#syntax x did reader

[yanderelmk]

Syntax x OSDD/DID Reader(s) Headcanons

A/N: Greetings chat! Honestly I wanted to give some food back to this place, I love and miss y'all and I've deeefinitely grown a lot in my takes. I'll be using a new tagging format too!

Tags: Romance, Headcanons, Fluff, OSDD Reader(s), DID Reader(s)

It was a bit confusing trying to talk to you and then all of a sudden you were going by a different name, maybe even a different GENDER, and were talking as if you barely knew him

It turned out you were understandably extremely anxious about revealing your status as a System to him

Though he wasn't overly familiar with OSDD/DID, he went looking for the few available resources that weren't littered with bias or ableist language (no small feat)

After this he decided it would be best to treat each alter like a new person, first asking if they recognized him before introducing himself and explaining his role in the life of the alter(s) he knows

Of course this doesn't diminish his feelings for you in the slightest

If anything he now sees that he must win the affections of every alter (except if they're age regressors/littles/kids of course)

While definitely not the best with kids, Syntax did decide that he could suck it up for your sakes. Through trial and error and lots of questions, he figured out how to act as a proper caretaker for the little alter(s). Though intimidation is his domain, with you all he can't bring himself to be as stern

This has the effect of anyone who scares the System or upsets them being faced with an extra dose of his wrath

Of course he'd never let you see what he does to the offenders, he doesn't want to upset you so badly you form another alter

He never fancied himself a man of romance, but he does occasionally wonder for those alters who are of age if he ought to buy a ring each of them would like or if he should only get one

[screechingkroh]

The Seer

Has a general outfit design! This,,, is for lore purposes bc LBD's plan finally goes right 💀 huzzah for her, ig. I wanted to go fancy w it but then I decided to keep it simple for the sake of my own sanity. Pls, I am a silly little guy. I'm drawing this fucker, I need my neurons to stay in place pls.

The Seer is stuck w her ass for a while. Because we literally never see her shit (where she lives, the dynamic the Spider Queen and her goons have, that kind of shit), I get to be silly w it.

Also here's more Seer stuff bc I'm trying to figure out how I want their personality to be LMAO

[dkniade]

I tried translating the description for the Tartaglia perfume in the Genshin Fragrances series (the perfume collab with Primaniacs), but I’m not fluent in Japanese so there might be grammar mistakes and nuances may be lost with word choice. So y��know, please take this with a grain of salt, and feel free to correct me!

This definitely follows the Japanese version’s characterization, haha

Character: Tartaglia

Note: NSFW/suggestive, tone is slightly dark. Translation notes have a few violent example phrases

But first, the layers of notes described on the website (in English):

Top Notes: Bergamot, Eucalyptus, Green Apple

Middle Notes: Jasmine, Orange Flower, Patchouly, Cumin

Last Notes: Floral Ozone, Nutmeg, Tonka Beans, Agarwood

-

(Would that smell nice? Does that match the vibe in the description? I’m not a perfume person, so…)

Product Description

朗らかな笑みが生む危険な光

A dangerous light that gives rise to a sunny smile

心を射貫くライトフゼアノート

A heart-piercing light fougère note

きらりと輝くオレンジフラワーの躍動感に乗せて、飄々と漂うシトラスハーバル。

A citrus herbal that drifts aloofly, matching the liveliness of a glistening orange flower.

冷ややかなパチュリの闇を背後に潜ませながらも、振り返ったその横顔にはトンカビーンズの温もりが宿り、柔らかな表情を覗かせる。

Though the chilly darkness of patchouli lurks in the background, the warmth of tonka beans dwells in that profile which looks back and shows a gentle expression.

それは心地良さと不穏な気配の、不思議なコントラスト。

It’s a strange contrast between comfort and a disturbing presence.

暗と明が放つ軽快な熱に浮かされ、どこまでも翻弄されるフレグランス。

Giving off darkness and light while caught in a flash of zeal, a fragrance that puts you at his mercy completely.

If you enjoyed this, would you also like to check out how his Story Quest’s structure parallels his Character Story, how the Snezhnayan nursery rhyme is like in Chinese, and how he’s characterized in Chinese here?

——

DO PEOPLE REALLY DESCRIBE PERFUMES LIKE THIS. I understand describing the actual ingredients (?) but the rest of it is very flowery. (Update: Primaniacs seems to specialize in interpreting manga/anime/video game characters as perfumes. I read through some descriptions for their other character perfumes; this is the style they use for all of them it seems.) The first two lines sound like a shounen anime opening… but the rest is like a reader insert imagine… And what’s with that last line??

(My initial translation for the last line “暗と明が放つ軽快な熱に浮かされ、どこまでも翻弄されるフレグランス” was “A fragrance that floats between a light heat emitting darkness and light, and toys with you endlessly” but after looking the words up in Weblio I think I messed up the definitions a lot.)

We really need to look up definitions for some words here… (using definitions and examples from weblio)

朗らか (ほがらか)：cheerful, bright, merry.

E.g. 朗らか微笑 (a bright smile), 朗らかに笑う (to laugh merrily)

射貫く(いぬく)：to shoot through (a wall, the heart, etc.); to go through; to pierce; to hit (e.g. the bull's-eye)

躍動感(やくどうかん)：energetic feeling; sense of liveliness; vigor

潜む(ひそむ)：lurk (in, behind, under). E.g. 物陰に潜む (lurk in the shadows)

振り返る(ふりかえる)：look/turn around; (physically) look back (at)

柔らか（やわらか)：velvety (e.g. voice), tender, (physically) soft, mellow

-

—velvety?? 柔らかな表情… 表情 means expression, so, “tender expression”? “Gentle expression”? (Looks back at item description.) I feel like I’m reading a M-rated reader insert vignette.

-

心地よい(ここちよい)(adj.)：comfortable; pleasant

心地良さ(ここちよさ)(noun.)：comfort

不穏な(ふおんな)：disquieting, unpeaceful

e.g. 不穏な犯罪 (a disturbing amount of crime), 形勢不穏なり (The outlook is grave.)

Hm.

-

And now, the last sentence:

-

放つ(はなつ): (of a light or fragrance) give out/off; send out; put forth; emit

芳香を放つ (send forth fragrance; smell sweet)

軽快な(けいかいな)(adj.)：lightweight, light

e.g. 軽快な手(a facile hand), 軽快な挙動(agile/nimble movements)

熱(ねつ)：heat, temperature; fever; enthusiasm

Oh, it could also mean enthusiasm?

浮かす(うかす): to float, to get up (?), to save (money), to be on the mind (??)

e.g. 熱に浮かされる(to be delirious)

Note: this is the same wording used in the perfume description

So “軽快な熱に浮かされ” isn’t “floats between a light heat” but rather something like “caught in a flash of zeal”…?

-

どこまでも: anywhere; in every point, thoroughly; persistently

e.g. 彼はどこからどこまでも武士だ (He is every inch a samurai)

e.g. あなたにどこまでもついて行く。 (I will go with you anywhere.)

e.g. どこまでも目的を変えるな. (Keep to your purpose.)

翻弄される(ほんろうされる): (for people) be made a fool of (by)

e.g. 『源氏物語』に登場する玉鬘も数奇な運命と自らの美しさが引き起こす騒動に翻弄され続けた女性である。(Tamakazura in "The Tale of Genji" is also at the mercy of her fate due to the incidents triggered by her hapless fate and beauty.)

風波に翻弄される: to be toss about by wind and waves

e.g. 船は狂瀾怒濤に翻弄された (The ship was tossed about by the ranging waters)

e.g. 船は翻弄されていた。(The ship was at the mercy of the waves.)

-

The ship examples sound way more sexual than the other example sentences on the page involving (heterosexual) humans huh

-

There’s no doubt a sexual undertone with this last sentence. “Messed with”… “endlessly”/“thoroughly”… “at the mercy of”…

-

“どこまでも翻弄されるフレグランス”

“A fragrance that toys with you endlessly”…?

“A fragrance that puts you completely at (his) mercy”?

“A fragrance that makes you completely submerged in him”?

using “submerged” to evoke the image of waves and water

But, that’s probably not the intention of the product description, and I’m just having fun here

“暗と明が放つ軽快な熱に浮かされ”…

“A fragrance that gives off darkness and light, caught in a flash of zeal”…

…“どこまでも翻弄されるフレグランス。”

…“and puts you at his mercy completely”…?

-

“Giving off darkness and light while caught in a flash of zeal, a fragrance that puts you at his mercy completely.”

-

(Putting this together is.. oh my, lmao. That is about the most erotic perfume description I’ve ever read, and for Tartaglia of all characters🤣 I’d like to imagine this as a battle, but that doesn’t work for him either—in the Chinese version.)

[beauleifu]

NEXT HEARTSTRINGS CHAPTER COMING OUT IN A WEEK NOV 15 AAAJWJFJF

[missbellamere]

Vi x Male Reader SMUT

--

pairing: vi x male reader

tw: writing that's way too amazing and realistic

--

"bro wtf are you a man?" Vi said with a disgusted face.

you nod like the good boy that you are.

"ew bro I'm not into men." Vi said.

but you're desperate, you're an incel, you definitely can't pull anyone and you peaked in elementary when you were the fastest racer. this is your first and possibly only interaction with a woman.

"wait vi don't go!" You plead. "i'll tell riot to bring vander back to life, and not kill him immediately after! please I'll invest in stocks, I'm literally a stereotypical straight man!"

vi looked disgusted but thought about it for a second.

"ok fine." she said. "but you have to wear this blue wig, 4 inch boots, speak with a british accent, and magically become 6'1."

you did those things and she side eyed you HARD.

"never mind. this is so cursed and I'd rather date a mongoose. the actual animal."

vi then left you for caitlyn

a/n: don't need to remind me I'm the most amazing x male reader writer in all of tumblr

seriously... all of the non-satirical vi/caitlyn x male reader writers are SO BAD. it's pretty obvious that I'm not trying here but they actually try... and it's so terrible. the syntax, writing structure, and aesthetics are deplorable. hope yall enjoyed this cuz I thought it'd be funny to shit post

also is it kinda bad that this is my first ever Tumblr post

-from me, bellamere, who is NOT a straight male

[pukefactory]

☽────✧˖°˖ OPERATION PAPERCLIP ˖°˖✧────☾•

(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring ENA X Reader Who Likes To Draw

★ Commissioner: @namosaga

★ Character(s): ENA (ENA: Webseries)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ At first, you only drew her when she wasn’t looking. Which, to be fair, was difficult—ENA’s neck turns with alarming flexibility, and her eyes sometimes seem to operate on independent surveillance. You’d think she didn’t notice. But one day, while she was loudly declaring war on a nearby chair (“YOU! You smug-legged traitor!”), you caught her reflection watching you from a puddle. One eye was the shape of a frown. The other blinked. “Were you… caricaturing me?”

☆ You try to get her symmetry right. Or, rather, her lack of it. She’s never the same twice: one drawing has her geometric hand cradling a melting balloon. The next, her yellow side is smiling like the sun knows a secret. When you look back at them all together, it’s like you’re watching someone glitch through emotions, pages fluttering like a flipbook of joy, sorrow, and things in between. The pages smell faintly of turrón and electricity.

☆ Moony found your sketchbook first. “OHOHO! WHAT’S THIS—PAGES OF OUR MUTUAL CHUM?! Shall I investigate further?!” You snatched it from his noodly hands before he could start narrating. Later, ENA approached you with a folded napkin and very calm rage. “Moony said you were…’creating a fanfiction but with more pictures and fewer words?’” You were not sure how to explain the difference between art and devotion in a language she could hear.

☆ You once caught ENA mid-shift—sadness spilling out like static, face half-paled and twitching. You didn’t speak, just sketched. When she saw the drawing later, her half-circle eye blinked slow. “Oh. I looked like a gargoyle having an existential breakthrough. But also like a balloon in prayer. Hmm. HmmMMM. You captured it.” She tried to pose like it again, but tripped on her own polygonal foot. You kept drawing anyway.

☆ One page is filled with nothing but her hands. That weird asymmetry—one warm and soft, like sunlight that remembers being human. One sharp, angular, like it could shatter something and apologize after. She asked why. You told her it’s the way she gestures when she speaks. “Ah. My flailing appendages of meaning. I see.” She’s started doing it more. You’ve started drawing faster.

☆ Sometimes you doodle her words next to her face, like little dialogue bubbles. But ENA doesn’t always talk in words. She talks in metaphors, fragmented syntax, Morse code sighs. One time you tried to replicate it exactly: “THE CLOUDS ARE RAVENOUS TONIGHT, DEAR HEART.” She saw it and gasped. “Did I say that?! That’s AWFULLY poetic of me! Wait—what was I talking about?” You had no idea. Neither did she. You kept the page anyway.

☆ When she first saw the sketchbook, she looked at every page without blinking. Her expressions shifted like a slideshow of theater masks—smile, frown, awe, panic, neutral, awe again. Finally, she handed it back and muttered: “…Do you draw me because I’m strange or because I’m you-shaped?” You didn’t know what to say. She blinked again. “That was very cryptic. You don’t have to answer. But if it’s both, that’s okay.”

☆ Sometimes you draw her in scenes that haven’t happened yet. ENA in a paper boat. ENA with wings made of receipts. ENA with a crown of toasters and lightbulbs. She looks at them, points, and goes, “Oh! That’s going to happen next Tuesday.” You ask her how she knows. She just shrugs. “It’s just a feeling.” You check the calendar anyway.

☆ You caught her mimicking a sketch you did of her once. Trying to stand in that exact dramatic pose—head tilted, one eye closed, one arm high above her head. She held it for about four seconds before falling over and sobbing dramatically. “I HAVE FAILED THE ARTIST!! THROW ME TO THE PARROTS!” You gave her a sticker. She stuck it to her forehead and recovered instantly.

☆ Now, whenever you pull out your sketchbook, she’ll freeze in place like a deer caught in the spotlight of creative judgment. “Are you drawing me now? Wait—do I look tragic enough? What if I shift…like this?” She twists into a shape only possible in dreams and cubism. You tell her she always looks like art. She tries to respond, but her mouth glitches between a smile and a sob. “…I think I’m flattered,” she finally decides. “But my feelings are buffering.”

[maliciouscottonball]

Hear me out on the platonic Autobots what if someone or something was trying to break into the little one's House what would the reaction be 🤔!

Surprise Houseguests (Part 2)

Platonic Yandere! Autobots x GN! Human! Reader

Wordcount: 3255

AN: Thank you so much for the ask!!! It’s my very first one!!!! I wanted to write something fitting for the occasion so it took a bit longer than expected. I decided that a second chapter situation would be best to explain because I’m a certified yapper. It's a bit darker than the first part but I like it. I’ve been learning how to read and write in Cybertronian so I know for sure what I’m talking about. 😎 I like to think of the sound of Cybertronian engines as being like cat sounds. There are purrs, soft hums of life, startled silences, and roars and the scientific explanation is that it’s actually because they’re all my little meow meows. This hasn’t been beta read so please forgive any mistakes!

TW: Soft yandere behavior that turns significantly less soft at some points, the home offense system, robot violence, murder, medium stalking instead of light stalking, Optimus loving grammatical accuracy, silly alien robots being silly and significantly more creepy than last time

♡♡♡

Your Cybertronian lessons were going very well and you were learning quite a bit. You were progressing much more quickly than you expected. It was probably helped by the fact that since your mouth physically can’t pronounce anything in the language, you didn’t have to worry about that aspect. You were able to read simple stories and understand sentences with the words that you were learning. It certainly helped that you had a team of native speakers thrilled to help any time you called. 

Optimus was especially pleased with your progress. He would wait for your call every Friday evening, the day your schedule allowed you to finally stay up later than usual. It wasn’t like you had much else to do in such a small town in the middle of nowhere. His brutality in battle increased a hundredfold on those days, to the point where after watching him tear apart soldiers with his bare servos because he was angry that he might be late for your call, many Decepticon teams simply refused to fight any Autobots every seven solar cycles. Megatron was not happy but after reviewing recovered battle footage, understood and scheduled accordingly. It was better that way for everyone involved. Optimus was always very excited to teach you the meaning of new words and phrases and slowly transitioned his stories from English to Cybertronian. A former Iacon archivist was probably one of the best language, history, and culture tutors that you could’ve dreamed of. Optimus was an expert and it was the reason that he always spoke so formally. You remember during one of the visits that the team made to your home, he told you, “Even in the face of grave danger, there is always a place for eloquence, proper grammar, and correct syntax.”

You thought that he was joking. He, in fact, was not. He would affectionately correct your grammar and spelling in the messages that you would send him and always encouraged the others to do the same. He kept multiple copies of your messages in his hard drive, as did the rest of the team with their messages from you. Even though they were horribly spelled and sometimes borderline indecipherable in the beginning, they were deeply cherished. The younger and less mature bots would show each other each message before recharging, gushing about how cute and sweet you were, even when you were trying to have serious conversations with them. The older bots denied it but they listened in and found it endearing.

You had started making memes in a mixture of Cybertronian and English and sending them in a group chat to Bumblebee, Windblade, Jazz, and Wheeljack. You had tried to explain why they were funny to Ironhide, Optimus, and Ratchet but most of the time, they just looked at you with the most perplexed, mildly concerned, and very supportive expressions imaginable. Most of the time when you showed Ratchet your memes, he just stared at it for a little bit, patted you on the head, told you that he was glad that you were enjoying yourself, and started teaching you how to do a new type of basic repair on a Cybertronian. Ratchet was good at redirecting you into more familiar territory and the old mech was much more gentle about it with you than anyone else. You’d get the occasional chuckle from Ironhide and Optimus when you showed them but they seemed to enjoy just listening to you talk about anything and everything.

Something that both Optimus and Ironhide enjoyed significantly more than memes was playing games. You would play simple Cybertronian strategy games with them. It was rare that you won and the occasions that you did win were usually based on luck. That didn’t mean that you didn’t enjoy it. Quite the opposite, actually. You loved having them give you tips on what to do next and sometimes you would play as poorly as possible, just to get a reaction from them. You liked the stories about who Ironhide used to play the games with on Cybertron before the war. His voice would get soft and nostalgic. He seemed much more relaxed. It reminded you of how Optimus spoke when he was telling you a bedtime story. You enjoyed listening to Ironhide’s war stories while he drove you around but there was something so calming about his stories from before the war.

You liked Windblade’s stories too. You hesitated to go on rides with her at first because of how much she liked doing tricks to impress you but cruising at a steady altitude through the clouds with her was nice. You’d get much less nauseous that way. She did that quite a bit when she figured out that you liked it. You liked hearing about the titans and how she spoke to them. You thought that it was amazing that she could talk to such massive beings and that they’d understand her. Her perspective on the war was different than that of the mechs on the team and you liked hearing about what she had to say. She was the only femme that you knew and you liked spending time with her once she figured out how to handle you properly without scaring you.

Bumblebee and Jazz both loved goofing off with you. You’d watch movies and TV shows together and make plenty of commentary on the characters. You’d mostly end up laughing through whatever you were watching and making even more memes to go with them. You liked spending one on one time with each of them too. Bee would go racing with you through backroads and empty streets, keeping you buckled up tight as he sped around with you squealing and laughing in delight. He loved hearing you laugh and seeing you happy. Jazz would only occasionally speed around on your drives together. He would get you a treat to eat before he cruises around with you sitting in the luxurious interior of his alt mode, listening to old and new favorite songs with him. You would spend time finding new songs for each other every day and saving them up for when you inevitably went for another drive. You had playlist upon playlist of music to choose from with every genre imaginable. Jazz was who you went with if things were busy and you needed to escape from your worries for a while.

The Autobot team had been in contact with you for eight months before something went wrong. It wasn’t what was expected. The raccoons continued rummaging through your trash, even after the improvements made to the cans by Wheeljack and Ironhide. It had actually gotten worse after a month. You complained about it to Jazz while you were chatting with him on a call and he decided to see how they managed to do it that night while he was on watch. Jazz contentedly watched the feeds of each camera in your house while monitoring the surrounding area. He was watching your leg twitch in your sleep and recording it to show to Ratchet (just in case it was cause for concern, he rationalized) when there was abnormal movement detected outside where you kept your trash cans. He stopped recording you and then started watching the live footage from outside while starting a new recording.

There was a man digging through your trash.

A human man.

Unacceptable.

To his horror, the man went around your entire house and tried to open every door and window.

Something had to be done.

Jazz immediately woke Optimus and Ironhide and showed them the footage. The enraged roar of the Prime’s engine, the blaring of his horn, and the smell of the ominous black smoke billowing from his exhaust pipes were enough to startle the entire team awake, as well as the vast majority of the inhabitants of the town they were staying in.

The team abandoned their mission and immediately started driving back to your house at first light. It could wait. You could not. Optimus had wanted to start driving immediately and not stop until they had arrived but Ratchet had convinced him to reluctantly let the team finish their recharge. He sat in his alt mode and seethed the entire night. He couldn’t recharge. How could he ever recharge in that kind of situation? Someone was bothering his little one. Someone was creeping on you and he and his entire team were too far away to protect you. The flamethrower at the front door was disabled and the rest of the defense systems were made for raccoons and Decepticons. You were defenseless. The rest of the Autobots didn’t recharge all that well either. It was understandable. Trying to relax feet away from a Prime ready to eviscerate a member of the species that he swore to protect is not an easy task. 

On the familiar road back to your home, it was eerily quiet on the comms. The only time that anything was said was an hourly report of your whereabouts and activities, plus the occasional update when you messaged a member of the team. Optimus’s spark ached when you sent him a message about how you picked up some of the oil that he likes at the auto store. You really had no clue how much danger you were in and were just going about your day like usual. You really did need the Autobots to protect you.

When the team finally made it to your town after a few solar cycles, Optimus sent Windblade, Bumblebee, Wheeljack, and Ratchet to your home to guard you. As much as Optimus wanted to see you as soon as possible, he had something to deal with first. Ironhide and Jazz were going with him to help handle the situation. There was also the added benefit of you not being able to see him while he’s angry. He knew that his size made him intimidating under the best circumstances and he didn’t want to scare you with how upset he was.

Jazz had been tracking the man bothering you from the second that he showed Optimus and Ironhide the footage. He may be a more laid back bot but that didn’t mean that he let things like this slide. The man was going to hurt you. Jazz was not going to let that happen. If the angry energy radiating off of the Prime was bad for team morale, the cold energy from Jazz was worse. They were used to the mech being friendly even in life or death situations. 

Ironhide wasn’t about to let anything happen to you either. He had been teaching you self defense and would always affectionately refer to you as his little cadet. He would only let you use a low power blaster under the strictest supervision but he called it your training time. When you were done, he’d give you one of the treats he found during his missions and tell you how well you did. It was a nice change of pace for him. In his eyes, you were already an Autobot and he was known for keeping his team safe. He was less angry and more determined to eliminate the threat so that everything would go back to normal.

The rest of the team didn’t know the details of what was going on but they knew that you were under threat and the cause was a human. That was all they had to know while keeping a careful watch over you. Bumblebee figured that you didn’t know about the danger you were in and kept you close. He would peek through the windows as you got things from your house and make sure that you were no more than fifteen feet away from an Autobot at all times. You didn’t know why your friends were being so clingy but you were happy to be around them.

Windblade didn’t take you on any flights that day. You found it strange but you figured that she was just shaken up after a particularly bad mission. You were happy to try your best to comfort her and the rest of the team. You pulled up some funny videos that you had watched while they were gone and watched them on a data pad with her while she worked on one of her blasters and you worked on a small craft. You both giggled at some of the funniest parts and you were proud of yourself for making her smile when you gave her the necklace that you made for her. Her spark melted when you talked about putting felt on the back of the pendant so it wouldn’t scratch her finish. It was impossible for her not to smile around you but she didn’t tell you that. She wanted you to feel special.

Wheeljack occupied himself by improving your home defense system. There were going to be no more silly features that allowed you to turn them off outside of an extreme emergency. He sat you on his shoulder during less dangerous parts, explaining the intricacies of Cybertronian engineering to you. He spoke in Cybertronian for some of it and it was clear that he thought that you were further along in your studies of the language than you actually were. You didn’t understand most of what he was saying but you were happy to be included. After a few hours of intensive engineering lessons, he playfully shooed you away when he had to get advice from Ratchet on which weapons system would be the most effective against organics. 

Ratchet was surprisingly calm about everything. He gave you a check up and made sure that you hadn’t been hurt while they were gone. He was concerned about the random small bruises that regularly showed up on your legs and even more so about the fact that you didn’t know where they were from. He quickly realized that they were simply from your clumsiness and made you take an iron supplement while you watched him make small repairs on the team’s equipment. It worried him a bit that you were so prone to becoming damaged. He would have to research methods to keep you safe from yourself.

Jazz gave the location of the man to Optimus and Ironhide. The man lived in a cabin much deeper in the woods than you. Ironhide figured that living away from other humans was the man’s only redeeming quality. It would make neutralizing him much simpler. The three mechs transformed into their bipedal modes, not bothering to conceal themselves from the man. They could see his startled face peeking out from one of the windows and Ironhide and Jazz were equally startled when Optimus tore through the cabin like it was tissue paper to get to the man.

He snatched up the man, engine roaring once more and internal temperature rising to the point where he could smell flesh cooking in his servo. 

“You dare treat our little one like a creature to be preyed upon?” His voice boomed.

Optimus’s digits were crushing the man. It was difficult to tell at first but the man’s ears were bleeding. The sheer volume of the Prime’s rage had burst his eardrums. Ironhide and Jazz simply watched. They had all lost so much. They had sacrificed everything for their cause. It was okay to be selfish for once. It wasn’t even that selfish, Jazz had told Ironhide on the way back. They were taking care of you. You needed them to protect you from a threat to your life and happiness.

Squish.

Optimus crushed the man in his grip with a twitch of his digit. He then dropped the man onto the forest floor. The man had somehow survived and was simply staring up at the bots. There was a satisfaction in the Prime’s eyes that made the man even more afraid. The man couldn’t hear anymore but he could see. He could see the pleasure that the mech took in watching the life drained out of his body and all he could do was look up at him. Optimus stepped back and Ironhide took his turn standing over the man. Ironhide raised his blaster and glared down at the man.

BANG.

Suddenly, the problem had been solved.

The man hadn’t even left behind a corpse. He was incinerated by the shot and there was only a smear of carbon on the forest floor. Jazz stomped out the flames licking at the edges of the blast and seemed content. You were safe again and he was very happy with that. He gave a friendly smile to the other two mechs. He made sure that all of them were clean of any blood or unpleasant smells before they made their way back to your home. It was important that you didn’t know anything about their methods of protecting you. It was for your own good and none of them wanted you to be afraid of them. They wanted you to still want to be around them.

Optimus hummed a Cybertronian lullaby on the way back to your house. His mood was lighter as he walked back through the woods, back to you. You looked up from where you were sitting with Wheeljack when you heard the song rumbling from in the trees and your face lit up. You recognized the tune when you heard him from the times that he sang you to sleep with it and you eagerly ran up to him while telling him how much you had missed him and the others. That cheered his spark even more. He lifted you up in his servo, listening to you chatter at him and loving every second. He carefully ran a digit along your head and back, watching how you relaxed while he rubbed your back and smiling down at you. It was all that he could do to not coo at your cute behavior. He would never allow any harm to come to you. You were their perfect little one. 

You enjoyed your standard routine of learning and relaxing with the Autobots for the duration of their visit. They were even more doting than usual. You didn’t find it strange. You were just happy to hang out with them. You followed them around like a little duckling and acted very sweet towards them, just like always. You were such a wonderful human and they all adored you. The team had to leave after a few days and seemed much better off after their mini vacation with their favorite human. They resumed their regular communications with you and got back to their missions.

Optimus was a quiet mech outside of battle. His tendency to quietly look at and organize data hadn’t changed, even after millennia of war. He was reading a report while half listening to you and Bumblebee chatting over a call. It was comforting and gave him a sense of normalcy. He loved hearing your thoughts and ideas. You were so young and naive, especially compared to them. It was so refreshing to him and his team. Optimus smiled when he heard you excitedly tell Bumblebee that the raccoons were finally leaving your garbage alone. He gave Ironhide and Jazz a knowing look. Ironhide was doing maintenance on his blaster and Jazz was checking over the surveillance cameras in your home. They both returned his look with smiles. He and the Autobots were keeping you safe and they would continue to do so.

[4unnyr0se]

Hi love your writing!! I havent touched HQ in 3 years but Im starting to love old characters I use to fall in love with like Asahi, Oikawa, Bokuto etc,,, so as my first req, could you pls write fem! Reader x Bokuto fluff in HS?

Like Bokuto trying to court the reader. How would that go? And how did he finally ask us out?

Feel free to ignore this if you dont like the idea! Ty for ur time 🤍❤️🤍

❥ young love at fukurodani | kotaro bokuto

warnings: none that i can think of. this is pure fluff

MDNI | No 18+ content, I just don't want minors interacting with my blog

word count -> 1.6k

okay so aaaa this didn't rlly follow the ask bc all he does is ask reader to tutor him and then cute stuff happens but i can make a hc of it probably tonight or tomorrow?? also i wrote this when i was having tummy issues so im very sorry if its horrible. i love u!

got a request? my asks are open!

Bokuto wasn’t one to get embarrassed that easily. Sure, he did embarrassing things but didn’t know they were embarrassing. They were part of his boyish charm, which people loved about him…right? Of course, they did. He was Kotaro Bokuto. He was Fukurodani’s ace, and the people loved him for it. So why, if he was so confident, did he get awkward and embarrassed around you, his pretty classmate?

Saying you were gorgeous was an understatement. He couldn’t find the right words to describe you to his friends, mainly Akaashi. “She’s just like, y’know? And I’m like, oh damn! She’s cute as fuck!” Boktuo would make various gestures with his hands as he and Akaashi sat on the steps leading to the gym, sipping cola from the vending machine. “What do I do, Akaashi? She’s so pretty, and I’m pretty too! The only problem is that everyone else in our year thinks so, too…do I even have a shot?”

Akaashi would offer him a pitiful smile, rubbing his back in assurance. “Well, isn’t she one of the smartest in our year?”

“Yeah, smart and pretty. She’s so fucking perfect, I wish you could see her.” he pouted.

“Well, the answer is simple,” Akaashi said, standing up and stretching his arms above his head. Ask her for help with homework; god knows you need it.”

“Hey! I got a 41 on my chemistry test!” Bokuto yelled at Akaashi as the setter entered the gym. But he did have a point, like always. Bokuto decided then and there that he would ask you to tutor him tomorrow, no matter how anxious he was. Anxiety was for suckers anyway.

“Hey, wait up!” Bokuto ran after you as you exited your classroom, papers flying out of his messy bookbag that was riddled with stains from only God knows what. “I gotta ask you a question!”

You stopped walking and turned your heel, raising an eyebrow as the Fukurodani captain barreled towards you. “Hey, what’s up, Bokuto? How’s volleyball going? Are we headed to nationals?” you asked, placing a hand on your hip. God, even the way you held yourself was perfect. Were you an actual goddess, or was Bokuto just lovestruck?

Bokuto finally caught up to you, leaning against the hallway walls in an attempt to appear suave and put-together. His messy uniform didn’t help his cause, but he forgot to look neat today. And every day after that. “Uh, I was wondering if you understood what we were assigned in English yesterday? I don’t understand any of it to save my skin, hah,” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. “Did you get what our teacher was saying?”

“Yeah, it was really simple. Just basic grammar and syntax structures. Was it complicated for you?” you tilted your head to the side.

“I don’t really get it. Wanna tutor me at my house today? I can get you snacks!” he offered you a crooked smile, leaning forward so his golden eyes peered into yours. “C’mon, please? The coach will kick my ass if I don’t get my grades up, and I have a game next week! Pretty please?” he folded his hands in prayer, his bottom lip in a childish pout.

You smiled and nodded, grabbing him off the wall. Bokuto blushed at the sudden contact, noticing how neat you kept your fingernails compared to his own. Yours were neatly polished to perfection while he bit his nails almost constantly, and being a wing spiker didn’t come with having good-looking nails. 

“Where’s your house? Is it walking distance?” you let go of his hand, much to Bokuto’s dismay. 

“Yeah, it’s about five minutes from here. Wanna stop at a convenience store on the way? I’m really hungry.” he rubbed his stomach as you two walked out the nearest exit, your messenger bag dangling over your shoulder. 

“Only if you’re paying,” you joked, rubbing his shoulder. Bokuto could have sworn his heart stopped right then and there. Were you actually flirting with him, or were you just really touchy? Either way, it was a win in his book. 

“Sure, I don’t mind. Anything for a pretty girl like yo-” Bokuto stopped his sentence, smacking his hand over his mouth. “I-I mean, why wouldn’t I mind? I’m a captain, after all. It’s my job to provide for my teammates!”

“But I’m not on any sports teams. I’m not your teammate.” you deadpanned, 

“You know what I mean!” Bokuto whined, wiping his forehead of the sweat that was slowly starting to gather. “Damn, it’s a hot one today. Why won’t they let the guys wear shorts? Do they want us to die of heat stroke or something?”

“I honestly have no idea,” you sighed, walking under the shade of the convenience store roof. “Wait a minute,” you instructed, placing your messenger bag on the hot pavement. You shrugged off your school blazer and wrapped it around your waist tightly in an attempt to cool you off. You also rolled up the sleeves of your white blouse, loosening your collar. “Sorry, I’m just really warm. At least we get to wear skirts, right?” you offered him a lopsided smile.

Bokuto’s heart pounded in his chest. “Uh, yeah, you girls are so lucky. Wearing skirts must feel awesome.”

“It’s awesome until you catch someone trying to look it up,” you mumbled in annoyance, hoisting your bag over your shoulders. 

“What the actual fuck? Who was it? I’ll murder them! I'll text Konoha too; he’ll definitely want in on it,” Bokuto clenched his fists together, walking into the store with you. “I’m sorry that happened to you, honestly.

You shrugged your shoulder and rummaged through the ice cream pin, choosing a passionfruit-flavored ice bar. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I barely know you, anyways.”

“That doesn’t mean that I can’t protect you from jerks like that guy,” Bokuto angrily shoved his hands in his pockets, tapping his foot on the tile. He fished about 400 yen out of his pocket and handed it to the cashier, ushering you out of the shop as quickly as possible. 

“What was that for?” you asked, unwrapping the popsicle. 

“I didn’t like how he looked at you, that’s all.” Bokuto huffed. He made grabby motions for your bookbag, which you handed to him with a confused look on your features. “Let me carry that, please. You’re too pretty to carry heavy stuff around like that all day.”

You paused your walk and stared at Bokuto, blushing softly. “You think I’m pretty?” 

Bokuto slowly nodded and gave you a crooked smile, blushing in turn. “Yeah, I really do. I was afraid to tell you before, but now I’m all fired up. I wanna protect you from creeps, y’know?”

You popped the ice treat out of your mouth and stepped forward, smiling softly. “We barely know each other, and you want to keep me safe? We haven’t even hung out once.”

“We’re heading to my house right now, aren’t we?” Bokuto shrugged, his blush not fading. 

You chuckled and took another step forward, the tips of your noses brushing against each other. “Yeah, I guess we are,” you whispered, your lips dangerously close to his own. “You know, I always thought you were kind of cute. In the athletic kind of way, I suppose.”

Bokuto dropped the bags he held onto the hot concrete beneath you, praying they wouldn’t roll down the hill you were standing on. You two were in a remote location, and the tension was thick. “You think I’m cute?” he tilted his head to the side, his eyelids dropping halfway. 

“Mhm,” you purred, your popsicle dripping from the intense heat. “Super cute.”

“Fuck,” Bokuto’s hands hovered above your waist, unsure of what you wanted him to do. “Uh, is it okay if I kiss you? Please, cutie?” he quietly pleaded, your lips basically touching at this point. 

You smiled and nodded, holding your melting popsicle behind your back. “Mhm, it’s okay.”

Bokuto smiled as his lips interlocked with yours for a minute, savoring the sweet passionfruit flavor that coated them. His hands squeezed your waist childishly, never wanting this moment between the two of you to end. This kiss was exactly how he dreamed it would be, soft and perfect. Just like you.

You pulled away after a bit and giggled, your popsicle having since fallen onto the heated pavement. Your sticky hands cupped his face, the pads of your thumbs running over his defined cheekbones. “You’re a good kisser,” you pecked his forehead bravely. “Like, a really good kisser.”

“Same to you, cutie,” his hands left your waist, choosing to instead secure your wrists. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that. So. Fucking. Long.”

 A chuckle escaped your lips as your hands fell to your waist again, intertwining your fingers with Bokuto’s. You had never notified it before, but he was much bigger than you. It made you feel safe and secure. Protected. “We should probably get to your house to study, shouldn’t we?” 

“Aw, I was having so much fun kissing you on the sidewalk!” Bokuto pretended to whine, kicking a loose pebble that was in his way. He easily picked up the bags with his spare hand and tossed them over his broad shoulder. 

“Tell you what,” you squeezed his hand. “For every question you get right, I’ll give you a kiss. Does that sound like a fair deal?”

“Hell yeah, it does!” Bokuto kissed you on the cheek in excitement. He practically skipped to his house with you in tow, excited for what the rest of the day would have in store.

[heeseungiez]

nothing i don’t have | pjs

part 5: like the old times

pairings! park jongseong x reader, ft. huening kai x reader

summary! it was supposed to be simple, you and jay would fuck whenever either of you felt horny — no feelings. but it was hard not to catch feelings where park jongseong was involved. so you took the easy way out: you ended it.

genre! texts, written fic, college au, love triangle (corner)

content warnings! written part (500+ words)

author's note! very late very short update but i'm swamped with uni and work and group orders </3 failed english syntax, fell from the stairs and i have 5 more exams next week, idk what i'll do (probably play love and deepspace)

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You really wanted to have Heeseung’s legendary Shin Ramyun.

But you couldn’t, in good conscience, leave Kai to fend for himself at a party. Your heart wanted to take you to Jay’s apartment, but your head reasoned that it was better this way. Were you even ready to be around Jay like this? In a setting different than band practice or lectures?

Like a total weirdo, you sat outside of Yeonjun’s house on the porch by yourself. Did that mean you left Kai on his own inside the house though? Not at all. Because realistically, Yeonjun was a good friend of his, and they were close enough for him to have gone alone. But he wanted you with him. 

You should be touched, right? Kai invited you to a party — to go there with him. As his girlfriend. Something Jay had never and would never do with the type of relationship the two of you had. But still, you’d rather be with Jay and his friends right now, and it made you feel terrible toward Kai.

He was trying so hard to make you forget Jay. And you adored him. You cared about him. So much. Yet everything between the two of you felt so… friendly. Kai hadn’t even initiated anything with you yet, and you’d been together long enough, right? More than a month was enough, surely.

You sighed and ran a hand over your face as you stared at your notifications. Jay’s messages to you were displayed on the screen, changing from worry to disappointment. You couldn’t bring yourself to reply to him. The idea of explaining yourself terrified you. Because not telling the truth was much easier than lying. 

A pair of hands sneaked around your waist. You let out a scream as strong arms lifted you up on your feet, and as you were turned around, Kai put a hand over your mouth to silence you, wide-eyed. 

“Please, don’t scream. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said helplessly, taking his hand away once you were calm and not convinced you were being kidnapped. 

“Kai,” you breathed out, burying your head in his chest while trying to slow down your beating heart. He scared the fuck out of you. 

He wrapped his arms around you again, rubbing circles on your back. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to do that. Are you mad at me?”

“No, of course, not.” You shook your head, reciprocating his embrace. “But don’t do that again.”

“I won’t.” He kissed the top of your head. “You’re not having fun, are you?” he asked, and another question was on top of his tongue, but he swallowed it because the last thing he wanted to do was bring up Jay. Though as far as Kai was aware, you always seemed to enjoy parties whenever he was around. 

“I just have a lot on my mind,” you said. “I don’t know—”

“If you want, Taehyun isn’t at the dorm right now,” Kai proposed randomly, and you looked up at him in surprise. “We could go there?”

“You want to go to your dorms? Just the two of us?”

“Unless you don’t want to? I mean, I just thought… since we’re officially boyfriend and girlfriend now…” Kai scratches the back of his head nervously before shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

You smile. “No, actually, I’d love to,” you replied.

permanent tag list: @moonpri @addictedtohobi

nothing i don’t have tag list: @samsayssam @sillydallyz @semisemirin1i82 @mora134340 @bananna-12 @lonelylandofan @fakeuwus @tkooooop @en-chantedtomeetyou

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Bastard’s Mistress ~ A Don John x Servant!Fem!Reader Fic

So I caught the don John brain rot this weekend…very contagious, 10/10 recommend. This might be @scarlettspectra ’s fault, from all her beautiful gifs she’s been posting!😆 I didn’t go full Shakespearean here but had some fun with the syntax. I apologize in advance. Reader is properly deferential for the time, but she’s got a little spunk.😬 

Warnings: the line between dubcon and noncon here is VERRRY thin. I don’t even know. So if that bothers you do NOT read this! What else. Period correct misogyny and degradation. Corruption. I’m so bad at itemizing these things. Please take care. If u have squiks i probs wouldn’t read this…

You are a chambermaid in His Excellency don Alejandro’s hacienda. It gives you a certain distance from things, as you come and go, doing your best to keep the country house clean and stay out of sight. But don Alejandro’s bastard, the fire-eyed boy with such a burning contempt for the world, has always seen you. 

When you were young children, don John would play with you all, the offspring of the servants who were too young to work. Not because he enjoyed your company, but because he delighted in ordering you all about. Luckily in those days he ignored you as often as he tormented you. 

Then there was a time, when the two of you hovered on the precipice between childhood and adult responsibilities, that you had almost been friends. Or at least, not enemies. He, the bitter outsider with the privileges of a full blooded son, but none of the standing. You, unmoored in your fatherlessness, the fever having taken your sire when you were just a babe. 

Don John goaded you into shirking your chores one day to go play in the hills. He’d only taunted you a little, as you played your silly games, which mostly consisted of him manipulating you, ordering you to do this and that, always testing just how far he could go before being met with rebellion. It was still better than working your hands raw in the laundry. “We should run away,” he’d said in that devil-may-care way brash young boys have, so sure the world is destined to fold for them. You, however, had begged to go home, for all it won you. Upon returning your mother absolutely tanned your backside, and you never associated with Don John in such a familiar way again.

You saw him around the grounds, of course, as you scurried from one backbreaking chore to the next, and as he went through the motions of learning how to become a gentleman. Amidst his riding lessons he would wink at you from astride his fine black horse, but the cruel turn of his mouth never failed to halt you in returning it, even if your heart quickened in your chest.

That did not mean you didn’t think of him later though, on your lumpy cot of straw, as urges began to awaken in your body that was well on its way to becoming a woman’s. You saw his face at night, so achingly handsome you could hardly contain your longing. It felt like madness, and so you shoved it down in the deepest dungeon of your heart, as far as it could go. 

It was not helpful, or good, the times when young don John passed you in the halls, and you felt that he would like to just eat you up. He would tug at your apron strings with a smirk before striding on to whatever lark he plotted for the day. The unholy feelings just a look from that man called up in you had you reaching for your rosary–and late at night, when all others lay asleep, between your legs.

You’d felt a certain relief when he went off to war with don Pedro. Even though your heart ached for the inevitable change, a part of you hoped he would never return.

As it turns out, your hopes were not to be realized. He has returned to his father’s country house, on the tails of some scandal in Messina. His temper is even fouler than you remember. His scowl, crueler. He has met with some disappointment, out in the world. You hope he will not take it out on you blameless servants.

Perhaps that is too much to ask of the upper caste.

You feel his eyes upon you again, as in the old days, but different. There is a weight in his gaze that makes you uncomfortable in your own skin, as though it no longer fits upon your own bones. It makes you ache for something no pious unmarried girl should yearn for, something you cannot name, only feel in the darkest hours of night when you lay awake on your mattress of straw, your sinful fingers exploring the bud of flesh between your legs.

You decide don John carries the flames of Hell in his burning dark eyes.

You dream of him, as though he has possessed your flesh in your sleeping hours.

He corners you one day, as you are changing the linens in one of the many airy rooms of the hacienda. You eye him warily, as he shuts the door, his large and forbidding form blocking your exit. His dark eyes upon you are black as night.

“What a flower you have blossomed into, y/n,” he muses, stepping slowly into the room with the measured calculation of a predator stalking prey. “No longer the knees and elbows girl I remember.”

“You…have also changed, my lord,” you offer cautiously. No longer the awkward, rail thin youth, his shoulders have the breadth of a man who rides a charger and wields a sword. You have tried not to notice.

“How so?” he fishes, canting his head with a smirk.

Your face feels as though you have caught on fire. “You are…taller,” you offer, winning a cruel little chuckle.

“Oh? I do like the sound of that. What else?” Another step closer, his booted heel clicking on the floor, and you are veritably boxed in between the walls and the oversized bed.

“My lord?” you stall, mortified.

“Did you miss me, y/n?”

This question also takes you aback, and perhaps that is why you answer honestly.

“Sometimes.”

“Well. That is more than any of my relations here will bother to claim,” he answers bitterly. In that moment you still see a boy just striving, yearning for his father’s recognition. Perhaps it was ridiculous, but you always felt bad for him, in a way.

“Did you hear the happy news? Don Pedro has taken a wife, and opts to dwell in Messina,” snarls don John with a mocking brightness.

“How…fortunate for him.”

The man before you makes a sound that suggests he barely restrained himself from spitting upon the floor in his half brother’s name.

“Indeed.” He takes one more step, and you know you are done for, your heart in your chest. There will be no escaping now. “What of you, fair y/n? Assumed the yoke of marriage yet?” The disdain in his words hangs bitter in the air.

You are tempted to lie, but know no good should come of it. “No, my lord,” you answer, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“How fortunate for you.” 

Perhaps in your fear, you forget yourself. “John, please–”

He moves to strike, and you are but a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf, quick but not quick enough to evade him. His arm is like a band of iron about your waist, lifting you off the floor in his fury. He slams you down–albeit upon the feather mattress–a luxury you’ve never experienced for yourself, your back accustomed to scratchy tick straw.

“Insouciant wench! How familiar you are, to address me so.” He sounds so cruelly delighted by it, wedging his lean body like a knife between your legs, his narrow hips locked against yours. When you attempt to sit up he easily pins you down, his large hand spanning two of your wrists with ease, his other pressed lightly over your throat. You can hardly hear, hardly think, over the sound of your heartbeat thundering in your ears. He can surely feel it in your pulse, fluttering against his fingers. You are filled with fear–and the sharp ache of desire, God save you.

“Please, my lord…”

He makes a low sound in his throat, his lips tracing your jaw. “Please what, pretty maid? I have a mind to make a meal of you.”

“Please…don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? That is up to you, my dear. I will have you. Sweetly, or by force, tis your choice.” Your heart lodges in your throat. Your mother warned you about this, time and again. Men are dogs and gentlemen the worst of them. Never let them catch you alone.

And in your darkest heart of hearts, you know that a part of you hoped don John might do just that.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, surprisingly gently for such a villain, but you attempt to turn away. It only wins his annoyance, his large hand turning your face back to him. Before he can press his mouth to yours you say, “You merely seek to make sport of me in your boredom here. It is not right.”

He laughs at that. “Sport, I shall make,” he muses, hiking your skirts above your thighs. “Let us test the truth of your righteous outrage?” Boldly his fingers climb the trail of your leg, to the apex where he finds the damning evidence of your treacherous loins. “My lovely girl, so wet for such a reluctant quarry.” His long fingers dip inside your weeping center, and the sound you make does not resemble protest at all. He smirks down at you like the very devil. “And a virgin my little rabbit is not.”

Javi the stableboy took care of that for you, in a quick and disappointing tumble in the hay. His touch…had felt nothing like this, if truth you tell.

Ashamed, and burning, you look away. Tears trail out of your eyes, and a part of you wishes it shall just be over soon. He frowns at the shining tracks of water upon your cheeks, a menacing scowl that makes your eyes screw shut tight.

“Do not seek to engage my sympathy or my better nature, for you know I have none,” he growls above the dip of your throat, his lips searing as a brand upon your chest. 

“That wasn’t always true,” you dare, winning naught but a growl from this ravenous beast of a man above you.

“You are the only one who thinks so.” For the barest moment you see a flash of vulnerability in his eyes–the ghost of the memory of the boy he once was, there and gone like ripples in a pool. It is as though this second of softness spurs him on in his deed, as though he must shove it aside to enjoy his sordid pleasure.

Clever fingers tear at the laces of your stays; you are freed to breathe, but you are bared to his hungry gaze as he tugs down your shift for his delectation. “Such lovely fruits, just ripe for picking,” he muses, cupping your breast in his hand, suckling upon a nipple.

You never knew how such a thing could make your insides clench, your sinning cunt tightening in its aching emptiness. Your hips move against his of their own accord, your legs wrapping about him as you mindlessly seek some relief from this madness. He withdraws with a dramatic pop, laughing at your body’s treachery.

“You are a fiend.”

“Pray, tell me,” he taunts you.

“I hate you.”

“Is that any way to speak to your master?”

He is enjoying this far too much.

“You forget your place, don John, as ever.” 

That is when he slaps you. Not hard, nay, your own mother has hit you harder, but it certainly gets your attention. “I will rule here someday, y/n. Have a care with that tongue. I can think of better uses for it.” His piercing eyes fix upon your lips, a moment before he falls upon you, kissing you as though he means to devour you. You tense, thinking to bite him for being so cruel, so conniving, for just using you for no other reason other than he can.

He plays a very dirty trick on you, though.

That dexterous hand slips under your skirts again, swiping up your slick before circling that small nub of flesh that causes you such great tumult and shame. You moan into his mouth, and you feel him smile wickedly against you.

This man is the very devil, you are sure of it.

“Now who is ready to forget?” he taunts you, rubbing you in slow circles that drive you mad, make you writhe for the unbearable tightness coiling between your legs.

You can only manage a small cry, words escaping you. You’ve never felt anything like this, not at your own hands, and certainly not with Javi the stableboy.

“Please,” is all you can manage, and you’re not even entirely sure you know what you’re begging for.

“I like to hear you beg so sweetly.” He reaches to free himself from his breeches, his swollen tip hovering at your entrance. “So beg, wench, what favour is it you ask of me?”

You should entreat him to leave you be–you should beg for his mercy. But the delicious weight of him atop you, this dastardly man whose touch is such sweet sin–you are not sure you wish for him to leave you be. Your whole life has been such a march of drudgery. Even just the possibility of feeling something that is not pain or exhaustion makes you willfully forget every lesson your mother ever taught you, every fiery sermon the Padre ever flung down from his pulpit. Tis easy to renounce the Devil, until temptation has you in its clutches.

“I know not what to ask for,” you answer cautiously, and that at least is true.

Don John smirks down at you, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes. 

“Ask for my cock, you stupid girl, and if your quim pleases me perhaps I may be moved to share in the spoils.”

“Yes.” You strain your hips towards him, craving that satisfying, stretching burn of a man’s first thrust. That, atleast, you know something about.

“Yes, what?” he taunts you, delighting in your torment as he holds himself just out of reach.

“Yes, my lord,” you whimper, hating yourself as much as him in that moment. “May I have your cock?”

His smile widens in his devilish delight, almost showing teeth. “Remember that you asked for it.” But he taunts you no further, his thick head penetrating your weeping hole, the fullness of him stealing the very breath from your lungs. He groans once fully inside you, burying his face in your neck. 

“I’ve always known you would have the sweetest little cunt in the sierra,” he growls against your skin, and he begins to thrust.

If there is one thing you have always known about don John, it is that he loves to hear himself talk.

“You are mine, little maid,” he goes on, filling you so deeply you fear he must be in your belly. You are not sure you like it, and you only whimper in answer, straining for a better angle against him, seeking that certain friction that made you see stars.

“Say it,” he demands, understanding what you seek very well. You whine, turning your eyes to the ceiling. You know you are a mere peasant, and you know you do not own anything, much less yourself. Yet some small defiance rises in you, for his demanding tone.

“Perhaps I shall, if you make it so.” 

You wait for him to strike you again, but to your surprise he smirks with a sort of dark delight, only turning your gaze back to his with a rough hand upon your jaw. “There is the saucy wench I remember of our youth. Do you remember how you used to defy me?”

You don’t very much, recalling that he usually always emerged the master and victor of your games.

“No, my lord.”

“You do not recall striking me with a stick, in defense of a hapless bird?”

You blink, finding it rather unfair of this man to expect you to command the capacity to think in this situation. But then you do recall. You had all been small children. The boys sought amusement in throwing rocks at an injured sparrow. You had taken exception to it. 

Don John had sworn he would tell his father and have you executed.

You’d cried for days, but the sword never fell.

You’d nearly forgotten all about it, perhaps willfully burying the memory out of shame and fear. Mostly fear.

The bastard had deserved it.

He never forgot a slight, it seems.

“I always told myself I would have my revenge for that,” he tells you with a smirk, pressing his thumb into your mouth. You try to shrink away, but he has you like a fish on a hook. “Suck,” he commands you. You do not understand why those jetty black eyes boring into yours, paired with that unyielding tone, makes your needy cunt clench around him, only that it is extremely satisfying to see his eyes flutter closed, even if just for a moment.

You do as you’re told.

He uses your own saliva against you, reaching between your legs with that spit-wet thumb to touch you again. 

You forget everything else, but the carnal heaven that is his clever fingers with his manhood inside you. The sounds the two of you make are barely human, as you strain and writhe against each other, chasing your release from this hell. Those full lips made for sin devour you–his mouth on your breasts makes you see God, a searing pleasure crashing through you in a spine-cracking rush. How can something that feels so wonderful be so forbidden? Only then does don John truly let himself go, the sound of flesh striking flesh filling the room as he takes you with all his pent up fury. It is not long before he roars his release, filling you with ropes of his hot seed, his powerful body trembling in its tangle of limbs with yours.  

For just a moment you wished would last, his fingers lace with yours rather than pin you, his head heavy on your chest as he catches his breath. Yet when he lifts his gaze to you, his eyes gleam with their usual malevolence. 

“You will come to my chambers tonight,” he orders you. “For I am not finished with you yet by half.”

When your mouth opens–indeed to give protest–he silences you with a hard but heart-melting kiss, his long fingers tangled unforgivingly in your now loosened hair. 

“Do as I say, servant girl. Though if you don’t, I may enjoy making you.” That proud mouth ticks as he seems to imagine it, that fire igniting once more in his mesmerizing eyes. The thought simultaneously makes your blood run cold–and a thrill of desire run raucous down your spine.  

This man is the very devil. You are as sure of it now, as you know when the household goes to sleep, you will find your way back to his merciless embrace.

[kefiteria]

Oh, you thought Scaramouche was gonna leave you to rot in your own self-pity? HAH, nope. He’s here to give you a warm (but kinda cold?) hug while your inner emotional wreckage goes full meltdown mode. Don’t worry, he’s not as emotionally unavailable as he looks, he just has a very specific way of showing affection. Spoiler: it involves tucking you into his chest like a sad little bean and pretending he knows what he's doing.

pairing: Scaramouche x Reader (gender neutral)

tags: free therapy session, comfort reading, sprinkle of existential dread, comfort from scaramouche!

words: 1.4k

💌Prologue 💌Comfort Chapter 💌Epilogue

You are the prologue made flesh.

Curled into yourself like a forgotten page, like a lullaby no mother ever hummed to completion. Your body is all parentheses and pauses, a syntax of sorrow written in the way your spine bows beneath invisible weight. The kind of stillness born not from peace, but from a lifetime of flinching too often and learning it meant survival. Not silence, but endurance. Not calm, but surrender.

Mortal fingers are tucked beneath your ribs like they’re cradling something broken inside—memories perhaps, or prayers nobody answered. And your eyes, glassy and dull in the room’s indigo hush, stare past the peeling walls, past the tired lamplight. Past him.

You don’t hear his steps. Not truly. You feel them in the shift of air, in the faint prickle of something aware brushing against your skin.

He does not announce himself.

Scaramouche is like that—untethered by habit or permission. But tonight, there’s something foreign in his motion. A deliberation not born of combat, but of care too unpracticed to be casual.

You didn’t look at him nor did you move. Not when he crosses the room. Not when he stands just beside your makeshift corner of threadbare blankets and unslept nights. He doesn’t speak, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll leave. If he decides this is too much, too fragile, too you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he crouches. Folds in on himself like a paper crane beside the wreckage of a shrine no one ever worshiped in.

The body does not flinch, but something deep inside recoils. That flinch that’s old as bone. He notices.

Of course, he does.

His voice, when it comes, is rough at the edges. Like he hasn’t used it in this register before.

“Do you ever stop pretending you're not tired?”

Blinking your eyes slowly as the way someone might when they forget what it means to be perceived. The question floats there, unanswered, a small rebellion against the silence you’ve sworn yourself to.

So you turn your face to the wall.

“Do you?” you ask.

It him halts. Not dramatically. Just… gently. Like a clock forgetting to tick for a second.

“I used to think pain meant I was real…” he says. “Now I just think it means I didn’t die fast enough.”

It’s not a confession. Not really. Just a shard of something sharp left on the floor between you both. And maybe that’s all either of you have—shards.

His hand shifts. Reaches. Hovers.

Then stops.

He stares at your blanket—the one wrapped too loosely around you, slipping off one shoulder as if even fabric refuses to stay.

Then: fingers.

Calloused, colder than you expect, brushing the hem. Not tugging it tighter. Just holding it. Testing the idea of touch. His breath stutters. Then he tucks the blanket in, awkwardly, as if mimicking a ritual he’s never been part of.

A question drifts out, barely audible from your mouth “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Not directly.

“You looked like you needed tucking in.”

The phrase—lopsided and unsure—hangs in the air like a child's drawing on a battlefield. It shouldn’t fit. But it does.

And the dam you didn’t realize you were holding fractures.

You don’t cry. Not yet. But your breath comes jagged, like it’s cutting its way out. Like it’s trying to escape the ruins of your chest.

“I’m not a child.”

“No.” he murmurs. “But no one ever tucked you in, did they?”

Swiftly your throat closes around the truth like it’s trying to protect you from drowning in it.

Scaramouche shifts again. He sits beside you this time—cross-legged, close enough that his knee brushes yours. He rests his chin in his hand and watches you as if attempting to memorize the weight of grief without touching it directly.

“You move like someone waiting for the world to finish destroying them.” he says.

Laughter escapes, warped and brittle—too close to weeping.

“I think it already did.”

“No.” he stated quiet but firm. “You're still here. That’s the cruel part.”

Finally, a glance—unavoidable, belated. Both of your and his eyes connect, quietly.

You expect to see pity. Maybe disdain.

But what you see is worse.

You see recognition.

His gaze doesn’t soften—he doesn’t know how—but it holds. In that stillness, you realize: this is someone who knows. Who’s walked through the same ash-fields barefoot, who’s stared up at the stars and whispered why me to a sky that never answers.

But where you’ve curled inward, Scaramouche has clawed outward. Where you gave up asking, he tore open the world demanding answers.

“You don’t have to fix me.” you say, each word a brittle petal falling from the throat, fragile and defiant.

He watches you, then answers—not with pity, but with something quieter, sadder. “Fix you?” he murmurs. “No. I came because I’m weary of this farce—this masquerade where neither of us admits we crave the warmth of arms, not words.”

You look down at your hands. The bones visible beneath the skin. The story of your life written in pale scars and quiet tremors.

You lower your gaze to your hands—those frail cartographies of memory. Bone-thin and tremulous, they whisper of winters survived and kindnesses withheld. Pale scars etch the topography; tremors ghost along the sinew like forgotten music.

“Then hold me…" you say, the words scarcely more than breath, as if confessing to a dream.

And so he does—not out of pity, nor passion, but with the solemn grace of someone touching a living reliquary.

You don't melt. Not immediately.

You twitch. You tremble.

Not only that, but you wait for the cruelty.

But it never comes.

Only his voice—quieter now, like wind threading the ribs of ancient temple ruins.

“You’ve been asking for a lullaby your whole life without knowing the words.”

A pause, as if choosing gentleness over poetry.

“I don't know the tune.” he admits. “But I can stay until sleep finds you.”

His chest rests solid against your back—not warm like firelight, but like stone: a wall that does not crumble, no matter the weight.

You break.

Not with noise. Not with spectacle. Just a breathless tremor, a surrender so small it might be mistaken for stillness. The kind of breaking that takes years to arrive. The kind that simply means: enough.

His arms tighten, only slightly. A silent promise. He won’t let go.

When the trembling fades from your bones, he speaks again—softly, as if addressing the dark.

“Had I known the world would be like this, I’d have stayed inside the womb.” A pause, then: “Though I wasn’t born. I was made.”

You snort—undignified, necessary. A smile appears. Not with his mouth, but with the angle of his chin resting against your shoulder. A shift, slight and genuine.

“You’re ridiculous…” you murmur, half-scolding.

“Survival makes jesters of us all.” he replies, voice a threadbare sort of wisdom.

As though he might vanish under scrutiny, his arms, obedient to gravity, release you for a moment… only to find you again, this time drawing you close like something chosen.

You curl into him, face pressed to the place where no heartbeat pulses but warmth lingers. He smells like storm wind and metal, like something ancient still trying to understand gentleness.

He presses his cheek to your crown, an act so simple, so devoid of ornament, that it feels almost obscene in its tenderness, as if the very air around you could shudder at the softness of it.

A silence falls between you, not the comfortable kind, but the kind that makes the space feel heavier, somehow fragile, like glass poised to shatter.

His voice, once a weapon of iron, now softer than the softest breath, cracks the stillness:

“If sorrow is the price.” he murmurs, his words careful, as if testing their weight, “then let this be the lullaby it bought.”

The words drop—not with sound, but with a silent resonance, settling deep into the quiet like a stone sinking into the depths of some unfathomable sea. Unspoken, yet irrevocable.

Your breath falters—not from fear, not from shock, but because something inside you, something you never knew existed, finally believes him. It doesn’t come with a dramatic reveal, but with a quiet, inevitable certainty, like the calm that follows a storm. It fills the emptiness, and for the first time, you realize—this is what you've been waiting for.

It’s not painful. It’s not sharp. It’s simply there, settling into your bones like it always belonged.

And then, in the weight of that truth, something shifts. The questions come, not as whispers, but as challenges—echoes of the prologue you thought you understood:

What if all that pain, all that loss, wasn’t a mistake?

What if the brokenness was always part of the plan?

What if you never needed to be saved at all?

🌷Next: Epilogue: Marginalia in a Foreign Tongue🌷

[thepinkpanther83]

The Harmonic Equation (Pt.2 Harmonic Anomaly)

Story Prompt: “Turtle Song”

Donatello x Fem!Reader - Soulmate Song AU - Action/Romance

Masterlist

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Read this story on AO3.

Find the full series on AO3.

Previous Chapter: Chapter One: "Frequency Unknown" Next Chapter: Chapter Three: "A Song For Two"

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Two: “Harmonic Anomaly”

It starts off subtle.

You're leaned over Donnie's workbench, sleeves pushed up, delicate fingers sorting micro-capacitors by size while he calibrates the feedback loop array. There’s the occasional hiss of solder. The low buzz of machinery. Mikey’s somewhere nearby, bouncing between workspaces with the kind of chaotic curiosity only he can pull off without breaking something… so far.

The data stream flickers beside you- an open holographic projection of last week’s cracked code, still untranslated in places. Donnie had triple-encrypted it for safety, just in case, but he still let you be the one to pick at the remains. Something about your neural pattern recognition made you faster at spotting the recurring glyphs buried in the corrupted syntax. You said it felt like music, almost. Like it wanted to be read in rhythm.

So while Donnie tunes the loop array, you're humming- completely unaware.

It just... happens. Like breathing. A soft, looping melody under your breath, sweet but strange- unconscious. The notes flutter between your lips like moths drawn to light.

Donnie hears it instantly.

His head lifts, tool stilling mid-tweak.

Those notes again.

The same ones from the other night, half-lost in static and memory. It glides through the air like it was always meant to be there, but there’s no echo in the room. No resonance bouncing off walls. Just the pure, low pulse of you.

And underneath it… something familiar. Something patterned.

His mind races. The file. The frequency markers embedded in the prototype schematic. You said they felt like a song- like a mechanical lullaby stuck between lines of code. And now you’re humming it, effortlessly, like it came from you first.

He tracks it like a sonar ping, eyes narrowing- not in suspicion, but in focus.

You’re still working, unaware, humming without thought as you tilt your head and study a blown-out chip.

He shifts, just enough to catch Mikey’s attention as he dances through the lab, one roller skate on for no apparent reason.

“Hey, Mikey,” Donnie calls, careful- too careful, like this question definitely isn’t important. “You recognize the song she’s humming?”

Mikey freezes mid-skate-drift, leans dramatically toward you with a hand cupped to his ear.

A pause.

He blinks.

“…She’s not humming anything, dude.”

Donnie’s spine straightens a fraction. “…You sure?”

Mikey lifts a brow. “Unless she’s humming in dolphin,” he says, smirking. “Which, respect, but I don’t think she is.”

Donnie doesn’t respond right away.

Mikey shrugs and rolls on, humming his own tune now- something undeniably loud, off-key, and probably from an anime intro. He’s already forgotten the exchange.

But Donnie hasn’t.

He swivels his gaze back to you, watching- watching you hum this impossible sound no one else can hear.

Except him.

Donnie’s gaze lingers on your profile for a moment too long after Mikey skates off.

You're still humming.

Still softly threading that inexplicable melody under your breath like it belongs here- like it’s always been part of the frequency of this room, and he’s only just now noticed.

But that’s impossible.

Isn’t it?

He turns sharply, retreating to the bank of diagnostic terminals behind him with the smooth precision of a man pretending not to be rattled.

He’s definitely rattled.

A few taps. A sweep of fingers. His gauntlet syncs with the lab’s mainframe, and a live feed of his auditory processing system flashes across the screen. Channels. Filters. Frequencies. Subharmonic overlays. Nothing visibly wrong.

But his sensors registered something.

He heard something.

No one else did.

He glances back over his shoulder. You’ve stopped humming now, but the sound still rings faintly in his memory- just enough to make his skin prickle.

He types faster.

Full diagnostic. Internal and external mic arrays.

Scan for anomalous signal interference.

Temporal distortion variables: included.

Verify firmware integrity.

Lines of data scroll past in silent defiance. The array’s clean. No corruption. No miscalibrations. Everything reads perfectly functional.

“…Obviously something’s wrong,” he mutters, squinting at the untouched error logs. “There’s no way she’s emitting a sound only I can hear.”

But the files say otherwise.

Donatello Hamato does not believe in magic.

But that hum… isn’t science either.

And that is what terrifies him.

The lab is quiet again.

No music. No chatter. Just the low whirr of machines and the tap-tap-tap of keys beneath Donatello’s fingers as he hunches over the waveform synthesizer.

A stylus in one hand, a digitizer pad under the other, he’s been at this for hours.

Chasing a ghost.

He hums the tune again- low, precise, nearly mechanical. Then again, this time altering the pitch by 0.6 semitones. He runs the output through three harmonic filters. The waveform looks right. It should be a match.

It isn't.

He plays it back.

Listens.

Frowns.

“No resonance,” he mutters, adjusting the gain. “Still too clinical. Missing the... depth? No- dimensionality.”

His tongue clicks softly. He pulls up another set of synth layers, dragging in bioacoustic modulation samples. Heartbeat rhythms. Breath patterns. Even snippets of emotional frequency markers from prior research into affective computing.

He combines them. Refines. Adjusts.

Still wrong.

Still sterile.

Still not her.

He leans back in his chair, jaw tight, arms folded as the screen flickers with the stillborn echo of something close, but nowhere near enough. The real version- your version, left warmth in his chest. A strange flush. That fleeting feeling like-

Like being seen.

This version? Nothing. Static and numbers.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales hard through it.

“I built a laser microphone that can read conversation off a potato chip bag across rooftops in a hurricane,” he mutters. “But I can’t replicate one simple tonal pattern?”

He leans forward again, entering a new log.

Test #43 - Artificial Recreation Attempt Failure. Emotional response absent. Acoustic signature falls flat. Depth and resonance not present in synthetic waveform. Pattern remains elusive. Suspect organic variability. Possibly quantum-linked biofeedback loop?? (Note: stop making theories that sound like sci-fi. Embarrassing.)

He stares at the blinking cursor.

Then mutters:

“…Maybe it’s not the tone that’s unreplicable.”

His fingers still against the keys.

Maybe it’s the source.

The next time you hum, he’s ready.

He’s been ready for hours.

You don’t know it, but he’s been running simulations. Adjusting parameters. Testing hypotheses. He’s recalibrated his auditory sensors three times, cross-referenced every known frequency range, and even- begrudgingly -consulted Splinter’s old scrolls on "spiritual harmonics," which he absolutely does not believe in, thank you very much.

And now, as you lean over the holographic display, tracing a circuit path with one finger, it happens again.

That hum.

Soft.

Low.

Impossible.

Donnie’s fingers freeze mid-keystroke. His breath catches. His pupils dilate- just slightly, as his systems lock onto the sound.

This time, he records it.

The waveform blooms across his screen in real-time, a spectral fingerprint unlike anything in his database.

Not mechanical.

Not ambient.

Not random.

It’s structured.

And- most damning of all, it matches the notes he’s been humming to himself for years.

The ones he thought were just... noise.

His jaw tightens.

A realization hits him like a plasma surge to the chest.

This isn’t interference.

This is-

His train of thought derails violently when you suddenly glance up, catching him staring.

You blink.

“...You okay?”

Donnie exhales sharply through his nostrils, forcing his expression into something resembling normal human interaction or, in his case, normal turtle interaction.

“Peachy,” he lies, adjusting his glasses with a practiced flick. “Just, ah- debugging.”

You tilt your head. “...With your eyes?”

A moment passes.

Then, with the grace of a man who has definitely not just had a minor existential crisis over a hum:

“Advanced debugging.”

You snort, shaking your head, and go back to work.

Donnie does not go back to work.

Instead, he stares at the waveform still pulsing on his screen.

And, very quietly, he whispers:

“...What the hell is happening?”

You wake with your heart pounding and the echo of a song in your throat.

Not a melody you necessarily know.

Not one you remember ever hearing before- not on the radio, not in a lullaby, not even in the fuzzy edges of half-remembered dreams.

And yet it’s familiar. Like something you once knew in the dark, when the world was softer, quieter, and you hadn’t learned to armor your heart so tightly.

You sit up slowly, the room still, the covers tangled around your waist. The only light comes from your phone screen, face-down on the nightstand, casting a sliver of glow like a distant moon.

The hum is gone.

But the feeling remains.

Warm. Anchored. Like gravity... but personal. Like the sound itself had wrapped around you. Had seen you. Had wanted you.

Your palms are clammy. You press one to your chest.

Heartbeat: elevated. Breath: shallow.

Desire: inexplicably sharp.

You close your eyes.

And there it is again- faint, like it’s coming from the bottom of the ocean. Like it’s being sung through water and blood and bone. A low vibration, wrapping around your spine, coiling at the base of your belly.

And somewhere in that deep vibration is... him.

Donatello.

Not the Donnie with the quick wit and the miles-a-minute tech rants, though- no, this feeling is older. Wiser. The core of him. The part that hides behind circuits and sarcasm and calculating glances when he thinks no one’s watching.

The part of him that feels everything too deeply.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

You lie back, exhaling through your nose, the sheets suddenly too warm, your skin tingling like it’s caught the signal of something more primal than language. Your thoughts flicker like static through images of him- his hands, his mouth, the soothing timbre of his voice when it drops an octave and he’s too tired to keep it leveled. The way he’s always a little too careful with you. The way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice.

The hum surfaces again. Not from the world outside.

From you.

It slips past your lips before you even know you’re doing it- soft, tentative. The very same pitch you heard in your dream.

And this time... it answers.

Not in sound.

In sensation.

A heat that pools low in your stomach.

A sudden need to be near him.

Not just emotionally.

Not just logically.

Physically. Instinctively. Like your body knows something your brain’s still trying to unspool.

You sit up slowly, fingers brushing your collarbone like the feeling left fingerprints there.

“...What the hell is happening?”

3:47 AM.

The lab is dark save for the glow of monitors, their blue light casting long shadows across Donnie’s face as he stares at the screen.

The waveform is still there.

Your waveform.

The one that shouldn’t exist.

The one that matches the hum he’s been hearing in his head all his life.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating.

Then he types:

Hypothesis Update:

Subject’s vocal emissions exhibit anomalous harmonic resonance. Frequency matches internal auditory hallucinations previously dismissed as stress-induced. No known scientific precedent. Possible explanations:

1. Coincidental bioacoustic mimicry (unlikely).

2. Subconscious synchronization via pheromonal or biochemical signaling (plausible but untestable without invasive measures).

3. Extradimensional or metaphysical interference (laughable, but currently the only model that fits the data).

He pauses.

Then adds:

Alternative theory: This is the Turtle Mate Song.

He stares at the words.

They stare back.

A myth. A fairy tale. Something Splinter told them when they were young- that their kind had a song, a call, a vibration that only their true mate could hear. That it wasn’t just sound. It was recognition.

Donnie exhales sharply through his nose, fingers curling into fists.

Ridiculous.

He’s a man of science. Of logic. Of proof.

And yet-

He can’t explain this.

Can’t explain the way his pulse spikes when he hears it. Can’t explain the way his skin prickles, the way his cloaca tightens with something dangerously close to arousal when that sound slips past your lips.

Can’t explain why, even now, his body is reacting to the memory of it like it’s a physical touch.

His jaw clenches.

He should delete this.

He should.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he minimizes the file, locks it behind encryption even he would struggle to crack, and leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

Outside, the city hums.

Inside, his blood does the same.

And beneath it all-

That song.

Waiting.

Watching.

Wanting.

The world outside is hushed, the city sleeping in a patchwork of light and steam, and still- still… you move.

Like you’re sleepwalking with purpose.

You pull on the first clothes you find, not bothering to check if they match. Your fingers fumble with the lock on your apartment door, your body leaning forward like it’s being drawn- like there’s a wire sunk deep in your chest, and it’s pulling you toward something essential. Your legs carry you without complaint, without question.

By the time you're in the tunnels, breath fogging in the cold underground air, the feeling is so strong it’s a pressure in your ribs. Like your body is reacting to a storm only you can feel.

You don’t knock when you reach the entrance hatch. You don't announce yourself. You just descend.

And Donnie… Donnie hears you before he sees you.

Not through sensors or motion alerts- he’s got all that shut down tonight. He needed silence. Stillness. Needed to think.

But he feels you like a ripple through water.

His eyes lift from the monitor.

You step into the glow like a ghost conjured from his pulse.

There’s a moment where neither of you moves.

Then-

“Oh,” you say, breathless. Like you didn’t mean to speak. Like it slipped out of you the same way the hum had.

Donnie blinks slowly, his hands still resting on the edge of the desk, fingertips curled slightly like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile realness of the table.

“What are you doing here so early?” he asks.

His voice is soft. Not sharp or startled or snide. Soft, like the edge of a blanket pulled gently over bare skin.

You open your mouth.

Close it again.

Then you shake your head and say, “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t make a joke about weird hours or sleepwalking or how statistically unsafe it is to travel through the sewers in the middle of the night.

He just nods.

Because he knows.

You don’t have to speak it. Neither does he.

You’re here because the ache got too loud.

Because the air felt too empty without the other in it.

Because some invisible wire finally pulled too tight to ignore.

He stands.

And you don’t think- you just move. A few steps forward, your arms wrapping around his middle like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like your body had planned this long before your mind caught up.

And Donnie?

He doesn’t hesitate.

He holds you.

Not like a friend.

Not like a crush.

Not even like a lover.

Like a constant.

Like someone who’s just found the quiet to a storm he didn’t realize he was living inside.

Your face presses to his plastron. You can hear the echo of his breath. Can feel his arms tighten slightly when he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. Days. Lifetimes.

The lab is silent except for the hum of machinery and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing against him.

Donnie’s fingers flex against your back, his fingers tracing idle patterns through the fabric of your shirt. He can feel your heartbeat against his chest- fast, alive, his and something in him settles for the first time in days.

The song is quiet now.

Not gone.

Just... content.

His chin rests atop your head, his breath warm in your hair. He doesn’t ask again why you’re here. Doesn’t question the way you fit against him like two halves of a circuit finally clicking into place. He just holds you, his arms squeezing in a gesture that’s equal parts possessive and protective.

Neither of you speaks.

You stay like that.

Still.

Anchored.

Tethered.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three: "A Song For Two"

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[allophonicmess]

Uncanny Touch

Masterlist

You didn't get the chance to get acquainted with the new version of the doctor. So it's comes as a surprise when he suddenly wants the seduce you on a space ship at the end of the universe.

14th Doctor x reader + fake doctor x reader

Timelord!wife reader

Established relationship

1.5K Words

Angst

A little bit smutty

Written based on this request by @creelmalfoylaufeyson69 on my tumblr:

"Hello! I was wondering if you could do something angsty where Y/n prefers the fake Doctor over the real one? "

After the unconventional landing, the sudden disappearance of the Tardis, you finally arrived in the ship's cockpit. You let out a sigh of relief. Finally, some sense of control. Cockpits were good; you were trained on a Tardis type-60 but knew enough about other ships and transport systems to make an educated guess. "Okay, you two take a look at the other corridors.", you told them, sliding into the pilot's chair. You took a look at the pedals and screens in front of you. Was it built with a dual-slot engine? No, there would have to be a physical instrument to initiate ignition. Abduction core? Possibly, guessing from the symbols, there was a cooling system on the ship.

The Doctor and Donna had taken a step towards the cockpit's glass front, wondering about the edge of the universe. It was a strange concept: being at the end of everything. The thought made you shiver.

"Doctor." You called, making him step away from the glass and turn to you. "It looks like it utilizes cooler breaks. Could you go and look for any kind of cooling system?" You asked, still trying to figure out any of the written symbols.

You hadn't been able to figure out anything more than the basic number system that the Doctor had been able to translate.

"Any indication for power resources?" The Doctor leaned in next to you to take a look at the controls; he flipped through some of the slides and notifications that popped up on the screen. His hip was pressed against your knee; he didn't notice as he was too focused. But you did. You felt how warm his skin was. His heat slowly seeped into your leg, and you suddenly felt warmth rush to your face. You hadn't really touched, not in an intimate way.

But there had been no time to do so as you just popped up during the situation with the Meep. There was no time for rekindling, and you would have to wait a little longer judging the situation. "Um, no," You said softly. This position gave you the chance to finally take a better look at him.

He hummed, sliding back out between you and the screen. But not without letting his hand glide over your leg with just enough pressure to show you that his touch was deliberate. You sat up a little more straight, your eyes following his hand up to his arm and up to his face. He was looking at you with a kind smile. You huffed, reciprocating the playful sentiment. He let go, calling for Donna to follow him on his search for the ship's energy source and water system.

You stayed in the pilot's seat, trying to figure out possible syntax structures for the language you were presented with. It looked like nothing you had seen before. You were very familiar with circular writing systems, but this? Mysterious.

"Energy systems are controlled with base plate repetition filaments, Love." He informed you as he passed you on the corridor. "Ah, nice. And you gave Donna the pesky task of reenergizing them?" You asked, vaguely looking in his direction as he moved swiftly towards the other side of the cockpit. "Someone had to do it." He shrugged. He kept moving into the other room, his voice becoming muffled by the metal walls separating you. "And you had instructed me to look for a water system, no? Repetition filaments mean water spindles, so that's where I am going to solve my riddle of the day," He told you, his voice becoming smaller as he moved further into the room.

You huffed a laugh, once again focusing on the task at hand. You squinted your eyes, trying to find reoccurring elements in the symbols. Was there a word order? Did they even use words or was this a different kind of language. They may be phonemic creatures and somehow managed to create a written language.

"Whoa-"You gasped when a pair of arms suddenly wrapped around you from behind. You realized it was the Doctor's.

You caught your breath, adrenaline rising in you from the sudden contact. You turned your head to look at him, but the seat's height made it impossible to look behind it.

"Are you done already?" You asked, genuinely surprised at his speed at work. He just hummed, his hands losing their pressure to slowly glide over your torso. You gasped softly at the intimate touch over your chest and belly. Was 14 going to be a touchy incarnation? Wandering hands and flirty interactions?

"I missed you." He said lowly, letting go of you, only to appear on your left. His hand was outstretched, asking you silently to take it. You studied his face for a moment. He had removed his glasses, and his dark eyes watched you with a strange energy behind them. You haven't seen him like this before. You glanced at his hand for a moment before accepting his invitation. He grinned, pulling you up quickly.

He was more substantial than you remembered, using a good amount of strength to pull you right into his chest. His grin widened, keeping you there, pressed into his front. It was new, unexpected. He had always been very levelheaded on past journeys and travels. But you couldn't get yourself to mind it very much. Not with the sudden rush you felt. He had always been romantic but never this… physically approaching.

"Hello, you." He chuckled, watching you hungrily. His right hand moved up to your chin, holding it in a firm grasp. You let out a breath, not noticing you held it. His thumb moved to your lower lip, pressing down on it and letting his finger glide over it.

"Doctor-"You gasped softly. You really wanted to tell him that you appreciated the new physical contact and were also looking forward to exploring his new form, but now, stuck with Donna on an empty ship and without a Tardis, wasn't the right moment to do so. Yet the mix of surprise and attraction made it impossible to say more than that. He chucked at your weak interjection. Letting go of your lip and letting it bounce back into place.

"Always humouring me." He whispered, grinning again, eyes moving to your lips and back up to meet your eyes. He pulled you forward to meet you in a passionate kiss, the hand on your cheek moved to your neck to hold you in place.

You gasped into the kiss when he slowly walked you backwards, turning you around so that he stood with his back to the chair.

"Taste so good." He growled, allowing you to catch your breath before letting himself fall into the pilot's chair. His left arm was still wrapped around you, making you follow his movement. You practically fell into his lap; you had enough sense not to stumble completely and sit down on his lap. Each leg was placed over his thigh as your knees bumped against the small armrests of the chair. He looked down at your position.

"Yes-"He groaned, pushing you closer with a hand against your lower back. His long fingers graced your ass, and suddenly, you didn't care so much about being stuck on a lost spaceship.

"My good girl." He hummed, going in for another kiss. He squeezed your side, nimble fingers moving under your shirt. He pulled down the neckline of your shirt, humming against your pulse.

"I've waited so long to finally have you again." The Doctor started kissing your pulse, moving towards your neck. You closed your eyes, intoxicated by him. His stubble rubbed deliciously against your skin, making you gasp.

"Doctor, we shouldn't…" But then his fingers hand found a way under your shirt. They were a bit cold, creating goosebumps as they danced over your back with gentle pressure.

"Mhm, and yet you enjoy it. You little rule-breaker." He sucked on that delicious spot where your jaw connected to your skull. His fingers had reached the claps of your bra. He kneaded the skin underneath them before unhooking them one by one. You knew that something was off. That the Doctor would never approach you like this, despite his playful and sometime unpredictable nature. But you realised with shock that you didn't care about that. Because this version of him gave you what you longed for.

"Donna?!"

"My little deserter." He pulled you closer to let his lips wander over your clavicle to go lower.

"What?" You opened your eyes, wondering if you were just hearing things. Did he just call you-

"You should have followed those orders, hmm?" He licked your neck, his hands moving to your front, just waiting to touch your-

"Donna, Love, are you there? Donna-"

Your eyes met. His emotions shifted quickly from confused to intrigued, triggered by that look of bliss and arousal on your face. But in the end, he just looked terrified as he noticed the familiar arms and white sleeves peeking out from underneath your shirt. Accustomed fingers massaging your flesh. And then that grin. He never knew he could look so terrorizing, grinning back at himself.

With you, gasping on the lap of the other him.

[fanged-fanfics]

Hi! I really enjoy your writing and I honestly find it super comforting, would it be cool with you if I requested a Syntax and GN! reader fic, only the reader shares hella similar qualities to him (personality and intelligence wise)? Kind of like first impressions, and what Syntax thinks of them over time? I hope you have a good day, also pls don't burn yourself out (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)💞

💚💻 Two of A Kind — Syntax x GN Reader HCs 💻💚

Genres: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆˚｡⋆୨💻୧⋆˚｡⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖

- At first, when Syntax noticed how similar you are to him, he didn't react quite that well to it. Anyone who could potentially take his (very much self appointed) title as the smartest member of Spider Queen's Queendom was a threat to him

- Your relationship started out a lot like a rivalry, but a friendly one. He kept trying to show off to you or one-up you, and you just kept meeting him at his level. It frustrated him to no end, but it also gave him motivation to always improve

- He'd make small comments here and there about your skills, but usually disguised as a 'that's why I have to beat them' comment. He'd rant about you to basically anyone who would listen, which more often than not tended to be Hunstman or Spider Queen

- After being teased by both of them, he started just focusing on his next methods to best you. You, you, you. It was always you. Basically every time he did anything, he'd try to think how you would do it, or what comments you'd make. He justified this as mocking, but he realized one day that he was just memorizing all your interests and little quirks

- Poor nerd just ended up confusing himself. He kept telling himself this was all in the spirit of competition, that it was serving him. But he was slowly doubting that. Your ways of matching him stopped being annoying and started to feel... charming. Which, of course, he tried to convince himself he hated

- It was hanging out with you more that really did him in. Being so close to you, learning just how many mannerisms you had in common, it slowly changed his perspective into being endeared rather than frustrated. He wanted to spend more time with you... for the sake of the competitions, of course... totally

- He felt pretty at ease with you after some time together. It was actually refreshing to have someone that he felt understood him, to have a real and meaningful conversation with someone who matched his intelligence. It was very nice, he came to discover

- Pretty soon he was head over bionic spider ega for you. As Huntsman made sure to tell him in length, his crush on you was really obvious, but Syntax always denied it when asked

- He started inventing things for you to use to help you rather than to combat you. A faster computer, a better phone, a specialized app for you, your own bionic enhancements, everything like that. He also began heavily praising all your work, every little accomplishment was suddenly newsworthy to him

- Even though he's used to you two being similar by now, any reciprocation from you has him suttering and flustered like a fool. He likes to act suave and charming, but it's all an act, in reality he gets flustered easily

[cassiopeia-grimm]

A new beginning

Explicit 🔞 NO minors allowed

⭒❃Summary - After realizing her mistake, she returns to him to try and make amends. But is it too late to make amends?

⭒❃Pairing - Davis Mitchell x F!Reader

⭒❃Contents - Fluff, Angst, bestfriends to lovers, smut

⭒❃Word count - 1611

⭒❃ A/N - English is not my first language so if you spot any mistakes just bare with me. I'm sorry if I've made any syntax, spelling or tense mistakes.

This fic doesn't really follow the plot. I'm making my first attempt at writing a fic.

⭒❃ Credits - photos (pinterest) (edit by me)

For an autumn refreshment, the air isn't too bad. It's even mild. People are playing with leaves on the ground and children are running around laughing. But here I am, in front of my best friend's house. Well, former best friend…

I wonder if he's sitting on the couch right now, watching our favorite movie by the fire. Or playing video games.

I loved these little moments with him, it was relaxing and there was no judgment or criticism, we were just ourselves. Thanks to these moments, I had a crush on him, I actually fell in love with him. How could I not be in love with him, he's adorable, helpful, loyal, funny, a little destructive around the edges but he's also incredibly sexy.

I remembered that in high school all the girls were crazy about him, everyone wanted to be him. He was one of the best quarterbacks in our high school and I was proud of him, just like he was proud of me when I passed my science report.

I remember he often won games and I was in the stands cheering him on. I wasn't ashamed to shout his name so he'd know I was there for him. Those were the best years of my life.

Even though all the girls wanted his attention, he stuck by me. He once told me that I was more interesting than any of them. I remember blushing and hiding my face on his chest. Just thinking about it made my heart beat faster. I miss her touch, her warmth…

I wish I could go back in time and tell her I loved her. If I hadn't been such a coward, I'd never have lost him. Instead, I went off to see someone else. Still, I kept thinking about Davis, how he'd managed to hold my heart in his hands.

I was stupid…

The door opens, snapping me out of my reverie. He's standing there, his gaze soft and sad at the same time. Did he know I was coming?

“(Y/N), you came?” “Wh-what? How did you…” “Come on in.”

He stepped aside to let me in, I stood there skeptical, but finally entered after his nod.

Why, did he let me in? He should hate me, though. His house was simple but very warm, everything inside was comforting. If I looked carefully, I could see that he had always kept our things in common. It brought tears to my eyes.

As if reading my mind, he approached me and smiled.

“I couldn't let any part of you go so I kept them.” “Why?” It was all I could manage to say. “Because you're part of me and I can't live without them.” “What do you mean?” I said, puzzled.

He looked at me as if it were obvious, as if all the pieces of the puzzle were in front of me.

“Come on, shall we sit down for a bit?”

He guided me to the small living room, and I sat down next to him on the sofa opposite the fireplace. There were already two mugs of hot chocolate on the base table. Was he expecting someone?

“To answer your question, I was waiting for you.” “I know you're mad at me…” “Who told you I was mad at you?” “After what I did you should be!” I exclaimed. “But I'm not and do you know why?”

I nodded so he could continue. Deep inside, my heart knew why, but it wanted to hear it from his lips. Even if the other side thought otherwise, how could such an incredible man love a woman like me.

“Because I've always loved you and even now you drive me crazy, and have since we were little. Every time my parents and I came to your house, I had…No I needed to see you.”

I couldn't help but blush at his statement, it was as if I were dreaming at that moment. I lowered my head with a smile on my lips as I realized it was real after all. “Tell me why you left with Ryan?” He gripped my chin with his thumb and forefinger to force me to look at him.

“I left with him because I thought you'd never want me.” “That I'd ever want you?” Davis questioned.

The more we talked, the closer our bodies got, until our knees were pressed together. This sudden closeness gave me butterflies in my stomach and then his gaze on me drove me crazy. How had I not noticed all this before?

“I was madly in love with you and I still am. But I want to know one thing, do you have or still have feelings for me?”

I saw in his eyes that he was looking for an answer, an affirmation. So all I could do was offer him a tear-filled smile. He wiped away my tears with his thumb and brought his face close to mine, until our foreheads touched.

“I'm still in love with you, Davis, but I was too afraid you'd reject me.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He put his hand behind my neck and tried to pull me closer as if he still had distance.

“I could blow up the world for you, (Y/N). Oh lord, you know how much I love destroying things, but not you, you're far too precious to me.” We couldn't help but laugh at this simple sentence, admittedly cute, but a little psycho.

Standing next to him, I take in his features. His storm-blue eyes, his thin, pink mouth, his muscles trapped in his plain shirt and freckles dotting his face and little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He had become even more handsome.

“You know, I like it when you look at me like that.” He smiled wryly. “But stop!” I could bet that by this time, I'd gone all red.

I put my head in his warm chest and hugged him tightly. Meanwhile, he started laughing out loud and I felt his hand move up from my neck to my head to caress it. He always knew it calmed me. “I've always loved your laugh.” “I know.”

“That's a pretty pretentious thing to say, you know?” I laughed “I'm only pretentious with you.” “But seriously, what do we do now?” I murmured, intrigued. “We could start by taking our time and then see?” “You're probably right, only time can help us.” “When you have doubts, (Y/N) come to me, okay? I don't want to lose you again.” I nodded to let him know I agreed. “I'll also come and see you if I'm not well or have doubts too.”

He took me in his arms and tightened his hold on me, as if afraid of losing me again. Before I knew it, he lifted me onto his lap and caressed my back with his two large hands.

I felt something thick and hard against my crotch and knew I was close to his cock. I never imagined it would be big and hot. I know he told me to take our time, but after three years of not seeing each other I couldn't resist another minute.

I began to discreetly rub my clothed clitoris against him. This new sensation was driving me crazy and I wanted more. I felt his hands squeeze my buttocks and push me even closer to his erection.

“Please, (Y/n) don't stop.” He moaned

He kept asking me not to stop and that's what I did, I didn't stop. I rubbed myself even harder. His grunts and groans became very loud. He couldn't stop making these obscene noises, worthy of a porn movie. The fact that it was him having this effect made me even more excited.

He suddenly took my head in his hands and kissed me with such force. It was as if something had awakened. The grip of his hands was harder but softer at the same time. After open-mouthed kisses, we pulled back to breathe. Her eyes had become darker and more intense. I'd never seen that kind of look coming from him.

“Fu-Fuuuuuck, I knew you were meant for me, darling.” My hands survey his body, touching his pecs and bulging abs, until they reach his big erection. I cup it and start making circular motions around his cock. “FUCK! If you don't stop now, I'm going to cum in my pants.” “Oh yeah?” I smiled wryly. “Please, baby go slow, you're making me super sensitive.” “Don't worry, honey, we've got plenty of time.”

I placed my lips on her neck and began to suck the soft one below her ear. I could feel shivers run through his body, smiled in victory and continued with more determination. He started moaning and grunting again, but it was more desperate envy.

“Shall we continue into the bedroom?” “I'll follow you.”

I never thought my best friend would become my boyfriend…

[darkfruhlingsgefuhle]

Sun & Syntax

Borowski und das Haupt der Medusa

Pairing: Robert Frost x Reader

Tags: Slow Burn, Office romance, Smut, Fist Sex, Semi-Public Sex, P in V

Part 5/?

Same desks, same overhead lights humming dully, same clatter of keyboards and low murmur of phone calls.

But for Robert—everything had shifted.

Because now he knew what your lips tasted like.

And now you were here.

In your soft sweater and flowy skirt, that same subtle scent—sweet, grapefruit and rose—trailing behind her as you walked past his desk.

He barely breathed.

~I kissed her. I kissed her and now I want to do it again. Every goddamn second.~

He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white.

Just one look at you—tucking your hair behind your ear, leaning slightly forward as you helped a colleague with a printer—and he was wrecked.

His chest was tight. His whole body ached with want.

It wasn’t just lust.

It was you.

The way you moved. The way your voice dipped when you laughed. The way you brushed the drawer shut with your hip again and he felt it in his throat.

It was driving him insane.

And the worst part?

He could see it in you too.

You hadn’t spoken much that morning. Just one quiet “morning” exchanged by the coffee machine. But your eyes—

Your eyes lingered.

Every time you passed each other. Every accidental touch.

You reached for the same mug in the kitchen. Your hands brushed. Just the backs of your fingers.

But it might as well have been lightning.

He flinched like he’d been electrocuted.

And you—

You looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted just slightly.

Neither of you spoke.

But both of you felt it.

In the hallway near the meeting rooms, you squeezed past him in the narrow space—and your bodies pressed, for just a second. Just enough.

Your chest against him. He could feel your breasts brushed against his shoulder. The soft touch of your thighs. Your breath catching audibly.

He felt like the world turned inside out.

His whole body tightened, breath hissing through his teeth.

~I want to touch her again. I want to grab her waist, to squeeze her butt, feel every curve I’ve been too afraid to imagine out loud. I want to taste her neck, her shoulders, her skin. I want to hear the sounds she makes when no one else can. I want to ruin her for anyone else. But I’m too fucking scared. What if I do it wrong? What if I mess it up?~

He caught you looking, once.

From across the office, just a flicker of her eyes—down to his hands, back up to his mouth.

And the way rout thighs squeezed together subtly in your seat after made him feel like he was burning alive.

He adjusted his jacket to hide the way his body responded.

It was unbearable.

Every second with you just feet away, like a spark hovering near gasoline. You laughed too loudly at someone’s joke. You leaned too close to someone’s desk. He saw a hand on yout elbow and wanted to kill something.

And still—

He did nothing.

You were flushed

~Say something. Do something. Kiss me again, I’m right here. You kissed me like you needed me, but now you’re looking at the floor again? God, if he doesn’t touch me soon, I might grab him.~

By the end of the day, the tension was unbearable.

You passed him again near the break area, both of you moving at once—shoulders brushing, his hand catching yours.

This time, neither of you pulled away.

You looked up at him.

He stared back.

A breath passed between you.

He didn’t say a word.

But his thumb stroked your knuckle once—soft, reverent, like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

Then he let go.

---

The office was almost empty.

End of the day. Lights dimmed, a few screens glowing in the background, the low hum of machines winding down. Rain tapped lightly on the windows.

Robert stood by the copier, pretending to read a report, pretending he wasn’t about to combust.

You were watching him.

He knew it.

The heat of your eyes on the back of his neck. The same look you’d been giving him all day—heavy, hungry, a silent demand wrapped in patience she didn’t have anymore.

He didn’t dare turn around.

Because if he did, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself.

Then—footsteps.

Click. Click.

Soft. Slow. Deliberate.

You.

He didn’t breathe.

“Robert.”

Your voice, right behind him. Low. Throaty.

He turned, and you was close.

Closer than ever.

Your eyes dragged over his face, searching. Your cheeks were flushed, Your chest rising fast.

“You’ve been driving me crazy.”

He opened his mouth—no words came.

“You kissed me like you were starving,” you whispered, “and now you’re acting like nothing happened.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to— I mean I meant to, I just didn’t know if—”

You stepped forward, grabbed his jacket—right near his collar—and tugged him.

He stumbled forward.

You backed toward the empty meeting room.

“Come with me.”

“I—”

You opened the door with one hand, pulled him inside with the other.

The room was dark, only the streetlight outside casting a faint blue glow through the blinds.

The door clicked shut behind them.

He blinked, dazed. Breath caught in his chest.

You pressed your hands to his chest. “Gosh,” you said, voice shaking with tension, “just do it finally. Or I’ll explode.”

Something in him broke.

All the restraint. All the fear. All the overthinking and hiding and aching. It all shattered.

He grabbed you.

One sharp, desperate pull—and your mouths collided.

This wasn’t a kiss. It was everything.

His hands tangled in your hair, your body pressed to his so tightly he could feel the shape of your breath, the heat of your skin through her sweater.

You moaned into his mouth and he lost it.

“God,” he gasped, pulling back just enough to see your eyes, wild and dark. “I’ve wanted this so long—so fucking long—”

“Then take it,” you breathed.

He pushed you gently, blindly, until your back hit the wall.

His mouth was on your neck, on your jaw, kissing like he’d die if he stopped. You clutched his jacket, dragged it up his back, nails grazing his skin.

He groaned—deep, low, desperate.

“I thought about this,” he murmured against your skin. “Every night. Your mouth. Your hands. The way your hips move when you walk…”

You whimpered.

“You drive me insane.”

He kissed you again, harder, your lips soft and parted for him. Your tongue brushed his and he nearly collapsed from it.

His hands moved down—slowly, reverently—curling around your hips, your waist, feeling every curve he’d been aching to touch. Your body was softer than he imagined, but exactly as warm, exactly as addictive.

~She’s real. She wants me. She’s letting me touch her like this, like I’m not just some miserable IT ghost in the corner. Like I’m wanted.~

You whispered his name.

Over and over. Between kisses. Between gasps.

He felt it—how badly you needed him. How your fingers trembled when you dragged them up into his hair. How your body arched into his like you couldn’t get close enough.

And he wasn’t shy anymore.

Not here.

Not when your hands were on his skin and your breath was hitching every time he kissed lower, touched deeper.

“I don’t want to stop,” he rasped.

You bit your lip. Smiled.

“Then don’t.”

---

The room was dark, still, filled with breathless heat.

His body pressed yours to the wall, hips to hips, chest to chest. Your hands were twisted in the fabric of his jacket, your lips red and swollen from his kisses. Your heartbeat hammered against him like a second pulse.

He couldn’t stop kissing you.

Couldn’t stop touching you.

Fingers gripped your waist like he didn’t know how to let go.

You felt the tremble in his hands. The quake in his breath.

Like he was about to say something—

And then he did.

“I’ve wanted this…”

His voice cracked, mouth brushing the skin just under her ear.

“I’ve wanted you for so long I thought it was going to kill me.”

Your fingers paused at the hem of his jacket.

He leaned his forehead against hers, breath hot, voice low.

“You don’t know what it’s like. Sitting across from you, day after day. Watching you be kind to everyone. Smiling at them. Laughing. And I was just… there.”

His hand slid up your back, fingers trembling.

“I hated myself for wanting you,” he whispered. “Thought I had no right. I’m this… awkward, miserable thing. And you—you’re light. You’re everything I thought I could never touch.”

Your thumb stroked his jaw, gentle, soothing, eyes wide.

“I used to watch you from my desk,” he confessed, kissing her again, slower this time. “The way you’d move around the office. The way your skirt sways. How your hips knock the drawers shut like it’s nothing. I’d sit there and feel like I was going insane.”

Your breath hitched.

He kissed the side of your neck. Spoke the words against your skin.

“I thought about this. So many times. Having you like this. In my arms. Just holding you. Kissing you. Imagining what your skin would taste like, how you’d sound when you said my name with need.”

You gasped—he felt it.

The way your nails dug into his arms, the way your body arched.

“I used to go home and… fantasize,” he breathed, “about touching you like this. About you looking at me the way you’re looking at me now.”

“And now?” you whispered, breath shaking.

He pulled back just enough to see your face.

Now his eyes were dark, undone, pupils wide with need and disbelief.

“Now I don’t want to stop until I’ve memorized everything about you.”

His hands moved.

Tracing your curves—hips, thighs, up your back. He was reverent, like worship. But desperate, too.

You lifted your arms, let him pull your sweater over your head, and he paused—just stared. Your bare brests rose and fell from heavy breathing, your nipples already hard and asked for touch.

You felt the weight of his gaze. The awe. Like you were a dream he still couldn’t believe.

“You’re…” He swallowed. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Then his mouth was on yours again.

And you pulled him closer.

Your bodies pressed tight—no space left between you, nothing but heat and frantic breath and quiet, whispered need.

The dark meeting room felt like a different world.

Outside, fluorescent lights flickered. People packed up and left, unaware of the storm behind the closed door. But inside… time stopped.

Your shirt was on the floor. His jaket and sweater abandoned somewhere near the door.

And Robert—quiet, miserable Robert—was looking at you like you were something sacred.

Like you were everything he’d ever prayed for without believing he deserved to be heard.

You reached for him again. He stilled you hand with his, eyes locked on hers.

His voice was a breath. A confession.

“I want you so bad,” he whispered, like it hurt. “All of you”

Your fingers laced into his.

“How?” you asked, barely audible.

He swallowed, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.

“I’d picture you like this,” he said. “In soft light. No one around. Just us. Your skin warm under my hands. Your breath in my mouth. You looking at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

You touched his cheek, tender.

“I imagined how you’d sound,” he continued, his voice shaking. “If I kissed you slow. If I whispered your name.”

He leaned in—brushed your lips again.

“God, I’ve read so much. I know the theory. Every detail. But this…”

His hand slid down your side, tentative but hungry. “This is you. And I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t,” she whispered. “You’re not.”

His hands roamed—still shy, still careful—but bold with wonder. Tracing the curve of your waist, squeezing it. The dip of your spine, the softness of your thighs.

He kissed you like he was trying to imprint you on his tongue.

Your fingers found his chest, his back, everywhere you could feel him.

He gasped when your lips brushed his neck, your hands pushed under his shirt, nails dragging against bare skin. He was trembling. Barely holding it together.

“Is this okay?” he asked. “Tell me if I—if I do something wrong—”

“You’re doing everything right. Just… Don’t stop.”

That broke him a little.

He made a sound deep in his throat—half moan, half something close to a sob—and wrapped his arms around you like he couldn’t bear any more space between them.

You guided him, slow but sure, pulling him down onto the little couch against the wall. He lay down on you, your bodies rubbed against each other. You felt how hard he is for you. It drove you crazy. You just need him inside of you right now. Your inner walls clenched with need, you were already too wet to think clearly.

You moved like a secret—kisses deepening, breath catching, hands finally free.

Your touch burned him alive. You unbuckled his belt. It sent a shiver down his spine. He hissed and it made you smile a little. You go down with your hand and stroked his swollen cock through the fabric of his trousers.

“Jeez…” He hissed again and buckled into your hand.

“Shh… You’re so sensitive, Robert…” you have a noughty smile on your face.

“I’m… I’m sorry, I just…” He closed his eyes with shame.

“There is nothing to be sorry about, darling. I like it.”

This words just snapped him.

His touch was reverent. Devoted. Like he was building memory on your skin. His hands shivered but grip was firm. You moaned as he squeezed you just right.

His mind was chaos.

~She’s letting me touch her. She wants this. She wants me. I’ve never—God, I’ve never done this—but I want to learn everything. I can’t disappoint her. I want to know how to love her right. How to make her feel good. How to make her fall apart in my arms.~

When you undressed each other fully, there was no rush—only breathless tension. His eyes didn’t leave you once. He was quiet, but his face said everything.

Worship.

Desire.

Awe.

He placed his palm in your panties and you made that sweet gasp he never knew he dreamed to hear.

“Oh God, you are so wet…”

“Mhm… It’s all because of you. I was needy since morning.” You thrusted further to his palm.

“You are killing me.” He exhaled with lust and kiss you harder.

You moaned, wrapped you legs around his waist. It was just like a dream for him. Just as he fantasised. All of this made him an absolute mess. He grabbed your ass to lifted you up a little, he pulled your panties down in one firm move. You gasped as cold air of the room reach your wet pussy. He touched your breasts with his shaky hands and the sensation of your softness made him whining. Your nipples were so sensitive it almost hurts. And when he finally touched them you hissed with pleasure.

After that he pulled his dripping with precum cock out of his boxers and rubbed your wetness up and down a little. When he stopped at your entrance he glanced at you one more time. You moved forward with the most vicious sound, your eyes were full of lust.

And when he finally entered you—slowly, carefully, with one shaky exhale against your neck—he stopped. You could feel him trembling.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathed.

You cupped his face. “You’re doing perfect.”

You moved together slowly, then his hips went faster and faster, until it became a rhythm, a need, a prayer neither of you could speak.

His breath caught every time you gasped.

You both tried to stay quiet, so nobody could hear you.

His lips murmured your name brushing his lips against your skin like it was a spell.

“Just like that, just don’t stop, don’t stop, Robert.” You whispered and grabbed the back of his neck. “It feels so so good…”

You started to move randomly and jerky. Your breath is intermittent.

“Robert…” You look him in the eyes. His gaze was foggy with lust. “You’re so good, I’m gonna cum. Just… Right now.” You threw your head back with pleasure.

And when you came—fingers digging into his back, body trembling under him—he felt something shift in his chest.

Like your pleasure broke him open.

He followed soon after, clinging to you, breathless and stunned, collapsing against her with a choked sound of release he couldn’t have faked if he tried. Kissing you messy everywhere he could reach.

“Oh, God, Robert, you’re so good for me.” you murmured. And traced your fingers through his hair.

“You don’t know what you’ve just done to me, Y/N…” He gasped into your neck, completely powerless. “I have never felt this kind of things… I have never actually did this before…”

“What do you mean?” You tilted your head to him.

“I’ve never been with a woman before…” His cheeks were red his eyes glistened.

“Oh… God…” You cupped his cheeks with your hands. “I didn’t know…” You kiss him tenderly. “It was not right for a proper first time… in the office…” You smiled.

“It was perfect. More than I could ever imagine” He buried his face in you hair and breathed your scent.

You stayed like that, tangled up, hearts still racing.

His hand brushed through you hair. His nose nudged your cheek.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispered.

You smiled against his jaw.

“It is definitely real.” You chuckled.

And he finally let out a shaky, helpless laugh—like years of loneliness had cracked and spilled out of him.

The room was dim and quiet now, holding the warmth of what had just happened.

You were curled against him, skin-to-skin, your breath soft and content. Your fingers played with the skit on his chest, aimlessly, tenderly, like you were still drifting somewhere between dream and reality.

Robert lay on you, completely still, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest. His eyes were wide open, staring nowhere as though he was waiting to wake up.

He couldn’t speak at first.

He could barely breathe.

You let out a satisfied, sleepy sigh and nuzzled closer, pressing a lazy kiss to the side of his throat. Your voice came in a purr, thick and dreamy:

“Mmm… You were so good, Robert… so good.”

He exhaled shakily, as though your words punched the air right out of him.

“I—I don’t know how,” he murmured, dazed, “but… God. Thank you. Thank you.”

He turned to look at you—really look—and it nearly undid him.

Your flushed cheeks. Your swollen lips. The sweet mess of your hair around your face. And tour eyes—soft, heavy-lidded, so full of affection it made his stomach twist.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, reverent and breathless. “I’ve wanted this… you… for so long I didn’t think it was even real anymore.”

You smiled lazily. “You were amazing, Robert.”

He made a broken sound, his hand brushing over your bare side, trembling just a little.

“I used to sit in my stupid little corner and imagine this exact thing. The way your skin would feel. The way your voice would sound when I touched you. I—” His voice cracked. “I imagined your scent. Your mouth. The way your thighs would wrap around me…”

Your breath hitched, aroused even in your blissed-out state.

He turned on his side, brushing your hair away from her cheek.

“I dreamed about your body more times than I can count,” he confessed, and it wasn’t lustful—it was honest. “The way your waist curves. The softness of your stomach. The little crease where your thighs meet your hips. I’ve imagined kissing every inch of you.”

You closed your eyes, shivering slightly as he traced a hand gently over your arm.

“You taste exactly like I hoped you would,” he whispered. “Warm. Sweet. Like something forbidden.”

Your body purred under his voice—delighted, cherished.

You giggled, dreamy and wrecked. “That’s the most poetic thing anyone’s ever said after sex.”

He laughed, hoarse and low, pressing his lips to her shoulder. “Sorry. I think I’ve been holding it in for years.”

You stretched slowly like a cat, and your leg hooked around his. “You did everything right,” she murmured, your voice a warm hum against his chest. “Every touch… every kiss… It felt like you knew my body already.”

“I did,” he said, serious. “I mean… I wanted to. I thought about how you’d move. How you’d sound when you’d come. I used to lie awake wondering if I’d ever hear that sound.”

You blushed but didn’t look away.

“And now you have,” you whispered.

He held you tighter. “I’ll never forget it.”

You stayed quiet after that. Just breathing. Just being.

No questions. No future-talk. No fear.

Just skin and breath and warmth and trust.

And the secret of what you’d become, tucked safely into the soft dark of the meeting room.