought.

Sugawara

•flirts I don't care. you both have definitely made out "as friends"

•uses nicknames on you like "darling" or "my love" again just as friends, right? (No he's deeply in love with you)

•takes so many pictures with you. Like he has an album just of selfie with him titled: K + (your initial), he would die if you saw that folder name

Daichi

•pays extra attention to you, another one who buys things that remind him of you. He's gotten you a key chain of your favorite character that you cherish now.

•is protective of you but not OVERprotective. But he's always making sure you don't get hurt. (Not that he wouldn't mind taking care of you) He's a natural care taker due to being the oldest of his siblings.

•is always subconsciously bringing you up in conversations with the other third years. Poor guy doesn't even realize it.

Asahi

•is always showing you his sketches of outfits he's drawn, somehow they're always very close to your style (I wonder why that is..)

•He reassures you anytime you feel down. He never wants you to feel upset. I mean if he knows what it feels like to not be happy with himself why would he want you to feel the same?

•cuddlebug even before the relationship, you two are latched to each other's hip. Always touching each other.

•let's you play with his hair a the time. Usally he wouldn't let people touch his hair but he can make an exception.

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dreamesamu · 11 months ago

Text

THE THINGS HE TAKES FOR GRANTED

in which he takes a moment to justify himself after never noticing your little crush for him

starring. akaashi keiji x fem!reader

genre(s): angst to fluff, (super, like-) long scenario

warning(s): none, i think so? except for clueless keiji and not proof-reading

author’s note: akaashi is just a major green flag in this (every haikyu!! boy is 😭) i feel too bad to write them red-flag-y.

choose your character: m. atsumu | k. akaashi

you’ve known akaashi for quite some time, starting from your last year of fukurodani academy and then serendipity brought you both ended up being each other’s classmate at a same college/university. bokuto kotaro was your best friend, the little owl introduced his favorite setter to you and the friendship of three gradually become established, and as if it can not be any more inevitably, you eventually developed a secret admiration for the pretty setter when you three have been closed enough. however, graduating separated ways, kotaro pursued his journey to become professional in volleyball while keiji, once said to you he wanted a place in the literature department.

truth be told, even if you promised each other you would still keep in touch and plan every weekend friend group meeting online or offline, you’ve never expect you would share every class in higher education life with your crush, the akaashi keiji. the great thing is you both are paired up for an presentation assignment in the major you and him pursue, you do have plenty of time to stay close and grab his attention from making gestures that he usually failed to realizes.

here you are again, happily humming your favourite song while carrying a box wrapped with a small detailed towel, some big rolls of assignment paper stuck underneath your arm as you make your way back to where you both planned to finish the project - the library.

“keiji, i’m back!” you set your things respectively on the table, and akaashi nods with a smile on his face in acknowledgement.

“oookay, so here’s your today’s snack, I hope you’ll like it” you grin, tapping on the box before pushing it to his side as he receives it and casually opens it while speaking.

“hmm? are those sketches of our poster? you can always edit them on the computer, why the effort?” he chuckled softly before completely unwrapping the bento box.

“I’m not good at designing and stuff. I may draw as I like and you’ll be the one to edit it on the computer.” you puff your cheek out, hands resting on hips as you watch his reaction to your delicately decorated sweets in the box made for him.

“this looks amazing.” he smiles upon seeing the pastries you made, decorated beautifully with different kinds of fruit as each pastry has different flavours, you probably did not stay up so late last night just to make all kinds of flavours for him to show how much you like him. yeah, probably not.

"oh, it's nothing, I just hope it doesn't taste bad" you chuckle nervously while scratching the back of your neck, letting his praise send you up to cloud nine.

your actions falter when you see akaashi put back the box's cap on, set it aside as he leans over to reach the posters you drew.

"now then, can we start working on the project?" he spreads out the piece of paper, glancing at you as you stand there awkwardly, prefer him taking a bite to look through all of your efforts than just shrugging it off and go straight to the main part of your study session.

"what...? oh- um..." you trail off, a bit embarrassed. "wouldn't you like to try one out? it won't hurt to just have a taste of it..."

"maybe later, y/n. we have other things need to be done right now." he merely states, eyes study the poster in front of him, unknowingly sinking your heart.

"yes, right." you shift slightly, taking the sit by the opposite of him, trying to catch up with him on the progress.

you let your mind wanders off how many times you've lost count already while akaashi quietly focused on scribbling something in his notebook, every thoughts you have are always about keiji, your feelings and the stare you give him thinking it's discreet. what's stopping him from trying my tarts out? and how does he feel being around me? or is that his way of rejecting something without making that person feel bad? flooded your mind.

"y/n?" you realize his faint voice ringing somewhere "y/n..." the voice becomes clearer. "earth to y/n, you're staring." awh, snap. right.

you blink, startled before clearing your throat, mumbling a small apology as you try to get yourself busy with the work underneath you once again.

but akaashi just chuckles, his voice calm and reassuring.

"hey, you seem off today. it's lunch break, please make yourself comfortable." you fumble at his words, it's noon already? as he collects his books and tidy it up at one corner of the table before speaking again.

"yuri satsuki is inviting me to have lunch with her. would you like to also join? i think she wouldn't mind." he kindly offers, probably not knowing the words struck you shocked.

you know satsuki-senpai, she's a year older than you and has been a social butterfly ever since you set foot in student life. she is a nice person, you conceived, but not until you found out that she has a huge crush on your akaashi keiji, her behaviour in your eyes became somewhat annoying. in return, she did realize she had a rival to win over him, you acknowledge that through the smug look she gave every time akaashi was around her instead of you, that is how the tension gradually builds up between you and your pain-in-the-ass rival.

and now she's even invited keiji for lunch? you feel an uncomfortable twist in your belly, screaming that if you do not take further actions, you lose akaashi to her. but his way of discarding your hard work, also known as an attempt to get his attention earlier discourages you hastily. this comes to a realization: ever since he start hanging out with satsuki-senpai, he has never touched one of your cooks once.

"no, i'm fine staying here. you go" you force a smile waving him goodbye. he hesitates upon seeing the downward trend of your mood as well as the strange attitude every time he brings up yuri.

"what are you waiting for?" you scoff, trying your best to make it sound not so bitterly. he nods quietly before ruffles your hair, thoughtfully remind you to get something to eat before start working again, and he'll be back with you soon.

you groan for the nth time in thirty minutes since his last leave, deciding not to eat anything at all after you laugh bitterly to yourself seeing the bento box laid cold by his stuffs which corrects your thoughts that he is not going to appreciate what you did for him.

the chair scraped the floor when you stand up, attempting to compose yourself when you feel your brain need a break from overthinking such situations.

on the way out of the library, your eyes meet yuri satsuki's, assuming that keiji is just somewhere around here as his lunch break partner is the person you least excited to bump into.

"well, well. isn't that the girl whose best friend choose to hang out with me instead of her?"

excuse me?

"don't get too ahead of yourself, satsuki-senpai. just a friendly reminder" your tone evidently irritated as you flash her an unamused smile, trying to avoid her as soon as possible.

but the radio scene of her voice replayed all over your head, your mind goes muddy despite the fresh air you're trying to take in, you let out a shaky breath, tears brimming out.

maybe, he doesn't quite noticed the things I did for him after all...

---

"you're back. where were you?" akaashi worried tone surprises you after a quite fine time of trying to find you because your study desk in the library was empty.

"i was... out for fresh air. why?" your voice is off and he noticed that. he always knew when something is bothering you, and right now he definitely know that something is wrong.

"after i finished my lunch i got yours, 'cause i know when i'm back you would still hadn't eaten anything." his brows slightly furrow seeing your avoiding attitude.

"thanks, keiji." you said briefly, take the package from his hand and sit down on your seat, never forget to notice the pastry box still intact.

your strange attitude didn't just stop there, it confuses akaashi for a more couple of days of your avoidance, he dislike the way you put a small distance between you both in study sessions, you flinch and tense around him more often, your answers and conversations are brief and sometimes awkward as you seem to be more preoccupied and attentive rather than to communicate with him.

"good morning, y/n." he smiles, your state has been bothering him for days as he is paying attention to your fade grin and a small "hey" as a greet back.

then he fumbles. something is missing...

oh. but then, realization sets in him quite quickly: you didn't bring any homemade sweets today.

"y/n..." he hesitates, meeting your eyes as you lift your head up from the notebook you're scribbling on. "does your home perhaps... out of ingredients or something?"

you are stunned for a moment, knowing exactly what he was trying to imply, scared to look at him directly in the eye as you shift your gaze elsewhere, pretending to have forgotten.

"oh... you mean the pastries... I forgot to do it. I was busy yesterday"

lies. he see through it, you know that, but you can't just blurt it all out that you're heartbreaking because of his indirect rejection that never says he doesn't like you, but makes you feel like it did.

"hey... i know something is wrong, can you tell me what it is?"

there it is - the worried look on such handsome face that never fails to make your heart flutter. but you know, that is just his nature of being an attentive and thoughtful person, not just for only you, but for everyone in his orbit.

so his question remained unanswered.

akaashi has been extremely distracted due to the sudden lack of your affection on him. it's just doesn't feel the same. even if he refuses it but deep down, he misses your midday snacks, your bubbly laugh around him and that flushed cheeks you wear every time he caught you staring. it has been a whole week since, and the fact that you didn't join the friend group video call with bokuto last sunday was his last straw.

he misses you, dearly. and if he doesn't do anything now before your project is finished, he might find it difficult to approach you even when you are his best friend.

and then, on an another lovely morning in the college's campus, an emotion he thinks he's aware of stirring in his stomach at the scene of you handing out a bento box wrapped with the same detailed towel, a small smile tugs at the corner of your lips as the other boy laughs lightly, scratches his neck, sending regards with a polite bow before making his way back in the classroom, akaashi doesn't like what his eyes have witnessed, so when he met yours, the bitterful look sends shivers down your spine.

you turn away, begin to walk, you do not want to deal with your bothered heart right now, not if it has anything to do with him, with that thought, you choose to neglect it because it is just your one-sided feelings for him.

but you hear footsteps behind, next is a small "wait" escaped from his lips when he managed to catch up and hold gently on your arm. that stopped you midtrack.

"please. can we talk?" he pleads.

---

you find yourself trapped by his presence in a corner of the school's library. there's no point in avoiding now.

"i'm sorry." he states. "i like you, i should've known."

your eyes widen. why- all of a sudden?

akaashi glances at you, softly sighs before bring your hand up to his face and kiss your knuckles gently.

"i understand now, i was clueless, you have the very right to be mad at me." each sentences he speaks crack your heart, but at the same time, they give you hope.

you neither know how to react, nor what to say, you just stand there, completely speechless, it encourages him to continue his speech of pursuing you.

"the last time i went to have lunch with satsuki, she confessed to me." he stopped, watching your expression. "but i turned her down, then, she got angry and started to brag about you. i did not like what she said, so i got quite defensive and... that was when i realised."

"i didn't know when it started. i just knew that i didn't feel very comfortable seeing you bringing your pastries that was meant for me to someone else, and more it's because i didn't appreciate it."

he squeezes your hand, afraid if not, you'll slip from his grip and become somebody else's apple. he certainly dislikes the thought.

"i want your pastries back, i love them as much as i love you. please let me correct such a terrible mistake."

---

"yes, hello. i've received the box, thank you, my love."

akaashi spins his office chair slightly, softly speaking to the phone stuck between his cheek and shoulder with a smile while unwrapping a huge warm box of freshly baked tarts.

"keiji, bad news, i'm out of powdered sugar after that batch." your voice echoed on output, he chuckles.

"are you free after work? we can visit the supermarket to purchase some. i'll drive, consider this a date with me, 'mkay?"

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punkitt-is-here · 1 year ago

Text

Had to write a three-page screenplay script for a "Discovery" for class. Didn't have any further instructions. It's super off-the-cuff, but I wanted to share it. Happy pride <3

INT. COLLEGE DORM - NIGHT.

A college student sits at his desk, sketching. It's a one room apartment, and his roommate is sound asleep. He's sketching in the light of a single lamp, being quiet. The student, GABE (male, 19) is drawing a cartoon version of himself. He's studying outfits from a fashion catalogue, drawing himself in different ones. He bites the tip of his pencil, not feeling the piece he's working on. He rolls his chair back, reeling away from the desk. Gabe puts his hands in his hair, leaning back and looking at the ceiling. He lets out a long exhale. It's late.

After a moment, he rolls back to the desk. Tapping the pencil to his head, he flips through the pages. It's an unremarkable task, stopping on a random page. Oh, the women's fashion section. It has simple, practical outfits for girls, including a jean skirt. Gabe peers at it. Fuck it, it's late. He erases the pants of one of his drawings and pencils in a skirt instead.

He pauses.

He stares at it.

Something here is weird.

He goes to erase it, but once he does, he just draws it in again. This time with more care. More detail. He stares at it again.

Tears well up in his eyes.

GABE

(whispering)

…what the fuck?

Gabe, confused, touches his hand to his eye. He looks at the tear on his finger. Huh? He stares at the drawing again. He looks back at his roommate, sound asleep. He's having some sort of moment, but he has to be quiet. He frantically looks back at his sketchbook.

GABE

(whispering)

Uh…

A beat.

Gabe starts drawing himself again. In the women's fashion this time. It's like a whole different world. He's drawing like crazy. It's all flowing out of him. He draws another.

And another. Slowly, details start to adjust in his art.

Longer hair. Longer eyelashes. Daintier poses. More smiles.

He's got tears running down his face, but he's not wearing any emotion. He's not sure what to think.

CUT TO

An indeterminate amount of time later. Gabe stares at his notebook. It's full. It's lots of drawings of him.

As…well, he guesses as a girl. But he's not one. He flips through the book again, then turns towards the dark window his desk resides next to. He looks at himself. Patchy facial hair and a shaggy haircut.

CUT TO

INT. DORM HALLWAY - NIGHT

Gabe rushes down the hallway, looking frantic. He's carrying a bag.

INT. DORM BATHROOM - NIGHT

It's quiet inside the bathroom. No one else occupies the space. It's just him and his reflection. His reflection? Maybe their reflection. Her reflection? No, that's not right. Is it right? Gabe stares at himself intently. The whirring of a trimmer cuts through the silence. He brings it up to his facial hair, shearing away a week's worth of fuzz.

He looks at himself like it's not him in the mirror. He holds a hand up to his face, feeling it.

It's not enough. Not yet. He has to know.

He gets out his phone and starts typing.

HOW TO SHAVE FACIAL HAIR OFHG

He frantically types, misspelling. He backspaces like his life depends on it.

HOW TO SHAVE FACIAL HAIR OFF ALL

THE WAY

He quickly scans an article and then gets to work, pulling some miscellaneous bathroom supplies out of his bag. Shaving cream. A razor. Gifts for cleaning up at college. He wets his face. Applies the shaving cream. Does careful strokes down his cheeks and neck. Slowly, someone reveals themselves.

They lean down, splashing themselves with water. They look up, and it's a different person. She's completely shaved her facial hair off. Gabe hasn't seen herself like this since she was in freshman year of high school, before facial hair was even an option. She reaches up and touches her face, smooth to the touch. She stares, enamored. A moment. She grabs a towel and dries her face off, and then looks again. She's so…different. But that's her! That's Gabe! Is it Gabe? She doesn't know anymore. A close up to her eyes. Her nose. Her lips. Her neck. It's all so new. She starts laughing. She laughs, and tears well up in her eyes a little. She laughs some more. In moments, she's full on crying tears of joy. She doesn't know why. But she is! That's her!

CUT TO

INT. SECONDHAND - DAY

Gabe is at a clothing rack, searching for something. She looks around, a little embarrassed. She browses for a moment before finding what she wants. She passes by some more racks carefully, trying not to be too obvious. She slips into the changing room, then locks the door.

GABE

…okay.

Gabe unbuckles her belt. In a moment, she's wearing black leggings. She hikes them up, then unclips a gaudy skirt from the clothes-hanger. She stares at it, a little scared of it and what it represents. She bites her lip. She stretches it out and then steps in. She looks up at the mirror.

Oh shit, that's her! That's her!

Gabe is wearing a long, patterned skirt and a tee-shirt. The colors don't match at all, and the patterns don't either.

She looks a bit like a yard sale of a person. But it's her!

She spins around, watching the fabric flow out from her hips in a whirlwind of stripes and insignia. She laughs again.

This is her! This is her!

This is her!

#my posts #my art

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devildomwriter · 11 months ago

Text

They Discover You Doodling Them in Your Notebook | Brothers x Reader

2k+ words | no warnings | GN! Reader

Lucifer

You sketched in your notepad as you listened to the teacher drone on about a subject you had little interest in. Every once in a while you’d glance over at Lucifer and it didn’t go unnoticed. At first, he suspected you might be looking over to make sure he didn’t catch you doodling and slacking off again but he left it be for now as Mammon was the bigger issue to deal with in class.

The teacher glared at you from the blackboard and tossed a piece of chalk your way. As a demon Lucifer knew the throw would be too hard and quickly intercepted it, glaring at the teacher and tossing it back hard enough the chalkboard broke.

Everyone in the class was paying attention now and mumbling amongst themselves.

“Silence,” Lucifer shushed them.

“We aren’t the ones making a big scene,” Asmodeus complained but was silenced with a single look from his eldest brother.

You were blushing at the commotion you accidentally started and tried covering your notebook but Lucifer quickly confiscated it to see what had your devoted attention.

He was momentarily surprised before he smirked and handed the notebook back to you which you’d covered in sketches of him.

“This isn’t art class, ___, please pay attention,” he said but to his brothers and you it was obvious he was delighted by what he’d seen.

After RAD ended he called you into his office and requested you draw some more, that way he could ensure he was the only thing on your mind as you spent time together that evening.

Mammon

Mammon was filling you in on his latest get-rich-quick scheme and to pay attention you began to doodle absentmindedly. You found it easier to pay attention when you weren’t being forced to and he knew this so he wasn’t offended by your doodling.

“Right, so if we pretend it’s some kind of charity—“ you cut him off and brushed a piece of his hair behind his ear. He blushed and jumped back.

“Yo! W-what was that for, huh?”

You went back to doodling and he huffed and walked behind you to see what you were sketching but you quickly bent over the notebook to hide it from view.

“Hey, c’mon!” Mammon griped and tried reaching for the notebook but he couldn’t do so without prodding you in your chest and the touch sent his hand flying back in embarrassment.

“Shit, sorry! I didn’t mean to… seriously though what are you drawing?”

“Can you keep telling me the plan? I’ll show you after?” You encouraged so he puffed and gave in. He stood back in front of his projector and changed slides. He’s thoroughly prepared this scheme unlike some of his others. It was definitely illegal and Lucifer would stop him before he started but it was fun to listen to him so energetic and happy.

As promised when he finished, and he made sure to do so quickly, you showed him your notebook and he clutched it, blushing and looking away.

“D-damn, yer pretty good at this ___. Y’know I can model for you anytime right?”

“Would you consider nude modeling?”

“Would I—huh!?” He yelped but paused and hid most of his face with your notebook. “If-if it’s you…then yeah…I wouldn’t mind,” he stuttered and you smiled and nodded.

“Let’s get started right away!”

“Huh!?”

Leviathan

“LET’S GOOOOO” Leviathan cheered as he focused on his PC. He’d invited you to his room to cheer him on as he tried the newest level of his racing game.

He turned the steering wheel he’d hooked up frantically as the difficulty increased.

“Water,” he requested so you set your notebook aside and handed him his water, he sipped some through a straw before pulling back. “Thanks!”

You weren’t just a cheerleader, you made it your mission to make sure he stayed hydrated and didn’t get too lost in his game.

You didn’t find the game particularly interesting though so you began doodling him, anime-style, in your notebook.

He didn’t mind much, as long as you were there supporting him. He knew it wasn’t like he could have your attention 24/7 as much as he wanted it.

“Come on, almost there!” He muttered through grit teeth as he hyper-focused.

You drew his hands tightly gripping the steering wheel and made sure to capture the serious look in his eyes as he stared at the screen.

Leviathan quickly glanced at your notebook to see what you were drawing this time and the surprise sent him reeling so much so that he knocked his steering wheel off the desk and fell from his chair, immediately losing the game.

You jumped up in surprise and rushed over to help him up and comfort him but before you could he snatched up the notebook and you put together what’d happened.

“Oh—um!”

“Th-th-this is GREAT!” He cheered, his demon form popping out and his tail wagging in excitement as he hid his blushed face. “Y-you’re really drawing m-me? Are you sure you want to waste paper like that!?”

You shook your head and lightly slipped his cheeks as you cupped his face which startled him, “these are my most important pages in this notebook,” you said seriously and his blush turned into a deep red engulfing his body as he tried processing his happiness.

All he managed to stutter in response was “W-wow…”

Satan

You sat across from Satan on his couch as he read his latest book involving a detective and his cat sidekick.

Your heart fluttered whenever you saw the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. Occasionally he’d prod your knee to make sure he had your attention and read aloud a passage to you he thought was cute or funny and you’d giggle in response whether you felt the same or not.

You continued to doodle in your notebook, trying to quickly capture the smiles across from you. His face was so expressive as he read and he’d know if you pulled out your D.D.D. so the best you could do was quickly sketch it down and occasionally a doodle cat sitting on his head. You thought he’d appreciate it whether he saw the notebook or not.

You nudged Satan and motioned to your cup so he knew you’d be right back.

After you left he eyed your notebook and quickly flipped it open, tossing aside his book. He blushed and stared at the drawings. He was enamored with the cartoon cats but for once the cats weren’t the most important part, it was the fact you drew him. He noticed the pencil lines indicated you were sketching quickly, and they appeared darker around his mouth. He realized you were trying to capture his smiles and he made his heart flutter.

You nearly dropped your water in surprise when you found him flipping through your art. He was so entranced he didn’t even notice you walk in. Now you finally had a chance and before he could react you quickly pulled out your D.D.D. and snapped a picture.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus had insisted you keep him company that morning as his makeup was going to take longer than usual and he’d be bored. As the nice person you occasionally were, you got up early, and in an effort to keep yourself awake, you doodled in your RAD notebook but quickly ran out of ideas.

As you listened to Asmodeus explain his routine in detail and why it helped accentuate the beauty that was already there, you decided he’d be the perfect model and began sketching him.

You made attempt after attempt but true to his word it was nearly impossible to cloture his beauty so you decided a more cartoonish manner would be fitting so you weren’t pressuring yourself for detailed perfection.

At some point through the routine, Asmodeus noticed you weren’t paying attention to him and stuck out his lower lip in a pout. You didn’t notice until you glanced back up to continue your sketch.

“Oops, sorry Asmo. I’m paying attention, I promise.”

“Really hon? Because it doesn’t look like it? How can you possibly nit be enamored by me right now? I’m so beautiful what could possibly have your attention? Hm?”

You blushed but decided to prove yourself and handed him the notebook. His eyes lit up, practically sparkling.

“Oh myyyyyy!”

He gave you a soy grin after flipping through more and you had a feeling you knew what he’d ask. “Forget the makeup! Let me model for you! I want you to draw me au natural!”

Beelzebub

You sat on the bench in the RAD Fangol field as Beelzebub practiced with his rowdier teammates. Occasionally you’d look up to see he’d accidentally sent someone flying. He looked so guilty until they got up and reassured him they were fine.

Your D.D.D. battery was low and you didn’t want to seem entirely disinterested in the sport you didn’t understand well so you took out your notebook to try and take notes but they were cluttered and nonsensical so your mind wandered to doodling.

First, you doodled Beelzebub’s jersey number. Then stick figures of some of the poses he did. But eventually, you began trying harder to actually draw him. They weren’t professional by any means but you enjoyed trying to capture his overwhelming cheery presence.

You were so absorbed in your notebook that one of Beel’s teammates pointed out to him how studious you were and he knew that wasn’t the case so he jogged over to see what you were doing.

You noticed him when he was a few steps away and quickly shut your notebook and put it aside. You handed him his water bottle thinking it was what he wanted and bent over to get a towel for his sweat.

“___ what are you writing?” He asked you. You blushed and hid the notebook in your bag but upon seeing your flustered face, Beelzebub decided he had to know and reached for your notebook.

“Wait, it’s kinda embarrassing!” You protested but he took it out anyway as you didn’t feel like wrestling his sweaty arm away.

He found the page you were on and blushed, “o-oh,” he said silently as his eyes skimmed the page. His smile widened at all the doddoes and he thought the stick fugues were funny so handed it back to you.

“These are good! Let me show you some more cool moves you can draw,” he beamed and ran back out to the field to play.

Belphegor

Belphegor was drooling on his desk next to you and no one was waking him up because Beelzebub was eating and Lucifer was trying to get Asmo away from his mirror and Levi off the D.D.D. Meanwhile, the teacher tried hard to ignore it all and continue the lesson.

Poking Belphegor didn’t work and with no one to talk to you were bored and the arithmetic lesson tired you and made you feel like you really were in hell.

With nothing else to do and no worthwhile notes to take you started sketching the snoring demon beside you. Whenever he looked like his snore would be too loud, you covered his mouth to better hide him from Lucifer.

The bell rang but you stayed behind in class and promised to meet the brothers at the cafeteria in a minute. Knowing they’d be interested in sketches you lied and told them you were only taking math notes.

Many minutes passed and a somewhat realistic drawing of Belphegor filled the page of your notebook. You held it out to admire your work when it was taken by a half-awake Belphegor.

He looked at the page and smiled cheekily. “Wow, ___, that’s really good.” He complimented as he yawned and sat up.

“Where is everyone?” He looked around.

“The cafeteria.”

“Oh good, so it’s just us…how about you nap with me instead of sketching? I promise you can do that later at home.”

Others

#obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me scenarios #obey me x reader #obey me drabble #obey me story #obey me lucifer x reader #obey me mammon x reader #obey me leviathan x reader #obey me satan x reader #obey me asmodeus x reader #obey me beelzebub x reader #obey me belphegor x reader

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harrysfolklore · 4 months ago

Note

hi! can i request a little bitch blurb about how YN Piastri starts getting back to discover her individual identity by taking up art classes once again, how carlos supports her through it and Oscar seeing it unfold and is just happy how good Carlos has been for her 💗

THE LITTLE BITCHES + OSCAR = 🥺🥺🥺 also am randomly i revealing that they live together in grove now? absolutely

You're coming back from grabbing coffee with Oscar, who's visiting for the weekend when you notice Carlos acting suspicious, hovering near the stairs of your Grove home.

"What did you break?" you ask.

"Nothing!" He looks offended. "Why do you always assume-"

"Because she's my sister," Oscar chimes in from behind you. "And she's usually right."

"The betrayal," Carlos clutches his chest dramatically. "My own brother-in-law."

"Not your brother-in-law yet," you remind him.

"Yet?" Both men say simultaneously, Oscar gagging while Carlos grins.

"Shut up. Both of you." But you can't help smiling. "Now what are you being weird about?"

Carlos takes your hand. "I have something to show you."

"If this is another simulator setup..."

"Just... come with me?"

There's something in his voice that makes you stop teasing. Oscar catches it too, because he drops onto the couch with a knowing smile.

"I'll wait here. Try not to be gross."

"No promises," Carlos winks, leading you upstairs towards the spare room you hadn't decided what to do with yet.

"Close your eyes."

"Carlos..."

"Please?"

You do, if only because he sounds nervous in a way you rarely hear. You feel him guide you forward, hear a door open.

"Okay. Look."

You open your eyes and forget how to breathe.

The room has been transformed. An easel stands by the window, catching the perfect natural light. There's a craft table, organized with supplies you haven't touched in years. Shelves lined with paints, brushes, papers. A comfortable chair in the corner with a reading lamp.

But it's the walls that make your heart stop. He's hung up your old artwork - pieces you'd forgotten about, sketches from years ago when you still made time for it, before Oscar's career took off and you poured everything into being there for your little brother.

"How did you..."

"Oscar helped," Carlos says softly. "He had some of your old pieces. Your mum found more. I've been collecting them for months."

You touch one sketch - a racing helmet design you'd done for Oscar years ago. "I forgot about these."

"You never forgot. You just... put it aside. For everyone else."

There's a lump in your throat. "Carlos..."

"I see how you doodle during race weekends. How you still sketch in the margins of everything. I thought... maybe it's time you had a space just for you."

You turn to him, vision blurry. "I don't know what to say."

"That's a first," he teases gently, but his eyes are soft. "You've spent so long taking care of everyone else. Being Oscar's rock. Being my... well, personal tormentor-"

"Little bitch."

"There she is." He wraps his arms around you from behind. "I just thought you deserved something that's just yours. Something that isn't about racing or family or me."

You lean back against him, taking in the room. Your room. "When did you do all this?"

"Been working on it while you were with Oscar. Lando helped paint. Though he did try to convince me to make everything papaya orange."

A laugh bubbles through your tears. "Of course he did."

"Do you like it?"

You turn in his arms. "Like it? Carlos, this is... I can't believe you did this."

"So no more calling me little bitch?"

"Oh no, that's eternal." But you kiss him softly. "Thank you. For remembering this part of me."

"I remember all of you. Even the parts you forgot about."

You look around the room again - your room, your space, your forgotten passion carefully brought back to life by the man you once couldn't stand.

"I love you," you whisper.

"Enough to stop with the chihuahua jokes?"

"Let's not get crazy."

He laughs, kissing your temple. "Want me to leave you to explore?"

"Stay? Just for a bit?"

"Of course."

You settle into the chair, pulling him down with you, just taking it all in. This piece of yourself you'd packed away, now unpacked with such care by someone who loves all your pieces.

"Hey Carlos?"

"Mm?"

"My first new piece is going to be a portrait of a stressed chihuahua."

"I'm leaving."

"No you're not."

"No," he kisses your head. "I'm not."

When you finally come back downstairs, eyes still a bit red but smiling, you find Oscar sprawled on the couch playing FIFA.

"So?" he asks without looking up. "Did he do good?"

"You knew about this?"

"Who do you think helped him find all your old stuff?" Now he does look up, grinning. "Remember that helmet design you did for me? The one with the koalas?"

"I can't believe you kept that."

"Course I did. You used to make the coolest stuff before you got all caught up in..." he waves his hand vaguely, "you know, making sure I was okay all the time."

"Oscar..."

"No, don't get emotional on me. I'm just saying..." he glances at Carlos, who's leaning against the doorframe watching you both. "It's good to see you getting back to it. To see someone taking care of you for a change."

"Even if it's this little bitch?" you joke, trying to lighten the moment.

"Even then." Oscar's smile turns mischievous. "Though I still think you could've done better. Like, literally anyone else..."

Carlos throws a cushion at him. "I let you win at FIFA for this?"

"Let me? Mate, I destroyed you!"

"You wish, kangaroo boy."

You watch them bicker, these two most important men in your life, and feel something settle in your chest. Oscar catches your eye mid-argument and mouths 'he's good for you' with a soft smile.

You nod, because he is. More than you deserve.

"Oi!" Oscar's voice breaks through your thoughts. "Stop making gross lovey eyes at each other and someone play with me. I need to prove I'm the superior FIFA player in this household."

"You don't even live here!"

#carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz fanfiction #carlos sainz fic #carlos sainz smau #little bitch #carlos sainz writing #cs55 x reader #cs55 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #formula 1 x reader

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sillyseraphie · 22 days ago

Note

hi sweet seraphie! LOL im sending all my mutuals a request and im particularly excited about it!! i wanna know what its like to req 👰‍♂️

so something w phai maybe? reader had a ginormous crush on him b4 but lost feelings since he never reciprocated but hes realizing he loves them now and is trying to win them over again 🫦 cute, subtle ways!!!

kisses and hugs to u seraphie 🙇‍♀️

- cipher (sage in disguise)

“Love is never too late.”

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in which: you had a very huge crush on phainon before but long after knowing he never reciprocated your feelings, you lost feelings for him — only for him to develop feelings for you and the first thing that went inside his head was to win you over again.

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pairing/s: phainon x gn!artist!reader

cw: might be ooc as this is only the second time i write phainon and my third time writing an hsr fanfic! + loserboy phainon, bcs me thinks he's a loser when he's smitten! + unedited, there may be errors ahead!

au: college au

today's teas are: angst, hurt/comfy!

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HALO, LOVELY SAGIE!! (or cipher ;p) thank you for letting me be a part of "sending all my mutuals a request" event of yours! your idea is almost giving "she/he loved him, and he loved him/her too late" LMAO since i'm nice, i'm going to give this a happy ending!! but that doesn't mean my evil arc has ended >:)) might write mydei next based on the anime frieren(?) and on a song "multo" by cup of joe!

thanks for the sweet kissies and huggies! hyacine(disguised as seraphie) is sending u kisses as well!! enjoy reading my first longest fanfic in my life!!

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you glanced at phainon, who was laughing and teasing mydei to rile him up, as usual, then back at the page of your sketchpad that was once again filled with sketches of him.

you were never one to express everything through words as it always felt difficult for you. so instead, you poured all your feelings into sketching the man you adored.

almost all of the pages of your sketchpad were filled with doodles and sketches of phainon. some were sketches of him smiling, some were him sleeping on his desk (during class), some mini versions him, and even him as a puppy!

yet, even with all those masterpieces, nothing could compare to the real one.

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just as you were about to finish the outline, phainon leans over and takes a peek. "is that me?"

you almost jumped from your seat at his voice and you immediately turned your head to face him, only to freeze when you did and everything seemed to slow down until you snapped back to reality.

too close!

you thought to yourself as your heart gave a flutter at the proximity between your faces.

you wanted to push him away but you just sat there, not moving an inch.

"yes." thankfully, you knew how to control your expressions. otherwise, you would probably be a blushing mess right now.

phainon hummed in amusement. "you're quite talented at this, (name)! i didn't know i was one of your muses."

one of your muses? oh, how you wanted to say how wrong he was and tell him that he was your only muse but instead, you just kept quiet — as if the words were stuck in your throat — and averted your gaze to the sketch before you.

"thanks." you mumbled, shrinking into your seat, not used to receiving compliments.

phainon merely smiled, knowing and understanding that you were a person of few words who struggled to express yourself, and he accepted that.

so he reached for your head and gently ruffled your hair, making you huff under your breath and swat his hand away in response — only for him to laugh at you, oblivious to the way his touch sent a wave of butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

(oh, have i ever mentioned how his laughter was always a music with the perfect melody to your ears? you could listen to it over and over again and you'd never grow tired or sick of it.)

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you plopped down to the mattress of your bed.

man, you were exhausted.

tilting your head to the side, you glanced at the plastic bag that had your newly bought sketchpad inside, which lay on the desk beside your bed.

you sighed.

this was your second time buying a new sketchpad, as the other two were already filled with sketches of him.

what am i going to do? you asked yourself. and before you knew it, your mind drifted to your feelings for him.

you never expected any of this to happen.

at first, you told yourself it was just a simple crush that would be gone in a flash for a few days — only for your feelings to last longer and bloom into something even deeper.

maybe it wouldn't hurt to confess, right?

...

yeah, maybe it wouldn't hurt.

you weren't the best at words, but you're willing to try, even if it means you'll have to face rejection— not that you weren't mentally prepared for it.

you spent the whole night thinking for the right words to confess,, some leaving you curled up in the sheets out of embarrassment.

curse the titan of romance, why must it end up this way?

─────────────────────────

...

"sorry, (name). i couldn't return your feelings."

ah.

of course, he couldn't. you were just another friend in his eyes anyway.

you ignored the painful ache in your chest, pushing the feeling down with a laugh that sounded convincing enough for anyone to believe that it's fine.

"no need to apologize, phai. i completely understand, i wasn't even expecting you to reciprocate them anyway."

"thank you for listening to everything before saying anything else and for being honest. you may say that it's nothing to thank you for, but it means a lot to me. if you don't mind... could you at least accept these?"

you held the two sketchpads out to him, gesturing for him to take them from you and he did.

with a polite bow, you thanked him again and left.

all that mattered was that you finally confessed, and moving on would be a lot more easier for you now.

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phainon's a popular guy on the campus, a social butterfly with a charm that drew everyone in. he excelled in academics, dominated in sports, had good looks and a smile that could light any darkest room.

and you? you were just a normal, introverted student — known for your artistic achievements, but often overlooked in the crowd.

locking the door to your room, you slid yourself down to the floor with your back against the door.

you could finally move on without trouble.

you knew he'd never reciprocate your feelings.

you knew you had it coming and prepared yourself for it.

you had convinced yourself that you were okay with it. watching him laugh with friends, effortlessly connecting with everyone while you felt like a ghost in the background admiring him from afar. you told yourself that feelings like these were inevitable when you admired someone so vibrant and alive. and yet,

why did it hurt so much?

lost in thought, something warm and wet suddenly landed on your lap.

you blinked, confusion washing over you. you wiped at your eyes and noticed that your vision was blurry.

when was the last time you cried? the question echoed in your mind, heavy and unsettling. you couldn't remember. the emptiness you often felt had numbed you to every pain, dulling your emotions to the point where tears seemed like a distant memory.

as you fought to regain your composure, more droplets followed, cascading down your cheeks. each tear felt like a release, but also a reminder of the weight you carried.

you had grown so accustomed to the numbness that the sudden rush of emotion overwhelmed you, catching you off guard.

maybe letting go of your feelings for phainon wasn't as easy as you thought, but you knew for sure that you will be able to let go of them soon.

──────────────────��──────

phainon sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers tracing the outline of the sketches as his eyes fixated on the image made from pencil before him. each doodle was a glimpse into the world of someone who saw him differently, someone who captured his little moments.

he flipped through the pages, observing every expression— the way his smile lit up the page, the peacefulness of him sleeping during class, even the silly sketches of him as a puppy. it was as if each drawing held a story, and he felt his heart getting heavier on every page he flips.

as he continued flipping through the sketches, something tugged at his heartstrings. realization dawned on him that these weren't just sketches,

they were pieces of your feelings and thoughts.

he paused on the page where you had captured him laughing, the joy and lightness in that moment reflected back at him.

it was as if he could hear the laughter in his mind.

setting the sketchpad down, he lay down with his back against the soft mattress of his bed and placed an arm over his now closed eyelids before letting out a sigh.

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a month passed in a blur since you had confessed your feelings, life on the campus went smoothly as usual. well not for phainon at least.

phainon and you maintained your friendship, still sharing laughs, joining him for lunch and studying together as if nothing happened between the two of you. however, there was something different these days and phainon isn't stupid not to notice that.

while you still treated him the same, (with kindness, warmth, and respect) you rarely glanced his way like you used to anymore.

you laughed alongside him, but the spark that used to light up in your eyes when you look at him seemed dimmed.

he complimented you on your art and instead of the shy, grateful reaction he was used to, you kindly accepted it with a smile. (it felt more like a polite acknowledgement than the shy excitement he had grown accustomed to.) as if you were silently telling him that you no longer hold those feelings for him.

phainon couldn't shake the feeling that he lost something so precious. he often caught himself watching you and deciphering the subtle changes in your demeanor.

you had moved on, and while he was glad you did and you no longer have to suffer from your feelings for him that could never be returned, he couldn't help but feel a sense of longing.

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he sat there at the cafeteria with mydei, glancing at the direction where you were sitting and laughing with your small circle of friends, seeming engrossed in a conversation.

why did it bother him so much? he has always been popular, admired by many, yet he felt a pang of something when he saw you laughing with others? (jealousy perhaps?)

in quiet moments, he found himself thinking about the sketches you had created. each drawing was a glimpse into a side of you he had never really recognized — your creativity, your perspective, and the way you deeply saw him in a different light.

(strangely enough,) it made his heart ache.

─────────────────────────

phainon found himself staring at you again, his gaze glued to you as you sat with your friends. you were in the midst of a conversation, laughing at something that had been said, and for a moment, everything else faded away.

he watched as you tuck a strand behind your ear, a small smile forming on your lips. such a simple action, and yet it captivated him in a way he didn't expect.

he couldn't help but admire the way you moved, so unnatural and unguarded.

─────────────────────────

phainon rested his chin on his palm as his gaze fixated on his seatmate.

he took noticed of you resting your head on your arms that was placed on top of your desk, your breathing soft and even as you drited off to sleep. the calm and peaceful sight of you brought a smile to his face, and something deep stirred within him.

"earth to phainon."

mydei's voice cut him off from his daze, and phainon froze in realization. "ah, sorry. i wasn't listening, what is it?"

mydei raised an eyebrow. "you seemed to be distracted these days, what's on your mind," he paused, his eyes landing at your sleeping figure.

"or rather, who is on your mind?" he finished in a playful manner.

shoot, he got caught!

phainon rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment, letting out a nervous laugh.

was it obvious or was he staring at you that long?

─────────────────────────

phainon looked at the ceiling above him as he recalled the days that had passed. his mind flooded with memories, each memory of you now felt more clearer and meaningful.

sitting in the cafeteria, watching you laugh with your friends and feeling a pang of something he hadn't felt before. but he ignored it and instead listened to your laughter that seemed to melt his heart. it sounded perfect to his ears, bright and carefree.

the smallest and simplest things you do, like when you were sketching, lost in your world, the way your brows furrowed in concentration or how you'd occasionally tap the tip of the pencil against your lips made his heart race.

those little gestures, once overlooked, now held a beauty that captivated him entirely.

he remembered the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, a simple action that sent fluttering butterflies in his stomach.

the moments you'd fall asleep during class breaks, as if you were blissfully unaware of the world around you.

is this how you felt back then? he asked himself.

each memory deepened his confusion and longing. he had always seen you as a friend, but now he felt something more these days— and it honestly thrilled, yet frightened him at the same time.

he wanted to be the reason behind your smiles, the one who encourages you in your passion for arts, and who stands by you through everything.

and yet, he couldn't shake the fear of losing you. you had already moved on from the feelings you once had for him, and phainon worried that his feelings for you might push you away.

but he knew he had to confront these feelings. if he wanted you to see him in the same light you once did, he would have to take the risk before it's too late.

the first thing that came to his mind was to win you over again, and he was determined to do it.

though, will it be worth the risk? only one way to find out.

─────────────────────────

sigh.

phainon exhaled and his groan soon followed, his face resting against the desk. he had been trying to win your heart again these past two months, but he always ended up failing with his sudden clumsiness, and the unexpected things happening.

impressing you with his drawing skills? failed. he knocked a bottle of water over (that had its lid opened) in an accident, spilling it all over your sketchbook. he tried cleaning it up with a paper towel, only for him to smear the sketches he had already made, turning his masterpiece into a messy blur. you tried assuring him that it was fine and it was an accident, and yet that didn't stop the sad expression that formed on his face, looking exactly like a kicked puppy and you had to hold yourself back from laughing.

(cute. you thought.)

impressing you with his skills in sports? failed. while he did manage to shoot the ball, he got distracted when he caught your gaze and before he knew it, a ball flew to his way at a rapid speed and hit him right on the head, almost knocking him out.

sending you a sweet message about how much he enjoys spending time with you? failed. he accidentally sent the message to the wrong person. and worst of all, the person he accidentally sent the sweet message to was one of the professors in the campus; anaxa.

he doubts he'll even forget that memory.

he tried to pick your things that had fallen to the ground, only for both of your foreheads to bump against each other really hard.

he also tried flirting, but you were so slow and oblivious, it backfired.

mnestia, could you please be nice for once?

─────────────────────────

phainon always had a bright smile on his face, but there was a subtle change about him lately, and everyone on the campus could see the way his eyes would soften or light up with stars, the way the expression on his face would brighten with a grin, or even the way his imaginary tail would wag furiously whenever he sees you or when he's with you. (as if he was a dog with an owner that just got home from work.)

during class, phainon would steal glances on your way while the professor was busy discussing. only for anaxa to catch him daydreaming later, staring at you instead of paying attention and taking down notes. he eventually calls him after clearing his throat to catch his student's attention, "care to share your thoughts, phainon of aedes elysiae?" and the class erupts into laughter as phainon stumbles over his words, cheeks flushed and an embarrassed smile on his lips.

you also could tell that there was something more about the way he acts around you, but you kept denying it, convincing yourself that you're just imagining things or phainon was simply being... well, phainon.

yet despite your attempts to brush it off, you couldn't shake off the fluttering feeling in your chest from the way he looks at you like a lovesick puppy (you honestly find that cute), or when gives you those bright, charming smiles that always seemed to widen whenever you agree to tag along with him, or the way he still spots you in the crowds despite blending in perfectly, or—

titans.

you were falling for him again. but oddly enough, you didn't feel scared or hesitant about it, and it felt different this time, you didn't question everything like last time, you just accepted it without overthinking and complaining.

you didn't mind that he turned you down before, those moments had already felt like a blur now. and you found yourself clinging to the small hopes that maybe, just maybe, things would be different this time.

─────────────────────────

phainon was unusually quiet today, but as two of your friends called out to him, his gaze landed on them first before you and the moment it did; heat crept up to his cheeks.

"how do they look, phainon?"

cipher and hyacine had just finished styling your hair (out of boredom) and now they asked him for his opinion, only for him to remain silent and leave their question unanswered.

"i told you, i look ridiculous in this. i prefer my usual hair style much more." a sigh left your lips, embarrassment washing over you as you brought a hand to the clip/pin/hair tie, trying to take it off. But cipher stopped you before you could.

"ah, ah, ah. he hasn't given us an answer yet."

phainon was too stunned to speak and he couldn't help himself from staring at you, not when you look so...

breathtaking, beautiful, stunning, lovely, majestic, adorable, charming, enchanting, divine, and effortlessly gorgeous.

i mean you've always been, but seeing you in a different hairstyle than usual was new to him, and he doubts words are even enough to describe how captivating you are.

with a hand covering half of his flushed face and his shy smile, his eyes averted elsewhere before finally giving them an answer.

"they look pretty." he muttered and he returned his gaze back to you (and only you), his voice barely above a whisper but it was enough for you and your friends to hear.

while the pair cheered, he didn't fail to notice how you seemed to freeze in your spot.

was he seeing things? he could've sworn he saw your cheeks blooming into a faint red colour before you turned your back to him.

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several months had passed since day one of phainon's clumsy attempts of winning you over, and now you stood there with him at the entrance of the amusement park, staring blankly at the screen,and holding back the frustration that washed over you as you read the message.

hyacine: sorry, (name)! we got so hungry, we had to go somewhere to eat. i'm pretty sure you'll be fine there as long as you're with phainon! o⁠(⁠(⁠*⁠^⁠▽⁠^⁠*⁠)⁠)⁠o

cipher: have fun

cipher: on your date! ;3

beside you was phainon, who was also staring at the screen of his phone.

mydei: we had been standing and waiting for so long, but since you were taking your precious time, i had lost my patience.

castorice: sorry, phainon. i couldn't stay in one place for too long. we're cheering for you though! good luck! :))

great.

they ditched us. you both thought at the same time.

a long silence followed, and phainon was the first to break it. "seems like it's just the two of us then. where do you want to head to first?"

while phainon was frustrated at the fact that the both of you just got ditched, a part of him was happy that he got to spend time with you alone— in an amusement park.

you looked around first before pointing at the rides. "the rides would be nice, i'd like to try them out." (you felt a bit childish, but you've been dying to ride the rollercoaster.)

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as you made your way through the bustling crowd, you suddenly felt a bit anxious. "hey, phainon?"

"yeah?"

"do you mind if i hold onto your arm?" you hesitantly asked him. "i don't really like crowds, and i'm afraid that i might get lost..."

phainon glanced at you, and then chuckled. "with your height, it might not be easy to spot you in all these people." he joked and you flashed him a glare. (you were offended. that joke was unfunny, sir.)

"but sure, i don't mind." he extended his arm for you before you linked yours with his (and suddenly, you're not that scared anymore).

whenever you feel overwhelmed by the crowd, your grip on him loosens. and each time that happens, phainon would gently pull you back closer to his side, ensuring your safety.

the both of you headed to the rides first, you started with the simple ones before the thrilling rides. excitement bubbled in your chest as you climb aboard the rollercoaster. the ride was thrilling and it made you scream in delight whenever it plummeted down.

once the ride came to stop, you stepped off of the ride. but when you stepped foot on the ground, your knees buckled. just as you were about to stumble, phainon caught you just in time, his arms wrapping around you securely, "woah, careful there!" he said, and both of you burst into fits of laughter.

after regaining your balance, you and phainon headed over to the food stalls to eat, before wandering over to the game stalls. (you could've sworn you saw two familiar figures with blonde and lavender hair, but before you could even look at their direction, a prize caught your attention.) you tried your luck at winning the prize while phainon cheered you on, and his encouragement was boosting your confidence.

when you finally knocked down the cans and won a stuffed animal, you beamed up at him with the plush in your arms, and he flashed you a proud grin.

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the sun had begun to set and both of you had decided to go home. (your parents told you to come home before night time.)

the excitement of the day was still buzzling in the air, and the smiles on your faces were still there. phainon had decided to take you home and everything was silent, but it wasn't the awkward silence you shared earlier— it was rather comfortable and warm.

as you've both finally reached outside your home, you weren't sure how to voice out the feelings that had been blooming inside you, but it seemed phainon had something to say as well.

before you could bid him goodbye and call it a day, your eyes widened when you saw the solemn look on his face as he muttered something under his breath and avoided your gaze.

"did i love you too late?"

it was almost inaudible, but you managed to hear the words that (accidentally) slipped past his lips.

you could tell that he was being sincere.

"what?" you said in disbelief, causing a wave of panic to wash over phainon. but before he could say a word, you beat him into it.

"and here i thought I was only imagining things." you stifled a laugh and you were now facing him entirely. "please, look at me." he did as what you have told him.

and there it is, the look in your eyes, the one he had been longing to see.

"you're never too late, phai. I might have moved on and lost feelings for a while, but somehow, my heart found its way back to you again. it's odd, but i'm not complaining. with all the things that's been happening between us, i couldn't help myself from clinging onto the hopes that maybe things would be different this time. so..."

"phainon, if you truly love me... can you promise me to hold and take good care of my fragile heart this time?"

phainon stood frozen, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted in surprise. it was rare to see you express your feelings so openly, and the weight of your words hung in the air between you. He felt a sudden rush of joy, disbelief, and a slight vulnerability, all mixed together.

as your words sunk in, a bright smile replaced the solemn expression he had on his face. his eyes lit up, sparkling with warmth. you almost found yourself laughing at the sight of his imaginary fluffy dog ears perking up with excitement and his imaginary tail wagging furiously behind him.

after a moment, he finally answered, his voice steady and sincere. "i promise to and i will hold, cherish, and protect your fragile heart with everything i have."

he swore to the whole universe, that he won't let you down. and this time, he will show you how much you mean to him.

there is never too early, nor too late for you to love someone. it isn't something to rush on, as there will always be a right time for love to bloom like a beautiful flower.

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silly taggies! @sqgeism , @strawbairicake, @unabashedlyfamousprince

note/s: my tumblr was lagging when i pasted everything from my notes LMAOOO, + let me know if there's an error or you could share your opinion! (I would honestly love that, so feel free to drop your opinions, chat!) + did you all know that I based this on the things that had happened to me and my past crush? (Not entirely, it's mostly on the amusement park part and the reader's crying part LMAO)

#˚₊‧꒰ა serendipity and sweet tales ໒꒱ ‧₊˚#i can finally sleep (/j i can't sleep send help)#phainon x reader #hsr x reader #phainon hsr x reader

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