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molina-fix · 2 years

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Kinktober Day 10

Day 10: Suspension

Prompt by Darkpromptsyouneveraskedfor: The haunted house isn’t as ‘fake’ as you thought.

TW: ghost sex, Ghost hunter!reader

Time is an interesting concept to the dead. The months leading up to the discovery of his body had felt like mere minutes, but the time after that, the weeks then months then years of solitude, he felt every moment of that. It was peaceful, in its way, and Jim had begun to enjoy that placid quiet.

It's not a slumber, not a doze, but it's certainly his rest that you disrupt. The low creak of the window as you pry it open, the rattle of the glass as the crowbar slips under the sill. He watches you struggle, smirks then scowls as the lock snaps.

The air inside is cold, colder than the outside by probably a good five degrees. Your toes touch down on the carpet, a soft plume of dust echoing under your foot. The room is saturated in it, at least an inch thick. A frown tugs at your mouth as you realize everything's still here, all the furniture and books. It doesn't surprise, just disappoints.

Placing the flashlight between your teeth, you shut the window behind you.

You've heard all the stories. All the morbid ones anyway, about how the body had been found months after the owner died, rotted right through the floor. The light you shine on the ceiling, but the bedroom isn't where they found him. That was downstairs, in the kitchen, according to the papers.

Jim tilts his head. Follows you, as you tap the top of his desk. Your fingers leave trails in the dust. They make him smile. A new touch of life to his dead house.

You don't bother to set the EVP up, not yet. Instead, you open his closet. His shirts still smell clean, like detergent, despite the obvious lack of use. He favors plaids, gingham in muted tones. Sweater vests, handmade knitted ones, hang beside them, and you take one.

Jim hums as you hold it to yourself. It wasn't one of his favorites. Can't even remember the last time he wore it, what the occasion was, but…it suits you. He likes the dark grey ribbing against your skin, plain as it is. Likes that you like it.

And you do. Thumbing the wool with care, you move back over to the table. It's clear someone took a lot of time and effort into making it. The odd mistake giving it character, charming you a tad. You wipe the tabletop off with the long sleeve of your black t-shirt, nose wrinkling at the dust.

The sweater goes beside the EVP, beside two stubby white candles. You light the wicks with your light, and flick the noise box on.

"Hi."

So startled by your casual tone, Jim doesn't answer.

"Is anyone here?"

He's here, but he can't say it. Forming the words is…strange. His mouth knows the patterns, he just doesn't recognize what muscles to use.

"Is there anything I can do for you? Mr. Bussey? Jim?"

His heart warms at the sound of his name.

You frown at the dead air. A true believer you may be, but that didn't mean you had any luck at all. Scowling, you pick up the little box and smack it. "Is this thing on?"

YES

You jump at the squawk of static. The gruff voice coming through loud and clear.

"Can you hear me?"

YES

Oh fuck. You had always imagined, but never thought- "Is- is it okay I'm here?"

Was it? Jim wasn't quite sure yet.

You listen hard, but there's nothing but soft static. Biting your lip, you walk around the desk. Your gaze roams the bookshelves that line the wall. "You have quite the collection…have you read them all?"

He scoffs and it comes through over the line.

The obvious discontent makes you smirk. "Yeah, I haven't read all mine either." Your expression blossoms into a smile as you touch one of the tomes.

"I don't know anyone who actually owns the whole Encyclopedia." You tell him your name. "What's yours?"

JAMES

"James? Not Jim?"

Jim is too informal. He wants this to be a sincere meeting. NO

You fight back a wide smile. "Okay. James."

The room is still chill. The thin material of your Henley is little protection-

"Can I put this on?"

YES

The immediate response earns another twitch of surprise from you, and a surprising amount of butterflies in your stomach. A faint warmth on your cheeks rises as you tepidly shrug it on-

Fuck, it's been so long since he's seen a woman, seen anyone, that even the flash of your collarbone makes him want.

OFF

Frowning, you look back at the little black box as it rattles. "Did-"

"More?"

OFF

MORE Then after a moment, PLEASE

Oh. "Oh." This…was an angle you had not considered.

PLEASE

Jim watches your face carefully. He's not an entity, doesn't have a physical body or anything like. Instead, he's space. Seemingly empty space, taking up most of the room, encompassing you-

You know he died alone. Lived that way, too. Maybe that's what makes it so easy for you to reach for the bottom of your shirt.

Goosebumps break out over your skin, he sees them, and wonders what it would be like to touch. To smell, to taste-

You shiver, half-naked but hardly afraid. Your puckered nipples ache in the cold air and you sort of want to pinch them, to moan and pant and see what he'll do. Instead, you rest your thumbs on your belt buckle, and wait.

PLEASE

Another smirk winds over your lips. "Please what?"

"More what?"

YOU

"Forward," There's approval in your voice. You tap the buckle with your nails. "I'll take them off, if you answer my questions, alright?"

There's a grumble, but you assume he agrees, since he doesn't outright deny it.

"Has anyone else been out here?" You ask, bending down to undo your heavy combat boots.

KIDS

"What, really?"

He likes the way you shake your boot off instead of tugging it, thinks it's cute.

"With like Ouija boards and stuff?"

YES

"Rude."

That's what Jim thinks, too, and almost chuckles.

"Did you talk to them? Scare the crap outta them?"

You grimace as you set your sock covered foot on the ground. "Why not?" The real question, of course, being, then why me?

He doesn't have an answer for that. He supposes it was the indignity of it all, the pageantry of it, that made him hesitate. Then by the time he woke from that hesitation, they were gone.

And he was alone again.

"Do you miss anything in particular about being…alive?"

TEA

Your other boot comes off. "Oh, what kind?"

EARL

GREY

You nod. "I'm more partial to sleepy time, myself."

The dark jeans you wear come down next. For a moment it's quiet. You wonder for the first time if this is a hoax, if some horny teenagers are gonna jump out with camcorders and scare you-

PRETTY

"Thanks," you swallow, wipe a bit of dust from your thighs. Maybe this was a bad idea-

Some of your hesitation shows on your face, and he wants to step forward, take you by the arms, tip your chin up, and look at you, really look at you-

But he can't.

So, he simply touches your cheek.

It's odd. The sensation is there, you can feel it, the unmistakable brush of the back of a hand on your cheek. Each finger is there, a thumb framing your lips-

Then it's gone.

Spooked, you stumble back. Eyes wide, you cover your cheek with a gasp.

He catches you. Not with his hands, not this time, just with the will to do so. It's warm, all encompassing, like a hug-

"Oh-"

STAY

"I-"

PLEASE

It's his last word before he turns the box off. Your eyes linger on it, watching as the green light flickers to black. He holds you close, able to feel all of you at once and he still wants more.

He wants to be able to smell your hair, your skin, to feel the give of your breasts, your hips, your waist. It's not fair. To finally have someone and not be able to experience them in full.

A shiver runs down your spine as he lifts you, ever so slightly. Your throat leaps as your feet float, as your toes leave the ground-

There's warmth. The heat from your skin, the beat of your heart, he can't hear it but he can feel it, like he feels your blood course through your veins-

You can feel him. Not a body, but a thing, massive and cold. With a swallow, you whisper his name. "Jim. Jim, please, set me down. I don't- I don't wa-"

He doesn't listen, can't hear you anymore, too focused on that heavenly body-

Your eyes flutter. He touches you every where at once. It feels like fingers as they dip into your black cotton briefs.

The yelp you give as he finds your clit is music to his ears.

"Cold!" You squeak, hips bucking, but that does nothing.

He strokes your clit purposefully, wishes he could suck your tight pretty nipples. He feels them throb and delights in your gasping. The way your head falls back, the desperate knot in your brow, as you whimper his name.

"James, James-"

You wish you had something to claw at, a set of shoulders to dig your nails in, a pair of lips to drown in, anything, but there's not. Just cold still air where a man should be.

But what's lacking doesn't change how it feels. Teeth buried in your bottom lip, you try to twitch your hips, try to get more than just the faintest touch-

A surge of pride goes through him as you come with a shriek.

You feel it. The sudden image of an older gentleman, tall, broad, and scruffy, with dark sparkling eyes and a wry, fond smile-

The floor hits you hard and fast. The hardwood stings your knees as you collapse. The plume of dust makes you sputter and choke. Waving it away, you look up, but he's gone. Vanished.

Heart hammering, and knees still a bit weak (not to mention bruised), you snatch your jeans up. They feel stiff, too tight, clinging to your legs-

"I- I mean- I'll be back, okay?"

That pleases him. He feels good, lighter than he has in a long time. He wants to help you dress, to walk you out the front door, like he would a lady.

You tug your shirt over your head, fix it around your hips, before you blow out your candle. Licking your lips, you decide to try the box again.

You grin. "Hi. I mean, this is goodbye. For now…and ya know, thanks for the orgasm. That was fun."

VERY

With a chuckle, you pick up the little black box. "We'll talk soon, okay."

There's a beat. GOOD-BYE

You click the box off. "Good bye, James."

#fanfic #jim bussey #reader #jim bussey x reader #the water man #rated: m

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molina-fix · 2 years

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Kinktober Day 9

Day 9: Voyeurism

Calender by #VixensKinktober, prompt by Darkpromptsyouneveraskedfor: After a long day of making jam, you gift your overly curious neighbour a jar, an unintended act of encouragement.

TW: noncon Voyeurism, plus size reader

"Oh! Hey! Just the fella I was looking for!"

His heart leaps to his throat. You look so cute. Beaming at him, as warm and bright as sunlight… completely out of place on his dreary porch. "Oh?"

"I made you something! Well, I mean, I hope that's okay?"

"It's fine." He takes the jar with interest, arching a thick brow at the red contents.

"It's strawberry. You were so kind to help me with those repairs this summer-"

Heat creeps up his neck.

"I just wanted to say thanks, you know." The bob of your shoulders is sheepish, almost meek. "Again."

"It was my pleasure."

You smile again, bounce on your tiptoes before stepping back.

He gives you a little shooing motion with his fingers. Dark eyes follow you as he twists off the cap. It's contents are rich, sticky and sweet, as he licks a smidgen off his thumb.

Your skirt flounces around your thighs, just shy of tasteful, a bit of a tease. Fuck, Jim would love to spend hours between them, licking and sucking and biting until they were broke out in hickeys and bruises-

The door closes soundless behind him. His cock throbs, pants tenting, and in the privacy of his own home he doesn't resist giving himself a rub. Sighing, he shuffles down the hall to his kitchen, where a tablet waits charging.

Plucking it from its stand, excitement builds in his belly. It takes a moment to flip through updates before he finds the nanny cam app.

It had been so easy.

Hell, all it had taken was a pained grunt and a rub of his knee and you had fawned over him. Ushered him inside your house, hell, you had actually told him where you kept your spare key, in case he had an accident-

His cock twinges just thinking about it. You were so cute, so naive, or maybe just kind. Your worry genuine, eyes doleful, as you bit your lip-

Night vision isn't exactly a turn on, but there's something about watching you click out the light that always makes his stomach tight.

You're simply dressed, just a pair of tiny basketball shorts and a tank top, but it makes his mouth water. He imagines palming your waist, teasing the thin cotton down. Watching you shiver, as his beard rasps at your sensitive skin…

You jump into bed with a dirty smile he knows all too well. Shimmy a pillow between your legs. It takes a few moments to get the position right. He loves the way your hips roll, would love to feel them give under his hands. To squeeze and to nip at them, before trailing over the sweet pouch of your stomach.

He would take his time with you. You've been neglected for so long…alone so long, like him.

He can tell by the desperation in your movements. The way your fingers dig into the pillow, your perfect mound rubbing and skipping over the seam of it, frantic to find a rhythm that will sooth the fire in your belly-

Jim's cock throbs as you reach up to tease your breasts. The cotton is thin and tight, just enough to give him a hint of your nipples. He love to bite them, to suck and pinch until they're throbbing and sensitive-

"Jim?!"

He jumps at your voice. At first, he assumes it's coming from the tablet, but there's no sound, there's never any sound-

"Jimmy, are you home?!"

Slamming the tablet into a drawer, his head snaps up as you poke your head into the kitchen.

"Hey!"

"Hey," he breathes, shifting behind the counter. "What are you doing here?"

Your smile is sheepish. "I forgot, I mean, I wanted to double check, we- we're still on for Scrabble tonight, right?"

He flounders a moment before nodding. "Of course, dear."

"Wonderful. Sorry to bother, I just-"

"It's fine." He swallows. "I'll see you then."

#fanfic #jim bussey #reader #jim bussey x reader #the water man #rated: m

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molina-fix · 2 years

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Kinktober Day 7

Special mention to #VixensKinktober for the calender, and dedicated to lifelikefae!

Day 7: Threesome

Tw: afab/m/m, priest kink, gender neutral terms used, unsafe sex

"He's a fake."

Angelo peeks an eye open under the brim of his cowboy hat. "What?"

"The Reverend," you whisper eyes glittering with mischief.

That gets his attention. Not so much your words but that look, that fucking gorgeous devious look that always means trouble. "Is that right?"

The nod you give is impish and quick.

"Well, damn, I guess it best we go check the fella out than, ain't it?"

And so you do.

The church is small, quaint, and quiet. Empty, for the most part. Barring, of course, the man who stands at the front of it.

Leland Drury arches a thick brow at the sight of you and Angelo. He's seen the two of you around town, practically attached at the hip, except on Sundays. When you attended church and he didn't.

The hypocrisy didn't shock him, everybody's a hypocrite in one way or another, but the brazenness…

It was refreshing, and frustrating, to see another man getting what should be his.

He lets you point and accuse, stays silent while Angelo holds you back. His gaze falls to the meaty hands on your hips. Leland can see the give to your supple flesh and he wants-

"So what?"

His words shock you. Stumbling, you straighten. "What?"

"I'm a fraud." The phony Reverend smirks. "Who's going to believe you?"

"Angie does." You look at the man behind you. "Right?"

Your man nods, squeezes your hips.

"And who would believe him? Town menace and his faithful whore."

Angelo's head cocks, but he doesn't move. He sees how his lips curl over the word whore, sees how the Reverend trails his gaze over you-

You sputter as he tosses the Bible aside, uncaring as it clatters to the floor. "I-"

"Are you denying it?"

Shame burns your face. "I'm not a whore," your words are meek, surprisingly so for a someone who had their finger in his face only moments ago.

"Everyone knows that he fucks you."

"That- has nothing to do with this-!"

"Hypocrite."

"You-"

Angelo squeezes you again. The warmth of his body heat gives you strength, but your stomach drops at his simple, "He's not wrong, ya know."

Long fingers leave your hip. They move slowly, but not tepidly, over your ass, down to grasp the long powder blue skirts of your dress.

"You ain't even got britches on…"

"Angie!"

"You came into the Lord's house-"

"Oh, shut up, you!" You slap Angelo's hand away. "I-"

"Tell him," your man urges, lips against your ear. "Tell him all the dirty nasty things we did last night and see what he calls you then."

Your heart pounds. His eyes are dark and wanting, sparkling in that dangerous eager way that always gets you going.

"I can imagine." Leland sweeps his gaze over you, reaches for you. "Some are just built for it…"

Smacking his hand away, you flinch only for him to snatch you up by the chin. He pulls you out of Angelo's hold, nails digging into your tender flesh. Wide eyes meet his and he stares down at you coldly, knowingly.

"My little birdie's one of 'em." Angelo smooths over your back, catches your arms and holds you still as you begin to squirm. "Never had a bitch like this one before. So fucking eager for it, some times they wake me up in the middle of the night-"

Leland's eyes flutter, his chest bumping yours as he bears down on you. They're both so much bigger than you are, and it's a helpless thing to be trapped between them.

"-Can't help it."

"Is that right?" His lips brush yours, but he makes no move to take them. Instead, he relishes in how your lashes flutter, the way you bite your lip as you meet his gaze with blown pupils.

The nod you give is subtle, but honest. The tight buds of your nipples brush his chest as he steps closer still, until your sandwiched between them, surrounded by warm flesh on all sides-

A grin splits Leland's face. "I can help with that. If you ask me. If you beg for it."

"Please-" You rasp, as Angie finds the zipper at the back of your dress, and you don't know what you're asking for-

"Beg."

"I didn't-"

Leland's fingers taste like stale tobacco as he shoves them in your mouth. He presses on your tongue, scowls at you, and gives you a light shake. "No."

Drool floods your mouth as he strikes your gag reflex. His fingers slide out, smearing your spit all over your chin.

"Beg."

"Fuck me, God, fuck, Reverend-"

Angelo chuckles in your ear. Cupping your tits, he gropes them through the thin linen of your dress. Enjoys your gasp as he tugs on your tight nipples.

"I want it-" You hate yourself, but it's true. You can feel their arousal, their erections digging into your stomach, your back- "Give it to me, please-"

"Well, damn, birdie, don't you beg pretty." Angelo's laugh is dirty and dark.

You mewl as he tongues your ear, but your gaze stays locked on Leland's. Shaky hands rise to take him by the shoulders, but you get distracted by his collar. Frowning over the white cotton, you look to him for permission. The nod is subtle and all you need to strip it off him.

"Don't."

You both pause at Angelo's words.

"Leave it on."

Heat tightens your stomach, and you have to agree, the collar suits him…

Leland scoffs, but smooths it back down.

The man at your back chuckles as he unzips your dress.

They all but tear it off you. The cold is daunting, but they warm you with rough greedy hands. Mewling, you almost sob at the sight of Leland on his knees, his eyes dark and wanting as he sucks at your left nipple, then pulls off to suck the right. Threading your fingers through his black hair, you yank him close as you reach for Angelo-

He's busying himself with your neck, kissing and nipping at your vulnerable flesh as he roams your body with calloused hands. You grab his hand and direct it to your clit. He chuckles at the wetness that lines your folds, nuzzles the top of your head playfully and teases, "fuck, you really are a whore, ain't ya, sug?"

The sound you gave, half-protest, half-demand, makes his cock throb and he's quick to pull it out.

"Fuck, these tits-" Leland groans, burying his face between them. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this-"

You do know. You've seen his eyes lingering for weeks-

You bite your lip, hating that he's right-

"They have, too, ain't ya, birdie?"

Angelo rolls his eyes, taps his cock against your ass. Smears a bit of precum around as he begins to pant. "Say it," he growls, "tell the stupid priest how bad you want him-"

"I don't-"

Leland snickers. "Oh, you don't?"

He offers your nipple a harsh nip, enjoys your little jump and how you yelp so pretty-

"Say it, baby, tell him what you want."

"Fuck me-"

"Be specific," Leland orders, nosing the spit slick skin, the curve of your breast yielding so nicely under his hand- "fuck you where?"

"My mouth." Fuck, you've imagined it a hundred times during his false sermons, wondered what it would have been like to slip into the confession booth, get down in your knees for him and take him in your mouth like the sacrament.

A grin winds over his lips as he stands, slow but tall. He looks over your head to meet Angelo's gaze. "Should we put 'em on their knees?"

The other man smirks, nods.

The hardwood of the floor bites into your knees and it strikes you that you're naked, completely truly fully naked in all meanings of the word, in a holy place, a sham of a place, and you feel queerly at home as you dutifully part your lips.

To your surprise, Angelo follows behind, settling down with his knees framing yours. His cock parts your drenched folds, nudges your clit. His mouth on your shoulder, his goatee scruffy and chaffing, grounding you, as the Reverend pulls out his dick.

It's long and thick, a sight any man would be proud of, but it's hard to focus on anything other than how it's going to feel in your mouth. Licking your lips, you hold your tongue out.

He grins, offers his hard cock a stroke.

A bead of precum drips down the throbbing red head and you whine.

Tangling a hand in your hair, he eases your head back, until your tits are out and proud, your neck long and vulnerable. Fisting his length, he stares you in the eye as he drags the tip over your chest. Up your throat, to rest on your chin. "Say please, little bird."

"Please," you rasp, barely able to concentrate on anything other the man at your front, and the promise at your back.

Angelo rolls his thumb over the bead of your clit, smirks at your desperate shiver and wet eyes. "I think we've teased 'em enough, don't you?"

"No," Leland disagrees simply, but he lets your tip your mouth down, lets you kiss the head, to trace your tongue along the thick seam, before he sighs. "Maybe."

He feels like velvet, tastes like salt, like musk, and smells like soap. The weight of him on your tongue makes you drool, and Angelo chuckles as your empty pussy clenches.

"Gettin' desperate, are we?" He kisses your ear. "I can help with that."

They enter you at the same time.

Angelo's hands on your hips hold you still, the push of his cock slow, deliberate, steady. Leland is rougher, tangling his fingers in your hair and forcing you to move for him. He works your tongue over his cock in quick jerks. The stretch on both ends makes you weak.

Angelo chuckles as you begin to ride him, working your hips in quick, desperate thrusts, taking him from base to tip and back, oiling his cock with your slick, so tight and hot he can't help but sink his teeth in your shoulder-

While Leland fucks your mouth. You suck his cock, stealing ragged breathes through your nose as he works you up and down, his sharp gaze never leaving your face-

They find a rhythm with ease, and it doesn't take long until the three of you are a panting, writhing mess.

It's Angelo who pulls Leland's cock from your throat. Your raspy gasps make him smile, and he noses your cheek. "You like it, huh, birdie? Like finally getting your fill?"

"Yes-"

His fingers focus on your clit, his touch so much steadier than Leland's, touching you with certainty, with a certain kind of rough care you've come to expect from Angelo, come to love about him.

Leland smears his cock, your spit, his precome, around your slack, swollen lips. "I'm close-"

"Me, too."

"Where-?" He not asking you, he's asking Angelo-

"Don't care," your man grunts, pounding you a little harder. He kisses your ear, wedges himself up against your cervix with a groan. "Fuck-"

The slight pain makes you yelp, but that doesn't stop them. In fact, Leland steals the opportunity shove him dick back in your mouth. The push across your tongue makes you moan, makes you spread your shaking legs a little wider-

"They're close."

Oh, fuck, are you ever- You snatch the hand Angie has on your waist and squeeze it tight. You feel the thick crown of his cock nestled deep inside you, feel Leland batting at your throat, and you come with a shout.

The men groan in union as you tighten, the grip on the Reverend's cock tight, the seal around his tip glorious and he finds his brow knotting as he comes with a gasp.

Angelo's less quiet, chuckling and mean, he pulls you right off the other man's cock. Laughs at the mouthful of spend that gushes down your chin, as he fucks himself into you in fierce strokes. "That's it, just like that-"

You shiver as the warm spend drips onto your tits-

As Leland pats your cheek, as he tucks his limp cock away-

Angelo buries his hand in your hair and wrenches your head back, leaving scratchy kisses all over your neck, and you come again as he does, as he slides his teeth over your earlobe and pants your name like a prayer.

#fanfic #angelo (oc)#leland drury #reader #angelo x reader #leland drury x reader #white fang 2 #rated: e

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molina-fix · 2 years

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hi!!! i just wanted to say to say I luv ur senor galan story! is it ok to ask when ch.3 is coming to a screen near me? 😅🥲

Oh hi! 🥰 I'm so happy you're enjoying my Galan series and I can't wait to share the rest of it with you all! I just... hit a bit of a rough patch irl and in the story (editing is kicking my ass in this third chapter). But! I think I finally figured out what my issue was so I'm sure I can get back to editing the third chapter and posting to a screen near you ❤️

#asks #anon asks #sí señor galan

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molina-fix · 2 years

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I was recommended by a friend to bring this fic idea up to you since you write some of the most wonderful little spice one shots. But I was thinking about comte de reynaud, thinking about him breaking his fast to eat the reader/mc out.

Have a nice day ^^

That's so kind, thank you!

This, this is fucking steamy and I'm here for it.

Woof.

18+ ONLY

The Comte is not a man who does temptation well, but he is a man of principle. Fierce, frustrating principles.

You barely blink when he tells you he'll be abstaining from sex for the next forty days. It's not exactly a surprise, he's always looking for some new way to endear himself to God, but that piousy has no place in the bedroom.

So when he arches a brow, expecting you to do the dutiful thing and give up sexual gratification with him, you laugh in his face. Shock slacks his jaw as you stand from the bed, breezing by him out the door.

"W-where are you going, mi amor?"

You return with an armful of linens and a sharp smile. Shoving them into his chest, you don't say a word. Just slide around him, clap him on the back, and shove him out of your bedroom.

There's no click of the lock.

That lack of a click keeps him up most of the night, staring at the ceiling as he sleeps alone, on the couch, for the first time since you got married.

It's cold. He misses your heat warming the sheets, misses how you snuggle up to his back, his chest, his side, anywhere you can get a hold of.

Jaw tight, he steels his resolve. He rolls onto his side, tucking his pillow to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut.

The first few days are uneventful. Typical routine, but it's still odd. Every attempt at affection is rebuffed, gently but firmly, by the Comte. At first, it's sort of amusing, how he dodges your kisses and shies from your hand.

Then it sort of stings. You had known he was a bit overzealous when you married him, but it was another thing to have it weaponized against you.

Two could play at that game.

As usual, you greet him at the door. His shoulders are heavy and his eyes bagged, and he hums as you take his briefcase, help him shrug off his coat. "Bonsoir, mi amor."

"Bonsoir!" You chirp, hanging up the heavy wool jacket on the coat rack.

He undoes his tie, his top button and sighs. "Don't ever get into politics, my darling."

"I don't plan on it." You glide a finger down his spine and enjoy the shiver he gives. "Long day at the office, ma mari?"

"Most certainly."

"I could fix you a drink with dinner if you like..."

"Mi amor, during Lent?"

You pucker. "I'm not suggesting overindulgence."

"Best not to tempt." His gaze travels over you for the first time since he's stepped in the door. "What's the meaning of this, hm?"

The sweater is too big on you. Shapeless, but short, the sight gives him a little thrill. Knowing you were snuggled up in his scent all day, knowing you had picked through his wardrobe for his largest, softest, sweatshirt- your favorite. The light blue one he only wears at home, out of the public eye.

The one he always admonishes you for wearing.

"I thought this would be better for your fasting, our fasting," you correct yourself a little too off-handedly.

His gaze narrows on your legs, your calves, the tender secret flesh of the back of your thighs, as you wander into the cramped laundry room off from your kitchen. The Comte follows close behind, unbuttoning the sleeves of his white Oxford shirt. Frowning, he leans in the doorway.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You never could take his glowering. His dark slicked back hair messy from the rain, his chest heaving as he sighs, the exhaustion on his face reminding you of how good he looks after sex, when he's huffing and red faced and sated-

"How does you skipping around half-naked help any-" He sucks in a sharp breath as you bend over. "Mi amor!"

"Oui?"

"This-" he sucks his teeth, stumbles at the sight of your plush lips. Fuck, he missed you all week, missed your taste, your smell- "This isn't fair, mi amor-"

Oh, the fucking audacity-

"I'm-I'm trying to fast, mi amor-"

"So?" You turn slowly. Licking your lips, you slip your fingers under the hem of the sweater. Legs tight together, you creep the material up, up, up, until he's panting and staring at the tender triangle between your thighs. "What's stopping you?"

"Please-"

You drop the hem and he drops to his knees. His hands find your hips and he yanks- hauling your body toward him as he breaks. "Fuck, darling, please-"

A firm grip on his hair keeps his mouth from your sex. The soft pant of his breath warms your mound as he stares up into your eyes, beseechingly.

"Please, God, I just- fuck, please, damn you-"

A smile curls over your lips. The rage in his eyes is so goregous, fiery and bright, the indignant flush on his cheeks spreading to his neck, his chest.

You follow it with your fingers, stroking the flushed flesh, teasing it with your nails, as you gather your courage and ask, "Have you really missed me?"

He sighs, head falling as you let him go. He nuzzles the soft flesh on your stomach, desperately inhaling your scent and getting only detergent. "Of course, I have."

"Say it again."

"I missed you, mi amor. I still do." He takes your hand in both of his, kissing the back of it, your wrist, your palm. His mustache tickles, but the sentiment warms you. Your stomach tightens as he reaches for your hips again, but this time you allow it.

"My darling husband..."

His heart skips as you kiss him, slow and sweet, as you guide his hands under your sweater. Your skin feels incredible, supple and warm in his hands and he can't help giving your thighs, your hips, a squeeze. The soft sigh you give breaks the kiss, and the Comte is quick to slide his hands down to your naked ass.

The sharp squeeze makes you giggle, makes your toes curl, as he peppers kisses over your stomach, the sweater absorbing each one.

"Take it off," he orders, husky and low.

"No."

"Please, mi amor-" he bites the wool, tugs it with his teeth and growls.

The sight makes you snort. "Paul!"

His grin is rougish and bright. "Take it off for me, mi amor."

Well, there's no refusing that. There's no bravado, no show at all. You simply slide it over your head and let it fall aside, leaving you standing naked before the man you love.

There's nothing short of pure lust in his eyes as he drinks you in, his gaze touching every part of you as a soft word of grace falls from his lips. Pushing his faith to the side, he worships you; every movement filled with reverence, he takes his time. Sucking hot, brief kisses into your stomach. Parting your plush lips with shaking thumbs and licking the delicate folds of your sex, each touch takes it's time.

And it's wonderful. Paul swirls his tongue across your clit, teases it with his mustache, the tickle makes your hips twitch. Fisting his hair, so slick with pomade your fingers slide right through it.

Nose wrinkling, you whimper his name. The knot in your stomach tightens, your hips snapping as he rolls your clit between his lips.

The Comte hums, drowning in the delectable taste of you. He'll never be sated, he knows. Knows there will never be a time when you won't be able to tempt him- he had broken his pledge to God so easily for you, all it had taken was a brief flash of your perfect cunt and he had forsaken Him...and without an ounce of regret.

#fanfic #comte de reynaud #reader #comte de reynaud x reader #chocolat #rated: m

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molina-fix · 2 years

Text

Not-So Lonely Room

Werewolf!Jud Fry x F!Reader

Chapter 1

Ao3 link

Word Count: 6040

18+ Minors DNI

Tags (for the whole fic): Werewolf AU, Fix-it, Fix-HIM, Laurey and Curly and Eller slander here, Suicidal Thoughts, Discussion of suicide, Abuse Involving Food, Restriction of Food, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Smut, Some Canon Dialogue, Slightly Altered for Ease of Reading, Blood and Injury, Bathing/Washing, Intimacy, Scent Kink, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex

Note: Special thanks to @molina-fix for beta-ing this fic

Keep reading

#not so lonely room #fanfic #series #chapter 1 #jud fry #reader #jud x reader #oklahoma #rated: e #do y'all see this?#this is my buddys writing #its literally *perfect*

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molina-fix · 2 years

Text

Kinktober Day 2

Format used provided by: #VixensKinktober

Day 2: Predator/Prey

Darkpromptsyouneveraskedfor: An autumnal hike turns into a rampant chase.

(Werewolf!Angelo)

He's fallen behind again.

You don't really mind. Angelo knows these woods like the back of his hand, but you miss the comforting shadow his presence provides as you trek down the path.

The heavy boots you wear make a delightful crunch through the leaves, and you can't help but giggle as you kick a few up.

It's a beautiful autumn day; the sun bright, the air crisp-

It's then the quiet strikes you. There are no birds singing, no crickets or bugs chirping. Expecting to see your husband a few paces behind, your heart leaps to your throat when the path is empty. "Angie? Angelo?"

When there's no response to your call, you begin to fret. The grip on your basket tightens. He's too smart to go off trail, too clever to let you get lost. Teeth sinking into your lip, you can't quite shake the quiet gnaw of anxiety in your stomach as you shuffle through the leaves.

Something isn't right, but you don't call out again. Can't, your throat tight and your hands shaky as you look around-

A twig breaks.

Heart pounding, you're off like a shot. The leaves crunch under your boots as you run as fast as you can, panic blinding you as you break from the trail.

It doesn't occur to you to call out for help. Who would hear it? You're on your own land, alone with your husband-

Your basket catches on a bushel, tripping you, forcing you to cast it aside. Swearing and kicking, you stumble-

Warm arms catch you by the waist as he tackles you to the ground. You yelp like a swatted pup as he laughs. His bicep slips up to keep your head from bouncing off the cold hard ground before he rolls you onto your belly.

"You snapped that twig on purpose," you grumble as he presses your cheek into the dirt.

Angelo chuckles into your neck, nuzzling and kissing, nipping the back of your shoulder. "Maybe."

The hot grind of his erection against your ass makes you mewl. You arch into him, the gentle curve of your spine enticing and perfect for him, and you love how he cups your waist so tenderly despite his claws. Bearing your throat, you murmur softly as he nips at your jaw.

"You liked it."

"Did not…" your eyes flutter as he smooths his hands down, over your thighs, to grasp your skirts and hike them over your hips. "You scared me…"

He groans, low and approving, at the sight of your ass, and bends to place a kiss to the dimpled flesh of your lower back. The pinprick of his fangs makes you shiver.

"Angie…"

"Yes, dear?"

"Do it again."

Wolfish grin wide across his lips, he obeys. Biting into the supple flesh along the curve of your ass, Angelo chuckles at your squeak, at your weak kicks and whines that are ultimately outweighed by the arousal sticking the lips of your cunt. His tongue darts out to get a taste.

Eyes fluttering, he dives into you, licking and sucking and lapping at your wet hole while he bends you half-

Two thick fingers force their way into your cunt. Embarrassment paints your face at the squelch, the horrible wet sound announcing your arousal for the entire woods to hear-

You can't help but clench down. The telltale scratch of his claws inside you earn a pathetic mew, one he's quick to silence with a firm tongue that tastes like you. The kiss is more of an order than an affection and you suck your juices off his tongue as he slides another finger into your hungry cunt.

"Fuck, sug, you're so ready for me, ain’t cha?"

You coo, nosing his scruffy cheek.

"Love how desperate you get on the full moon, love how fucking easy you get-"

"Angie."

"Mm?"

You swallow. "You didn't give me a head's start."

His thick dark eyebrows raise. "Oh, didn't I? How forgetful…" the rough pads of his fingers caress your vulnerable insides.

Your eyes flutter. Hips twitch. Fingers digging into the dirt, you twist.

With a chuckle, your husband eases his fingers out of you. "I'll give you to the count of ten."

You plant a foot on the ground.

"One."

And you're off.

Angelo smirks as he gets to his feet.

"Two."

Licking his fingers, a groan leaves him, low and guttural, and he can't wait to bury his face in your sweet little pussy and get you so worked up for him you can't even walk, much less run from him-

"Three."

Your skirts rustle against the brush, catching on the odd twig and branch. Each step reminds you of just how wet you are, how wet he made you-

"Four."

It's more to himself than you, you're out of ear shot now.

"Five," he growls, jaw tightening.

He doesn't like his. Likes the game, loves you, adores you, worships you, but the sight of you running, the pant of your breath, the pounding of your heart, it agitates him. Gets his hackles up in a way he's only used to feeling in bar fights. Like his blood's too hot to stand, and forsaking his promise, he's after you like a shot.

The twigs and leaves snap and scatter under your feet. You don't even make it to the path before you hear him behind you. A squeak leaves you as he tackles you to the ground once more. Dirt mars your blue dress, mud clinging to your breasts as he buried his claws in your hair.

"Disobedient little bitch," he growls into the crook of your neck.

His skin feels hard and rough, and you know the change is upon him. Bringing a hand back to cup his cheek, you coo, "yours."

"Mine," he agrees with a snap of his hips.

Fuck, he's so hard you can feel it through his britches, feel the streak of hot precum he leaves behind as he digs it into your ass.

Hair, long and thick and coarse, replaces flesh as his fangs elongate. Clawed hands grip your waist, and he keeps you pinned under his not with his touch but rather his teeth. They sit upon your pulse, just hard enough to make you keen.

"Angie…are you gonna hurt me, baby?"

"Yes."

You giggle, arch your back. "Good."

#fanfic #werewolf!angelo #angelo malone (oc)#reader #angelo x reader #rated: m

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molina-fix · 2 years

Text

18+

Tw: power imbalance, therapist/client, mention of abuse

Ok but-

He knows he should pass you along to a new doctor, but it's too late for that. He's…noticed you. More than noticed you, he's fallen for you, hard and fast. He likes to think he is discreet about this attraction. That you don't see his lingering glances, that you miss the odd familiarity.

One day, you lock the door behind you.

His brow furrows, but he doesn't protest. It's a red flag, against policy, personal and corporate, but he can only focus on your expression, dark and somber, as you slink into the room.

The pad of paper in his lap, simple lined yellow, rustles as you take a seat across from him. The green armchair dwarfs you, and he suppresses a smile. Usually, you sink into it, rolling your shoulders and snuggling in, but not this time. This time you sit at the very edge of the seat.

"Hi, doc," You greet him in a soft, apologetic voice that makes his stomach clench. He's never heard that tone before, can't decide if he likes it, but doesn't dwell on his own feelings.

"Hello, dear." Too casual, he scolds himself, but it feels right. "How was your week?"

"Fine." A simple shrug, as you fiddle with one of your bangles.

He frowns. "Did something happen?"

You bite your lip, the sting a nice little distraction from his gaze. It's so concerned and genuine, like he actually cares- "I had a…weird dream, I guess, but nothing bad."

"Oh?" He flips to a new page. Dream interpretation isn't his forte, but-

"About you." Your head cocks as you regard him. He's handsome, with a strong nose and dark brows, and you swear you can remember how it felt to shove his bald head between your legs. "About us…"

He blinks. Swallows. "Is that right?"

A nod, as you rub your thighs together.

He shouldn't ask, he knows he shouldn't- "What was it about?"

"This. A session, I mean. I was…frustrated." Your skirt feels too tight, chaffing, and you tug at the hem. Your bracelets jingle. His gaze bores into yours, patient, heated, and you hope you're not making a terrible mistake as you stand.

"Sit down," his voice is hoarse, the demand weak.

You shake your head. Hands gliding up the outside of your thighs to your waist, your weight shifts from foot to foot. "Tell me you don't want me, doc."

He doesn't. He can't. "I said sit down."

Eyes locked on his, you slide your panties down. Step out of them and wait for him to scold you. For him to object, like you had feared he would, but he doesn’t. The hand holding his pen shakes, but his gaze doesn’t leave the scrap of black material on his office’s floor.

From the leather armchair, he can only swallow, so you keep going. Undoing your skirt, your heart pounds in your chest as it falls in a heap at your feet. Naked from the waist down, you run your hands up and down your thighs-

A nervous habit, a tell, a quirk, a-

��You…you can’t-” he tries, but he can’t tear his eyes from the apex of your thighs.

"Say you don't want me," you plead. "That this is a bad idea."

"It's illegal-" He stutters as your hands move to cover yourself. The faintest hint of your mound peeking out from between your fingers, drawing his attention to the tender flesh of your thighs. Fuck, what he would give to bury his face there, to feel the soft flesh against his cheeks as he-

"I- I can't, it would destroy my career, break every boundary- You can't-"

His breathe stutters as you pop up on your tiptoes to sit on his desk. Heat floods his veins as you spread your knees, flashing him the beautiful sight he had only imagined. The sweet bud of your clit makes his breath hitch, and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

“I can. You can, too, if you want…”

“I can’t-” He chokes as you part your sex with two fingers. The sight of your dusky folds makes his breath hitch. "Stop-"

“Please, doc.”

He pushes his glasses up his nose before he stands. His full height makes you quiver. He grasps your knees, and for a brief, horrifying moment, you're certain he's going to close them-

But he doesn't. The weight of his hands make your knees shake as he rests them there. "I don't want to abuse you." His words are simple, plain.

So are yours. "So don't."

For a long moment, he just peers down at you through thick dark lashes. Unable to stand it any longer, you cover his hand with your own and urge him to touch you. He lets you guide him down, his mouth going dry at the plush warmth of your thigh.

"Say you want this," it's more of a plea than an order. "Say you want me."

"I- I can't-"

Your hands pause, the hurt on your face palpable. He wants to cup your cheeks, kiss the embarrassment away, to give you everything you could possibly want-

His hands dig into your soft flesh a little deeper, his nod eager and quick. "I do, I just can't."

Your legs spread a little wider. His breath hitches as your fingers ease down to part your sex once more. The wet folds of your cunt are so close he can smell you, and he wants to bury his face there, to shove his fingers inside and pound you until your gushing all over his desk, his papers sticky and drenched-

"Please," he rasps as your middle finger dips into the slick hole. "Please, I can't-"

"Yes, you can."

It's your gentleness, your permission that sways him.

His hand shakes as he cups your knee, eyes locked on yours. "This could ruin your life. My career."

Your hips twitch. The thought gets you hot in a way it shouldn't. "Yeah?"

He nods. Gropes your thighs, inching down toward your exposed pussy, the lips shiny with your arousal, and he wants to lick it off, to taste you, to tidy you up a little bit before he truly, utterly fucking ruins you, gets you stretched out and sloppy on his cock-

"It- it might be worth it, right?"

He swallows.

"I want it, you want it…" your bracelets jingle as you begin to casually fingerfuck yourself. The sight makes him sneer, dig his nails into your thighs. "Maybe we-" You sigh as your hips buck, taking your digits a little deeper, but there's no satisfaction to it, "we could just get it out of our systems? Then things would go back to normal, right?"

The thought is ridiculous. He knows it is, but he nods anyway. "It's possible, I suppose."

"Fuck me, doc, please?"

He chuckles at your eagerness. Reaching up, he tugs his bowtie off, undoes the top button of his shirt. "Let me see your tits, darling."

#fanfic #please doc #harding hooten #reader #harding hooten x reader #monday morning #rated: m

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molina-fix · 2 years

Text

Don’t hurt octopuses 🥺

#art #fanart #doc ock #otto octavius #doc ock art

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molina-fix · 2 years

Photo

here is the colored version of that silly, silly art. I still can’t take decent pictures of watercolors so u get multiple messes with versions lmao

#art #fanart #doc ock #otto octavius #doc ock art

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molina-fix · 2 years

Text

Sí, Señor Galan ::: Andrés Galan x Reader

Previous ::: Chapter 2 ::: Next

Summary: Perfection. A man such as Andrés Galan would accept nothing less. So, for the past three years you have been nothing but a perfect personal assistant. Until recently…

Rated: E

Words: 3.4k words

Tags/Warnings: 18+ content, Alpha/Omega Dynamics, Alpha!Andrés, Omega!Reader, Ruts, Spanish, Reader speaks Spanish here, so… Congrats!

Other: This chapter was beta'd by my bestest buddy WeenisBeenis <3

Or! Read on AO3!

Chapter 2 - Congrats?

The next day you arrive at work thirty minutes late. Your lack of punctuality is by no means the end of the world, but you still rush through the building, hardly restraining yourself from sprinting through. You can only hope Galan hasn’t arrived yet, and if he has, you pray he hasn’t noticed your tardiness.

No such luck.

As soon as you round the final corner and your desk comes into view, you see alongside it the tall and looming presence of Andrés Galan. He doesn’t notice you right away, so he doesn’t see the pathetic way in which you flounder in your spot, tempted to turn around and run all the way back out of the building. You nearly do, terrified at the prospect of facing him, when he turns and spots you. Your stomach drops to your feet as his brow furrows, darkening his already sour complexion.

With a wince, you approach, wringing your hands nervously and avoiding all eye contact with him as he just stares, unblinking. You’ve worked for him for three years, and yet your body fights to cave in on itself every time you’re near him. Everything about him makes you want to just disappear into the ground below your feet. With each step forward, you can feel the way you’re curling in on yourself, shoulders rising as you duck your head, making yourself as small as you can while he continues to stand, tall and proud.

“S-Señor Galan… good morning.”

“You’re thirty minutes late,” he sounds upset, “I did not know arriving at work on time was optional.”

Immediately, you shake your head. “No, no, Señor. Not at all.” Excuses come to mind, truths and half truths that would hopefully appease the man before you, but you push those away. The truth really is, you arrived home late and exhausted. You were barely able to walk into your apartment and throw yourself down onto the couch where sleep came almost instantly. Unfortunately for you, your sleep was restless. The headache and hunger you had been trying to ignore refused to give you rest, invading even the usually peaceful unconsciousness of sleep. A small snack took care of the gnawing in your stomach for a little while, but even after a couple of pills, your headache fought against you, pounding sluggishly against your temples. You still feel it now. “I’m sorry, I–”

“I am not interested in your excuses,” he interrupts. Galan steps closer to you, and you have to look up, meeting his gaze before you come off as rude. His eyes are dark, shaded by the heavy set of his brow as he scowls at you, but worse is his scent. Beneath the rich cologne he always wears, and growing stronger with each second, is the lung burning scent of his anger. It pours over you like smoke, thickening in your throat and lungs until you feel close to choking on it. You fight to keep your composure and not let yourself simply wither in front of him. Galan continues to berate you, unaware or uncaring of your struggle, “Not any of them. I do not care why you are late or why you did not finish organizing those documents last night. My orders are not suggestions.”

Flashes of what occurred a few hours prior come to mind. Images of Senna with those two young men in that awful place. The disgusting restroom stall. The way she looked to you for comfort at the end of it all. Holding her as she cried. You couldn’t finish your work last night because you’d been doing the other thing Galan had ordered, picking up and taking care of his daughter. You don’t dare bring this up though. You can’t even begin to imply or even casually blame him for your inability to just finish all your work.

“Do I make myself clear?”

You nod meekly, dropping your gaze to the knot of his tie. “Sí, Señor Galan. I’m sorry. I promise I will take care of it.”

With a final sneer and a huff, he leaves.

You’re left in his wake, drowning in the emotions that rise up within you. Like a dam, you fight to hold back the flood that threatens to overwhelm you, even as a few tears escape the corners of your eyes. You have always done everything he has asked, exactly as he wanted, except for this one thing and only because Senna had needed you. Can he not understand that? Is he so blind? Or perhaps… he doesn’t care.

That’s it, isn’t it? Andrés Galan doesn’t care about you. Not as an omega, not as his employee, not even as just another person he knows. You are nothing to him. All you are, is yet another individual who does what he wants at the snap of his fingers. This thought consumes you as you sit at your desk, staring blankly at the monitor.

You are nothing to Andrés Galan.

You never have been.

You never will be.

So then, why do you have to keep putting up with this? The man doesn’t even have the common decency to thank you after he called you at two in the morning to pick up his daughter! He’s never once thanked you, now that you think of it. He hasn’t once remarked on the good work you do, all the extra hours you have put in, nothing .

Three years… What are you still doing here working for Andrés Galan? Do you hope he will change? Do you hope someday he will notice all that you have done and he will have a change of heart and he will thank you and praise you and tell you how invaluable you are to him?

Why are you still here?

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself as you shake your head, as though somehow that will clear all the horrible thoughts that lurk in your mind. You set yourself to work, opening a new document and focusing on it until it edges all other thoughts out of your mind.

In such a state of focus and with so little left to do, your work is soon finished. Pride fills your chest because despite the odds, you finished, but now you’re left with only your thoughts, and they speak in one voice, I’m done. This is it.

As soon as you find a moment to yourself, you begin to draft your two week notice.

At first, you hesitate. Over the years you’d imagined a million and one ways to present your notice, but now that it sits before you, you can’t type. Your stomach turns in on itself, uncomfortable dread sitting in it like a stone. If you do this, you may not get another job that is as well paid. You may lose some of the benefits you have and you’ll definitely be losing your vacation days. If you do this, you won’t see him .

You hate yourself for the thought, but you know it to be true. If you quit, you will never see Andrés Galan again. The omega in you mourns at the thought. For all of his lack of gratitude, his narcissism, pride and greed, and the unmerited rage he has been directing at you, you’ve become fixated on him. You blame your omega physiology, all it took was one good look at the tall, potent, very handsome alpha for your body to decide that he was absolutely perfect.

It’s the only reason you’re still here.

It’s no longer a good enough reason to stay. It never has been. You can’t keep allowing yourself to be overworked, hurt, and insulted by a man who simply does not care for you, in any way. With a deep breath, you begin to type.

When you are finished, you look at the printed notice in your hands. Something tight squeezes in your chest. You try to ignore it. A torment of doubt storms in your mind, making you question yourself all over again. Am I really going to do this?

Yes.

Taking the page, you slide it beneath some other paperwork on your desk. You will hand deliver your notice as soon as the day is done. This way, if he becomes upset, or more likely, if you do, you can simply run away home after and not see him for the rest of the weekend.

When the end of the day comes, you’ve lost your nerve. You bite the tip of your thumb as you stare at the page, holding it up in front of you. Again and again, you read it through. You have every word memorized by now and still, you look for some flaw in it, some reason to delay the inevitable. You’re not so sure you can go through with this anymore. Everything that has happened isn’t that big of a deal anyway, right? Surely, you can keep working for Andrés Galan despite your feelings towards him and the absolute lack of concern he shows for you, right?

No. You know you can’t and yet, you’re no longer sure how you’re going to present this to him.

You’re spared the trouble of thinking about it for too long as the phone rings on your desk. You answer it with a small wince. “Señor Galan, how may I be of service?”

“Come to my office, immediately.”

In your hurry to do just that, you forget you still have the notice in your hand.

After knocking twice, you step into Galan’s office. He doesn’t spare you a glance as he remains busy on the phone, speaking animatedly to whoever is on the opposite line. Closing the door behind you, you quietly make your way through his office to stand a few feet away from his desk.

And then you wait.

Shuffling your feet a bit, you look around the office as though it’s your first time in here. You’re trying to keep your mind busy as the minutes tick by and Galan keeps talking. But after so long, you’ve already seen everything there is to see in this office, and you find yourself constantly looking back to him. To the way he lounges in his chair, comfortable and open. He’s enjoying himself as he speaks, moving his free hand about in wide gestures and a smile curls his lips beneath the salt and pepper stubble. A longing opens up in you, a desire to see that same smile directed at you.

You keep watching him, hoping to commit to memory just how good he looks at this moment. From the sweep of his hair at his shoulders, that despite him having worked all day, still looks brushed and soft, to how dressed down he is. Without his jacket, his sleeves are rolled up, exposing thick forearms. His tie is gone, discarded upon his desk and his shirt is open at the collar. You get the slightest peek at his chest.

Starting to feel silly and not wanting Galan to catch you openly ogling him, you look away, out to the stadium beyond. Looking out to the lit field and the hundreds of empty seats, you begin to notice the smell in the office. You don’t resist the urge to inhale, deeply but subtly, savoring the slightly dulled scent of his cologne and something else. There’s another smell in the air, familiar to you, and it awakens your interest. You try to place it, to understand why it stirs you, why it floats around you like some dark temptation, but for the life of you, you can’t figure it out.

“What is that in your hand?” Galan is looking at you, hand outstretched as he reaches over to hang up the phone, his other hand pointing with a long finger at the page in your hand.

Startled, you look down to find your notice still pinched between your fingers. Your stomach tightens. “Oh! It’s-It’s nothing. Just–”

Galan curls a finger at you, demanding you bring it over to him with the simple gesture and a look that harbors no room for argument. Your stomach begins to ache as you step closer, and you swallow against the knot thickening in your throat.

You feel like you’re in school again as you hand it over to him and he takes it, snatching it from your fingers before you can take it back. Nervously, you stand in front of him, like you used to when you would turn in a test or an essay in school and your teacher would give it a cursory look. Instead of just looking it over, Galan takes the page between both hands and settles back in his seat. His eyebrow slowly rises as he reads.

Despite your best efforts to stay calm, you can’t quite help but start to pull on your fingers. Other than his usual signature eyebrow lift, Galan is completely impassive. He’s reading through your short two week notice, and he’s doing nothing.

The tension is making you antsy, the need to know what he is thinking devours you, and you stand there, constantly stroking your hands, trying your best to dispel the tension coiling through your body.

Slowly, Galan puts down the notice. His eyes flicker over to you, freezing your anxious actions as you wait. He remains without expression, just looking at you, as you stand there. After a second or two, he lifts a hand and strokes his mouth. Then, he keeps staring

The quiet and the tension are trying to kill you. What is he thinking? Is he upset? Is he going to mock you? You nearly cry out to plead for this torment to be over, when he sits forward. He is still looking at you straight in the eye, his gaze intense and damn near frightening.

“I’m going into rut.”

Uh… what?

You can almost hear the record scratch of your brain as you try to understand the very few and simple words spoken. Every worried thought going through your head immediately disappears. You even stop toying with your hands and you just stand there, gawking at him. He’s going into rut? What does that mean? Why is he telling you? You just delivered to him your resignation, and this is what he says to you?

How do you respond? What are you even supposed to say? Are you supposed to congratulate him? What are the rules? What do you do after someone tells you they’re going into rut? Do you congratulate them? Hey! Congrats on the rut! You’re going to be uncontrollably horny for a week. Do you sympathize? I’m so sorry you’re going into rut. Is there anything I can do for you? Or are you supposed to wish them well? I hope your knot goes okay.

Or perhaps, Galan is expecting none of the above. Maybe he wants you to get him some suppressants. This could be his final task for you before he accepts your resignation, a quick and easy suppressant run.

That seems the most likely scenario, there is no way he could be expecting you to congratulate him. Right…?

“Señor Galan–” he raises a single finger, and immediately, you shut up. You’re thankful for the interruption, you’re not even entirely sure what you were going to say.

“I am going into rut soon. Usually, I would take suppressants to avoid the more, shall we say, unpleasant, side of things. But this year, I will not be taking suppressants.” Galan trails off, still watching you. He seems to wait for a reaction from you, but you just stand there, staring, completely unsure of how to react. With a sigh and a slight roll of his eyes, he continues, “I will be leaving soon. Tonight if possible. I will spend my rut in one of my haciendas and I will not be alone.”

Oh! Now you understand what he wants. Clearly, Galan wants you to find him an omega before he accepts your resignation. You suppose you can do that, even if the thought of finding him some other cute little omega for him to knot makes your stomach burn. Ignoring the heat clawing its way through your body from your stomach, you slowly begin to nod. “Okay, sure. I mean, of course. Uhm, I just, well I suppose I just need a little bit more information from you. Such as, what kind of omega would you like? Will one be enough or maybe… maybe more? I don’t really know, but I’m sure I can have a list for you in an hour, maybe two. I can get you a list and then you can be off tonight with your omega… or omegas! Whichever, you may prefer.”

“No. You misunderstand.” Galan smiles, amused. “I want you to come with me.”

Blank.

Absolutely nothing registers in your mind.

Somewhere, distantly, something starts buzzing. It’s faint but it progressively grows louder, until all you can hear is that constant buzz. You determine, after a moment of listening to it, that it’s your own imagination. It clears as quickly as it started and leaves your mind free to the onslaught of questions.

You? Andrés Galan wants you? The Andrés Galan wants you? You with Andrés Galan? Him with you? You? Is he joking? Is this him mocking you? Is he laughing at you? Has he somehow known this entire time about your feelings and now thinks he can cruelly play with you? Why would he want you? What possible reason could he have for wanting you? He and you just don’t work. What is he thinking?

“Señor Galan, I don’t think that’s–”

“Shut up.”

Your mouth snaps shut out of its own volition to obey him.

“Is it not your job to service me in any way I may require? Or am I wrong?”

“I mean…” There is no way this is happening. Did you fall asleep at your desk? “I mean, I kinda just handed you my resignation.” You wince as soon as you say it, and softly hit your fist against your thigh as you regret the words that left your mouth unbidden.

Galan frowns for a moment. “You are refusing then?”

“No! No…” You shake your head and look down, at his desk, at the floor, anywhere but him. “I just don’t really understand what’s happening.”

Galan’s chair is pushed back suddenly, it makes a loud clatter as he shoves it away from himself. He comes close. You curl in on yourself with each step he takes closer to you. With your gaze fixed on the floor, the points of his shiny black shoes come into view. “Look at me,” and he says your name low and firm.

You can hardly resist the command. Nervously you lift your head to meet his eyes, only to find his expression dark and impatient.

When Galan speaks, his words are slow and measured, like he is speaking to a child. You’d be insulted if his voice didn’t cause a not so subtle thrill to run up your spine. “I am going into rut, yes?” You nod. “I will be leaving for a remote location with an omega of my choice.” Again, you nod. These concepts are easy to understand. “I want that omega to be you.” That’s where he loses you.

While you struggle to formulate a response, to say anything to him, Galan growls your name. It’s too much. You look away. If it weren’t for his proximity, you’d likely be high-tailing it for the door and never looking back. But he’s so close, absolutely looming over you and enveloping you in that musky, intoxicating scent that is starting to make you feel dizzy.

“I would not extend this offer to just anyone. If you refuse, I will take suppressants, approve your resignation, and we will forget this ever happened.” He takes another step closer, dominating the space between you both. “If, however, you agree, we leave tonight. And we forget all about your silly little resignation.”

Steeling yourself, you turn your head back to him. He is inches away from you. This close, he looks impossibly large and wide. The warmth of his body extends invitingly towards you and his scent coaxes you closer. Now you know what he smells like. You know what scent has been demanding your attention since you noticed it. His rut. That heated and heavy scent that promises many dark and pleasurable things.

Do you really have it in you to say no? Despite everything, can you refuse Galan now? His scent keeps tempting you, calling to your instincts, demanding you agree, but you know you can walk away. You can still say no, leave, and he’ll let you go. But, do you want to?

“Are you coming then?”

How the hell are you supposed to say no?

Before you can answer, he takes a deep breath and a grin bares his teeth. He already knows what you’re going to say.

Fuck.

#andres galan #andres galan x reader #alfred molina #fanfic #molina-fix writes

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molina-fix · 2 years

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process for this painting

#art #fanart #alfred molina #doc ock #otto octavius #doc ock art

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molina-fix · 2 years

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More nasty TSS!Otto coming soon~

See it posted early through my Patreon!

#art #fanart #doc ock #otto octavius #doc ock art

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molina-fix · 2 years

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No context. Just another stupid little fan art.

Ballpoint pen, scanned and digitally colored.

#fanart #art #doc ock #otto octavius #dock ock art

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molina-fix · 2 years

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(18+)

*banging pans together* Horvath simps!!! Over here!!! Here's a little something I've been working on for a while, a smutty Horvath oneshot! I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

#fanfic #spellbound #maxim horvath #reader #maxim horvath x reader #sorcerers apprentice #rated: e

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molina-fix · 2 years

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Sí, Señor Galan ::: Andrés Galan x Reader

Chapter 1 ::: Next

Summary: Perfection. A man such as Andrés Galan would accept nothing less. So, for the past three years you have been nothing but a perfect personal assistant. Until recently…

Rated: E

Words: 4.1k words

Tags/Warnings: 18+ content, Alpha/Omega Dynamics, Alpha!Andrés, Omega!Reader, Vomiting, Alcohol, Possessive Behavior, Spanish, Reader speaks Spanish here, so... Congrats!

Other: Well, my friends... I couldn't resist. You take a good long look at Andrés and try to tell me he doesn't fit the Alpha type. You can't say that to me, he's perfect for it!

Now before I let you all go on to read, a special thanks to my bestest buddy WeenisBeenis for helping me by beta'ing this fic <3

Alright, I'm done. Enjoy!

Or! Read on AO3!

Chapter 1 - Working 9 to 5?

Perfection. A man such as Andrés Galan would accept nothing less. So, for the past three years you have been nothing but a perfect personal assistant. Day after day, you have repeated the same three phrases: “Of course, Señor Galan”, “Right away, Señor Galan”, and “Sí, Señor Galan”. Not once have you denied, questioned, or even failed his many requests and demands. You’ve helped him choose a tie, organized his notes, and even chaperoned his daughter. Nothing has been too big or too small. You’ve been perfect and have given your boss absolutely no reason to complain about you.

Until recently.

It started with a sweet smile and soft-looking red hair. Stern’s secretary had approached you, bold in their obvious flirtations. You didn’t discourage it. With your bosses meetings over, you’d seen no harm in allowing the sweet-scented secretary to stand close to you, speaking in a low, pleasing tone. Then Galan had shown up, a sneer curling his lip, looking like he’d just caught you getting knotted in the middle of the office. He placed his hand on your shoulder and placed himself between the two of you. It seemed almost possessive, the way he was growling, not letting you go until he’d sent Stern’s secretary scurrying off, but it was foolish of the omega in you to even think he was defending you from a rival. Before the door had even closed all the way, Galan was loudly berating you for your unprofessional behavior.

That had been a few days ago, but Galan has been punishing you ever since. Sending you on tasks far below your pay grade, demanding things in less than half the time they would take you to do, he even stopped taking you to any meetings with him. He clearly insisted that he could not have you, “throwing yourself at every secretary that crosses your path.”

Did some harmless flirting truly warrant this level of punishment and hostility? Had scolding you in Stern’s office not been enough? Was he not tired of constantly lamenting his poor judgment in choosing you, an omega, as his personal assistant?

And now this…

Through blurry, tired eyes you stare at the screen in front of you. You scroll down, staring at the rows of files you’ve completed, and the ones you still have left to do. This is a punishment, and a cruel one at that. You’ve been sitting at your desk for hours now, staring at the unforgiving light of the computer screen, going through document after document, clicking, scrolling, correcting, sending, typing… There is no end in sight. The little black letters seem to multiply beyond your comprehension, becoming hazy the longer you stare at them. They look like black scribbles, as unfathomable to you as a book is to a dog.

The task is simple enough, but the fact that it is only you undertaking the enormous amount of work, paired with Galan’s harsh delivery of the command and the mere digital nature of it, has led to more than a few errant tears. You’re not just alone in your work, but in the office too, the light at your desk is the only one lit in all the space around you. Everyone has gone home for the day, but you are not to leave until you are done. That was Galan’s exact order.

Sitting here alone, staring at line after line of maddening black text on a white background, you become more and more certain that he doesn’t need this done. No, Galan doesn’t need any of this. You’ve done your job perfectly from the start, so how is it that he suddenly finds fault in the notes you made for him two years before, in an agreement that is no longer viable? He doesn’t need you here, at your desk, crying, hungry, a headache throbbing at your temples. This is Galan’s true punishment!

And for what? Flirting with Stern’s secretary? Was that it? You grind your teeth as you close your current document. Why does it matter to him who you flirt with? It’s not like you belong to him, he doesn’t even like you. He’d made that perfectly clear from the second you started working for him. The way he’d sneered at you, nose wrinkled like you were repugnant to him, burns in your mind's eye. “Wear scent blockers,” he had said, “If I wanted to be surrounded by the scent of an omega, I’d find myself a whore.” That had hurt, but you had obeyed. You aren’t here to be an omega, to entice and seduce your alpha boss, to fall in love with him and have him fall in love with you. No, you’re here to work and you have been his perfect assistant ever since.

Until now, apparently.

You’ve dealt with many of Galan’s moods, from his self righteous anger as a father after arguing with Senna, to his overwhelming anger due to deals gone wrong. You’ve seen him drunk and seen him so sullen, the color seemed almost to drain from him. You’ve heard him cry out in joy, whether it was the Riot scoring, or he’d acquired some new asset. You’ve been present for nearly all of his possible moods and you’ve taken them all in stride, but his aloofness since a few days ago, his cold dismissal of you, has been digging thorns into your mind. Somehow, as you look around your space, at your clean desk and the empty office, you know, this is the final straw.

Taking a moment for yourself, you stand from your chair and straighten your arms above your head, stretching out your back until it cracks with a few satisfying pops. Now you’re very hungry and the headache pulses loudly in your head. You sit back down and shield your eyes from the glare of the monitor by pressing your palms to your eyes.

You’re tired of files and documents, of black walls of text and a clock that seems reluctant to move forward. You’re still not finished, perhaps not even close, but you’re too scared to check how much work you have left to do. Just a small break , that’s all you need.

“I’m finished for the day,” your own voice echoes in your head as you think back to earlier this afternoon. You were ready to go home, ready to eat and watch that new series all your friends have been talking about. “Is there anything else I can do before I go?” Fool . You were so sure he wouldn’t need anything, not after such a long day, you were basically halfway out the door. But you had to ask.

“As a matter of fact, there is.” Those few words had doomed your evening plans, but you hardly heard him, you were far more focused on the strong smell of cologne in his office. You couldn’t help but notice it every time you came in. It was an alluring, rich smell and it grew closer as he approached. Galan walked towards you, pushing past and expecting you to follow.

Naturally, you did.

“I need all of these documents reviewed, and organized. Some of them may need to be corrected, so I’ll need you to be thorough.” Galan had made you sit at your desk and had directed you towards the neverending list of files. “I need them all done.” Here, he had stooped over a bit, crowding your space and looking you in the eye. He’d never been particularly kind towards you, but it was impossible not to feel all of the rage he was directing at you then, and you were left feeling horribly small. “You are not to leave until you are done. Do I make myself clear?” His low tone and bared teeth left little room for argument, not that you would have. Andrés Galan always got what he wanted and so, you hadn’t left your desk since.

Now, you are truly suffering. “Is this what you wanted, Señor ?” You cringe at the venom in your own voice as you speak the title into the empty room. You squeeze your eyes tight before opening them to the glare of the monitor, and you determine, this is it. You’re done. You’ve dealt with so much throughout these three years: his mood swings, his lack of gratitude, his demeaning you for being an omega, a callous disregard for your own personal needs, and just so much bullshit… Gritting your teeth with a snarl, you allow your frustration to overcome you.

You’re finished with this. With this work. With Andrés Galan. With all of it.

But first, you’re going to finish your job right.

Braving a quick peek at the list, you scroll down. There is not as much left to be done as you had feared, but still enough for your stomach to groan in dismay. You probably won’t be eating tonight, but you set your chin and take a deep breath. The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll finish. Determination fills you as you fight the consuming agony of your headache to refocus on your work.

A sudden ringing interrupts your workflow and reawakens all the maladies that ail you. Pressing your fingers against your temples, you reach over for your phone. The screen reads, 2:17am, the caller, Andrés Galan.

You look at the open document. You’re so close to finishing all of your work, that you just hope he isn’t calling to check up on you. How embarrassing would that be?

You receive the call with a slight grimace, “Señor Galan, how can I be–”

He doesn’t greet you as he interrupts. “My driver is unavailable at this hour and Senna is too drunk to drive.”

His intention is clear, you’re at least relieved he didn’t call to ask about the files. “Of course, Señor Galan. Right away.” The phone clicks as he hangs up without another word. You stare at it until it goes black and only then does it occur to you that he failed to mention where you could find Senna. You could always call her, but she has always ignored your calls and texts. All you ever get from her is a little bubble that says, ‘Read’.

Still, you decide to call. You don’t exactly want to wander around the city at this hour looking for her. Immediately, you’re sent to voicemail. You text her, a small, clear message, that she can’t possibly ignore. It says ‘Read’ as soon as you send it. She doesn’t reply.

Lucky for you, this is not the first time you’ve been asked to play chauffeur for Galan’s daughter and you have a good idea of all the places she likes to go. A last glance at the monitor shows you how close you are to finishing all the work you had been assigned, but of Galan’s priorities, Senna is without a doubt, at the top. You’ll just have to finish later.

As you drive, your headache pounds relentlessly and your stomach growls like a wild beast. Assaulted by your ailments, you search for relief, stretching your hand out blindly through whatever areas you can reach, seeking a free ranging snack or some pills that will quiet your head. Your search reveals an unfortunate lack of anything that may help. Perhaps, once you have Senna, you can stop by somewhere and grab a quick bite to eat.

You arrive at the first of three locations you know Senna likes. It’s a dingy nightclub, with lights outside that flicker on and off and a questionable, foul-smelling liquid that constantly drips from numerous cracks in the wall. You leave the safety of your car and walk towards the door, the music so loud it rumbles the pieces of loose concrete beneath your feet. The bouncer sees you coming and after a quick once over, recognizes you. “Sorry, Senna ain’t here tonight.”

Not a problem, except it happens at the second location too. This place is a little cleaner than the last, and Senna’s favorite. You almost always find her here, but as you approach, the bouncer shakes his head, “Senna ain’t been here in about a month.”

If she would just answer her phone, your life would be easy. You wouldn’t have to drive around L.A. at these ungodly hours of the morning, hungry and in pain. But of course, it’s as though Senna makes a living off of making you suffer. You only hope you’ll find her at the last place, dreading what happens next if you don’t.

You get dizzy as you walk to the door, and you brace yourself on the wall for support as the bouncer calls out to you. They greet you by name and smile wide as you manage to shake off the dizziness and approach. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Looking for Senna?”

A quiet nod is all you can manage. Here, at the door, the music is already so loud, its rhythmic thumping aggravates your headache. It feels like someone has taken a jackhammer straight to your head.

“She’s inside.”

“Thanks,” you manage a smile as they let you inside.

What was already an acute agony as you stood outside, swiftly becomes absolutely intolerable once you go in. The music crashes sharply against your skull, the lights make you dizzy all over again as they flash and move around. People bump into you, left and right. Some mutter distracted apologies, others move on, completely unaware you’re even there. You’re jostled this way and that as you go further, overheated bodies that smell like sweat and alcohol, pressing in close to you.

That’s the worst of it, the intermingling scents of so many people creating a cacophony that assaults your senses. The smell becomes one the longer you breathe, until you’re unable to pick out or identify a single scent. You detest every inhalation, even breathing through your mouth makes no difference. The scents run like a foul taste across your palate, leaving you to gag on nothing but air.

You long to go outside. Even the smoggy atmosphere of Los Angeles is preferable to this detestable place. But you push through, determined to find the young woman who enjoys making your life miserable.

You find her in the back. In a booth littered with more cocktails than you could ever possibly hope to name, Senna sits with two young, virile-looking men. They hang off of her, attention absolutely riveted to the smaller woman between them as they cage her in. One of them is openly groping her, the other pushes a drink into her hand. None of them notice you until you’re standing right in front of the booth.

Everything stops. Hands drop away from unseen body parts and drinks are placed back on the table. You feel like a teacher interrupting a rowdy class and sending everyone back to their seats with only a look. A small prickle of pride tickles in your chest. You’re glad you interrupted them, glad to have cut their fun short. After such a long night, you’ll delight in any small victory you can get.

“Ugh, you?” Senna shoves the men off and knocks back the drink still in her hand. Her fingers are wet from the condensation when she puts it back down. “My dad was supposed to send his driver, not his little omega secretary.”

Cute… You roll your eyes, one would think she would be expecting you after you texted. “His driver was unavailable. Now come on.”

Shoving one of the guys shoulders, Senna leaves the booth. She stumbles towards you immediately, legs too shaky to hold her up straight and you catch her cold hand to steady her. So close now, you catch a smell that turns your stomach.

One of the guys struggles out of the booth, reaching out for Senna and placing his hands on her waist. “We’ll come with.”

He pulls her a little, but you tighten your grip on her hand, and bring her even closer to yourself. The fog in your head clears a little, and this time when your gut twists and your stomach tightens, it’s not from hunger. “No.”

A sudden tension settles in the space as the young man straightens up to his full height. His lips downturn, frowning deeply and he growls. The sound is strong and overpowering, typical alpha behavior, meant to bully and intimidate anyone who would oppose them.

And it almost works. Your omega physiology would typically respond to the growl, to the clear warning he is giving you. He is physically superior and could easily move you aside or cause you harm. Usually, instinct would tell you to give in and allow him to take what he wants, if only to save yourself.

Then he reaches for Senna again.

Far from the fear he is trying to induce in you, you’re consumed by a quiet rage. His hands are still outstretched, fingers reaching across the space. You step back, pulling Senna with you. She comes along, quiet and passive. The scent from before, becomes more obvious, almost acrid. You resist the urge to wrinkle your nose against it. “Don’t touch her.” You don’t yell or shout, but despite the loud hum all around you, it’s clear he hears you. He stops reaching, hand suspended uselessly in the air.

His buddy, now free of the plush seats of the booth, glances back and forth between you both. His scent becomes nervous the longer you glare at his friend, each second that ticks by seemingly thickening the bitter smell of his agitation until it overpowers even the scent of his friend. “Hey man, c’mon,” he says, voice wavering, “Let it go.”

Senna sways in your hold, relying on you completely to stand straight. Her hands grip you tightly, painfully. You’re not going to let her go.

Then, with a grunt, the young man breaks the stand off, waving you off dismissively and walking away.

You sag beneath the sudden release of pressure, holding onto Senna more tightly than you thought you were. You almost don’t hear her call your name over the music, but her grip on you tightens even more, and she digs her fingers into your arm demanding attention. Looking her over, despite the lighting, her panic is clear. The acrid smell becomes pungent.

“I’m going to–”

She doesn’t need to say anything else as you rush her to the back, pulling her along behind you in a hurry. You slam through the restroom door, half guiding, half shoving her in the direction of one of the stalls. She’s hardly on her knees before she’s heaving into the bowl in front of her, producing sounds and smells that make your own stomach tighten in response.

Willing the urge to gag away, you step into the stall with Senna. Her dark hair falls forward, loosely bouncing against the rim of the toilet. Gently, you gather it, holding it as you crouch with her. You place your other hand on her back, mindlessly tracing in what you hope is a soothing manner. At the very least, you hope that the contact eases her, assures her she is safe.

After a while she lifts her head, sniffing and clutching the bowl between both hands as though she can’t bear to let it go.

You grimace, wondering when it was last cleaned. It’s a useless thought that serves no other purpose other than to make you feel even worse.

“I’m sorry,” comes her quiet voice. She’s still looking down at the mess, talking into it. You briefly wonder if she’s talking to the toilet, apologizing for expelling the contents of her stomach into it, but then she turns to you, glancing up at you with wide eyes that are sad and wet. “Those two guys were being creeps and I didn’t–”

“Hey,” you shake your head and speak softly, “No, mija, no. It’s okay.” Her eyes shine with unshed tears. Despite how sticky the floor is beneath your shoes, you plop yourself down next to her. You try not to think about what could have made the floor so messy, and focus instead on brushing her hair back. “You never have to apologize for needing help. Ever. You’re okay now. You’re safe and I’m going to get you home. Okay?”

She nods again, looking downcast. “I’m an alpha. I’m supposed to be strong and I’m supposed to protect and not need…,” she trails off.

“Not need your dad’s little omega secretary to come to your rescue?” She nods, and shrugs her shoulders weakly. “I know it feels that way, but I promise you, there is nothing wrong with needing help, even from your dad’s little omega secretary, okay? And don’t worry,” you add with a cheeky smile, “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

You both sit there in silence for another while. Senna seems reluctant to leave the safety of the toilet bowl, still clutching it, but soon, she calms down enough that you feel free to stand from the sticky mess of the floor and go wet a paper towel. You hand it to her and offer your hand to help her stand. She refuses with a shake of her head, staying on the floor.

Concerned by the way she’s avoiding you now, you ask, “Are you okay, mija?”

For a long moment, she doesn’t answer. She just stares at the wet towel in her hand, squeezing it in her fist until the water pushes through her fingers and down her knuckles. Then she shakes her head. No.

Senna’s shoulders begin to shake and you’re on your knees quickly, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her to you as she starts to cry. Typically, you’d find yourself at a loss, unsure how to comfort the young woman, but her wretched, gasping sobs and her distressed scent fills the space around you, and stirs your instincts.

Wrapping your arms around her, you quietly begin to purr. It’s a low, near quiet hum that slowly grows louder until her sobbing begins to quiet. Senna goes still, listening to the sound that all omegas use to comfort their children. You become worried. Her stillness and sudden quiet, make you wonder if you’ve overstepped a boundary. You may have done something wrong or even insulted her, a grown, though young, alpha woman, by treating her like a child.

After a moment of absolute quiet, Senna tucks her head between your neck and shoulder. Her arms come around your torso, hugging you as tightly as she can. She doesn’t reject you, and she allows you to hug her back, clinging to her as strongly as she is holding you. You don’t say anything, neither does she, but she sniffles wetly as you continue to purr.

It takes a while for Senna’s breathing to even out and for her scent to return to normal. You stop humming then, assured that she is feeling better, but she doesn’t let you go. Through her sniffles, she starts to laugh very softly, “My dad is right about you.” You know she is talking to herself, her voice too soft to be directed at you, but her words pique your interest nonetheless. What could she mean? You don’t get a chance to think about it because then, she gives you one last tight squeeze that makes your ribs ache, and finally pulls away to use the wet towel you had given her before.

Sitting there, on the grimy bathroom floor, Senna smiles at you for the first time.

“Let’s get you home, okay?”

The drive to her home is mostly quiet. Senna sits curled in the front seat, one of her legs tucked underneath her as she clicks aimlessly through the radio. Your hunger and headache return with a vengeance. You’d so easily forgotten them when Senna needed you, but now in the stillness of your car, the pit of your stomach gurgles and your headache drills holes through your skull. You’re grateful to see the lights of her home looming ahead.

Senna stares out the window, subdued and tired. “You’re not going to tell my dad, are you?”

You shake your head when she meets your eyes. “It’s not for me to tell.”

With a wide smile, the young woman reaches across the center console, wrapping her arms around your neck and hugs you. “I guess, you’re not so bad for some little omega secretary.”

“And you’re not too terrible for a spoiled, bratty alpha.”

You don’t leave until you see her reach the front door and disappear inside. Only then, do you look at the glowing numbers on your dashboard. 5:02. Your stomach growls out loud.

I know! I know! Not a lot of Andres here. Sorry? Stick around though! I swear there will be LOTS of him in the next chapter <3

#andres galan #andres galan x reader #alfred molina #fanfic #molina-fix writes

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