#(but it was because it was a tool turned *against* minorities to speak over them and police their self-expression most of the time)

[rawliverandgoronspice]

genuinely bewildered at how it's just g@merg@te again. like it's just exactly the same strategy, except now it's a cabal of dark and sinister narrative designers instead of "there are women near my games" but it's like the same fucking thing and I'm so tired honestly

[donutz]

Sebastian Solace x mute & transgender! reader

It's your first time meeting Sebastian, though.. Your kind soul warms his cold heart

— Sebastian doesn't have that much of a cold heart though so Idk where I was going with that one

Warning: Stitches and needles; Mentions of gashes; Sebastian warms up pretty quickly, I don't like it that much but hey🤷‍♀️; "Signing, looks, like, this".; There's tension, not sure if it's sexual but there's tension;

Speed walking through the halls, you constantly looked around you. Anxious for another monster to pop up. Especially those Squiddles… When it came to even darker rooms you jogged through, hating it when you had to search for a keycard.

You were injured, not too bad. Just a gash in your thigh.

*Good thing it couldn’t chop off anything..*

*I wish it got chopped off.*

It’s hard to breathe or really walk anywhere with your binding(If you do bind). After that ‘minor�� injury, you searched through the drawers and lockers, looking for a medkit. Since you found a flashlight earlier, it might be possible to find a medkit.

You look up at the door number, slightly aching your eyes. Immediately looking down at the ground, you repeat what you saw in your head.

‘Door 48’.

It hurts to blink, to walk. Limping your way into the next room. Expecting anything, except a flying vent grille.

“Got something for ya, come here”.

You jump, yipping in your head. You look around for any flashing lights or peering bright green eyes. Maybe even a squiddle? No, none of them.

“C’monnn, I got good things for you, my own shop.”

You physically quivered. Walking over to the vent, and exhaling while crawling through the tight space. Your wound opening up more.

Reaching the end of the vent, you look around, not seeing much. Until a comforting light turns on.

“Welcome, welcome”!

You jump. Bumping your head against the metal vent.

“Oh… You alright?”

Sebastian wasn’t sure why he said that. He just met you! Worrying about a human… Ridiculous.

You shake your head in response. Bumping your head hurt more than it normally would. You’re stressed, hurt, and scared. Not a great combo.

You look at him, signing, “You,speak, sign, language?”

Sebastian’s eyebrows(?) rose.

“Oh! Um”..

“No”. He accidentally signs.

You tilt your head, confused. 

“You.. Don’t”??

He lightly slaps his face. Realizing he said the wrong thing.

“No I do, kind of”.

“I, just, signed, the, wrong, thing”. He sighs.

You show a surprised look on your face. Though it’s not very visible through your darkened visor. You smile, happy that someone could finally understand you. Even if they weren’t really human.

“I’ll talk, though. If that’s.. Nevermind, my name is Sebastian.”

You finally crawl out of the vent, more comfortable now that you know he’s more kind than any other monster down here. Looking around it seems like this small area is a shop.

Oh wait, he said that earlier.

“If I’m correct, you’re… Instructors told you to grab a crystal and secure loose assets. Well as a trade, you give me the data and I give you useful items. It seems like you need a healing tool for that… Gash”.

It seems like you forgot all about that. Maybe it was because you were too focused on Sebastian.

“Well I do have a medkit for that, just 250 research will do the trick.”

Opening your bag, you check how much you have. Your bag pops up a holographic screen of the amount of data you’ve collected.

Around 1755 data.. That’s more than enough.

You walk over to his tail, picking up the medkit and setting it on the ground to collect the right amount of data for it. Maybe even adding an extra tip to give to Sebastian.

You hand him 300 research, smiling because of your appreciation for his kindness. He counts how much there are, his mouth scrunching from confusion.

“Hey— you.. Gave me extra. It’s only 250—”

“I, know”.

“I, just, wanted, to, give, you, extra. Because, of, how, kind, you’ve, been, to, me”.

It was as if your face was glowing within your gear. You’re a very kind human.

“... Why thank you”. But this isn’t a trick right? Urbanshade isn’t trying to make me all soft?

I’m not sure if I can trust this one.

You buy the flash beacon next, giving him the correct amount. Now you only have 1205 research left. Standing up, you hear a pop in your knees from crouching.

Sebastian visibly cringes from that sound, he isn’t very used to that sound. Not anymore.

Peering at the table, you spot a document. Sebastian looks away from you, looking at the light meters high.

You look at him, and he looks back at you. Side eyeing.

“Who’s, document, is, this”?

“That document is mine.. Urbanshade makes documents on every creature or prisoner they have. They probably even have one on you”.

You look back at the document, pondering.

“Is, this, for, sale”?

“Yes, for 1000 research of course”.

You’re surprised at that large amount of ‘money’, but it is reasonable. It’s not like you would want anybody reading a document about you for a small amount. Especially if you’re more of a private person.

“I’ll, buy, it”.

Sebastian’s mouth lightly gapes, “You really have that much”?

You giggle, nodding at him, finding his surprised look funny. You hand over the data, while Sebastian smiles. Mainly because he can use this against Urbanshade, but also because of you. You’re not really like any other human he’s seen or heard of. 

You’re a kind soul.

“I’ll have that ready for you when you’re at the surface”.

Smiling even wider, you step, putting a bit too much pressure on your right leg, causing a sharp pain to shoot throughout it.

You whimper, stepping closer to the wall to sit down. Right near the vent.

“Oh my, you really need that fixed don’t you”?

Nodding, you sigh.

“Do, you, know, how, to, stitch”?

He’s taken aback, it’s not like he thought you knew how to stitch an injury or something. It’s just because he might have to get close. Close to a human.

“I-.. Yes. I do”. He stuttered.

You notice his visible discomfort and worriedly sign, “You, don’t, have, to, if, you, don’t, want, to. I, see, that, you’ve, gone, through, enough, already”.

“When, it, comes, to, humans.” 

He gasps, staying silent as he takes in what you signed. Yes, he has been through enough when it comes through humans.

But you’re different.

“No it’s fine r-really! I’ll stitch it up for you”. He's still not sure why he's acting like this.

He bends down to your height, being careful with his tail. He’d let you rest against it but… Maybe that’s too far.

A few seconds later, he has the smaller needles and thread carefully sat  between his larger claws.

It’s quiet, minus the low ringing of the lights, and the slight swoosh of the fan.

“Okay uhm.. Deep.. Breaths…”

Inhale

He sticks the small needle through your skin, flinching at the feeling. Though it wasn’t too bad.. Just a hard pinch.

Exhaleee….

You might as well fall asleep because of the earlier adrenaline. And god. That hurt. Nevermind a hard pinch, that felt like getting— Ughh. I don’t even want to describe it.

You throw your head back looking up at the heightened ceiling.

… Do you think that’s where Sebastian crawled from?

Like maybe in a vent or something..?

… Sorry—

Pinch!

You grab his sleeve.

“I’m sorry alright! I don’t mean to—” He looks at you. Letting out a sigh.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just…” He inhaled.

Looking at him, “Stressed”? You signed.

Scrunching his eyes, glad you know what he’s feeling. 

Exhaling, “Yeah. Stressed”.

“It’s, okay. I, don’t, mind. I’m, not, the, one, stitching, after, all”. You let out a small laugh. So does he.

“.. Thank you”.

He loops through 3 more times, just one more loop left. During the three loops, you were holding his hand. Warming it up, warm blooded and cold blooded.

Literally and mentally.

“Alright just one more left and we’re done”.

Finally.

Going through the last loop, he tightens the stitches, holding your hand tighter now that he’s finishes his work.

You observe it, astonished at the fine service.

Looking up at him, smiling, you sign, “Thank, you”.

“S, E, B, A, S, T, I, A, N”.

“You’re.. Welcome”...

You slowly start to lose your vision, falling to your right, which leads to Sebastian catching your body with his tail.

“O- Oh”...

I did a different writing style on purpose, I think. Idk I wanted to sound like a professional writer on A03.

[calabria-mediterranea]

Occitan is still spoken in Southern Italy's Calabria

Blessed with one of the most beautiful languages, Italy is also home to a plethora of linguistic minorities, twelve to be precise, across fourteen regions, with almost three million speakers. The Occitan linguistic minority of the Alpine valleys of Northern Italy's Piedmont and Liguria is probably one of the most well known, also because of the importance the language had in the history of European culture and literature: the Langue d’Oc and its poetry inspired the troubadours of Provence, in Southern France. In those days, Occitan was spoken in the South of France, from the Atlantic to the Alps, but today only small pockets of Occitan-speaking people exists, mostly across the Alpine valleys of France, Liguria, Piedmont and in thr town Guardia Piemontese, in Southern Italy's Calabria. 

How did Occitan speaking people end up from the mountains of Northern Italy to the southernmost region of the Italian peninsula?

It’s a long story, one that brings us back to the 13th century, to a religious minority called Waldensians and to the fact Calabria is known for being a welcoming land for all those seeking refuge, from Greeks to Albanians and Jews.

The Waldensian movement had developed in the Cottian Alps between France and Northern Italy towards the end of the 12th century, most likely thanks to the contributions of Peter Waldo (from whom the movement took its name). Waldensians lived a life of asceticism and poverty, but some of their more extreme views — lack of faith in transubstantiation and having associated the Catholic church with the “harlot of the Apocalypse” — turned them into religious pariah and victims of persecution across Europe.

A considerable group of Waldensians moved to Calabria in the 13th century to escape persecution in Northern Italy and the land of Calabria proved to be a blessing, because its fertile soil allowed the development of a prosperous community.

Guardia Piemontese is a town on the Western coast of Northern Calabria.

The date of Guardia's foundation is unknown, and the name of the place has changed several times in history. "Guardia" means watch or lookout, and this name is probably related to a lookout tower built in the 11th century. Such lookout towers were built to warn against Arab pirates, then called Saracens, ravaging the coast.

For the first century, the community of Guardia cohabited peacefully with their Catholic neighbors, but things tragically changed when the Waldensians decided to join the Protestant Reform: then, they became the enemy and victims of a religious persecution that was to obliterate them in the early summer of 1561. Those tragic events are still remembered today in Guardia Piemontese, thanks to a monument called La Porta del Sangue, (the Gate of blood), a memento to the violence that killed so many and forced many others to conversion.

Despite the suppression of their religion, the people of Guardia, or La Gàrdia, as they call it, have continued to use their distinct Occitan dialect, Gardiòl. Not surprisingly, it has been influenced by the speech of their neighbours in Calabria. For example, Gardiòl has adopted the use of retroflex consonants, common in Sicily and southern Italy.

The traditions that the Waldensians brought from Piedmont to Calabria, such as the Occitan language and certain customs, have survived over the centuries right through to the present day.

In 1863 the name Guardia was changed to Guardia Piemontese, to honor the geographical origins of the Waldensians.

On 5 June 2011, 450 years after the massacre in Guardia, the Waldensian Church opened a museum and cultural centre in the town. The museums tells the story of how the Waldensians arrived all the way in Calabria and preserves agricultural tools, the traditional clothing of Guardia Piemontese, made with a particular yarn of broom and the famous hurdy gurdy, an French instrument of medieval origins. In the Occitan valleys in Italy, the hurdy-gurdy was the traveling companion of buskers.

The Waldensian Church and the municipal authorities now collaborate closely in cultural affairs. Numerous ecumenical events have been planned together with the local Catholic community to mark the 500th anniversary of the Reformation.

Follow us on Instagram, @calabria_mediterranea

[split-spectrum]

Four Hours

Chapter 2

(Complete)

Pairings: Din Djarin/FemReader

Warnings/Tags: explicit content, swearing, mild violence, SMUT, 18+ minors please DNI

Description: A quiet day in the repair bay goes sideways quickly when the Mandalorian next door catches you stealing his tools.

☆☆☆

It's been one hour, now.

He's standing in front of a makeshift table built of cargo containers, cleaning his weapons and glancing at you every few minutes. Four hours. Four hours is what you'd told him when he'd asked how long you'd need to wait out the poison. Time is ticking by agonizingly, and you can feel every second of it. You'd spent most of the first hour watching hyperspace streak past in the cockpit before your eyes had started to ache and you'd followed him down below, into the main cargo hold.

"Can I give you a hand?" you ask him from across the room where you're seated on a smaller cargo container. Based on the rest of his ship's inventory, you can guess the containers are either filled with weapons or ammunition. It seems to be the recurring theme. 

"No." He answers quietly, then adds, "Thank you."

The silence starts up again, and you want to fight against it. It's not uncomfortable silence; it's just a blanket that seems to follow him. But you want to talk, now more than ever. You want to be occupied.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He says nothing, but it's an inviting sort of nothing.

"Why did you help me? Why are you helping me?"

He places a piece of the blaster he's currently disassembling onto the shelf. "Because you asked."

That catches you so off guard that you don't respond for a moment. "There has to be more to it than that."

He clicks the firing mechanism back into place, holding the blaster at a distance and tilting his head to inspect it. You wait, then give up on a response.

The poison edges a little deeper into your bloodstream...

Or does it?

Your eyes close briefly as you try to push the thoughts from your mind. You'll either live or die, or you'll live in a different way. One way or the other, these hours will end. The only way to get there is to pass the time.

When you draw your gaze back over to the table, he's finished with the previous blaster and picked up a different one. You sink back into your seat, trying to come up with another reason for him to speak to you, and look down at your arm, still purple. The dark, blurred mark on your skin is starting to form into the distinct outline of his hand.

"You still haven't apologized for this," you say, holding it up. 

He glances over to what you're indicating, making you a little self-conscious. Your arm drops back into your lap while he looks at you.

"Where I come from, thieves are punished."

Your lip quirks. "I'm not a thief. I explained everything, remember?"

His helmet angles back down to the weapon. "You took things that didn't belong to you."

"And I brought them back," you point out.

"Yeah. That's why you're still breathing."

Your chest flutters a little, and your face heats. You've known a lot of hunters, and you've heard a lot of the same empty threats. This Mandalorian, you're starting to realize, is in a class all his own. His comment isn't careless; he didn't say it to intimidate. He means it. And it stirs something in you. 

You don't have anything to say in argument, and after a moment, you try a different subject.

"You know, I can't afford to pay you much for this," you admit softly. You can't afford to pay him anything, really. You'll hardly be able to cover his fuel costs.

"You don't need to pay."

It's your turn to be silent, now. You bring your eyes back up. "Why would you do this for nothing?"

His visor lowers from your eyes down to the side of your body again. "Your... arm. It's... something I try not to do. Hurt people who aren't deserving."

You shift in discomfort and despite his serious tone, you let a little smirk escape. "Might be in the wrong profession for that."

He doesn't answer, and he doesn't move his gaze from your arm for a while. Slowly, he goes back to his work. 

You know a joke probably wasn't the right response, but it makes you uncomfortable when people are too sincere. Unfortunately for you, sincerity seems to be his default setting. "Besides, have you considered I'm more deserving than you think? You haven't asked why he was trying to kill me."

He still doesn't ask. But you tell him anyway, after a moment's hesitation. "I killed his brother."

He stops looking at the blaster. You squirm again. Is he... angry? Surprised? Is he judging you? You don't like it.

"Everyone is somebody's brother, Mando."

"I know."

He says it quietly, softly, and you can hear in his voice that he means it. He knows. The same way you know.

"Something you should know about me, though..." you offer a more genuine tone. "I try not to hurt people who don't deserve it, either."

From the way he slows his movements, you can see he's listening and he takes your meaning, but he says nothing in return. It really makes you want to tell him the whole story - to prove that you're more than a ruthless killer - but you bite back the words. You don't know why you feel you owe him an explanation.

Instead, you just stand up and walk closer. "Another thing you should know: I pay my debts. So..." You hesitate, pulse quickening as you lower your voice. "Maybe there's another way I could show you my appreciation."

Both his hands go still. "You don't owe me anything."

You bite your lip nervously, then decide to take another chance and push further. "Maybe I want to, anyway."

You watch his helmet for any sign, any reaction. Nothing. Your heart is thrumming wildly now, but you force yourself not to look away.

He places the gun down flat on the table and his helmet tilts just slightly in your direction. "What you're thinking... is a bad idea."

A jolt of excitement runs through you. You'd expected an immediate "no".

"Oh? I don't think so. Why do you think so?"

When he turns to look at you properly, in this close proximity, it's the first time you realize how big he is. His shoulders dwarf you on both sides. "Call it intuition."

"Maybe your intuition isn't as good as you think it is."

The broad chest in front of you slowly rising and falling is the only movement between the two of you. "Kept me alive this long."

"So what is your intuition telling you about me, exactly?" you press, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. 

You catch the faintest shift beneath the fabric covering his neck.

"That you're as likely to fuck me..." He leans his head down, lowering his voice even further. "...as you are to kill me."

Your whole body tingles with electricity, his velvet voice raising the hair on the back of your neck. You can hardly breathe your words back at him, but you force yourself to speak. "So you're afraid of me?"

He pauses, and you wait. It's a line you've used before on many a hunter, and you can't wait to see the effect it will have on him. They love to assert dominance. You can tell it'll drive him where you want him to go. 

But you keep waiting, and his hands don't move. His body remains where it is. He finally shifts his weight to his other leg and speaks. 

"What is it that you want from me?"

This throws you. You're pinned beneath the intensity of his black stare, and you open your mouth just to close it again with no response. You mentally cycle through several lies and irreverant, vulgar comments. Finally, you settle on the truth. "A... distraction."

Another pause. You know it's impossible to see, but his expression behind the metal seems so clear. Somehow, you know his eyes are fixed on yours, and that his brows are dark, and that they're raised at you. "That's it?"

You swallow. "That's it."

He shifts almost imperceptibly closer to you. "And if the poison hits you? What then?"

"I told you, that won't happen for another couple of hours."

"That's why I asked."

Fuck. That shoots straight to your core, making you bold enough to carefully, tentatively reach out a hand and graze his armored stomach with your fingertips.

He lets you drop your fingers lower to where his belt hangs, and then he speaks again, voice a little thicker, a little more breath behind it. 

"How do I know you even know what you're doing? It could be affecting you already." 

You're distracted with tracing a line across his belt, slipping your fingers behind it to feel the fabric padding his armor. You don't answer right away. He stops your hand when it slides behind his belt to remove it. 

"I asked you a question."

You look back up at him, loving the way his voice surrounds you, up close like this. "You want to know if I'm drugged? I'm not. That's not how it works."

His neck rolls to the side a bit as he inspects you, clearly weighing whether or not to believe you. He's still holding your wrist, but you push against his grip and unclip his belt, grasping it with one hand. "If you don't believe it, ask me a question. Test me."

His belt makes a heavy clinking sound as you set it down on the table next to his blaster. 

The Mandalorian says nothing.

You slowly and carefully lift up the fabric covering his stomach, giving yourself access to his waistline.

The Mandaloran says nothing.

Your breath is getting quicker and more shallow with every second. You slowly separate a line between the bottom of his armor and the top of his pants, revealing a strip of beautifully tan skin.

The Mandalorian says nothing.

Your fingertips glide over him, almost working of their own accord, and you hear a whisper of a breath through the modulator when you dip your thumbs first upward, to briefly feel the muscle beneath his shirt, and then down to stretch his waistband and allow you to get into his pants properly. 

His stomach pulls inward and the contact seems to jolt him into finally speaking. "What star system was the hangar in? What planet was it orbiting?"

You're holding up his shirt with one hand as your other one is moving steadily downward, underneath his clothes. 

"I don't know," you answer. "Some scummy little backwater."

You press closer to him to get the angle you need. "Can't remember the name," you murmur absently as your hand brushes the warmth of him, half-hard and growing harder. 

He stifles a modulated inhalation when you brush your palm softly over him, his helmet falling forward.

"Good enough."

You feel a wild thrill run through you at his permission, but you're too fixated on the feel of him to look up. He's getting harder now, the front of his pants straining to keep him contained, and as you drop your hand lower, you start to realize you may have asked for more than you can handle. He's thick, and as the palm of your hand brushes over his head, your eyes widen at his size. 

You look up at him inquisitively, a thought crossing your mind that hadn't before. "Human... right?"

He gives a single low puff of air that sounds almost like a laugh, and he pulls your hand back, stepping to the side and crowding you up against the table. 

"You want a distraction," he says, placing a gloved hand over your hip. "I can give you that." 

He uses the other hand to start unclipping your belt, not looking down. "But that's all I can give you. Understand?" 

The belt gets set down next to his own, and you look over at it, then back up at him. You swallow, trying to keep the arousal out of your expression and forcing a smirk instead. "That's all I need, Mando."

His voice tightens up, low and in the back of his throat when he grabs your hips and twists you around to face the table, yanking your pants down.

"Good."

One of his gloves drops beside you onto the floor and the next thing you feel are his bare fingers dragging through your wet cunt. Your shoulders immediately go slack and your back arches before you can really think about it, giving him better access when you spread your legs. You let out a little "ah," and cut your own air short when he turns his hand flat and slides his open palm from your ass down between your legs, middle two fingers lying flat against your pussy. 

He hums low in his chest, the modulator turning it into a noise so deep it's almost grinding, as he palms you. He doesn't come close to your entrance, doesn't let his fingers wander. It just seems like he wants to feel as much of you as he can, all at once. Like he's claiming you, mapping out territory he intends to own. 

You're seeing stars with the slow brush of his hand, wishing his fingers would spread out and tease you properly, and finally, blessedly, they do. The thick pads of his fingers are surprisingly soft. It makes sense, you think absently - they're always covered in gloves. His hands would be soft, his fingertips smooth. 

But you're wrong - the tips of his fingers glide against your skin, but when he shoves them deep inside you, burying himself to the knuckles, you can feel the coarseness of his hands. He's got callouses across all his knuckles, a testament to the brutality of his fists. His fingers were made for pulling triggers. The rest of his hands are worn by years of less civilized use. You moan when he twists them inside you, making you ache for more as he drags them slowly in and out. 

He holds you down like this, pressing you into the makeshift table and pumping his fingers deftly, methodically, in perfect pace with the arches of your spine. You're pressing your own fingers down against the metal surface in front of you, eyes closed and focused only on the way he's effortlessly drawing the pleasure out of you like it's his job. Like it's something that comes to him so naturally that he's just silently absorbed in the pattern of it. You can feel the way he flexes his wrist against your inner thigh each time he presses up and into you and his rhythm is relentless, measured and perfectly in control.

Your eyes pop open of their own accord, your vision slightly blurred when he suddenly changes the pace to curl one finger further than the other, finding the perfect spot inside you, brushing over the bundle of nerves that makes you want to howl. Instead, you grit your teeth and take in a shallow, sharp breath. 

"Fuck, Mando. That's so- you're gonna make me..." 

You're already panting for him and it's only been a few minutes. He's about to shatter you, with only a single, steady hand. 

"Shit," you squeeze your eyes closed again, a whine entering your tone. You're nearing the edge when a soft beeping starts to drift down from the cockpit. 

"Shit," Mando says, in a tone completely different from yours. 

He slows his movements as you buck against his hand, embarrassingly desperate to keep him touching you. But as the alert continues to go off, you feel him pulling back, and finally stopping altogether. You suppress a noise rising in the back of your throat, blinking and looking over your shoulder. His palm flattens over your back, pressing you down. 

"Stay."

His single instruction sends electricity through your every nerve - and it's not just the way he delivers the word. It's the sound of his voice. It's deeper, fuller, richer. It's heavy with everything he's not saying aloud. When he stood behind you silently pulling you apart, the heat was building in him, too, and now you've heard the evidence. 

You feel him adjust himself before walking away, leaving you bent over, spread for him. As soon as he disappears up the ladder to the cockpit, though, your nature of disobedience wins you over and you decide not to be left alone. You remove your boots, stepping out of the pants that were left around your ankles and shrug out of your vest, leaving only your untucked shirt to cover your naked body down to the tops of your thighs. You follow him up the ladder and back to the cockpit.

He's sitting, looking a bit uncomfortable, when you find him at the ship's controls. He doesn't turn around. 

"Thought I told you to stay."

A grin emerges as you softly roll your eyes. "You did."

You round the side of his chair and his helmet tilts in your direction, then abruptly tilts the rest of the way when he sees what you're wearing. Your shirt is low-cut and the full curve of both breasts is visible through the thin fabric. You clasp your hands behind your back and shrug, then release. "I told you to distract me. Guess we both didn't get what we wanted."

You're standing at his knee, now, and he's looking at you while pressing a few buttons on the side. "Needed to change coordinates. Fuel consumption is too high. We won't make it to our original destination."

He's still working at the controls, but as you press nearer, he turns his seat toward you and starts to spread your legs with his knee. "Would have been back in a minute."

Your eyes flick down to what he's doing, and you place a hand over the metal covering his leg. "Didn't want to wait."

You watch him continue to input new coordinates as you lower yourself down onto his thigh, eyes fluttering a bit when the heat between your legs makes contact with cool metal. You've gotten wetter just standing in front of him, and the slickness covering both of your inner thighs is now wrapped around his leg. 

Your clit pulses with need when he leans back in his chair, broad and stiff, muscles tensed as he takes you in. His left hand is still punching in coordinates, but his right one falls to your leg, holding you on top of him.

You start to grind into his armor, searching for contact any way you can get it. You drag your pussy across him, over and over again, riding him, working yourself up as he gives you half-attention, still typing instructions into the ship's computer. 

Somehow his casual indifference makes you burn more, and you start to rock your hips down, grinding over the cool brown metal. When he finally finishes his work, both of his hands shoot up to unfasten the clasp at the top of your shirt, revealing more of the smooth skin of your chest. 

When he realizes that the clasp doesn't open your shirt all the way, his motions are laced with impatience, almost irritation, as he drops his arms down and grabs the bottom of your shirt. You give no resistance when he pulls it over you, leaving you naked, breasts inches from his face.

...from his helmet. 

It's unnerving, not seeing a reaction of any kind. It makes you feel like prey. And although you didn't think it was possible, it makes you wetter than you already were. 

He drops one ungloved hand to squeeze your breast and drags it across your soft skin. Then he palms himself, watching you. 

"That feel good?" he rumbles, dark visor fixated on your movements. 

You arch your back more, displaying yourself for him as you rub your slick pussy up and down the length of his stiff thigh. "Mm." You can't give a proper answer at the moment, too lost in the thrill of riding him.

He gets your attention, though, when he drops his hand from an open palm down inside his clothes, pulling out his cock and starting to stroke it for you. He's slow, languid with his movements, jerking himself softly and with a focused intensity. 

It's all you can do not to moan at the sight, your eyebrows pushing together in a pathetic expression of need.

"Stars, you look good, Mando. Let me sit in your lap." You watch his grip tighten. "Please."

His lazy strokes become more intentional, more heated. You try not to let your movements become ragged the same heat pools in your stomach. "Pl-"

You're about to repeat the word "please", but you only get half of it out before he's grabbing you by the waist and pulling you off of himself. He stands up and turns your body, standing you next to the chair and forcing your shoulders down, bending you over it. 

He slides the head of his cock through your wetness, pushing up against you, pressing inside. You almost choke at the relief after spending so much time rocking against him, feeling so empty, but you choke instead at the fullness of him stretching you open. 

Gasping, you grip the hand rest of the seat that's in front of your face. As he presses in further, you suck in a string of curses through your teeth. He pauses, holding your hips still and letting his swollen head sink slowly, slowly deeper. After only an inch or two, he pulls back out, letting the muscles of your legs relax. He lets you breathe for a moment before he pushes back in, sliding shallowly back and forth, as your pussy gives him more room. 

It takes a long few moments for you to stop clutching the hand rest, but once he's slicked with you and starting to push in all the way, his movements become more even, more fluid, and your eyes roll back in your head as you feel every inch. 

"Oh, fuck-" you groan, head tipping forward as he starts to move his hips at an even pace, burying his cock deeper and deeper with each thrust. 

He splays one hand flat over your back, pounding into you and striking up against the spot that makes you shudder with bliss. You're starting to hear soft grunts escaping the strangle of his modulator, barely audible but enough to send you over the edge. 

He fucks you perfectly, giving you exactly what you need until you're almost begging for the relief of orgasm to pull you back from the brink of losing your mind. And then he lets you. 

"Shit, shit. Shit."

You grind out the words, barely registering that you're talking at all, and you tumble over the edge, groaning and squeezing at the chair to keep yourself upright as he steadily pounds into you, not stopping, not slowing until you sigh, shakily pushing yourself up and turning to face him. 

"Fuck," you smile, wiping the hair from your eyes. "Fuck, that was good."

He's still inside you, sliding in and out, slow and controlled. He doesn't answer you right away, just keeps fucking up into you, waiting for your shaking breaths to subside. Then he grips the side of your hip and pushes, letting you feel every part of him inside you. "Yeah?"

You nod, blinking up at him, drained and delirious. "Yeah. So fucking good."

His voice is so deep it sends a shiver up your spine when he leans close. You could swear you actually feel the bass in his tone as it rumbles through the muscles of your back. "Then why are you smiling?"

"Hm?" You're caught so off-guard you can't even form a word in reply. You're still buzzing from your orgasm as he pulls out of you, yanking you up from the chair and sliding back into the chair himself. He drops you into his lap, making you gasp when he positions himself back at your entrance and shoves you down on his cock in one hard thrust.

"Let's get rid of that fucking smile."

Before you can say anything back, he puts two fingers into your mouth and you suck them, jaw slack and willing, so overstimulated from the sensation of him fucking you hard and deep like this that you can hardly breathe. He rips the fingers from your wet mouth, dropping them between your legs and stroking, firm and relentless and perfect. He circles your clit until your voice is a high, keening, wrecked thing and you're bouncing on his cock, recklessly seeking a second high. It comes over you quickly, ripping through you without mercy this time, and making you whimper brokenly as you impale yourself over and over on his stiff cock.

When you finally finish - really finish, and you're left panting, completely unable to form a coherent thought, you feel him start to twitch inside you, pulsing with the final few thrusts, and he lifts you off of himself, releasing his cock with a vulgar, wet sucking sound. 

"Fuck, I'm gonna-"

He drops you back into his lap with his cock warm against your pussy, your legs spread wide as he shoots hot, thick ropes of cum over the both of you. You reach down to grip him, pumping every last drop out of him until he's spent over your stomach and legs, his chest rising and falling raggedly against your back.

You lie there against him, unable to think, or move, and hardly able to breathe, for a long, long time.

After so much time has passed that you feel guilty for sinking your weight into him, you finally stand up and bend over to pick up your discarded shirt. He extricates himself from you, tucking his softening cock back into his pants as he leaves the cockpit, mumbling something like, "Be right back."

When he returns with a damp cloth, he finds you staring at the chrono behind the second chair, your eyes unfocused but your face concerned. You snap to attention when he enters. He starts to gently swipe up the mess he's made on your stomach, and looks over to where you're staring. 

"What?"

"Why does that say 17:00 standard hours?"

He pauses. "Because that's the time."

You tear your eyes from the glowing numbers to look at him. "That's the current time?"

He seems to register what you're saying, and answers more slowly. "Yeah. That's the time."

"Then why does that one say 14:00?" you ask, heartbeat slowly quickening as you point at another chrono.

"Oh," he says quietly. "These are all set to local time."

"Even the one in the cargo hold?"

He nods the helmet once, slowly, then turns back to the one in front of you. "That's the only one I keep at standard time."

A smile crosses your face and breaks out into a wide grin as you read it again, just to be sure. You could kill him right now, but honestly, it doesn't matter. You can't stop smiling.

It's been five hours. 

--

[prolix-yuy]

For the Bangathon: Snuggling spoon with Javi G or Oberyn?

Ahhhhh we love ourselves a little snuggly sexxin'! Oberyn was calling to me for this one, but it may be a little more tense than we think...

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x OFC

Position: Snuggled Spoon

Word Count: 1419 (see how these get longer the more of them I write? I have no self-control)

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, PiV sex (don’t be a fool, wrap your tool), fingering (f receiving), allusions to public sex, cum tasting, hate sex, Oberyn is an affectionate bastard.

Notes: A follow-up to this drabble, because I wanted to see how it all panned out.

“How are your accommodations, little scorpion?”

The infuriating voice of her captor (and failed assassination attempt) drifts through her cell bars. Remaining on her side on the floor, only a few crumpled blankets to soften the uncomfortable stone, she ignores his question. 

It wasn’t the first time the Prince had visited during her imprisonment. She’d screamed and railed against him the first time, tried to claw at him the second. Every spitfire reaction left him with a smarmy smile, standing just out of reach. He pulled little bits of information out of her each time - who sent her (a prominent family tired of the house leaders), what her plan was (to poison him and flee to Westeros), if she’d ever cum that hard with a lover she chose (silence). The game was more intriguing to him than she’d hoped, praying for his attention to drift so she could devise a way to escape. But every passing day he visits, and every day she grows wearier of her predicament.

Today, she’s done with this game. Her stomach is empty yet again, body aching, and hope waning. Her employers feign ignorance of her plan, abandoning her as she should have guessed. There was no one coming to reward her for her loyalty. 

“Oh come now, has all your fire finally burned out?” Oberyn purrs, but she doesn’t rise to his challenge. She’d overheard the guards speaking of an execution date, fast approaching. What does this sparring matter when she’s about to be erased from history? A blip only in the mind of a small few, forgotten when larger matters loom. 

Oberyn hums, then calls to a guard. Her interest piques for a moment, the rusty clank of keys and the creak of her door opening urging her to roll over and watch. The Prince, in his fine mustard robes and heavy jewelry, steps into the cell. The door closes behind him, even though the guard’s wary face hovers nearby. She sits fully, glaring up at her captor. He only chuckles, leaning back against the bars.

“So I have your attention finally,” he drawls, crossing his arms and raking his gaze over her body. They’d swapped her gauze and silk for a rough shift, the fabric barely keeping her warm in the night. The vulnerability makes her skin crawl.

“If it pleases the Prince of Dorne,” she spits, turning to lay back on her side. Her hands itch to press her thumbs into his eyes, but what good would it do? Speed up the sentence from days to minutes?

“Oh come now, little scorpion, I’ve already commended you on how much your subterfuge entertained me,” he tuts, steps light and cat-like approaching. “Easily the most fun I’ve had in months. And all our sparring over these last days. Don’t let your current state tamp out your fury. It’s the most beautiful thing about you.”

She stays firmly turned to the wall as he sits beside her, the heat of his body melting the ice along her spine. Denying the satisfaction of her relief, she bites down on her lip.

“I’ve never had such a…” he begins again, trying to win her attention for some mystifying reason, before he stops. His fingers brush against her bare arm. “You’re freezing.”

She snorts, very unladylike. “Maybe I’ll perish from the cold before my beheading.”

Suddenly she’s surrounded by warmth, eyes shooting open. The man she was conscripted to kill is now draping his robe around her, bare expanse of his chest snug to her back. His breath dances along her cheek, and try as she might a shudder loosens her limbs.

“Little scorpion, I would not have you suffer,” he says, and the somber tone drips wonder on her skin. Perhaps ill-advised, but she presses back against his blazing heat, wondering if all desert men are this scorching or if it’s only Oberyn. His palm comes up to her arm and warms her skin. A reedy sound of relief catches in her throat. 

Before she can protest his hand travels over her stomach to cup her sex. Such boldness would normally result in the loss of a hand, but at the barest brush her core aches. Much as she hates to admit it (and never would to the Prince), she had dreamt of his touch more than once.

“I can warm you much better than this,” Oberyn purrs in her ear, his wicked fingers already creeping below her shift.

“What makes you think I would want your touch, my Prince?” She tries to hold her voice steady but his fingers are already swiping at her folds.

“This,” he gloats, bringing his soaked fingers to her face. Her arousal gleams thickly. “I think you would positively gush on me again.” Without pretense he drags his fingers into his mouth, sucking indulgently. She turns and watches him, pure sin and infuriating charm. His eyes open, and by the gods, they’re ravenous. 

“Will you take what your Prince gives you, little scorpion?” he demands, and every fiber of her being is screaming to deny him, but her parted lips and slow nod betray her. He smiles wickedly, tugging his cock from his pants to slide between her clenched thighs. Passing over her weeping cunt, he props himself up to closely watch her face. 

“I have dreamt of this cunt since you gave it to me, fucked my fist at the memory of you clenching around me,” he spits out, notching his blunt head at her at her entrance. “And now, I’ll do it again. But this time, you’ll scream my name.”

With a forceful thrust he buries himself inside her, the blinding sensation of fullness and sharp pleasure driving her to tuck into herself. He tuts and yanks her back against his chest, hand loosely around her throat as he sets a toe-curling pace. His teeth scrape her ear as he pants.

“Tight, wet, perfect little thing. Did you think your beauty and wiles would keep me from seeing your true nature?” he hisses, plunging his other hand between her legs to pinch her clit between his fingers. All she can do is wail and rock against his hold, hands scrabbling back to grip his pounding hips. “I’ve had many a pleasure, indulged all my vices, but making you cum on my cock as you tried to kill me…now that was a new experience.” 

Her breath whistles out through clenched teeth, wishing her body didn’t mold to his so readily. Nails digging into his hips, he growls and nips at her skin. Her orgasm is fast approaching, cursing and praising his skill as he pointedly strokes her clit and pounds into the perfect place inside. 

“Yes, my dangerous little scorpion, all glittering and deadly, cum for me a second time. I want your cunt to only desire how well I fuck it.” A quick strum of his fingers and her body traitorously snaps around him, only held in check by his grip and the roar of his snarl in her ear. When her body laxes he manhandles her to her back, lifting her hips off the ground as he slaps into her with reckless thrusts. A few more and he pulls out, fisting his cock and mashing his lips to hers as he cums in the palm of his hand. 

His lips are full and soft, the scratch of his mustache and beard burning against her skin. He sweeps his tongue into her mouth, full and domineering, but when she presses back with teeth and a lap of her own his hips stutter between hers. They kiss messily, licking and biting and panting against each other’s mouths until he finally lifts up and looks down at her. The Prince of House Martell, flushed and satiated, eyes just as dark and promising. 

“I stand by what I said during your arrest,” he says lightly, standing and shrugging off the floor-length robe. He drapes it over her body, sauntering to the cell door with only low-slung pants and the golden expanse of his back. She sits up, clutching the robe to her chest still warm. “You may beat us all to the Iron Throne one day, with that tenacity of yours.” 

One hand pulls the door shut…but not quite. Not enough for the latch to catch, but enough for the guards to believe so. Her eyes snap from the door to Oberyn’s eyes, challenge and conquest pooling in them.

“Come try and kill me again if you can, little scorpion.”

END

LJ’s Bangathon 2023

[quietwingsinthesky]

Self-Preservation Over Lost Causes

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Crowley/Kevin Tran Additional Tags: Not Canon Compliant with Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror (Supernatural), Kevin Tran Lives (Supernatural), Pre-Slash, Attempted Murder, Kevin Tran is So Done (Supernatural), Minor Injuries WC: 2965 Summary:

When his back is against the wall, Kevin still has one person left in the Bunker to turn to, and he might be the only one who can save Kevin's life.

Something Kevin’s learned the hard way: when Dean says to trust him, don’t.

He could hear the barely disguised panic in Dean’s voice when he demands Kevin look for ways to clamp down on an angel. He’d have to be blind not to notice the weird ways Sam had been acting since failing to close the Hell gates, the way he ran off with no explanation or went so still, so deathly silent, staring at Kevin like he was studying him, a hawk's expression before it swooped. Sam's voice buzzed in Kevin’s ears in ways he let be written off as migraine auras or leftover juice from the trials. It should have been something Kevin saw through earlier, but he’s exhausted and hungry and hurting all the time. Now, on top of that, he’s terrified.

Because the pieces are falling into place and Kevin’s got a paper with his name scrawled on it clutched in his hands and the sigils on the wall are different than they were when Kevin made them and Dean isn’t someone he ever should have trusted.

He leaves Dean thinking he’s talking to his brother. It crosses his mind, for a moment, that that’s selfish, throwing Dean to the meat grinder for a few seconds more to escape, but then he remembers how Dean didn’t even bother to tell him what he was doing. If not for the paper in Kevin’s sweaty palm, with his name, only his name, drifting lazily out of Sam’s jacket, he might not have eavesdropped. He might have been left a sitting duck. So screw Dean. He’s Kevin freaking Solo.

That makes a nervous laugh erupt from his chest. He knows where his feet are taking him, even if he’s doing everything in his power not to think about it. The safest place in the Bunker. It’s a dead-end, Kevin knows that, but where else is he going to run? If he’s lucky, he hides until the storm blows over. If not-

He’s not thinking about if nots. He’s thinking about surviving. He drags the door to the dungeon open and shuts it behind him. All he can hear is his heart pounding as he backs away from it. Should he bar the door? Can he? What is there to-

“-vin. Kevin!” An annoyed growl from behind him. Kevin nearly jumps out of his skin. Crowley rolls his eyes, crossing his arms on the table in front of him. There’s a scrap of paper there. A crayon. Kevin squeezes the name in his fist harder. “What do you need now? Another translation? A spell, maybe? Or is are we getting dirty again?” Crowley glances suggestively at the tools on the wall and then back to Kevin. He looks Kevin up and down. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Kevin thinks he hears something, and his head jerks back to the door. “Well, maybe not so surprising in your line of work. Is that-“

“Shut up,” Kevin whispers. “It’s going to hear you.” Crowley tilts slightly in his chair, as though he can look past Kevin and through the closed door.

“Don’t tell me you’ve let another ancient horror out of a jar.”

“Shut up!” Kevin hisses. Crowley’s smile, what there is of it, falls. When he speaks again, the taunts are gone.

“Kevin. What did those idiots set free?” There’s another noise from outside, or Kevin thinks there might be. He’s not sure. Anything could be a sign of danger. Desperately, he grasps for one of the hammers on the wall. It has a familiar weight to it. He’s used it on Crowley… more times than he would like to admit.

Kevin feels like a mouse in a trap, caught wrong, his neck not snapped properly, squirming and squeaking.

But this trap has the king of Hell in it. Kevin’s out of options.

“Can you kill an angel?” he asks. Crowley leans back in his chair.

“Do you have one of their blades?” Kevin shakes his head. “Mm. Gun loaded with grace bullets? A very sharp needle?” Kevin doesn’t even bother to answer those. “Then, no, I can’t kill an angel.”

“If it gets in here, it’ll kill you.” Crowley grimaces.

“Not exactly what I had planned for today.” He lifts his cuffed hands expectantly, and when Kevin doesn’t move, he says, “Well?”

“What?”

“You said it yourself. We’re both going to die. Set me free, so that we don’t!” Crowley’s voice rises in aggravation. Kevin is about to shake his head, but that’s when he hears it. Crowley does, too. He tilts his head, listening as Kevin does to the echoing sounds of footsteps. They’re slow. Searching. Still far enough away that Kevin knows they have a few minutes more to live. He holds his breath. “Make a choice, Kevin. The angel hunting us or me.”

“Like you won’t kill me the second you’re free.”

“I’m telling you I won’t. You can trust me, or you can walk out those doors right now. Better a quick death than waiting in here scared out of your wits.”

Crowley sees as well as he does that there isn’t a real choice. Kevin drops the note he’s holding and goes for the keys to his shackles.

“Cuffs first,” Crowley instructs as Kevin’s shaking hands try to fit the key into the lock. Crowley’s taken the paper and crayon, and he’s scribbling away quickly. “Then, you have to smash those marks on the floor. You’ve got the upper body strength for it. I’ve felt it when you hit me.” The cuff around Crowley’s neck falls, and he rolls his head. The cuffs on his wrists are easier, and then Kevin is down on one knee unlocking his ankles. Crowley finishes writing before he stands. “It’s going to make a lot of noise, so when your angel friend gets here, do exactly what I say, or this will just be a lot of wasted effort.”

Kevin stares at him. For a moment, the surreality of the situation is almost too much for him to handle. Crowley has tortured him, he’s killed Kevin’s mom or good as, and now, he’s going to save Kevin’s life. Crowley snaps his fingers and points at the ground. Kevin is shocked back into movement, lugging the hammer in his hands up and smashing it into the ground. It doesn’t have to make a big crack. It only has to sever the mark enough that Crowley’s free to do whatever he wants.

He’s beside Kevin in a moment. His hand covers Kevin’s arm. They can both hear the footsteps outside drawing closer, lured by the sound of the hammer. Crowley slides the drawing he’s made to Kevin, and Kevin recognizes it as an angel banishing sigil, the kind he might have thought to use himself if he wasn’t panicking. “Give me your hand.” Kevin does, and he cries out when Crowley digs his nail into his palm hard enough to tear it open. It bleeds freely. “Copy this onto the table in your blood,” he says, “and as soon as it’s done, slam your wound against it as hard as you can.” Like Kevin needs to be told.

“Why not your blood?” Kevin says. Years of this and his pain tolerance should be better than it is, not make his eyes water from a cut. He doesn’t let that stop him, pushing his fingers against his bleeding palm and scrawling the symbol onto the table.

“Has to be human. Stay behind me.” He doesn’t have to tell Kevin that, not only because Kevin isn’t going anywhere but because Crowley is the one who chooses to step between Kevin and the door as it opens. Kevin draws frantically.

“Get out of the way.” That’s Sam’s voice. That’s not Sam. Kevin’s ears are buzzing again.

“Oh, good choice. I prefer Sam myself. Never possessed him, unfortunately. I’m sure you've noticed his little tattoo when you’ve admired him in private.” Crowley’s voice is as glib as it was when Kevin entered. He reaches back, and he braces one hand against Kevin’s side as though he’s making sure he stays put. Kevin’s not even sure if the angel possessing Sam can see him where he’s hidden. It makes no difference; it knows he’s there. But Crowley won’t let it see him.

“You are the demon they keep locked up,” the angel says. “I’ve watched you talk. Let me have the prophet, and you will live.” Crowley clicks his tongue.

“Give me a moment to think about it.” This symbol is hard to draw, harder in his own blood. Kevin’s not sure if there’s enough to finish it. He digs his own nails into the wound to free more. The scent floods his nostrils and makes him want to gag. He smears it into the shape of the sigil. “It happens that I’m very attached to this adorable little prophet. What more do you have to bargain?”

“Only your life.” Kevin hears the angel take a step closer.

“I see,” Crowley drags the word out. He’s buying time. Kevin only needs a few more seconds. “In that case, having fully considered every facet of your offer, I’m going to have to-“ Kevin slaps the sigil. The broken skin of his palm screeches in agony, but not nearly as loud as the angel screams as it’s forced out of the room. Kevin’s eardrums feel like they’ll burst. He covers them to no effect, only warm blood coating the side of his head. A moment later, it’s all over, and the room is dark and quiet again. “Turn you down,” Crowley finishes. The hand at Kevin’s side falls away. Kevin leans on the table, swallowing down air until his lungs hurt. He feels Crowley pat his shoulder, and he flinches from it.

“Well done, Kevin,” Crowley says, and whatever note is in his voice, Kevin doesn’t want to analyze or worry or think about it.

“And now you kill me?”

“No. No,” Crowley huffs. “That was a deal we made back there. My freedom for your protection.” Adrenaline is a nasty thing. Kevin’s got too much first-hand experience. He might actually throw up. “We made a good team.”

“Fuck you,” Kevin says. Crowley chuckles. He's free to go. There's nothing Kevin could do to stop him. For some reason, he stays, and he speaks again, his tone serious once more.

“I’ve been meaning to ask something for a while now. I told you that your mother was still alive, and I wasn’t lying about that.” Kevin’s head shoots up so fast, his vision dances with black spots. “It seems exactly like the kind of rescue mission the Winchesters would love to undertake for family.”

“She’s as good as dead,” Kevin repeats what Dean said, but the words sound even more hollow now.

“That’s what I thought,” Crowley says as he tries to place his hand on Kevin’s shoulder again and Kevin moves away. “I tried to warn you. The Winchesters burn people up. I’ve been around them a long time. I’ve seen it again and again. What do you think would have happened today if you didn’t come looking for me?” Kevin’s hands curl into fists.

“He didn’t tell me. He put an angel in Sam, and he didn’t say anything. It could have killed me whenever it wanted.” If his voice shakes, he hopes it sounds like the anger he’s finally letting out rather than fear.

“Years of your life gone. No closed hell gates. One mother you miss dearly that they wanted you to condemn rather than look for. Countless nights letting you abuse that irreplaceable brain of yours. And one near-death experience because despite everything you’ve given them, you weren’t important enough to be in the loop.” Crowley counts out the score. Kevin squeezes his eyes shut. His nails dig back into his already injured palm. “Does that sound like a life you want to keep living?”

“You’re doing the ‘work for me’ speech,” Kevin says. The last few times he heard it, Crowley had a one hand outstretched and the other holding a knife. He doesn't think he needs a threat to coax Kevin onto his side anymore.

“I am,” Crowley answers, “and do you know what you’re doing? Considering it.”

Kevin doesn’t want Crowley to be right.

“Look at what I’m offering. Protection from anything who tries to hurt you, whether it’s coming from Heaven or Hell. Lavish living arrangements, food, housing, you name it. The first thing we’d do is pick your mother up and make sure she’s kept safe with you. Is the deal sweet enough?”

“You want me to hand over myself and the tablets to help you rule Hell?”

“You'd be helping people. Hard to see it from your, or Sam and Dean’s, point of view, but I kept Hell organized. If Abaddon’s left in charge, she’ll bring her reign of terror to Earth as soon as the deals she’s collecting early dry up.” He pauses. “But screw helping people. Be a little selfish for once, Kevin. Haven’t you given enough?”

Kevin takes a deep breath.

“Yes,” Kevin whispers.

“Couldn’t hear that.”

“Yes!” It’s freeing. He’s tired. He’s done. The Winchesters promised him this would be over by now. He thought he lost his mother for this fight. Dean couldn’t even give Sam up when he was willing to die to finish things.

“That’s what I thought. You go fetch your tablets, your notes, whatever you think is important. I’ll meet you at the exit.”

“What are you-“ By the time Kevin has turned around, Crowley is gone.

Alone in the dungeon, he’s left to wonder if this was the wrong choice.

His hand stings. He hisses in pain as blood continues to drip down his palm. He looks back at the angel banishing symbol, at the walls around him, and he walks out without any more doubts. He’s had a bag ready to go for ages, even if he could never convince himself before now to leave. He had nowhere else to go, and even if it turns out he's exchanging a prison with the Winchesters for one with Crowley, at least he knows Crowley will feed him better. He sweeps his notes into his backpack, filling it near to bursting but he can’t leave any of his scribbled thoughts behind or risk losing days of work. The tablets go in another bag that he slings over his shoulder. They spark outraged pain in his head at being jostled like trash, but he shoves it away. He’s been hauling them around for years. He’s used to it.

Crowley is waiting by the stairs, as promised. There’s no blood on his hands or his clothes, so Kevin has to presume that if that angel didn’t kill Dean outright, then he’s still alive somewhere in the Bunker. It doesn’t matter except to lend some peace of mind that Crowley didn’t go straight from his newfound freedom to murder.

“There you are,” Crowley says. He motions Kevin closer, and hesitantly, he comes. “No second thoughts, I hope?”

“None.” Crowley holds out his hand. Kevin lifts his injured one, and when Crowley nods and flexes the fingers of his outstretched hand, Kevin lays it in his. Instead of some sort of painful retribution for the days Kevin has blown off steam hacking away at him, Crowley draws out a pristine bandage. “Where did you get that?”

“I stole it. Hold still.” Pressure on the wound stings a little as Crowley wraps it. One hand keeps Kevin’s still, and the other winds the bandage around and around his palm, securing it. Staring at his hand, Kevin realizes it’s the one that Crowley once cut a finger off of.

And now, he’s making a pleased noise as he checks the bandage is tied properly.

“That will be enough for now. Once we’re somewhere a little more secure-“

“After we get my mom,” Kevin insists.

“After we get your mom. It’s at the top of my priorities, I promise. Then, I’ll see if I can throw together a spell to have you good as new.” Kevin adjusts the bags he’s carrying. “Ready to leave?”

“More than.” They climb the steps side by side. Kevin doesn’t look back at the Bunker.

“Since this is a deal we’re making, we’re going to have to follow protocol,” Crowley says off-handedly as the Bunker door swings shut behind them and Kevin hauls himself up the final steps. He can’t tell if he feels like he’s going to pass out because he hasn’t slept in days or because he’s finally out of the rush of nearly getting killed.

“What?” Crowley stops and turns to him.

“We have to do it right. Pucker-“ Kevin’s brain catches up with what Crowley wants before he finishes speaking. He’s the one who grabs Crowley’s coat and yanks him down to get it over with.

As things go today, kissing Crowley isn’t that bad. He’s awful, and Kevin still hates him, but the kiss itself isn’t horrible. Crowley’s hand on his shoulder isn’t horrible. Kevin pulls back, letting Crowley go, realizing a moment too late that Crowley would have to let himself be pulled for Kevin to be able to drag him around.

“Happy?”

“Hm. Really, we made two deals today. You owe me one more.” Kevin makes a face.

“Bite me.” Crowley smiles, and it is disturbingly fond.

“All in due time. I’ll collect on that second kiss later. What say we go pay your mother a visit. I’m sure she misses you.”

By the time Dean wakes up from being knocked out on the cold Bunker floor, Sam is gone, Crowley is gone, and Kevin is long gone and never coming back.

[quietwings-fics]

Self-Preservation Over Lost Causes

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Crowley/Kevin Additional Tags: Not Canon Compliant with Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror (Supernatural), Kevin Tran Lives (Supernatural), Pre-Slash, Attempted Murder, Kevin Tran is So Done (Supernatural), Minor Injuries Wordcount: 2965 Summary:

When his back is against the wall, Kevin still has one person left in the Bunker to turn to, and he might be the only one who can save Kevin's life.

Something Kevin’s learned the hard way: when Dean says to trust him, don’t.

He could hear the barely disguised panic in Dean’s voice when he demands Kevin look for ways to clamp down on an angel. He’d have to be blind not to notice the weird ways Sam had been acting since failing to close the Hell gates, the way he ran off with no explanation or went so still, so deathly silent, staring at Kevin like he was studying him, a hawk's expression before it swooped. Sam's voice buzzed in Kevin’s ears in ways he let be written off as migraine auras or leftover juice from the trials. It should have been something Kevin saw through earlier, but he’s exhausted and hungry and hurting all the time. Now, on top of that, he’s terrified.

Because the pieces are falling into place and Kevin’s got a paper with his name scrawled on it clutched in his hands and the sigils on the wall are different than they were when Kevin made them and Dean isn’t someone he ever should have trusted.

He leaves Dean thinking he’s talking to his brother. It crosses his mind, for a moment, that that’s selfish, throwing Dean to the meat grinder for a few seconds more to escape, but then he remembers how Dean didn’t even bother to tell him what he was doing. If not for the paper in Kevin’s sweaty palm, with his name, only his name, drifting lazily out of Sam’s jacket, he might not have eavesdropped. He might have been left a sitting duck. So screw Dean. He’s Kevin freaking Solo.

That makes a nervous laugh erupt from his chest. He knows where his feet are taking him, even if he’s doing everything in his power not to think about it. The safest place in the Bunker. It’s a dead-end, Kevin knows that, but where else is he going to run? If he’s lucky, he hides until the storm blows over. If not-

He’s not thinking about if nots. He’s thinking about surviving. He drags the door to the dungeon open and shuts it behind him. All he can hear is his heart pounding as he backs away from it. Should he bar the door? Can he? What is there to-

“-vin. Kevin!” An annoyed growl from behind him. Kevin nearly jumps out of his skin. Crowley rolls his eyes, crossing his arms on the table in front of him. There’s a scrap of paper there. A crayon. Kevin squeezes the name in his fist harder. “What do you need now? Another translation? A spell, maybe? Or is are we getting dirty again?” Crowley glances suggestively at the tools on the wall and then back to Kevin. He looks Kevin up and down. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Kevin thinks he hears something, and his head jerks back to the door. “Well, maybe not so surprising in your line of work. Is that-“

“Shut up,” Kevin whispers. “It’s going to hear you.” Crowley tilts slightly in his chair, as though he can look past Kevin and through the closed door.

“Don’t tell me you’ve let another ancient horror out of a jar.”

“Shut up!” Kevin hisses. Crowley’s smile, what there is of it, falls. When he speaks again, the taunts are gone.

“Kevin. What did those idiots set free?” There’s another noise from outside, or Kevin thinks there might be. He’s not sure. Anything could be a sign of danger. Desperately, he grasps for one of the hammers on the wall. It has a familiar weight to it. He’s used it on Crowley… more times than he would like to admit.

Kevin feels like a mouse in a trap, caught wrong, his neck not snapped properly, squirming and squeaking.

But this trap has the king of Hell in it. Kevin’s out of options.

“Can you kill an angel?” he asks. Crowley leans back in his chair.

“Do you have one of their blades?” Kevin shakes his head. “Mm. Gun loaded with grace bullets? A very sharp needle?” Kevin doesn’t even bother to answer those. “Then, no, I can’t kill an angel.”

“If it gets in here, it’ll kill you.” Crowley grimaces.

“Not exactly what I had planned for today.” He lifts his cuffed hands expectantly, and when Kevin doesn’t move, he says, “Well?”

“What?”

“You said it yourself. We’re both going to die. Set me free, so that we don’t!” Crowley’s voice rises in aggravation. Kevin is about to shake his head, but that’s when he hears it. Crowley does, too. He tilts his head, listening as Kevin does to the echoing sounds of footsteps. They’re slow. Searching. Still far enough away that Kevin knows they have a few minutes more to live. He holds his breath. “Make a choice, Kevin. The angel hunting us or me.”

“Like you won’t kill me the second you’re free.”

“I’m telling you I won’t. You can trust me, or you can walk out those doors right now. Better a quick death than waiting in here scared out of your wits.”

Crowley sees as well as he does that there isn’t a real choice. Kevin drops the note he’s holding and goes for the keys to his shackles.

“Cuffs first,” Crowley instructs as Kevin’s shaking hands try to fit the key into the lock. Crowley’s taken the paper and crayon, and he’s scribbling away quickly. “Then, you have to smash those marks on the floor. You’ve got the upper body strength for it. I’ve felt it when you hit me.” The cuff around Crowley’s neck falls, and he rolls his head. The cuffs on his wrists are easier, and then Kevin is down on one knee unlocking his ankles. Crowley finishes writing before he stands. “It’s going to make a lot of noise, so when your angel friend gets here, do exactly what I say, or this will just be a lot of wasted effort.”

Kevin stares at him. For a moment, the surreality of the situation is almost too much for him to handle. Crowley has tortured him, he’s killed Kevin’s mom or good as, and now, he’s going to save Kevin’s life. Crowley snaps his fingers and points at the ground. Kevin is shocked back into movement, lugging the hammer in his hands up and smashing it into the ground. It doesn’t have to make a big crack. It only has to sever the mark enough that Crowley’s free to do whatever he wants.

He’s beside Kevin in a moment. His hand covers Kevin’s arm. They can both hear the footsteps outside drawing closer, lured by the sound of the hammer. Crowley slides the drawing he’s made to Kevin, and Kevin recognizes it as an angel banishing sigil, the kind he might have thought to use himself if he wasn’t panicking. “Give me your hand.” Kevin does, and he cries out when Crowley digs his nail into his palm hard enough to tear it open. It bleeds freely. “Copy this onto the table in your blood,” he says, “and as soon as it’s done, slam your wound against it as hard as you can.” Like Kevin needs to be told.

“Why not your blood?” Kevin says. Years of this and his pain tolerance should be better than it is, not make his eyes water from a cut. He doesn’t let that stop him, pushing his fingers against his bleeding palm and scrawling the symbol onto the table.

“Has to be human. Stay behind me.” He doesn’t have to tell Kevin that, not only because Kevin isn’t going anywhere but because Crowley is the one who chooses to step between Kevin and the door as it opens. Kevin draws frantically.

“Get out of the way.” That’s Sam’s voice. That’s not Sam. Kevin’s ears are buzzing again.

“Oh, good choice. I prefer Sam myself. Never possessed him, unfortunately. I’m sure you've noticed his little tattoo when you’ve admired him in private.” Crowley’s voice is as glib as it was when Kevin entered. He reaches back, and he braces one hand against Kevin’s side as though he’s making sure he stays put. Kevin’s not even sure if the angel possessing Sam can see him where he’s hidden. It makes no difference; it knows he’s there. But Crowley won’t let it see him.

“You are the demon they keep locked up,” the angel says. “I’ve watched you talk. Let me have the prophet, and you will live.” Crowley clicks his tongue.

“Give me a moment to think about it.” This symbol is hard to draw, harder in his own blood. Kevin’s not sure if there’s enough to finish it. He digs his own nails into the wound to free more. The scent floods his nostrils and makes him want to gag. He smears it into the shape of the sigil. “It happens that I’m very attached to this adorable little prophet. What more do you have to bargain?”

“Only your life.” Kevin hears the angel take a step closer.

“I see,” Crowley drags the word out. He’s buying time. Kevin only needs a few more seconds. “In that case, having fully considered every facet of your offer, I’m going to have to-“ Kevin slaps the sigil. The broken skin of his palm screeches in agony, but not nearly as loud as the angel screams as it’s forced out of the room. Kevin’s eardrums feel like they’ll burst. He covers them to no effect, only warm blood coating the side of his head. A moment later, it’s all over, and the room is dark and quiet again. “Turn you down,” Crowley finishes. The hand at Kevin’s side falls away. Kevin leans on the table, swallowing down air until his lungs hurt. He feels Crowley pat his shoulder, and he flinches from it.

“Well done, Kevin,” Crowley says, and whatever note is in his voice, Kevin doesn’t want to analyze or worry or think about it.

“And now you kill me?”

“No. No,” Crowley huffs. “That was a deal we made back there. My freedom for your protection.” Adrenaline is a nasty thing. Kevin’s got too much first-hand experience. He might actually throw up. “We made a good team.”

“Fuck you,” Kevin says. Crowley chuckles. He's free to go. There's nothing Kevin could do to stop him. For some reason, he stays, and he speaks again, his tone serious once more.

“I’ve been meaning to ask something for a while now. I told you that your mother was still alive, and I wasn’t lying about that.” Kevin’s head shoots up so fast, his vision dances with black spots. “It seems exactly like the kind of rescue mission the Winchesters would love to undertake for family.”

“She’s as good as dead,” Kevin repeats what Dean said, but the words sound even more hollow now.

“That’s what I thought,” Crowley says as he tries to place his hand on Kevin’s shoulder again and Kevin moves away. “I tried to warn you. The Winchesters burn people up. I’ve been around them a long time. I’ve seen it again and again. What do you think would have happened today if you didn’t come looking for me?” Kevin’s hands curl into fists.

“He didn’t tell me. He put an angel in Sam, and he didn’t say anything. It could have killed me whenever it wanted.” If his voice shakes, he hopes it sounds like the anger he’s finally letting out rather than fear.

“Years of your life gone. No closed hell gates. One mother you miss dearly that they wanted you to condemn rather than look for. Countless nights letting you abuse that irreplaceable brain of yours. And one near-death experience because despite everything you’ve given them, you weren’t important enough to be in the loop.” Crowley counts out the score. Kevin squeezes his eyes shut. His nails dig back into his already injured palm. “Does that sound like a life you want to keep living?”

“You’re doing the ‘work for me’ speech,” Kevin says. The last few times he heard it, Crowley had a one hand outstretched and the other holding a knife. He doesn't think he needs a threat to coax Kevin onto his side anymore.

“I am,” Crowley answers, “and do you know what you’re doing? Considering it.”

Kevin doesn’t want Crowley to be right.

“Look at what I’m offering. Protection from anything who tries to hurt you, whether it’s coming from Heaven or Hell. Lavish living arrangements, food, housing, you name it. The first thing we’d do is pick your mother up and make sure she’s kept safe with you. Is the deal sweet enough?”

“You want me to hand over myself and the tablets to help you rule Hell?”

“You'd be helping people. Hard to see it from your, or Sam and Dean’s, point of view, but I kept Hell organized. If Abaddon’s left in charge, she’ll bring her reign of terror to Earth as soon as the deals she’s collecting early dry up.” He pauses. “But screw helping people. Be a little selfish for once, Kevin. Haven’t you given enough?”

Kevin takes a deep breath.

“Yes,” Kevin whispers.

“Couldn’t hear that.”

“Yes!” It’s freeing. He’s tired. He’s done. The Winchesters promised him this would be over by now. He thought he lost his mother for this fight. Dean couldn’t even give Sam up when he was willing to die to finish things.

“That’s what I thought. You go fetch your tablets, your notes, whatever you think is important. I’ll meet you at the exit.”

“What are you-“ By the time Kevin has turned around, Crowley is gone.

Alone in the dungeon, he’s left to wonder if this was the wrong choice.

His hand stings. He hisses in pain as blood continues to drip down his palm. He looks back at the angel banishing symbol, at the walls around him, and he walks out without any more doubts. He’s had a bag ready to go for ages, even if he could never convince himself before now to leave. He had nowhere else to go, and even if it turns out he's exchanging a prison with the Winchesters for one with Crowley, at least he knows Crowley will feed him better. He sweeps his notes into his backpack, filling it near to bursting but he can’t leave any of his scribbled thoughts behind or risk losing days of work. The tablets go in another bag that he slings over his shoulder. They spark outraged pain in his head at being jostled like trash, but he shoves it away. He’s been hauling them around for years. He’s used to it.

Crowley is waiting by the stairs, as promised. There’s no blood on his hands or his clothes, so Kevin has to presume that if that angel didn’t kill Dean outright, then he’s still alive somewhere in the Bunker. It doesn’t matter except to lend some peace of mind that Crowley didn’t go straight from his newfound freedom to murder.

“There you are,” Crowley says. He motions Kevin closer, and hesitantly, he comes. “No second thoughts, I hope?”

“None.” Crowley holds out his hand. Kevin lifts his injured one, and when Crowley nods and flexes the fingers of his outstretched hand, Kevin lays it in his. Instead of some sort of painful retribution for the days Kevin has blown off steam hacking away at him, Crowley draws out a pristine bandage. “Where did you get that?”

“I stole it. Hold still.” Pressure on the wound stings a little as Crowley wraps it. One hand keeps Kevin’s still, and the other winds the bandage around and around his palm, securing it. Staring at his hand, Kevin realizes it’s the one that Crowley once cut a finger off of.

And now, he’s making a pleased noise as he checks the bandage is tied properly.

“That will be enough for now. Once we’re somewhere a little more secure-“

“After we get my mom,” Kevin insists.

“After we get your mom. It’s at the top of my priorities, I promise. Then, I’ll see if I can throw together a spell to have you good as new.” Kevin adjusts the bags he’s carrying. “Ready to leave?”

“More than.” They climb the steps side by side. Kevin doesn’t look back at the Bunker.

“Since this is a deal we’re making, we’re going to have to follow protocol,” Crowley says off-handedly as the Bunker door swings shut behind them and Kevin hauls himself up the final steps. He can’t tell if he feels like he’s going to pass out because he hasn’t slept in days or because he’s finally out of the rush of nearly getting killed.

“What?” Crowley stops and turns to him.

“We have to do it right. Pucker-“ Kevin’s brain catches up with what Crowley wants before he finishes speaking. He’s the one who grabs Crowley’s coat and yanks him down to get it over with.

As things go today, kissing Crowley isn’t that bad. He’s awful, and Kevin still hates him, but the kiss itself isn’t horrible. Crowley’s hand on his shoulder isn’t horrible. Kevin pulls back, letting Crowley go, realizing a moment too late that Crowley would have to let himself be pulled for Kevin to be able to drag him around.

“Happy?”

“Hm. Really, we made two deals today. You owe me one more.” Kevin makes a face.

“Bite me.” Crowley smiles, and it is disturbingly fond.

“All in due time. I’ll collect on that second kiss later. What say we go pay your mother a visit. I’m sure she misses you.”

By the time Dean wakes up from being knocked out on the cold Bunker floor, Sam is gone, Crowley is gone, and Kevin is long gone and never coming back.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[cazort]

I want to talk about this because I've seen hate groups visit my town and I've seen things go really well and I've seen things go really badly, and the people who advocate "punching nazis" clearly haven't witnessed this stuff and have no clue how it actually works.

The popular "punch a nazi" rhetoric also shows a complete disregard for the history leading up to the holocaust, as well as the recruiting methods used by neonazi groups and other hate groups. Nazis, just like any far-right group, play off people's fears about "crime" and "disorder", and cast themselves as a group promoting "law and order" (sound similar to anything going on in the US nowadays? Or in Russia? Or in Iran? Or even Turkey or Brazil? It's the same pattern over and over again) and then use this to advance their authoritarian-nationalistic views that scapegoat minority groups.

When you use violence against a nazi, especially if you are recording it, and especially if it is not overwhelmingly in self-defense, you feed right into the narrative that they want. You're giving them a recruiting tool. You're widening the group of people they will appeal to.

They want to be cast as the underdog. They want to look like the "reasonable one", the one who was just exercising their right to free speech when someone went and initiated physical violence against them.

That's how they elicit sympathy and support.

They want you to punch them, they especially want you to initiate the punch, and that's why they openly say things to provoke people, that's why they openly display symbols and words they know to be offensive.

It's not just nazis that do this either. The "Westboro Baptist Church" which is an anti-LGBTQ hate group, goes around and tries to provoke people into initiating attacks and then tries to get police to arrest the people who did. You don't beat these hate groups by going up and punching them, that's what they want and that's what makes them stronger.

You beat them through approaches like, when they get a permit to speak somewhere in public? Ensure no one shows up. I saw this happen successfully with the Westboro Baptist Church, they were given a permit to protest and then the town organized a counter-event quite far from them to deny them any audience. The counter-event was huge.

Another thing that happened in another place I lived, before my time though, the KKK had been growing in this one area, and was coming to march through town, so what the town did, they showed up to march and a huge crowd gathered around the blocked-off street, much larger than the number of KKK people. And when the KKK appeared the entire town, silently turned their backs to the street and kept silent as the KKK marched through. They never came back after that, and their numbers diminished after that event.

There is a lot of behind-the-scenes organizing that has to happen to make stuff like this happen. You need massive publicity and you need to build a consensus. It takes work. It's hard. You need to listen to people who might not agree with your approach initially, and win them over to it. But it's immensely powerful. Like when a hate group shows up and it's been actively publicized and they know it and they show up and there is not a single face looking at them, not a single voice acknowledging them, it's a really powerful blow.

It shows the hate group, look, you wanted to have an audience, and you wanted to divide people and provoke people and cause unrest, and what happened? Instead everyone is united, everyone is calm, and you have no audience at all, the people have completely closed off from you.

I don't think people on this website understand what "you should love jewish people more than you hate nazis" means

do you hate nazis because they're fun to hate on and easy to ratio? or because of the material harm they have caused, are causing, and will continue to cause? when you see a nazi, do you see an acceptable target? or do you see an active threat? what do you do to help jewish people outside of these situations? anything at all? do you have positive views on judaism? do you try to better yourself by listening to jewish voices on topics of bigotry?

I'm not going to complain about a nazi getting punched for being a nazi, but the issue isn't as simple as just punching nazis. you need to love jewish people more than you hate nazis if you want to address the root causes of antisemitism

[nickgerlich]

Breaking The Law

It’s always easy to blame the big guy for all your problems. Walmart knows this. Amazon knows this. Heck, even Dollar General is accused of destroying small-town mom-and-pops. Blame someone else for things that you can no longer control.

And now 33 state attorneys general have sued Meta, parent company of Facebook and Instagram, alleging that “Meta’s products have harmed minors and contributed to a mental health crisis in the United States.” Those are serious charges, and while the burden of proof is on the plaintiff, they might just have a chance with this one.In effect, they have likened Meta unto a drug dealer that peddles addictive social media content.

And children being children are easy victims, which explains why they are historically a protected class. There are child labor laws. Our society provides for free public education through age 18. More importantly, the courts have decided that children lack adult reasoning and judgment, and that is precisely what these cases are about.

Evidence is mounting that excessive use of social media by children—whom we will define as younger than 18—can have serious effects on self-esteem and mental health. Furthermore, the cases allege that Meta provides an infinite feed of content that is easily digested, one post after another, like a chain smoker firing up cancer sticks.

It’s just that I have a hard time blaming Meta, even though they may very well deliver addictive content. That content could be just as addictive for adults. But speaking of adults, where are they in all of this? If their kids are becoming addicted, who aided and abetted it?I’ll wait.I get it. Parents, and now attorneys general, are upset that our children are addicted to the crack cocaine that social media can be. But who bought the phone? Who pays for the cellular access? Who allows children to carry and use these devices? Basically, who is in charge here?

I am very familiar with that old aphorism about the cobbler’s children having no shoes. But this Digital Marketing prof’s kids not only had shoes, but also smartphones, and at an early age. Both opened social media accounts too under my tutelage. And you know what? They turned out just fine, both working now in the field of Digital Marketing. Along the way, they had a lot of guidance, instruction, and oversight.

Essentially, these cases mean that some parents cannot control their own kids, yet they provide them with the tools to access the thing they have come to loathe.

All of which raises another question: Why didn’t the attorneys general sue SnapChat or TikTok? That’s pretty easy. Meta has the deepest pockets, and chasing TikTok across the ocean would probably prove futile. They have other ways of dealing with them, like trying to completely block them in their states.

But we are talking about children, and they are granted special dispensations. It is easy to point fingers at Meta in this case, because children are deemed defenseless and vulnerable. That is sacrosanct.

It is uncertain exactly what these lawsuits hope to gain in terms of damages. These are not class action suits (although there have been some individual cases filed by parents), like the kind you would file against a company for defective products with identifiable victims. While evidence of mental health issues is growing, that evidence is in very general terms.

About the best they could hope to achieve would be to clamp down on Meta for violating consumer protection statutes, and then levy large fines. Presumably, Meta must inform users of the risks of using their social media offerings.

Still, I must put a lot of responsibility on the parents. If you do not want your kids to become addicted to nicotine, then don’t buy them the cigarettes laced with it. I’m not buying the argument. Social media platforms require devices and internet access, things that the parents should have sovereignty over.

The sad part is that Meta will have to spend millions defending itself, and if it is indeed found guilty, then pay fines. I’m pretty sure that Mark Zuckerberg in his wildest nightmare never could have seen any of this coming. And here we are, almost 20 years since the launch of Facebook.

It all kind of makes me wonder if a do-over would be better in the end.

Dr “Glad Mine Turned Out OK” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[atthetopofthestairs]

The Abrahamic tradition and ethnic homogeneity

The world belongs to God.  The rise and fall of peoples and nations is in the hands of God.  When I speak of ‘divine providence’ I mean the hand of God within human history.

By the end of the tenth century the Abrahamic tradition, via the medium of Christianity, held sway over Britain.  Quite decisively so.  And it remained so for the next thousand years.  What also remained so was the ethnic homogeneity of Britain.  That basic admixture of Picts, Celts, Anglo-Saxons and Vikings which had emerged as the ethnic order of Britain was to stay unchallenged for the next  millennium.  

The Norman invasion is now known to have made very little difference to the overall population of the British Isles.  There were Jews in Britain during the early Middle Ages, cruelly driven out in 1290 by the heartless Edward I.  Huguenots, Protestant refugees from France, were to arrive later on.  Blacks were to be found in small numbers, mostly freed slaves (of which more will be said shortly).  Then the Jews returned under Cromwell, only a few to begin with, but a larger number later on.

Nevertheless, for a period of more or less a thousand years Britain’s population stayed almost unchanged.  And it stayed this way because Britain was throughout all this time overwhelmingly a God-believing nation.  A nation resolutely loyal to the Abrahamic tradition.  Because the British were loyal to God,  nearly all of them anyway, the divine providence ensured that they remained a distinct and ethnically secure population.

There is only one blip in this record, vaguely discernible, of which I shall now speak.  During the eighteenth century there was a widespread turning away from religion in Britain.  Probably as a reaction against the religious fanaticism which had caused so much trouble in the preceding century.  Edward Gibbon and David Hume were leading manifestations of this trend amongst the intelligentsia.  The Hellfire Club was another manifestation, a revolt against Christianity by a section of the upper class.  In tandem with this growing sentiment against religion, curiously enough the demography of London seems to have been changing.  References to this trend are fragmentary and sporadic, but the black population of London seems to have been steadily increasing.  One imagines that they were mainly freed slaves, although this need not have been the only way that ‘blackamoors’ as they were generally known in those days could have entered England.

Had this revolt against the Abrahamic tradition continued apace then white Britons might well have become a racial minority in their own capital city by the end of the nineteenth century.  But in the nineteenth century, more specifically the Victorian Era, there was a great return to God.  Victorian society was a distinctly Christian society.  And by the end of the nineteenth century the black population of London had almost entirely disappeared.  Intermarriage, I rather think, was the tool used by the divine providence to return England to its original ethnic foundations.

But in the latter half of the twentieth century there has been a great turning away from God by most of the indigenous British population.  This is more or less the same as has  happened throughout Western Europe, though far less so in the USA.  I submit that as the modern British population has more-or-less turned away from God so has He more-or-less turned away from the native British population, which population is now in relentless numerical decline.  The latest census figures, for 2021, show clearly that this process is well underway.  It is widely predicted that sometime in the second half of this century white British people will be a minority in their own historic homeland, as they now are in their capital city.  I believe all this to be the decree of heaven, a judgement by God.  Only some kind of return to the Abrahamic tradition can turn away this divine wrath.  I doubt very much though that this is going to occur, bearing in mind how thoroughly secular most of the native British population has become.  The situation is just as bad in Wales and Scotland. The indigenous British are losing their homeland.

The situation is rapidly deteriorating in Ireland too, which provides a striking example of my overall argument.  Up until the 1980′s Ireland was the most God-believing nation in all of Western Europe.  And it was also the most solidly white. But in the 1990′s the Irish began turning away from God. In tandem with this the demography of Ireland started to change.  With each year that passed Ireland became a little bit more secular.  So that now you have African gangs prowling the streets of Dublin and other large Irish cities.  Where will it all end for the Emerald Isle?

The question now, I submit, is not how the indigenous inhabitants of Britain can regain and maintain demographic domination of their historic homeland.  Regretfully I say that it is almost certainly too late for that.  No, the question now is...who will ‘the inheritors’ be?   

[lets-try-some-writing]

I know you don't like vague prompts but if you have literally any headcanons for TFP Soundwave I would love to see them

Don't you worry dear anon! I always have some Soundwave thoughts kicking around in my brain, especially since earthspark's release. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Soundwave is a Dad

He is not like Optimus in that he spontaneously adopts everything small, unattended, and with a pulse. But he does care very deeply about his cassettes. No one, not even Megatron is allowed to harm his charges. He will gladly put an end to anyone foolish enough to try.

His cassettes have been with him since the days long before the war, they are family and the closest he has to children. He will go to any lengths to ensure their health and happiness.

Ravage

Ravage was the first cassette that Soundwave acquired.

The minicon was given to him shortly after his emergence from the well, and while it took a great deal of time for them to warm up to each other, they bonded over their shared circumstances.

They suffered greatly having to spy on the Quintessions while also appeasing the Cybertronian senate.

But they supported each other throughout it all, even when it was difficult.

Because of this and due to having spent so many millennia together, they do not need to speak to communicate.

Instead they often comfort and communicate through touches and actions.

Soundwave will hold Ravage as he goes about his business on the nemesis and Ravage will in turn keep Soundwave from falling too far into his dark thoughts with chuffs or a swat of his tail.

Sometimes they will simply sit together in silence watching the surveillance cameras littered around the nemesis.

Other times they will share energon and discuss old times.

It doesn't really matter what they do so long as they are together.

Their bond is unique, being less of a father-son bond and more of a brotherly one due to the trials they faced together.

Nonetheless, they are family, and Soundwave does what he can to keep his first cassette away from the less savory parts of life on the nemesis (Namely Megatron).

Lazerbeak

Lazerbeak was Soundwave's second cassette, and she is by far one of the most spoiled.

Soundwave saved her from being integrated into the army as an expendable by demanding the senate give her to him in order to improve his efficiency.

Safe to say she was not pleased with being passed around like a tool or interesting toy.

For a long time she fought Soundwave at every turn, purposefully defying orders, making mistakes, and generally being a nuisance.

But Soundwave was patient, and with the help of Ravage he eventually won her trust.

Since then she has been incredibly loyal and affectionate, often bring Soundwave little things and rubbing up against him for loves when there are no prying eyes.

Soundwave in turn spoils her rotten.

If Lazerbeak wants something, there is a 50/50 chance that is will find its way to her perch at some point.

Soundwave always has a stash of her favorite energon goodies hidden in his quarters and on his person at any given moment. And he will readily hand them out if she completes even the most minor of tasks.

Lazerbeak adores the attention and practically preens whenever Soundwave tells her she has done a good job.

They really are a father daughter duo.

Frenzy

Picked up from an illegal gladiatorial ring, Frenzy had more than a few bad habits.

He was overly aggressive, homicidal, and highly resistant to all of Soundwave's attempts to gain his trust.

But being the third cassette to be collected he was not alone, the other cassettes played a big role in helping Frenzy see the Soundwave was a good mech.

Eventually he eased up and began to rely heavily on Soundwave for his mental health.

Even millennia after collecting Frenzy, Soundwave still treats him the same as he always has.

When Frenzy gets too hyped and aggressive Soundwave will pull him aside and have him expend all of his anger through sparring.

Afterwards he will hold him and play a few soft songs while Frenzy finishes calming down.

Other times when Frenzy is having a mental breakdown or a bad day in general, Soundwave will let all his other cassettes out and they will spend time together until Frenzy is himself again.

Their activities are always quiet, but it is something Frenzy greatly appreciates.

Frenzy knows that he has problems and can be a lot to deal with at times, this can make him afraid that Soundwave will get rid of him after an outburst.

However these fears are always pushed aside by the comforting touches and soothing field of Soundwave who always knows when his adopted son is in need of love.

Rumble

Rumble was a bit of a package deal in that he was acquired shortly after Frenzy from the same illegal gladiatorial ring.

He and Frenzy bonded over the years and became practically joined at the hip. This in turn meant that he warmed up to Soundwave around the same time as his partner.

Where Frenzy was wild, Rumble was sly, where Frenzy was aggressive, Rumble was coy.

Rumble learned to hide his feelings behind a mask of pride and immovable ego.

And so Soundwave learned to approach Rumble in a way that did not scare him while still managing to slip past his mask.

Soundwave will play along with Rumble's tough guy persona but will offer him all the kindness and love in the world in a manner that does not go against Rumble's act.

PDA is a big nope when it comes to Rumble, so instead Soundwave will do things quietly.

Some energon goodies being left in Rumble's frequented spots, a light pat or compliment when no one else is around, and perhaps a cuddle or two during recharge if Rumble is having bad night are all common ways for them to interact.

Rumble's favored reading material is always left somewhere in Soundwave's personal spaces so that he can have and excuse to be near him without breaking character.

And on the odd occasion where Rumble does let his mask slip due to trauma or fear, Soundwave is always there to hold him close and whisper sweet nothings until he calms down again.

All of his children have issues, but Soundwave loves them anyway, and they love him in return.

[siderealxmelody]

"And I would like to see you try, I like to think I would have at least a standing chance to get at least four wounds on you before you killed me."

Her words faded away, a soft breeze against his cheek. A gentle hum to the drumbeat of the waves. But he didn't focus on any of that. He located her heartbeat, the slow beat.

He rose on a downbeat, letting that magic take over. He spun and moved, tuning into the music. He didn't shift, didn't Windwalk or Winnow. No, how would that make him special against all the fae, gods and monsters who could do that?

No, he pulled on the threads of the music. Bending the light to mask his form and shadow. Calling on the sand to muffle the sound of his movements. Playing the wind to make his feet too light to indent on the ground.

He let it go as he struck, at her shoulder, at her wrist, ribs as he moved around her. Shallow, fast cuts. He hid himself again coming back around to hold the dagger at her heart.

He wasn't even winded from the movements, but from holding back. He exhaled, letting the magic go haywire. The light show flared behind them, sand spinning into glass at the heat. Glass falling around them, the sky overhead cast in Aurora Borealis.

He felt something tug at him and he brushed it aside. Whatever it was, whatever tether was trying to hold him would find no purchase here.

"Still think you have a standing chance?"

He stepped back spinning the blade to hold it to her handle first. He turned from her, not focusing on the light show or sea glass but on the weeds. The things that try and try to grow and survive.

"Your brother is upset to be hurt? This world isn't nice and he can't handle one minor grievance? People always hurt those they love, why wouldn't he experience that at some point? I'm inclined to heal him just to have him stop whining - I wouldn't want him dead and you to be upset."

He shoved his hands into his pockets, lifting his gaze to the sky. His cheeks blushed silver, and he forced himself to not keep speaking. He liked her voice but he'd seen first hand how those relationships ended regardless of gender or commitment.

Death, betrayal...agony. Perhaps he could eat any children born, he'd thought of trying. And some part of him thought it a quick mercy, and then the other sire or dam. But he would not kill life to further himself, even when he whole. He'd gotten into this because he'd believed in the good - in the potential of them. He'd let himself be sold on a lie, on a pretty story where he was a hero, a god, maybe even a villian.

He was ever meant to be a tool it seemed.

Lucien should listen, clearly she had a better insight than he did. He should listen to her.

He stared at the plant, it was still growing. It's leaves unfurling green and brilliant.

He should listen to her.

She was right.

He snapped his one remaining eye toward Nen, leaing toward him as best as he could from across the room.

"You can heal me."

It wasn't a question. Nen looked to the plant and watched it for a long moment. He touched a finger to it recalling that blood, that life into him. Leaving it all, plant and pot to turn to ash.

He placed his hand back in his lap, holding his wrist to hold that energy back. He wouldn't take it, he liked plants - they still held bits of the music if he tuned in just right.

They were fickle things.

"No."

Lucien moved, slightly off balance. He gripped the wall glaring at him.

"But you can. What is the point of this power if -"

Nen moved, his dagger aimed at his throat. The point at his neck but still. His voice was low, that old weight. All those memories, all those rejecting spinning back up.

He could see it. Calaena would yell, would throw him out. Would cut him off and send her family after him. Sbe knew enough about him to track him and she was clearly the smarter of the two.

"You don't want me to heal you Lucien. Because I will just kill you and revive you again and again."

He leaned, his voice a hiss. He knew they'd still hear. But effects were important.

"Again and again till you can't tell the difference."

He stepped back, the blade smoothly pulling from Lucien's skin. Not even a scratch or nick. Nen turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind him.

Lucien watched him go. He rubbed at his neck and spat after him. He spoke as if he knew what that was like. As if that was even possible.

"So he just says the most fucked up things to get reactions? The fuck does that even mean? How could you not know the difference? When you die there's nothing there and when you're alive -"

He walked blindly. Too agitated to focus on the forest or the mountains. Water, he wanted water. The flower had no sun, it had been trapped, it wanted to destory. Or maybe he did and he'd influenced and turned into dark. He did that a lot to too many things.

He came to the sands, kneeling in the waves and let the flower's and pot energy go. It dug into the sands and seas. Burrowing and anchoring. Only time would tell what would come of it.

He exhaled and didn't bother to turn. He was so tired, of fighting, of war. Of existence. Even asleep he wasn't beginning to hear the music as much. Was he becoming like them? Would he never get back what he'd been?

"I will only you warn you once that if you are here to avenge your brother I'll kill you before you're able to unsheath your dagger Calaena."

[finniestoncrane]

May you pretty please write something with Arkham Riddler with a reader who has a degradation kink?

Trying to do the Riddler challenges in the Arkham games is so bad for me (especially with the Arkham Knight races) because I absolutely suck at them (I can’t drive for shit in video games). And so of course because I’m failing Eddie just starts dealing out insults and makes everything worse. Cause like then I don’t want to succeed right away you know?

I just need a reader that just adores Eddie degrading them please.

Totally don’t have to do this btw, sorry it was a long ask.

Pathetic. Worthless.

Arkham!Riddler x GN!Reader, word count: 1.7k don't ever apologise to me for long asks i swear or i'll smack you on the head with a broom i love the detail you've done all the hard work for me lmao but anywayyyy... you are speaking my fuckin language baby this is a tight as shit concept and i am ALL OVER IT because guess who likes to be called a silly little slut (it's me, i'm the silly little slut teehee) and i also spent a majority of what i've played so far fanning myself when he tells me i'm stupid 💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi minors DNI!! 🔞 cw for nsfw stuff: language, degradation, humiliation, forced oral just a smidge of aftercare cos he's a soft boy really

You placed the wrench on workbench where Edward was busy with another of his projects.

“Having fun tinkering?”

“It’s not tinkering! It’s…just, pass the screwdriver.”

Handing the wrench to him, you tried to hold your smile back.

“Are you stupid?”

“I don’t know, Eddie, why?”

He placed his fingers at his temples, obviously trying to hold back his irritation, or simmering rage. But it was the effect you had hoped to garner from him. All day you’d been purposefully obtuse, getting his riddles wrong, so wrong and so consistently wrong that he had stopped telling you them, which was a first. And this was now the third time you had brought him the wrong tool. Smacking his hands down on the desk he turned to face you, no doubt straining to keep his words curbed, trying to remember how fond of you he actually was, even if he struggled to show it sometimes. And when his eyes met your coy smile, noticed you batting your eyelashes and shuffling your feet, he understood immediately.

“Ah, I see.” There was a glint in his eyes as he narrowed his eyebrows, lips curling at the edges into a wicked sneer. “You are stupid.”

It took all of you not to jump up and down on the spot, but you couldn’t contain the little giggle that erupted.

“Enough of that! If this is going to be pleasurable for you, you can forget it.” With a wink, he stood up from his seat, inching closer to you until your noses were pressed together. “I’m not in the mood to be nice to you right now, nor to placate your insecurities and tell you that you are smart after all, that you’ve been very good today, when the exact opposite would be correct. Get on your knees.”

You fell to the ground instantly, knees making contact with the oil-stained floor, shards of metal and glass and whatever else luckily not pressing too hard against you where you knelt. Looking up at him, you tried to hide the excitement in your eyes, but it was a futile attempt. Eddie knew you. Very well.

“Now, I’m going to be very rough, but that’s only because you’ve been entirely insufferable today. And if I’m being too mean, you’ll just have to take it. I want to see just…how…much…you…can take.” As he spoke, he let his fingers trace your lips, pushing two inside and pressing down on the teeth, opening your mouth and lowering your jaw, his thumb resting on your chin. “To see how much of me you can take.”

Towering above you now, he began unbuckling his belts, tossing one to the floor, the other, clattering to the sides of his pants. Unzipping slowly, he slid the fabric down, unsheathing his cock, holding it in his palm, hardening from soft at the touch, growing ever more impressive as he became stiffer at the sensation, at the prospect of what he had in store for you. He palmed it, hissing through clenched teeth as he let his thumb stroke the head softly, tentatively.

“Ok, remember what I’ve told you.” He lifted your head up by the chin, smiling as he realised you were staring intently at his cock, mouth subtly open in preparation. “If a job is worth doing, do it well. We don’t half-ass things around here.”

He slapped softly at your cheek twice, letting his trousers fall further down to his knees, his legs exposed, deliciously thick, dark hair covering his thighs which you reached up to touch, letting your palm glide over them, fingers pressed in slightly.

“Put the whole thing in, don’t make me struggle to make it fit. This is the best way to shut you up, you insolent little pain. Take my whole cock in your mouth.”

Grasping himself at the base of his length, he dragged the tip along your lower lip, pausing before he inserted himself.

“I would say I’m going to fuck you stupid, but that would be a pointless task. You’re already completely stupid.”

There was no more waiting around, as you were taken back by his swift entry, the taste of sweat and salt hitting your tongue, saliva pooling instantly as you let your tongue swirl around his head, trying to savour as much of him as you could. Pressing the very tip against the slit of his head, you looked up in response to his light whimper, which he quickly shifted into a deeper groan when he spotted you looking at him.

“You’re a thirsty…shameless slut. Prove you’re good…for something. If you can’t please me…with your mouth…then you can leave.”

He wrapped his hand around the back of your head, no pressure on the touch, just letting his fingers brush through your hair. In response, you hollowed your cheeks and slid your mouth further up his length, taking more of him in, moaning around his cock as he grunted in pleasure.

“That’s more like it…mmmm…yes, that’s good…this is your only task right now…focus on me…I could replace you with a robot…in an instant…so you better do a good job…”

Edward’s breath hitched as you bobbed your head at a more rapid pace, slowing down as you got close to the base, drawing your tongue languidly back up the shaft before pursing your lips around the head.

“Keep your eyes on me, idiot.”

Staring up at him, trying to hold his gaze despite the fact you were consumed with pleasure, arousal building in your stomach, skin clammy and prickled with excitement.

“You stupid, pathetic, worthless little creature.”

He growled as his hand pushed on your head onto him, fingers gripping your hair at the root and directing you onto him, only letting go when you gagged loudly, choking on him.

“Oh, come on now! Put some effort into this, use your tongue, hollow your…ok no, I’m not going to tell you how to do this.”

With his hand softly on your cheek, he let his thumb gently pass over the skin, back and forth, soothing you.

“Dear, dear. Your mouth was big enough earlier, this shouldn’t be a problem for you. It doesn’t take brains to know what to do if you’re choking, no?”

Pulling himself out from your lips, groaning at the sound of you gasping for breath, he watched you quietly as he panted. Your moment of reprieve was done though, as he guided his tip, slick with your drool, back into your mouth, spit falling from your chin to the floor.

“You’re making such a mess, my dear. Is this really so hard for you? I’ll just take a hold of your hair then, to help you. Good thing you wore those silly little pigtails. Who do you think you are? Do you think you’re going to be my pathetic little sidekick like that idiot clown and his little jester?”

Your hair, tangled in his fingers as he gripped both of your pigtails, he forced your head down onto his dick, more of it hitting the back of your throat than before. Gagging against it, you focused on breathing through your nose, trying to do your best for him, despite the fact that you were desperate for him to degrade you further.

“This kind of humiliation and punishment really suits the intellectually challenged such as yourself. Is this an achievement for you? It should be, you should be grateful that I would pay this kind of attention to a little slut.”

You nodded, mouth still full, lips pouted around him, tasting his precum, your own saliva.

“Shall we try a little task, a challenge?”

Again, you bobbed your head, muffled moans of agreement emanating from your otherwise occupied lips.

“Ok, you tell me you’re stupid when I’m out. Time it right, take a deep breath in, say your piece, and then get ready to take me again. Got it?”

He gripped his cock at the base once again, bring it out for you to struggle a ‘yes’, waiting until you caught on and offered your statement.

“I’m stupid.”

With no time to process, he was pushing himself back in, sliding himself in and out of your mouth, giving you the bare minimum time to tell him how stupid you were, following his demands to say you were a whore, to tell him you were worthless, to beg him to choke you. He settled inside of you permanently again, allowing you to get back to a pace where you could properly satisfy him, the tip of your tongue pressed hard to his shaft, flicking over his head, stretching your mouth open wide enough that he wasn’t touching the edges before enveloping him in your wet, pouting lips.

“Using you…hmmm…like this, I’m disappointed it’s taken this long, but I am…phew…I am going to cum. And you’re going to take it…all down your…worthless…pathetic…mmm…throat.”

He growled every word, pausing only when his breath hitched and his whines managed to escape.

“And you…my silly little…idiot…you’re going to take all of it down your stupid throat…do not open your mouth…until I’m finished…this should be…a gift to you…hmph…a treat…mmm…as if someone…god…of my…urgh…calibre…would ever…hng…stoop so low…ah…ever…again…ah!”

Edward’s hands held firm to the back of your head as he came down your throat, leaving trails of his seed along your tongue and on your lips as he pulled out, holding your chin up and your head back until you swallowed it all, hands slipping to your throat as you opened your mouth wide to show him that you had done as he wanted.

“Good girl.”

He fell to his knees in front of you, shocking you by kissing you, lips against yours, tongue flicking out and then pulling back, his eyes screwing up as he tasted himself. He smiled though, as he stroked your cheek.

“I hate to ruin the illusion, my dear, but you are above and beyond. You are perfection. As if I would sully myself with anyone not intellectually worthy, hm?”

Ed pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head as he stood up, offering you a hand to help you onto your feet.

[inkykeiji]

you’re like a drug to me, a luxury, my sugar and gold

character: gojou satoru

genre: smut with a sprinkle of fluff at the end

notes: aaaaah first jjk fic ever!!!! uhhh this is honestly just pure smut and punishment, satoru is a Bad Daddy, and it’s set in a curseless AU | title cred: handclap by fitz and the tantrums

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon/noncon, slight size difference/size kink, belly bulge, spanking with a belt, rough sex, minimal prep, minimal aftercare (at first), toxic and unhealthy relationship (satoru is mean n a bad daddy!), daddy kink/slightly implied ddlg dynamics, praise kink, dacryphilia

words: 3.1k

synopsis:

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

Gojou Satoru is a bad Daddy.

He’s a sweet Daddy, a silly Daddy, a Daddy who’s almost incapable of saying no. He’s a Daddy with a massive sweet tooth, a Daddy who frequently allows both of you to have dessert before dinner—sometimes dessert for dinner—and a Daddy who gives his princess nearly everything she desires, weak to your pretty pout and puppy-dog eyes and please, Daddy?’s. He hates to deny you, aches at the thought of you being even just a teensy bit displeased, because he wants his baby happy, always.

It’s his fault, really, you’re saying, insisting, when he calls you a spoiled brat. Because, honestly, it is; Satoru is entitled—he always has been, born with a not silver, not gold, but platinum spoon in his mouth—and his little princess is entitled, too.

Because he gives you anything and everything you ask for the moment the demand leaves your mouth, dotes on you hand and foot, absolutely adores you, lavishing you in the finest silks and prettiest lace, always indulging you just as much as he indulges himself—as much as he has always been indulged, growing up filthy rich.

Because you weren’t always like this; or, at least, you weren’t always this brash about it.

But years of getting exactly what you want, exactly when you want it, has forced your attitude to change, to shift.

You haven’t changed, Satoru tells you one day, a tub full of melty ice cream in his lap as he shovels another spoonful into your mouth, waning sun bathing the penthouse terrace in translucent gold and coral, brilliant colours reflected in his crystal eyes. “I didn’t do anything—I simply revealed your true nature,” A devious little smirk spreads across his lips, eyes glinting in an almost ominous nature, and you shiver. “You’ve always been a selfish materialistic brat, haven’t you?”

Well, you guess he has a point.

And although you can—and do—get away with a lot, you can’t get away with everything. A little brattiness he can handle, a little brattiness he thinks is cute. But on the days when you’re really misbehaving, purposefully (or not) breaking every rule, acting out and refusing to listen, rejecting any bargain or compromise with him at all—well, he’s only human.

And he snaps.

It’s always something little, after a day full of disobedience, that does it, that finally lights the fuse and forces an explosion. Something that would normally be inconsequential, something he’d usually laugh off with a coo and a loving pat to your head.

Because you fought him on bedtime last night, then fought him on going to university this morning. You demanded pancakes for breakfast and when he denied them to you, because he’s got an important meeting in the afternoon and thus hasn’t the time to make them, you refused to eat anything at all—only to whine and bitch and complain about how starved you were for the entire duration of his conference. And yet, throughout it all, he was the perfect picture of patience, endlessly cool and nonchalant in his responses to your multiple tantrums.

Until you rushed into the kitchen in a famished frenzy, diving straight for the cookie jar and shoving three in your mouth.

“Sweets are not an appropriate dinner, baby,”

The words are sighed out in pure exasperation, his thumb and his forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose, lids shut tightly.

Eyebrows furrowing, you tilt your head in confusion, speaking around your mouthful. “Since when?”

His eyes snap open, blazing azure glaring at you with such an intensity it makes you flinch, cookie crumbs turning to ash in your mouth.

“Since forever,” he seethes, mask of impassivity finally beginning to break.

“What?” you laugh around the word, but it trembles. “What are you talking about? You rarely enforce that rule—especially since you don’t even follow it yourself!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, nostrils flaring with a particularly harsh exhale. “I am the boss, and what I say goes,”

“Daddy!” A sock-clad foot stomps against the marble floor as you whine out the word, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “That isn’t fair! You can’t just—”

“Enough with this attitude!” he snarls, moving like a crack of lighting as he lunges at you, lithe arms embracing you in an iron grip. “I can, and I will,”

And then he’s hauling you over his shoulder, one strong arm wrapped around you and pinning you draped over his body, delivering swift, harsh slaps to your ass every time you kick your feet or beat your fists against his back, while every whine and complaint earns you another spank in his mind, mentally tallying them up and vocalizing the thought a moment later.

“You’re being a meanie,”

“That’s twelve,” he growls.

“I don’t care!”

“Thirteen.”

“So what?”

“Fourteen.”

“That’s nothing,”

“Twenty-five.”

And that—that gets you to pause, but not to halt, not to stop, potent brattiness mixing with fury as it boils in your chest, the need to defy, to disobey, burning through your veins.

“I-I can handle that,”

“Thirty,” his voice is calm—serene, almost—and ice cold. There’s an underlying challenge sown into it, daring you to try him again, to utter another word. He’ll go higher, you can almost hear his apathetic voice floating through your mind; he’ll go as high as he needs to in order to teach such an ungrateful little brat a lesson.

Thirty it is.

The buckle of his favourite belt jingles as he undoes it, that dainty clink! forcing shivers to pebble across your naked skin, pressing your chest further into the foot of his bed, fingers curling in cashmere.

You’ve developed a love-hate relationship with that belt; it’s so fun when you get to undo it yourself, gentle fingers tugging and toying as you squirm eagerly in his lap, yet the clank and clattering of that heavy buckle as nimble fingers skillfully unfasten it and pull it from the loops of expensive trousers is almost menacing, carrying with it portentous threats it fully intends to see through.

He never warns you when the first strike is coming, reveling in the way your muscles are coiled in tension, in foreboding anticipation; basking in the surprised yelp that bubbles up in your throat.

“Relax,” he tells you with a callous chuckle, leather squealing between large, smooth hands as he folds it. “And count,”

It’s his usual response, predictable and scripted by this point, but he never seems to tire of it, notes of delight lacing his voice.

And that first blow never counts.

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy by most standards, but his punishments are harsh, brutal, and cruel, and they happen to be one of the only things he takes seriously in life.

There’s rules to each of his punishments—so many rules he’s made you write them out multiple times, until your hand ached and fingers cramped and the heel of your palm was swollen, so they’d stick in that pretty empty little head of yours, so you never forget—and his spankings are no different.

You are not to move until he tells you to. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are to count each lash, loud and clear before the next strike lands. Each mistake, each misstep and slip-up and refusal to comply, will earn you one extra slap. The tool is to be decided based on the severity of the offence.  

The belt, all rigid rawhide and sharp edges, cuts into the supple flesh of your ass with each easy, nonchalant flick of his wrist, abrasively snapping against you.

Each collision of leather against flesh sears a tingly sting into your skin, biting rapidly rising welts into your ass and sending spiky jolts of agonizing pain bolting up your spine, the pain fading to a dull throb for just a moment before another blow is delivered.

“Gorgeous,” Satoru murmurs to himself halfway through your punishment, the word nothing more than a little huff of breath. You don’t dare respond, simply crying out the next number as he lands another harsh blow to your abused skin. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more beautiful sound, he continues, voice appearing faint and far away, mingling with the combined symphony of the crack of leather and pathetic whimpers muffled by sheets.

“It’s incredible,” he says, louder this time, voice dripping with wonderment, as if he can’t believe he’s created such a magnificent piece—the streaks of blood staining once perfect, unblemished skin; the high-pitched whines and sharp cries of each subsequent number; the resounding slap of the belt against your bare ass that evokes it all.

The whole thing sends a surge of intense power rushing through his veins, the tingling buzz it leaves behind enthralling and invigorating. You don’t need to look at him to know this, don’t need to see the way his eyes shine with it, the way his chest heaves with it, the way his entire body trembles with it—you can feel it in the atmosphere surrounding you, can feel the shift as his ego saturates the air, as his pure superiority bleeds into it, dense and suffocating, stimulating and revitalizing.

It infects your body, seeping in through your skin and flooding your veins, re-instills the need to be submissive, the ache to be good, providing you with the strength to endure.

The punishment lasts for forty-five excruciating minutes, accumulating a total of thirty three spanks—the extra three tacked onto your original punishment of thirty, one for each time you broke a rule. He’s on you in less than a second the moment it’s over, belt dropping to the rug-covered floor with a distinct thump as soft, eager palms roam your sweaty body, lips crushed against yours, still trembling as they spill pitiful whimpers into his mouth.

The luxurious bedroom—all cream and gold and drenched in sunlight—is blanketed by backhanded praises, warning you not to be a brat and just take what he gives. He’s sadistic when he gets in moods such as these, a feral glint in crystal eyes as large hands hastily flip you over—so fast it knocks a gasp of his name from your chest—seemingly unconcerned about the fresh blood oozing from the thin swollen welts that embellish your ass staining his thousand dollar sheets.

“Daddy needs you now,” he growls when you try to protest, breathing erratic as fingers flex on your hips, squeezing and kneading before pressing down hard, a silent order to stay fucking put. “And you’re going to be a good little girl for your Daddy now, aren’t you?”

Of course. Of course, because you are a good little girl, his good little girl.

But he’s a bad Daddy.

And, like a bad Daddy, he defers aftercare—it can wait, he practically snarls as he drags you to the edge of the bed, folding your legs up on either side of your body, knees nearly nudging your jaw; and foregoes prep almost entirely—two slender fingers slipping between your slick folds, prodding your hole and deeming you wet enough to take him.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t absolutely love it when he gets like this, when that façade of indifference finally shatters to pieces, replaced with desperation, with urgency, with neediness.

Your head lifts from the plush mattress, neck straining a little as you watch him push his trousers down his thighs through bleary eyes, residual dewdrops of tears clinging to spidery lashes. His cock bobs a little as he kicks the pants off, and it’s just as pretty as he is, smooth and symmetrical and perfect in every way.

“This would be part of your punishment,” he pants out, speaking over your cry of discomfort as he begins to shove his cock into you, little cunt aching as it attempts to accommodate the sudden intrusion. “If you didn’t love it so much, fucking slut,”

“Daddy!” The pet name claws its way up your throat in a yelp, hands scrabbling against his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh through his Armani button-up in an effort to steady yourself, eyes squeezing shut against the severe burn that accompanies the stretch. “Gonna—Gonna tear me in half,”

“You’d think you’d be used to this by now,” Satoru muses, voice already returning to its apathetic playful lilt now that he’s half buried in your cunt, breathing already calmed. A malicious little smirk decorates his lips and he observes you as if awestruck, one of his hands moving to trace the curve of your cheek, cold fingertips soft against your scalding skin.

“So beautiful like this,” he whispers as he finally bottoms out, hips pressed flush against the back of your thighs.

And you are, fresh tears that glitter the way his eyes do in the waning sun streaming down your cheeks, leaving the prettiest streaks of salt staining your flesh; lips swollen from merciless teeth sinking into them, an attempt to silence yourself, to keep those whines and complaints of Stop, Daddy! and Hurts, Daddy! safely stored in your throat.

Your little hole flutters around him, still struggling to adjust to his girth, and his head droops forward, long tongue unfurling from his mouth to lap at the bitter water adorning your face, slow languid strokes from your jaw to your bottom lashes, replacing shimmering tears with viscous saliva.

Saccharine sugar stings your nose, sticky toffee bathed in decadent chocolate and garnished with a touch of vanilla enveloping you in a sickly sweet embrace.

Such a scent—his scent—starkly opposes the vicious snapping of his hips, setting a merciless pace from the very start, blunt nails biting deep half-crescents into your flesh as they hold you in place.

But the pain only heightens the pleasure, contradicting sensations clashing together with every one of his brutal thrusts, cashmere feeling as rough as sandpaper against your raw, wounded ass. Thorns of pain pierce through your abdomen and shoot up your spine, back arching off the bed, and the muscles in your thighs flex and clench with every slam of his cockhead against your cervix.

It’s potent and intoxicating, a heady exhilaration clouding your brain and flooding your veins, and soon there are tears leaking from your eyes again, dribbling into your mouth and mixing with strings of drool that coat the words you’re babbling out.

Blood rushes in your ears, procuring a deafening ring, and you’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore, voice vibrating indistinctly in your chest as saliva soaked mewls ooze from your mouth. Your Daddy’s staring down at you, condescension etched into his pretty features, eyes morphing from dainty crystal to the navy of a tumultuous sea, framed by strands of cream and ivory dripping with sweat.

And he’s so big, too big, stuffing you full to the hilt with each ruthless piston of his hips, mattress trembling beneath you from the sheer strength; and it’s so much, too much, you swear you can feel him in your tummy, can see the way your lower abdomen cutely bulges in synchronization with every pounding thrust.

You must say it in some way, in some shape or some form, because the patronization varnishing his features melts away, sharp smirk dissolving into a genuine grin, blue eyes lightening with pure adoration.

“Such a good girl,” you think he’s saying, through it’s hard to tell when your eyelids keep drooping, hard to hear when a symphony of broken moans and hitched whimpers and the sharp slapping of skin against skin blanket the room, reverberating off the walls of your skull. “You’re such a good, good girl for me,”

Yes, Daddy, you want to say, such a good girl for you, only for you.

“Y-Yours,” you manage instead, locking your arms around his neck and clinging to him.

“Mine,” he growls, possessiveness lacquering his eyes, brilliant and bright and shining with devotion. “That’s right, mine,”

It only takes another three thrusts before you’re gushing all over his cock, the intense spasming of your cute little cunt drawing the prettiest whines from the back of his throat as he rams into you.

“Beg for it,” he demands, and although it’s an order, it comes out more like a plead, desperation sown into his voice. “Beg for Daddy’s cum,”

You obey immediately, words spilling from your lips without a second thought, automatic and instinctual. Please, Daddy, gimme your cum? Please, please, pretty please, want your cum, Daddy, fill my belly with it, Daddy, I need it, need it so bad, please?

He gives you what you want only a moment later, cock throbbing almost violently as he fills you with thick, scalding cream—so much that you’re sure it’s dribbling out of you, trickling down your ass and onto his pristine sheets—and you roll your hips up, attempting to milk him for more.

“G-Greedy,” he pants out, but there’s a dazzling smile slapped across his face, and so much love in his eyes it’s nearly overwhelming, a fresh wave of tears casting a gleaming shield across your own.

He notices immediately, both of you wincing a little as he pulls out, a wrecked little whine escaping your mouth.

“My poor little princess,” he’s saying as he untangles his briefs—Balenciaga, this time—from his trousers, abandoned in a heap on the hardwood.

“Daddy,” you rasp, a frown marring his face, fingers encircling your ankles as he helps you unfold your stiff legs.

“I know, I know,” he’s murmuring as gentle hands pull the soft clothing up your silky thighs. “It hurts, I know baby, Daddy’s gonna make it feel better now,”

A shiver courses through your body, and he tuts, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt, shrugging it off before he hoists you up and drapes it over your shoulders, tenderly threading your arms through the sleeves.

It’s cozy, and warm, infused with his scent—melted sugar and expensive cologne—and you snuggle into it, weak arms pulling the material tighter around your body, swathing it in comfort. Tears prick your eyes again, blearily blinking them clear as you glance up to find him backing away. A noise of indignance sounds in the back of your throat, eyebrows knitting together as you make grabby hands for him.

“I’ll be right back, princess,” he reassures you as he laces your fingers together and allows you to pull him back towards you, voice soothing like a lullaby. Fingers trail along the curve of your cheek then trace the line of your jaw, palms smoothing hair back from your face. “Daddy’s just going to go get the first aid kit so he can clean you up, okay?”

“‘N then food?”

He coos with a little chuckle, cupping your head as he tilts it up towards him, eyes overflowing with fondness.

“Yeah, baby, and then food. Whatever you want, it’s yours,”

Gojou Satoru may be a bad Daddy, but he is also your Daddy, and that makes him the best Daddy.

[neon-junkie]

MORE panty snatching shenanigans! its your turn to do laundry so you go to strip the beds— including pillow cases. you end up finding your panties tucked away into the crevice between the mattress and surface it rests on and stashed in their pillow cases. its not an obnoxious number, but you could tell they were underwear you had just thrown into the dirty hamper the previous day— each one had a freshly dirty pair for themselves. how the hell do you move on from tjat?? just put the bedding back on and leave it alone? how would they even react when they get back to the ship to stripped bed. they know you saw them, there’s no way you didn’t. now you have five sheepish men (that includes cross) who don’t know how to approach you or look you in the face. you pretend to not have seen anything, go on like nothing happened just to see them squirm but also how the hell do you approach a situation where you catch five extremely handsome men stealing your panties, panties you wore the night prior when you touched yourself to the thought of them, and then slipped them back on when you were done…. 😳🥴

Part 1 is here.

I think Echo is the only person who wouldn't get caught. He partakes in pantie snatching shenanigans, but he constantly feels so guilty about it, so much to the point that he physically cannot forget to return them. But you've just caught four of the five men doing it, and given Echo's panicked expression when he returns to find that you've changed his bedding, despite not finding anything, you assume that he's just as guilty as the rest.

The men are silent. They know. You know. They know you know. You know they know. Tension is so thick in the air that you could slice through it with a knife and eat it up for dinner. What the kriff do they do now? Are you going to mention it? Should they mention it?

It doesn't really bother you, if anything, you have the opposite reaction; you're glad that they see you in that way, considering you touch yourself to the thought of them every night. If anything, they deserve to enjoy your panties, since you're often cumming in them to the thought of these men.

You're uncertain how to move forward that you leave it, at first. Your panties stop going missing, and suddenly your underwear draw is overflowing. Ugh. You want things to return to previous ways, so you chalk up a plan to encourage them to use them again.

Minor adjustments are made to your wardrobe. You begin to wear tighter fitting clothes, ensuring that your pantie line is visibly pressed against your ass beneath the clothing. Sometimes you wear a thong, and settle the bands over your hips, peeking out from beneath your pants, as if to remind them that you're wearing underwear today.

You bend over more often. Tech is the perfect victim for your crime; he's always dropping tools whenever he's working away, and that's your opportunity to flaunt what you have whilst 'helping him.' Tech doesn't notice at first, not until you're shoving the tool back into his hand, and he jumps at your sudden appearance, dropping another tool yet again.

"Careful, Tech," you tut as you pick the tool up. "If you treat your tools carelessly, then that makes me question how you'd treat a woman." Tech is attempting to stutter a reply as you smile and walk off, leaving him with a hazy mind.

Crosshair is another victim to your bending over shenanigans. It's part of his routine to clean his rifle, and you're lucky one day, lucky in the sense that you overhear Crosshair grumbling to himself because he's just sat down and forgot something from his kit. You offer to retrieve it, and Crosshair watches hungrily as you band over and begin rummaging through the box, taking your time to retrieve said item.

"For you, Sir," you playfully announce as you hand over the missing item, and Crosshair accidentally drops the toothpick from between his lips at your bold name. You're gone before he can even think of a reply, and he makes a mental note to get you back for it.

You ask the boys if any of them want to come clothes shopping with you. Wrecker says yes, and you enjoy dragging him through the underwear isle specifically, asking for his opinion on every single frilly, lacy, bright pair of undies that you pick out. He tells you that they all look "nice," and the poor man looks like he's about to pass out at any given moment.

Hunter is a hard one to catch slipping, so you create an opportunity to rile him up. Whilst he's alone, you strike up a conversation, and eventually ask, "have you ever misused that knife of yours?"

"What do you mean?" Hunter quirks a brow.

"Oh, I dunno.... Used it during sex, maybe to help undress someone? Cut off their panties, maybe?" you shrug. Hunter can't even attempt to string together a reply, too flustered at those thoughts that you've put into his head. "I'll take that as a no," you laugh, and as you begin to walk off, you turn over your shoulder and state, "let me know if you ever want to practise."

Echo has managed to act the most normal around you. He always politely averts his gaze whenever you're flaunting yourself in front of the boys, and you can't deny that his politeness isn't winding you up, just a little. One day, Echo's going through his usual routine of oiling his joints, a task that you sometimes help him with. You offer a hand, as always, and he accepts it.

Usually, you'll work on his legs whilst he works on his arm, but since he's already started, he decided to do his arm first. You settle between Echo's thighs, looking up at him innocently as you begin working on his legs. Echo has nothing to distract himself, and struggles to keep eye contact as you slowly work the oil into each crevice, slicking the mechanical compartments up. All colour that Echo had managed to gain drains from his complexion, and once you've finished and left, he has to remain seated for a while, concerned that he's going to pass out.

Your shenanigans have been going on for a few weeks, and you decide that it's time to finally inform them that you know.

"I'm going to bed," you announce one evening. The Batch say goodnight, and you find your way into your room, quickly stripping off and changing into pyjamas. "Oh," you sigh as you exit your room, turning to face them. "I don't know whos turn it is tonight. You can fight amongst yourselves," you say with a smirk, and toss todays pair of panties at them.

"Goodnight!" you sweetly smile once your panties land within their crowd. You don't linger around, you've seen more than enough of their ghost-white expressions as they figure out what's happening between them. You enter your room, the door shutting behind you, and grin to yourself as you get into bed.

The Batch is frozen. Every single one of them has their own shocked and embarrassed expression plastered across their face, unable to move, until Echo finally breaks the tension by letting out a cough (he forgot to breathe.) They decide to speak about things, and two questions swiftly rise up in conversation:

1. You're clearly aware of what's going on, so how should they approach the matter?

2. Who gets your panties for tonight?

---

Part 3 is here.

[jamaisjoons]

erised ⤑ pjm | m.

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 the last thing jimin had anticipated when he’d followed you into the room of requirement was to find you, the demure little head-girl, in front of the mirror of erised. moaning his name. 〞hogwarts au. pwp au.

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: slytherin head-boy!jimin x hufflepuff head-girl!reader

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: mild angst ⋆ fluff ⋆ smut

❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 29k 🥴

⟶ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: hard dom!jimin, big cock!jimin, possessive!jimin, sub!reader, virgin!reader, female masturbation, mirror sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, teasing, minor thigh spanking, fingering, degradation, humiliation, dirty talk, corruption kink, biting, orgasm denial, orgasm control, begging, pussy slapping, marking, object play? he teases her with a vibrating wand, praise, object insertion, clit spanking, crying, begging, overstimulation, clit torture, forced orgasms, multiple orgasms, squirting, manhandling, spanking, minor anal play/teasing, power play/dnyamics, virgin sex, wet & mess sex, unprotected sex, once again jimin has a ᵖʰᵃᵗ cock, kneeling doggy style (kind of oath sex position), mild pain kink, rough sex, hair pulling, creampie, brief cum play

➵ 𝑎/𝑛: sol writing a jimin au? truly, it must be a miracle,,,,, this really was supposed to only be a 5k commission,,, but i thot if i need to suffer and write for jimin,,,, perhaps i should suffer and write him an entire au with plot,, just like he deserves 😌

⏤ commissioned by @opaljm​​ in exchange for a blm donation // beta read the these lovely people: @yeoldontknow​, @luffles424​, @peekaboongi​, @sunshinekims​, @inthecrescentmoonight​, @tricethecharm​, @jjungkooksthighs​, @dontaskshhhhh​ and @nervouskiwi​!!

⏤ disclaimer: in order to ensure all characters are 18+, i’ve tweaked the hogwarts curriculum to include ‘apprenticeships’ and ‘masterships’, essentially wizarding equivalent of graduates/post-grad, and as a result, yn is 21 and jimin is 22!! // additional disclaimer: i know absolutely fuck all about tarot cards and readings and therefore thank you to the lovely @yeoldontknow​ for picking which cards to use as well as giving me the explanations/details of the reading!

⇥ this ones for all my kinky virgins out there, hope y’all stay freaks 😤

Hidden in the private dorms of the Potions Apprentice Quarters, you sit on the floor in the common room. Large, arched windows litter one side of the room, charmed - just like the Great Hall’s ceiling - to reflect the weather outside of the castle. Though, unlike the Great Hall, the charm could be turned off at will - allowing a magnificent, if not eerie, view of the underwaters of the Black Lake and all of its creatures. Currently, the charm is off, and the lake’s murky waters cast a dark hue to the room, bathing everything with a dark-teal tinge. Dark, crushed-velvet curtains drape down from the ceiling, the velour fabric only adding to the ominous scene of the Black Lake.

Despite the dismally grim sight of the lake, the rest of the common room is pleasant, and homely - if a little cold. With the space shared by all Potion’s Apprentices, from years eight to ten, regardless of the house, the interior is decorated in shades of black and grey rather than Hogwarts House colours. Dark, almost black, wenge wood furniture litters the room: from the large beams that run across the ceiling - holding onto the chandeliers, to the towering bookcases that fringe one wall of the room - brimming with rare potion tomes; as well as the glass-lined cabinets that cluster one corner of the room - teeming with vials and flasks of all sorts of potioneering ingredients.

The carpet that lines the flooring, however, is a light shade of mottled grey - the material piled and shaggy, and oh so soft under bare feet. Lavish leather sofas and armchairs of smoke-grey sit in one corner of the room, right beside the ornate brick fireplace; and a large frame of white gold hangs above the mantelpiece, containing the portrait of Gunhilda de Gorsemoor: a gifted potioneer who had developed the cure for Dragon Pox in the sixteenth century. Potions tables occupy the far corner, right beside the ingredients cabinets; each surface littered with a series of flasks and beakers, as well as glass phials, a pestle and mortar, various ingredient prepping tools; and, of course, a cauldron.

A sudden chill runs through the air, causing a shudder to run down your spine. It’s the middle of November, and yet, somehow the air feels colder in the common room. Though, you have a feeling that’s more to do with the fact that the dormitory is located in a far corner of the Hogwarts Dungeons, as well as being surrounded by the cold waters of the Black Lake. You don’t know why, perhaps it was just an oversight, but the temperature of the dungeons had always been bitterly biting. As a result, you nestled further into the warmth of the furry blanket laid over your lap - a gracious comfort from the brisk chill in the air. You’ve been living in the Apprentice Quarters for almost three years now, and yet, you’re still not used to the frigid temperatures of your dorms. To be honest, you don’t think you ever will.

Of course, being a Hufflepuff, you’d spent seven years on the floor just above - the common room located in the basement of Hogwarts. Alas, contrary to the dungeons, the basement is warm, in particular the Hufflepuff Common Room, and so, these past three years, you’ve struggled with the cold. Part of you wishes you were still within the comfort of the dorms you’d spent the better part of your Hogwarts Career in. However, after graduating from seventh year, you’d immediately applied for an apprenticeship in Potions. Upon having succeeded in your application, it had meant you’d had to move into the Dungeons, and from the Hufflepuff Dorms to the Potions Apprentice Quarters - a living space you currently share with Park Jimin.

Speaking of Jimin, he sits beside you and, unlike you, the cold doesn’t seem to bother him one bit. In fact, on the contrary to your body huddled into the shaggy comforter, the Slytherin Head Boy is casually pouring over the table: his back bent as his dark eyes skim across the parchment paper. His cloak rests casually on the sofa’s armrest, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and hair dangling in front of his eyes. You don’t know how he does it; how he so easily braces himself against the cold. Though, it could be because he’s spent ten years in the dungeons now - having acclimated to the cold over the decade.

From the corner of your peripheral vision, you take in the Head Boy. Naturally, you and Jimin had grown up together throughout your time at Hogwarts. And so, you’ve seen him change from the pudgy little eleven-year-old boy he was, to the man he is now. At twenty-two, Park Jimin is every bit the Pureblood Aristocrat he was born and bred to be: with dark pine-green hair that falls like silk around his face and sharp, cunning eyes - nestled between soft lids - that could stare into your soul and discover your deepest, darkest secrets (without the use of Legilimency).

Eyes scanning over his form, you watch as his lips quirk in concentration, his own gaze skimming across the large potions textbook as he jots down his notes. Against your will, your stare is pulled toward his hands. One is splayed onto the textbook, his pointer finger marking his current space on the page. The other glides across the parchment in front of him, his Eagle Quill scrawling over the paper in balletic movements as he jots down his notes. The gracefulness of the motions immediately captures your attention. His hands always surprise you, no matter what they’re doing. They’re somewhat small, and on the thick side - and a lot of the time they look incredibly cute. However, sometimes - like now - you’re surprised by how… attractive they are.

His fingers loosely grip the quill, the flexion of his knuckles practically mesmerising you as they protrude through his smooth, creamy skin. The bony features of his digits, and knuckles, are only emphasised by the thick rhodium ring he wears on his middle finger: the palatial band studded with gems of dark lilac and ebony. You have no doubt that it’d cost a fortune. Though, it’s probably closer to priceless; and most likely an antique, Park family heirloom. The backs of his hands are vascularised, and with each movement, you note the way the prominent vein bulges. You don’t know what he’s writing, but whatever it is, you know it’s probably incredibly advanced. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise you if he were scribbling different ingredients and their uses down, so he could create his own concoctions.

When you’d first moved in with Jimin, three years ago at the start of your apprenticeship, you’d been surprised by how often he’d actually studied. Particularly because Jimin was naturally gifted in Potions, and on his way to being one of the most skillful Potioneers the Wizarding World had ever seen. Thus, it was no surprise when you’d found out he was the other chosen Potions Apprentice for your year. Soft sigh drawing from your lips, you turn your attention back to your task at hand. Or well, tasks.

Juxtaposingly to Jimin, you were by no means a Potions Genius. Of course, you loved the subject, it’s just that you had to work a little harder in order to keep your grades up. Hence, the sight that greets you. Three pewter cauldrons sit on the table in front of you; the corners of your lips quirked into a frown as you inspect them. One of the pots contains a deep burgundy liquid, the potion rippling blood-red under the lighting of the torch sconces; signifying its completion. As a result, it’s the only one that’s set to the side. The other two still bubble over the bunsen burner: the left shimmers a pale, pearlescent lilac, while the right is a strange, putrid puce colouring that has you worried.

With a glance down to the potion tome beside you, your frown deepens. At this stage in the potion’s brewing, it should be a soft orange shade, not fetid-green. A low hum of distress emanates from your throat while you skim down the recipe - wondering just where you’d gone wrong. No matter how much you scour the textbook, you simply can’t seem to find it, and slowly, you grow more desperate. Especially as the potion’s critical stage approaches. You need to add minced Puffer-Fish soon, but if you add it now, when something is clearly wrong, you don’t know what will happen. Though, you doknow it will result in a useless potion.

Without warning, “You didn’t powder the Bone fine enough,” comes a husky voice. The sound vibrates right beside your ear, a warm breath simultaneously fanning across the outer shell of your ear. Abruptly, you jump in your seat, almost knocking the brass scales holding your meticulously measured Puffer-Fish mince to the floor.

Almost as if he’d anticipated your movement, Jimin’s hand shoots out to steady the apparatus. Although, even as his arm moves, he stays unbelievably close to you, and the proximity of his pillowy mouth next to your ears has goosebumps pricking at your skin. Angling your head, you come face to face with him, your eyes going wide. Directly adjacent to yours, his lips are just a hair’s breadth from yours - so close, in fact, that they virtually graze against yours. Heat creeps up: from the base of your throat, all the way up to the tips of your ears; and not expecting him to be so near, you jolt away.

The motion causes Jimin to quirk a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at you, and his reaction only has the flush to your cheeks deepening. Ducking your head down, you tuck a stray hair behind your ear, and, “Oh… I didn’t realise,” you mutter under your breath.

The instant the words fall from your lips you blanch, internally kicking yourself. I didn’t realise. What a joke. You’d fucked up your entire potion and all you could say was I didn’t realise. By Morgana, you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole. Here you are, a Potions Apprentice, and you hadn’t realised the bone wasn’t powdered fine enough. How had you even made it here? Especially since the potion you’d managed to botch was the Skele-Gro potion; one taught to second years. Meanwhile, your Blood-Replenishing potion, an expert recipe, is completely perfect and complete.

If Jimin cares about your response, he doesn’t say anything. Rather, he gestures towards your cauldron. “Why are you brewing three potions at once? Even brewing onerequires all your attention and concentration,” he states plainly, causing you to wince imperceptibly. He doesn’t mean to, but inadvertently, he’s rubbed salt into your wound.

“Madam Pomfrey’s running out of certain potions and I offered to help replenish them,” you reply, your voice coming out quieter than you’d intended to. Jimin simply hums.

“I guess that explains the potions you’re making. I was almost worried,” he says, his soft lips pulling tight as a lop-sided smirk crawls onto his mouth.

Not understanding, your eyebrows knit together. “Worried?” you frown. Jimin’s smirk only deepens, before he lounges back on the cream sofa. The movement draws attention to his strong body, his toned muscles bulging under his shirt, while his thighs strain against the tight material of his slacks.

“I mean, you’re brewing Blood-Replenishing, Skele-Gro and Wound-Cleaning potions out of the blue, any sensible person would be worried about their safety. I was starting to fear that you’d hex me, and then heal me before I could report you,” he jokes.

Swiftly, your jaw drops, and hastily shaking your head, “I would never-” you begin retorting, only for Jimin to hold up a hand and halt you.

“Yes, yes, you would never hurt me. Or anyone for that matter. I know, ____. It was just a joke,” Jimin cuts you off with a chuckle. “Besides, you’re too much of a Hufflepuff to think of anything so cunning,” he continues. His words have you blushing harder, your bottom lip protruding in a slight pout. After a brief pause, he nods to your cauldrons once again. “Anyway, that doesn’t explain why you’re brewing three at a time,” he says, his sentence phrased more like a question. With a sigh, you feel your shoulders deflate with weariness and lifting up a hand, you rub the bridge of your nose.

“She needs them as soon as possible. Quidditch games are going to start soon, and she’ll need all her potions restocked by then. If I don’t get them out of the way today, I won’t have any time to do them between Head Girl Duties and the Apprenticeship,” you answer

“Hmm… Still though… three potions at once is a lot. More than that, if they’re healing potions, you need to be even more careful. One wrong step and it could mean the difference between life and death,” he lectures. You know he means it well, and he doesn’t mean to upset you, but you can’t help the way your stomach sinks at his words.

He’s completely right - potion making, at its heart, is both a science and an artform. Of course, most magic requires careful consideration, however, potions even more so. Namely because, as he’d said, the slightest error could change the entire nature of the potion. That exact reason is why you’re here, as a Potion’s Apprentice. You see, your life’s dream is to qualify as a Healer, and in order to be a Healer, you now need to have some sort of post-N.E.W.T qualifications in either Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts or Herbology. Of course, it hadn’t always been like this. Before the Second Wizarding War, once a student had graduated from Hogwarts, they would be required to enter into a Healer’s program, or any job really, straight away.

However, once Voldemort had been defeated, the entire Wizarding World had needed to rebuild itself - having lost too much in the aftermath of the Final Battle. In a way, it had been somewhat of a - morbid - blessing; mainly because, it had meant that the stagnating magical community had grown and bolstered itself into the twenty-first century. One of the consequenting changes, had been the reintroduction of Apprenticeships and Masterships, meaning that students now had an option to gain an extra qualification or two that would better prepare them for the future jobs - kind of similar to the muggle equivalent of university. Though, of course, these apprenticeships continued through Hogwarts, rather than a separate magical institute.

Naturally, with your dream job being a healer, you’d taken up the Potion’s Apprenticeship. Mostly due to the fact that you want to work in the Cures and Remedies Department of St. Mungo’s: a department dedicated to brewing potions, as well as creating new ones for the ever-developing medical needs in the Wizarding Community. Which is also why Jimin’s lecture hits you harder. If you were already making such silly mistakes, you’ll sooner fail your dream than achieve it - and probably kill or harm a few people while you’re at it.

Realising that Jimin had stopped talking, a tense silence befalling the two of you while you wallow in self-pity, “I’m sorry,” you mutter under your breath. As soon as he hears the despondent tone to your voice, Jimin’s face softens.

“No need to apologise, you didn’t do it maliciously,” Jimin says. Then, nudging your knee with his foot, “Scoot over,” he says.

Eyebrows creasing, curiosity colours your face as you watch him close his book, before waving his wand and muttering a couple spells under his breath. Immediately, his parchment rolls up into a scroll, before flying through the air and into his bedroom; along with the rest of his things. Once he’s cleared his stuff, he scuttles off of the sofa, and onto the floor beside you. In your confusion, you hadn’t moved quick enough, and as a result, Jimin’s crossed knee falls onto your lap. With a blank stare, you glance down at his thick thigh, and feeling the weight of his limb onto yours, you quickly kick yourself into motion.

Shuffling to the side, you make space for Jimin, the Head Boy slotting into the space next to you and under your blanket - the cover draping over his own lap. In your new position, he’s now level with you, your pantyhose-clad knee brushing against his while your shoulders practically touch. He’s close enough that the scent of his expensive cologne is more prominent: notes of sandalwood and bergamot dancing in the air and through your senses. The woodsy-sweet aroma virtually entrances you, your head swimming with the beguiling fragrances and beckoning you to sink deep into them. For a moment, you take a deep, albeit subtle, breath - wanting to breathe it in even more. Nonetheless, Jimin’s voice is swiftly breaking you out of your trance.

“You need to add minced Puffer-Fish to this, right?” he asks as he peers at the Skele-Gro potion, the rancid-green liquid still bubbling under the high heat of your bunsen burner. Abruptly coming to your senses, you nod, trying to ignore the fuzzy warmth that settles in the pits of your stomach. “If you add it now, it’s most likely going to result in Skele-Gro,” Jimin mumbles, and hearing him, you immediately perk up. Perhaps all wasn’t lost yet. That is, until you hear him continue. “Except… it will probably result in the bones continuously growing without stopping - even once they’ve fixed themselves.”

“Oh. So I need to start over?” you ask as you pull your bottom teeth between your lips. Did you even have time for that? Or ingredients? If you go down to Slughorn’s Office in order to get a fresh supply, he’ll most likely question why and you’d rather notexplain that it’s because you’d been incompetent enough to mess up a second year level potion.

Jimin hums in thought. “No, I don’t think so. You’re also brewing Wound-Cleaning Potion, yes? That means you have Dittany Essence?” he asks, causing you to nod and pass him the dark-blue vial. “Adding three drops should counteract the effects and bring it back to what it’s supposed to be,” he continues, and you watch as he uncaps the glass bottle, before carefully pipetting exactly three drops of the solution into the cauldron. After placing the Dittany Essence back down, he stirs the potion anticlockwise five-times, and you observe in complete awe as the potion returns to a pale orange - the exact colour it's supposed to be.

“How did you…?” you breathe out, astonishment heavily lacing your voice. Beside you, Jimin simply shrugs.

“It’s a common mistake second years make when brewing Skele-Gro… not powdering the bone finely enough, I mean. Adding three drops of Dittany Essence and then stirring anticlockwise five times brings it back,” he replies casually. Despite his nonchalant tone, though, you find your body slackening with defeat.

“I can’t believe I made such a stupid mistake…” you mumble under your breath. The self-deprecating tone to your voice has Jimin clicking his tongue at you in a tut as he nudges your knee with his.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. You’re brewing three potions at once - and two of them are advanced potions. Both of which you’ve brewed perfectly so far. You probably didn’t notice that the powdered bone wasn’t fine enough because you didn’t expect to mess up a simple potion,” Jimin immediately says - in a bid to comfort you. It works, because swiftly, you feel your stomach flip: butterflies blooming in the pits of your abdomen at his praise.

Against your will, a smile creeps onto your face - the corners of your lips tugging, and, “Thank you,” you mutter under your breath. A tinkling laugh slips through Jimin’s lips, and he bumps his shoulder into yours.

“You’re a perfectionist and a hard worker, ____. Both of those traits make a good Potioneer, ____. Which you are. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here. You need to stop beating yourself up over small things,” he continues. His face is twisted into a bright smile, his plump lips stretched thin and displaying his teeth, as the apples of his cheeks bunch under his eyes - causing his eyelids to slit into thin, crescent-moons. Your own lips tug into a sheepish smile, and you look at him gratefully.

“I know… it’s just such a silly mistake,” you respond.

Jimin snorts at your answer, and, “Everyone makes silly mistakes. Even a Potions Master or Mistress. It’s inevitable with the amount of potions we brew,” he scoffs. His words placate you even further, and you feel your earlier upset fade to nothingness - replaced by ease. Sensing the fact that you’ve perked up, Jimin grabs the rest of the prepared ingredients for the Skele-Gro potion. You look at him in surprise, Jimin simply smiling kindly in response.

“Why don’t you focus on the Wound-Cleaning potion? I’ll finish up the Skele-Gro,” he suggests. Swiftly, you shake your head.

“No, no. It’s okay! I’ll be more careful! You don’t need to help if you’re busy,” you quickly refuse - not wanting to be a burden - as you reach for the ingredients once again. Jimin simply scowls, and holding out his arms, he uses his strength to bar your hands from touching the tray.

“I’m not busy - I was just doing some light research on Phoenix Tears. Now be a goodgirl and let me help you,” he hisses. The instant the command falls from his lips, you feel your stomach twist, and your eyes widen slightly at the command. For a moment you still, not expecting them. There’s a playful lilt to his voice, and you know he doesn’t mean anything by it; yet, you still find your arms obediently dropping to your side.

Head ducking down, you turn your gaze to the surface of the table in front of you, in an attempt to hide your face from Jimin’s view. It would not do well for him to see the barest hint of a blush on your face. Especially since he hadn’t meant it in that way in the first place. Nodding your head, you acquiesce to him, and begin working on your potion once again; Jimin taking over for the second one.

The two of you work in near silence - the quiet broken up by the sounds of the bubbling potion, and the hissing of the fire. Intermittently, the blunt sound of chopping or the sound of the pestle grinding into the mortar echoes through the air: the two of you continuously prepping your ingredients as you brew your potion. With how close you are to each other, you practically invade each other’s space, and yet, as if by magic, neither of you get into each other’s way. While you concoct your respective draughts, every now and then, you find your attention wandering towards Jimin.

In the midst of brewing, Jimin is fascinatingly exquisite. That’s the only way you could describe it. Warm honey-kissed skin glows under the saffron lights of your dorms, the high arcs of his cheekbones glistening with every movement. The button of his nose is slightly scrunched, and similarly, his lips are pulled into a tight purse: his entire visage an epitome of concentration. The potion is easy, and an elixir he could very well brew in his sleep. Nevertheless, he focuses on each and every one of his actions, working meticulously and methodically as he concocts his potion.

Deft hands move expertly, alternating from preparing the different ingredients and adding them to the mixture, to carefully stirring the potion. Umber eyes scrupulously watch the simmering cauldron, his keenly trained gaze observing the elixir for even the slightest changes. You have no doubt that under his ever watchful eyes, the potion will be of the highest quality, even with how relatively easy it is to create. At some point, you finish your potion, and turning off of your bunsen burner, you turn your attention to Jimin. Unable to help yourself, you find yourself completely lost in how he effortlessly works; each movement, each gesture, completely second nature to him. It’s an artform. It has to be. At least, with the way he works it is.

You don’t know how long you watch him - but with each second that passes, you note something more about Jimin. You notice the way his eyes light up every time he successfully completes a stage, and the way the soft skin of his eyelids flutter, thick eyelashes kissing his cheeks, every time he blinks. You notice the slight sheen of perspiration that coats the back of his neck, most likely from the heat of the bunsen burner, rather than tenseness. Mesmerised by the movement, you follow a single drop of sweat - watching the way it trails down the thick curve of his neck and over the subtle bulge of his Adam’s apple, before percolating into the collar of his shirt.

Out of the blue, Jimin lets out a deep sigh, and with how intensely you observe him, you notice the way his shoulders ease - the movement so faint your eyes essentially strain to spot the movement. The motion is surprising, because the potion is easy, and yet, he still felt some level of tension. Though, that only leads you to appreciate him and his love for potions even more. Potion Making is easy for Jimin, and for the greatest part of it, it comes instinctually to him - but still, he takes the utmost care with each brew - no matter what the difficulty.

A strained groan resonates through the air, Jimin’s throat rumbling as he stretches out the kinks in his muscles. Thoughtlessly, he lifts his arms above his head, the muscles of his biceps pulling taut against the material of his shirt, and the motion causes the hem of his shirt to rise above the waistband of his black slacks. Against your will, your gaze finds itself drawn towards his waist, your eyes honing in on the sliver of his smooth skin of his hips that peeks through the gap. You don’t eye it for long, however, because as soon as it comes it's gone, Jimin’s hands drop down to his sides; the shirt’s hem consequently falling back into place.

“Are you all done?” his voice suddenly tears through the silence, and abruptly, your eyes snap back up to his - watching as he flicks off the flame under his cauldron.

“W-What?” you stutter, prompting Jimin to arch a strong eyebrow.

“Are you done with the Wound-Cleaning potion?” Jimin reiterates, purposely enunciating each of his words. Owlishly, you blink at him, your stare completely blank. At the same time, your brain slowly processes his words, your mind still slightly spellbound by his previous beguile, and eventually, you process his words.

Jerking slightly, “Yes!” you practically yelp, only to wince at the loudness of your own voice. Swiftly, you compose yourself, and clearing your throat, “Sorry… yes. I’m done,” you mumble. A look of concern flashes across Jimin’s face, and carefully he sweeps his gaze over you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and the clear worry etched into his voice has your heart fluttering.

“Y-Yes,” you squeak out, wanting nothing more than to bury yourself into the blanket over your laps. For a fleeting instant, Jimin watches you carefully, and momentarily, you fear he’s going to press you further. Nonetheless, a couple of seconds later, he’s shrugging you off.

Glancing at the grandfather clock nestled in one unassuming corner of your shared common room, “Oh wow. Has it really been that long? It’s almost dinner time,” he murmurs, an astonished inflexion lacing his voice. Following his gaze, your own eyebrows widen when you spot the ornate clock, the baroque hands reading six-thirty. “I’m going to go shower and then head down,” Jimin begins as he gets up from his space beside you. His movement causes the blanket to partially fall off of your lap, exposing your right leg to the air, and involuntarily, you shudder at the cold.

“Go on then, I’ll wait for you,” you readily respond as you pull the blanket back over your lap. Drawn up to his full height, Jimin looks down at you curiously.

“Are you sure? I may be a while,” he replies, causing you to shrug and wave him off.

Waving your wand, you mutter an ‘Accio’ and summon a book from the shelves that line one wall of the common room. “Take as long as you need. I’m not hungry right now anyway. We can go down together when you’re done,” comes your own response.

Spinning on the heels of his Dragonhide boots, “Alright then. Thanks, ____,” he calls out as he walks back towards the bathroom. Your only response in a noncommittal hum, your attention already drawn to the book.

It’s almost half an hour later, when you hear Jimin return from the shower. Automatically peering up from your book, you move to close it - now more than hungry and ready to go down to dinner. Nonetheless, the moment you spot Jimin, you find yourself freezing. The door to the bathroom is wide open, clouds of steam gently drifting through the threshold and dancing around his frame as he steps into the common room. However, it’s not the water vapour that has your attention. No. it’s Jimin.

The very Jimin who is dressed in nothing but a thick towel wrapped around his waist.

Park Jimin is by no means short. Of course, compared to some of the other wizards that inhabit the castle, he’s not considered tall either. Nonetheless, he stands imposingly - a raw, powerful swagger that rolls off of his demeanour with every movement. It’s no wonder he’s considered the Slytherin Prince, and as he practically saunters out of the bathroom, with just a towel hanging off of his otherwise naked frame, you can’t help but feel that domineering aura. Droplets of water bead his skin, forming little rivulets as they run down his body and towards the hem of his towel.

The sheen of water that glazes his flesh catches the torchlight that surrounds you, causing his skin to glisten as he’s encased in a halo of gold. His hair is slightly damp, the deep green shade blackening to onyx; the wet tips sticking to his face. Helpless under his charm, your eyes trail down his body: from the corded muscles of his shoulders, down the smooth expanse of his torso - stopping briefly to take in the dusky-mauve nipples that grace his pectorals - and along the faint outline of his abs. When you get to the hem of the towel, your eyes coast over the definition of his hips: your heated stare charting the prominent ‘v’ that carves itself into his pelvis.

Trailing your gaze further down, you level it at his covered crotch. The terry cloth material of his towel is bulky, and effectively hides the rest off his body from your gaze - the bottom edge grazing just past his knees. Still, as he walks, you spot the barest hint of his muscular thigh - the limb peeking through the slit of the towel as he walks towards his bedroom. With each movement, heat flashes across your skin, your spine tingling as you find your stare honed in on his pelvis.

Then, all of a sudden, he’s stopping.

“See something you like, Sweetheart?” Jimin drawls, his voice cutting the terse silence that enwraps the room. Abruptly, you break from your trance, your gaze snapping up to his face.

His arms are crossed across his chest: the sinewy muscles of his biceps bulging under the movement; and his hip is cocked to the side, his knee sticking out through the fabric of his towel as he gazes at you. Wry, but voluptuous, lips are twisted: the thick petals of his mouth pulled in a lop-sided smirk, his teeth poking between the seam - almost predatorily; and taupe-brown eyes twinkle with mischief: a playful light dancing in the onyx depths. From the knowing glint to them, you know he’s spotted you brazenly devouring him with your gaze.

Heat immediately crawls over your cheeks, and you audible swallow, your throat suddenly tight. “N-No,” you squeak out, your head ducking further under the cover of your book. Though, even as you do that, your eyes peek over the edge - an action Jimin easily catches.

Smirk widening into a wolfish grin, “Are you sure, Princess?” he purrs and, hearing the nickname, you can’t help the way your stomach knots in the pit of your abdomen.

“Y-Yes,” you stammer, your body curling further into the side of the sofa - in a bid to make yourself seem smaller. Jimin hums in response. The deep tremors reverberate through the air, echoing through the quiet common room and causing your breath to hitch.

Jimin’s tongue pokes out through the seam of his pouty mouth, and after swiping it across the plush bottom lip, he pulls the petal between his teeth. The act is incredibly enticing: the plush flesh slowly slipping from under his incisors before plumping out once more. Entranced by the movement, your eyes narrow onto his lips, and you suddenly feel your throat run dry. Spotting the way your attention focuses onto his mouth, Jimin lets out a low chuckle, and hearing the rich sound vibrate through the air, you inhale a sharp audible breath.

The sound resonates through the common room, heightened by the quiet - and swiftly, you feel the heat that stains your skin intensify. Body burning under your own embarrassment, you practically curl into the foetal position: your knees pulling towards your chest, a small squeak emanating through your mouth. Hearing the sound, Jimin simply chuckles again, and this time, taking pity on your form, he drops the subject and walks towards his bedroom.

“Cute,” he laughs you off as he shuts the door to his private room. The moment you hear that word, you can’t help the pout that forms onto your face, nor the way you blush ever harder.

Cute.

God you hated when he teased you like that. Partly because of the way a fuzzy warmth settles into your stomach, and partly because you know that’s all you’ll ever be to Park Jimin.

Cute.

Having lived with Jimin for three years, you think you know him pretty well. You know him well enough to know that he keeps Sugar Quills hidden around the dorm, practically addicted to the confectionery; and that he writes letters to his mother once a week, usually on Saturday, in his free time. You know that when he’s had a particularly hard week, he unwinds by reading his prized, first edition copy of ‘The Twelve Uses of Dragon’s Blood’ - a tome he’s had to have read thousands of times by now. You know that despite him being the heir to the Park name - an age old, aristocratic pureblood line that dates back centuries - he doesn’t care about status, or power, and rather judges people on their own merits and hardwork.

You also know that Park Jimin, as sweet as he is, is the biggest playboy the school has ever seen - actively flirting with any and all the other apprentices from the other subjects. It’s not like he could help it. In fact, you’re sure that it’s practically ingrained in his nature. Though, when he looks like that - a frightening middle between incredibly adorable and devastatingly sexy - you sort of understand it. Because if you looked like that, you’d take any and every opportunity to use it as best as you could. And Park Jimin definitely used his allure

A terrifying mix of cunning, ambitious, sweet and distressingly handsome, Park Jimin has probably broken more hearts than you can count; and is most likely the sole reason for every Apprentice’s wet dreams. Girls flocked to him, and boys wanted to be him - so it’s no surprise that Jimin was highly sought after - nor that he was the biggest flirt you’ve ever met. Hence why you hated when he flirted with you. Mostly because, you know he never does it seriously. And also because the last thing any of the girls he actually flirts with are, is cute.

You would know.

You’ve seen them sneak out of your dorms on the off chance he brings them over. Though, more often than not, he tends to sneak into their private quarters. That is, of course, if they aren’t one of the Potions Apprentices from the lower years. You and Jimin being in your third year of the Apprentice program, and your tenth and final year of Hogwarts. That is, of course, unless either of you choose to do your Mastership - which would be another five years.

If you’re being honest, you don’t really have anything against being cute - mainly because when he says it, he says it with a sweet smile. What you do have against it, however, is that he says it almost as if you’re a child, and not a grown, twenty-one-year-old woman. Though, that may be more to do with your own shyness and inexperience; especially in terms of the opposite sex. But still, you couldn’t deny that it hurts sharing a dorm with Jimin, and being in such close proximity, and yet still having him not be attracted to you.

Sure, he flirts with you - using any opportunity he can get to tease the ever-loving hell out of you. But it’s not like he means it, or that he ever takes it any further than his flirtatious banter. Not like he does with most other girls. No. When Jimin flirts with you, there’s always an air of jest, and restraint around him. He doesn’t stare at you with his smouldering gaze - as if he could devour you whole with just his eyes. He doesn’t lower his voice to that raspy husk of his - the one that is filled with a promise of sin. And he definitely doesn’t exude that same aura of raw dominance - the one that has most girls’ cores trembling with an ache that only he can satiate.

Of course, what you do have, in comparison to those other girls, is Jimin’s friendship - which is more than you can say for most of them. Particularly because most of Jimin’s friends tend to be the other guys on the Apprentice Program. After all, it’s hard to befriend the people you’re constantly trying to sleep with, or have slept with. You think. You don’t really know… You know, considering your own sexual inexperience with other men. Yes, Jimin has never shown any interest in you, and he’s never really flirted with you seriously, but at least you can say that you’re actual friends, and that you get on with each other beyond wanting to tear each other’s clothes off.

Although, needless to say, you doubt he’s ever thought of tearing your clothes off.

Which is… not something you can say about yourself.

Lost in your own thoughts, you don’t notice Jimin return - now fully dressed. At least, not until you feel his plush lips ghost against your ear. “Are you ready to go?” comes the low, sultry purr of his voice. Not expecting the sound, you immediately jump in your seat, your head whipping to the side as you stare at him wide eyed. Once again, you come face to face with him - the proximity making you jerk back with a strangled cry.

“Jimin!” you shriek in surprise, and your choked yelp has the Head Boy bursting into a peal of laughter. Heart thundering within the confines of your chest, and the ever-present flush of embarrassment painting your cheeks once again, “Stop doing that!” you chastise, your face twisting into a sulk as you glare at him. Entire body wracked with laughter, Jimin heaves for air as he tries to catch his breath - short gasps breaking through his howling.

When he continues to laugh, your lips twist into a deeper pout, and your glare intensifies; and sensing your rising ire, Jimin swiftly holds up his hands in a motion of surrender. “Sorry, Sorry. You were just so lost in thought, I couldn’t help it,” he chuckles while wiping his teary eyes. “What were you thinking about that had you so enraptured?” he asks, an impudent smile etched onto his lips. Remembering just whatyou’d been thinking about, your blush deepens, and you swiftly shake your head.

“Nothing!” you quickly interject. The abruptness of your answer has Jimin cocking his eyebrow, and eyes narrowing playfully, he looks at you - mischief dancing in his dark eyes.

“Oh? Doesn’t sound like nothing,” he purrs. Then, eyes widening in thought, a smirk creeps onto his face, “Hmmm. Were you thinking about me? Maybe something along the lines about how you’d seen me in just a towel a little earlier?” he croons, and you suck in a sharp breath at the low huskiness to his voice. That’s a first.

Pulling your lip between your teeth, you swiftly shake your head while throwing the blanket off of you. “N-No. I was thinking a-about how h-hungry I am,” you quickly snap, wincing slightly at the shakiness to your voice. It’s a brazen lie. Even you don’t believe you. And there’s no way in hell that Jimin does, at least not from the sly smirk curled onto his lips.

“Are you now? Hungry for food, or something else?” he teasingly quips, causing you to huff.

“S-Shut up. Let’s just go,” you mutter under your breath, your head angled to the ground as to try to hide your own mortification.

Jimin simply laughs at you, his shoulders shaking with mirth, “Whatever you say, Princess.”

On the seventh floor of the North Tower, the next day, you sit in the Divination classroom. Warped shelves frame the circular room, cluttered with various odd curios. Fading tarot cards, argentate scrying mirrors and lustrous crystal balls fill half of the shelves; china teacups, dust-lined feathers, and candle stubs filling the other half. Wooden furniture crams the room, the walnut timber long since scratched, chipped and faded: ravaged with time as some edges collect dust. The classroom is dim, with a few shafts of mellowed sunlight filtering through the greyed, heavy velvet curtains that hang from the tops of the arched windows.

Chandeliers dangled by wrought iron chains - and sheer, red scarves cover the lamps, bathing the room in an eerie crimson glow. A fireplace sits in the front of the room - right by Professor Trelawney’s table - the amber fire flickering behind cast iron grating. Though, rather than illuminating the space in its light, the dancing flames only add to the arcane feel surrounding the room. A brass kettle swings over the hearth as the tea leaves steep; and a sweet, woody scent wafts through the room. Sat at one of the many round tables nestled inside the room, you sink further into the paisley upholstered armchair, watching as the girl opposite you shuffles the Tarot deck effortlessly.

“Do you want a specific reading?” Eve, the eighth year prefect, asks.

Shrugging noncommittally, “Just whatever,” you reply. Eve huffs for a second time, blowing a thick black curl out of her eyes before glaring at you.

“You could at least attempt to take Divination seriously you know, even if you don’t believe in it,” she scolds.

Sending her an apologetic smile, “You know I’m only here to help you with your Divination homework.” Once again, Eve huffs. Nonetheless, with the way her shoulders relax, you know she doesn’t take offence by your words.

“Alright fine,” she sighs in defeat. Then, sending you a grateful look, “Thank you for this by the way. I know you’re busy, being Head Girl and in the last year of your Apprenticeship and all,” she continues, her nose wrinkling in the slightest.

Gracing Eve with a kind smile, you casually wave her off, “It’s alright. I owe you for helping us out anyway,” you respond. From behind you, you hear a low chuckle, causing the hair at the back of your neck to stand on edge as you hear the rich sound.

“You mean we owe her one, Princess.” Breath catching in your throat, you swallow imperceptibly, willing yourself to calm down. “Well, more specifically, I owe her one,” he continues as an afterthought.

His words cause your stomach to flip, butterflies flurrying through and leaving a fuzzy feeling in the pit of your abdomen. Angling your body in the chair, you turn, only to be met face to face with Jimin. With how cramped the Divination classroom is, there’s usually barely any space between the side edges of the various chairs. However, currently, the classroom is mostly empty, less than ten of you occupying it. And yet, somehow, you still find yourself impossibly close to him.

Eyes blowing out marginally, your mouth forms a surprised ‘o’ at the distance, or lack thereof, between the two of you. With how close you are, you can smell his sickeningly sweet breath - the scent of Sugar Quills so strong you can practically taste them on your taste buds. Swiftly realising your position, you back away in an abrupt movement - your chair scraping against the hardwood flooring. The screeching noise draws the attention of the other students, the muted, ambient murmurs coming to a halt as they turn to you.

Your cheeks immediately flush, the heat of embarrassment crawling from your throat to the tips of your ears. Ducking your head down, you sheepishly smile at the class and mumble out a ‘sorry’. At your apology, the rest of the students quickly turn back to their divinations, causing you to let out a breath of relief. Only for it to hitch when you hear the light tremors of Jimin’s tinkling laugh.

Turning back around, you flick your gaze over Jimin’s face. Dark hair - the colour of blackened pine - frames his face, the strands falling like silk over his head. His locks are parted in the middle today, rather than hanging loosely in front of his forehead, and the front-most tresses bear a slight wave; revealing soft lids and sharp brown eyes. Dressed in his white oxford shirt - his Slytherin robes hung loosely over the backrest - and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, he looks the epitome of sin. It doesn’t help that his tie is loose around his neck either, the top button of his collar undone and revealing the thick arc of his throat, and the barest hint of his defined collarbones.

He’s lounging in his chair, his ankles crossed as he stretches them under the table. One of his elbows is pressed to the armrest, leaning his chin on the base of his palm, while his other arm is stretched out, long fingers drumming casually on the table. As your gaze roves over him, you can’t help the fuzzy feeling that settles in your stomach as he stares at you - obsidian eyes practically staring into your soul. Easily, he spots the fact that you’re staring at him, and immediately, a teasing smirk pulls at generous lips, his strong eyebrow quirking playfully.

“See something you like, Sweetheart?” he purrs, his sweet voice a few octaves lower as he mimics the sentiment from last night. The memory him dressed in nothing but a towel flashes in your mind: the sight of his muscular, wet body ingrained so deeply in your mind that just the recollection of it manifests itself as something incredibly tangible. A shiver runs down your spine at memory, as well as the deep tremors of his voice, and as the hairs at the back of your neck stand on edge, you duck your head - in a bid to hide your flushing cheeks.

“N-No,” you stutter out, and with the way your voice croaks, your blush deepens. Hearing your stammer, Jimin’s grin widens - his heated gaze roving over you almost predatorily. Responsively, you feel yourself shying from his eyes, your body curling into itself protectively.

Noting your reaction, Jimin lets out an airy laugh. God, you were such a Hufflepuff. He wasn’t one to often believe in the whole ‘students embodied their house traits’ bullshit - after all, people weren’t set into specific personality moulds. But when it came to you? It couldn’t be more true. A Hufflepuff through and through, you’re as hardworking as you are kind - and downright humble about it. It had been an incredible surprise when you’d been chosen as the Head-Girl beside him, most people expecting it to go to Penelope Graham. However, to everyone’s utter shock, it had gone to you instead, your scores in the Apprenticeship second only to himself. A fact that you’d kept to yourself, despite Penelope being one of the brightest Ravenclaws Hogwarts had ever seen, and a stellar Herbology Apprentice.

Thus, your grades, paired with your hard work throughout the years; not to mention your kindness, and willingness to help anyone, had landed you the Head Girl position. A choice that was still a sore subject for Penelope, who would lament about it to anyone and everyone. Nevertheless, if Jimin was being completely honest about it, however, he much preferred you to Penelope. And not just because Penelope didn’t know how to shut her mouth. Even when it was full of his cock. Though, he’d also be lying if he said it wasn’t partially because of that. Really, he didn’t know how she managed to prattle off constantly while still managing to breathe, and sucking his dick. It was almost magic. Pardon the pun.

No, you were a much better fit to him. Your patience was known through the school, and paired with your strong sense of fairness, it meant that most pupils, if not all, would more often approach you for help with their problems. And as a happy result, they’d leave him alone to get on with the more important duties. In fact, that’s exactly how you’d split your workload: you’d handle the student-body and prefects and anything pertaining to people in general, and he’d work on the other more mundane tasks; such as patrol duties, ensuring Prefect rosters for Hogsmeade weekends were sorted and all those odd bits and bobs.

Needless to say, it’s not like Jimin didn’t want to help the students. He doesn’t mindhelping them, and as Head Boy, he’d be duty bound to sort out whatever petty problems they have. He’d just do it begrudgingly, because the last thing he cares about are the frivolous issues of the student body. Really, who cared if Jonah Robins sat at the table Amber Cowen and her friends usually sat at in the library? A problem he knew you’d dealt with just a little over a week ago. Somehow, you’d managed to convince Jonah to leave the girls alone and all balance between the third years had settled. Something which caused Jimin to scoff. See, if it had been him dealing with it, he’d just tell the girls to find another table. Because it’s a table and it didn’t matter where they sat, as long as they did their work.

But that’s just him.

You, on the other hand, had a better sense of justice - and finding out that Jonah had purposely sat at the table to annoy the girls - you’d gotten him to move. Of course, most of the problems presented by the students were of similar nature - and Jimin didn’t understand how you had the tolerance to deal with them day in and day out without going insane. Though, that was just another one of the classic Hufflepuff traits manifesting in your personality. Honestly, he doesn’t think he’s ever met someone more Hufflepuff in his life.

“Uhh… Jimin?” you quietly call out to him, and his eyes widen slightly as he’s broken out of his contemplative reverie. Facial expression relaxing, Jimin realises he must have been intensely scrutinising you for the past couple of minutes - completely lost in his own thoughts.

Eyes casting over your face, he observes you for a moment. You refuse to look at him, your eyes skimming over the room as you actively avoid his gaze. Incessantly, you cross and uncross your legs, your body fidgeting under his heavy stare, and sensing the thick waves of nervousness that exude off of your being, Jimin’s lips twist into a mischievous smirk. And there it was. The one trait of yours that had piqued his attention when he’d first been officially introduced to you three years ago. Your timidness.

“Is something the matter, Princess?” he drawls, a perfectly trimmed eyebrow cocking. Immediately, you freeze, your cheeks heating even further as you pull your bottom lip between your teeth; only to gnaw at it. God, Jimin groans internally, you were so easy to provoke.

“N-No,” you stammer once again.

Lolling his head to the side, and resting his cheek in his palm, Jimin graces you with a sly smile. “Really? You look like you have something on your mind?” Then, flashing his teeth almost devilishly, “Maybe something from last night?” he hums. There’s clear innuendo in his voice, and unintentionally, you let out a little squeak. The sound is high-pitched, and just barely audible as it’s forced from the back of your throat.

“Last night?” Eve asks, her voice curious as she glances between the two of you. The heat of your mortification burns even brighter, so inflamed now that it starts sweltering your skin. Breath caught in your throat, you gnaw even harder on your lips - almost breaking the skin from how much you chew it. What are you going to even tell her? Nonetheless, before you can come up with an excuse, Jimin is already opening up his mouth.

“Just a small mishap in the Potions Apprentice Common Room. It’s none of your business. Shouldn’t you get on with your reading, anyway? I’d like to go back as soon as possible,” he interrupts, drawing Eve’s attention back to her homework. Face scrunching in distaste, she glowers at him.

With a huff, “You’re clearly lying to me. But fine, if you don’t want to tell me that’s your business,” she mutters, a scowl curled on her lips. Then after a short pause, “Also, if you don’t want to be here you don’t have to be. Feel free to leave,” she bites. Jimin discernibly bristles, and sensing his rising indignation - most likely from Eve’s snapping at him - you quickly hold up a hand.

“Why don’t we all just calm down?” you calmly say, smiling gently at both of them. Both Eve and Jimin open their mouths to argue, before closing them; Jimin shrugging his shoulders offhandedly while Eve lets out a deep, conceding breath. Turning to Jimin, your earlier embarrassment slowly ebbs away and you clear your throat, “You don’t have to be here you know. I was the one who offered to help.”

Jimin scoffs in response before waving you off dismissively. “The only reason you offered to help was so that Eve would take up setting up the Yule ball in my place,” he begins.

“Yes, because you have that Wizarding Chess competition you want to go to,” you butt in, causing Jimin to nod.

“Yeah. A competition I could have skipped. But you asked Eve to help you instead, so I could basically shirk my Head Boy duties, and it’s now more work for you,” he explains. Once again, you shake your head.

“It’s not that much work. Besides, I don’t mind. You’ve been talking about this tournament since last year, I know you’ve been looking forward to it,” you cut him off once again. Jimin halts for a moment, simply looking at you, a picture perfect expression of stoicism painted across his face.

Honestly, who were you trying to kid? He knows how much work the Yule ball is, and that while third-year Apprentice’s tend to have more free time (and hence why they now have the Head Boy or Girl position in comparison to seventh year N.E.W.T students), you’ve taken up a few more of the Prefect’s duties, since the seventh year Winter Exams are coming up soon. More than that, with how often students come up to you for help, your official duties tend to get pushed on the backburner even further. Hence why you’d had to brew three potions last night. Once again, he has no idea how you do it. Or why you do it. You’re way too courteous, and far too kind - even to the people you don’t know.

Letting out a sigh, “It is more work. Which is why I’m here. Even if I’m not really helping, I’m going to see it through with you,” Jimin says. Involuntarily, you feel your chest tighten, that telltale warmth flurrying through your stomach as your heart flutters within your chest. Before you can thank him, however, Eve bangs her tarot deck on the table.

“Maybe you’ll let me do a reading for you then?” she asks, her top lip curling shrewdly as she smirks at Jimin. The Slytherin Head Boy simply sneers in response.

Turning his attention back to his open textbook, “Yeah sure. When Merlin rises from the dead,” he snickers under his breath. Then, “Just get on with the reading,” he mutters. Eve’s mouth curls into a snarl, but before the eighth-year Gryffindor can respond, you draw her attention.

“Should we start?” you say, an encouraging smile on your face. Eve’s gaze flicks to behind you, and for a moment, you think she’s going to say something. However, she simply takes a deep breath and calms herself down.

“Alright, yeah,” she says, returning her own apologetic smile. “You don’t want any particular reading, do you?” she asks, and when you shake your head, she smiles. “Then, it’s okay if I pick one?” she questions. This time you nod, and Eve’s smile brightens. “Alright, wonderful! Then… I’m going to do one on love and sex,” she continues. Immediately, you choke on your own spit.

“Eve!” you splutter, causing her to look at you, her eyes glinting mischievously.

“What? I’m almost nineteen, I’m allowed to do them,” she says, her voice laced with faux innocence. Scowling slightly, you send her a pointed look.

“That’s not the point!” you try to argue.

Swiftly, a coy smile creeps onto Eve’s lips, “Oh? Does the prim and proper Head Girl have something to hide?” she sing-songs. Feeling an intense stare on the back of your head, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You don’t even need to turn around. You already know Jimin’s attention is on you both once again.

“N-No! It’s just-” you begin, only to deflate. What could you even say? Sensing your defeat, Eve snickers.

“Well, if you don’t, then there’s nothing wrong with me doing one, is there?” she asks. With no way out of the situation, your shoulders fall and you let out a muted noise of concession. “Perfect! Then, I’ll begin,” Eve continues.

With her mind made up, Eve begins to work. She starts by setting up her reading space: placing three candles onto the table. A pink one sits at the top of the table, right in front of you, while a white one sits in the left corner on her side, a purple one on the other. The candles form a large triangle, her tarot deck placed right in front of her, and an incense burner sitting right in the middle of the table. After the candles, she begins by placing her crystals down: rose-quartz and garnet are placed on the corners beside the pink candle on your side, and then an onyx on her side - in another triangular shape. Once she’s set up, she waves her wand - four bottles flying from one of the shelves that lines the classroom and into her hand. From the inky scrawl on the labels, you read them as ‘dried cherries, ‘saffron sprigs’, ‘steeped deer musk’ and ‘jasmine-infused oil’.

Meticulously, she adds the ingredients to her incense pot: exactly four teaspoons of dried cherries, half a sprig of saffron and three drops of the steeped deer musk. Once she’s done, she adds two tablespoons of the jasmine oil, before crushing it all together using a pestle. Once the mixture has formed a smooth paste, she inspects the concoction, before nodding in satisfaction - happy with her handy work. Carefully, you watch her. The eighth year Gryffindor is sly, and witty, and more often than not a handful to deal with. Still, she’s kind, and helpful; and when practising Divination - her favourite subject - there is no one who’s more reverent than her.

Fully prepared to begin her reading, Eve finally closes her eyes, and levelling her breathing, she takes in deep inhale before exhaling shallowly. From your divination class in fourth year, you know that she’s trying to find the centre of her magic. It only takes her a few moments, and then, she opens her eyes. Muttering a few spells under her breath, she points her wand towards the candles, slowly bringing them to life. She starts with the white candle, and then the purple, and finally the pink; and when she’s done, she taps her wand onto the incense burner.

Immediately, the mixture is enkindled, visible puffs of smoke wafting from the paste and into the air. The scent is rich, and fragrant - the notes of jasmine and cherry entwining together in a sweet aroma that has you entranced. The light perfume is deepened by the scent of the saffron and musk; the two heavier notes cutting the floral essence with a darker, more sensuous odour. The incense is inebriating, and calming at the same time, and you find yourself readily wanting to dive deeper into it’s intoxicating hold - let the scent consume you and lull you deep into its grasp.

With her ritual completed, she places her wand down onto the table beside and after a quick shuffle of her deck, she closes her eyes once again. Lips moving subtly, you hear her lowly mutter another spell, and then, she begins pulling the cards. Enraptured by her movements, you watch as she draws exactly five cards, placing them in a pentacle shape around the burner, and in the middle of the triangles of crystals and candles. Her eyes remain closed until she draws the fifth card, and then, eyebrows cinching slightly, she mutters another spell before finally opening her eyes.

Glancing down at the spread, she cocks her eyebrow, a small frown marring her face. The slight perturbation etched on her face has you intrigued, and practically on the edge of your seat, you wait for her to say something. You don’t have to wait long, however, because letting out a surprised whistle, “Well, this is certainly unexpected,” she breathes out.

“It is?” you ask, shuffling to the edge of your seat as you look at the cards closer. Eve hums in response.

“Yeah. The first card - The Hanged Man. You’re in need of urgent release. You’ve become rigid and careful, and there’s a strong need to release your inhibitions,” she begins. Only to pause, “But… you’re indecisive about what you want, and this suspension of your feelings is causing a sense of unhappiness. You need to open yourself emotionally, and more physically,” Eve begins explaining, her manicured nail tapping at the card as she speaks. Hearing her words, you immediately freeze, your muscles locking as Jimin’s face suddenly flashes in the back of your mind.

Oblivious to your shock, Eve continues, her finger moving to the next card, “The Devil. Usually, this card is ominous, and bears a sinister edge; one that most fear. However, in this reading, it’s a symbol of intense hedonism and fervent passion. It’s a card full of lust, an indicator for an intense yearning for a person. There’s a desire to submit; an overwhelming physical urge.” Her voice hangs heavy in the air, and with each word she utters, you feel yourself growing hotter and hotter; your collar suddenly tight. However, you refuse to move. You can’t move. Because you can feel Jimin’s heavy stare behind you, his presence magnified by the sudden silence of the room.

The dull sear of mortification settles in the pit of your stomach, and suddenly, you can feel all the students’ gaze on you. None of them, however, are as intense as Jimin’s; his eyes practically boring into the back of your skull. You want to open your mouth, to tell Eve to stop, lest you embarrass yourself any further. Nonetheless, you simply can’t bring yourself to do it. You don’t know why. Perhaps, it’s because your mouth is suddenly dry, almost as if you’ve swallowed cotton. Perchance it’s because your throat is tight, the muscles suddenly constricting - stifling any words that form in the back of your pharynx.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because a small, masochistic part of you is curious: intrigued by what else Eve will say, what else she will reveal… and perhaps even Jimin’s reaction.

“When The Lovers follow The Devil, that’s usually a sign of not only balanced, emotional love, but also physical desire. There’s a need to be touched, to be claimed, and consumed; and an even greater sexual hunger that covets your partner, or the object of your desires. You want to truly submit, with implicit trust and consent, to this person,” Eve’s deep, yet distant, voice continues. Again, however, she pauses - almost as if in thought, and staring intensely at the card, she bites her lips. “This could also be a sign that the person you desire, desires you back,” she mutters.

That has you audibly snorting. Yeah, right. You highly doubt that. For a moment, Eve flicks her gaze to you, her eyebrow quirking in intrigue, and swiftly, you send her an apologetic smile. Shifting in your seat, you sheepishly gesture for her to continue. Eve’s stare falls back to her cards, her hand moving to the fourth, and penultimate card.

“The Tower. The fear that giving into these lustful urges will be your undoing. To give into your desires will be to bring about a change that you aren’t necessarily ready for - or maybe that you think you’re not ready for - since it’ll lead to a significant change in your life. Still, this card is one of extreme surrender to chaos, a surrender that you are refusing, or resisting,” she begins once again.

Then, circling her nail around the card, and tapping - two audible thuds resounding through the air, “Nevertheless, the liberation that comes from giving in is an extraordinary release, even if the act of giving in is terrifying. The Tower is an important card. It is one that cannot and will not be avoided. The major life change must happen. It must be experienced for you to progress in life,” she foretells, her voice almost foreboding.

“Which brings us to the last, and final card. The Ace of Pentacles. This is usually a symbol about fresh career starts. However, in a reading about love, it tends to read as an egg wanting to be fertilised. The ten of pentacles is a family oriented card, but this one is the act of conception; the desire to engage in sex. However, it’s more than just carnal hunger. You want this person; truly and utterly. More than you probably even realise,” and with that last declaration, Eve finishes her reading.

A strong silence befalls the classroom, her last words lingering in the air and echoing in your mind over and over again. For long, drawn out moments, neither of you say anything - you: because you’re caught between mortified and speechless, and Eve: to let you truly grasp and process her words. The few students that straggle about are equally quiet, more than fascinated by the surprising divination. None, however, are more surprised than Jimin.

Unable to tear his eyes from the back of your head, he simply gawks at you. Truth be told, like you, he doesn’t believe in Divination; even with its roots nestled deep within magic, it’s still considered an imprecise school of wizardry. That being said, he can’t help the way your taromency has piqued his interest - especially, considering the fact that it’s a reading based on your love and sexual feelings. At first, he’d been ready to ignore both you and Eve, and happily sink into ‘Moste Potente Potions’ - a book he’d managed to liberate from the Restricted Section, thanks to not only his Head Boy status, but also his Apprenticeship.

However, the moment he’d heard Eve explain the first card, he’d been ensnared by your divination. With each word that had slipped out of Eve’s mouth, he’d grown more and more curious, not to mention shocked - because really, there was no way that that was your reading. Jimin has lived with you for three years now, and he likes to think he knows you well enough.

He knows you well enough to know that, no matter what, you refuse to drink pumpkin juice - finding the drink sickening - and yet, you adore pumpkin pasties; a treat you frequently buy on your trips to Hogsmeade. He knows that you can’t fall asleep at night without reading a book - and that you often read ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’, having read them so frequently, in fact, that you could probably recite each story word for word. He knows that you aren’t a huge fan of chocolate, but that every month, for one week, you will inhale it like your life depends on it.

He knows you well enough to know that though friendly by nature, your actual friends are few and far between: choosing to give your trust to a select few individuals. You don’t call people your friends lightly, and it gives him immense joy, and pride, that he’s one of the few people you’ve granted that title. Most importantly, however, Jimin knows that you’re completely, and utterly, inexperienced with men. In the decade you’ve been at Hogwarts, not once have you ever had a boyfriend. He knows because he’s asked around. Purely out of curiosity, of course.

With how much time people spent at Hogwarts, rumours tended to be rampant and everyonehad at one point, had a rumour about them and someone else. Everyone, that is, except for you. At first, Jimin had worried that the two of you wouldn’t get along - that your inherent natures would be the complete opposite and that he’d hate you. After all, he didn’t want to spend his Apprenticeship years hating the only other Apprentice in his year. However, after meeting you in his eighth year for the first time, he’d finally understood why you’d never had any rumours. And that was simply because you spent most, if not all, your time studying.

By all means, it was only exacerbated by your incredibly shy, and timid, nature - especially when boys were concerned; but it was primarily because, you just didn’t seem to think about romance or sex. Which was precisely why he had never really given you a second-thought when it came to spending time with you. Of course, he flirted with you, but it was more playful than anything. Mostly because he enjoyed watching the way you’d get flustered, and how you’d stutter to respond to him. It was incredibly cute, and dare he say, endearing.

Yet, even then, he’d never considered actually pursuing you, and even now, he doesn’t know if he would. You’re complete opposites, and he doubts that you’d even wantanything to do with him - especially since you very clearly knew his reputation. His reputation being that his stable, steady girlfriends are few, and far between. More than that, he’d always dismissed you as someone who’d be into vanilla, missionary sex day in day out; and granted, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that if that’s what you liked. But the last thing he, Park Jimin, ever would be, is vanilla. Hence, his reasons for dismissing you as a partner early on.

However, that was before today. Now, he’s not so sure. And not being sure is driving him completely wild. Because now, now he wants to know just what you really are like. Just what really makes you tick in bed.

“So, ____, who’s the object of your desires,” Eve’s voice suddenly breaks the silence, her eyebrows wiggling at you. Breaking from his reverie, Jimin immediately hones his attention on the two of you once again. This, he has to know. He doesn’t know why, but he’s suddenly filled with the burning need to know just who you so carnally want to submit to.

“N-No one,” comes your choked reply, and even though he can’t see you, Jimin already knows that your face is flushed with heat. “I-It must be a wrong reading,” you quickly continue, Eve’s eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

Humming in thought, “Hmmm. It’s all open to interpretation ____, so perhaps,” she ponders out loud. A coquettish smile curls onto her face, and levelling you with her impish stare, “Would you like another reading to be sure?” she asks. Swiftly, you shake your head.

“No, it’s pretty late. And Jimin wanted it to be done as soon as possible,” you quickly interject. Ears perking at the sound of his name, Jimin lets out an airy life.

“Oh no, by all means, do continue if you need to. I remembered I have nowhere to be,” he purrs. Despair floods your stomach at his words, and internally you scowl. He had to choose now to be genial? Really?

“See, Jimin doesn’t mind,” Eve snickers. Letting out a little huff, you quickly get up from your chair and begin gathering your things.

“Still, it is late - almost curfew in fact. You should all start getting to your dorms,” you reply, your voice louder so the rest of the students hanging in the class could hear. A chorus of groans resonate through the air, but nevertheless, they begin packing up their own divination items.

“Spoil sport,” Eve mutters under her breath, however, there’s no real heat to her words; and like everyone else, she too begins clearing the table. As she waves her wand, the bottles, candles and crystals flying back to their original places, “Are you sure you can’t let me do another reading? It would really help,” she asks.

With a sigh, you shake your head, “I’m sorry, I have Head Girl patrol duties tonight, and I still need to get back to the dorms and shower,” you respond.

Behind you, Jimin immediately freezes, his book partially in his bag as he himself gets ready to leave. Now, that’s interesting. Glancing at you from the corner of his eye, he casts his gaze over your body. A lie. A very clear lie - but a good one - because only he would have known it’s a lie. You don’t have Head Girl patrol duties tonight, you know that, and he knows that. Why? Well, because he’s the one who comes up with the patrolling schedules - and you definitely don’t have any tonight. Which begs the question, why are you lying?

Naturally, it could be because you don’t want a second reading, but Jimin has known you three years now, and it’s not often that you refuse to help. Moreover, it’s also not often that you lie - which only has his intrigue growing. Just what were you up to? Not that you do have to be up to something, you really could just not want to have a second reading, and usually, Jimin would happily accept that reading. If it weren’t for the niggling feeling in his gut that it’s something more, and if there’s one thing Park Jimin does, it’s trust his gut feeling.

Hearing your explanation, Eve swiftly deflates. “Alright, that’s fair enough. Still, thank you though. I’m sure Trelawney is going to love this,” she grins. Though, that only has sheer mortification rippling through you. Because really, the last thing you want, is Trelawney hearing about your deepest, darkest feelings. A part of you wants to ask Eve not to use it, however, she’s promised to leave your name out of it, and knowing Trelawney, she’ll barely even pay any attention to it - both facts quickly settling your embarrassment.

“You’re welcome,” you respond with a nod as you gather your bag. Then, turning to Jimin, you tersely smile at him, and, “Ready to go?” you ask - your eyes flicking from his to the space behind him, as if you’re avoiding his gaze.

Momentarily, he looks at you, but no matter how long he stares, you refuse to maintain eye contact. The peculiarity of your actions only has his curiosity growing more aroused. Internally making up his mind to get to the bottom of your behaviour, “Yeah, let’s go,” he simply responds.

It’s later that very same night, when Jimin finds himself up well past moonrise. Usually, by now, he’d long since be in the comfort of his bed, enjoying the privacy of his own dorm. Or he’d be sneaking into the room of another apprentice. Today, however, he finds himself waiting in the Potions Apprentice common room; nestled on one of the plush velvet armchairs that makes its home by the hearth. Weak flames lick at the scorched wood, the fire waning as it slowly dies out. It bathes the darkened room in a dim light, and despite his position right beside the fireplace, the shadows hide his body well enough.

Internally, he wonders how long he has to wait for you to make a move, for you to sneak outside the common room and towards wherever it was that you wanted to disappear for the night. Really, he doesn’t know why he cares so much, and normally, he wouldn’t; you’re a grown woman after all, and you’re more than welcome to your secrets. Which is what he’d say if you were anyone else. But you’re not. You’re ____ Graves. The same ____ Graves he’s lived with for the past three years, and the last thing you have are secrets. Realistically speaking, he should probably give up and head to bed, because really, why did it matter what you got up to late into the night. However, ever since hearing you so easily lie to Eve, he simply can’t get out the incessant need to find out what you were hiding.

That is, if you are hiding anything. Because really, the later it gets, the more he finds himself wondering if he’s deluded himself into believing that you had secrets in the first place.

Mentally, he wonders if he should just head up to bed. It’s way past curfew, and you don’t seem to have emerged outside of your private bedroom; the rest of the Potions Apprentices having all retired for the night long ago. As he sits in the armchair, he contemplates his decision. It’s nearing midnight now, and you still haven’t so much as moved, and he’s really starting to believe that perhaps you’ve already retired for the night. Just as he shifts, however, he hears a door creak causing him to freeze immediately.

Head snapping to the stairs that lead towards the bedrooms, he watches as you slowly creep out of your bedroom and down the stairs. The common room is dark: the only light source the dwindling flames of the fireplace, and the faint, overcast shafts of moonlight that filter through the still waters of the Black Lake; and as a result, your wand is lit up - the eerie blue-tinted light of the ‘Lumos’ spell guiding your way through the space. Hidden by the shadows of the corner he finds himself in, Jimin’s breath hitches as you carefully tiptoe past him.

To his absolute luck, however, you don’t notice him. Instead, you simply slip out of the portrait that guards the Potions Apprentice Quarters. Jimin waits a couple moments for you to get far enough from the entrance before swiftly following you out. As soon as he slips through the portrait, he sees your frame disappear behind one of the corners, and hastily, he casts a disillusionment charm onto himself, followed by a ‘Muffliato’, before he begins tailing you.

It’s late after curfew, and as a result, the corridors are completely deserted. Iron sconces hang high up the beige brick walls and the flickering amber light illuminates the large, arched halls of the castle. Expertly, you navigate through the maze-like hallways, and with how purposely you move - your feet directing you down a specific route - Jimin knows you’re not out for Head Girl patrol duties. Albeit, he’d already known that. Though, this simply confirms his suspicions.

The entire journey, Jimin keeps a steady distance from you - close enough to keep you in his line of view, yet far enough that you won’t feel his presence. You lead him down twisting and turning corridors, and up towards the Grand Staircase. Realising that you’re planning on moving to a different floor, Jimin quickly moves closer towards you, still staying far enough for him to remain undetected, while keeping up with you as you navigate the ever-changing staircases. He doesn’t know how long he follows you, but around ten minutes later, you slow down your pace.

A look of surprise flits across Jimin’s face as he looks around. From the looks of it, you’re both on the seventh floor, in the left corridor. Though, he has no idea whyyou’ve come here. This area of Hogwarts is barely used. There are no classrooms in this corridor - it’s essentially a large stretch of hallway. Despite this obvious fact, however, Jimin watches as you walk down the passage, stopping when you get to a large tapestry. Quietly coming up beside you, he looks at the moving depiction in confusion.

Trolls dressed in ballet tutus are illustrated on the large curtain, their green-skinned body fanned out in various positions as they dance about with large clubs held in their giant hands. In the middle of the cluster, is a man, dressed in medieval-esque clothing, two of the trolls hitting him with their weapons intermittently. Suddenly, recognition dawns within him. It’s the attempt of Barnabas the Barmy to teach the trolls ballet. Enraptured by the odd, mobile tapestry, Jimin doesn’t notice you move - not until he watches a large, ornate wooden door manifest itself into the castle’s wall.

Eyes widening, he takes a step back - the sudden appearance of the entrance surprising him. He doesn’t have long to collect himself, however, because without a moment’s hesitation, you’re opening the door and entering it. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, Jimin hastily slips into the room after you - the door shutting behind him with a quiet thud. As soon as he steps inside, however, he pauses - not expecting the sight to greet him.

The room is large, yet completely barren. Marble arches and pillars line the perimeter of the room; plush carpet, the colour of beige, lines the entire floor - and even through the soles of his Dragonhide boots, he can feel how soft it is. There’s only one piece of furniture that sits inside the odd space - a large mirror. With clawed feet, and an ornate frame that has faded into a dull, metallic shade of gold with time, it looks ancient; and wholly mysterious. There’s even a strange inscription in the framework, in a language he can’t quite decipher, but one that seems familiar at the same time.

Nonetheless, Jimin doesn’t have much time to contemplate the peculiarity of it all, because all of a sudden, you’re moving. Drawing his attention once again, he watches you step up to the mirror, looking into the reflective glass intensely. The entire occurrence is strange, because it’s just a mirror, and yet you watch it so curiously, so intensively, that he wonders just what you’re looking at. And then, for a second time that day, he has an epiphany. He knows this mirror. Or well, more specifically he’s read of it.

It’s the Mirror of Erised - the one that shows you what your heart desires the most.

Now even more curious, Jimin’s head tilts to the side as he looks at you, his face a picture of curiosity. Soon, however, it morphs into shock. Because, completely out of the blue, you start stripping.

Febrile skin flushed with desire, you stare into the Mirror of Erised. The sight that greets you is no surprise to you, at least not anymore. You see, the first time you’d stumbled upon the Room of Requirement, had been this summer, towards the end of your ninth year. Back then, you’d just been a prefect, and on one of your nightly patrols, you’d stumbled across strange noises coming from one of the abandoned classrooms on the seventh floor; and being the principled prefect you were, you’d instantly investigated. The sight that had greeted you, had shocked you to the core.

You had expected lots of things behind the classroom door. Perhaps it was Peeves, causing a ruckus as he usually does. Or perchance Filch doing his own rounds. Or maybe, just maybe, it was two students out past curfew. However, the last thing you’d expected was to see Penelope Graham, the second-year herbology Apprentice, bent over a table as Park Jimin thrust into her from behind. Her uniform had been in a state of dishevelment, her shirt wide open and her bra pulled under to reveal her breasts. The most surprising thing, however, had been the fact that her hands were tied up, and her panties stuffed into her mouth as Jimin harshly moved behind her.

Suffice to say, the entire scene had been such a shock, and way more than you’d expected to find behind the classroom door. More than that, you couldn’t bring yourself to break them up, your own timidness getting the better of you. As a result, you’d quickly turned around and ran away - racing to the opposite end of the seventh floor - only to find yourself in the empty left corridor, right by the large tapestry that depicted Barnabas the Barmy and the trolls. You can still remember your embarrassment, the sight of Jimin roughly fucking Penelope burned into the back of your mind. As you contemplated what you’d stumbled across; pacing back and forth in front of the tapestry, you’d accidentally come across the Room of Requirement.

The randomly-appearing door had surprised you. You’d heard of its existence of course, from your cousin, Sybil Lovegood, but you’d never gone looking for it. Curious about what the room had manifested for you, and needing to recuperate from what you’d just witnessed, you’d entered - just to discover the empty room, and the Mirror of Erised. What you’d spotted in the reflection, your heart’s greatest desire, a few months ago had completely shocked you.

Because depicted in the magic glass, is you - your body naked and bound - as Jimin fucks you, just as roughly as he did Penelope. Or perhaps, even rougher.

Shaken by the discovery, you’d swiftly left the room. Only to return the next day. And the weekend after. And then the week after. However, then you’d broken up for holidays, and in your tenth year so far, you’d been too busy with head duties to return. By all means, you’ve spent many nights laying in bed, with fantasies of Jimin sweeping through your head as you lose yourself in your own pleasure. However, your fantasies could never compare to what the mirror showed. Though, the real deal probably couldn’t compare to this either, but what could you do? You doubt Jimin would actually ever fuck you; that is, if his adversity to flirting with you was any indication.

Tonight is the first night you’ve returned in a while, prompted by Eve’s tarot reading, and eyes darkening with hunger, you watch your reflection’s face twist with lewd pleasure; Jimin’s intense, domineering gaze levelled on you. Molten lust pools between your thighs, your stomach twisting with the desirous heat of hunger as your core trembles. Your gaze trails down the body of your mirror-image, settling on your core, and almost as if he knew, mirror-Jimin lifts your reflection’s leg up - allowing you a better view of her swollen, sodden cunt.

A low whimper resounds through the still room, your voice breaking the quiet. All of a sudden, the heat that sears your body is too much, causing you to grip your wand tighter, and vanish almost all your clothes with a simple spell - purposely leaving your skirt on. Cool air brushes against your heated sex, and a low mewl falls from your lips at the sensation, your thighs spreading a little further. Without wasting a single moment, you slip your hand between the apex of your legs, merely to cry out in pleasure when your fingers brush your throbbing bud.

Knees buckling at the pleasure, you tentatively stroke your clit, your breath turning laboured as ripples of ecstasy course through you. Nonetheless, it’s not enough, and you have no doubt that this position is soon going to get uncomfortable. Thus, without wasting another moment, you carefully drop to your knees before sitting on your ass. Bending your knees, you draw your thighs closer to your body, before spreading them wide open. Able to access your bare folds more freely, one of your hand dips between your legs: a single finger trailing through your dewy slit.

You run the digit through your sex a couple of times, and once the pad of your finger is coated in a thin film of your own wetness, you press it to your clit once again; slicking the bud under your ministrations. In the mirror-reflection, Jimin mumbles something indiscernible into your mirror-self, and you watch as her cheeks tinge with heat, but as usual, does as he says. Her hand winds down towards her spread thighs, only to splay her cunt wide open. Then, in one smooth motion, Jimin spears his cock into her - impaling the entire length into her dripping pussy.

Sucking in a sharp breath, you responsively dip a finger into your own honeyed entrance. The rings of muscle are tight, and firm, but slippery with your arousal, you manage to slip a single digit into yourself. Steadily, you push your finger into you. It’s fairly short, and girthy, and yet, there’s still a pleasurable ache to the intrusion - your inner walls rippling around the digit. You push it in as far as you can before crooking it at the knuckle. Promptly, you feel your body shake - your nail inadvertently dragging against your sweet-spot.

For a moment, your eyes blur at the euphoria, your eyes threatening to shut. Nonetheless, you forcibly keep them open - your gaze focused on the way mirror-Jimin begins surging into your reflection, your entire body bouncing from his rough thrusts. Imitating his actions, you begin plunging your finger into your silken depths - the movement causing the pad of your digit to drag against the erogenous spot inside of you repetitively. With each stroke, you feel the pleasure inside your stomach intensify, morphing from a dull ache into a maddening burn.

Nestled in the shadows, Jimin’s jaw drops at the lewd sight of you. When he’d decided to follow you tonight, this was the last thing he had expected. At first, he’d meant to announce his presence - question just what you’d been staring at. However, before he could say anything, your clothes had suddenly been divested off of your body - flying into the air before folding neatly onto a pile on the floor. Tongue-tied by the action, his jaw had dropped, and he’d been rendered speechless - because really, why would he have expected you to suddenly strip to just your skirt?

Nonetheless, his astonishment set aside, Jimin can’t help but feel his skin heat as he watches you - his cock twitching to life in the confines of his trousers. He still has no idea what it is you’re seeing, but still, the sight of your legs spread wide, and your hands buried between your thighs is incredibly hot. From his position, he can’t see you in full - your skirt partially covering your sex - and with only his imagination to go off of, his mind runs wild. He wonders just what your cunt looks like as you pleasure yourself: does your clit throb? Are you soaked beyond belief - strings of your arousal leaking down your ass? Does that little cunt of yours tremble around your fingers?

Each question has waves of hunger washing through him, and with each thought, hot lust bubbles through his veins. Desperately he wishes to find out the answers - to remove your hand and push your skirt up - only to bury his face between your thighs. He wonders how you look amidst an orgasm, and the type of sounds you make; the type of sounds your cunt makes. Even so, even with his urgent desire overtaking him, he knows he can’t. He enjoys being your friend - a hard title to come by - and this would cross a boundary he’d initially been hesitant to cross; especially since you’d never shown interest in him, or any other boy for that matter. More than that, however, he figures he should leave you to your own privacy - having voyeuristically watched you for long enough.

However, just as he’s about to turn on his heel and exit, a sudden cry of pleasure tears from your throat - louder than any other that has spilled from your mouth. All of a sudden, you jerk, and your free hand darts out behind you: the palm dragging against the ground as you brace your entire body. Your back twists, the motion pushing your chest further into the air - drawing his attention to them - just for it to move to the way your thighs begin trembling. Holy fuck. Were you about to cum? Merlin, he reallyneeds to get out of here.

“J-Jimin,” you suddenly whimper and Jimin stops short - the muscles of his entire body locking. Did you… had you just…?

Breath catching in his throat, Jimin strains his ears; focusing his entire attention on you. It couldn’t be. There was no way you’d just said his name. His mind was obviously playing tricks on him. Swiftly, he dismisses the sound. Until, “Oh… Jimin,” you moan. It’s louder this time, and clearly - so discernible, in fact, that it resonates through Jimin’s ears.

Turbulent eyes roving over you, and once he’s confirmed that it is indeed his name, a smirk curls onto Jimin’s plump lips. His cock strains inside his boxers, the hardened member straining against the tightness of his trousers as it begs to bury itself inside of you. A surprising reaction, considering he’d never seen you in that way before - then again, how was he not supposed to want you, after learning that your heart’s desire, is him. Suddenly, Eve’s voice echoes through his mind, and recognition dawns inside of him. He’s the man from the divination - the one you truly want to submit to; the one you so desperately yearn for. Immediately, the smirk on Jimin’s face twists further, pulling into a large, predatory grin.

Well, who was he to deny you your deepest wish?

Stalking closer towards you, Jimin waves his wand discreetly - ending both the charms that hide him from your view. However, so lost in your own pleasure, your focus concentrated on whatever it is you see in the mirror, you don’t notice him. Closer to you now, your soft mewls and whimpers are louder - the sounds practically music to his ear - and this time, when you call out his name, “Need something, Princess?” he purrs in answer.

Instantaneously, you freeze. Every single one of your muscles locks at the sound, your lust dissipating as dread settles in your stomach. Head snapping up, you finally notice Jimin’s reflection in the mirror, and blinking blankly, you slowly realise it’s the real Jimin. Swiftly, you shut your legs, the movement locking your hands between, as you stare at him wide eyed.

Mortification surging through you, “J-Jimin,” you stammer out.

“Oh, Sweetheart, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying the show.” His eyes flash with mischief, his gaze dropping towards your legs perceptibly, before locking back onto yours.

“I-I can e-explain,” you stammer out.

Jimin simply hums in response. “Oh? I think I have a pretty good grasp of the situation, Kitten,” comes his rumbling voice - the husky warbles reverberating through the air and directly to your core. Inhaling sharply, your eyes widen imperceptibly. Kitten. That’s a new one. More than that, the pet name drips from his lips like viscous honey, laced with a promise of lust-filled sin.

Deliberately, he stalks around you, your eyes following him - as if transfixed - until he’s directly in front of you, just beside the mirror. With your positioning - his broad body towering over you - your face to crotch with him, and quickly, you spot the prominent bulge of his cock. Throat tightening, you swallow thickly - your mouth suddenly dry. Jimin spots your gaze easily, causing him to chuckle.

“Eyes up on me, Kitten,” Jimin purrs, and almost as if you’re trained to obey, you follow his command; albeit, reluctantly.

Forcibly tearing your eyes from his covered manhood, you level your gaze onto him once again. He stands above you, fully clothed; waves of powerful dominance seeping off of his entire demeanour. Meanwhile you’re next to naked - with your hand still buried into your cunt - and as a result, you can’t help the ripples of humiliation that strum through you; your core reflexively clenching. Against your will, a wanton whimper escapes your mouth, your cheeks tinging darker with the heat of embarrassment. From the way Jimin’s eyes twinkle, you know he’s heard you.

“It looks to me like you’ve been playing with that little cunt of yours to thoughts of me, am I right?” he teases, and pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, you tentatively nod. Jimin hums once again, his head cocking to the side as he regards you coolly. Under his intense gaze, you feel completely exposed - his heavy stare roving over your entire body as he scrutinises you.

Then, his eyes landing on your skirt, Jimin lets out a low, taunting coo. “Is that pretty pussy wet, Princess? Does your cunt ache to be filled by my cock?” he asks. The vulgarity of his words doesn’t surprise you, you always had a feeling Jimin had a filthy tongue on him, and reflexively, you nod once again. Under his teasing words, you feel yourself grow wet, your lust-filled desire mingling with the humiliation that flutters through you.

Surreptitiously, your hand begins moving, the digit still buried inside you flexing as you slowly plunge it into you. The movement is imperceptible, and near non-existent, but somehow, Jimin still spots it. With a chuckle, “Is this turning you on, Sweetheart?” he coos. Mouth still dry, it’s all you can do to nod. However, Jimin’s eyes simply narrow into slits, and, “Articulate,” he hisses.

“Y-Yes,” you force out obediently, your finger moving even faster. Jimin coos tenderly, his lips curling into a wry sneer.

“Of course it is, Kitten,” he coos. Then, gesturing his head towards your hand, “But is your hand enough? Wouldn’t you like the real thing? Wouldn’t you rather have my cock?” he asks, a playful lilt to his voice.

You don’t even have to contemplate your answer, because immediately, “Please,” you whimper.

“Please what?” he hisses, and realising he’s going to force you to say it, you inhale a deep, steadying breath.

“J-Jimin,” you stutter out in an attempted protest.

“I want to hear you say it. I want you to beg with that pretty, innocent little mouth of yours,” Jimin purrs, his eyes darkening with dominance as he watches you.

Brushing your humiliation to the side, you take in a deep, steadying breath. “P-Please g-g-give me y-your cock,” you stutter out whilst imploringly staring at him through the thick of your lashes.

Immediately, a roguish grin crawls onto Jimin’s lips, and chest purring in approval, he walks around you - the heels of his expensive Dragonhide shoes clicking against the ground - before he settles behind your body. His long legs splay on either side of you, the limbs bent at the knee: effectively caging you between his figure. The strong muscles of his chest press flat against your naked back, and involuntarily, you shiver - his warmth seeping into your skin.

Hands moving to loosely rest on either of your thighs, the cold metal of his ring making you gasp as it presses against your febrile flesh, “Spread your legs,” he orders. The sound rumbles against your back, and for a moment you hesitate - the tips of your ears burning in humiliation. Nonetheless, you do as he says: tentatively splaying your legs open once again. Jimin watches your reflection in the glass, his eyes dropping to the apex of your spread thighs. Material of your skirt falling between, it obstructs his view of your cunt, causing him to let out a low tremor of disapproval.

Angling his head to the side, he brushes his lips against the outer shell of your ear, before taking the topmost part between his teeth and biting down softly. The sudden action causes you to let out a soft whimper, and you both see, and feel, Jimin’s lips twist into a sardonic smile. Lightly nibbling on the cartilage, his hands indolently trail further up your thighs, causing your eyes to flutter at the sensation. Just when he gets to the soft flesh of the top of your inner thighs, however, Jimin suddenly stops.

“Lift up your skirt, Princess. Show me the way that cunt drips for me,” comes his command. The intonation of his voice is low, a slight rasp underlying it, and reflexively, goosebumps prickle at your skin.

You suck in a sharp breath, and with shaky hands, do as he says. Gripping the hem of your skirt, you hesitantly lift it up - both your eyes glued onto the mirror - where you watch the way you slowly expose your sodden cunt. The moment your bare sex meets his gaze, Jimin lets out a pained groan. Swollen with need, the flesh of your sex is puffy - your clit visibly throbbing as a thick sheen of your wetness coats your skin. Pools of arousal gather around your entrance, the ring of muscles trembling under his heavy gaze, causing thin rivulets of slick to trail down the seam of your ass.

“Oh? You’re fucking drenched. What is it that you see in the mirror, that has you leaking like this? You’re practically creating a puddle,” he chuckles, a dark, taunting inflexion cutting his sweet voice.

A near inaudible whimper falls from your lips, and when you don’t respond, Jimin bites your ear harshly. Soft stings of pain strum through you, and, “Y-You,” you cry out in response, your cunt clenching visibly.

Watching the way the ringed muscles contract, “Oh? Just me?” Jimin chuckles darkly. You shake your head in response.

“N-No… us,” you reply. Fingers flexing, he begins softly massaging your thighs: kneading the supple flesh under his deft digits.

“Tell me.”

“W-What?” you ask, shock evident in your eyes. Tongue flicking out, Jimin licks the outline of your ear, only to brush his lips against the shell.

“Tell me what you see,” he elaborates. Thick waves of hesitation exude off of you at the command. There was no way - absolute none - that you could describe the vulgar scene, born from your deepest fantasies, and depicted in the magical surface.

Sensing your trepidation, Jimin’s face softens, and he buries his face into the side of your head. Lips pursing, he places a tender kiss to your hair. “We can stop if you want, or if it’s too much,” he mumbles; his hands soothingly rubbing your thighs. Your heart flutters at his concern, and you shake your head quickly.

“I-I’ve just… never done something like this,” you begin, your voice coming out as a whisper. Internally, you cringe at the timidness of it. It’s not that you don’t want to fuck Jimin. You do. Desperately. It’s just, you’re not used to it - to having someone see this side of you - and the idea of revealing it to Jimin, the object of most of your lascivious fantasies, is more than just a little daunting.

Awareness crossing his face, Jimin nods, and you watch in despair as his eyes turn tender - a stark contrast from the heavy dominance that had just twinkled within them. “We can go slow… I’ll be gentle,” he offers.

“No!” you instantly object, Jimin’s eyes widening at the sudden protest. Realising how loud you’d been, you quickly curl into yourself and avert your gaze. Throat tight, you swallow thickly; and gathering your courage, “I- I don’t want gentle. I- I want you to be rough. I want you to fuck me,” you confess, A few pauses break your sentences as you force yourself to be honest with him, however, once the words are out, you feel a sense of relief flood through you.

Jimin sucks in a sharp breath, and against the curve of your ass, you feel his hardened cock throb. “Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes searching yours. This time, when you nod, there’s not a semblance of hesitancy.

Bolstered by your sudden courage, “I want you to fuck me as hard as you can. I want you to dominate me, and make me cry,” comes your sudden declaration. The hands on your thighs flex, Jimin gripping the flesh almost painfully.

“Fuck.” He takes a deep breath, and then exhales just as deep. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asks once again.

Unwavering, “Yes.” Then, “Please,” you add - practically begging him now.

“Pick a safe word.”

Surprised by his words, “W-what?” you dumbly ask, causing him to smile at you genially.

“You’re a virgin aren’t you?” he asks; his tone is passive, almost kind, and not mocking at all; yet, you still find yourself growing embarrassed as you nod in response. Pressing another kiss to your head, “Then pick a safe word you can use if things are getting too intense and you need to stop,” he continues.

“Oh. Um… Mallowsweet,” you blurt out after a short deliberation.

The instant the word slips from your mouth, Jimin lets out an amused exhale, and you feel his lips curl in bemusement. “Mallowsweet? Really? The first thing you thought of was a potion ingredient?” he asks, causing you to pout.

“Safe words have to be something you won’t normally say during sex,” you mumble, and once again, Jimin laughs.

“You’ve got me there. Alright, Mallowsweet it is,” he nods. Then, after a short pause, “Don’t hesitate to use it, okay?” he continues. You don’t say anything, simply nodding firmly. Happy with your assurance, “Good girl. Now, tell me what you see,” he praises, only to follow the sentiment with a command.

A ripple of excitement courses through you at the heavy authority that laces his voice once again; his eyes dark with domineering hunger as he practically scrutinises you. Attention returning to the mirror, your breath catches in your throat at the sight that greets you. Your reflection selves have changed positions, now almost perfectly imitating the two of you. Cradled in mirror-Jimin’s embrace, your counterpart has her legs spread wide, and her lips spread even more lewdly - her own digits splaying them apart - as Jimin fucks his thick fingers into her drenched heat.

When you don’t say anything, your attention instead focused on the erotic scene depicted in the magical surface, you suddenly hear a loud slap echo through the air. All of a sudden, a sharp sting of pain flares across your thigh, and you hiss when you feel Jimin spank your flesh.

“I gave you an order, Princess. I expect you to obey,” Jimin spits, his voice hissing against your ear.

“Ah- I’m- I’m spreading my own…” you begin, only for your own mortification to pause.

“Your own?” Jimin prompts, a smirk curling onto his face at your clear embarrassment.

Letting out a whine, “V-vagina,” you choke out with a stammer. Immediately, Jimin brings his hand down onto your thigh, a sharp slap resounding through the air.

A low cry slips through your lips and, “Cunt,” Jimin hisses.

“W-What?”

“Cunt. You’ll call it your cunt, or your pussy. Do you understand?” he responds, causing you to nod your head. “Good girl. Now, continue,” he urges, his hand delicately massaging your thigh as he soothes the flesh he’d spanked.

Cheeks burning, “I-I’m spreading my own c-cunt,” you whisper. A jolt of ravenous hunger sparks through Jimin as he hears the vulgar word slip from your lips and he lets out a low, pained groan. He’d ordered you to say it, and yet, it somehow sounded even sweeter, even more sinful as it drips from your mouth.

“Are you now? Show me how,” comes his next order. Shuddering at his breathy voice, and thick ripples of pleasure coursing through you, you do as he says.

One of your hands uncurls itself from the material of your skirt, the other hiking the fabric higher up your body. Next, using your now free hand, you press two of your trembling fingers on either side of your cunt, before spreading them in a ‘V’ shape. Under the ministration, you both feel, and watch, as your slick folds are pulled apart - revealing even more of your bare sex to Jimin’s gaze. Seeing the way your flesh peels open, Jimin lets out a strained groan.

“Fuck. Look at you. Dirty fucking slut,” he spits, and hearing his words, the walls of your cunt automatically clench. With the way your pussy is bared for Jimin, he easily spots the movement, causing him to chuckle. With another spank on your thigh, “Do you like that, Princess? Do you like the way I call you a slut?” he taunts. Fist curling tighter into the cotton fabric of your skirt, you nod shyly. Jimin’s hand splays further down your thigh before he begins drawing slow, teasing shapes into your flesh.

A shudder runs down your spine at his actions. In their new position, his fingers are impossibly close to your cunt - so close, in fact, that you’re sure he can feel the intense heat radiating from your sex. Deliberately, however, he keeps them away from where you need them most, and under his ministrations, you slowly feel your body temperature rise; the ache in your pussy intensifying tenfold. One finger moves awfully close to the flesh of your nether lips, and each time he draws an indiscernible shape, the bone of his knuckle grazes your clit.

“Do you want me to keep calling you a slut?” he taunts, and eagerly, you nod your head, a wanton whine slipping through your throat. “Then beg,” he hisses.

With a whimper, “P-Please degrade me,” you moan.

“Merlin, you’re such a fucking whore. Who would have thought that the innocent, shy Head Girl was such a desperate, needy little slut?” Jimin questions, and hearing the blatant derision in his voice, your stomach flips with humiliation. Then, pressing his lips to your ear, Jimin moves his hand to purposely graze your cunt. “I’m going to fucking ruin you,” he groans, his eyes swirling with dark lust. Then, he gestures back to the mirror.

Already knowing what he wants, you take in another breath. “Y-You’re f-fingering my p-pussy as I s-spread my c-cunt,” you stutter out, your ears burning at the crude words.

“Like this?” he teasingly asks. Inhaling sharply, your eyes flutter as you feel his middle finger teasingly caress your dewy folds: the pad of the digit tracing down your swollen lips. You nod your head.

“Y-You’ve got t-two fingers in me. T-Thrusting them as you f-fuck my cunt,” you continue. Finger moving further down, Jimin runs the tip of his nail around the quivering, ringed outline of your cunt.

“Fuck. Such a pretty, needy, pussy. See how it trembles for me?” he asks. It’s rhetorical. You know it is, because the next thing he’s doing, is plunging his finger into you.

A high-pitched moan spills from your lips, your back arching as your head falls onto his muscular shoulder. He stops once he’s knuckle deep, and curling his finger, “I’m going to fuck this tight, unused little cunt, Princess,” he continues. The cold metal and cut gemstones of his heirloom ring presses against the sodden, heated flesh of your cunt. The band is incredibly thick, the maddening girth threatening to plunge into you as it presses against your entrance.

Nonetheless, Jimin stops. Instead, he languidly pulls his finger out, before abruptly plunging it back inside. Heavy moans elicited from your throat, your cunt spasms as you feel his ring press against your ringed muscles once again. Thrusting the crooked finger in and out of you, he indolently tests the pliance of your inner walls; relishing in the resistance he feels. “By Morgana, you’re so fucking tight. Such a tiny, little hole…” In a deliberate motion, he pulls his finger out - so slow, that you can feel every ridge of his knuckles as it retreats out of you.

As he holds up his finger, your eyes widen at the sight. The entire length of his digit is coated in a thick sheen of your wetness; filmy strings trickling towards his palm. The glint of his ring catches the low lighting, the shine only highlighted by your arousal. Jimin lets out a baritone chuckle, “So fucking wet too. You drip like such a slut.” His hand moves back down to your cunt, and stroking up the slit, you whimper the pad of his finger brushes your throbbing clit, the wet bud slickening under his ministrations.

“I’m going to make you cum so much that all you can think about is the way my fingers, or tongue, or cock feel inside of you,” he murmurs. The intonation of his voice is heavy, with an intentional husk to it, that has you whining in need. With each word, he tantalisingly circles your engorged bundle of nerves. His touch is feathery, virtually non-existent, and the tormenting motions has your core burning with need; the muscles of your thighs twitching intermittently.

“Mmmm, yes. By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to be a cock-hungry little bitch, begging me to fuck you like the cumslut you are.” All of a sudden, he presses his digit down onto your clit before rolling it in hard, tight circles.

Abruptly, “Ah- Please,” you cry, your thighs beginning to tremble on either side of Jimin’s. Between his filthy words, his purposeful taunting ministrations, and your own, previous ministrations, you swiftly feel the telltale fog of euphoria cloud your mind.

Jimin dips his head into the crook of your neck, and watching your body through the glass of the mirror, he stares darkly at your figure. You’re completely wired: eyes-half lidded and clouded with lust while your mouth is parted - breathless shallow gasps slipping from your throat. With each stroke of his finger against your clit, he watches your entrance responsively clench - forcing thick streams of your essence out of your honeyed hole and down your ass.

“Are you close, Kitten? Are you going to cum from just having me tease this needy clit?” he taunts, his breath fanning across the flesh of your neck. Throat tight with desire, it’s all you can do to nod your head. Pleasure burns in your abdomen, your skin flushing with heat. Still, Jimin continues his ministrations - pulling you closer and closer towards the brink of your orgasm. “Fuck, yeah you are. Merlin, you’re so sensitive... Tell me something Princess, no one’s played with you like this, have they?” he asks.

Pulling your lip between your teeth, you shake your head once again - too tongue-tied by pleasure to speak. Plump lips wrap around your flesh, and flicking out his tongue, Jimin begins peppering hot, open-mouths kisses along the column of your throat. Teeth grazing against your sensitive skin, “No. They haven’t. I’m the first to see you like this, aren’t I? The first to touch this pretty cunt, and watch you drip for me,” he murmurs. The reverberations of his voice thrum along your throat, causing you to buck into his hand.

“I’m the first person who’s going to make you cum, Princess,” he whispers. Then, without a warning, he takes your clit between the knuckle of his forefinger and his thumb, and twisting, he pinches the bud. Simultaneously, Jimin sucks your flesh into his mouth, before biting down harshly. The abrupt pain has you crying out, your thighs shaking harder as you feel yourself teeter over the precipice of your climax. Before it can come, however, “But not yet,” Jimin growls before pulling away.

“N-No,” you cry out, tears misting your eyes as you feel your impending orgasm begin to fade. Thoughtlessly, you pull your hand away from where it’s spreading your cunt, and instead, you grab Jimin’s wrist; attempting to pull it back.

Swiftly, Jimin brings his hand down onto your cunt - harshly. A sharp, wet, smack resounds through the air as his fingers impact your swollen flesh. Under the ministration, you feel your clit smart: ripples of pain and pleasure thrumming along your nerves and setting your veins afire. Biting down on your flesh once again, “You’ll cum when I want you to cum, slut. Until then, be patient,” he hisses. A whimper slips from your throat, and you nod before letting go of his hand. Purring in approval at your obedience, Jimin’s tongue roves over your throat, soothing the tender flesh he’d harshly bitten down on.

“Spread your cunt for me again, Princess,” he orders, causing your fingers to fall back to your lips as you pull them apart. Jimin rewards your actions with soft kisses, his plush lips teasing the flesh of your throat. Lightly, he begins suckling and nipping: the skin blooming with bruises under his ministrations.

As he litters your throat with his marks, he retrieves his wand from beside him, and holding the long piece of elm he drags the tip through your slit. You gasp in surprise, your eyes widening as you watch him tease your folds with his wand. Against your throat, Jimin whispers a spell, the words inaudible. Out of the blue, however, his wand comes to life - the entire length vibrating as the point presses to your clit.

“J-Jimin,” you howl, your legs snapping shut as you feel the intense reverberations of his wand against your aching bud.

Immediately, Jimin increases the vibrations, and, “Keep your legs open, slut,” he orders. Sucking in a sharp breath, you forcibly part your thighs again, even as they tremble violently from the mind-numbing pleasure that wracks through your body from his wand. “Good girl,” he praises, his wand indolently circling the outline of your clit.

“J-Jimin- P-please,” you choke out, the muscles of your throat straining to spew out the words. Delirious with overwhelming ecstasy, your eyelids flutter with every motion, causing Jimin to chuckle.

“Do you want to cum, Sweetheart?” he asks, his voice dark, and taunting. Hastily, you nod your head. With how intensely his wand vibrates - the pleasure concentrated onto your clit, where the tip of the wood incessantly presses against the bud - you can feel your stomach twist and knot with each second that passes.

“Yes,” you gasp out. At the same time, your hips start rocking as you grind your clit into his wand - relishing in the powerful reverberations of the vibrating charm that strums through your clit. Again, the telltale sear of euphoria burns through your bloodstream.

Wanton hunger skims through you, and feeling how close you are to your orgasm, you begin wildly thrusting your hips. In the reflection of the glass, Jimin simply watches with a smirk as you ride his wand. With each roll of your hips, your clit drags against the vibrating wood - your cunt rippling over and over as you chase your high. A smirk crawling on his hips, Jimin mumbles something indiscernible, and you cry out when the vibrations increase tenfold. Screwing your eyes shut, you cry out in pleasure. However, for a second time that day, just as you’re about to sink into the mind-numbing ecstasy of your orgasm, Jimin is pulling away.

“NO! P-Please no. N-No, please. Please,” you cry - the words spilling from your words over and over again. With your orgasm cruelly ripped away from you for a second time, you can barely think. Behind you, Jimin lifts his head up, and presses a soft, soothing kiss against your head, and feeling the tender action, you whimper. Through the mirror, you look at him with teary, pleading eyes, and “P-Please,” you sob. Jimin simply lets out a sardonic smirk.

“If you want to cum, keep telling me what you see,” he coos, his eyes flashing with barely concealed dominance.

Eyes blurred with pleasure, and so caught up in the ecstasy Jimin reaps upon your body, you’d completely forgotten about the mirror. Blinking the tears from your eyes, you focus your attention onto the magical glass once again, only for a wanton moan to fall from your lips at the sight. Your reflections have swapped positions now - your body riding Jimin reverse-cowgirl. Even in the mirror, your legs are spread wide - giving you a lewd view of the way Jimin’s thick girth spears your tiny cunt wide open.

“Y-You’ve got me on your lap… my legs spread a-as you fuck me,” you begin once again. Jimin hums underneath you, his lips once again peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat.

He rewards your compliance by pressing his wand to your clit once more, before he runs it down your dripping slit, and towards your cunt. Feeling the thin wood trace the ringed muscles of your honeyed hole, you clench involuntarily - the action threatening to swallow the tip of his wand. Jimin spots the motion, and laughing lowly, he begins pressing it against your cunt. With how wet you are, you easily take the slim piece of wood into you, your eyes rolling at the thin intrusion. Unlike Jimin’s, or your own, fingers, the wood is unrelentingly hard, and you feel it slowly open up the soft flesh of your inner walls.

As he continues pushing the length into you, soft pangs of pain flutter through your velvet depths - the untouched walls slowly widening. Still, the pain is next to non-existent, and with the vibrating charm accompanying the invasion, even that subtle ache is drowned out by pleasure. Once half the wand is inside you, Jimin stops, and instead, he begins fucking you with the wood.

“Like this?” he asks. You pull your lower lip between your teeth, and biting down hard, you nod in response. “How am I fucking you?”

Automatically, “H-Hard. You’re f-fucking m-me hard,” you respond.

Jimin’s free arm moves to wrap around your body, and your breath hitches when you see him inch his left hands towards your cunt. He moves deliberately, your eyes dilating with desire as you watch it in the reflection of the mirror. Even with your gaze trained on the appendage however, you’re not ready for the way his fingers feel as they stroke your clit. The moment you feel the calloused pads of his fingers caress your throbbing bud, you let out a keening mew - your thighs trembling on either side of his legs.

Simultaneously, Jimin picks up the pace; fucking his wand into you even faster as he begins toying with your swollen clit. A shudder of pleasure races down your spine at the foreign pleasure. Despite his wand being slim, your untouched inner depths are unaccustomed to the intrusion, and as such, intense waves of ecstasy flourish through your body. Hot, voluptuous lips trail down the arc of your throat, and getting to the flesh of your shoulder, he bites down - hard enough to indent the shape of his teeth into your skin - and causing you to gasp.

“Be explicit. Tell me what you see,” comes his next order.

“Y-Your thick co-cock is spreading my c-cunt as you fuck me h-hard. I-I can see the way you c-cock opens my pussy,” you describe. Jimin lets out a strangled groan under you.

“Is that right?” he grunts. “Does my cock look good in your cunt, Princess?” Jimin begins taunting. “Do you like the way that pretty little virgin pussy stretches around my fat cock?” His warm breath fans over your naked shoulder, Jimin suckling his marks into your flesh between his sinful words. “Are you imagining how it would feel? How I’d fill you up - stretch you out - and carve the shape of my cock into you? So that you know who that precious cunt belongs to?” The intonation of his voice is incredibly deep, and turbulent with salacious desire. It tremors through the air, cutting the sounds of your wet cunt and erotic moans.

“F-Fuck,” you whimper at his words, your cunt involuntarily quivering around his wand; sucking it even deeper.

Feeling the movement, his wand slipping further from his grip, “Oh? You like that don’t you? Of course you do. Filthy little cockslut. Look at the way you swallow my wand. The way you drip and coat it in your cunt juices. You’re practically gagging for it. Begging me to defile this tight, sweet cunt,” he taunts. His words elicit a high-pitched, breathless whimper from your throat, and eagerly, you nod your head.

“Please fuck my cunt,” you beg, your eyes wide and imploring as you stare at him through the reflection. For a moment, Jimin stills. Your words are unprompted, and as such, completely unexpected. Yet, hearing the words drip from your mouth, laced with wanton ardor, has his entire body thrumming with exhilteration.

“Fuck. You’re a sin. My sin,” he groans in response. Then, he mumbles something unintelligible. You barely have time to comprehend what he says, because out of the blue, you feel your inner walls begin to stretch. Crying out at the sudden change, your eyes widen as you feel the girth of Jimin’s slender wand get thicker. The girth sluggishly increases, yet, with each second that passes, you feel your smarting walls stretch around the unyielding invasion.

Jimin doesn’t say anything. Rather, he begins fucking his wand into you ever quicker, simultaneously increasing the pace of his fingers against your clit. Pleasure and pain intermingle together, your eyes rolling back as your thighs begin to tremble. The sensations Jimin lavishes on your body are far too much to comprehend, and swiftly, you find yourself drowning in the fog of euphoria. Stomach twisting with the knot of your incoming orgasm, your breath turns laboured as you begin fucking back onto Jimin’s wand.

With each plunge of his wand into you, you feel your walls pull apart just a little more, and the vibrations of the wood only has your veins searing with desire. Soon, the wand swells past the size of what feels like two fingers, and you cry out when the burn of the stretch begins rippling through your inner walls. The pleasure is too much to handle, but you never want it to end. In fact, you wish it’d last forever: the sensations wholly addicting. In spite of that, however, “M-Mallowsweet,” you whimper.

Immediately, Jimin stills, and halting the spell, he slowly pulls his soaked wand out of you. Sitting up straight behind you, the hand playing with your clit moves, and he wraps his arm around your waist in comfort. He looks at you in concern - worry painted across his delicate features. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he swiftly asks, his gaze roving over your body. A surge of timidness floods through you, and biting your lip, you simply shake your head.

“I-I’m okay. I-I just,” you begin stammering, only to stop when you feel your embarrassment amplify tenfold. Jimin’s strong eyes knit together, and pressing his lips to your head, he presses an encouraging kiss to your flesh. Taking a deep breath, you gather all your courage, and, “I want your cock to be the first thing that stretches me out,” you whisper. At the sound of your steady voice, you internally cheer. At least you’d managed to get the words out without being a stuttering mess this time.

Sharply, Jimin sucks in a breath. Then, “Fuck,” comes his strained grunt.

In an abrupt flash, he moves. Grasping his wand, he plunges the wand into you once again. The sudden intrusion has your spine contorting, your head digging into Jimin’s shoulder as you cry out in pleasure. Expertly, Jimin angles the wooden rod inside of you and begins thrusting it in and out of your core with rough movements. At the same time, he mumbles under his breath, and your thighs shake as you feel the girth increase twofold as the wand begins vibrating inside of you once more.

“Ah- Jimin,” you cry, your eyes screwing shut as pleasure blinds your senses.

The hand around your waist pushes back between your thighs before he slaps your pussy once again. With the angle of his hand, the impact is concentrated on your clit, and feeling the sharp sting, a wail of ecstasy tears from your throat. Vehemently, Jimin begins spanking your cunt - focusing the slaps directly onto your hardened bundle of nerves. His punishing motions are only intensified by the way your fingers faithfully splay apart your folds: exposing the entirety of your throbbing bud to his actions.

“F-Fuck- Jimin,” you cry, tears beginning to mist at your eyes from the overwhelming mix of pain and pleasure that courses through you.

Pressing his lips to the shell of your ear, “Desperate little slut. You’re such a fucking cocktease. Do you have any idea what you do to me? Hmm, Kitten? Do you know how hot it is when you practically beg me to ruin that tiny cunt of yours? Hmmm?” Jimin growls out. You whimper at his voice. The usual sweet intonation is long gone. Rather, it’s filled with a mix of pure, carnalistic need, and dark dominance. Each sentence that spills from his lips is emphasised by a harsh thrust, and when you feel the tip of the vibrating wand drag against the sweet spot inside you, you cry out.

“Ah- Fuck- Jimin, please,” you sob. Between Jimin’s harsh spanks on your clit, and the vehement way he plunges his wand into you, you find your orgasm quickly building up. Heat prickles at your spine, your skin pricking with goosebumps as the white-hot pokers of euphoria sting at your flesh.

“Look at me,” Jimin hisses, and through the fog of deliriousness that clouds your mind, you hear the command. Opening your eyes, and briefly wondering when they’d shut, you come face to face with your reflection: Jimin’s intense gaze capturing your own. The sight that greets your eyes has you whimpering.

Your pussy is swollen, and so sodden that you can see thick strings of your arousal cling to the side of Jimin’s palm: the hilt of his hand grazing your cunt with each piston of his wand into your welcoming depths. Wetness leaks out of you in droves, and you don’t know how you haven’t noticed it, but you’re sitting in a puddle of your own wetness - the juices of your entrance soaking into the fabric of the back of your skirt. The lewd sight of your body has your breath turning shallow, and inhaling quick, sharp breaths, you feel your thighs begin to shake.

Spotting the telltale signs of your approaching climax, “Are you going to cum?” Jimin asks, and you swiftly nod your head. “Beg me,” he grits out.

Instantly, your mouth parts, however, your mouth is suddenly dry, and so lost in your incoming orgasm, you can barely find it in yourself to string together a coherent set of words. Still, you force out a few words; though, they come out garbled and incoherent. Lips curling into a sneer, Jimin snarls at you, and immediately rips his wand out of you. The sudden emptiness has you shaking your head, a loud howl of displeasure ripping from your throat. Wildly, your hips thrash, and you attempt to follow his wand as you feel your orgasm begin to subside.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Jimin brings down his hand onto your cunt - hard - and feeling the intense spank, your entire body jerks. “If you want to cum, you’re going to have to beg,” Jimin spits out.

Screwing your eyes shut, the tears finally begin falling down your eyes and you let out a dry sob. “W-Wanna cum. P-Please, J-Jimin, wanna cum. Please. Please. Please,” you wail.

With another spank to your clit, “Good girl,” Jimin praises. Then, he plunges his wand back into you.

The gesture is abrupt, and completely unexpected, and instantly, you’re forced over the edge of your own orgasm - the knot in your stomach suddenly unravelling. Shallow sobs ripping from the midst of your throat, the back of your head digs into Jimin’s shoulder almost painfully, and your body arcs as you begin cumming. Thighs quaking on either side of Jimin’s, your cunt clenches painfully around the wood inside of you, as blinding euphoria ricochets through your body.

With how much Jimin has already edged you, the force of your orgasm is threefold, incredibly overwhelming; and like nothing you’d ever experienced before. Toes curling with pleasure, you howl out his name, the sound coming out inarticulate, and close to inhuman. Waves of rapturous ecstasy surge through your body, your blood boiling with searing heat as your orgasm overtakes you. Momentarily, you feel yourself drift from reality - floating through the thick haze of elation - as you relish in the intoxicating sensation that floods through you.

Nevertheless, almost abruptly, you’re crashing down to reality. A dull, stinging ache shoots through your sensitive walls, the pain of overstimulation overtaking your mind-altering pleasure. Even with your entire body trembling from the force of your orgasm, Jimin continues plunging the vibrating length into you; though, his hand has moved from spanking your clit to rolling it in tight, vicious circles.

Hands jerking, you unclench your fist from your skirt, the other moving from your splayed cunt, and instead, you grip at his thick thighs. “H-Hurts- T-Too much,” you weep, the tears flowing freely as you blubber out a slew of strained moans.

Still, Jimin pays no mind to your cries, and instead, “Again. Cum for me again,” he urges. Twisting his wand inside of you, he shifts the angle to the tip of it, and presses it flush against the soft bundle of tissues that make up your sweet spot, before increasing the vibration to the highest setting.

A strangled howl tears through your lips: the intense reverberations against your g-spot causing you to careen straight off of the precipice of your climax. Second orgasm rolling in directly after the first one, your body violently quakes over him, and you wail out Jimin’s name - the muscles of your throat straining at the sound. This time, your cunt clamps vigorously - almost painfully - and you sob at the fervent heat of euphoria that consumes your entire being. The power of your contracting walls abruptly forces Jimin’s wand out of you, his eyes widening as you practically shoot out the long piece of wood.

“Fucking hell,” Jimin breathes out - his attention glued onto your cunt.

Gush after gush of wetness erupts out of your cunt; the jets of your cum pelting against the glass and dousing it in your essence. Jimin watches you squirt with wide eyes, the action completely unexpected. It only takes him a few moments to recover, however, and rapidly, he presses his fingers to your clit: strumming the viciously pulsating bud in quick, back and forth movements. His ministrations have your orgasm drawing out even further, and thick tears roll down your cheeks at the overpowering sensations that flood through you.

Brazenly, Jimin’s eyes stick to your swollen pussy, watching the way your drenched entrance contracts around nothing as you leak all over yourself, the mirror and the ground. Everything is drenched in your cum, from your own thighs, to parts of his trousers, all the way towards the mirror: rivers of your essence trailing down the magical glass and onto the floor. The heady scent of sex is heavy in the air, and taking a deep breath, Jimin’s chest purrs at the intoxicating smell of your cum.

Body erratically quivering from the aftershocks of your orgasm, your cunt continuously clamps around nothing - and with Jimin’s wand no longer pistoning into you - the sudden emptiness is only exaggerated by the involuntary movement of your walls. Coming down from your high, the ache between your thighs grows to be too much for you, and, “C-Cock- I n-need your c-cock. F-Fuck me. Please, fuck me,” you stammer out, the words coming out slurred; your tongue loose from your orgasms.

For a moment, Jimin falters, and looking at your fucked out form in the reflection, “Are you sure-” he begins.

Hearing the trepidation in his voice, you focus your glassy gaze onto him through the mirror, and, “Ruin me,” you breathe out. Despite the breathlessness in your voice, there’s not a single shred of hesitance in your eyes. Just ravenous hunger.

The corner of Jimin’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth. Promptly, his apprehension ebbs - giving way to unbridled dominance as his gaze turns dark with lust. A low growl resonates through the air, “As you wish.”

In one smooth motion, Jimin’s hands move to your hips, and then easily, using all his strength, he lifts you and throws you up against the mirror. Eyes widening, you yelp at the sudden movement, your knees scraping against the smooth floor while your clammy hands press against the cold glass. You don’t get a moment to process the change. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jimin’s hands are curling between the soft flesh of your thighs, and forcing them apart, he spreads your legs further. The roughness of his actions cause you to groan, and willingly, you splay your knees further; pushing your ass out towards him.

Jimin’s chest tremors in approval at your gesture, and roughly pushing your skirt up your ass, he spanks the plump flesh. “Good little slut,” he praises. The sudden, acute impact on your lower cheeks has you squealing, the sound morphing into a garbled groan of pleasure. Emboldened by your reaction, and the way your ass ripples under the ministration, Jimin repeats his action.

A harsh slapping sound echoes through the air, pain flaring along your ass cheeks, and responsively, your head drops onto the mirror. The glass is cold, and refreshing against your sweat-soaked forehead. Jimin barely pays you any mind, and instead, he spanks you once more - as hard as he can. This time, you howl in ecstatic pain. Between the thick band of his ring, and his bulging biceps, this particular spank strikes your ass in the most enticing way possible. Cunt clamping down around nothing, you let out a low whimper at the incessant ache in your core, your breath fogging against the mirrored surface.

“J-Jimin- fuck me, please,” you beg.

One last time, Jimin brings his hand onto the plump cheek, before gripping the fleshy globes with both hands and pulling them apart. Under his action, you find your cheeks tinging with heat with mortification: Jimin exposing the entirety of your cunt and asshole towards his gaze. Seeing the way the puckered rim twitches, Jimin groans, and keeping one of your ass cheeks parted, he moves the other hand to brush your tight entrance.

A single finger indolently traces the ringed muscles of your ass, and you let out a breathy whine, your muscles locking at the sensation. “Such a pretty little asshole,” Jimin casually mutters. With how turned on you are, not to mention cumming so hard you’d squirted, the back entrance is completely slicked with your own juices. Grazing the blunt tip of his finger against your asshole, Jimin begins tracing teasing circles around the rim. “I bet it’s nice and tight in there. I bet you’d look so fucking hot struggling to fit my cock in that tiny little hole,” he mumbles. His voice is breathier, and filled with hunger, and you can’t help but whimper at the sound.

Suddenly, Jimin presses his finger against the rim of your ass, and your eyes widen as you feel the pressure: his finger threatening to enter your virgin ass. Nonetheless, before the digit can dip inside, he’s pulling away. “But that’s for another day,” he murmurs. “Right now, the only hole I’m interested in, is this one.” Abruptly, he forces two fingers into your cunt.

“AH-” you gasp, your eyes fluttering when he begins thrusting his thick digits in and out of your sodden entrance. Instinctively, your hips begin writhing, and pushing them back in slow movements, you fuck yourself onto his fingers: in a bid to take them deeper into you.

The silken walls of your cunt ripple around his fingers, and with each surreptitious contraction, your velvet cavern threatens to swallow his fingers further. “Such a needy cunt,” Jimin hums, his lips ghosting over the length of your shoulder as he presses chaste kisses to your skin. Parting his fingers in a ‘V’ shape, Jimin groans when he feels the tight resistance of your walls, “And so tight too.”

Driven near insane by the filth he spews, and the way he plunges his thick digits into your pussy, a soft mew slips from your lips. Nonetheless, it’s not enough. “D-Don’t t-tease m-me. W-Want your c-cock,” you beg with a stammer; your voice coming out higher pitched, and more desperate, than you’d intended.

“Insatiable whore,” he purrs, and despite the clear derision to his words, his tone is sweet. Almost affectionate. Still, Jimin pulls his fingers out of you, and instead, his hands move back to your ass. Cupping the cheeks, he pushes the plump flesh up and outwards, bearing the entirety of your dripping cunt to his gaze once more. He mumbles another spell under his breath, and to your utter surprise, a loud tearing sound fills the air.

You watch in shock as your skirt falls to tatters on the floor below you, but before you can say anything, Jimin is pressing his naked hardness flush against your bare sex. A shallow gasp slips through your lips, only for it to morph into a low groan when he begins grinding the velvet shaft into you. Hands still pressed flat against the mirror, you watch Jimin through the reflection. He’s still fully dressed in his uniform. The top few buttons of his white oxford are unfastened: exposing the defined peaks of his collarbone, and a few inches of his chest.

Meanwhile, his leather belt is undone, the two long pieces hanging on either side. Similarly, the button of his trousers and his zipper are open, his thick cock standing proudly through the opening. Attention dropping to the throbbing member, your eyes dilate with lust. He’s thick - incredibly thick. So thick, in fact, that a tremor of fear flutters through you, because there’s no possible way it’s going to fit inside of you. And yet, mixed with the fear is overwhelming anticipation, because you can’t help but want to feel his cock stretch you out. Even in the most painfully pleasurable way.

Jimin grips the base of his shaft with one hand, and angling it towards your entrance, he smacks the head against it. A loud, wet smack resonates through the air, and feeling the heavy weight of his cockhead against your wet cunt, you whine in need. Flexing his hips, Jimin slips his cock between your thighs before he begins thrusting it against your folds. Your slick lips spread on either side of his thick girth, and with each thrust, the prominent seam of his cockhead drags against your hardened clit.

Losing yourself in the pleasure, you let out a slew of breathless groans - your breath condensing on the glass - as you undulate your hips back onto him. Chest purring, Jimin lowers his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss onto the flesh just below the nape of your neck. At the same time, one of his hands grip your ass tighter, the other still holding onto his cock; and staring at you through the reflection, “That’s a good slut. Wet my cock with your cum,” he urges. Your body shudders at the sound.

Even as he kneels behind you, almost eye-level with your own gaze, he’s somehow still incredibly imposing. Noticing your gaze on him, Jimin smirks predatorily: his teeth peeking through the seam of his lips. Dark eyes, tumultuous with desire, lock onto your own, and while holding your stare, Jimin drags his cock through your folds in one long stroke, before pressing the head at your fluttering entrance. As the crown of his bulbuous cockhead pushes against your ringed entrance, you both moan.

Turning his attention down to your drenched folds, Jimin hisses when he spots the way your honeyed hole ripples. “Such a small, wet, little cunt,” Jimin groans. Then, gripping his cock tighter, he circles the head around your entrance, “Merlin, look at how tiny your cunt is compared to my cock. I don’t think it’s going to fit,” he chuckles.

Despite the clear taunt to his voice, you shake your head. “It’ll fit,” you whine, your hips thrusting back to take him into you.

Humming, “Hmmm, are you sure, Kitten?” he asks, and furiously you nod your head.

“I can take it. I can. Please. Please fuck me open. Please,” comes your soughed pleas, your eyes swirling with unbridled hunger. Behind you, Jimin exhales deeply at the clear neediness to your voice.

Jaw flexing, “Then take it,” he hisses through gritted teeth. That’s all he says, because the next thing you know, he’s pressing the crown of his cock against your cunt. A dull pressure builds up against your entrance, and your eyes widen at the sensation, a stifled whimper slipping through your lips.

You’re soaked, your entrance positively dripping, and as such, he should easily slip into you. In spite of that, however, he struggles to enter you: his absurd girth causing the taut muscles of your pussy to protest the stretch. For a moment your eyes flutter shut, causing Jimin to release your ass, only to spank it instead. “Look at me. I want you to watch as I fuck this tight, unused little cunt open for the first time,” he hisses.

Whimpering, your eyes snap open, your attention catching his. And it’s at that exact moment, that Jimin thrusts harshly. The force of his movement causes the mushroom-tip of his cockhead to squeeze into you with a sudden pop. Spine twisting, your back arches as a dry sob tears from your throat. Your eyes mist with tears once more, pleasure and pain surging through your body.

“J-Jimin,” you whine with a wince. A searing ache burns ripples through your tight cunt, the ringed muscles smarting as they strain around Jimin’s dense shaft. But, it’s not all pain. No, even through the agonising burn, there are intoxicating undercurrents of pleasure - the ecstasy cutting your discomfort.

Hands moving to rest on your hips, Jimin skims them over the swell before rubbing soothing circles into your soft curves. Arcing his neck down, he buries his face into your neck and presses a soft kiss to the column. “Shhh, Princess. You can take it, can’t you?” he cajoles. Regardless of his soothing gestures, however, Jimin continues pushing his unrelenting hardness into you.

Nodding your head, you force the entrance of your cunt to relax further, and feeling the muscles ease slightly, Jimin presses the rest of his cockhead into you - right up to where it meets the shaft. Once sufficiently inside of you, Jimin’s fingers flex, and digging the pads into the flesh of your hips, he begins pulling you onto his cock. Inch by heavy, agonising inch, his unyielding hardness spears into you. Gradually, the thick girth of his cock stretches out your walls: pulling your virgin passage apart around his heavy intrusion.

When he’s around half way into you, you let out a strangled cry, “F-Fuck, y-you’re h-huge,” you whimper. Jimin chuckles wrly.

“Are you sure you can take it, Sweetheart? Hmmm? Can your sweet, little, virgin pussy take my fat cock?” he taunts, slipping another two inches into you.

Nails scraping against the smooth glass, you drag your hands down the surface and hastily nod your head. “I-I c-can,” you respond.

Plump lips pressing to the roots of your scalp, “That’s my good girl,” he praises with a kiss. His warm breath fans across your scalp, and you shiver involuntarily.

Without a warning, his hips flex, and Jimin roughly thrusts the final few inches of his cock into you, the length bottoming out to the hilt. The sudden movement has you howling, your head falling onto the mirror once again. Against your will, your cunt ripples around his cock, your inner muscles contracting and clenching around his unrelenting shaft as it tries to force out the thick intrusion. Nonetheless, with Jimin’s hips pressing firmly against your ass, the clamping only massages his cock. Cock completely buried inside you now, his balls pressing flush against your wet sex, Jimin halts.

In the reflection of the mirror, Jimin watches as your face contorts in a mix of pain and pleasure. Your eyes are hooded: the lids fluttering with every passing impalement of his cock; and your mouth is parted: your breathing laboured as you struggle to take his cock. Regarding you with his dark, lust-filled eyes, he trails his gaze down your body - stopping briefly at your throat and shoulders - where he admires the love bites he’s littered onto your skin. Trailing his attention further down, he passes by your heaving chest: your breasts rising and falling with the movement, and your stomach, before stopping at the apex of your thighs.

In your current position, he can’t see the way his girth pulls apart your walls. What he can see, however, is the way your thighs tremble: the inner flesh covered in a thin sheen of your own arousal; and the way your nether lips drip with your wetness: filmy strings of your essence dangling in the air, some clinging to the skin of your thighs. Involuntarily, his cock twitches at the sight, and feeling the movement inside of you, you whimper out.

You have no idea how long you both stay like that - Jimin’s hands tenderly massaging your hips as he impales you on his cock. In fact, it feels like forever: time passing by slowly as you swim in the pain of his cock splaying your innermost depths. Gradually, however, the ache begins to ebb, and before you know it, you're left with just the delicious feel of Jimin’s immense girth splitting your cunt open. Perking up, you lift your head off of the glass, and taking a shuddering breath, you experimentally clench around his cock.

At the voluntary movement, Jimin’s shaft is emphasised inside of you, and you could swear that he hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he’d fuck the shape of his cock into you. Twin sounds of pleasure cut through the air: your low moan intertwining with Jimin’s strangled groan. Dropping his head down to your shoulder, Jimin bites down onto your flesh, and feeling the pain of his teeth sinking into your skin, you cry out in pleasure.

“Don’t do that unless you’re ready for me to fuck you,” Jimin warns. Deep inflexion of his voice resonating through your ear, you exhale deeply and repeat the motion. Except this time, you clench even harder.

“Fuck me,” you implore.

Mouth twisting into a derisive, lop-sided grin, “Hold on there, Kitten,” he purrs. That’s the only warning you get.

In one smooth motion, Jimin is retreating his cock out of you, until only the head is nestled inside of your cunt; only to thrust back in quickly. With one, swooping surge, he bottoms out of you, and the force of the movement has your entire body jerking. Grounding his knees onto the floor, Jimin uses the leverage to begin fucking you roughly. Hands braced up against the mirror, you attempt to find some form of purchase as your entire body jerks from his rough thrusts. However, with how smooth the glass is, you find none. Rather, your clammy palms slowly slide down the surface.

Sobs of pain and pleasure wrack your body with each drive of his hips, your toes curling as pleasure burns through your veins. Each plunge of his cock into your silken depths has you feeling every inch, every ridge of his cock. His immense girth pulls apart your walls deliciously, filling you up to your absolute limits. As the velvet shaft drags across your inner walls with each plunge, you feel him stimulate nerves you didn’t even know existed - the motions setting your entire body afire.

Jimin grips your hips tighter, and somehow, you feel his pace increase as he begins practically jackhammering into you. Your body jerks from the force of his thrusts, and consequently, you bounce harder onto his cock. Spreading your knees to brace yourself a little more, Jimin seizes the opportunity, and he angles his hips before he ruts into you even harder. The motion forces his cock to enter deeper into you, and you wail as you feel the blunt tip of his cockhead kiss the soft walls of your cervix with each thrust. Nonetheless, he pays you no mind, and instead, begins pulling your hips - forcing you to fuck back onto his cock.

His rough actions draw out feverish groans and slurred moans from your lips. The change in angle means that with each plunge of his cock, the head of his cock drags against the sweet-spot inside you, before it batters the back of your cunt. Soon, a dull ache begins settling deep within your stomach, and with each vehement pump of his cock, the discomfort slowly intensifies. “A-Ah, J-Jimin. T-Too d-deep,” you croak out with a stammer.

Dipping his head down, Jimin drags his lips against the shell of your ear. He takes the tip of it within his mouth, and biting down hard, “Isn’t this what you wanted, Sweetheart? Didn’t you want me to ruin your cunt?” he growls out. Then, with one deep thrust, he forces as much of his cock into you, before suddenly coming to a halt. “But if you want, I can stop.” The low tremor of his voice has your cunt clenching.

“N-No. Please d-don’t stop,” you whine, a mix of neediness and displeasure lacing your voice. Delirious with lust, you buck your hips onto his cock, and Jimin swiftly spanks your ass.

“That’s what I thought,” he hisses.

Out of the blue, one of Jimin’s hands moves from your hips, and instead, he hooks the arm under your knee. Hiking your leg up, he exposes your entrance to the both of you, and in the new position, nothing is left to your imagination.

The entirety of your sex is swollen with need, your clit visibly throbbing as it begs for attention. Slick with arousal, your entire cunt glistens in the low lighting of the room, and with how wet you are, thin rivulets of your arousal drip down your folds and onto Jimin’s balls. Dropping your gaze a little lower, you whimper at the sight. Your cunt is completely stretched, the ringed muscles pulled thin as they struggle to accommodate Jimin’s thick length. Like the rest of your pussy, your honeyed entrance is equally swollen; undoubtedly from Jimin’s brutal thrusts.

“Fuck. Look at you.” Jimin’s voice suddenly cuts the silence of the room. “See the way that unused little cunt has stretched? Mmmm. So fucking hot,” he hums.

Pulling out his cock, the both of you watch as your cunt grips his length, the ringed muscles being pulled with the movement. Once he’s only got his cockhead buried inside of you, Jimin thrusts in roughly once again. The sudden intrusion has you crying out in pleasure. “Fuck. How are you still so tight, Princess?” he grunts, his voice coming out strained. “Merlin, I’m not going to last long,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything.

“P-Please cum in m-me,” you whimper in response.

Jimin takes in a deep, steadying breath and then eyes flashing mischievously, “Oh, don’t worry, Princess. I’m going to ruin this cunt for anyone else. I’m going to fuck you so good that the only cock you want, the only cock you crave is mine. And then, I’m going to cum deep inside you, and dirty up your desperate - wet - pussy even more. So that you know, it’s all mine,” he growls.

“Now watch me fuck this sweet little hole open,” he orders. The next one of Jimin’s thrust causes your vision to blur, white spots blinding you.

Keeping your leg propped up with one of his arms, he moves the other from its position on your hips. Fingers tenderly stroking your hair, you shudder at the affectionate touch, only to cry out when he grips your hair and yanks your head back. The movement exposes your neck and using the opportunity, Jimin buries his face into the crook as he bruises it with more of his marks. At the same time, he begins riding you furiously - enjoying the way your inner walls ripple around his cock in the most enticing way possible.

Each thrust has his hips smacking against your ass and the sound of skin slapping is only broken by both your moans of pleasure, as well as the wet squelching of his cock fucking into your sopping wet cunt. Taking the flesh of your throat between his teeth, he nips and nibbles, causing the skin to turn tender under his ministrations. Then, releasing it, his tongue flicks out, he licks one broad line up your neck.

Getting to the spot just under your ear, he bites down on the soft flesh of your earlobe. “You like this don’t you, Kitten? You love the way this fat cock stretches you out. The way I ride your pussy hard and fast,” he taunts. The words shoot straight through your ear and down to your core, your cunt clenching responsively around his cock. You let out a garbled moan of affirmation, and Jimin lets out a throaty laugh.

“Merlin. Who knew the sweet little Head Girl was such a whore? Everyone thinks you’re so innocent. How do you think they’d react to seeing you like this? Your legs spread as you take my cock?” he questions and the teasing lilt to his voice has your thighs shaking.

Fog of euphoria nipping at the edges of your being, you feel the dull ache inside your stomach slowly intensify with every one of his thrusts. The muscles of your throat tighten at the pleasure, and in a bid to lubricate them, you swallow thickly. Behind you, Jimin continues plunging his cock into you, over and over again. Each thrust has his thick shaft dragging against every erogenous zone inside of you, and soon, you find yourself climbing higher and higher towards your peak.

Teetering on the brink of your orgasm, your stomach knots and twists. But it’s not enough. Between the apex of your thighs, your neglected clit viciously throbs - practically weeping as it begs for attention. Dry sob falling from your lips, “M-More. W-Wanna cum,” you croak out. Consumed by the pleasure Jimin reaps onto your body, electric ecstasy courses through your veins - your blood boiling with desire as you feel your end drawing nearer once again.

Swiftly, Jimin releases your hair. Instead, he thrusts his hand between your thighs and finding your clit, he presses the pulsating bud between his fingers. Toying with it gently, “Is that right, Princess? Do you wanna cum? Hmmm? You wanna cum all over this cock?” he ask, an apparent purr to his voice.

Driven mad with lust, it’s all you can do to gasp out your response. “Y-Yes. Please,” you slur. Skin prickling with goosebumps, your body flashes with heat. With each moment that passes, you can feel your orgasm slowly building up, your entire sanity dangling by a single thread.

Hearing your jumbled response, Jimin suddenly takes your hardened clit between his knuckles, and twists. “Then cum,” he orders with a hiss.

Instantly, a strangled wail of pleasure rips from your throat, the muscles of your oesophagus straining under the sound. The additional stimulation causes you to hurtle off of the precipice of your orgasm, and for a third time that night, you drive head first into bliss. Fingers scratching at the glass, you howl out Jimin’s name. Wave after wave of unadulterated bliss sweeps through you, the tide of your climax flooding into every fibre of your being as you sink into euphoria.

Eyes stinging with tears, white-spots blind your vision. Intense tremors wrack throughout your body, but even with the way your muscles tremble under him, Jimin continues thrusting his cock into you. His ministrations intensify your pleasure, and letting out a series of strangled sobs, you screw your eyes shut. Abruptly, the walls of your cunt clamp around his cock in a vice-like grip, and Jimin feels you grow wet once again. With your inner walls clenching and unclenching uncontrollably around Jimin’s thick cock, the Slytherin Head Boy lets out a carnalistic snarl.

“Fuck. That’s it, Princess. Cum around my cock. Fuck,” he urges with a groan. Nevertheless, your euphoria-addled mind barely registers his words. Instead, you fall forward, your body turning limp as you lose all semblance of your sanity as you revel in the waves of rapture that rocket through you. “Oh fuck. I’m cumming,” comes his strained groan.

Underlying ripples of pain begin fluttering through you as Jimin continues surging his cock in and out of your erratically contracting entrance; his fingers still mercilessly toying with your pulsating clit. Overstimulation gripping at you, “Please,” you weep.

Pace faltering, the hand playing with your clit moves to wind around your waist, and Jimin pulls you flush against his chest. Burying his cock as deep into your silken depths as he can, his thick shaft drives through your blissfully beaten cunt and you feel his blunt cockhead ram against the soft walls of your cervix. Instantaneously, your toes curl in pleasure, and your eyes roll into the back of your skull. Tears streaming down your cheeks, you let out a shuddering wail as your walls clamp down around him - almost painfully.

Without warning, Jimin’s pulsating cock swells inside of you, and with a deep roar, he begins cumming. Spurt after spurt of hot cum spills deep inside of your inner walls; Jimin painting your inner walls white with his essence. His cum is thick, and incredibly warm, and as you come down from your elated high, you relish in the feel of it flooding your stomach. Slowly, his cock turns flaccid, and you whine when the bulging thickness begins shrinking inside of you. Once he’s fully spent, he slowly begins pulling out of you.

The movement causes you to flinch, your raw cunt spasming with overstimulation as you feel his cock drag out of you. As soon as his cockhead pops out of your entrance, Jimin runs his nose against the back of your shoulder, and pressing a kiss to it, “Open your eyes and look at your cunt, Sweetheart,” he orders. Sluggishly, your eyes slip open before you lower your gaze to the juncture of your thighs.

Breath hitching in your throat, your eyes dilate at the sight. The previously taut muscles of your entrance are slightly parted open; the ringed flesh intermittently clamping around nothing. Thick trails of his gooey cum run out of your cunt and down onto the floor. Jimin’s teeth suddenly graze against your shoulder and, “See that? See how that tight little hole gapes? How you leak my cum? Such a pretty, ruined, cum-filled cunt,” he taunts.

Lazily, the hand on your clit dips further down your folds and towards your open entrance. A whine emanates from the back of your throat as you both watch, and feel, him press two fingers into you, the digits easily slipping into your battered entrance as he plays with his cum. Flinching at the intrusion, you weakly bat at his hand, an inarticulate sound of protest slipping from your mouth. Chuckling, Jimin pulls his hand away, and wiping his cum across your folds, he kisses the back of your neck.

Carefully, he brings your propped up leg back down, and you flinch at the stiffness in your muscles. So consumed by pleasure, you hadn’t even noticed the muscles begin to turn sore. The moment your knee is back down on the floor, your body slumps. In fact, you’re sure the only reason you don’t fall to the ground is thanks to Jimin’s body propping you up. Jimin lets out another throaty laugh, and wrapping his arms around your body, he pulls you flush against his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and despite the concern in his voice, you can’t help but notice the faintest inkling of amusement.

For a moment, you simply heave for air - in an attempt to satisfy the burn in your throat - and once you’ve caught your breath, you nod. Swallowing thickly, you lubricate the dry muscles of your throat, and, “G-Good,” you verbalise. Another chuckle resounds through the air.

“Are you sure? It doesn’t look like you are,” he teases. Lips curling into a slight pout, you meekly smack his thigh. Though, still weakened from your orgasm, you’re sure he barely feels it.

“You’d be like this too if you’d been fucked as hard as I was,” comes your response, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“You’ve got me there,” Jimin responds with a laugh. “Are you even going to be able to make it back to the dorms?” he asks, a teasing smile on his face.

You pause hearing his words. Then, pulling your lower lip between your teeth, “Oh… we can sleep here… if you want,” you whisper, your eyes dropping to stare at the floor.

Jimin raises an eyebrow at your sudden timidness, and for a moment, he can’t help but think how cute you are. Really, he’d just fucked you to kingdom come, and yet here you were, getting all embarrassed with asking him to share a bed with you. Nonetheless, he ignores your shyness. Instead, “There’s no bed here,” he deadpans.

Suddenly perking up, “Oh! This is the Room of Requirement. We can just ask for a bed. See,” you respond, gesturing your head to the side of the room. Tilting his head, Jimin watches in surprise as a bed suddenly materialises out of nothing. For a moment, he wants to question it, however, after a few short seconds, he simply brushes it off.

Instead, his arms tighten around your body, and carefully, using all his strength, he picks you up. He carries your limp body towards the bed, and with each step, you find your heart beating faster and faster. Eyes transfixed onto his face, you chew on your lip once again. His flesh is covered in a thin coating of perspiration, and the ends of his dark-pine locks are soaked with sweat. Still, however, he looks beautiful: his skin glistening under the low lighting of the room.

Getting to the bed, you feel Jimin lower your naked body onto the mattress. The instant you feel the heavy weight of the cotton sheets, your spine shudders. Not wasting a single moment, you quickly shuffle your body under the covers, your shoulders relaxing when your bare figure is once again hidden. Beside the bed, Jimin strips down to his boxers. Deft fingers undo the buttons of his white oxford, and once all are unfasted, you watch as he peels the sweat-soaked material off of his body, his toned muscles rippling under taut, honey-kissed skin.

Once his shirt is off, Jimin swiftly shimmies out of his slacks - the fabric pooling around his ankles. Unable to tear your eyes from him, you watch as he steps out of the article, his thick thighs bulging within the confines of his boxers. Which, speaking of, once again hides his cock. You have no idea when he’d tucked it away, but you can’t help but feel disappointed. Nonetheless, your displeasure doesn’t last long, because the moment he’s done stripping, Jimin walks to the other side of the bed, and crawls into the covers beside you.

Feeling the bed dip with his weight, you turn to him, and nervously smile at him. Jimin easily notices your bashfulness and freezing for a moment, he looks at you in concern. “If it’s too awkward to share a bed, we don’t have to,” he says. Quickly, you shake your head.

“No! It’s not that… it’s just… this is the first time I’ve shared a bed with someone,” you mumble out, your head ducking under the covers in embarrassment. A deep-bellied laugh resonates through the air, and you feel Jimin tug the covers down.

Squealing at the sudden movement, you attempt to hide once again. However, Jimin’s arms swiftly wrap around your bare waist, and in one smooth motion, he pulls you into his embrace. “I’ve already taken your first time. It’s only right that I take this first time too, then,” he jokes. Despite the lighthearted tone to his voice, you find your chest tightening.

The feel of Jimin’s warm skin pressing against your back has your shyness quickly fading, and instead, your body melts into his. Head pressed to his bare chest, you hear the steady beat of his heart. The rhythmic pulsing soothes your nerves, and involuntarily, a soft smile curls onto your lips. Thoughtlessly, you snuggle further into him, and reflexively, Jimin’s arm tightens around your waist; allowing you to search for a comfortable position. Once you find it, you still, before revelling in the tenderness of your actions.

Silence befalls the room, and for long, drawn out moments, you simply relish in them. That is, until you really process the intimacy of it all. In your current position, your naked chest is flush against Jimin’s, the soft swells of your breasts pressing against his own, muscular ones. One of Jimin’s hands lazily traces shapes onto the flesh of your hips, the other tucked under the pillow. Your face presses into the crook of his shoulder, the deep notes of sandalwood and bergamot intertwining with Jimin’s own natural scent.

Stiffening in his arms once again, butterflies flurry through your stomach. You’re not stupid. You know that realistically, just sleeping with each other, doesn’t mean that you’re together. If that was the case, Jimin was probably dating every single apprentice, not to mention a few mastership students, in Hogwarts. No, you have no real fantasies that this means anything to Jimin. And yet, as he holds you in his arms, you can’t help but let your mind wander.

Sensing your nervousness, Jimin flexes his arms. He bends his head, and brushes plump lips against your forehead. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice deep, and baritone.

“Nothing,” you quickly respond. Jimin simply lets out a deep exhale of amusement.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” he replies. Then, nudging your head with his nose, “Go on, tell me what’s on your mind,” he urges. Sucking in a sharp breath, you contemplate his words. For a few moments, you simply deliberate on whether or not you should say it. Or well really, ask him. You have no idea how he’ll react, and you know there’s a good chance he’ll simply laugh and wave you off. Nevertheless, this could be your only chance.

So, taking a deep, steadying breath, you gather all your courage, and, “Will you go to Hogsmeade with me?” you ask. The words rush out of your mouth in one single breath, and pulling away, Jimin regards you in surprise.

“Like… a date?” he clarifies, and bashfully, you nod your head. He doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he simply watches you carefully, his features carefully passive. With each second that passes, you feel your courage and hope dwindle; mortification once again settling in your bones. Then, to your utter surprise, Jimin speaks.

“Sure,” he agrees. Eyes widening, your face shoots up as you gawk at him.

“Wait, really?” you stupidly ask. At your question, Jimin snorts.

“What? Did you not really want to go?” he asks, and despite the evident playfulness of his voice, you quickly shake your head.

“N-No. I just… didn’t expect you to agree,” you reply lamely. Jimin nods.

“Well, if I’m being honest, I’ve never really thought about it. Or you… like that,” he begins, and swiftly, you find yourself deflating. Sensing your upset, Jimin bends his head down and presses a kiss to your shoulder, “But, that was only because I didn’t really think we would be compatible… but after tonight… you’ve definitely piqued my interest, _____,” he continues.

Hope blooms through you once again, and against your will, you find a smile curling onto your lips, “Really?” you ask. Hearing the happy inflexion to your voice, Jimin can’t help but chuckle.

“Yes, really,” he replies. Then, a grinning wolfishly, he teasing grazes his teeth against your shoulder before biting down softly. The action causes you to gasp, and Jimin lets out a low growl. “Besides, I can’t wait to learn what else you saw in the mirror.” Instantly, your cheeks flush, and you let out a little whine.

“Stop teasing me,” you grumble.

Humming, “Nope,” Jimin replies, popping the ‘p’. “You’re too cute when you’re embarrassed for me to do that,” he explains.

You let out a little huff, and open your mouth to retort. Only to pause. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind, and responsively, your eyebrows knit together. Curious as to what the mirror showed him, “What did you see?” you ask. A wicked smile curls onto Jimin’s face, his dark-pine hair hanging loosely in the air as he grins at you.

“Nothing,” comes his simple answer. Eyebrows creasing in confusion, you look at him in scepticism.

“Nothing?” you repeat, disbelief clearly laced in your voice. Jimin only hums in response. Bending his head down, he brushes his voluptuous lips against yours.

“The mirror shows you what your heart desires most. And in that moment, I had exactly what I desired,” comes his simple response. Instantaneously, a warm fuzziness flurries through your stomach; but as soon as it comes, it goes. Because, the next moment, Jimin is pulling you in for a deep kiss.

a/n: i hope y’all jimin fans are well fed, i know i’ve been starving y’all sjfjsjjfjdf anyway. this was super hard to write because i don’t see jimin sexually nor romantically so i struggled with it A LOT but 😭i hope i did it justice 😭 please don’t forget to lmk what you thought 🥺👉🏼👈🏼

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