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getitoutofmymindwrites · 2 months

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The falling | joel miller x f!reader, 5k

Summary: It’s a weird feeling, the moment you realize you’ve lost everything. You're falling. It is never ending, the falling, even after the moment, that exact moment, is long gone. Or you catch Joel cheating on you. The world comes crushing down.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, ANGST. That's it. Ok, bye. But seriously, angst, a whole lot of angst, alternated POVs, husband!joel, wife!reader, cheater!joel, married couple, Joel fucks another f!person, reference to sexual activity but nothing too detailed, as I said before-ANGST, excessive use of the word fuck, Joel is kind of a dick on this one, as always let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: Let me know how you feel about this lost little puppy, I know he sounds arrogant and awful, maybe I can rectify that, on a second part. If you're interested in a closure for these two, hit me in the comments! Thank you for taking the time to read anything I write! Love you all! 🥰😘

Dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics

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It’s a weird feeling, the moment you realize you’ve lost everything.

Everything dear and loved and cherished and so close to your heart. Your heart itself.

You still can’t decide if it’s liberating or torturing, to have that exact moment burned in your thoughts like a Polaroid.

But the pain is real. The pain is excruciating. It spreads like vines through your whole body, starting from the pit of your stomach in the form of a bile you try to hold back, moving to your heart’s agonizing clench, licking to the ends of your numb limbs which remain obstinately immobile. It feels almost like floating, but not exactly.

You’re falling; you’re still falling as if there’s no luxurious, expensive floor underneath your feet, holding you surprisingly still up. You wait for the landing, the crush, unmoving, unblinking, not quite breathing. It is never ending, the falling, even after the moment, that exact moment, is long gone.

Your designer’s tote bag, another unnecessarily extravagant gift from your husband, drops from your hands to the floor with a loud thud.

Joel’s thrusts stop immediately and he turns his head to look behind him, while he’s on his knees, balls deep in a female body on all fours. His eyes shut tightly in something you’re not sure how to interpret, dropping his head between his shoulder blades and his palms squeeze the hips of the female body he's holding, until his fingertips go white.

And you’re just standing there, on the threshold of your bedroom, taking in the scene. It’s weird how the mind works under stressful situations. Is the absurdity of the reality that keeps you calm? Is it your brain’s reaction to protect you from collapsing? Are you shutting down right now?

You feel your eyes unable to move around and at the same time you see clearer than ever, as if you’re looking through a wide-angle lens.

You notice all of the stripped clothes, which they don’t seem hastily taken off, the way they pool on various surfaces of the room; they took their time undressing each other.

You notice the crystal tumbler of a half finished liquid, Joel’s whiskey, on his side of the nightstand; they took their time having fun.

You notice the absence of a condom on Joel’s cock as he removes himself from the female hole he was buried deep, all splayed out for him and now you; they took their time before, it seems, there is an intimacy there. This is not a stranger, this is not a first time.

Joel is calm, collected even, as he stands to his full height, grabbing his pants from the floor next to the king sized bed and putting them on. Calculated, steady movements, he looks like he’s trying to stay in control of the situation, diminish it to something else. You pray he doesn’t go down that path.

You look behind him, the female body’s gathering itself into a ball, sitting on your bed now, hands hugging it’s knees, trying to protect its nudity. Your eyes roam her form until they settle on her face. Oh, you know her. She looks -hm, there’s a mosaic of emotions behind her eyes, which are surprisingly bold to look back at you. You see shock, you see fear, you see.. satisfaction?

“Darlin’” Joel’s approaching you, crossing the ridiculously big room, with a steady pace.

His chest is heaving from the effort to regulate his breathing, he’s sweaty, his muscles all bulged from the interrupted fucking, his curls -your curls, fuck, that hurts- damp. He’s so handsome in all his disheveled form. He looks like your Joel.

Imaginary flashes of her fingertips combing through his hair are passing through your mind and you feel your esophagus contracting, a sense of a burning hot liquid moving up to your mouth. You swallow it down.

He reaches to touch your arm, don’t you dare, is all you mutter lowly, still without moving a muscle as if you do, the world will come crushing down. It already did, didn’t you get the memo? Your voice feels foreign to your ears, your tongue feels rough like sandpaper. He obeys.

When does this falling end?

“Baby-”, he tries again, while he steps forward, a condescending tone to his voice, like he’s addressing a toddler.

“Don’t-”, you roll your eyes in your head, god, he smells so good, even with the sweat someone else poured out of his skin, he smells so fucking good. He smells like your Joel. “Don’t come any closer.”

“This-” he exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, as if it’s an unnecessary effort to explain, as if you should understand; of all people, you should know, “this doesn’t mean anything-” his hand gesturing between him and the female body, “she doesn’t mean anything.” You should understand, baby, you should know.

And for the first time her eyes leave yours and land on the face of the deceiver. If this wasn’t happening to you right now, you would take pity on her pained expression. You almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Does she know that?” you ask him, your eyes never leaving her tangled form on your bed.

Joel snaps his head to her direction, narrowing his eyes in warning, “Yes, she does.”, his voice comes out strict and final, signaling there’s no room for doubt. He doesn’t sound like your Joel.

“I need you to leave.”, you breathe barely audible, your eyes still on her face; now she doesn’t know where to look, the rug pulled out from under her feet from the man she had inside her minutes ago.

His gaze is cold and indifferent, as if everything is her fault, looking still in her direction. She looks like a deer caught in the headlights, the empathetic part of your brain feels for her.

“Get your shit and get the fuck out, what are you waiting for?” he snaps at her.

“Not her, you.” you whisper, it’s impossible to speak louder, all of your energy powers your two standing feet.

He turns to look at you, shocked, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.

“Wh- what are you talking about, sweetheart?” he tries to reason with you, “We need to talk, to-”

“Joel-”, you try again and thank god he’s interrupting you, you don’t have the strength to negotiate right now. Let the dice roll. It’s all fucked, anyway.

“This is my home; I’m not leaving.” he simply states, shaking his head from side to side, staring at you expectantly.

“You’re right. This is your house.” you acknowledge, coming to a painful realization. “Everything is yours; you own everything, don’t you?”, you smile sadly, crouching down to collect you bag.

You turn on your heels and leave the residence formerly known and felt as home, behind you.

Alarm system disabled.

Joe’s hairs are rising on the nape of his neck, when he checks the alarm app notification on his phone, thinking you came back home.

It’s been an awful month without you, without being able to contact you. He knew where you were of course, he could not for the life of him leave that information escape him, but he didn’t pressure you with an unexpected visit, he knew better.

It’s been a month. That’s plenty of time. You took your time and now you’re ready to talk. You have to be, this can’t be the end of this relationship, this marriage.

He presses your number and hits call. Fuck, he’s still blocked. Maybe you forgot to unblock him, it’s ok, it doesn’t mean anything.

He checks the house’s cameras. Shit. That’s not you. What is she doing there? What the fuck is going on? Alright, he’s going back to the house.

He stands on his feet, right in the middle of a meeting with the board and just leaves them. There’s a distant muttering of where does he think he goes, what happened, what’s gotten into him, this is important for the upcoming deal, but he pays no mind to them.

He needs to talk to you.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got everything you need,” Maria facetimes you, showing around your closet via her camera. “I’m loading the suitcase to the car and I’m out of here.”

“Thank you Mar-”

“MARIA?” Joel’s voice travels through the space from the ground floor, up.

“Shit, shit, shit, what am I gonna do?” Maria whispers to you turning the call to voice only.

“Just take the suitcase and leave, it’s ok, I only got personal stuff if that’s what he’s worried about. Let him check if it comes to that.”, you try to calm her down.

“Ok, ok-” Maria grabs the handle of the suitcase and moves to leave the walk-in closet.

“Hey.” Joel comes through the door to the bedroom taking in the scene. He hasn’t set foot in this room for nearly a month now.

“Hey.” Maria sounds pissed on the line.

“What are you doing here? Where's Tommy?”, Joel’s face frowns in question. “Tommy's not my keeper, his my partner. My husband, not that you would know what that means, apparently.” Maria just shrugs and moves to pass him by.

“What are you doing, what’s going on here?” he insists, blocking her way.

“I’m just collecting som-”

“How is she? Is she ok?” his voice softening when he asks about you.

“Oh, please, Joel, how is she? Really?” Maria scoffs at him. “She doesn’t want to see you, Joel or hear from you, that’s how she is.”

“Yeah, I gathered that much, thank you.” he mocks back. “Is she on the phone, can I just talk to her?” he extends his arm to reach for the phone. “Over my dead and cold body.” Maria says, pressing the phone on her chest.

His eyes are raging storms, his nostrils flaring with quiet rage. He takes a deep breath “Can you please ask her if I can talk to her, just for five minutes?”

“Why don’t you call her, Joel?” Maria taunts him, emphasizing the pronunciation of his name.

Joel just stares back at her, unfazed. Maria doesn’t move a muscle, lifting an eyebrow quizzically. Well, she did move one muscle.

Joel sighs exasperatedly “She blocked my number.”

“I wonder why that is.” Maria twists the knife, “I guess you have your answer, then.”

“Christ-” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “just- just ask her, please.”

Maria lifts the phone to her ear, rolling her eyes in frustration in the process. “Hey, Joel’s here, he’s ask-”

“Yeah, I heard everything.” you interrupt her, “No, I don’t want to talk to him.” Maria is shaking her head negatively at him as you talk, to pass the message.

Joel’s face goes cold and emotionless. “Well, tell her if she wants her belongings, she needs to come and get them herself.”

It’s been five weeks now and you can’t keep living in your best friend’s and sister in law's clothes. You’re gonna have to go and grab your stuff yourself.

Because it wasn’t enough what you’ve been through, what you’ve heard until you reached that goddamned bedroom door, what you’ve witnessed when you’ve entered, now he’s making you go back there to humiliate you. As you’re checking your calendar for your work schedule to decide on a suitable day, it hits you. You have Joel’s calendar on your phone, too. You always do, it was the only way to have some time together between his visits to work sites and board meetings and bussiness trips and fucking-behind-your-back, apparently.

And then you remember that day where you both stole some time off and decided to spend it cuddling with each other on the couch, talking nonsense and laughing at silly things and hugging and kissing and fucking all night long.

A brainstorm of thoughts run through your head instantly. How could he do that to you? He looked so happy in your arms. Maybe he was right, maybe it was nothing, maybe you should understand, you of all people, you should know. Do you need to do an STD test? How careless could he be? Where there others? Did he ever love you? Do you want to know?

Does it really matter?

You focus again on that day. He’d told you about a big deal coming up, one of the biggest in his career, if not the biggest so far and how important it was to the future of the company.

You searched frantically through his calendar until you found the date of the final meeting, the date where they’d seal the deal. Because there is no way they weren’t. If Joel wanted it so badly, he’d find a way to make it happen.

And you knew your husband, ironic as is sounds now. He was focused to a fault. He wouldn’t even check his phone that day. He’d done it every time since you were together. History indicated that he probably had other reasons, too, for not checking his phone in a timely manner, but you wouldn’t dwell on that. Not right now. Because now you had your chance.

That date was your chance.

Alarm disabled.

Joel’s phone is vibrating momentarily, not that he noticed, it was silent and tacked away in his jacket pocket, the jacket itself hanging on the back of his chair.

Don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up, he’s chanting in his mind, under all this calm and confident demeanor, he’s sweating inside.

This is it, this is it, this is it, he repeats like a mantra, watching his opposite CEO, Leo Marks, playing with the pen between his fingers. He’s inspecting the contract again and he’s so close, so close to what he wanted. The room is silent, the long table full of seated lawyers and consultants from both sides, holding their breaths in charged expectation.

Joel knows that Marks is going to sign. He knows it. He worked for it. He convinced him, he made his vision clear as day and he lured him in. This is it. He got this.

Then your face appears in his mind. No, not today, he can’t do this today. You will have to wait. Like you always have. Joel shakes his head slightly, as if to remove you from his thoughts. His fingers get itchy, he wishes he could just check on you. Yes, he just want to check on you.

Are you alright? Are you thinking about him? Do you miss him like he does? Do you stay wide awake at night replaying the same scene over and over until you feel physically ill? Do you know that he thinks about you? Did he show you at all that night? Maybe he should have appeared at your friend’s door out of the blue. Maybe you think he doesn’t care. All he was trying to do was give you space. Respect your boundaries. Let you work everything out.

Fuck.

He reaches for his phone. He doesn’t know why. He knows his number is still blocked. He checks every night, when he's too exhausted from the lack of sleep and prays he could listen to your voice, or the soft sound of your breath when you slept next to him. But he fishes it out of his jacket pocket, anyway and then he sees it.

38 minutes ago.

Alarm disabled.

Alarm disabled. Alarm disabled. Alarm disabled, the only thought repeated in his head. He immediately searches the cameras for you but no movement is recorded right now. Maybe you already left. His heart rate spikes, his temples feel the pressure of his blood pumping violently in his veins. Cold sweat pours out of his body.

He’s squeezing his eyes shut, mentally counting all the places without cameras inside the house. What if you are still in there and he just can’t see you?

Fuck.

Mark’s voice extract him from his thoughts, “Mr. Miller, everything looks in order as we agreed.”

Joel snaps his eyes back to him, slightly irritated, “Of course it does, your legal team already did a thorough check all these months to get us here today.”

“Yes, yes,” Marks laughs entertained, “I just wanted to look it over one more time, I mean, we really are going to…”

What if you’re still there? What if this is his chance? He could always try to reach you after the deal, convince you to hear him out. Yeah, he can do that. He doesn’t need to chase you down. He can wait a little bit longer, can’t he? He can have it all, right? He was the man that had it all.

A mail pops up on his phone, a compliment note from the management of one of both your favorite hotels in Europe, thanking you for choosing their establishments for your stay, once again. Shit. You’re fleeing the fucking country? Are you fucking serious?

“..Mr. Miller?” Marks insists.

“Hm?” his eyes are glued to the screen of his phone.

“I said, before we sign, I need you to walk me through it one more time.” he demands like a little child asking for its favorite bedtime story. “I mean, this is the project of my dreams. I need your reassurance that this is as important for you as it is for us, that it’ll be your only focus for the foreseeable future.” he looks at Joel expectantly.

His only focus.

For the foreseeable future.

Fuck.

“HONEY!”. Your blood runs cold in your veins to the sound of his baritone voice. Your hand freezes over the shelf with the t-shirts, not making a sound. You didn’t take that long, why is he here? Why isn’t he in his meeting?

Joel enters the bedroom but you’re not there. Fuck, you hear the curse running softly from his lips. You don’t move, you don’t blink, you don’t breathe.

He moves to leave and check elsewhere but then he stops. You hear soft steps and you see the door of the walk-in closet opening. His wide form blocks the light from the outside, his broad shoulders almost taking up all the space of the frame.

He looks disheveled, his baby blue shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned at the top, his hair a mess, like he kept combing his fingers through them. You don’t dare meet his eyes though. You keep your gaze as far as his chin goes, concentrating on the bare patch there. His sole presence electrifies you like he’s already touched you. Your whole body feels on fire and frozen simultaneously. God, you missed him.

“I was calling for you.”, he breathes out and you can feel his fear pulsing through his body. He’s scared you’re gonna run. That’s why he doesn’t leave his spot, blocking the door.

“I know.”

“Were you hiding from me?” his brows are furrowed in a seemingly pained expression from what your peripheral vision could help you understand.

“No, I just chose not to answer you.”, you lower your head, looking at your feet.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” you say hastily, but he’s waiting for a real answer. You breathe deeply, “It- it felt too domestic, you calling for me, me answering back, like how we were before.” He nods, biting his bottom lip. “What are you doing here, Joel?”

“In our house?” the edges of his lips are slightly turned up, his head tilting to one side.

“No, this is your house as you said yourself.”

“Darlin’, you know I didn’t mean it like that..” he sighs in regret, his head deepening in his shoulder blades in an effort to attract your gaze upwards.

“But you’re right.”

“I built it for you.” his voice soft, like it’s a secret mend to stay that way.

“Hm.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” his brows raise in genuine surprise.

“Nothing, forget it.”

“No, tell me.”

“You first.”

He looks perplexed, he forgot your question.

“What are you doing here, right now, Joel?”

“I got the alarm notification and.. it was the only way I could talk to you, honey..”

“But- your meeting-”

He searches your eyes, although you refuse to look at him, analysing your confused expression and it hits him. He smiles in understanding, nodding his head. “So, you chose today on purpose..”

You don’t respond, you keep looking everywhere but his eyes.

He laughs through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “Did you really think that I wouldn’t drop everything to come and see you?”

“I really did.”

He gasps in disbelief, almost offended.

“Baby, look at me, please; look at me..” he pleads with you softly. You close your eyes as if in fear you would obey, your chin trembling from the effort to remain calm.

“Baby, look at me. I want you to look at me, now.” he presses in a more authoritative way. He thought he could order you around? Break you?

“No.” you shake your head.

Joel calls you by your name but before he has a chance to spit another soft command-

“I SAID NO!” you open your eyes, targeting them to his chest, tears spilling uncontrollably now. You can see from your periphery the look of shock on his face, because you never yelled before. Ever.

“Why, sweetheart?”, he retreats back to his soft side.

“Because that’s exactly what you want. And you can’t always get what you want, Joel, not anymore.” You can’t hold back your tongue now.

“Jesus Christ,” you grit through your teeth, “what do you want from me, hm?” your eyes keep dancing around his face but never on his eyes. He looks dumbfounded, his lips part slightly but you don’t wait for an answer. “What else do you want? Is this some kind of ego thing? You expected me to shout and break things and hit you and tell you to leave her and come back to me? Because your ego is safe, Joel, if that’s what you worry about. I didn’t leave you, you did that first when you went behind my back. So, you walked out on me and not the other way around. Happy? Ready to go on with your life?” You’re grabbing the shelf where your hand previously rested so hard, trying to steady yourself.

For the first time Joel is speechless. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t find the words to defend himself, to convince you about his feelings, to soothe you at the very least. He begins to have a glimpse of how he appears in your eyes right now. How much damage he’s done, even before that night. How much ground he lost over time.

“Darlin', I just wa-” he begins softly, almost like walking on eggshells, but your body visibly tenses, you jaw shuts tight, your eyes rolling back in your head.

“Stop, just stop! Stop saying what you want! Stop making this about you! Don’t you see? You keep asking me for what you want! Have you stopped for a second, just a second, to think what I want? What I need? I don’t- I don’t recognize you anymore.”

“I-” he closes his eyes in distress, “I love you.” His last retreat. He’s trying anything that could help him. He doesn’t get it. He can’t. He’s not capable. But he used to be. He was the most empathetic person you knew. What the fuck happened?

Your eyes snap though the open closet door at his admision and on to the perfectly made bed.

His gaze follows yours behind his back and shakes his head once more in regret.

“It really didn’t mean-”

“Joel-” you warn him, “have some self respect and don’t say what I think you’re about to say. At least have the guts to admit exactly what you did, I’d appreciate it more.”

He exhales heavily, you’re not giving him an opening to fix this. You’re hanging onto every word he mutters. Not a single one of them is left unparsed and he's not used to that. He knows that if he does not control his anger right now, it's game over.

Heavy silence is hanging between you, each one lost on their thoughts.

“Do you know when you really lost me, Joel?”, you ask him eventually.

Half an hour ago he would swear he had all the answers, but now? Now he sees he’s in the deep, so he stays quiet, searching your eyes that still won't reach his, for answers.

“You lost me when you humiliated her in front of me.”

His face goes white, shocked, he can’t believe his ears. His mouth opens and closes but he makes no sound, how on earth does he respond to that?

“You still don’t get it, do you?”, you pinch the bridge of your nose exasperatedly. “You valued her enough to endanger our wedding, you valued her enough to bring her to our own house, to our bed, Joel; you valued her enough to fuck her raw, to let her know that you were unhappy with me, before I had a chance to realize it myself-”, Joel interrupts you almost panicked “I’m not un-” and for the first time your eyes pierce his in such an anguish that the words die in his throat. “-and then you just diminished her like she was nothing, just to prove a point to me. While she was naked, vulnerable on our bed. And trust me, this is not me defending her, she is as responsible for this as you, but you’re the one I married, not her. I expected better from you, Joel, not her.”

Now he’s the one averting his eyes from you, looking down on his overpriced shoes, his demeanor defeated, this is not the Joel you know anymore.

“And what was the point, Joel? Hm? What? That she means nothing? Then why were you with her? Why did you choose her? Why did you spend your precious time on nothing, while I had to make an appointment to see you? That’s what you did with me, too? I mean nothing, too? Just a warm hole to fuck when convenient?” he snaps his head back to you, shaking it in denial frantically, his eyes blown wide and red from all the emotional stress you push onto him.

“But I guess I got my answer about a month ago, hm?” It’s one of those moments that epiphanies hit you as you speak uncontrollably, you just can’t stop your mind from running wild, your mouth from spilling bile, your heart from pounding so hard in your chest, your ears start to ring, your grasp on the shelf tightening even more for balance.

“And that tells me a lot about who you really are. It’s not just about the fucking, Joel, Jesus-, -for the brilliant man I know you to be, you’re stumbling through your blindest moment.”, you shake your head in disappointment, tears still running freely down your face, licking your jawline and falling like a waterfall to the carpeted floor. You feel so done, you find it pointless to explain any further.

“I- I don’t know you, Joel, I don’t know who you are anymore. Maybe I never did,” you conclude, “maybe you’re right,” you slowly nod to yourself, “and everything is my fault after all.” you whisper, not sure if you want him to hear that part.

He did. “I never said that it was your fault, baby. When did I ever say that?” his face is contorted in pain, “None of this is your fault, none of it, you hear me?” he wants so desperately to cross the fucking room and hold you tight, crush all your pain and insecurities and self hatred under an asphyxiating hug. He also knows that he won't make even two steps before you flee, or step back from him and he can’t for the life of him witness that. Because that’s how much he needs you. He prefers you standing there, where he can see you, where he can have you, even if you wither and die under the enormous trauma he’s putting you through.

“So stupid.. I was- I am so stupid..” you’re repeating to yourself almost deliriously, rubbing your fingers on your forehead.

“This isn’t you, sweetheart, you don’t talk like that, don’t- don’t do that to yourself.” Joel tries to bring you back.

“But this is you, isn’t it, Joel? The real you?” you bite back. “This isn’t me, really? How do you like the new me, Joel? Do you take pride on your creation?” you laugh bitterly at him. “Yeah, how you’d always call me? Polite little thing? Sweetheart?” you’re infuriated now, a rise fighting to explode through you. “How does it feel, Joel? To know you’re responsible for changing someone to their core? To know you had that much power over them?”

Joel’s shaking his head once again in desperation, hot tears spilling from his eyes, god, had he ever cried before? this is not a battle he can win, he sees that now. The damage is too great. What on earth was he thinking?

“Please, please honey, can we just take a breather, sit down and talk about everything?” he pleads with you, a last thread of hope shinning in his red rimmed eyes.

“Take a breather..” you mutter through your teeth, “you mean the breather you took while you were fucking someone else instead of talking to me?”, Joel shuts his eyes in defeat, there’s nothing he can say anymore. “I think you got it backwards, Joel.”

You take a steadying breath and command your legs internally to hold on a little while longer and move forward; clothes, suitcase, life left behind.

“Don’t contact me again, unless is via your legal team.” is the last bullet that hits Joel’s chest, right through his broken heart.

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lebrookestore · 4 months

Text

backburner | n.jm (teaser)

Pairing: Na Jaemin x reader

Themes: college! au, exes! au, the situationship vibes are STRONG, angst, fluff, exes to ???, reader is a serial overthinker.

Warnings: profanity, heavy ANGST, kissing, food, underage alcohol consumption and alcohol consumption in general, jaemin is lowkey an asshole, more to be added for the full fic.

Word count for teaser: 580 | Estimated word count: 12-15k

Summary: After three months of ignoring your presence entirely, Na Jaemin saunters right back into your life without so much as single warning, leaving you to once again pick up the pieces of your burning heart.

Notes from brooke: a late christmas present from me<3 i'm back to writing my college aus so i hope all of you will enjoy my pain (literally).

[send an ask to be added to the taglist!]

It was one in the morning when your phone rang.

A sigh left your chapped lips as you glanced down from the screen of your laptop to the device sitting by its side, your eyes burning at the too bright light emitting from your phone. The rest of your dorm was dark, having switched the lights off earlier at the request of your roommate, who had an early class the next day.

Unfortunately for you, you had an assignment due the next day that you had, as usual, left for the last minute. Music played through your headphones as you tried to construct what you deemed a coherent enough essay to submit.

Scrambling so you wouldn’t wake your roommate up, you pushed your headphones off and swiped the call icon across the screen of your phone, accepting it a second before you registered who the caller was. The contact glared at you as if it was mocking you for your carelessness and hastiness, causing you to bite down hard on the inside of your cheek.

Well. It was too late now.

Swallowing hard, you held your phone up to your ear and whispered. “Hello?”

“Hey.”

A breath you didn’t know you had been holding in escaped from your lips, having you shut your eyes and process his voice. It was funny, how just one inconsequential word from a single person could change your entire disposition.

“Jaemin? Are you okay?”

He hummed in response. “Yeah, I’m fine. I think I might be a little tipsy though.”

You could just imagine him right then, a glass being gripped loosely by his fingers, leaning against some wall as he spoke to you over the phone. The image was enough that you slipped out of your bed and pacing about your room as quietly as you could, restless.

“Oh. Um, don’t drink too much.”

He chuckled, a sound so familiar yet so distant to you. “I won’t, don’t worry.”

Jaemin liked alcohol, you knew this much. He liked the way it would slowly hit his head and render him more easy going than he already was, causing that pretty smile of his to show more liberally. You were well versed with everything about him, from his walk to the way his eyes would express everything he was thinking, the slightly changes making themselves completely obvious for you,

The two of you had been so in tune with each other. Sometimes, you forgot how easy that made it for it all to fall apart.

“Okay.” You weren’t really sure where you were supposed to go with this conversation anymore. “Do you need something?”

“Not really.”

“Then….then why did you call me?” Bewilderment crept into your voice as clear as day. If you were in front of him right then, perhaps he would have teased you, tucking your hair behind your ear and muttering something about how cute you were.

He stayed silent for a moment. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

You stopped your pacing, coming to a standstill as his words settled over you. In the silence of the night, you were almost too aware of the way your heart rate increased ever so slightly.

Yunjin was right. There was hardly ever a time where your best friend’s advice wasn’t spot on, but this time you found yourself wishing you had complied and actually blocked him like she had suggested you do. Maybe then you wouldn’t have found yourself in such a position.

coming soon. | lebrookestore 2024

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springwitch26 · 7 months

Text

hots for teacher (part 2) (melissa schemmenti x fem!reader)

part 1

summary: you've been infatuated with melissa schemmenti ever since you worked under her as a student teacher. what will happen when you meet again a few years later? (part 2: what happens)

warnings: smut, intensely NSFW, praise kink, age gap, squirting, d/s vibes, inexperienced!reader, minors and men please don't touch this post

notes: ask and you shall receive, beauties! thank you for all the love on part 1, it's kinda surreal to be writing my own fics but also super liberating. any feedback is welcome. idk when i'll write again but i may or may not have another little nsfw draft with a more... punishing... interpretation of mel so we'll see! also, feel free to send me asks because i'm lonely. this one goes out to whoever said melissa schemmenti loves sluts, 'cause yeah she does.

the car ride back to melissa's place felt like it would never end. you crossed your legs when you first got into the passenger seat--partly out of habit and partly to get some friction on your aching core--and were quickly reprimanded.

"tsk tsk, baby. guess i'll have to teach you manners, too. keep those pretty thighs apart for me, all the way home. you're gonna wait patiently until i get my hands on you," melissa scolded.

you whined incoherently, and she responded with a dangerous laugh. the trip was short but unbearable. she had one hand on the steering wheel, while the other drew lazy patterns on your inner thigh. you squirmed and writhed, even moaned quietly, but she remained nonchalant.

at one point, when her fingers drew oh-so close to where you needed them most, your thighs snapped shut of their own accord.

"c'mon, legs open," was all she said in response. she tried to act casual, but you could tell from her excited half-smile that she was enjoying this game more than she let on.

as soon as you got in the door, she was on you. you barely had the focus to take in your surroundings as she lavished you with kisses, working her way across your lips and face before burying herself in your neck. her house was cozy and tastefully decorated with gentle lighting. in the soft glow, her slightly disheveled hair and lustful eyes were a sight you'd never forget.

"is there anyone--oh!" you squealed as her fingers began to trace circles on your nipples through your dress. "is there anyone else here?"

"sensitive, huh?" she teased, smirking down at you. "and no, it's just me tonight."

before you had time to consider what that last word implied, she picked you up and effortlessly whisked you to her bedroom. you were dazzled by the sight of her private space--it was simple yet beautiful, adorned with shades of green and twinkling lights. you didn't expect this level of whimsy from her, and it somehow made her even sexier.

she laid you on the bed carefully, reverently. "god, look at you." she whispered, sending shivers down your spine as she positioned herself on top of you and returned to your lips.

by now you were painfully needy from all her teasing, and you just needed her to fuck you senseless. you tried to convey that with your impatient noises, but it seemed the older woman had other plans. she pulled away from your lips to take in your flushed, desperate face.

"soon, sweetheart, soon. i know you're so worked up, but i plan to make this last."

you hummed in acknowledgment, turning your attention to the buttons of her shirt. you thought maybe if you got her a bit more riled up, she would be less inclined to take her time.

melissa groaned, feeling your delicate fingers ghost over her chest, but shook her head in disapproval. she removed your hands from her shirt, grabbing your wrists with surprising force. "i'm not taking my clothes off yet. i'm in charge, and you need to learn patience."

you gave her your best pout, but you knew she wouldn't budge. this was about power, not patience. she wanted to be clothed, composed and in control while you lay naked and vulnerable underneath her.

she started to pull at the fabric of your dress. you lifted your hips, and in one fluid motion, she slipped it over your head and off of you. it was an expert move, and you shivered at the idea that she had done this many times before.

when she saw your body, she paused for a moment, her mouth slightly open and her pupils dilated. "no bra?" she asked under her breath, not looking for an answer. "you're so soft in my hands..." she mused as her hands massaged your breasts. her fingers moved to pinch and rub over your nipples.

you moaned, bucking your hips upward and seeking more contact. she took the hint and directed her attention to your core.

"nice panties, by the way," she said with a cocky laugh, tugging playfully at the soaked pink lace. "who knew little miss gothic had a colorful side?"

"please, mel, no more teasing, i need you so bad," was all you could manage.

"okay, baby, let's get these off ya." she hooked her fingers through your panties and you lifted your hips, allowing her to drag them off. she folded them neatly and tucked them into her front pocket. something cutesy to remind her of you, wet and pliant under her touch.

"mmm, such a messy girl. you must feel so embarrassed, all spread out and naked for me while i'm fully clothed, playin' with you."

you could only whimper and whine, helplessly turned on by her words but pinned to the bed and unable to move. she cooed at you and took pity, moving down your body to get closer to your core.

she placed her hands once again on the insides of your thighs, gently pulling them apart and revealing your glistening pussy. her breath stuttered upon seeing the wetness covering your core and thighs.

"jesus, hon, you're dripping. you're just aching for me, aren't ya? need me to make you feel good?"

"yes!" you finally exclaimed, regaining your voice. "yes, please, melissa, please touch me, i need you," you begged.

"well, since you asked so nicely..." she gave you a smirk and trailed a finger between your puffy lips, gathering the wetness there.

by this point you were writhing all over the bed, so she had to pin your legs down with her knees. neither of you minded, though. you enjoyed feeling completely at her mercy, and she enjoyed watching you squirm under her.

finally, after an eternity of torture, she gave in, slipping a finger into you with ease and rubbing gentle circles over your clit.

"so tight, fuck," she muttered to herself as she began to move inside you, transfixed by the feeling of you around her.

"feels so good, ohhh..." you mewled as her finger quickly found a rhythm, pumping forcefully and curling at your most sensitive spots.

"you're taking me so well, baby, my brave girl," she soothed, relishing in her ability to draw such pathetic sounds from you. "can you handle one more?"

you nodded frantically, almost too lost in the haze of pleasure to hear her.

she grinned and pushed another finger inside you, making you cry out. you were relatively inexperienced, so the stretch was a bit painful at first, but you were soon overcome by the bliss of feeling so full.

"that's new, huh? poor baby, can barely take two fingers," her thrusts got rougher, as if she was trying to break you. "don't whine now, you wanted this."

you were overwhelmed with pleasure and the slight pain of the intrusion. her fingers were long, nimble and skilled, and she seemed to know all the right spots and rhythms to make you see stars. her fingers stroked your clit with more pressure now, making you shake and moan uncontrollably. it was almost too much. you wanted to scream, but you could only produce pathetic little whimpers of "ah, ah, ah!"

she was clearly aware of what she was doing, and she revelled in your pleasure. she would ease up, return to a gentler pace, and then thrust hard into your g-spot just to hear your cries and gasps. she longed to see you lose control.

"that's a good girl, keep takin' my fingers just like that. you're close, aren't you baby? let's see how long you can last against me," she said, her voice deep and her smile mischievous. there was a competitive edge to her words, like making you fall apart was some kind of victory to her.

suddenly she pulled away completely, and you nearly sobbed. your hips bucked up into nothing. your helpless whimpers were music to the older woman's ears, and she snickered to herself as she moved down your body.

for a moment, there was silence. you stared at her, silently pleading for her touch. she cocked her head at you and raised an eyebrow, silently asking you: are you ready? you nodded intently. you weren't sure what she was going to do to you, but you sure as hell wanted to find out.

before you even had the chance to brace yourself, she was thrusting two fingers roughly inside you again, rubbing hard at that spongy spot. for the final blow, melissa leaned down and attached her lips to your clit, sucking harshly.

"not yet, sweetheart. stay with me," she said, grinning from ear to ear as she felt your walls flutter and clench around her.

with her free hand, she reached up and pressed softly on your lower abdomen. between that, the punishing thrusts, and the hot pressure on your clit, you couldn't take it anymore. the sensations overwhelmed you. the world went blank, and all you could feel was warmth. you swam through oceans of white-hot ecstasy, riding wave after wave of pleasure. and melissa was right there, coaxing you through heaven's gates.

melissa's thumbs rubbed soothing circles into your outer thighs, bringing you back down to earth. "come back to me," she whispered sweetly. you opened your eyes.

"there she is," she said, her eyes sparkling with relief.

she gave you a giddy smile and you noticed the wetness all over her face... and fingers... and sheets. you couldn't help but feel embarrassed.

melissa must have picked up on this, as she took hold of your hand and reassured you. "don't be embarrassed, angel. that was probably the hottest thing i've ever seen." she laid down next to you as she spoke.

you hummed and buried your face in the crook of her neck. she was warm and smelled like cinnamon.

"did you know you could do that, hon?" she asked.

"yeah," you giggled, still dazed. "but i didn't know you could do that."

"i'm fulla surprises, kid," she laughed, stroking your hair. "let me run us a bath, and then we'll see what kind of surprises you've got in you."

she carried you bridal-style to the bathtub, and you relaxed into the bliss. feeling the warmth of her arms around your frame. drowning in her.

#melissa schemmenti x y/n #melissa schemmenti/reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #wlw ns/fw #fanfic #kinktober

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theemporium · 1 month

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37. putting their head on the other’s chest🩵 with john marino! maybe they are out after a game with the team and it’s just fluffy

congrats on 10k!

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

37. putting their head on the other's chest

It had been a rough season.

If you asked anyone what had gone wrong with the Devils this season, you would have received a long list in return. Between questionable line choices, goaltending issues, bad coaching and more injuries than one would expect, it was remarkable that they had as many points as they did.

And it sucked because they were a good team. Everyone knew they were a good team. They had proved it last year when they reached the playoffs. It was just shit luck that had been following them around this season that made each loss bitter and heavy.

But it also meant that every win was so much sweeter. When the team managed to grasp onto that flow, when the chemistry clicked, when they worked seamlessly like everyone expected from the young, talented team.

It felt so fucking good. It felt liberating. It felt like they were on top of the world.

“C’mon, it will be fun!”

“John—”

“Please,” his voice softened a little, but the smile on his face was still big and giddy and, truthfully, you couldn’t say no to him even if you really tried. “I want you there.”

“You should celebrate with the team,” you said, because he should. Because after the last few games being rough on the boys, they should be celebrating the win. They should celebrate the six goal win. They should be screaming it from the rooftops. “Plus, I just got off work and I don’t wanna intrude—”

“You could never,” John replied instantly, his brows furrowed in confusion. “I want you there. I’m serious. And the boys love you. And we can leave early if you’re tired.”

The last of your resolve crumbled. “If I fall asleep on you, you can’t blame me.”

His grin widened. “I never do, even when you drool.”

You gaped. “I don’t drool!”

“You do!”

But, despite the lingering exhaustion from the six day work streak you had been on, you still found yourself tucked away in the booth of a downtown bar. And it was easy at first, to get lost in the drinks and the adrenaline and the giddiness of the team celebrating their win. It was easy to get hyped off their energy, to join them in the laughter and the cheering and the bad dancing. It was so easy.

Until eventually the exhaustion caught up with you and you couldn’t fight it anymore.

You hadn’t even realised your eyes had fallen shut until you felt fingers lightly running through your hair. You had been tucked between John and Dawson, listening to Timo ramble off about some story that had most of the table in stitches when you started to lean on John more. Somewhere amongst the laughs, his arm was thrown over you and your head was lying on his chest and it was hard to fight the urge to just fall asleep there and then with John’s familiar smell overwhelming you.

“Tired?” John murmured, his lips brushing against the top of your head as you buried yourself further against his sweater-covered chest.

You shook your head. “M’fine.”

John tried to hide his smile. “C’mon, let’s get you back home.”

“M’comfy here,” you muttered, your voice hinting on a whine as his arm tightened around you.

“Promise you’ll be even comfier in your bed,” he said, pausing for a few moments as he watched your hand lightly fist his sweater like you were worried he would pull away. “Or my bed, if you wanna stay over.”

“You do have a comfy bed,” you murmured, words a little slurred as you spoke.

He snorted. “That’s the only reason?”

You lifted your head, slowly blinking your eyes open as you sleepily smiled at him. “Yup.”

John shook his head in amusement. “Ouch. Harsh. Gonna hog the duvet now.”

You looked far too smug. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” he agreed with a sigh before he began to slide out of the booth, pulling you along with him. He decided to ignore the pointed and teasing looks his teammates were giving him, ignore the fact the boys would chirp him at practice.

And he decided he would ignore the warm feeling bubbling inside him, instead basking in the feeling of you tucked into his side and the way you clung onto him like maybe—just maybe—you shared the desire for something more than friendship too.

#cece's cocktail celebration #john marino #nhl #new jersey devils #john marino x reader #john marino x you #john marino x y/n #john marino fic #john marino one shot #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl fic #nhl one shot

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creative-crybaby · 1 year

Text

Phantom Limbs

PAIRING: Takami Keigo (Hawks) x fem!reader

GENRE: angst | comfort | smut (18+)

Minors DNI

TAGS + WARNINGS: dry humping, nipple play, spit play, light manhandling, hair pulling, creampie, overstimulation, marking (scratches)

Let me know if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

SUMMARY: Having lost his wings, there's only so much Takami can do to help other heroes and save innocent civilians. And with him having even less time on his hands, you do whatever you can to take care of him.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Posting on my birthday is like a little gift from me to me :)

You wait by the windows out of habit.

The book in your hand has remained open on the same page for the past fifteen minutes, your eyes reading the words, but your brain too distracted to process them. Your focus is more on the corners of your peripheral vision, hoping to catch something, anything outside. All that’s offered in the great outdoors is grey skies and an even greyer atmosphere. Though, you suppose you should know better by now.

Because, as of late, he’s been entering your shared home through the front door.

The sound of the jiggling knob has you up from your seat in a second; you slam your book shut and toss it onto the coffee table (never mind saving your page). You’re at the entrance when the door fully opens, anxiously shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

Takami’s eyes widen ever so slightly at your rushed movements, but he then exhales as he kicks off his boots.

“Honey, I’m home,” the Pro Hero quips, though his tone and smile lack his usual energy. You greet him back while helping him remove his jacket, the material cold and damp in your hands. You get a better look at him once you turn back to him. With the harsh weather and being outside for who knows how long, it’s only natural for him to deal with those conditions’ blunt force. Soaked to the bone, he shivers, though you can tell he’s trying to stop his movements. His blonde hair is now a dark gold from the rain, stray strands sticking to his forehead. It’s a miracle his skin isn’t blue, but he’s definitely a few shades too pale. And his eyes—they haven’t known rest even before the Paranormal Liberation War, but dealing with the aftermaths of such a tragedy takes its toll even on the strongest of heroes.

You gently rest your hand on his cheek, your thumb lovingly caressing the new scar on his skin. “What are you doing out there?”

Takami sighs, relaxing in your hold before shifting his head to peck your palm. “Oh, the usual.”

You’d press for more if the look he gave you weren’t one of exhaustion, almost pleading. Instead, you rake the fingers of your free hand through his hair, careful not to tug on any knots.

“How about a shower?” you hum. “I’ll even help you out.”

The blonde mumbles something in agreement, seemingly too low on energy for any more words, before following you to the bathroom.

Several months back in your relationship, you’d struggle to have him in your home, what with his gigantic wings. He’d rarely knock over your belongings due to his cautiousness, but it didn’t change that your apartment wasn’t Wing-Hero-friendly.

That was the least of your problems when he decided to stay over. Your bed wasn’t big enough for the two of you, and you’d wake up in the morning to find his wings positioned uncomfortably. Even when Hawks would dismiss your concern, you weren’t fooled. But going from queen-sized to king-sized wasn’t an issue compared to your bathroom. Even sharing the space with a wingless person was bound to have you two bump into each other, and yet, your boyfriend made himself at home.

With your apartment now nothing more than a pile of rubble, all those concerns seem foolish, almost cruel, as you actually went out of your way to get a larger bed for him.

What’s crueller is that a smaller space would no longer be an issue now that his wings are gone.

You can’t help but think about all of this bitterly every time you two enter the shower. The one in Takami’s home is far bigger, made to accommodate his wings, but it’s all just empty space. He settles on the shower stool with a heavy exhale, and you stand behind him to wash his hair, letting the warm water wash away whatever pessimistic thoughts crawl back to taunt you. At least you can take comfort in seeing the Pro Hero visibly relax under your touch, tilting his head back as your fingers thoroughly massage his scalp.

You’re extra careful when washing his body. The scar on his back makes you pause before resuming your task, and while the blonde notices your hesitance, he doesn’t comment. It’s not the only mark on his body, but it’s certainly the largest. Maybe one day, you’ll come to pepper the area with kisses as you would with all the other scars that litter his body. For now, knowing how it ended up on him hits you with the anxieties of “what if.”

Having kept your hair up and out of the way, you cover yourself in a towel before assisting your boyfriend out of the shower. He wraps a towel around his hips and sighs a silent thank you before you take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. It’s all either of you say for a while, even while you dry his hair with him settled in front of you, between your thighs and facing away.

The hot water flushes his skin, a sight that helps you relax as you run a towel through his locks. You let it rest around his neck once you’re done, leaning forward to wrap your arms around his torso.

“Want me to make you something to eat?” you ask quietly. “You must be starving.”

“I’m okay,” he hums. Your fingers skate across the blonde’s abdomen, drawing random shapes and patterns and making him shiver. “I just want to stay like this for a bit longer.”

You shift your head to rest your chin on his shoulder, the fluffy material of the towel tickling your skin. “Then let me get you some clothes so you don’t catch a cold.”

The Pro Hero gently removes himself from your embrace, turning to face you. Your wrists remain in his grasp, and he brings them to his lips to kiss both of your palms.

“That won’t be necessary,” he mumbles against your skin, eyes fluttering closed. “Stay.”

His voice has a light rasp, and you’re sure you catch the subtle pleading in his tone. You sigh, sliding your hands to caress his face. Takami’s eyes open again, golden irises peering up at you as his brows furrow lightly. There’s a gentle tug to his hold, and you shift closer to him.

“So much for all that time to kill,” you try to quip, though you don’t find your tone convincing. For good measure, you trace his jaw with featherlight kisses. “Even with the Safety Commission out of the way, you can’t catch a break.”

He chuckles airily. “It was never going to be all that simple, dove. You and I both know that.”

You pout at his words. The pull of his grasp reappears, and you’re brought closer to your boyfriend until you’re almost sitting on his lap. One of his hands slides to your waist, encouraging you to do so. You obey, loosely wrapping your arms around his neck. Back when he had his wings, your fingertips would graze their base, earning you breathy moans from him. With them now gone, you settle for lightly scratching at his undercut.

“Must be exhausted with everything going on,” you whisper, the tip of your nose gently grazing against his.

“Coming home to you makes it all worth it,” Takami breathes before closing the gap. You both exhale into the kiss as you pull each other closer. Even with a towel in the way, he runs his hands up and down your torso, opting to feel you as much as possible. Once you’ve removed yourself from the embrace, he still attaches his lips to any exposed skin he can find.

“Keigo,” you whimper, trying to hold still as he nibbles on your neck. “Are you sure? You need rest.”

You feel the Pro Hero shake his head without pausing the assault on the skin. “I need you.”

Even before destruction fell upon the country, you’ve worried for Takami’s safety. With his wings, he could reach the clouds; any higher could take the oxygen out of his lungs. He’s capable, but also human: even the overly glorified ones have limits. And as much as you want him to be well, you miss him just as much.

You unlatch him from you without tugging too hard, and you’re met with glossy eyes and quivering lips. That desperation has been stuck in his tone and gaze since he returned home. Needing you close in any physical manner that’s given to him, his focus staying on you a little longer than what one may consider necessary. You remember when you’d beg him to stay in bed a bit longer before he went on patrol, putting on your best pout to convince him.

But now he's the one begging, pleading for your touch. And with the subtle poking of your thigh, you’re given more than enough convincing. Your lips return to mesh with his as you attempt to remove your towel with what little wiggle room you have. Takami takes this opportunity to let his hands roam your bare skin, tracing your curves and groping at any fat he can find while leaving a trail of goosebumps. The towel around his neck slides off, and you’d remove the last one if you could, but for now, you make the most of the situation by grinding into his lap, his bulge rubbing against your clit deliciously.

He’s restless; you noticed the signs before you found yourself on top of him. The Pro Hero moans into your mouth, his hands quick to grip your hips to drag them across his own. He pushes for a deeper kiss, if even possible, letting his tongue taste yours. You’re in desperate need of oxygen, and you’re sure he’s in the same state. When you pull away, he leans in to catch your lips once more.

“Let me take over,” you pant, resting your forehead against his. “Let me make you feel good.”

“No,” Takami groans lowly, eyes lidded and face flushed. “Need this. Need to do this for you.” He slowly flips you both from your current position so you lay on the mattress caged below his arms and legs. With a shadow looming over his handsome features, his eyes glow gold. “It’s selfish of me, I know, but I’ll take good care of you, too. Show you how much you mean to me.”

His words make your eyes soften, your arms wrapping around his neck again and pulling him close. Neither of your gazes leaves each other, not even as the towel ever so slowly loosens from his hips and cascades off his body. With your lips mere centimetres away, you’d have to give him credit for showing restraint thus far.

“You can never be selfish when you deserve the world,” you say before closing the distance. A growl escapes his throat; from your words or your taste, you aren’t sure, and you don’t care to figure it out. Not when he pulls away to trail messy open-mouthed kisses down your neck, stopping at your collarbone before latching on to one of your nipples. Your back arches into his touch, and his other hand tweaks at your neglected bud.

From your peripheral vision, you catch his shoulder blades twitch. You’d remember how his wings would ruffle when you two would make love, showing just as much vulnerability as the rest of him. The base of his crimson limbs was especially sensitive, and he’d let out the most beautiful sounds whenever they’d meet your touch. With them gone, the subtle movement is mere muscle memory. But when they jerk again once your fingers tug his somewhat-damp locks, you know better than to dismiss his body’s reactions.

Takami unlatches from your nipple to press his face between your breasts, inhaling deeply while his hand continues its treatment on the other bud. The sudden halt in his ministrations has you peering down at him, face warm while showing your confusion.

Still pressed against your chest, his gaze meets yours, eyes hooded and ravenous. “I can’t wait any longer.”

You exhale, trying your best to prevent your breathing from stammering. “Then don’t.”

Those two words were more than enough for the blonde, quickly propping himself up before pulling you closer to his body by your legs. The sudden shift makes you yelp, but Takami doesn’t say anything as he pumps his cock, using his precum as lube. His touches had you already dripping, and watching him stroke himself as he watches you with desperation and lust in his eyes only adds to the mess between your thighs.

Normally, he’d take his time with you. The Pro Hero, known for his speed when defeating villains, would throw all that out the window when you were in the picture, wanting to enjoy every second he has with you. This also applies to love-making, opting to prep you by treasuring your body and pleasure before the main event.

But with how he’s currently panting as he aims his cock at your entrance, his face and neck flushed, you’re more than content to indulge in his neediness.

His attempt at restraint is apparent as he takes his time sliding in. The tip makes you whine, and the blonde’s brows crease as he slowly adds another inch. His hold, now on your hips, is bruising, even as his thumbs would caress your skin. It makes you hiss, reaching up and making grabbing motions for him. Takami obeys, dropping to bury his head in the junction of your neck and inhaling your scent. A mistake: one where the consequences earn you a groan and the rest of his cock slammed inside your soaked pussy.

“Keigo!” you cry, pulling him closer.

Curses tumble from his lips. “‘M sorry, dove. I—oh, God…”

If being stuffed full without warning didn’t make you so delirious, you’d swear you heard him whimper. His calloused hands wander your body while his lips sprinkle kisses onto your shoulder: an apology, one you drunkenly accept as you try to adjust to the intrusion. A snug fit—it makes you wrap your legs around his hips. Your actions have the Pro Hero shifting to face you. He resembles a lost puppy, with his slightly-parted lips and wide eyes beneath furrowed brows of concern. You almost coo.

“Go ahead,” you whisper, fingers dancing across his undercut. “Use me.”

The expression he gives you before he reels his hips back is pleading and one of gratitude. You barely register it before he slams back into you and knocks the air out of your lungs.

Takami finds his pace in no time, pounding against you that the sound of skin slapping skin overpowers both of your heavy breathing. Every thrust has you squeezing around his shaft, and he rests his forehead against yours.

Everything is burning—the room, your mangled bodies, his breath fanning against your cheek. You’re boiling, your brain melting into a puddle of nothingness as your hands fly to his back, your nails planting into his shoulder blades. Your boyfriend’s eyes screw shut, a sharp grunt escaping him. You want to apologize; you should apologize, but you don’t realize your actions, and with his sudden angle shift, words fail you with every probe at your sweet spot. All you can give him is pathetic moans through a slack jaw.

His lips meet your swollen ones: you give him plenty.

“Keigo,” you manage to slur against his mouth. Takami bites your bottom lip, one of his hands reaching between your bodies to messily rub your puffy clit. You wail, and he pulls away from the assault on your lips.

“Open,” he heaves. Surprisingly, you not only understand but comply, letting your mouth fall open once more for his hungry gaze. Through glossy eyes, you barely see him puckering his lips and letting a blob of spit fall into your awaiting tongue. You squeak when it lands before you swallow the tiny puddle. His thrusts don’t falter throughout all of this, and his lewd act of possessiveness tips you over the edge, your weeping pussy creaming around his dick and leaving a gooey ring at its base. A sight you’d love to witness if your vision wasn’t currently white.

But Takami doesn’t stop. Not while you ride through your orgasm, not once you come down from it, and certainly not when you begin to cry from the overstimulation.

“Keigo!” you squeal, tightening your hold on his back. “Too much! ‘S too much!”

His speed has yet to falter, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Not that your lover is any better, what with his vision gone hazy and grip tightening.

“Almost there, baby.” You can feel his warm breath fanning your face from his panting. “Just lemme—” His thrusts grow sloppier, jackhammering into your cunt like his life depends on it, all while whimpering “pleasepleasepleaseplease” on a loop. A particularly rough thrust has you wailing and your nails clawing down his back. Takami lets out a drawn-out groan. “Sh-Shit—”

The tiniest push and he’s hurtled over you, eyes screwed shut and jaw slack as his hips stutter. His face is flushed, close to rivalling the colour of his wings, and strands of his dishevelled hair clings to his forehead with sweat. Even with an unfocused gaze and a foggy brain, you can tell he’s as ethereal as ever as he fills you with hot ropes of cum.

You feel his muscles relax under your hold, and the Pro Hero exhales deeply before dropping on top of you. The sudden weight, while at first crushing, eventually feels like a weighted blanket, and you wrap your arms around your lover once more.

It isn’t until both your breathings are regulated do you speak, your words somewhat muffled against his skin. “You okay, pretty bird?”

Takami sighs, planting a kiss on your temple before pulling out. You shiver at the feeling of his cum leaking out; he notices, opting to caress your sides to calm you down. He can only offer a hum in confirmation at your question, the vibrations buzzing off his body and tickling yours.

When he gets off you, he also dismounts the bed, making his way to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. It isn’t until he twists his body to have his back face it do you catch the red scratch marks on his shoulder blades, vibrant and right on top of his most recent battle scar. You gasp.

“I’m so sorry, Kei,” guilt is evident in your voice as you sit up on the bed, hugging the sheets. “I should have been more careful. Let me go get—”

A soft, airy chuckle interrupts your worrying. The blonde traces one of your marks, shifting his shoulder blades before fully facing you.

“It’s like they never left,” he rasps, lips twitching to form a sad smile. “Too bad I won’t be able to fly with them.”

Your brows knit together as you frown at his words, your eyes growing warm as they threaten to rain down tears. Your lover’s expression doesn’t budge as he approaches you, climbing the bed and finding his spot next to yours. He laughs dryly to himself, and it only dies down once you place your hand on his.

“Please, talk to me,” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder.

What remains of his front is cut off by a hiccup. It isn’t until you feel his body tremble do you peer at him to find streams of tears cascading down his rosy cheeks.

“Sometimes it feels like they’re still there,” he sobs silently, pausing to collect himself. You’re quick to pull him into your embrace, and he melts completely. “Even with the Commission out of the way, I still feel trapped.” He pulls back to look at you with pleading eyes. “I thought wings were a symbol of freedom. What happened?”

Hawks is gone, and before you is Keigo. A Pro Hero so young and forced onto such a high pedestal that one wrong step is a heavy drop. Without his wings, only you are there to catch him.

And with all the strength you can muster, you do so, carrying his weight in your arms as he falls apart, trembling and crying and heaving so hard you fear he’ll slip between your fingers into a pile of nothingness. For as long as you’ve known him, Takami has only ever born his soul to you like this fewer times than you can count on one hand. If he could save the lives of countless civilians (including your own), you figure that being his safety net is the least you can do.

A weak snicker escapes his lips, and you pull back to face him.

“Tokoyami’s been calling a bunch these past several days,” he drawls, his thumb mindlessly caressing your arm while staring past your shoulder. “Never answered him back, not even once. I should at least call the kid.”

Your boyfriend’s about to get up before you try to hold him in his spot without using too much force (not that you’d be able to stop him). His questioning gaze trails to you, and no matter how much you want to coddle him until he wants you gone, you keep your head up.

“Not now, honey,” You rest your forehead against his. “One step at a time. You can apologize tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll understand. He’s a smart kid.”

He sniffles, and you wipe a stray tear from his cheek. “You’re probably right.”

His breathing appears even, and the crying seems to have subsided, even if just for now. You offer a small smile.

“How about a meal?” you inquire, nudging your nose against his. “Whatever you want.”

The Pro Hero hums, tiredly copying your expression. “Can we just stay like this? Just for a bit longer?”

Your smile grows wider ever so slightly as you fall back onto the mattress, your hold on your lover bringing him down with you and having him land on your chest. Your gaze is soft when you peer down, and your fingers are back in his hair to comb out the mess you made. He sighs into your skin, burying himself there as his eyes flutter shut.

“We can stay like this as long as you want.” And you mean it. Even once his wings return, even once the people grow to trust him again, and even once heroes have time to kill. You would stay with him right here forever.

#mha smut #bnha smut #hawks smut #takami keigo smut #hawks #takami keigo #hawks x reader #takami x reader #smut #angst #my hero academia smut #boku no hero academia smut #fanfiction #fanfic

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my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction · 1 month

Text

Pt. 2 of modern Wolf Hybrid! Katsuki Bakugou X Bunny Hybrid! Reader

This is part 2 of my last Wolf!Katsuki fic, and while not required to understand this one, I highly recommend giving it a read! This is about you, a bunny person, telling your family that you're dating a Wolf man, Katsuki...except they're extremely against dating between wolf and bunny hybrids. Womp womp.

words: 1.5k

Warnings: cursing, mentions of Kat and reader doing the horizontal monster mash, angst? I think? I'm not an angst writer, Pretty sure this is hurt comfort

"Ok, I have my water in case my throat gets dry, my tissues in case I cry too much, cookies in case I stress eat...My phone, where's my phone?! I can't call them without my phone!"

"In you're hand, bun."

"Oh...right..."

"You gotta chill out," Katsuki huffed, standing behind you and gently rubbing your temples with his strong, calloused hands. His tail swayed gently behind him, idly moving as he bent down and planted a kiss on your scalp. Why was he being so lovey, might you ask? Because you were about to make the biggest announcement of your life to your family: You, a bunny-person, were dating Katsuki, a Wolf-person.

Was it that big of a deal? Not to you, a young person living in a liberal area, but to your incredibly old fashioned family, it was like announcing you personally orchestrated the plague.

"But what if they disown me or something," you whine, leaning your head back to look up at him with a nervous pout. He frowned down at you, thumbing at the tips of your plush bunny ears as they pressed against your head. "You'll still have me, 's not like you'll be alone."

Katsuki wasn't the best at all of this, seeing as he was a wolf guy that had moved out at sixteen and hardly spoke to his parents yearly, but he loved you, and therefore was trying his best.

You appreciated that, obviously, but his words did little to comfort you...you were just so nervous!

After a moment of looking into your eyes, seeing the anxiety just behind them, he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours. "They're lucky to have you, if they know what's good they'll stick around."

Did he hate your family and wish they'd all fuck off and stay out of it? Yeah. Would that get in the way of how much he loved you? Hell no. So why would they feel any different, why would they shut you out just because you loved a wolf man?

With a heavy sigh, you sat up straight, positioning your phone on the coffee table in front of you so you had a nice, clear angle. "Ok. I'm gonna do it. I'm calling them...get out of the shot, please," you asked of him, to which he begrudgingly obliged with a pout. He plopped down next to you, nearly putting his arm around you out of instinct, before remembering the whole point was to not be seen.

You hesitantly leaned forward, pressing the call button and watching the Video Call register, the music filling your stomach with anxiety. "Relax," he mumbled, taking your hand off camera and holding it.

After a couple rings, your parents picked up, big smiles on their faces. "Hey carrot cake!" Your dad said, using a nickname you've had since you were six, when you ate so much carrot cake you spent the night throwing up.

"How's my favorite firstborn doing in the big, loud, far away, dangerous, city," your mom asked, a twinge of worry in her wide smile. She always liked to bring up how dangerous St. Lupus was, a city densely populated by wolves. "Great! Everything's great," you responded, squeezing Katsuki's hand a little tighter.

"You know, I was talking to Barbra the other day, and I think you and her son would just adore each other," your mom gushed, your phone pinging with a picture sent from her. "Isn't he handsome? Take a look," she prodded.

Katsuki growled a little, a low rumbling coming from him as he scowled, ears flat against his head. You reached over a little and put your hand on his chest, calming him and reminding him why you were here. "A-actually, speaking of that, I've found someone else," you started, pressing your lips together and watching for a reaction.

"Oh! That's wonderful dear! What's his name? Is he from Hoppsfoot? Bunny burrow? Oh, don't tell me he's from Cottonridge."

"Uh, he's definitely not from Cottonridge," you assured, your mother sighing with relief. "Well, tell us about him," your father pressured, smiling gently at you.

"H-he's from St. Lupus..." you stuttered out, squeezing Katsuki's hand a little tighter. You thought they'd connect the dots from there, but...

"I've never heard of a bunny being raised in St. Lupus, not without being turned into Sunday dinner," your dad joked, nudging your mom with a laugh.

Who does this guy think he is, assuming wolves still ate bunnies? What a close minded asshole. Katsuki looked to you, wanting to exchange glances of exasperation, but saw just how scared you were.

You looked like you were on the brink of bursting into tears. His heart ached for you, he just wanted you to feel ok. He leaned forward, just enough to be closer without being in frame, and brought your hand to his scalp. Scratching his ears always made you feel better.

You glanced over for a second, a sweet but rather fake smile on your face, and began to idly scratch around the base of his ears. He quietly groaned into your touch, allowing himself to be a little more open about how good you made him feel so you knew he loved you.

"The thing is, well, uh..." You looked into your parents eyes through the screen, their kind, caring eyes, and then to Katsuki's passionate, loving ones. Fuck.

"I can't," you whispered, frozen in fear, eyes pleading with Katsuki to have sympathy. You wanted to, you just...couldn't break their hearts.

"What's that," your mother asked, getting closer to the camera. Katsuki knew what he had to do, he wanted to help. He grabbed your phone, turning it to himself, your hand still on his head, and stated, "I'm (y/n)'s boyfriend," firmly.

Your parents gasped in unison, jaws dropped. "This can't be!" "Tell me he's lying!"

"It's true," you said, your voice wavering but your tone firm.

Katsuki handed you the phone back, and you held it closer to your face.

"We raised you better than this," your mother shouted.

"He loves me," you mumbled back, tears dripping over your cheeks.

"He wants to use you," she scoffed, venom in her tone.

"Wolves don't eat bunnies anymore," you argued.

"So? That doesn't mean he won't use you for other things," she sniffed.

"Mom!" Tears were pouring down your face, you were definitely worked up. Katsuki brought his arm around your shoulder, holding you a little closer to comfort you. For once, Katsuki kept his mouth shut. You had this. You didn't need his help.

"I can't bear to watch him touch you, I can't imagine what you let him do when we aren't watching!"

"What we do is none of your business," you yelled, your voice shrill from the emotions raging.

"Don't come home until you've rid yourself of that...that...heathen!"

"Fine," you shouted back, not even thinking.

"Fine," she responded, equally as loud. You could hear your dad say "honey," to your mom just before she hung up.

You sat there in silence for a moment, Katsuki's arm around you, staring at your now black phone screen.

"You...Okay," Katsuki asked hesitantly, his voice riddled with worry.

You broke.

You started bawling, Tears gushing from your eyes as you leaned into Katsuki's chest, wailing and lamenting the possible loss of your relationship with, at the very least, your mother. Katsuki leaned back against the armrest of the couch, pulling you with him as you both lay down. He rubbed your back in broad strokes, up and down, his other hand behind his head for support.

"I can't go back," you whimpered between broken sobs, arms brought to be around his sides.

You don't need to. Why go back when I'm right here? Who would want to go back to assholes like them, anyway? All of these thoughts were racing through his head, yet none of them could be voiced, one were what he wanted to think. You didn't need that.

"I know, bun."

That was all he said, planting soft kisses along your hairline and smoothing your ears against your head over and over again, petting you to calm you down.

Your howling died down into sobbing, the sobbing into crying, and the crying into whimpering. After just 10 minutes, you were silent, and after careful examination, Katsuki realized you were dead asleep.

Gently so as not to wake you, he lifted you up as he stood, carrying you to his bedroom and laying you down. He got in with you, pulling up the covers and leaving little kisses on your wet cheek as he wrapped his strong arms around your waist.

He could hear your phone buzzing with text after text after text, phone calls with different ringtones (ergo different people), the dinging of notifications on social media.

He'd have to get up earlier than you so he could delete all the hateful texts and voicemails, but that'd be tomorrow him's problem. Right now, all that mattered was you.

His beautiful bunny.

Me? write A metaphor for the homophobia/racism/general bigotry that still exists today? noooooo, couldn't be. I hope you liked this comfy, angsty(?) little fanfic, please leave a comment with your thoughts!

#fanfic #fan fiction #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo mha #katsuki bakugo #katsuki bakugou #bakugo katsuki #bnha bakugo katsuki #bakugo #mha bakugou #bakugou x reader

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nctstar · 10 months

Text

one, two...

“Oh, so she’s like that with all men. I see.”

“No, no,” you whispered. “Only you, only…you three.”

pairing: dojaejung x fem!reader

other members: none

word count: 3k

genre: smut

warnings: this is purely a graphic smut so minors please dni!! foursome, everything is consensual (verbal + use of the traffic light system throughout), dom!dojaejung, sub!reader, sir kink, unprotected sex (don't be silly wrap your willy), rough sex (+ reader is manhandled a LOT), degradation (liberal use of the words slut & whore), praise kink, multiple orgasms, fingering (everywhere), oral (female and male receiving), breast play, (sort of size kink idk they all have big bananas), penetration, use of vibrator, kissing, spitting in mouth (sorry), anal, double + triple penetration, lots of cum, profanity

disclaimer: this is a fanfiction purely from my (filthy) imagination. I don't know the nct members and don't claim that they act like this in real life. I also do not condone any of the activity by any of the characters in this fic.

a/n: some people tell me that I need therapy after reading the smut I write and I think they're onto something

The thin fabric of your dress clung onto your skin, droplets of pool water sliding off the seams and dripping onto the floor. You watched the carpet darken with every drop. Drip, drip, drip… Your gaze didn’t leave the floor once, despite feeling eyes boring holes into your skull, the tension thickening with every passing second. Goosebumps prickled across your skin, but you felt hot, your face flushed and your heart pounding, feeling restless on your feet.

“Are you just gonna keep staring at the floor?”

Before you, Doyoung was sprawled out on the couch. Donning the shiniest pair of black pants elongating his legs, his shirt hung off his body, casting shadows across his ribs. The remnants of the long past music show was evident in his done-up hair, straight black tendrils shrouding his forehead and dark lined eyes piercing through the strands like a dragon. He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, and you felt like you were melting like putty under his intense gaze.

This wasn’t the energy you had carried hours ago backstage when you were moaning in his ear, running your hands across his torso shamelessly while you got carried away with your words…

“Come here.”

He patted his right knee. You walked over, swallowing a shudder as you felt wind prickle at your wet skin. You perched yourself on his leg, more and more aware of just how flimsy your dress was. He pulled you in closer from the waist, his other hand bringing your face closer to his. Yet, he stopped short of the kiss. “Are you cold?”

“No.” You had no idea why you lied. In reality, you were fighting the urge to shiver, your nipples being pricked everytime your dress slipped across your chest. In fact, as you shifted in his lap, you brought one hand to fix the strap of your dress, now threatening to expose your entire torso.

Doyoung’s hand grabbed at your wrist. “Don’t. You came here to be a whore, right? So act like it.”

“Doyoung-ah,” you whined, the word whore making you slide into a different headspace. You felt his hands dip between the plush of your thighs, making you squeeze your eyes shut in response. Every time he touched you, it was gentle but immediately passionate and relentless. And every time he closed in on you, he felt familiar and unique at the same time, jolting your body awake with something different blooming every time.

“You guys are here already.” The statement hung in the air with a hint of finality. You pulled away from Doyoung and were met with Jungwoo’s unmistakably toned body. The beige shirt from before was now hanging off his arms, letting rays of moonlight dance across the skin of his chest and stomach. His eyes met yours, his expression serious and unmoving.

Not at all the way he was an hour ago when his mouth was tangled with yours, the bottle of wine you’d had mixing dangerously with the sweet smell of his perfume and the dim lights, making you dizzy and him more and more eager.

“Jungwoo, uh…hi.”

He stepped closer to the arm of the couch and dramatically rested one knee up on the edge in an almost comical display of dominance. Yet, it made something in you switch, and you felt your body aching to be in that bar again, tasting him in the corner of the room.

“Tell us again what you told me backstage,” Doyoung broke the silence, his icy fingers now bringing your face back towards him. “You know, back when you were rutting against me like a bitch in heat.”

Damn, that was harsh.

“Oh, so she’s like that with all men. I see.”

“No, no,” you whispered. “Only you, only…you three.” The word three quietly slipped off your tongue and trailed off like it was a long-held secret, something that you would have taken to your grave if you weren’t in your current predicament.

Memories ran through your mind, of yourself. Mere days ago. Your head in between Jaehyun’s spread legs, scalp tingling from his random pulls on your ponytail, the bony part of your knees feeling sore on the cold tiles as the beat of the song beyond the door thumped on.

“Right, right.” You watched Jungwoo’s demeanour crack as he smirked, looking at you teasingly.

At first you hadn’t noticed Jaehyun leaning on the doorframe, lurking in the shadows like an outsider. But as he took a few steps forward, the darkness began to leave his slender frame, and he was standing in front of you and Doyoung in no time. Your eyes began to scan the outlines of his waist, and the way his jean shorts hung on for dear life. Despite how much you had fooled around with all three of them the past couple of months, not once did you think you’d be here, dripping onto the carpet on the lap of one man while two others watched you with hungry eyes.

“Staring at his cock, are you?” Your eyes widened at the filth of Doyoung’s words, him usually striking you as a missionary-reserved kind of guy. But you looked away immediately, mortified, and he only chuckled.

He pushed you onto your back then, letting your head rest on the armrest of the couch and the small of your back on his legs. You felt breathless as he manhandled you around, your dress slipping and sliding around to expose you in obscene ways.

“Open up.” You met Jungwoo’s face upside down. You were no stranger to his casual dominance that molded you into submission every time, but today you hesitated slightly, having never taken him in your mouth before. Let alone like this.

Almost like he read your mind, he immediately added, “It’s okay.You can do it, baby. I’ll help.”

“So nice, isn’t he?” Jaehyun finally spoke, and you looked down to see him on his knees, towering over your bottom half. Doyoung had lifted the ends of your dress to your stomach, exposing your pussy now dripping onto his lap like some sort of cheap porno. You whimpered as Jaehyun ran his fingers over your folds, holding your breath in anticipation. “Tell me what you want from me.”

“Oh, Jae.” You sucked in a sharp breath as his mouth landed on your pussy, making you pull away involuntarily. You felt a sharp sting on the inside of your thighs. “Mmm, sorry. Please, please fuck me. I need it so bad, fuck.” You drawled out your words as he ate you out with the vigour of a young bachelor, Doyoung keeping one of your thighs anchored down.

“You hear that, Doyoung? So pathetic. Any common whore could have come up with that.”

“A-ah,” you moaned as his fingers entered you, the rush of sensation making you feel scatterbrained. “No, wait, I didn’t, ah…I meant…”

“We’ll give her another chance later.” Jungwoo hooked under your chin and bent your neck up, letting you open your mouth and engulf his girth. Your hands fisted tight as you choked, drool running down your chin and onto your collarbones. You closed your eyes, letting yourself be used as he pleased. “Good girl.” he groaned, and Jaehyun began to pump his fingers inside you at a steady pace.

Your cries and moans were getting lost around Jungwoo’s length, his hips now pistoning in and out of your mouth, and you felt Doyoung play with your nipples, making you jerk on his lap. You felt an impending orgasm build up inside you, your whines getting stronger as you pushed Jungwoo off to release your mouth. “Gonna cum!”

“Who said you could?” Jaehyun’s pace remained unchanged, and you shut your eyes, your brain turning into mush as ripples of pleasure took over your senses.

A sharp pull on your hair brought you back to reality with a yelp. “Answer him, baby.”

“Ah, s-sir.” Your eyes glazed over, making Jungwoo’s figure look less and less definite. His grip didn’t falter, but he let out a gentle sigh. “Do as he says, or you’ll regret it.”

“I can’t…I can’t hold it in,” your voice shook, your muscles stiff as your body was pinned down. “Please, ah, let me cum, ah, ah…shit!”

“Go ahead, princess.” You came with a cry, soaking Jaehyun’s fingers in the process. Your head felt floaty, and you faintly registered being shifted around until your legs were pressed up against your chest and you felt a hard bulb press against your hole.

“Nghhh…” With little energy left, you were painting the air with incoherent sounds. Doyoung pressed his lips against yours, his hands slipping on your thighs. “You gonna be a good whore for me?”

“Y-ye…yeah.” You sucked in a breath through your teeth as his wide girth filled you to the brim, your walls stretched thin. “So big.”

“Yeah?” He breathed, before slamming into you, knocking the air out of you in the process. You opened your mouth to scream but no sound came out at first, your body almost feeling helpless to the sudden intrusion.

“Does it hurt, baby?” You felt someone stroke the hair on your face, and you shook your head. Jaehyun patted your cheek harder, as if to snap you out of your haze. “Don’t lie. Use your words.”

“No, no, feels…feels good.” Your voice wavered with every stroke, and you looked up to meet his eyes, filled with lust. Standing beside Jungwoo, both watching you get ruined making you surprisingly wetter. You threw your head back, feeling Doyoung rack your body with his strong thrusts. You closed your eyes in response, but a slap on the side of your face made your eyes fly open again. “Look at me while you’re getting ravished like this, baby. Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

“Ah, yes, s-sir!” Doyoung’s face was now in front of yours, his thrusts getting sloppier and more desperate as he went along. “You like being watched, too? You keep watching them and squeezing around me, you filthy girl.” You only moaned in response, your eyes rolling on the back of your head, all logical thoughts spilling out of your mind as his release poured out of you, hole left gaping as he pulled out.

You felt like you blinked and Doyoung was just gone, replaced by Jaehyun. Before you could register anything, you felt his cock slap against your dripping hole, making you yelp and shut your knees together. “Ah, wait, wait…” Your chest was heaving, the bottom of your dress now slick with sweat and release.

“Colour?” You felt Jungwoo’s whisper on the side of your head, Jaehyun’s heavy gaze on you, and you didn’t hesitate with your answer. “Green.”

“Fuck, you’re just insatiable, aren’t you?” Doyoung’s words and Jaehyun’s hands prying your knees apart made your stomach churn with anticipation. You felt another tug on your hair, gentle this time, and you looked up to meet Jungwoo, his face now closer to yours. “Tongue out for me.” You whimpered as he engulfed your open mouth into his, the kiss sloppy and wet. He pulled away, one hand now shoved under your dress and playing with your tits, another stroking your face, driving you crazy with his simultaneous gentle and rough handling. Without warning, you felt something hard and almost plastic rest on the top of your pussy, and you immediately felt Jungwoo block you from looking down. “No. Keep looking up.”

As soon as you felt the vibrations start on your already spent core, you squealed and began to writhe away. Much to you dismay, you were being held down mercilessly. “Oh my god, oh my god, it’s already too much…”

“I don’t care. Pay attention up here. You think you can get away with not making me cum?”

“Fuck, fuck…”

“On your knees, _. I don’t have all day.”

You supported yourself up, wobbling the entire way, your entire body feeling the effects of this vibrator that was sucking the life out of you today in mere seconds…or minutes, you no longer could tell. Feeling the cold edges of the Jaehyun’s rings against your bare thighs, you realised he was probably the one rolling the end of the toy on your clit, making you cry out in pleasure. “Good fucking slut. She’s good, isn’t she?”

You whimpered, feeling the vibrations ebb away, almost missing the way it was letting you build up to your climax. “Yes, sir…”

You heard Doyoung’s laugh next to you, making you feel both embarrassed and hornier than ever. “Gosh, she’s so out of it already.”

You looked up to be met with Jungwoo’s length, your hair shrouding your face as you stared thoughtlessly. Jaehyun breathed into your ear, “Need some help with that, baby?”

You nodded, all self-respect leaving your body at this point. “Let’s make a deal then,” he continued. “If I help you suck his cock, you let me fuck you from behind.” You inhaled sharply, the vibrations now slowly building up again. “Or we use the toy. What do you want?” You knew he was being gracious by asking, but his tone was mocking, almost scathing.

“Your cock…a-ah…please. Want to be stretched out and…fu-fucked, please. In all my h- ah, oh my god,” Your thighs shook, the last of your inhibitions leaving you as you felt a hot combination of your and the mens’ release leak down your inner thighs, naked and needy in front of all three.

“What was that, hmm?” Doyoung placed a hand on the small of your back, tipping you towards the vibrator, making you pant louder and louder.

“Nghh…fuck, please fuck me, in, all my holes, oh my-” you were cut off by the vibrator leaving your clit, the sudden loss making you want to fight back tears.

The steady silence that followed made you realise then the gravity of your words.

“Mmm, we better give her what she wants then.” Jungwoo stated as a matter of fact, but you sensed a sudden arousal rise up within him, and your stomach churned with a mix of excitement and anxiety. “Here I was thinking you’d be satisfied getting fucked two at a time.”

You yelped as you felt something cold on your rim, and you heard Doyoung shush you immediately. “It’s alright, baby, it’s just lube. You okay with this?” You bit your lip, trying to hold in your moans already. “I-I think I can.” Your voice was tiny and shaky, and Jungwoo tipped the bottom of your chin up so that you could meet his eyes. “What’s your colour? Be honest, it’s okay.” You felt Jaehyun hum in agreement, patting your thigh comfortingly.

“Yes, yes I want this. Green. God, I need to cum so bad.”

Jungwoo’s fingers changed you squeeze roughly around your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. Bending over, he spat inside, making you shut your eyes and whine. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“Ah, you, you…all of…y-you.”

“That’s a good girl. You look so pretty like this. Just waiting for cock.” You hummed in pleasure, feeling fingers enter and begin to stretch you out. Gasping and moaning, you let Jungwoo guide you to his length, Jaehyun pulling the hair away from your face as promised in a tight, unforgiving grip. As you gagged, the two men swore and pushed you down deeper, Jaehyun holding your head in place while Jungwoo pushed his hips forward. You held back tears as you accommodated to his length. “That’s it.” The sounds of you choking replaced by a broken scream as you felt Jaehyun slip back inside your sopping hole. Shaking your head, the two men released you as you groaned incoherently, feeling your eyeballs slip to the back of your head. “Oh, haah…I think I’m gonna…c-cum.”

You kept your promise as Jaehyun thrusted inside a handful of times, the squelching sounds a testament to the juices that just kept flowing out of you. In the post-orgasmic haze, you felt Doyoung’s fingers stretch out your rim, the unfamiliar sensations feeling both uncomfortable and so good. “How’s that, babygirl?”

“So good,” You heard Doyoung groan. “How on Earth are you so wet…”

As if a trained response, you opened your mouth as Jungwoo tipped your face up, letting him enter your mouth again. “You suck me so good, baby. Gonna make me cum like a good cockslut, aren’t you?” You furiously nodded, the wet noises filling up the entire room as his cock slammed in and out of your mouth. “Keep going, keep going, baby, good girl.” You became aware of an otherworldly stretch and tears sprung to your eyes. You pulled off. “Ah, oh my god, I’m so…full…” the words fought to leave you between your open mouth gasps of air, your head turning to watch yourself be stretched to the brim. Jungwoo pulled your head back to his cock. “Thought you wanted this, being fucked by three…” You engulfed him whole, your desperate moans vibrating his entire length as you felt Jaehyun and Doyoung fuck you into the couch. Jungwoo threw his head back. “…fuck, three cocks. Fuck, just the sight you like this is gonna make me cum.” It wasn’t too soon after that Jungwoo came, his hot load escaping down your chin onto your chest as he pulled you off him. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”

You screamed as you came, your sensitive walls fluttering and struggling to take so much stimulation. You felt a few seconds of shushing as you whined and tried to clamber away, the men holding you down until you were well and truly stuffed with loads of cum, the feeling of it hot deep inside your abdomen.

You collapsed onto the couch when all of you were done, your vision now seeing stars. As you slipped into an exhausted slumber, you felt one hand stroke your hair, a gentle kiss placed on the top of your head. “Shhh, you did so well, baby. Go to sleep.”

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qqueenofhades · 11 months

Note

I feel like, if Democrats want to win in places that AREN'T deep blue, if they want swing states and rural areas, they NEED to shut up about social issues. Don't talk about abortion or birth control or women's rights. Don't talk about police brutality and racism and immigration, legal or not. Don't talk about transphobia or homophobia. They should talk SOLELY about economic policy and solid legislation and sneak in protections for marginalized groups once elected.

Imma be real with you chief, since you came to my inbox and you presumably want my opinion: that is an absolutely terrible idea. Here's why:

First and most importantly, this is confusing "Democrats/progressives need to learn how to explain their policies in terms that are acceptable to the American mushy middle" with "they shouldn't talk about those policies at all." It's not that we can't pursue left-wing economic or social policies, it's that we should stop f'n calling them "socialist," which does nothing and causes a lot of harm among the people who instantly tune out or turn hostile the instant they hear that word and are unreachable afterward. If we CAN put them in terms that the American public likes, i.e. freedom, justice, opportunity, we should do that.

So... black people don't exist in America? LGBTQ people don't exist in America? Immigrants/racial minorities don't exist in America? Women (HALF THE ENTIRE POPULATION) don't exist in America? Especially when those are all core constituencies of the Democratic Party and vote for it precisely because it has openly expressed support for their issues and protection for their basic personal rights and civil liberties, especially as the right wing gets ever more reactionary, fascist, and crazy? You really think we should just throw up our hands and totally cede the public debate on these issues to the fascists, and act like any pushback or critique is the aberrant position??? Really???

Likewise, we're not gonna go for the "absolutely everyone in a red state/area is an unrepentant bigot who can only be mobilized if we discreetly tuck away our social liberalism." We're gonna talk about gerrymandering. We're going to talk about voter repression laws. We're gonna talk about how Ken Paxton, the Texas AG so wildly, insanely corrupt that he finally managed to get impeached by fellow Texas Republicans, boasted that if he didn't stop Texas counties from mailing out ballots to all registered voters, Biden would have won Texas. We're not going to act like there are Sensible Americans in Deep Blue Areas and everyone else is f'n David Duke of the KKK who needs to be appeased in hopes we can meekly trick them into supporting us. We're just not.

We're not gonna act like abortion or LGBTQ rights are shameful, unpopular, or minoritized views that have to be hidden or treated as secondary, especially when we're pummeling the Republicans, even and especially in deep red areas, precisely because of those things. Ordinary people in Tennessee, Florida, Texas, and all the other usual suspects are coming out to protest against drag bans and bathroom laws, not "superior" blue-area liberals. Republicans are backtracking on the abortion issue as fast as they can because it is so incredibly politically toxic and is costing them local/state/other competitive elections like crazy. 60% of the country supports abortion rights and 70%+ supports LGBTQ rights. The fascists are a minority and that is why they are so loud and so terrible: because they're shit-scared and they see the demographics coming to end them. We are not, again, acting like they're the majority or it's too shameful to speak about anything related to anything that's not the economy, especially since:

It won't work anyway! If people were actually, genuinely motivated by appeals to improved economic circumstances, they would already vote for Democrats! But they don't, because white supremacy and white grievance is too important for them! Even if the Democrats did try to rebrand themselves as solely focused on economic issues (which, for all the reasons stated above, would be insane), the people who don't vote for them now still wouldn't vote for them then! They will still vote for the Republicans, because a) they've been fed for decades on the myth of REPUBLICANS ARE BETTER FOR THE ECONOMY and b) they know that Republicans will punish non-white people, while Democrats won't. If they did try to "sneak in" protections for marginalized groups even once, and since that's, again, what they've built their entire party on, that would be it. It's the racism. It is always the racism.

Basically, this is the exact kind of mega-reductive "the only war is the class war"/"economic oppression is the only oppression" analysis that is so popular among Online Leftists and attempts to just erase racism, sexism, homophobia, misogyny, xenophobia, and all the other complex reasons why people vote, experience oppression, want the government to represent their interests, affiliate with a political party, or prioritize their particular identity/civic participation, because it's inconvenient for something something the purity of their Marxist theory. Besides, this is not even to mention that the Democrats' existing supporters would abandon them in droves, which would gut any remote increase in the number of voters that they could even (wildly unrealistically) hope to gain for doing it. You might as well be the f'n No Labels party, which is trying this exact kind of BS in hopes of peeling off just enough of the ideologically wavering Biden voters to hand the election to Trump. So. Yeah. No.

#anonymous #ask #politics for ts

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her-satanic-wiles · 3 months

Text

Masterlist ⛧ Lost in Translation Masterlist ⛧ Ao3

Words: 12.4k.

Reading Time: 50 min.

Warnings: begging, cock warming, creampie, cunnilingus, dry humping, fingering, hair pulling, marking, mentions of masturbation, mild pain kink, mild salirophilia, moderately underprepared penetration (but no pain), multiple scenes, nipple play, penetrative sex, praise kink, so much whimpering omfg, unprotected sex (cover the bone to slide it home, bro), vaginal fingering, vaginal sex

Taglist: @zombiesnips-blog @da-rulah @teenage-birt-dag @ellenokumura @thew0man @sodoswitchimage @the-real-eggplany @deathmimedream @love-is-all-you-need-13 @kadedoesthings @rosyerato @xshadylady @popiaswife @perpetratorwithaquill @punkiy50 @onlyhereforghost @kaijukimchi @copiaspet622

As the newly appointed Cardinal Copia struggles with the weight of a looming prophecy, a resilient scholar challenges the narrative, uncovering a conspiracy that reaches beyond the walls of the Ministry. The emergence of a forbidden love ignites a rebellion against a power-hungry Sister, whose thirst for control threatens to reshape the very foundations of the Church. Will the revelation of those schemes lead to liberation or plunge the Ministry into chaos?

Previous Part ⛧ Next Part

🔞 MDNI 🔞

One moment you were in the peace and tranquility of the Ministry’s library, the next you were in the Ministry’s personal plane getting ready to land in Heathrow Airport, with Cardinal Copia by your side. The flight from Rome to London was wonderfully short, ticking in at just two and a half hours long. Plenty of time for you to go over the notes you made at school on Hebrew, more specifically the ancient Hebrew that you required in order to translate Abrahamic texts to Ministry-standard levels.

Ancient Hebrew was much more difficult for you to learn, given that it was an entirely different alphabet to the one you were used to. The script used during ancient times, particularly during the First Temple period, had a more pictographic nature, not entirely unlike Ancient Egyptian. During the 1st century CE, the Hebrew language was undergoing a significant transformation and coexisted with other languages in the region. Biblical Hebrew was more akin to modern day Hebrew which allowed you some crossovers in your day-to-day studies, but it was still very different in most aspects.

The Ministry, as it was open to everyone from all walks of life, held so much diversity between its unhallowed walls, it was beautiful. There were languages spoken from all over the world, but in order to unify everyone and make communication easier, Italian was the main language, followed by Latin, then English, then other denominations. The Church revelled in the chaos created by such a diverse cast of characters - and for a long time allowed everyone to just play the conversation by ear. In essence, you’d watch someone open their mouth and pray to Lucifer that they were about to speak in a language that you understood. It wasn’t until Mama Ardens II reigned in the late 15th Century that she introduced the official language of Italian. This was challenged by some members of the clergy as it was “too Catholic”, but there was a reason her name was Ardens and she shut the clergy up pretty quickly.

During the flight, you could feel the weight of the Cardinal’s eyes upon you, burning through you like Hellfire upon the skin of the worst sinners. The majority of the time, you’d catch him looking at your papers, as if he was refamiliarising himself with Ancient Hebrew too. But there was the odd occasion when your eyes locked with his, and he panicked and turned away, pretending as though he was looking at something else behind you. The act itself made you so, very aware of your appearance. What could he possibly be staring at? And why? You found yourself wiping something from your face just to be sure you didn’t have anything on it.

“Scusi, Sorella.” The Cardinal said, interrupting your studying with a gloved tap to your shoulder. You looked at him, the haze of the ancient world fading with each passing second. “This is Hebrew, sì?”

You stared at him blankly for a second before answering. “Yes, Your Dark Eminence.”

He nodded. “It looks like Ancient Phoenician.”

“You know Ancient Phoenician?”

“A little. I went through a phase in my teens where I wanted to be different. Everyone else knew Latin and Greek, I wanted Latin and Phoenician.”

You laughed. “I think everyone goes through that phase when they’re a teen.”

“Probably. The alphabets are the same, no?”

“No, actually. They’re very similar, but they’re not copies of one another. What modern historians refer to as the “Paleo-Hebrew” alphabet was used by some of Abraham’s children. The Phoenician alphabet and the Paleo-Hebrew alphabet were pretty much the same alphabet, despite possible tiny differences in the letterforms, but every language spoken by the Canaanites shared this alphabet. Even the Arameans made use of it. It wasn’t invented by the Phoenicians or even by Abraham’s children. Most likely it was a group of early, unnamed Canaanites that we’ve no evidence for… yet.”

“Does it function the same way?”

“I don’t know enough about Ancient Phoenician to tell you either way, but,” you picked up your sheet of paper that helped translate the Hebrew to the Latin alphabet and handed it to the Cardinal, “you’re more than welcome to figure that out for yourself.”

He perused the sheet in front of him for a short while, getting to grips with the look of it. Every now and then, little hums of understanding would spill involuntarily from his lips, each one making your heart soar with adoration.

The world’s impressions of the Cardinal often exaggerated his behaviour. He demonstrated a sweetness that spoke to his true nature, far from the menacing figure many had imagined.

The Cardinal was an introverted man who took comfort in his own company, just like you. Even though he was capable of being an ambiverted position when called for, it was obvious that he valued solitude over social interactions. It felt as though he was choosing to be alone, and it went beyond simple preference to suggest a deeper, complex side to his nature.

The truth, sadly, appeared to be a little grimmer. Sister Aisha, who was known for her direct and sometimes sarcastic comments, did not hold back when she called the Cardinal “a creepy old man.” And made no attempts to hide any contempt she held for him, but she was one of many who felt exactly the same way.

The daily peeks into his life revealed an odd habit: a Ghoul snatching his meals from the kitchens and slipping them into his office. His life of isolation not only shielded him from the Ministry’s scrutiny but also added to the mysterious atmosphere that enveloped him.

People often treated their future leader with a certain amount of condescension, either not realising his potential or brushing it off completely. They were unable to see his character’s depth and his hidden strength. It was as if they only saw the surface—a man who didn’t fit the Ministry’s stereotypical image of power.

You would see the eye rolling, the dismissive gestures, and the sporadic scoffs aimed at him. The insensitive treatment looked to be the result of ignorance, an inability to realise the importance hidden behind his modest demeanour. The Cardinal had to deal with the disdainful attitudes of those around him in his earlier days, while others in similar positions might have commanded immediate respect.

But there was something about him which you saw that others missed. You had a gut feeling that there was more to this modest person than first appeared. Feeling sympathy for the Cardinal and believing he deserved better than the casual remarks and sidelong looks, you watched the irritating treatment take place.

The Ministry had no idea that hiding beneath that seemingly ordinary man was the potential for a strong leader. The future Cardinal Copia would eventually triumph over the criticism and unpleasant treatment, demonstrating that genuine strength frequently hides in a person’s depths, ready to be revealed when the time was right.

And a different Cardinal showed up in those moments when he wasn’t burdened by the duties of leadership and he allowed himself to converse. His kindness came through; his soft-spoken manner revealed the fragility beneath the surface of power. It became clear that the Cardinal was a complicated person who was oversimplified in the eyes of the world to be a stoic, unapproachable figure.

Being in the background gave you the opportunity to observe the Church’s internal drama, the shenanigans, and the power struggles without taking an active part in them. It was a position of quiet strength, where your biggest advantage became your understanding and awareness of the inner workings of the Ministry.

The Cardinal’s lack of notice meant freedom from unnecessary attention. You could spend your time reading the ancient books, exploring the archaic library, and performing your tasks without having to deal with the spotlight. The shadows offered a certain safety, a place where you could pursue your curiosity without being distracted by people.

In quieter moments, among the centuries-old books and dimly lit hallways of the Ministry, there was a faint longing, a yearning for a relationship that went beyond the pages of forbidden knowledge. There were times when you wished the Cardinal would give you that elusive, uneven smile, even though you cherished the safety of anonymity and the cover of darkness.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you dreamed that the Cardinal would acknowledge you in a way that went beyond the standard Ministry exchanges. You yearned for some small act that displayed a great deal in the calm language of desire, something that would bring back memories of old-fashioned chivalry.

You imagined a moment when the Cardinal, freed from the restraints of rank, would hold your hand with a tenderness suiting the moment. You’d read about such actions in the romance books that lined the library’s shelves: a gentleman’s kiss upon a lady’s hand, as a sign of affection and a modest declaration of a relationship that went beyond the everyday.

However, these moments remained unattainable since the intricate web of the Cardinal’s ascent to importance and the manipulations of the Ministry. The reality of your job as an archivist at the Ministry’s library clashed regularly with the dreams that danced in the corners of your mind. Your dreams were tucked between the shelves like a bookmark between book pages.

It was enough to send previous incarnations of yourself into a near-coma of shock to learn that the Cardinal was not only aware of your existence but actively seeking your aid for a mission to London. A storm of emotions mixed disbelief and excitement at the thought that your unnoticed presence had attracted the attention of the Church’s leader. It seemed like a strange transition from being a quiet observer to a major role in a clandestine mission—a story arc that went against the expectations of the once-quiet guardian.

As the jet streaked through the sky, carrying you and the Cardinal into to the fascinating depths of London, you found yourself suddenly drawn away from your usual scholarly pursuits. Rather than immersing yourself in the ancient Hebrew texts that waited for you in the city, you were chatting with the Cardinal informally, like you were the closest, lifelong friends that could ever be.

You were sitting side by side in the cramped plane, and you pulled out a notebook with Hebrew idioms and symbols in it. The aircraft’s steady hum provided a unique setting for this unusual classroom, where the Cardinal—who wasn’t exactly famed for his mysterious charm—became a passionate learner.

You patiently explained the complexities of the old Hebrew language to the Cardinal. As you clarified their meanings and intricacies, the characters—each bearing a history and resonance from millennia ago—took on new life. With a mixture of passion and nervousness the Cardinal tried to imitate the characters in his trademark clumsy charm. That was to say, he got things wrong… a lot.

The unexpected language lesson had led to a moment of shared laughter, a welcome respite from the weight of ancient texts and scholarly pursuits. After one particularly amusing mistake, the laughter gradually subsided, giving way to a comfortable silence. In that quietude, an unspoken connection lingered in the air.

As you glanced over your notes, the Cardinal’s gaze shifted, and when you looked up, you found his eyes fixed upon you. The atmosphere seemed to shift, charged with a subtle energy that transcended the boundaries of mere camaraderie. His gaze, softer and more contemplative than before, held an unspoken sentiment that eluded easy definition.

His eyes traced the contours of your face with a newfound tenderness, and there was a momentary pause, as if time itself had hesitated to acknowledge the shift in dynamics. A gentle intensity lingered in the air, and his gaze descended to your lips with a soft, unspoken longing.

Unaware of the subtle shift in the Cardinal’s demeanour, you continued to meet his eyes with an easygoing smile. The shared laughter had forged a connection, and the silence that followed seemed to amplify the unspoken nuances lingering between you.

For the Cardinal, the moment held a depth of emotion that he struggled to articulate. His eyes conveyed a silent contemplation, and in that fleeting silence, there was a desire—subtle, yet palpable. The notion of a kiss hovered in the unspoken spaces between you, a sentiment that had yet to find expression in words.

As the plane continued its journey toward London, the Cardinal’s gaze remained soft, a reflection of the newfound connection forged in the unexpected intimacy of the language lesson. Little did you know that this unspoken exchange would linger as a subtle undercurrent, shaping the course of the journey that awaited you in the heart of the ancient city.

The announcement of the impending landing interrupted the quiet exchange between you and the Cardinal. With a shared understanding, and an awkward clearing of the Cardinal’s throat, you both began the task of clearing away the notes, neatly organizing the scattered papers that documented your linguistic exploration. The air hostess moved through the cabin, her voice announcing the approaching descent and the estimated time until landing.

As the plane touched down in London, the anticipation of the journey ahead resonated in the air. Your bags, along with the majority of the Cardinal’s Ghouls—Swiss, Aurora, Cirrus, and Phantom, as you noted—were efficiently handled and transported to the hotel. The remaining Ghouls accompanied you and the Cardinal, ready to delve into the mysteries held within the Crimson Archives.

Exiting the airport, the chill of the London air greeted you, a stark contrast to the climate you had left behind. The Ghouls maintained an eerie silence as they efficiently guided you and the Cardinal toward the awaiting vehicle. The journey to the Crimson Archives unfolded, the city’s landmarks passing by in a blur of history and modernity.

The Crimson Archives, a repository of knowledge and secrets, awaited your exploration. The Cardinal, his curiosity undiminished, glanced toward you with a glint of excitement in his eyes. The Ghouls, ever vigilant, maintained a discreet presence, their loyalty to the Cardinal evident in every step.

As you approached the entrance, the imposing facade of the archives loomed overhead, a testament to the weight of the knowledge contained within its walls. The building itself was designed in the typical Edwardian Baroque fashion, a classic from the 1600s that had made its way all across Europe to decorate the streets of the well-to-do, adding a sense of grandeur. The white exterior was profanely white, as though someone was out with a toothbrush every single day, cleaning the brickwork and repainting it to hide any and all blemishes.

The monochromatic exterior was interrupted only by the double-doored entrance, a vivid splash of red staining the wood. The crimson hue, reminiscent of dried blood, served as a stark reminder that beyond those doors lay the repository of forbidden knowledge—the Crimson Archives.

As you approached the entrance, the weight of anticipation hung in the air. The Ghouls, their presence silent and imposing, flanked you and the Cardinal, their loyalty a reassuring presence. The red doors creaked open, inviting you to step into the enigmatic world that awaited beyond.

Crossing the threshold, you entered a realm where time seemed to stand still. The interior, bathed in a muted light that filtered through stained glass windows, exuded an air of reverence. The scent of ancient parchment and weathered leather permeated the air, as if the very essence of knowledge clung to the surroundings.

Rows of towering bookshelves lined the expansive space, each shelf bearing the weight of countless tomes. Dust motes danced in the filtered sunlight, adding a touch of magic to the ambiance. The hallowed halls echoed with the whispers of the past, inviting you to unravel the secrets concealed within the carefully preserved volumes.

As you and the Cardinal ventured deeper into the Crimson Archives, the architectural beauty and the solemnity of the surroundings intensified. The knowledge held within these walls spanned centuries, and the building itself stood as a testament to the reverence bestowed upon the pursuit of wisdom.

Every step further into the archives felt like a journey through time, a pilgrimage into the mysteries that lay dormant, waiting to be unearthed. The building, with its timeless design and meticulous preservation, stood as a guardian of the secrets you sought, a silent witness to the ebb and flow of history that had left its mark on every page within.

The interior of the Crimson Archives continued the theme of elegant austerity with a predominantly monochromatic palette. An airy atmosphere that encircled the room in a timeless hug, was created by the towering bookshelves’ shadows dancing across the white walls.

The black accents, whether in the form of wrought-iron railings or the dark frames of portraits lining the walls, added a touch of sophistication to the otherwise pristine interior. The interplay of light and dark accentuated the architectural details, casting a mysterious allure that beckoned those who dared to explore further.

Crimson red, the color that lent the archives its name, punctuated the surroundings like droplets of blood against a canvas of parchment. The rich hue adorned draperies that framed arched windows, lending a warm contrast to the cool tones dominating the space. Plush rugs underfoot absorbed the echo of footsteps, muffling sound and enhancing the sense of reverence.

Wooden furnishings, stained with a reddish tint, added to the overall warmth of the archives. The bookshelves, meticulously organized and towering towards the ceiling, featured rich, dark wood that cradled the weight of centuries-old knowledge. Each shelf, each tome, seemed to radiate history, promising a journey through time with every page turned.

The two of you stood before the unattended front desk, the absence of any library staff adding an extra layer of mystery to the already cryptic atmosphere. The desk, pristine and uncluttered, awaited the presence of a librarian or archivist to assist in navigating the vast sea of knowledge housed within the Crimson Archives.

All was vacant save for the single silver bell that guarded the area. Gleaming like a beacon in the poorly lit surroundings, its smooth surface reflected the surrounding light. Beside it was a plain note with a clear instruction in exquisite script, “Ring for assistance.”

“What kind of cult have we walked into?” You asked, taking in your surroundings.

The Cardinal noticed your unease, and rested his hand on your shoulder. “This sounds like the beginning of a very bad joke, no? Two Satanists walk into a cult’s archives…”

You chuckled, feeling a little calmer. As you reached for the bell, a faint sense of anticipation hung in the air. The Cardinal observed with a mix of curiosity and amusement, perhaps intrigued by the prospect of unraveling the secrets within the hallowed halls of the Crimson Archives. With a gentle tap of your finger against the silver surface, a melodious chime echoed through the silence, resonating with the reverence of ages past.

The sound lingered for a moment before dissipating into the air, leaving a quiet expectancy in its wake. The hushed whispers of pages turning and the distant creak of aging wood filled the void, creating an ambiance that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the written word.

Eventually, a Lord Worthington waddled forward, his ample belly preceding him. He was indeed bald, with a shiny forehead that reflected the overhead lights. His round face was flushed, and beads of perspiration adorned his bald pate. Despite his portly appearance, there was an air of joviality about him. He sported a finely groomed, gray mustache that curled at the ends, giving him a somewhat eccentric air. Lord Worthington was the founder of the Crimson Archives - essentially a personal collection of ancient artifacts and texts belonging to a man with too much money in his bank account.

“Your Dark Eminence!” he exclaimed, extending a plump hand towards the Cardinal. His fingers were adorned with several ornate rings, and he wore a cream-colored waistcoat that strained against the girth of his belly. Each word he spoke seemed to be accompanied by a cough, as if his excitement and his respiratory system were engaged in a perpetual tug-of-war. Lord Worthington’s eyes twinkled with a mix of reverence and genuine enthusiasm as he quickly shook the Cardinal’s hand, hard enough to shake his entire body. “It’s an absolute pleasure to have you here at the Crimson Archives, sir! What a delightful encounter. I suppose you’re here for that Eden book, yes?”

“Sì. If you could take us to it, that would be helpful.”

Lord Worthington beamed, his excitement undeterred by the Cardinal’s succinct response. “Of course, Your Dark Eminence! Right this way!”

He led you and Cardinal Copia, and by extension, the Ghouls, through the labyrinthine corridors of the Crimson Archives. The air was heavy with the scent of aged paper, and the occasional cough from Lord Worthington punctuated the quiet rustle of unseen activity. You couldn’t help but marvel at the vastness of the collection and the meticulously organized shelves that seemed to stretch into infinity.

After what felt like a journey through time itself with the Lord talking to you both about the history of the archives, Lord Worthington stopped before a particularly ornate set of double doors. The crimson theme persisted here, with intricate patterns etched into the dark wood. He produced a set of antique keys, each one adorned with a different emblem, and selected the appropriate one to unlock the doors.

“Here we are, Your Dark Eminence, Sister,” he announced, ushering you into a room that seemed plucked from a forgotten era. The smell of aged parchment was more pronounced here, and the room was illuminated by the warm glow of antique chandeliers. Ornate bookshelves lined the walls, each one crammed with dusty tomes that bore the weight of centuries.

“In this chamber, we keep some of our most prized possessions. May I present to you, Eden’s Veiled Chronicles,” Lord Worthington gestured towards a display case in the center of the room. Inside, under the protective gaze of glass, rested an ancient manuscript bound in cracked leather and adorned with faded symbols.

The Cardinal’s eyes lit up with anticipation. “May we…?” he began, gesturing towards the display case.

“Of course, Your Eminence! Feel free to examine it as closely as you’d like. It’s an honor to have you here,” Lord Worthington responded, his voice filled with genuine reverence.

As you delicately extracted the Chronicles from its protective casing, a sense of reverence settled in the air. The ancient manuscript, veiled in the passage of time, revealed itself in all its glory.

The cover, made of cracked leather with an otherworldly patina, cradled the secrets within. Faded symbols, once vibrant, adorned the surface, telling a story of eras long past. The leather, though aged, retained a certain suppleness, a testament to the craftsmanship of a bygone age.

Upon opening the cover, the parchment pages unfolded like the petals of a timeworn flower. The script, a dance of ink on the vellum, told the tale of Eden’s secrets. The language was fluid, an intricate dance of ancient Hebrew, and the illustrations, though faded, spoke of a world unseen.

The Chronicles bore the marks of countless hands that had touched its pages over the centuries. Annotations in different hands adorned the margins, an ongoing conversation across the ages. Fragments of commentary in Latin, Aramaic, and even Phoenician wove together a tapestry of understanding and interpretation.

The illustrations, a blend of artistic expression and symbolic representation, depicted scenes from the Garden of Eden not commonly known. Angels, serpents, and enigmatic figures danced across the pages, each stroke of ink telling a story lost to common narratives.

As you turned the pages with the utmost care, the scent of ancient wisdom, a mixture of parchment and the faintest whisper of long-gone eras, wafted through the air. The Chronicles seemed to exhale the secrets it held, secrets waiting to be unveiled to those who sought knowledge beyond the veil of conventional understanding.

The Cardinal leaned in, his eyes tracing the ancient words and symbols with a mixture of awe and curiosity. In order to get as close as possible, you felt his hand on the small of your back, then his fingertips dancing towards your waist, pulling you closer to him. Ordinarily, this would infuriate you, but as it was the Cardinal’s hand clutching onto your body, you found your cheeks flushing. Lord Worthington watched, his coughs momentarily silenced in the presence of such historical significance.

“It’s extraordinary.” The Cardinal said, enthralled by its enigmatic histories that he was unable to decipher.

“It’s so well preserved, Your Dark Eminence,” you told him, equally magnitised, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“How long do you think it would take you to translate it?”

“I couldn’t say - maybe a few months. But I’m so excited to get started. Look here,” you pointed to a passage that you were the only one able to understand, “it’s the story of Lilith and how she fell from Yhwh’s graces!”

“Straordinario! What’s the story?”

“Well, it starts how we’re used to reading it: created from Adam’s rib, refused to be subservient, was kicked out of Eden. But we never truly learned what happened to Her afterwards. There’s something in here about the Dark One finding Her, reviving Her with water, and taking Her to Hell with Him - but I’ll need my notes to understand the specifics. It sounds more like a love story than anything else. I’m so excited.”

You finally looked up at the Cardinal, whose eyes were fixated on your face again. His pupils were dilated significantly, as he stared at your face - eyes lingering a little to long on your lips. His hand, which was still around your waist, had tightened its grip and subconsciously pulled you closer to him. You could feel his rapid heartbeat through his cassock, feel the heat of his nervousness emanating from him like a radiator. You felt lured to lean in closer, to feel his warm breath on his cheek, to taste his lips that no doubt still tasted like the coffee he drank earlier. Your eyes were searching in his for something, anything - maybe even a bit of confidence to do what you’d been longing to do the moment you saw him. You did. You allowed your head to lean in just a tad. You were so close to him.

His breath.

His hand.

His -

A cough brought you out of whatever spell the Cardinal had put you under, and you both backed away from each other as quickly as you could. The Cardinal’s eyes were shifty and nervous, while your lips were caught between your teeth in disbelief. That was the closest you’d ever been to him, and the pull of something more was so unbearable it almost clouded your judgment.

You were about to kiss your boss’ boss’ boss, in an archive that didn’t belong to you, holding a 1500-year-old text about the creators of your faith. Your cheeks filled with embarrassment at the thought of Lord Worthington watching this happen right in front of him, and being the one to wheeze his way into breaking up the spectacle.

Naturally, a man who held a lot of money wouldn’t let something so valuable go out of the kindness of his heart. The British Aristocracy had no idea what kindness even meant - everything they did was for the good of their bank account. The Chronicles belonged in the Ministry and the Ministry’s archives. It was an important piece of religious history that needed to be with its siblings and on display for everyone to see, not just the obscenely rich. It took a lot of negotiating to get Lord Worthington to agree to a price that didn’t absolutely bankrupt the Church, with a little extra intimidation provided by Mountain in order to sweeten the deal. But, this important piece of history now belonged to the Ministry, the acquisition was finalised, and the next day you’d both be returning back to Rome.

The hotel, an opulent sanctuary nestled in the heart of London, exuded an air of grandeur that resonated with the city’s rich history. As you and the Cardinal entered the lavish establishment, the grand foyer unfolded before you in a symphony of elegance.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft glow that danced upon the intricately patterned carpets below. The walls adorned with historical tapestries whispered tales of the past, and the subdued lighting added a touch of mystique to the atmosphere.

The concierge, clad in a tailored uniform, greeted you with a courteous smile before he led the way through ornate corridors adorned with classical artwork, creating an ambiance that blended the contemporary with the timeless. You marveled at the seamless fusion of luxury and tradition, a setting befitting the dignitaries and scholars who sought refuge within its walls.

In the quiet solitude of your room, you took a moment to marvel at the view from the window. The city lights twinkled in the distance, a testament to London’s vibrant energy. The bed, adorned with plush linens, promised a night of restful repose.

You took off your veil, rolled up your habit’s sleeves, and combed your hair back from your face. Lying on the polished desk like a quiet oracle waiting to reveal its secrets was the text, a relic of antiquated wisdom, persuading you to get straight to work. Bathed in the soft light of well-placed lamps, the room filled you with the anticipation of discovery.

You didn’t realise that time had passed you by in all the hours you spent hunched over your desk. You only noticed it was dark outside when a gentle knock at the door pulled you out of your work, and you’d already translated the first two chapters. You stood and opened the door to reveal the Cardinal standing there, awkward as ever, holding a plastic bag in his gloved hands. “Ah, Sorella!” He greeted. He was about to say something when he saw your appearance. His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he felt his mouth go dry. There was something so intoxicating about your dishevelled appearance and sleepy, work-tired eyes, he found it difficult to string even the simplest of sentences together. “Y-you had disappeared for a few hours, I assumed you had begun working on the text, sì?”

“Oh, yes, Your Dark Eminence. Sorry, I lost track of time.”

The Cardinal smiled. “I thought you might. And, call me Copia, please. Only if you want to, of course. The last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable. But I would prefer you to call me Copia.”

“Copia.” You said softly, feeling the name on the tip of your tongue and getting used to it. You opened the door. “Please, come in.”

“Ah, sì, grazie. I have brought, uh, Chinese food. I thought you might be hungry. I brought some for myself, too. I was, uh - I was hoping to join you. But, i-if you don’t want me to then I’ll get my stuff and go - nessun problema.”

“No, I’d like that… you to join me, I mean.”

Copia smiled and let out a soft and breathy laugh. “Okay.”

“Okay.” You said, copying everything he just did without realising. For some reason, you felt nervous at this exchange. Your heart was light yet pulsating quickly in your chest as you set up the coffee table with the food.

“After dinner,” Copia began, “I was hoping to see what you’d completed so far. Is that okay?”

“Of course, Your Dark… Copia.”

Copia laughed at the way you corrected yourself.

Once the table was set up for dinner, the two of you began to tuck in on the feast. You didn’t realise until the first bite just how hungry you actually were.

The warmth of the Chinese food filled the room, accompanied by the quiet clinking of cutlery against porcelain. The atmosphere shifted from scholarly concentration to a more casual friendly conversation as you and Copia shared the simple pleasure of a shared meal. The fragrant aroma of the dishes mingled with the heady scent of ancient texts, creating an eclectic symphony that defined this unique moment in time.

Copia, despite his position as a Cardinal and leader of the dark congregation, displayed an endearing awkwardness. His genuine attempts at conversation and the occasional nervous laughter drew a smile from you, making the evening feel remarkably relaxed. It was a side of him that few were privileged to witness, and you found yourself appreciating the authenticity beneath the ceremonial robes.

As you both enjoyed the meal, conversation flowed effortlessly between bites of food and sips of tea. Copia’s inquiries about your progress with the translation prompted you to share the revelations from the Chronicles. The text, a silent witness to millennia, now whispered its secrets to those willing to listen.

After dinner, you guided Copia to the desk where your translation work awaited. The dim light cast a gentle glow on the pages, and as you began to explain the nuances of the ancient script, Copia listened with an attentiveness that transcended his usual awkwardness. His eyes, normally obscured by the dark recesses of Cardinal makeup, displayed a genuine curiosity that mirrored your own.

The Cardinal’s presence brought a new dimension to the room, and the collaborative effort to uncover the mysteries of the Chronicles continued. Together, you and Copia navigated the labyrinthine passages of ancient knowledge, forging a connection that transcended the formalities of your respective roles within the Ministry.

Copia leaned over the desk, his eyes scanning the carefully translated pages of Eden’s Veiled Chronicles. His expression shifted from curiosity to genuine admiration as he perused your meticulous work. The dim light accentuated the lines on his face, adding a touch of vulnerability to the Cardinal’s usual composed demeanour.

“Sorella, this is exceptional,” he exclaimed, his voice a blend of surprise and appreciation. “Your dedication to this translation is truly commendable. It’s not an easy task, and yet you’ve navigated the intricacies of the text with such finesse.”

A warmth spread through you, a mix of pride and the satisfaction of receiving acknowledgment from someone whose opinion carried weight within the Ministry. Copia’s genuine compliments were like rays of light breaking through the shadows of the ancient library.

“I… thank you, Copia,” you replied, a hint of bashfulness in your voice. “I’m just doing my part.”

He nodded, a genuine smile playing on his lips. “You’re more than just ‘doing your part.’ You’re preserving knowledge, bringing to light the hidden narratives of our beliefs. This text could hold secrets that reshape our understanding of our faith.”

The compliment, spoken with such earnestness, made you appreciate the significance of your work even more. The connection between you and Copia deepened, forged by a shared reverence for the knowledge contained within the Chronicles.

The air in the room seemed to thicken, a charged atmosphere swirling around you and Copia. His eyes, a captivating blend of intensity and vulnerability, met yours with an unspoken question. The uncharted territory of desire loomed between you, and the words hung in the air like a forbidden incantation.

“Sorella,” Copia began, his voice a soft murmur, “I want to kiss you. May I kiss you? If not, that’s okay, I’ll understand.”

Your heart fluttered, caught between the pulse of curiosity and the gravity of the moment. A gentle nod from you granted permission for a connection that transcended the scholarly pursuit of knowledge. Copia approached slowly, bridging the gap with a careful reverence.

His gloved hand brushed against your cheek, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. He leaned forward, and the warmth of his presence surrounded you, capturing the silent anticipation of the room. The kiss, tender yet laden with unspoken emotions, sealed a connection that reached beyond the confines of the Crimson Archives.

Time seemed to stand still as you shared that stolen moment, the world outside the hotel room fading away. Copia’s kiss held a delicate balance of longing and restraint, a testament to the complexity of emotions that bound you together. The quiet intimacy unfolded, painting a tapestry of shared desire and the unspoken connection that had blossomed amidst the ancient texts.

As the kiss lingered, a myriad of emotions played out in the silent spaces between breaths. It was a dance of vulnerability and acceptance, the uncharted territory explored with a shared understanding. When the moment finally released its hold, a soft whimper escaped Copia’s lips.

He tried to pull away for a moment, but you didn’t want to. Your hands pulled at his cassock pulling him impossibly closer, refusing to let him disappear too soon. A desperation filled you, a need that had been bubbling under the surface for years and years until it had spilled over between the walls of a beautiful, London hotel room. Copia’s whimper elicited your own, which in turn, did something to him that he hadn’t felt in years, something he thought he’d never feel again.

His own gloved hands tugged at your waist as his tongue slid into your mouth, welcoming him willingly. Warmth pooled in between your legs when he pushed you against the edge of the desk and trapped you between his plush body and the wood. You could feel him growing hard beneath his robes, his centre now flush with yours and rocking against you slightly. He didn’t realise what he was doing until he was mid thrust, and he pulled back from you as though you’d electrocuted him. “Sorella,” his voice was breathless and low, almost growly, “you have to tell me you don’t want this now. Otherwise I won’t stop until I’ve had you.”

The black of his top lips had been completely smudged off, originally from the grease of the Chinese food, but finished by the friction against your lips. His cheeks were flushed purely pink from the embarrassment of his desperation for you, but also from sheer want of your body against his.

“Please don’t stop.” Your voice matched his, except for the little whimper that punctuated the end of the sentence.

Immediately, he attached his lips to yours, a little rougher than before but no less enjoyable. You wrapped your arms around him like a koala clinging to a tree, eyes closing and whimpering at the feeling of Copia’s clothed cock grinding against your sensitive clit. You gripped onto him stiffly, hair standing on end as you felt his lips travel down to the corner of your mouth, then land on your neck and began to lick and kiss at the sensitive spot there.

Copia’s mind forced him to move, despite all the blood being rushed down south and making it difficult to think. He removed his right glove, and dipped his now bare hand under the skirt of your habit. Naked fingertips stroked against a naked thigh, and travelled all the way up to your panties, now soaked with your need for Copia. Those fingers hooked around the gusset of your panties and pulled them to the side, before running along your folds and gathering up your slick. You were dripping for him. So wet you coated his fingers as if he’d just put his fingers into a lake. He’d pulled his cock away from you momentarily so that he could check to see how ready you were for him, but found himself humping against your thigh in his need for pleasure.

“Mi dispiace, amore. I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

You reached for his cassock and began undoing as many buttons necessary in order to free him. “Please,” you begged, your voice muffled by the kisses you were giving him, “give it to me. I need to feel you, Copia.”

As soon as he was free, he lined himself up and pushed inside. As soon as he entered you, you watched as his eyes rolled back and his mouth hung open. He was slow at first, aware of the fact that he hadn’t stretched you out before hand and curbing his need for you long enough to not hurt you. But even so, it was a battle against his body. Your nails dug into his clothed shoulders, gripping firmly at the pressure in your cunt, and relaxing around the intrusion. He felt divine, as though he were a puzzle piece slotting into the right place on the board. As though he were made specifically for you. He was long enough to hit your cervix when he’d bottomed out, and thick enough to stretch you, but none of it hurt.

As soon as he’d halfway, he stayed still, capturing your lips in another kiss and licking into your mouth like a starved man; borderline crazy and frantic with his actions. It took him a little while to get the wherewithal to speak, and once he did it was through a breathless and strained voice where he was clearly trying to not cum too soon. “Merda!” He hissed, feeling your tight, wet heat comfortably wrap him. “You are the reason men sin.”

The gravity of his words had you clenching around him, earning a delicious whimper to fall from his lips.

“Non fare così!” He exclaimed through pained laughter., dropping his head back to the crook of your neck. “I don’t want to cum too soon.”

“Copia, please.”

Copia pushed the remainder of his cock inside you, slamming home involuntarily and making both of you moan out in surprised pleasure. Your toes curled at the feeling of the tip of his cock kissing your cervix, and you teethed at his jaw.

His hips began pistoning in and out of you, each thrust slow and hard, driving into you with precision and force. His hands moved to your hips for leverage, creating just a little space between your bodies allowing him to fuck into you like you both needed. His cock filled you so nicely, your back arched and your shoulders rested against the cold wall, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you clutched onto his shoulders as though your life depended on it.

The noises Copia was making as he pumped into you were things you’d only heard in your fantasies under the cover of night when you were touching yourself, dreaming of this exact moment. His whimpers; the grunts and groans that escaped him along with the breathy moans and the strings of Italian expletives that made your cunt squeeze around him so impossibly good, dribbles of drool were beginning to spill from the corners of his mouth.

“That’s it, amore.” Copia said breathlessly as he continued to rail you. “St-stretching around my cock. You’re doing so well for me.”

The desk groaned beneath you from the force of Copia’s thrusts and the weight of you and all the desires the two of you harboured for one another. It smacked against the wall repetitively as Copia released all those pent-up feelings and poured them into your soul. His eyes travelled up and down your body, taking in the sinful sight of your clothed breasts bouncing beneath your habit. Your dishevelled appearance that had him blush when he first saw you now had him feral and dying for you with each thrust into the utopia that was your cunt. He could feel himself get more and more addicted to the feel of you. As long as you allowed him, he’d have you every single day.

“Wanted you for so long!” You hurried out, confessing your sins like you were in the booth in the Basilica di Lilith.

“Yeah?” Copia reached down and began playing with your clit. “Is this everything you wished for, amore?”

“Feels so good! Fuck!”

“Pretty little thing, taking my cock so well.” He leaned forward and began kissing and licking at your neck again, pressing himself as close to you as he could without hindering the movements of his fingers against your clit. His bare fingers stroking over your folds sent shivers down your spine. That coupled with the pounding he was giving you and you didn’t stand a chance. It was a matter of minutes before you came all over his cock, seconds if he moved just a little bit faster.

You suddenly became hyper aware of the papers below you, strewn about across the desk messily. Thankfully the Chronicles were safe on the other side of the desk, but your translations were at risk of flooding if you didn’t say something. But the words died in your throat when you tried to ask Copia to move. They couldn’t leave your mouth because the angle he was hitting you at was just so good, it left you gasping for air and loudly moaning into his ear.

“So beautiful.” Copia said, muffled by your skin. By now his words were slurred and his thrusts were erratic, his fingers the only appendage responding to their fullest capacity because your orgasm was on the line. “I want you to cum, amore. Cum on my cock. All over my fingers. You’re already so nice and wet for me. Let’s see if you can get wetter.”

“Fuck, Copia!”

“That’s it - say my name.”

“Copia!”

“Again, amore!”

“Fuck! Copia! I’m gonna cum!”

“That’s it. Such a good girl. Cum for me.”

The knot in your stomach finally snapped and you came harder than you had in Lucifer knew how long. Touching yourself to the thought of Copia turned out to be nothing like the real thing - the way his body slotted so perfectly between your legs was nothing short of a curse, because you knew now that nothing else would ever be the same. Nothing else would make you feel as good. No one else could ever take care of you the way he could. As you came around his cock, he talked you through it, planting kisses on your exposed skin and holding you close to him, all the while not letting his fingers rest until you pushed him away from you.

Then, it was his turn. With a strangled groan that poured into your mouth like the sweetest nectar, he emptied himself inside of you. He whimpered pathetically with each thrust, almost silenced by your tongue in his mouth. The hand that remained on your hip sturdy with its grip and clasped onto you to stop himself from tumbling over with the sheer force of his orgasm. Yeah, he could quickly get used to this.

After a few moments of staying where he was, kissing you just as passionately as he had moments before, he finally pulled away and rested his forehead onto yours.

“Ciao.” He said softly.

You rolled your eyes at the reference to the Black Mass so long ago, but your mouth shaped into a brilliant smile, with eyes that beamed to happily, Copia was almost blinded by them. “Ciao.” You responded, a giggle catching in your throat and distorting the word ever so softly.

“Ah, amore, we have a problem.”

Your stomach sank. “What?” You asked, preparing yourself for the worst.

“I came inside you.”

You sighed in relief. “Oh, it’s okay. The Ministry provides birth control for all those who want it - I wanted it.”

“Ah, sì. That I know. But… my cock is the only thing stopping my cum from escaping. And you’re sat on some papers.”

Your eyes widened, remembering your want to move locations just moments ago. Your mind went blank. “Shit! Oh, no, no, no!”

“It’s okay! There are tissues-”

“On the other side of the room!”

“Okay, I could pull out and-”

“Then your cum would get all over my translations!”

After some back and forth, it was decided that you would awkwardly lift and wiggle your hips so Copia could reach underneath you and pull the flimsy paper out from beneath you. Every time you did, you would accidentally clench down on his softening cock, and he would hiss or scream out in, what sounded like pain, but it was mostly just sensitivity. That, and he knew that one more clench from you would have him chubbing up inside you again, and he was too tired for round two. At least immediately, anyway.

Once you were both certain your hard work had been saved, Copia placed two gentle taps on your thigh. “See? No harm done. All is well.”

“I may have cried if my work was destroyed.”

Copia pulled out of you, causing both of you to whimper at the sensation. But, Copia placed a kiss on your forehead and stroked your cheek with his gloved hand. “I would never be the reason for your tears, amore.”

You leaned into his touch, but removed the glove before you did allowing you to feel his bare skin on yours. You placed a soft kiss to his hand, finding comfort and solace in his touch. You believed him. You knew he would never do anything to hurt you. “Grazie.”

Copia smiled, looking at you with pure adoration in his eyes. “Prego! Now, I think we should clean up, don’t you?”

You nodded and allowed Copia to help you off the desk and lead you into the bathroom.

You had never showered or cleaned up with another person after sex. Your conquests at the Ministry had usually been either ritual-based or so casual, your partner barely stayed after the fact. But Copia was leading you to the bathroom with his own hands, and turning on the water as hot as possible to get it nice and warm for you when you both were ready - and by Lucifer, did that man take care of you.

He started by brushing your hair, picking up each section gently and working out any knots in it until it was silky smooth and primed and ready for washing, all the while making low conversation with you, his tenor, nasally voice reverberating around the bathroom and bringing comfort to your ears as he worked away at your hair.

He then unzipped your habit, and helped you out of it, folding it neatly to place on the counter so that it would be ready for the next time you wanted to wear it - or pack it, he wasn’t sure.

Bras were tricky garments for Copia, usually when he was too horny to function and wanted access to his partner’s chest. But right now, he was able to take his time with the evil thing, and place soft kisses on your exposed skin to distract you from how long it was actually taking. But, once your breasts were freed, your bra joined your habit on the bathroom counter. He took a moment to appreciate your naked form, drinking in the way you looked completely bare to him. He tried not to stare too long, lest you become uncomfortable and ask that he left - which he would, but he didn’t want to.

You were stunning. So beautiful he almost wanted to put you in a museum and marvel at your work. You’d put Michelangelo’s work to shame if you were placed next to it. You would embarrass the classic artists of old with your beauty. He picked up your hand, “One day, amore, I will worship you so well it will make the gods jealous,” and placed a gentle kiss to the back of it.

He couldn’t be real - there was no way that a line like that came out of a man like him in your overpriced hotel bathroom filled with steam, so quickly after getting to know you. It was like he had come straight from the pages of a book, complete with all the right lines and gestures to make you fall in love with him.

The Cardinal’s words, a blend of poetic elegance and genuine emotion, painted a canvas of longing and passion spoken in one of the least romantic spots on Earth yet it had your heart racing violently in your chest. The weight of his gaze and the timbre of his voice wove a spell, binding you in a moment suspended in the tapestry of time.

His own clothes took less time to remove, as though he were that one particular scene of the movie Bruce Almighty, where his clothes are just ripped from him and he’s ready to do… well, whatever task one might need to do when naked. The sheer speed of the man, launching his cassock and robes all around the room and making you laugh with the absurdity of it. His salt and pepper hair, a mess from his hat and his Cardinal’s paints a small mess from the exertion of before.

You both got in the shower and washed away the mess of the day from each other’s bodies, lathering soap and rubbing it all over each other, removing each other’s paints and make up and washing each other’s hair. Copia took extra care around your vulva, making sure to clean you thoroughly but as gently as he possibly could so as not to cause you any pain. A thorough lover in all aspects - you wanted to keep him forever.

You dried yourselves off, being silly with the hairdryer before he gave you a gentle kiss and the two of you headed into the bedroom. He picked up his robes and was about to dress himself until you stopped him and told him to join you in bed.

As you and Copia curled up in the softness of the comfortable cushions, the room’s soothing glow from the bedside lamp created a peaceful cocoon. The blankets, a sanctuary of warmth, held the heat that radiated from your joined bodies. He gestured for you to lie on his chest, where your fingers danced and stroked over his hairy torso, drawing the lines of his tattooed “666” over his heart, his chubbiness acting as the ideal pillow. You had only ever seen it in the Ministry’s stained glass windows and, later, in stage replicas of the same stained glass during his performance in the Ghost Project. You didn’t think it was real, but there it was, faded from years of age and hidden partially beneath brown chest hair. The abs in his stained glass replica certainly weren’t real, but there was something about his jiggly tummy that made you happy.

In your hotel room, a soft calmness consumed the two of you, like your own private sanctuary. The authentic connection that formed between you and the Cardinal seemed to eclipse the problems of the day, the weight of your responsibilities, and the Ministry’s norms and regulations.

As you lay side by side, the vulnerability caused by the openness of the conversation and the tenderness of the dim light highlighting your faces. Copia’s comments resonated deeply with a man who had taken solace in the carefree moment’s simplicity, akin to the lines of a lovely song.

The Cardinal’s unbridled, sincere laughter permeated the room, a soft refrain that broke between the calm discussions and times of mutual delight. The walls that usually covered the complexity of your lives came down during this quiet talk, and you two were able to get to know each other on a level that would never have been possible. He was Copia Emeritus, the youngest son of a man who had once performed the same role as him, and an innocent boy who had grown up in a difficult environment. He was more than just the Cardinal and the Head of the Satanic Church. And you were able to lay your soul bare to a man who could understand your troubles in a way not many people could. A rare connection, but a real one.

The soft rustle of the blankets and the soothing rhythm of breathing created a lullaby of comfort,wrapping both of you in a gentle touch of the night. His arm wrapped around your naked body in a hug of protection, drawing you as near to him as he could, as if you were his own.

A fresh day looming over London, sincere conversation, warmth between you and Copia, and a bedroom filled with the soft murmuring of dreams were the small things that brought you comfort in life. With its gentle wings, the night captivated you both, trapping you in a dreamlike world and a soundless melody of hearts interwoven in the unholy.

The throb of excitement and the rush of unexpected intimacy blended with the ashes of dreams that twirled on the brink of awareness, and you fell asleep hardly comprehending the position you were in, but committing it to memory, nonetheless. In order to get a good night’s rest, you made sure to quell the fear that he’d be gone in the morning, and you’d come to the horror that this was all a dream - a fantasy your brain concocted to cope with the idea that you were so close to him.

The soft glow of morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm embrace upon the room. As consciousness gently reclaimed its hold, you stirred, expecting to find Copia’s presence beside you. However, the realization that the bed was empty washed over you, accompanied by a subtle undercurrent of disappointment.

For a fleeting moment, doubt crept in—had the encounters with Copia been nothing more than the whimsical product of a dream? The vividness of the previous day’s events felt like a mirage, and a sense of yearning lingered in the room, echoing the emptiness left by his absence.

You sat up, the sheets cascading in gentle waves around you, and surveyed the room with a mix of hope and uncertainty. The memories of the shared Chinese dinner, the playful banter, and the intimacy of being cradled in Copia’s arms seemed almost too fantastical to be real.

As you rose from the bed, the lingering scent of Copia’s presence surrounded you, a subtle fragrance that whispered of the shared moments. A pang of longing accompanied the realization that, regardless of the dreamlike quality of the encounters, there was a void in the room that mirrored the absence of the Cardinal.

Attempting to dispel the lingering doubt, you moved through the room, still as naked as you were when you fell asleep the night before, half-expecting to find traces of him—the imprints of his presence, a forgotten belonging, anything that would validate the reality of the connection. The room, however, revealed no such evidence, leaving you in a state of quiet contemplation.

In the silence of the morning, you grappled with the uncertainty, a delicate dance between the threads of reality and the ephemeral nature of dreams. The longing for Copia’s company lingered, an echo of the intimate moments shared, and the room retained a faint resonance of the enchantment that had unfolded.

“Ciao, Sorella,” Copia greeted, his eyes brightening as he entered, the subtle rustling of the bakery bag in his hands adding a touch of mystery to the moment. The relief that washed over you was palpable, dispelling any lingering doubts about the reality of the connection forged the day before.

“Good morning, Copia,” you responded, a genuine smile gracing your lips as he approached. The aroma of freshly baked goods wafted through the air, a delightful accompaniment to the morning sunlight that bathed the room. He hung the bag from his wrist and used his free hands to cup your cheeks, pulling you in for a passionate kiss before you had the chance to protest at your morning breath.

“I thought breakfast from a local bakery might make for a pleasant start to the day,” Copia explained, presenting the bag as if it held a treasure trove of delights. His demeanour, a blend of awkward charm and genuine warmth, echoed the sincerity of his actions. “I wanted to surprise you, but you’re out of bed.”

“I’m sorry… would you like me to get back in it?”

He nodded. “Sì. This isn’t my bed or yours, and we’re leaving in a few hours. Let’s be heathens and eat pastries under the duvet!”

As he began to unveil the contents of the bag, an array of pastries and bread emerged, each one tempting and inviting. The simple act of sharing breakfast became a moment of connection, a continuation of the unspoken understanding that had woven its way through the shared experiences of the previous day.

You climbed back into bed, watching your fully clothed Cardinal do the same - paints and all adorned on his face as though you hadn’t already seen his bareness the night before. He was chipper - even more so than before. It was nice to see him so relaxed.

The room filled with the comforting scent of fresh bakery delights, you and Copia began to enjoy the morning repast. The ambiance shifted, the initial uncertainty dissipating in the face of this shared moment of simplicity and warmth.

The conversation flowed effortlessly, a mixture of lighthearted banter and genuine interest in each other’s thoughts. As you nibbled on pastries and sipped coffee, the room seemed to come alive with the easy friendship that had developed between you and the Cardinal.

Breakfast finished slowly, lazily. Your time distracted with continuing your conversation from last night before you both fell asleep. The conversation only stilled when Copia returned to the bed, sitting atop the sheets and stroking the hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. Then, his lips were on yours.

He didn’t intend for the kiss to be anything but sweet and chaste, but soon enough, his body was positioning himself over yours and forcing you to lie back against the pillows, one hand propping him up over you, the other roaming over the sheets that covered your body. It was deep and delicious, and made your body tingle with want and your legs spread in anticipation, a silent plea for him to touch you again just as he had the night before.

When he’d removed the duvet from your body, a struggle considering he was on top of them, and had situated himself between your legs, he allowed his hands to wander all over your body as though they were trying to find a destination but kept getting lost. As more and more of your body became exposed to him, he allowed his lips to voyage across your curves, open mouthed kisses leaving trails of saliva in their wake as proof that they’d been there. Your breaths were heavy, allowing your breasts to rise and fall with the exertion. Your lips, kiss-swollen and tantalising, he just wanted to run his tongue over them and taste you in your entirety.

His lips fell upon your chest and worked their way down to your nipples. He tongued the left one, first - fingers pinching the right while he licked and sucked at the bud, groaning as if the taste of you was the most delectable dish he’d ever had the honour of eating.

“I wonder,” he began, lying on his stomach, his hands moving to your thighs and spreading your legs wide enough to slot himself between your thighs, “why Lord Lucifer kept you from me all this time?” He kissed your thigh. “Why he wasted my time on other conquests when the sweetest prize was right under my nose the whole time.”

He groaned at the sight of you; your glistening, taut heat spread and open for his personal viewing, ready and waiting for his tongue to ravish you as you deserved. He kissed up your thighs, and as he did so, you took the opportunity to pick up his hat and toss it across the room. This earned you a chuckle.

One of his fingers ran up and down your folds, catching on your clit once or twice and making you shiver and jolt with anticipation. Then, those fingers that had gathered your slick slipped into his mouth, and his eyes fluttered shut in delight. “Time to make good on my promise and make the gods jealous of you.” He told you, before diving into his newfound faith enthusiastically.

Your hands immediately flew to his hair, digits locking around his mouse-brown strands as your back arched against the wall and completely off the desk. Copia immediately went in, tongue swirling roughly around your sensitive clit and intermittently sucking at it to get those divine noises to spill from your lips. You had no thoughts of quietening yourself, not when his tongue felt like your whole world could collapse at any minute.

It didn’t take long for your hips to start bucking into his face, chasing the pleasure that he was generously giving you. His moustache scratched against your labia as his lips moved, occasionally hitting the right spots and having you clench around nothing. However his cock and his fingers felt last night, was nothing compared to the way he sucked your clit into his mouth, causing loud, uncontrollable moans to spill from your mouth into the cold morning air.

“Copia - fuck!” Your toes curled beneath you as you let out a scream, Copia still flicking his tongue quickly over your folds.

The heat inside the room rose rapidly, making it almost unbearable and causing a sheen of sweat to form on both of you. Copia trapped you in the position he so desperately wanted by firmly pressing your body down and wrapping your legs around his head. He used one arm to keep your hips pressed down while his fingers on the other were sucked into his mouth to wet them with his saliva before they were mercilessly pumped into you.

He adored the sounds you made the night before, but these sounds were entirely different. Brand new. They were boosting his ego and his confidence so much more, allowing him to get a little rougher with his ministrations, stretching you out to fit him beautifully, just as you had before.

Copia moaned as your fingers tugged at his hair, sending vibrations through your heat and throughout your cunt. The sounds that flooded the room were overshadowed by the sinful squelch your wetness made as his fingers worked up and down against that spot. Those fingers reached the parts of you that his tongue was unable to penetrate as he continued to lap at your folds. His fingers felt even better than his tongue, and that fucking moustache was going to send you to an early grave.

As he moved his face, all you could feel was the tickle of prickly hair brushing against your incredibly sensitive spot. You could feel his moustache every time he moved due to his erratic and fast his movements that had your back arching off the matress and your eyes tightly squeezing shut. You were a loud, sweaty mess completely at the mercy of Copia’s actions, and he was fully aware of his actions.

His tongue moved more quickly as you started hitting your high, and his fingers pumped harder, curling to find your favourite and most responsive spots. With his moustache, it didn’t take him long to bring you to your release. Before long, your back arched and you let out a scream as he continued to pump his fingers through your release. You clung to the bedding, needing something to vent your annoyance on. You felt filthy and unholy, Lucifer. It felt so damn good. Copia took his time caressing your folds and surrounding your cunt, savouring every last drop of your exhaled breath as you laboured to breathe. He was enamoured with you. He could never get enough of you.

“Così delizioso,” he told you, pulling back from your core, “could do this forever, amore.”

He crawled up the bed and locked his lips to yours in another desperate kiss, and you groaned at the taste of you on them. As he was on top of you, your hands began working at his robes to get him just as naked as you still were. You needed to feel his skin, needed him against your body otherwise something bad might happen. His robes were a fight and more frustrating than anything else, causing him to stand on the floor and remove everything as quickly as he could on his own, but the whole endeavour ended in a fit of giggles from the both of you as he dived back on top of you, fervently kissing you.

His cock dragged through your folds as he rubbed against you, giving himself just a little respite from the intense feeling and making you shiver with sensitivity below him. “So wet, amore. All for me, sì?”

“Yes, Copia.” You whispered, your breaths ragged and strained. “Only you.”

His cock jumped at the thought. Were you really considering giving yourself to him forever after only one night together? Were you so willing to belong to him so soon? He loved the thought - the idea that you were so enamoured by him that you just couldn’t refuse; that you didn’t want to refuse him.

“Amore, I could tell you all the things I love and adore about you and stuff your pretty cunt with my cock all day and night. You want that?”

“Yes!” Your fingers dug into his shoulders as his cock kept rubbing against your clit, now sopping wet with your juices.

He moved his hips back and, without moving his hands, lined up with your entrance. “Do you want it, amore? Do you want my cock?”

“Yes!”

“Tell me how much.”

“So much, Copia, please. I want your cock to fill me up so fucking good. Please give it to m- oh, fuck!”

He pushed inside of you before you could even finish the sentence, apparently more needy for your cunt than he thought. There was a brief ache from his pounding last night, a twinge that had your eyebrows furrowing, but your mouth hanging open at the pleasure of the stretch.

His kisses traced the same areas they did the night before, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he tried to not cum too soon, especially with the way your cunt was fluttering against him. You were twitching, as if you were begging him to move or do something. But the way he was riled up combined with the way you felt was a terrible combination that would only end in him spoiling the fun before it had even got started. You were truly delectable in every sense of the word - an addiction forming with no hope of relief. Not that he would ever be willing to quit.

“Sathanas,” he whispered into your skin, “this cunt!”

He tested the waters, thrusting once, twice, then three times before deeming his body recovered enough from the initial invasion to pick up the pace and start taking what he needed from you.

“Ah!” Each time those noises fell from your lips was when he thrusted particularly deep inside you, the head of his cock kissing your cervix beautifully and forcing the involuntary sounds to escape.

Copia was draped over you, covering you entirely; pinning you against the mattress with his full weight. There was no way you could move, no way you could think independently of the pleasure that he was putting your body through. You just had to lie there and take it with your legs wrapped around his hips trying to keep him as deep as possible so he’d keep giving you the pleasure you were desperately craving.

“Amore, you’re doing so well,” he panted, “you’re so gorgeous all wet and screaming for me. Merda! Giving yourself to me like this. An honour.”

The position he was in on top of you, and the way he pinned you down with the whole weight of his body, meant that his pubic mound was grinding against your clit, stimulating you with each grind of his hips. Your nails dug into his back and ran down it, creating red welts that Copia knew he’d wear proudly for weeks until they disappeared entirely. The feeling of your nails digging into him did something that drove him to the brink of insanity, and he found himself moving much faster than before.

You were close to cumming, but so was he. A mere few thrusts away before he was cumming deep inside your tight, wet heat, losing himself in your body as he had the night before. You felt divine - like sin itself had come alive just to torment him. He couldn’t believe you’d been there all that time and he’d not noticed you until that Black Mass a mere month ago. Yet here he was, balls deep inside you a second time, fucking you within an inch of both of your lives and needing to just… bite.

“Cumming!” You yelled, your voice high-pitched and straight out of a porno.

“That’s it, amore. Just like that. Cum all over this cock.”

Your second orgasm, just as powerful as your first, had your legs locking around Copia’s hips and forcing him deeper, restricting his wriggle room and making him take the full attack of your fluttering cunt as you spasmed beneath him. Your toes curled, your body arched as much as Copia would allow it to, and your eyes screwed tightly shut from the force of it all.

This triggered his own orgasm, cumming deep inside you and gripping onto your body so firmly, he’d leave a bruise. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, mouth attached to the skin and muffled groans emanating from the area as his hips shook with his own force. His body responded similarly to yours - as in, it was completely out of control. It wasn’t until your legs unlocked him and you allowed him some freedom to pull away, he’d noticed the hickey he’d left on your neck.

“Amore,” he said breathlessly, “I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?”

“Not at all,” you replied, brushing his sweaty hair out of his face.

He poked the hickey - it only hurt a little, as a fresh bruise usually would.

Despite being free, he fell back on top of you, using your entire body as a pillow. He was too tired to move now - too comfortable, too happy. He couldn’t possibly think about the horror that was coming… having to leave this cozy room and soft bed, the warmth of your arms, to get on a cold plane where he’d have to pretend he wasn’t utterly enamoured (and horny) by your presence alone.

But reality called, and work awaited.

This time, however, he’d have you by his side, or even underneath him, whenever he wanted.

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lets-try-some-writing · 4 months

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Cybertronian Civil Warfare

One wrong move. That was all it took to make Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, mad. Now Strongarm and Sideswipe have to deal with the unfortunate consequences of their actions by participating in Optimus's game.

(First chapter of a fic I am writing that will showcase some of the stuff being at war did to Bee and co :3)

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

No one was entirely sure what thought process led to the current situation, but Strongarm could remember when it started.

The team had gathered to celebrate what was quickly being dubbed the third liberation of Cybertron when it all began. Strongarm and her team, the Bee Team as they were called, were invited to celebrate with Team Prime in the newly constructed crystal gardens attached to the restored Hall of Records. Optimus Prime himself had been the one to give out the invitations, and not a spark had refused. Sideswipe had of course made a fuss about having to go to what he assumed was a formal event, but Strongarm had shut him up well enough beforehand.

Meeting Team Prime in a more civil setting was exciting and she had no intention of missing it for the world. But of course, someone had to screw up. And that screw up in turn led to a series of unfortunate and poorly thought out words.

Primus, did they frag up.

“Look, all I am saying is that I don’t get why you all are so high strung all the time.” Sideswipe remarked as he sipped from his cup of high grade. His optics flared a pale blue, a sign of overcharge from too much to drink. A scowl marred his features and Strongarm suppressed the urge to march over and swat him.

“Why is that Sideswipe?” Optimus questioned patiently from where he sat at the head of the table. The others present had largely continued on with their activities, uncaring of the conversation, but Sideswipe could sense the way the others threw their fields wider, subconsciously keeping an optic on the situation.

“It's pretty bad with Bee. He’s always whining about us using too much energon and he gets angry about us not being up all night long for our patrol despite the fact that we have cameras.” Sideswipe glared at their leader and Strongarm almost burst from the rage pooling in her spark. Did the little glitch have no respect? These were war veterans for Primus’s sake.

“Sideswipe, keep your grievances back at base. We are in a public area-” Bumblebee chimed in, chastation heavy in his tone. The former scout’s optics cycled in on Sideswipe, a sign of agitation that Strongarm had long learned to notice serving under him. Only Windblade’s firm grasp on her arm kept her from getting up to teach the mech across from her a lesson.

“Bumblebee, let him speak. It is at times like these that such issues should be aired.” Optimus sat perfectly composed in his chair, his attention on the red speedster as Sideswipe grumbled and continued, his words somewhat slurred as he continued.

“You all constantly act like you are better than us. You treat us like newsparks. I’ve been functional for long enough! By old Cybertronian standards I am fully framed!” Sideswipe slammed his cup onto the table as if he were a sparkling and glared at the elder mecha present. Smokescreen stood up abruptly from where he was seated, anger etched onto his features.

“You are a newspark Sideswipe. I am still considered young even though I was forged during the height of the war.” Smokescreen’s servos were planted firmly on the table, his doorwings twitching as he glared. The Wreckers at the table paused in their activities, their words quieting as they stopped to pay attention. Their stillness swiftly led to the remainder of the table falling silent to observe.

Strongarm couldn’t help the way her plating clamped down around her as the war veterans present seemed to make a shield around themselves with their fields. It was suffocating to endure.

“That’s exactly my problem! You get treated so much better than us and you don’t act much different!” Sideswipe wasn’t making any sense. His logic wasn’t adding up, and yet his field screamed of outrage. Evidently he had a lot more going on than he could voice. But Strongarm didn’t care to hear it.

“Sideswipe! Don’t be so rude! We are among war veterans and heroes!” Strongarm stood up as well. Her field flared in anger and Smokescreen looked over at her so sharply that she almost felt the urge to sit down. Ratchet slowly began to rise, his servos up in a placating manner as he attempted to speak before being cut off.

“You all fought in a war. So what? I’ve fought Cons and they weren’t even all that bad!” Sideswipe stood proudly despite the fact that he obviously wasn’t thinking straight. Strongarm wished she could sink into the ground as the gazes of the elder mecha present all zoned in on Sideswipe as if he were fresh energon ready for the harvest. She couldn’t tell whose field was whose, but she didn’t need to. All of them were running with an undercurrent of rage, at least those amongst team Prime. Windblade, Drift and his minicons, and Grimlock quickly began to gather beside Strongarm, stepping back from the table as things became more heated.

“Sideswipe, I believe you are not thinking clearly. What you are saying is insinuating a great deal more than I think you intend to convey.” Optimus was still composed ever as the rest of Team Prime slowly began to get up and move. Sideswipe didn’t seem to notice as Bulkhead carefully, and with surprising stealth, pulled the table out of the way in time for the Prime to stand.

This felt practiced, rehearsed almost in a sick way. Strongarm wasn’t sure what to do, what to say even. But she wasn’t given the chance as Bumblebee stepped in front of her and the rest of their team, his gaze surprisingly steely as the situation continued to unfold.

“Bee, what’s going on?” Grimlock asked hesitantly. The dinobot was not usually one to look so… concerned. It startled Strongarm in a way. He was usually always ready for a fight, even against one like Optimus. Here though? It looked like everyone, including the battle hardened Drift, wanted nothing to do with the situation.

“Quiet. Optimus will handle this.” There was no room for disagreement in Bumblebee’s voice. He was surprisingly stern. Usually he was loose in his methods of leadership. However as Smokescreen came over and stood at attention right next to Strongarm’s leader, she felt fear begin to gather in her spark.

This was serious, and everyone seemed to know it.

“I mean it all! I don’t get why you all do all this stupid paranoid slag all the time! Always on our afts about our energon usage and lack of combat training or all that other scrap!” Sideswipe’s field was vicious and sharp, but untrained. His didn’t hurt. But those around them? By the Allspark, Strongarm could feel pinpricks running all along her plating from where Bumblebee and Smokescreen practically emanated outrage.

“Sideswipe.” The Prime’s tone had shifted. It was subtle, almost too soft for Strongarm to notice. But her training under Bumblebee had done her good. She wasn’t a spy by any means, or even a special agent. However the few weeks of interrogation training she underwent were having their influence.

Optimus wasn’t happy.

“I don’t want to hear whatever fragging excuses you have, you old bag of bolts! You wouldn’t be held in such high esteem if you just ended the war when it began!” Everyone froze, even Grimlock. Windblade seemed too shaken to speak, her wings dipping so low they almost touched the ground as she stared on in horror. Strongarm was sure she was making a similar expression as Optimus’s expression changed.

He always wore gentle expressions, or at least a soft firmness or strictness. Now though? His optics were startlingly wide, almost as though he were looking at Sideswipe as some sort of prey animal. Optimus’s posture dipped, becoming tenser and his digits twitching ever so slightly. A true predator.

“Sideswipe, that is enough.” Arcee hissed through gritted denta. The elder femme seemed two kliks away from shredding Sideswipe and appeared to only be kept in place by Bulkhead who glanced down at her in warning. Grimlock was shaking like a leaf and Slipestream and Jetstorm weren’t much better off. They huddled around their carrier unit fearfully and Drift subtly drew his swords, the tension in the air setting him on edge.

Strongarm couldn’t blame him when she found herself palming her pistol on instinct.

“The Cons we’ve fought have been smallfry. Sure Megaton might have been a piece of work, but you could have ended this easily! But NO, you dragged it all out! Our planet DIED because you and the rest of these plasma helmed glitches didn’t want to put aside your egos and end things!” Strongarm didn’t think things could get worse. Evidently she was wrong. Team Prime were all angry. Even Ratchet seemed to be on the cusp of letting loose what Strongarm could only imagine was a legendary string of curses.

Despite that, Sideswipe must have been absolutely sloshed since he just. Kept. going.

“Great and mighty Optimus Prime my aft! All you did was make things worse! We wouldn’t have had to deal with all this Primus forsaken fallout if you had just done the right thing in the first place!” There it was. Strongarm could feel it. This was the pinnacle. One more word and things were going to explode.

“Sideswipe. This is the only warning I will give you. Be silent now, or I will need to take disciplinary action on account of you disturbing the peace.” It was a bit of a stretch legally. However it seemed Optimus, and the rest of team Prime for that matter, didn’t care all that much. The tension was heavy. It was too much.

“Sir, that would be an abuse of power. Sideswipe has the right to free speech. He can technically say what he wants regardless-” Over a dozen optics fell on Strongarm like lasers. She wished she hadn’t spoken, but she couldn’t back down now.

“What I mean to say is that, uh, Autobot law does not permit…” She trailed off, but the wrath of those present was already on her. Sideswipe didn’t even seem to be aware she was speaking on his behalf. A bitter part of her processors resented that. She was hurting her reputation with Optimus Prime and likely the rest of team Prime just to stick up for him.

“What are you insinuating Strongarm?” She didn’t need to look. Bumblebee’s optics were boring into her with such intensity that if he were to be granted the ability to kill on sight, Strongarm was sure she would be dead by now. Still, no one else spoke up. The team were silent save for their unspoken anger which hummed in the air like a dooming court sentence.

She floundered, stress prompting her to rehearse what Sideswipe had said. He was saying things that no one was able to, words which should never be spoken aloud. However as she fidgeted with Optimus’s far too wide optics glued to her, she sputtered out a response.

“He makes valid points!” Oh if looks could kill, Strongarm was sure that she and Sideswipe would be dead a thousand times over.

“How so?” The Prime questioned, his tone too smooth and practiced. It was akin to how cashiers and those who worked in customer service would smile and wave even as they internally cursed to the stars and beyond.

“It’s just… according to the records, the war started because you and Megatron had a disagreement and failed to work it out. Then as the war went on, neither of you were willing to compromise or kill the other…” Smokescreen stepped forward, she could feel his field pressing against her. He felt murderous, so much so she couldn’t bear to look as Optimus tilted his helm ever so slightly in what had to be faux curiosity.

“And it is also stated that the Decepticons weren’t really all that much of a threat beyond their numbers. The Autobots had superiority throughout a good portion of the war, but it was never used. The Decepticons could have been crushed easily if you look at the tactics and the resources available at the time.” Any other words died on her glossa as Smokescreen’s servo pressed heavily on her shoulder, his face so eerily composed that she genuinely feared for her life. Optimus didn’t so much as twitch as he hummed, his optics cycling ominously.

“So that is what you believe. Is that what the history books say?” Sideswipe had evidently finally begun to sober up a bit as he stepped back. Optimus’s field, which had up until that point been held totally at ease, finally spread out.

It was just a flare, but it dropped Strongarm to a knee as she looked up in horror. Optimus was mad. Her plating rattled and her hydraulics tensed as fear threatened to overwhelm her. Windblade, Drift, his minicons, and Sideswipe didn’t appear to be fending much better when she glanced over at them.

“You believe our sacrifices were for nothing? That the countless dead were lost in a meaningless conflict? How very amusing.” Strongarm didn’t know Optimus, she didn’t even try to claim she was acquainted with him to any serious degree. But his voice… it wasn’t him. He wasn’t talking like the Prime she knew and served alongside back on Earth.

However, just as quickly as it came, the tension dissipated like smoke as Optimus straightened his posture, composed himself and turned to exit the garden with only one final declaration.

“It seems you have much to learn. Return to your base of operations until you receive further orders. I do not wish to see you at this moment or for the foreseeable future.” Then, just like that, Optimus left. Strongarm promptly hunched over and purged whatever she had consumed during the gathering. Sideswipe for his part immediately found himself smacked so hard upside the helm by Bumblebee that she was sure he was seeing stars. Those of team Prime were cold as they quietly gathered their things and left, not another word uttered between them.

Ratchet lingered just long enough to throw a hangover cure at Sideswipe’s face, but beyond that, only Smokescreen stuck around until Bumblebee waved him off. They were fragged. Strongarm could sense it as she was pulled to her pedes and put in with the rest of the Bee team in silence. Bumblebee said nothing as he dragged Sideswipe behind him by his right pede, uncaring of the pained groans of the speedster.

Windblade and Drift offered their arms to keep Strongarm steady as her tanks churned in nausea and her vision swam. She accepted it without question, not even having the energy to yell at Grimlock as the dinobot all but threw himself through the space bridge back to Earth.

They had messed up royally.

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It was to be expected really. All sorts of double patrols, cleaning duty, and plenty of additional training sessions made perfect sense considering how badly both she and Sideswipe had messed up. However the predicted backlash from Optimus never arrived. Strongarm spent months dreading it, even waking up in terror a few times in fear of those far too wide optics zoning in on her.

Yet, as the months passed, nothing happened. Bumblebee was cold for the first little while, but he settled back into his usual behaviors within a month. Grimlock seemed to forget all about the incident, Drift and Windblade put it behind them, and Sideswipe spent quite a few weeks in a similar state of alertness to Strongarm before he too calmed. Everything went back to normal without any word from Optimus, not even a transmission or a single set of orders.

Everything… was normal. And somehow that scared Strongarm more than it comforted her. She had never seen Optimus so angry, and from the looks of it, neither had Team Prime, at least not in a very long time.

Her anxiety grew each passing month, until at last, after around a whole year on Earth, a transmission arrived from Cybertron along with its messenger.

“Hey kiddos! I’ve got a message from Prime for you all! It's addressed to Sideswipe and Strongarm specifically, but I am pretty sure it was intended for your group as a whole.” Jazz, the special operations agent who Strongarm hadn’t seen since they took down the Council, stood before them. He was as cheerful as ever as he handed over a singular holographic disc. Bumblebee took it from him before Strongarm or Sideswipe could do so.

“Did he give any instructions?” Bumblebee questioned simply, suspicion lacing his tone. Jazz shrugged and smiled, his visor glinting in the light as he put his servos on his hips casually.

“Turn it on. Whatever he has to say will probably be on there.” An obvious assumption, but one Strongarm found herself somewhat concerned with as Bumblebee nodded and plugged the disk into the terminal. There was a long harrowing silence in the space as the rest of team Bee gathered around, watching with rapt attention as the screen flickered on.

“Greetings. It has been some time since our last communication.” Optimus’s voice rang out clearly in the space as his face pixelated into being on the screen. He seemed completely at ease as he sat in a chair, a series of datapads at his side.

“In light of your previous statements, I have taken the time to prepare an activity for all of you to participate in. All save for Strongarm and Sideswipe will not be forced to participate if they choose to not engage.” She was already being singled out. Beside her, Strongarm sensed Sideswipe stiffening. This was the other pede finally dropping. Their punishment for speaking out of line.

“Before you bring forward any legal concerns, let it be said before I begin that everything I have prepared is well within my rights. The provisionary council has given me the authority to move your team as I see fit, and all supplies and resources used in the upcoming activity have been funded through my personal efforts and connections.” Optimus sat smugly, or at least that is how it looked to Strongarm as he leaned forward, a little closer to the camera. Fear rattled down her spinal struts as she came to the dark conclusion that the whole year of silence hadn’t been because Optimus forgot. No, she had not been so lucky.

He had been preparing for whatever this was.

“Your involvement is compulsory.” Again, a warning. In the video, Optimus smiled, but it was a sickening thing that left Strongarm’s tanks churning. She reached out to hold Sideswipe’s arm instinctually, seeking the comfort of another as Windblade and Drift came nearer, doing their best to offer silent comradery as the words continued to relay through the audio systems of the terminal.

“We will be engaging in a real time strategy game made as realistic as possible through my resources. This game will take place in the uninhabited city of Helex in exactly one Earth month. You will have the entirety of that time to prepare.” A grin grew on Optimus’s face, and Primus, Strongarm felt that same churning in her tanks all over again. She wanted to be sick as the Prime tilted his helm, an unnatural ease to his movements.

“You may recruit whoever you see fit. However you may have no more than a hundred units under your control.” Every word was punctuated, almost as if Optimus had long ago rehearsed the lines.

“Any Autobot you can convince to join you is within your rights to recruit. To make things fair, I will not call upon my team or any close allies amongst the Autobots to assist me.” Every movement was far too crisp, practiced even as Optimus held up a datapad showing a map of the city of Helex.

“Are you putting it together now?” There was a degree of amusement in the Prime’s voice, and looking around, not a spark seemed to like it. Not even Bumblebee.

“You will have three main objectives which will be given to you a day before the start of the game. I have not selected these objectives. All objectives have been chosen by Elita-One and other neutral parties.” This was real.

“Complete all three of these objectives, and you will have victory. However in the event that neither faction involved in this conflict completes all of them, the one with the most completed objectives will be victorious.” Strongarm’s hydraulics threatened to falter as Optimus kept talking. Bumblebee held her up by the arm and captured Sideswipe by his neck guard. Their leader was deadly serious as he listened and forced them to endure.

“Further details will be given to you upon your arrival at the site. In the meantime, prepare for any possibility. This is war, and I have no intention of going easy on you.” Why? Why did it have to be Optimus Prime who they angered?

“Designate a leader and begin recruiting. You will have no resources from the state, so all of your preparations must come from your own sources. My advice is simple. Recruit those with influence.” Optimus smiled again as he leaned forward in his chair, his optics too wide and too threatening.

“I do this not out of malice or bitterness, but instead to make a point.” Not out of malice her aft. There was no way there was not a personal grudge involved for Optimus to put so much effort into this.

“It is my hope that our game will give you a taste of what our war was like. May you find victory, or failing that, learn a lesson amidst this trial to come. Till all are one.” The video shut down with a dooming whirl and Strongarm struggled to not purge right then and there. What had they gotten into?

“So we are playing that game…” Bumblebee murmured, his optics distant.

“You kiddos made him really mad. Well it wasn’t just you, but you certainly played a part! This will be interesting to watch play out.” Jazz commented with far too much cheer in his tone. Was all of this just a game? Even Bumblebee didn’t seem phased.

“He can’t seriously be expecting us to do this- this bloodsport!” Sideswipe burst out, breaking the atmosphere.

“I agree. Isn’t this going too far?” Windblade commented carefully.

“Nope! This is a common game amongst troops, at least during the war. Rion just seems to be taking it to the next level.” Frag it all.

“Then I suppose there is nothing to be done. I shall join this game, if only to give my students additional training.” The minicons under Drift’s command look decidedly unhappy, but Strongarm could only feel a bitter sense of relief. This was really happening.

“We… better get to work.” Strongarm choked out, her vocalizer failing her as the image of Optimus’s grin burned itself into her mind.

What had she gotten herself into?

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #aligned continuity #transformers rid2015 #strongarm #sideswipe #bee team #team prime #optimus prime #jazz #bumblebee #post war cybertron #optimus is a little unhinged #but he has his reasons and his plans #it aint all for pretty reasons

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ooffmlsorry · 6 months

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The Monster Trio Driving (you around)

LUFFY

Getting this one right out the way, THIS MAN CANNOT DRIVE!!!! You are driving him around

Luffy theoretically knows how to drive because Ace and Sabo taught him but doesn't have a license and no one in their right mind would give him one

Always has his feet on the dashboard

Loves singing along to music with you even if he doesn't know the words

Knows it's probably a hassle to drive him around sometimes, so he'll get out and pump gas for you--especially when it's cold

Sticks his tongue out a people that cut you off

Always brings snacks that he'll (mostly) share with you

Points out everything cool, cool cars, cows, dogs, clouds, he just wants you to experience them too 🥰 (just don't crash)

DOGGIE!! Y/N there's a doggie in the car next to us!! Let's tell them to pull over so we can pet it!!

Leaves crumbs in your car if he notices them (BIG IF) he'll apologize and swipe them out, I swear!

SANJI

Between Zoro and Luffy, obviously he's the best driver and he definitely mocks Zoro about it

Drives so safe when you're in the car

You know that one Twenty One Pilots song "Tear in My Heart"? Yeah, Sanji is the guy avoiding potholes so you can keep sleeping and is cursing the government under his breath for not filling the potholes so his princess can sleep

Other than the fact that the car smells like smoke, he keeps it pretty clean

Of course he opens the door for you, who do you think he is???

He's great except...the road rage Oh. My. God. Nobody better drive like an idiot when he's go the most beautiful woman in the world in his car

HEY JACKASS CAN'T YOU SEE I'VE GOT AN ANGEL IN MY CAR!!!?? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!

I mean he's not gonna cause a problem once the idiots done being an idiot but I hope you like flipping people off and the liberal use of the car horn

Let's you pick the music, obviously, but gets really melty and fuzzy-hearted when you let him pick

Gets distracted at stop lights because he's always touching you or staring

Car sex obviously

ZORO

No one knows how he got a license...you're not even sure he has one because if anyone asks he just smirks like the gif above

Always has Google maps on, don't say anything about it or he'll get mad

HATES traffic

Tells you you owe him gas money, never actually collects on it though lol and if you try to give it to him he basically gaslights you into believing he never said that

His car is kind of a mess, when he started dating you he put his gym stuff in the trunk so at least his car doesn't smell like sweaty balls and ass anymore

Gets lowkey nervous about driving in the city and in bad weather

Shut up! I need to concentrate! / *turns the music down so he can see better*

Begrudgingly lets you pick the music and complains that you don't have taste but ends up totally enjoying it

Thinks about road head a lot but doesn't necessarily want to try it

Loves driving you around actually because it's just the two you and it feels like y'all are in your own little world sometimes

Usually rests his hand on your thigh or is touching you in some way while driving

Cramped backseat car naps together🥰

#one piece x you #one piece #one piece x reader headcanon #one piece x reader #monster trio #luffy x reader #zoro x reader #sanji x reader

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writeshite · 2 years

Text

Smart Cookie

Summary:

“Huh, impressive, Dr. Reid; you’re a smart cookie.” You hold a door open, and he passes through; confused, he turns back. “Smart cookie?” “Yeah, you know, clever, intelligent,” you explained, “a smart cookie.”

Pairings:

Spencer Reid x Male!Reader

Tags:

Fluff | Inaccurate Laws Probably | First Meetings | Tattooed Reader (Because I Don't See Enough Of That) |

Words: 3871

Author's Note:

Guess what I started watching 😂 but like seriously, I am loving Criminal Minds, and as you can see, Spencer has become my favorite, I just wanna wrap this man in a hug or something.

“Love is friendship that has caught fire. It is quiet understanding, mutual confidence, sharing, and forgiving. It is loyalty through good and bad times. It settles for less than perfection and makes allowances for human weaknesses.”

- Ann Landers

Spencer’s knowledge of romance could be put together in a mountain of anecdotes and books, labeled by theme, source, and moment of discovery - sexuality, unknown source, age 15, conclusion: gay panic. Practical experience, however, could be summed into a blurb on the back of a book and promptly thrown in a fire. Friendship was something far easier; he’d come to learn it later in life - with childhood peers who took pleasure in putting him through the worst of what the American high school hierarchy had to offer - and even now, in adulthood, there were times he would think that those around him much preferred his absence over his presence.

The BAU was a lot kinder than high school was. Still, there were moments when patience would run thin, tempers may flair, or the occasional reminder that now was not the time for a tangent or a pointless anecdote or ‘do you ever shut up?’ or anything else along those lines - he didn’t mind, not like he’d used to as a child, besides, more often than not, the comments came from outside the BAU. Bystanders, police, investigators - very rarely did Spencer feel the need to squeeze himself into a neat little box and present what was deemed desirable to others, at least not until now.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Reid.”

Change was never readily accepted by the BAU; in regards to new and retiring teammates, it was met with distaste; the change came in the form of you - a recent transfer to the team - your first case with them in Seattle, Washington. An open case, the unsub would stalk their victims and gather intel on them and their lives before attacking; victims had the murder weapons clutched in their right hand and some form of personal belonging stolen by the unsub. Trophies for his collection, his victims, all graduating students from the local university - he had access to the victim’s schedules, details of their personal lives, and used tools at the scene.

“We’ll split up,” Gideon says, “ask around the university, staff, students, and the victim’s families.”

Spencer gets paired with you, questioning the university’s Faculty of Arts, the main focus of the unsub. The Faculty of Arts focuses on creative arts, writing, philosophy, and humanities - the liberal arts - with the campus’ main library in the area. “Wow, this is fancy,” you remark. Fancy’s an understatement; the faculty entrance was grand, with a pediment and columns overhead and the university emblem on a banner at the door. With the recent deaths, fewer students had been attending classes in person; the faculty head, Professor Jody Cunningham, was an older man with dark graying at the edges, a well-trimmed beard, and smoothed clothes.

“Professor Cunningham….” you called his attention, introducing yourself, “....and this is my colleague, Dr. Reid; we’re with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“A pleasure; thank you for coming; we’re all devastated by the news.”

“Did you know the students?” you ask.

Professor Cunningham nods, “They’d just handed in their thesis, and I’d been making my way through before, you know….” he ran a hand down his face, “now, none of my graduates or other students are coming in.”

“The murders all connect back to one of the subjects taught here; the first was arts, the second, humanities; if he’s going by alphabetical order, then the next one should be natural sciences,” Spencer describes the first two victims, their characteristics, similarities, differences, “do you know any graduate students doing the natural sciences who fit that profile?”

“Three students I can think of, though one of them’s not in the States anymore, so it can only be the other two, Jesse Hudson and Lynn Watson. Jesse’s majoring in biology, and his thesis, I believe, was on the role of the clock gene in protection against neural and retinal degeneration; not 100% caught up on what that is yet, Lynn —”

“The clock gene is a major circadian system regulator found in mammals and fruit flies, the latter of which the transcription factors - clock and cycle - combine and stimulate the transcription of the period and timeless genes. The two proteins bind together and enter the cell nucleus, where the timeless gene then begins to degrade and the liberated period gene interacts with the clock and cycle to prevent them from activating gene expression.” His explanation comes to a stop, and he’s hoping he hasn’t managed to weird you out.

You turn to him, “What happens after?”

“What?” He’s dumbfounded, “uh…well…you want to hear me speak more?”

“It’s why I’m asking,” you reply. “If that’s ok, you don’t have to continue if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, I’d love to; I just….people usually ask me to stop talking,” he shrugs. You raise your eyebrows, and he feels giddy, beaming a little; he carries on, even after you’re finished with professor Cunningham, you don’t deter him. Head tilted to glance at him, your undivided attention. “....I read this from an old thesis in my junior year.”

“And you still remember it?”

He nods. “I don’t forget much,” he points to his head, “eidetic memory.”

“Huh, impressive, Dr. Reid; you’re a smart cookie.” You hold a door open, and he passes through; confused, he turns back.

“Smart cookie?”

“Yeah, you know, clever, intelligent,” you explained, “a smart cookie.”

Spencer’s a smart cookie.

He’s a smart cookie.

He’s your smart cookie.

Well, technically, he’s not, but you’re the only one that calls him that nickname, not all the time; of course, you still call him by his name, but you also call him smart cookie. He bounces on his feet when you call him that, a little grin on his face as he turns to you, “What’s got you all happy, cookie?”

“Nothing, just happy to see you too,” he responds earnestly.

“I’d hope so; otherwise, this coffee run would’ve been for nothing,” you remark, placing his order on his desk, a smile on your face; then you go to your desk, to the left of him, and across from Morgan - kick your legs up and lean back on your chair.

“What none for me?” Derek pouts.

“Sorry, only deliver to sweetness,” you wink at Spencer, and he grins.

Morgan fakes offense, “Oh, oh, that’s how it’s going to be, alright. Don’t expect me to play middleman with you and Nick again.”

You snort, “Doubt that’s ever going to happen again,” you tell him, “that ship has sailed.” You move your hand through the air, mimicking a wave.

“Nick?” Spencer asks.

“Morgan’s friend, we hooked up a few times, but it never went anywhere,” you reply.

“Yeah, loverboy here did a hell of a job with him, could barely walk the next day, not that he was complaining,” Derek added on, “Said you had quite the package.”

You throw a pen at Derek, tongue stuck out at him, “TMI Derek,” Elle voiced; she’s just arrived, her own coffee in hand, chuckling while she shakes her head.

“I’m just giving performance reviews,” Derek shrugs.

“Oh god,” you laugh.

Spencer feels a little hot under the collar, knocking his knees lightly to keep his imagination at bay - your voice by his ear, hands roaming his body before settling on his hips, his own arms around your shoulder - he shook his head a little, eyes slightly wide as he sipped the coffee.

“You alright there, cookie?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s with the cookie nickname?” Elle voices.

You shrug, “Spence’s a smart cookie.”

“That’s a weird name,” Derek says.

“I think it’s adorable,” Elle counters.

“Adorable name for an adorable guy,” you wink again, and Spencer looks away, flustered.

“Well, I’m not adorable….adorableness inspires great affection or delight; you use it to describe someone or something that makes you love or like them, usually because they are….” attractive, he wants to say, but that might imply something and people didn’t like it when he implied things. He’d like you to keep liking him.

“You good there, Reid?” Derek’s voice snaps him from his thoughts, and he nods, finishing off with a lesser, more implicating adjective. Attractive, there was a 50% chance you found him attractive, but he couldn’t get all that information out of a singular nickname, let alone a few interactions - you liked his rambles and tangents, that was something, right? You’d made him an origami heart - that he kept tucked away in his journals - and called it a hint.

“No facts for me today, cookie?” You’re parked just further along the street of your target - a suburban house in Atlanta, one car in the driveway, three bedrooms, and the target of your unsub - Hotch and Gideon were on the opposite end of the street, Elle, and Derek were shacked up in the house across from it. JJ and Garcia were back at base.

“Facts?”

You turn to him, “Yeah.” You tilt your head, and he feels something, the little fluttering in his stomach, his hair brushes by his cheek when he tilts his head as well, and before he can reach up to sweep it away, you beat him to it.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s alright….” Spencer wishes he’d stopped talking right there, that his mouth just shut or Hotch’s voice filtered through earlier before he laid down his knowledge on human touch and then proceeded to end it with the words love hormone - quite the subtle move. On the plane ride back, Reid feels every muscle in his body knot and stiffen as he goes through the interaction in the car; you’re sat beside him, dozing off with your head propped by the wall. He glances over at you every once in a while, faintly touching the side of his head you’d touched, “love hormone,” he whispers to himself.

Dr. Spencer Reid was something else; when you’d joined the BAU, it took some adjusting, your first case in Seattle was a handful, and the unsub - a student advisor - had access to his victims. He’d begun with the Faculty of Arts, and chosen graduate students from each subject, starting alphabetically; he’d only managed two before you’d caught him. You’d learned that Dr. Reid was intelligent, had an impressive memory, and “....I read this from an old thesis in my junior year.” And his voice was really nice.

He seemed to like the nickname smart cookie, bouncing on his feet and grinning when he responds; he does the same when you greet him either way. “What’s got you all happy?” you ask him after a coffee run.

“Nothing,” he responds, “just happy to see you too.”

“I’d hope so. Otherwise, this coffee run would’ve been for nothing,” you remark, placing the warm drink on his desk. Granted, it’s not really a coffee run; you’d only gotten him coffee, mainly for the smile on his face. You turned to your desk across from Morgan.

“What, none for me?” he pouts.

“Sorry, only deliver to sweetness,” you wink at Spencer, who grins in response as Morgan fakes offense, mouth agape.

“Oh, oh, that’s how it’s going to be, alright. Don’t expect me to play middleman with you and Nick again.”

“Nick?” Spencer asks.

Morgan’s friend Nick had been nice; you’d had a double date with Morgan, and one of his dates, then gone on a few more dates and spent a few nights together, but it hadn’t worked out - nothing personal, but that ship had sailed.

“Yeah, loverboy here did a hell of a job with him, could barely walk the next day, not that he was complaining, said you had quite the package,” you threw a pen at Derek, groaning, as Elle regretted walking into work at this moment and hearing the tail end of that conversation. Spencer goes quiet, and his eyes dart away as he sips his drink, a blush creeping along his face.

“You alright there, cookie?” you ask him, and he turns his attention back to you with a small smile.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s with the cookie nickname?” Elle asks; she looks between you and Spencer.

You shrug, “Spence’s a smart cookie.”

“That’s a weird name,” Derek says.

“I think it’s adorable,” Elle counters.

“Adorable name for an adorable guy,” you wink again, and Spencer looks away, flustered.

“Well, I’m not adorable….adorableness inspires great affection or delight; you use it to describe someone or something that makes you love or like them, usually because they are….” he doesn’t finish right away, stalling, as you assume he gathers his words. You’re not sure what he was supposed to say, but you don’t think it was “....small.” Even after, he looks deep in thought, mind wandering away from the present.

You don’t think about it much and proceed with your day; it’s a slow day at the BAU, so paperwork seems to be the main task today, though there’s not much of it, so the majority of the day is spent idling by each other’s desks. You’ve been throwing scrunched-up paper balls at each other; Spencer had started off on the discovery of paper, then its distribution globally, and was now on its more uncommon uses. “....and you could use the paper to make worthless currency.”

“Like Monopoly money?” you question.

“Probably.”

You toss back the paper, and when he catches it this time, he unfolds it and refolds it into a swan, “You can also use it to make origami, though I wouldn’t consider that an uncommon use.”

When he hands you the swan, you take another piece of paper, fold it into a heart, you drop it in his hand, “You can also use it to leave hints,” you say, and he stares down at the heart, rosy-cheeked.

Dr. Reid was also easy to fluster.

“No facts for me today, cookie?” you ask him during surveillance; the house is empty, a decoy set in place to catch the unsub, surrounded on all sides; now all you had to do was wait.

“Facts?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you turn to him, tucking his hair back, his eyes widen again, and a blush runs along his cheeks. You apologize, withdrawing your hand.

“No, it’s alright….touch builds up cooperative relationships and reinforces reciprocity, and studies show that it signifies safety and trust. Basic touch can calm cardiovascular stress and activate the body’s vagus nerve, which is involved with our compassionate response. A simple touch can trigger the release of oxytocin, the, uh, love hormone,” he pauses, “why did I say that?”

“We’ve got movement.” Hotch’s voice interjects before anything else can be said, and you’re both out of the car, guns drawn as you track up to the house. The unsub tries to run back through the back, but Morgan’s waiting for him, knocking him down before he can escape. You don’t stick around in Atlanta, exhausted; you all pile into the plane, and you’re out; you wake to Spencer tapping your shoulder.

You stretch your arms, “Thanks for waking me, cookie.”

“No problem,” he responds.

You’re out the second your head hits the pillow, and wake up uncomfortably in yesterday’s suit. The new apartment looks homier and less empty, with most of your things already set out; you toss the old clothes in the hamper and get ready - shower, teeth, breakfast, and out the door. It’s a warm morning, so you carry your jacket in your hand.

“Damn, loverboy, I didn’t know you had sleeves.” You’d bumped into Derek on the way in, and he’d been immediately drawn to the ink on your arms.

“Oh, these old things,” you quip, “they’re nothing special.”

He whistles, and you lightly smack his arm, “Oh, shut up.” Derek wasn’t the only one taken back by the tattoos; the others were either shocked or intrigued, gathering by your desk to gander at them.

“Never, ever, keep your sleeves down again,” Garcia pleads.

“I’ll try,” you chuckle.

Spencer walks in last and takes a double glance at you, “You have tattoos? Wow,” he pauses, “wow.”

The others soon dissipate, but Spencer lingers a bit, looking between you and the ink; he reaches out but then hesitates, you hold out your arm and nod, and he traces the imagery. “That's one of my favorites,” you comment on the one he’s tracing.

“It’s beautifully detailed,” he observes, “they all are.”

“Thanks, I’ve had them done over the years,” you say. He traces the lines to your fingers, and when he finishes, he moves to the other arm - he gives you facts on the origins of tattoos and asks about some of your tattoos. You get lost in your own world, carrying on with the conversation as you’re called in for a briefing.

“What about this one?”

Spencer fixates on your tattoos, tracing them over and over, eyes following his fingers as they go over the lines again, “My second tattoo, got it a few months after my first one on my birthday.”

“What was your first one?” You’re going through paperwork looking for clues and hints to lead you to the unsub, “It’s a spinal tattoo,” you tell him and his eyes widen, “I can show you if you’re curious.”

He brings a folder to his face, a nervous laugh, and he looks like he’s considering it; he shrugs a little, “Only if you want,” he murmurs.

“Oh, cookie, I could eat you up,” you reply, and he makes a sound of amusement or surprise, or maybe it’s giddiness - as he kicks his legs a bit.

“Hey Morgan, how does dating work?”

Morgan slowly lowers the paper in his hand; it lays on his desk as he leans forward and glances over at Spencer. “Come again?”

“How does dating work?” Spencer repeats, “I assume you’re the most adept at this matter, I mean, I know how it works, but I’m also not…are you alright? Your face is doing —” Spencer gestures uncertainly.

“Just….just savoring this moment, " he replies, smiling, “I know something you don’t,” he cheers.

“I don’t not know about dating, I’m aware of it from societal expectations, facets, and data, but I lack the field experience.”

“Don’t,” Morgan holds his hands up, “don’t ruin the moment,” then he’s back, a smirk on his face; he asks, “Is it loverboy?” Spencer nodded; Morgan clapped his hands, a satisfied grin on his face, “I knew it!” he whispered before returning to the matter at hand, “So,” he cleared his throat, hands together on his desk, “dating.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll start simple; what do you know about dating? Not the facts, just the practical, like have you ever been on a date?”

“No, well, there was this one time I did get asked out by this girl in my class; we decided to go to the local park, but then I overheard her tell her friends it was a prank and they were going to douse me in some concoction, so I didn’t go,” he responds, “does that count?”

Derek shakes his head, “No, it does not, and are you ok?”

“Oh, yeah, it was a long time ago,” he shrugs, “so, what do I do about —” he winds his hands in a circular motion. “Is there a set of words I should say? Are there things I’m expected to do?”

“No, no, look,” Derek replied, “just, he likes you, for you, so don’t worry, just be yourself.”

“Be myself, huh? That’s the first time someone’s said I should do that,” he remarks. “Wait, how do you know he likes me?”

Derek raised an eyebrow, “He looks at you like the sun shines out of your ass,” he responded, “trust me, he likes you.” Spencer would like to believe Derek, and he does, but the little nagging voice in the recess of his mind, he starts wringing his hands a little and runs them along his pants to calm his nerves. “Hey,” Spencer glances up; Derek’s moved from his seat to his desk to his, leaning, “he likes you, ok?”

“How can you be sure?” Spencer purses his lips, twisting the strap of his bag, “He doesn’t deviate from how he acts when he interacts with all of us, he flirts with you just as much as he does with me, and Garcia, and Elle —”

“Why don’t you just ask him,” Derek points to the brief room; you’re currently standing by the door to it in deep conversation with Garcia. Spencer turns back and shakes his head.

“I think he’s busy; I —I’ll do it later.”

Later, in layman’s terms, really meant not ever. Preferably on his deathbed if he had to, but now that he’d asked Derek, any moment he’d look over, Derek would gesture to you, head tilted towards where you’d gone or were. Sometimes he’d mimic movements with his hand - one hand you, the other him, and they’d smoosh together into a kiss - then he’d groan, running a hand down his face when Spencer would shake his head frantically.

He’d like to avoid you and give a chance for the infatuation to die, but either he can’t bring himself to or doesn’t want to. He’s been playing the potential outcomes in his mind, he could confess, get turned down, and you’d remain friends, or he’d confess, get horribly rejected and then never see you again, or he could confess, and you could return the feelings. Considering all the options, he won’t be doing anything; he’ll just let this float away.

“You’re staring, cookie.” It’s the two of you in the kitchenette, no case, just tying up loose ends. “What’s going on in that mind of yours?”

“A potential hypothesis,” he responds.

“Oh yeah, what about?”

“Uh….I’m not sure how to put it into words,” he responds.

“Well, that’s a first,” you laugh, turning away from the kettle heating, “come on, give it a go.”

He nervously rubs his hands together, “Actually….it might be easier if I–I demonstrated it.”

“In the kitchen?” You ask, and he nods, asking you to close your eyes; you raise an eyebrow.

“Just trust me,” he begs, “....please.”

You do so, and there’s a split second where you can hear him mutter to himself - you can do this, come on - there’s a soft push against your lips, and it takes you a moment to realize he’d kissed you, holding your wrist to balance and ground himself, and then it’s gone. Your eyes open, and Spencer’s pursing his lips, hands wrangling more intensely, “R–results?” He’s not just asking; he’s hoping, the subtle worry underneath his voice as he waits for an answer.

You take one of his hands and reel him back in with a slight tug, and he looks so terrified as if bracing himself for the worst, so you kiss him, hoping it displaces any of his fears - Spencer clings to you, even after, your bodies are flush as he hides away in your arms; drawing back every once in a while to look at you, before shying away, a frivolous laugh caught in his throat.

“Good?” You inquire, and he nods.

“Very good.”

End Note:

I apologize profusely for using the word cookie as a nickname for Spencer, but I named the fic and got committed so you get to suffer with me. Stay Hydrated.

#spencer reid x male reader #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds imagine #i spent an hour looking through quotes because big brain said 'start off fic with quote that foreshadows what you're gonna write about'#tattooed!reader #smart cookie universe :)

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