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geminimoonxs · 1 day ago

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GOOD GIRLS GO TO HEAVEN. BAD GIRLS GO BACKSTAGE.

an au where art and patrick are bonded by music and an unfortunate habit of falling for the exact same type of girl.

💌 note: hi angels! hope you like this. it's not proofread and english is not my first language so i apologize in advance if writing sucks. not sure if i'll write pt.2 but i do have more ideias for this plot...... cw: +18. mdni. threesome. praise/degradation. drunk sex. unprotected sex. petnames. cumplay (if you squint). idk. shit gets nasty.

art was the kind of kid who wouldn't stay still. he was well-behaved, sure, but he had that kind of curiosity that turned into restlessness. he'd throw himself into every extracurricular thing he could get his hands on. by twelve, he could already hold his own on both drums and guitar.

his grandmother rarely said no when those blue eyes lit up asking for something. she put up with the noise, let him practice, let his friends come over to play and sat on the couch when their little band wanted to “perform” for her. even back then, patrick was already the frontman, the one whose energy moved everything and held the act together.

so yeah, it started as a joke. now the band wasn’t exactly serious either. it was just a hobby, a distraction named velvet.

they'd play gigs in pubs and at a few events around town. nothing big. mostly indie-rock covers: stuff from the killers, the strokes, and a lot of arctic monkeys. it made them some cash, but it was more about the thrill of being on stage and the joy of sharing something that kept them close. it was also for the girls, especially if you’d ask patrick.

when you met him on campus for the first time, he was hanging a poster for their upcoming show.

“hey,” he said, pointing at the poster with one hand when you came closer to check it out. “you should come this friday. the guys play some really good music. i’m the vocalist, but my opinion still counts, right?” he grinned.

that was enough to convince you. well, the fact that he was tall and had strong arms didn’t hurt either. plus, it wasn’t like you had much to do on friday anyway. so naturally, you picked a mini skirt, your favorite pair of boots, and a friend to drag along.

the place had a decent crowd, but it wasn’t packed. the two of you ended up getting a good spot, front and center, right where patrick could set his eyes on you again.

his vocals were cutting through the room — low and raspy, keeping up with the tune of “the adults are talking”. he was charismatic like a real star, making eyes at the crowd, taking up space on stage, and pulling the other guys into his orbit.

“you forgot to mention they were all hot,” your friend julia said, laughing into your ear.

“i only knew patrick before tonight.”

but she was right. they were all pretty cute. the drummer sat a little hidden off to the left, but you could still make out his angelic features under the red lights.

he was looking at you. probably amused by your white crop top that read ”say no to drugs and yes to drummers”.

you weren’t sure if the set was done or if they were just taking a break, but the band stepped off stage for a bit. not long after, you spotted patrick at the bar with his friends, nodding for you to come over.

“nice shirt,” patrick said with a grin. “since you’re clearly into drummers, this is art.”

the guy behind him smiled, just a little, like he was as surprised by the intro as you were.

“it’s just a shirt. you don’t need to get jealous,” you teased, raising an eyebrow at the brunette. “but your friend did kill it on stage.”

“band rule: we don’t get jealous over groupies.” he winked, watching you a little too closely, like he wanted to see if you’d flinch.

god, he was annoying. the kind of guy who flirted by stressing you out. and he knew he looked damn good doing it.

you shot him a look. “what if i’m just here for the music?”

“then both art and i end the night crying,” he joked, and wandered off to go hassle someone else.

art was still standing there, awkward but not moving away. there was a heat crawling up the back of his neck, stupid and fast. his fingers twitched at his side like they were searching for something to hold onto: a drink, a cigarette, anything.

“you were really good up there,” you said, quieter this time.

“uh, thanks. i saw you during the set. kind of hard to miss.”

you tilted your head. “because of the shirt?”

he hesitated, then looked right at you this time. “no. not just that.”

behind you, julia’s laugh rang out sharp and warm, unmistakably hers. you turned and saw her leaning into the bassist, the two of them locked in some kind of back-and-forth that looked suspiciously like flirting.

long story short? by the time the pub started clearing out, they invited you both to tag along to a friend’s place. no one questioned it. it just sort of happened, like gravity pulling the night forward.

the weed came out somewhere between opening beers and stealing the couch cushions. patrick lit up with one hand and passed it around like he owned the air.

everyone was talking over each other, laughing while recalling band stories or demanding for more alcohol to be poured. still, your attention was focused.

pat was sitting on the floor, across from you and art to your right. they exchanged subtle looks like they could communicate in silence but you had decoded the tension by now.

both clearly wanted you, but it didn’t feel like they were competing… just waiting.

“so, how often does this happen?” you asked.

“what exactly?” art asked, voice too innocent to be real.

“you two going after the same girl.”

“depends,” the brunette drawled smoothly, voice roughened just enough, “are you asking because you want us to fight over you or you want to know if we share?”

“oh, i wouldn’t want you guys to fight. i’m not a homewrecker.” you laughed, secretly still studying their faces. “just want to know if i should be flattered or if you do have a record of falling for the same type of women.”

art took a sip from his beer, then stared at the bottle like he knew patrick was going to say something embarrassing.

“there was this one girl, tashi. my ex. art ran into her bed to make her feel better when we broke up. but i forgave him.”

well, there it was. a reason for art’s ears and cheeks to get even redder. he tried to explain himself but patrick didn’t even listen, just kept going.

“and there was alice, in highschool. but she was the one who asked to kiss both of us. said it was her birthday gift, so naturally we couldn’t say no.”

“well, so you do share.”

“upon request, yes... i also help arthur out when he’s too shy to make a move, which happens often”

“real charitable, patrick… why don’t you shut the fuck up?” art muttered, but it didn’t have much bite.

you sipped your drink, watching them bounce off each other like this was just how it always was. it was kind of cute, honestly. the way they talked over each other, the way art tried to hide how much he actually cared what came out of patrick’s mouth. something about it clicked in a way you weren’t expecting.

“so,” you said, grinning, “how long have you two been dating?”

the blonde one choked on his beer. the other one snorted. two complete opposites, fire and ice.

“we’re not —” art started, cheeks going red again.

“yeah, he hasn’t had the balls to make a move on me yet.” pat joked, reaching his hand to playfully mess with art’s hair. “he thinks i’m out of his league.”

something flickered in the space between their laughs. something in the way art didn’t quite look at him, and the way patrick didn’t stop grinning, like the edge of the truth was brushing up against both of them.

you didn’t know it, but band nights did get wild sometimes: late sets, green rooms with no real locks, adrenaline running high. nights where patrick would be deep into some random girl moaning on an old couch and art would be just steps away, pressed against her even more random friend in the shadows, trying not to pay attention. doing his best not to stare at the way patrick’s hips moved and how his hands wrapped perfectly around soft curves. trying not to get fixated on the sounds he made, rough and breathless.

he never talked about those nights. not really. but he remembered them too clearly.

julia called your name from across the room. her voice cut through the haze, laced with whatever new discovery she’d made.

“come here. the guys made pizza!”

you excused yourself with a smile and headed her way, weaving past the tangle of bodies and bottles. patrick watched you go, then turned to art with a very familiar expression, a grin that always meant trouble.

“you gonna shoot your shot or just sit there looking like a kicked puppy?”

art blinked. “what?”

“don’t act confused. you’ve been staring at her like she’s the second coming of christ all night.”

“fuck off.”

“no, seriously. it’s cute.” patrick leaned in a little, voice dropping low, amused. “you’re in love already, huh?”

art shook his head quickly, but the tips of his ears betrayed him, flushed deep red. “she’s clearly more into you,” he mumbled. “you’re the one making her laugh.”

“because i’m funny,” patrick said, deadpan. “that’s not the same as her wanting my dick.”

“it usually is.”

“god, you’re hopeless.”

you came back a few moments later, hands empty. “they’ve managed to make premade pizza go wrong. it’s cold, ugly and disgusting.”

“hideous,” patrick agreed immediately. “but not as disgusting as you ditching me.”

“i was gone for two minutes.”

“longest two minutes of my life.”

you rolled your eyes, but still let him pull you into his lap when you went to sit back down. and that’s when he took another hit from the blunt, held it, then leaned forward, tapping his fingers gently against your jaw until you turned toward him. no warning, no question. he brought his mouth close and exhaled the smoke straight past your lips.

the kiss you shared wasn’t rushed or desperate. it was very intentional, with one of patrick’s hands holding on to your waist like he’d never be done exploring your mouth.

art didn’t hang around for long. he’d moved to the other side of the room, engaged in shallow conversations and looked away fast when you glanced his way. he was busy trying not to wonder what your mouth would taste like if he had been the one to offer the smoke.

“you want him too, don’t you?” pat asked in a low voice as he ran his nose down your neck softly, just to bite into it. his voice didn’t carry any judgment or jealousy, just pure unfiltered curiosity.

“he’s cute.”

“oh, i know.” he admitted with a small laugh. “if i get you what you want, will you be able to take it? or are you just being greedy?”

he was toying with your mind, letting the possibility sit there within reach. he was clearly in charge of your body too, hand moving to your thigh, slightly parting your legs so the miniskirt would look even more obscene. no one else was paying attention to the two of you.

just art. his blue eyes wandering shamelessly from your black lace panties peeking out, to patrick’s smirk.

“i’ve never done this before.” you said, honestly.

“we’ll go easy on you,” patrick said, his fingers lazy where they traced a slow line up your thigh. “he’s a good boy and i don’t bite too hard either.”

he stood then, giving your hand a small tug and guiding you down the hallway. the bedroom he pushed you into was messy, something you could tell even with the lights off. pat lit a single lamp on the nightstand, the low light casting warm reflections over your skin as he got you to lie down on the mattress.

you didn’t have much time to think. his hands were on your hips again, one knee between your legs, mouth already on yours, moving slow and confident, coaxing. he kissed like someone who knew how to get what he wanted, but didn’t mind taking his time getting there.

“you’re too beautiful,” he murmured against your skin. “let me see you.”

the crop top was gone quickly, revealing your breasts sitting perfectly in a black bra. his mouth watered at the sight, but he didn’t rush – just leaned down to kiss your lips again, deliciously slow. one of his hands traveled up your skirt, fingers lightly tracing where your panties had gone damp.

your head tipped back on instinct, eyes closing as you felt his digits push the fabric to the side and finally touch you how you needed it with his thumb pressuring small circles on your clit.

you were so lost in the moment that you didn’t even notice patrick clumsily balancing his phone with the wrong hand, thumb fumbling the screen as he typed. the text to art was simple:

| “sos. need a condom.”

he knew it would work. would lure him in. and it did. art did anything for him.

less than five minutes later there was a knock on the door.

you startled at first: legs snapping closed, eyes locking on patrick’s in quiet panic.

“it’s just art,” he said calmly, placing a sweet kiss to your jaw. “gonna let him in, ok? we’re going to take good care of you.”

you nodded, head already consumed by the fantasy of being the center of their attention. dripping at the thought.

he opened the door just a crack. art stood there holding the foil square like it burned his hand.

“thanks,” patrick said. and then he opened the door wider.

“pat — ” art barely got the word out before being interrupted.

“come on, man. don’t be shy.” the brunette said with a smile. “we both want you here. doubles the fun.”

art stumbled into the room before he could stop himself, face lit up crimson. he looked everywhere except you, until his eyes inevitably dropped and there you were, lying across the bed, hair splayed, skirt rumpled up, those soaked black panties still on display.

patrick stepped close behind him, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “don’t make her beg, hm? show her how much you want her.”

their dynamic was amusing to watch. it felt like art obeyed out of habit, knowing it was safe to walk into whatever patrick picked for him.

he crawled up to your body, eyes fixated on your lips. “can i?” he asked, waiting for your confirmation before leaning in.

art kissed you like he’d been holding back for hours. flammable, trembling, hands shaky as they palmed your waist and chest.

you couldn't hold back a moan as you felt patrick get back in the bed, his face finding your neck, hand traveling to your back and unclasping the bra with practice. it soon joined your top on the floor.

“god, you’re gorgeous.” art breathed. there was nothing casual about his tone, he sounded devoted.

he touched you carefully, peppering kisses all over before latching to your nipple and staying there. the feeling of his lips and the sinful way patrick looked down to watch him sent something straight to your core.

one of your hands fell on art’s curls, tugging gently, while the other palmed pat’s bulge through his jeans. the brunette wasted no time stripping your skirt and settling between your legs.

he didn’t take your panties off, not yet. his mouth met the fabric first, tongue pressing in, soaking it even more, making it cling tight to your skin.

“patrick, please…” you moaned, feeling his hands pressing harshly on your tights, keeping you open.

“so spoiled. bet you’re loving all of this.” he hissed, finally dragging the lace down your legs. “dying be our little plaything, aren’t you?”

you didn’t reply, cause art’s lips met yours again. you kept moaning into his mouth, letting him ground you while pat’s tongue worked. it felt slick and warm, alternating from bullying your clit to teasing your entrance.

patrick lapped at your folds like a starving man and when his fingers got in the mix it didn’t take long before you were arching your back in response.

“you wanna come for him, princess?” art asked, surprising you with confidence that you had no idea where it came from.

he never felt this worked up before. he wanted to reach for patrick’s hair and keep him in place, so your moans would keep flooding the room. he wanted to taste you off of patrick’s lips until both of them gasped for air.

but he wouldn’t dare be the one to start it. so he just watched as your legs trembled, as you clenched around pat’s fingers.

patrick looked up with a lust filled gaze, chin glistening as he offered art his digits, coated in you. “there you go.” he murmured in satisfaction as art’s lips parted without hesitation, soft and eager around his fingers.

it wasn’t as good as getting the kiss art was fantasizing about, but you tasted so sweet that it still made his head spin.

“now, it’s not fair that we have her sitting here so pretty and we’re both still fully clothed is it?” pat asked, clearly having fun to be the one commanding the whole thing, giving it rhythm. “give her something to look at.”

he came closer and slid art’s red flannel off his back, letting the blonde get rid of the worn out grey t-shirt that was underneath it too.

you were positively surprised by the view. art had a slim frame, but his arms and abs were defined, like sculpted marble. his pale skin was painted in a few brown spots that spread along his shoulders and back, like a constellation.

he was still fidgeting his fingers, looking at patrick for guidance before you took his hand and placed it at the hem of pat’s shirt yourself. you helped art lift the fabric, kissing every inch of skin that was revealed on the way.

you barely noticed the shirt hit the mattress — your eyes were already caught on something much more interesting. right above you, patrick reached a hand to the base of art’s neck and rested his forehead against his. they were inches away from each other’s lips.

you saw it happen, the moment patrick pulled closer and art gave in. it was all tongue, an urge suppressed for too long before this night creeped up on them. you could feel art’s cock twitching in his pants as you tried to open his zipper.

“you two look so cute, aching for each other like that.” you laughed, not even close to poking fun at them… just honored to be in the middle of it.

patrick smirked, tugging your hair lightly until you straightened up between them. he pulled both you and art in, everything blurring into the messiest kiss you ever experienced, not sure anymore where one person ended and the other one began.

“can’t wait, i need you.” art whimpered, tugging his pants and boxers down himself. at that point you couldn’t even be sure if he was talking to you or his best friend.

patrick lifted your face slightly, stealing all of your attention to his brown eyes. “you said you could handle both of us, so now you’re gonna be good, ok?” his tone was calm, almost condescending. “if something feels too much, you tell me. if you change your mind at any point we stop, no questions asked.”

you nodded, heart pounding, legs already shaking. you felt oddly safe in their arms, like maybe you’d already memorized their bodies and their voices in another life.

“come here. bend over,” patrick instructed, easing you down until your ass was in the air and your face rested in his lap. “wanna watch art have his way with you first. let him get you ready for me.”

you couldn’t think. not with the sight of art’s flushed tip leaking as he stroked himself coming closer to you. he placed one hand on your hip, calloused fingers from the drumsticks grabbing with no restraint left. the other hand lined his cock with your entrance, until he pushed in, painfully slow.

“f-fuck — ” he gasped. “you’re so wet. it feels too good.”

patrick glanced down over the scene with a smug satisfaction burning in his eyes, looking proud of himself for setting everything up. maybe later art would finally admit he was a mastermind, after all.

his own pants dropped just enough to free his length, which bobbed dangerously close to your face. you kissed down his happy trail, breath hot, one hand wrapping around the base just before your lips met his tip.

it was big enough for you to choke on it, small tears forming on the corner of your eyes. but he didn’t force it. didn’t guide. his hand simply stroked your hair back, gently, like he wanted to watch you try.

“you can do better than that.” he rasped, pulling out long enough for you to catch your breath. “has art fucked you stupid yet?”

he didn’t wait for an answer, just eased you back down with a curl of his fingers, coaching you into a steadier rhythm as you moaned around him.

truth was, it was nearly impossible to focus with art pounding into you and his short nails digging into your hips like he was holding on for dear life.

the way patrick spoke and the view of his thick cock sliding into your mouth did something to art too, you could tell by the beautiful noises leaving his lips.

“shit, i’m gonna come, i need to cum.” he exhaled, equal parts despair from the overwhelming sensations and embarrassment for not lasting as long as he’d like to.

“it’s ok.” pat cooed, gently dragging him down for another kiss. “fuck her through it. let me feel how you shake from it.”

art didn’t stand a chance. not with you clenching around him like that. not with patrick whispering filth that close to his mouth.

he came inside you. didn’t mean to, but the moment his body broke, his hips snapped forward, burying himself deep with a low, wrecked groan. it was like his whole body forgot how to let go.

you blinked, dazed, face still in patrick’s lap, lips wet from his cock. art collapsed forward, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, chest heaving.

patrick looked down, unfazed. almost proud again.

“you came inside her?” he asked, barely laughing, like he already knew.

art nodded, cheeks flushed and eyes still unfocused.

“you on the pill?” patrick asked you, hand brushing hair from your cheek.

“yeah,” you whispered, legs still trembling.

“good,” he said simply, and without waiting, he pulled you up. his hands gripped your hips and dragged you into his lap, cock still hard and slick with your spit, pressing up between your thighs. he didn’t bother lining himself up with his hand, he used your body instead, rocking your weight until your entrance caught on his tip. “then it’s my turn.”

he pushed up. slow at first, stretching you wider with the thickness of him, groaning into your neck when he bottomed out. his grip stayed firm, holding you steady while he filled the space art had just left.

you could still feel art’s cum inside you, warm and dripping, all of it being fucked back into you.

patrick growled against your skin. “you were made for this, weren’t you?”

you whimpered, hands flying to his chest, trying to brace yourself but he was already going quicker, deeper, letting his frustration pour into every thrust.

behind you, art was still breathing hard, but not gone. his eyes followed every move, hand sliding over his own cock, still half hard, slowly stroking. his other hand found your spine, tracing it down gently, grounding you.

patrick was muttering filth against your throat, fucking up into you harder. “god, you’re so fucked out already. such a mess.”

“pat…” you moaned, voice weak.

“that’s it. take it,” he growled, eyes locked on yours.

art’s voice broke through, quiet and calm, a sharp contrast.

“you’re doing so good,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder, then your jaw. “just a bit more, ok? he’s almost there”

he kept stroking himself slowly, the rhythm in perfect counterpoint to patrick’s roughness. he kissed your lips between words, sweet and soft.

your skin was burning. you felt yourself tightening again, caught in the middle of them.

“come for me, please. i need to see your face.” art said, touching your clit gently. your body gave into his command.

patrick groaned beneath you and slammed in one final time, cock pulsing as he came. his hips stuttered, teeth pressed to your neck as he spilled into you.

“fuck, you’re perfect.” pat hissed as art kissed your temple. “we should keep you around.”

💌 taglist: @jamespotteraliveversion

#challe #art donaldson #art donalson x reader #art donaldson smut #mike faist #patrick zweig smut #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig #josh o'connor #artrick x reader

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getouyuri · 2 months ago

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r/Marriage: am i (24m) overly obsessed with my wife (24f)? — satoru gojo

౨ৎ pairing — oyabun!gojo x secretary!reader

summary — all work and no play makes the fearsome oyabun of the gojo-gumi a tremendously dull boy. since you're a saint, you come into his office with no panties and a mission; to let your puppy play.

౨ৎ content & warnings — MDNI 18+, fem!reader, modern au, yakuza au, humor, smut, fluff, pet names, gojo and reader are married, whipped gojo, gojo is actually insane, dark themes, mentions of murder & violence, p in v, submissive top gojo, sub!gojo, dom!reader, femdom, mommy kink, semi-public sex (office), pussydrunk gojo, mild pet play / puppy play, oral (f! receiving), cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, spanking (both receiving), reader uses gojo’s tie like a leash, MEN WHO WHIMPER >>>

author's note — i love yakuza aus and i love sub top wife guy gojo what can i sayyyy. this is my first fic on this account and it's just self indulgent as hell tbh. this is Not necessary to read, but if you want a little more background on this au, you can find info here. more notes at the end! hope u all enjoy 🫶🏽. full masterlist here.

writing © getouyuri. fanart © maronjapan9art. dividers © thecutestgrotto. wc: 13k

It’s not even 12pm on a Friday, 95 degrees, when the white flag swinging from his person is finally brought to his attention.

“Boss,” Choso says, completely straight-faced as he cleans a gun and stares imploringly at Satoru. Waxing and waning. “There's… something hanging out of your pocket.”

“Oh?” Satoru looks down, snags his fingers into the panties that are peeking out from his slacks, and rubs his thumb over the delicate embroidery in the hem. Interesting. “Oh, sweet.”

A completely normal, well-adjusted member of society would turn into a bumbling, blushing maiden and stuff these goodies away, mortified. Too bad he’s a shameless certified freak, seven days a week.

Like he’s playing cat’s cradle, he pulls at the inner hem and spreads the lingerie open to get a good bird’s eye view down into the panties. Satoru tests the stretch of the material. Turns it this way and that. Examines the gusset for any exciting stains and clicks his tongue when he finds none.

The air of the group at his beck and call sours into something painfully awkward, almost disbelieving. When he clears his throat, all eyes look away from him. Satoru takes the opportunity to crumple the fabric and press his nose into it in order to breathe your scent in.

Delectable. 10/10.

Outside the nearest window is the familiar buzz of typical Tokyo afternoon activity and traffic. Sitting in a loose ‘v’ around him in the ten-seater van they’re packed into are the men he’s tagging along with to swing by the red light district in pursuit of Ryomen’s trail. It’s rare that Satoru himself gets involved in tasks like this that are far below his pay grade, but he’ll take any opportunity he can get to get close to that fuckface and give him hell. He can practically smell his rival’s scent on the breeze.

“Huh,” he finally remarks. Choso is the only one that dares to look at him. “My wife must’ve planted these on me earlier.”

That morning, Satoru regretfully had to pull himself from his comfortable bed and his wife’s soothing warmth, though he promised you (with cuddles and kisses to further convince you and wipe the frown off of your face) that he’d wrap things up quick and meet you at the Gojo-gumi’s main headquarters for lunch. Unfortunately, hours later and worn ragged, he knows now that there was no way he would’ve been able to head over there any earlier than now. He texted you to let you know the change of plans.

Pure fucking chaos was unleashed on Tokyo this morning, all of it carefully orchestrated by Ryomen. One of the Gojo-gumi’s bigger warehouses that they use as storage for black market weapons and drugs was ransacked and then bombed by Tora-gumi shitheads. Many of Satoru’s men that stepped in to try and defend the warehouse’s stock were killed.

At the exact same time there was a shootout in one of the strip clubs— fittingly named Hell’s Paradise— that Satoru owns as one of his many, many business fronts. He and his men arrive on the scene soon after the fact and find the bodies of some of the women that worked there, all of which were personally beneath his unwavering protection that he failed to give them today, alongside some civilians that got caught in the crossfire.

Shoko herself isn’t here, but the traces of smoke linger around her girlfriend— and Satoru’s friend— like a protective ward when he goes to speak with her. Clearly, Shoko was either in the building or cat napping with her not too long ago.

Satoru isn’t labeled as the most terrifying oyabun in Japan for no reason; he handles all of it coldly and clinically to make sure many, many people pay the price for daring to threaten the syndicate, his family, that he’s worked so hard to maintain and provide for. He personally beats the fuck out of and kills the Tora-gumi’s members that were involved in both incidents, and what Satoru doesn’t do with his own bare hands, he sends Choso out like an angel of death to take care of.

While Choso ‘cleans up’, he calls Shoko and sends her out on the prowl to feel out if there’ll be any more planned attacks on the Gojo-gumi.

Fucking Ryomen.

Stepping out into the alleyway behind Hell’s Paradise, he fishes his good luck charm out for the fifth time today and takes another long whiff.

But hey, at least he has a piece of his wife with him wherever he goes, right?

Satoru gets a ride back to the Gojo-gumi headquarters. There’s a bathroom attached to the room with a shower that he had installed years back, so he strips off his bloodied clothes, showers and changes into a fresh suit, meanders back into his office, and tosses himself into his chair.

“God, what a pain,” he whines to himself.

If Satoru could pawn this monstrosity of a paperwork pile sitting in front of him off to one of his secretaries (like you, for example), he so would. Alas, things of this caliber are delegated to the boss man, and the boss man only.

His blue eyes linger on the skyline outside of the window. The Gojo-gumi headquarters is located in the heart of Tokyo and it’s not exactly a secret; hell, even the police know where this place is and what goes on behind its closed doors. Unlike his various business fronts, this establishment is strictly a hub that his syndicate directly operates out of. Organizing all their criminal operations, managing businesses, holding meetings, it all goes down here.

Years ago, it was rare that Satoru could be found sitting here. He used to just swing by the main room, get shit done, not spare his office a glance, and leave. Now, though, he has extra incentive to frequent his office. You’re here every day of the week.

The room feels filled to the brim with your presence despite you being conspicuously absent. The dark wooden surface of his desk is topped with a framed picture of you and him at their wedding, and next to it are various trinkets that you’ve bought with him in mind. His sweetheart.

Satoru lounges back in his plush leather chair (because he likes that it makes him look like royalty, thank you very much), man-spreading with a faint pout. The beginnings of a migraine buzzes right behind his eyes the longer he stares at the work calling his name.

There’s that deal he needs to finalize with Suguru that’ll leave them with a 20% increase in profits by the end of Q1. The Gojo-gumi's gonna be swimming in cash, and the Sutoraifu-gumi will have a steady supply of the goods their members need. Lord knows Suguru and his men need it after the whole Kenjaku debacle that went down a while back. Satoru’ll get to those papers soon and send them off with Suguru’s biker girl whenever she swings by again to hang out with you.

Then he has to look at the letter from the chief of police, which, yawn, that’s the least of his concerns. The detective— Kusa-something, whatever, he always forgets his name— must’ve tattled on him again for his, ah, unsavory way of handling business. That damn rookie Kusachi has a nasty habit of getting in his way and trying to take him on. Satoru could just try to pay the chief off again… and maybe he could visit Kusada’s home, set him straight. And by set him straight, he means chatting to Kusabuse’s family and telling him that their man’s extracurricular activities are gonna get him killed. His family can handle it from there.

And then—

A soft knock at his door pulls him out of his reverie. “I’m busyyy, Kento, Ijichi!” he calls just in case they’re here to hound him, fingers adorned in rings absently adjusting his tie.

It opens to reveal Kento’s unimpressed stare. He glances over Satoru’s unorganized desk, important documents scattered all over and clearly not finished. ‘Organized chaos’ he calls it. You tell him that it’s just shit on a platter.

“… cat’s outta the bag, I guess,” Satoru says glumly, his pout unbefitting of an oyabun further deepening.

Apparently, by the little entourage that Kento has with him, his second-in-command isn’t here to scold him, though. Because you, his gorgeous wife, enters his office next with Ijichi shuffling in behind you, who closes the door behind the group of three.

Satoru perks up like a meerkat and leans forward, fingers dropping away from his tie to instead interlace as he regards everyone, you in particular harboring most of his attention, with a cheery grin that’s at odds with his reputation. Though he’s the epitome of lax playfulness, there’s a questioning sharpness to his gaze as he looks them all over. You have a folder tucked beneath one arm and you look bored.

"Well, well, well, look who it is," Satoru drawls, his tone as smooth as silk. "My three favorite people, alllll in one room. It’s a little too early to be throwing me a surprise birthday party, isn’t it? My birthday isn’t for another few months,” he jests.

Ijichi not so subtly checks the date on his phone even though he knows damn well it’s April, not December. On the other hand, Kento’s eyes flatten slightly. One of his hands goes to his hip while the other massages at the bridge of his nose as if he’s already getting a headache; as he usually does in the oyabun’s presence. “Now isn’t the time for jokes, Satoru,” Kento inserts, dour as ever.

Your poker face twitches.

A blown raspberry echoes in his office. “You always say that, Kento. Would it kill you to pull that stick out of your ass and smell the roses? Experience joy and whimsy?” Satoru dramatically intones. His hand splays across his chest. “You wound me.”

Kento doesn’t even bother to entertain him. Back straight and thumb practically digging into his skin, he rattles off his report; the Gojo-gumi were able to intercept Ryomen’s ploy to undercut the Gojo-gumi’s control over the heroin trade. When he finishes, he promptly turns and makes like Scooby Doo, not wanting to be there a second longer. Ijichi hurriedly scurries at his heels.

The door clicks shut behind them and he puffs out a breath of relief at his wakagashira’s and saiko-kommon’s departure, sitting back in his chair with a gentle creak of the leather beneath him. Satoru kicks his leg up over the other, the side of his calf resting on his knee, and looks you up and down. “And then there were two. Fancy seeing you here, wifey,” he drawls.

“You say that as if we don’t work in the same building,” you snort. Then you soften, closely examining him. “You okay? Your texts worried me earlier, so I texted Choso and his partner to get more details. I heard things got pretty hectic earlier.”

He smiles at you, feeling all warm and fuzzy. Satoru doesn’t get how couples just faze out of the honeymoon stage. Years later and you still have him wanting to kick his feet whenever he’s in your presence. “Things are peachy, pinky swear. I’ve got it covered, sugar. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,” he assures you. He crosses his fingers over his heart.

You eye him for a moment longer, but whatever you spy on his face makes you relax. Thwacking the folder against the wooden surface before scattering it among the pile, you then round Satoru’s desk and plant yourself in front of him. He inhales unsubtly, catching a whiff of your perfume that makes him go a little cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, and your lips twitch as you take your throne on the lip of his desk.

Everyone here at headquarters is required to follow a certain dress code. Satoru outshines them all, of course, fitted in finely tailored slacks and dress shirts with either a crisp light blue waistcoat thrown atop it or an ironed suit jacket. And as one of the many secretaries flitting around the building keeping the well-oiled Gojo-gumi machine chugging, it’s important for you to look just as professional. Especially since you’re his wife.

Which is why you look like an infuriatingly sexy librarian, decked out in a tight black pencil skirt that hugs your hips, a blouse with the top two buttons undone and the collar pressed open to flaunt the designer necklace he bought you swinging from your neck, sheer black nylon thigh-highs that he’d kill to feel around his head, and stilettos, cute little charms on the buckles giving your outfit a whisper bit of cheer.

(The thought of you making yourself look extra pretty today just for him has Satoru internally busting on the spot, his blood simmering beneath the fine layer of his skin.)

‘The oyabun’s wife’, his men always dreamily sigh when you walk past them— only to whip around and stare at the wall when he slinks by not even a step behind you, his blue eyes cold and caustic when he glares at them in warning. Gorgeous, breath-taking, a prized jewel— and you’re all his.

“Normally I’d only be here to scold you and make you do your work, hubby,” you hum.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ in my near future,” Satoru muses aloud, raising his eyebrows at you in question.

“No. Just a ‘however’.” Instead of being two dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyy’, they’re two smartasses fashioned in the same factory, complete with warnings labels.

“Yeesh. Can I ever be right with you?” He plasters his hand over his heart yet again and gives you a simpering moue.

You roll your eyes, a wordless ‘duh’. Satoru's lips slant upwards into a Cheshire cat smile as you reach forward and loop his tie around your fingers before giving it a tug, coaxing his chair to roll forward on the sleek hardwood floor. He uncrosses his legs and allows himself to be pulled up and out of it, heeled like a dog, stepping forward to stand between your legs after lightly kicking his chair away with a soft clatter.

Looking down at you through long white lashes that flutter like the first snowfall of winter, his gaze is a mix of playfulness and appreciation in its rawest form. Satoru has to admit, this view is far more pleasant than any document that he was pretending to give his attention to before you strode in.

Your perch on his desk gives you an air of sophisticated dominance that makes his cock give a very interested twitch in his trousers that he can’t help. Sue him for being horrendously attracted to his wife.

Though he towers over you by a mere head due to the slight height advantage that his desk gives you, there’s no doubt that he yields completely and utterly to you. His brain conjures up an image of Nike, the Greek goddess of victory. Glorious and championing above the rest of them; victorious.

‘Woof’, he thinks unintelligently.

“However,” you finally continue, beginning to smile. You keep a hold on his tie and tap his nose with the pointer of your free hand, which he wrinkles at you. “I’ve decided that I’ll spare you the lecture for today.”

Satoru's hands come up to rest on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow circles on the sleek nylon covering them. Your inviting warmth bleeds through the thin fabric. He so badly wants to get on the floor, brush them down, and sink his teeth into your plush skin until your skin pinkens. He settles for giving you a gentle squeeze.

“I thank you, oh great and benevolent goddess of the yakuza underworld,” he proclaims, delighting in the fondly exasperated groan that rumbles low in your throat. “I gotta say, I'm grateful for the reprieve, sweets. Though I suspect your mercy is short-lived," he adds with a chuckle. “So give it up already. Spill.”

Fucking hell. There goes a tiny fraction of the element of surprise that you thought you were holding over him like an anvil in a cartoon.

You silently curse his eerie perceptiveness. And his newfound x-ray vision, apparently, since he leans back a fraction to take you in again, his focus lingering on your skirt. But hey, the ball’s still very much in your court, and you’re playing to win.

Not letting it faze you, you heft your legs up, his hands shifting with you, and drape them around Satoru’s waist. His desk creaks beneath you at the distribution of weight. “Yeah, yeah. What I mean to say is that your husbandly duties are calling to you, not your obligations as oyabun.”

Satoru’s blue eyes search yours and he tilts his head, adorably puppy-like in a manner that suggests he’s more innocent than his ruthless reputation paints him to be. Though he’s the epitome of laxness, there’s a questioning sharpness to his expectancy that’d make lesser men quiver and confess to their every sin.

You stare right back at him. “I don’t have any panties on,” you explain simply.

If Satoru was aroused before, he’s now hornier than a pent-up nun. He hardens so fast that it makes him dizzy. “So you’re on that type of timing, got it,” he notes through his suddenly dry mouth as if his brain chemistry isn’t actively warping with this new information.

He wets his lips. His attention darts to the door. “Ijichi locked it,” you confirm before he can ask his question.

Good. Now he can focus on what matters: no panties. No panties. No panties. Fuck.

"Well, as your husband, it's my duty to attend to your every need and desire. And right now, it seems one of those needs is to have me buried deep inside your pretty kitty,” he coos, voice dripping something sinful. “But wowww, I never thought I’d see my stern ‘business over pleasure’ sweet pie pulling this kind of stunt. Seducing me so shamelessly in my own office... for shame! What would people say if they knew you were on a mission to tempt your poor, innocent husband into sin?”

You sigh, long-suffering.

Suddenly curious to see if you’re hiding another surprise elsewhere, one hand leaves your knee and drifts up to the undone buttons of your blouse, popping another one open to expose more of your soft skin. Satoru bites his lip as his eyes snag on the lace of your bra. A shame that you’re not bra-less, but he’s fine with seeing you wear half of the set he commissioned for you from a designer in France that you like. He’s more than okay with this, actually.

You make no move to scold him or cover yourself up— you just amusedly stay fixed on him, your eyes gaining that telltale gleam when you’ve got him all tied up in knots. He’s walked into a honeytrap, hasn’t he?

Despite the clear desire emanating from him, there's a tenderness to his touch, a reverence for your body as the hand on your knee skirts up. He slides it higher up your thigh until the hem of your thigh-high gives way to skin, disappearing beneath your tight skirt to ascertain your bold claim. When Satoru’s knuckles graze your bare folds, which are slowly slickening, he whines as if he’s the one being touched. “Fuck, princess... you're actually not wearing anything at all, huh?” He groans softly, half surprised and half not that you were telling the truth.

“Duh,” you exhale. “I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you, though. Did you not see the—“

“The little treat that the panty fairy snuck into my pocket?” Now understanding, Satoru’s grin grows. Reverent… and, well, very perverted. “Sure did. I sniffed them, too.”

Your face contorts as if you don’t know what part to address first before you give up.

“But sometimes thiiis guy.” His eyes pointedly roll upwards in the direction of his forehead, then down at the obvious bulge in his pants. “Likes to take the backseat and let this big guy do all of the thinking. Can you blame me for being a little off my game today?”

“I can, actually. Do better. Even Yuuji gets more work done than you do, distractions and all,” you reply plainly.

Which says a lot. Yuuji’s one of the other secretaries here, though giving him that title feels… a little generous. You and Satoru see him regularly since Choso feels more comfortable going out and doing his job when Yuuji’s safe at headquarters. The teenager comes scampering into the building every day after school and Satoru pays him to do the class work that his teachers send him off with, play on his Nintendo Switch, and sometimes organize the racks of boxed files or make phone calls.

“Heyyy!”

Your cool breaks and you laugh. “You’re just easy to get to. That’s okay, though. It makes things more fun for me,” you tease in a slight singsongy lilt. You turn your head to worry his earlobe between your teeth, nipping then sucking for good measure before releasing it with an audible pop.

Breathing starting to pick up, he drops his face into the crook of your neck and drowns himself in the cocktail of the spritz of that floral perfume you favor and your natural scent. All the while, he blindly traces your slit. Up and down, entrance, clit, entrance, clit.

You cup your husband’s nape as Satoru nuzzles into your neck more urgently, feeling him shiver against you as your palm rasps over the short prickly hairs of his undercut, petting him. Your legs part a bit, skirt inching up as you rut your cunt against Satoru’s exploratory fingers and smear your wetness on him. Still, he doesn’t push in yet.

You’d think he’s teasing you if not for the obvious signs that he’s stalling. Either waiting for your permission or waiting for the best time to ask for it.

How well-trained.

"You make it sound like a bad thing, sugar. Like being under your thumb is a weakness and not a treat," Satoru says abruptly. "I prefer to think of it as... being very, very stupidly in love with my wife. I’m so far gone for you that I’d do anything that you asked of me.”

It’s so easy for him to say such devastating things from the heart without batting an eye; he’s as earnest as a child. It fells you day by day.

His voice is soft despite his low, raspy cadence, brilliant blue eyes bright with his eagerness to serve. At times, it’s almost hard to reconcile this man, the one who’s eating out of the palm of your hand, his nonexistent tail wagging the entire time, with one of the most feared oyabuns in Japan who could probably level half of Tokyo in an hour.

But you’re not forgetting his acts of what he calls ‘devotion’ any time soon. It’s rare that you walk in on him showing the full spread of his true colors, but there’s multiple incidents that stick out like a sore thumb. The one that clings to you like a particularly persistent burr occurred months before you even started dating.

It had been a fairly normal day, all things considered. Most of the men of the Gojo-gumi were preparing to intercept one of Ryomen’s ploys, banding together like sharks after blood in the main common room at headquarters. You remember frowning as you peered at each passing individual that was armed to the nines, searching for their leader so that you could deliver important documents before he could go gallivanting off to get his hands dirty, but Satoru was nowhere to be found.

You went to drop off the manila folder to his office but paused when you heard voices through the cracked door of his office. Sighing, you squatted to slip it under his door and leave, but Satoru’s voice in particular made your blood run cold and your joints lock up before you could lower yourself. “I should cut your balls off and feed them to you, you piece of shit,” he muttered with a scoff.

Apparently, one of his men, Hiro, had been coveting after you. His little work crush was fairly innocent to everyone who caught wind of it, but Satoru? He was the only one who dug into it and discovered Hiro’s… unsavory way of going about privately expressing his affections for you.

Unable to resist, you peeked through the crack right as Satoru unceremoniously tossed Hiro to the floor in front of Nanami and Choso, both of them passively watching. The easy, relaxed posture of Satoru’s lean frame hardened, his broad shoulders squaring as he stared down at the man’s mask of fear. His light blue eyes, typically vibrant and full of mirth, held a cold, calculating glint, like fake flakes fluttering around a snow globe.

You couldn’t watch much of what followed. You turned away when Satoru drew a wickedly sharp dagger from the strap around his thigh and stabbed it straight through the thickness of Hiro’s leg without so much as a warning. His underling’s screams echoed through the room as Satoru slowly, methodically twisted the blade, tearing through flesh and sinew. Blood pooled around the wound and spilled down the sides of his leg, staining the polished floor a deep, sticky red. Numbed to the violence, Nanami bent down at Satoru’s gesture and snatched Hiro’s phone from his pocket as he sobbed and sobbed, decisively crushing it and any evidence it contained beneath his shoe.

“Miss secretaaary, that you?” Satoru’s voice startled you for a second time that day. You forced your attention back to the cracked door, gaze locking onto Satoru’s pleasant, cheery smile that he gave you as if he wasn’t brutally torturing a man that he was planning to soon kill in cold blood. “Oh, good, it is. You can leave those documents on my desk.”

And that was that.

Satoru’s not exactly a good man. He’s done terrible things, will do worse still. This is a man that’s killed for you countless times and would do it again in a heartbeat. But if you asked him to give it up, he’d walk away from the Gojo-gumi and Japan as a whole without a word and give up the title of oyabun to Yuuta. He’d start fresh, wash himself of his sins, and build himself anew just for you. Not that you’d ever ask him to do that, but just knowing that you could and that he’d follow through… you’ve never felt so powerful, so needed in your entire life.

Satoru truly loves you.

“You know, I’ve heard that it’s good to air your privates out from time to time. For circulation and all that jazz.” The Satoru of the present interrupts. The tip of his finger curls, swiping up some of your wetness that spills from your entrance. “Clearly, though, you just wanna fuck nasty.”

You snort out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I need you or whatever,” you dismiss him. As if you don’t need this man to nut in you, like, yesterday.

You grab his wrist, guiding him to fully probe at you instead of skirting around the core of you like he has been for the last few minutes. Quick to take you up on the offer, he parts your folds.

Satoru’s pointer finger sinks into you knuckle-deep, hot and fast, and you moan. It takes him a moment to realize why the slide is so easy, and when he does, he whips his head up, suddenly wild and straining at his leash.

“Sweets,” he groans with barely concealed awe. “When did you do this, huh?” He crooks, searching, and you arch when the roughened pad of his trigger finger pets at your walls, so close to where you want him. Tightening around him does nothing to disguise how comfortably loose you are from prepping yourself earlier. Then, a little giggly, a little manic, “Did all those spreadsheets on your desk get you hot and bothered?”

“Mhm, you know I just lo-love payroll,” you hiss when he works another stupidly long finger into you, then a third, his wedding band gleaming on it, and finally massages your g-spot. Your nails flex against his nape. “Had a quick finger blast 1000 session in the staff bathroom.”

“Hot,” he says with feeling. While prying for the sordid details is tempting, there’s more important matters at hand. Like rearranging your guts on his desk to satiate yours and his neediness while you chant ‘good boy good boy good puppy’ before someone inevitably comes knocking to bother him.

Humming a jaunty tune, Satoru pumps his fingers in and out of your cunt, feeling you grow wetter and hotter with each slow lazy thrust. He takes his time, relishing the way your velvety walls flutter around the intrusion of his digits every time he perfectly hits his mark.

Artistically draped atop his desk, you’re beautifully flushed and your eyes are glazed over, lashes fluttering when they threaten to roll back. He can see the fondness etched into your expression, the love, even as you examine him with that imperious tilt to your chin. Your face says what you don’t speak aloud: 'I know I have you wrapped around my little finger, and I'm not afraid to use that to my advantage.’

He’s no art fiend, but he’d go scuba diving in an instant to find the missing head of the Winged Victory of Samothrace and gorilla glue the two parts back together to prove that you’re art in the flesh, a statue of a goddess made with blood, sweat, tears, and passion come to life.

There’s very little space between you. Your breaths intermingle. Pointedly, he glances down at your lips, and you do the same to him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, but you’re already hauling him in with the hand on the back of his neck.

You slot their mouths together with a low, happy noise akin to a purr. He kisses back eagerly, desperately, positively starved for your affection that he’s been yearning for all day. Satoru’s lips part with a shuddery sigh and he pushes his tongue past your pillowy lips to stroke along yours, tasting the sweetness of your mouth; a dash of mocha overridden by those matcha chocolates that he got you hooked on.

You squeeze tighter around his waist, milking a wounded noise from him. Gentle yet firm, you trap his tongue between your teeth, scraping over it and coaxing out the reaction you want. He predictably wedges himself closer and you drag your nylon-clad thigh over the bulge at the crotch of his pants, up and down.

The desk creaks beneath you again as Satoru leans into it and shamelessly dry humps your leg with obvious flexes of his hips. You’re no better, though, rutting into the cup of his palm and squirming in delight every time those delicious callouses of his chafe against your aching clit.

“Feeling good?” He mumbles into you. You nod, tilting your head and realigning your lips, making their kiss that much more heated. His ministrations briefly make your mouth uselessly part against his, too wrapped up in pleasure to function.

Satoru’s the first to break away. He hikes your skirt up, revealing more of your plushy legs clad in those sinful thigh-highs until he finallyyyy lays eyes on the prize. He cups your mound then pulls his palm away, just to watch how thin translucent strings chase after him before snapping and splattering on your inner thighs.

He lifts his hand and looks you dead in the eye, warming some of your gathered wetness between his forefinger and middle before sucking them clean. Ravenous. You know what he wants.

“Can I, y’know, take a proper look at your pussy up close?” Satoru asks, sly but not sly. “I wouldn’t be a good hubby if I didn’t make sure that my girl properly got herself nice and ready for m—“

“Satoru? Get on your knees.”

You have to give it to him, the man moves fast as fuck when given an order. Satoru swiftly drops down, making you worry for his knees that hit the rug hard enough that the wood below it audibly thunks.

And he stares. In an unabashedly perverted manner, at that.

“Let’s see this pretty pussy,” is all he mumbles, chewing his lips and fastening his thumbs into the skin around your folds, tugging you open with a filthy squelch of wet skin peeling away from wet skin. Spreading you wide enough that you prickle with pins and needles— or maybe that’s just because of his unnerving stare.

Your glistening cunt is swollen and enticingly slick with need. The sight of your pussy lips unfurling before him and your clit peeking out from beneath its hood has his mouth watering. Satoru’s cock jumps in his pants like he’s just had a live wire threaded into the slit of his cockhead, desperate to bury inside of you, balls deep.

He looks up at you then. His cerulean eyes gleam with a borderline manic light, wolfish in his intensity. “What next? Want me to heel? Chase my tail? Roll over?” He drawls, cocking his head. He’s more than ready to debase himself in any way you want just to get his back scratched.

You shrug, “I want whatever you want.”

Greed is a sin or whatever, he thinks dimly. But he can't bring himself to care. His fingers dance up and hook under the crook of your right knee, placing it on his shoulder. “Then lemme eat my meal.”

You hate that that makes you shudder. It also makes you wanna shut him up.

“Who are you asking?” You check, cupping your ear. “Try again; you know better, baby.”

The lilt you take on to simultaneously coax and rebuke him only serves to turn him on more, making his poor neglected cock press insistently against his zipper. Satoru knows that look in your eyes. It's the same one you give him when he's been particularly foolish— the ‘bouquet(s) incident’ instantly comes to mind— or when you want something from him. In this case, it's clear that his wife wants him to be good.

His cheeks flush a soft pink, his blue eyes growing hazier with lust, not embarrassment. You’d think that he’d rally against the condescension that coats your words like condensation pearling on a windowpane, but not an inch of his pride bristles beneath your firm hand. Not when he’d strip himself down to the marrow and hand all of himself to you on a silver platter. His pleasure, his pain, his heart and soul… it’s all yours for the taking.

“Mommy,” he moans as if the word itself does more for him than it does for you. And it probably does. “My sexy, gorgeous, take-no-shit-from-anyone, especially her husband, mommy. Can I taste you, please?”

You smile, pleased. Then, finally, because he’s been waiting so patiently, “Go ahead.”

Shit, you don’t gotta tell him twice.

Like a scenthound tracking a trail, Satoru instantly shoves his way between your legs and buries his face in your crotch, gulping down lungfuls of your scent with the desperation of an addict and making you huff out a shaky laugh. The heat radiating from you is staggering.

"You smell like heaven, holy fuck. Good enough to eat. Lucky for you, I’m starving,” he borderline complains. It’s a complete juxtaposition to how he purrs those muffled words into your skin. You shudder at the vibrations.

“That was corny as—“

Satoru was as menacing when it came to pleasuring you as he was as oyabun. There’s no shooting straight and simple with him; he’s reckless, skateboarding on the knife’s edge for the hell of it. He goes from carelessly smothering himself into you, eyes teetering back in their sockets as if drunk with each pass of your slick across his chin, lips, cheeks, to turning his head and dragging messy kisses into the crease between your hip and leg. His saliva and your wetness ooze down your inner thigh, akin to a ripe May mango being carved open and spilt on hot concrete.

But if he’s dangerous, then you’re terrifying.

Pain shears razor-sharp through his scalp. You snag your fingers into his hair, guiding and tethering at the same time, forcing him to stare into the mess they’ve both made of you. He whines, chomping at the bit for it.

“That’s not what I gave you permission to do. Down, boy.” You click your tongue. His teeth click together with how fast he shuts his trap. “I’m beginning to think that you can’t take orders after all. What a shame,” you sigh, the timbre of your voice gentle but your words condescending.

Though he gives you a guilty pout, his cock instantly spurts precum due to the way you’re speaking to him, further soiling his boxers. A teensy part of him wants to act out, harmlessly push against you until you round on him with the intensity of a thousand suns so that you’ll break him over your knee. Playing the part of the petulant brat is fun sometimes. However, his knee-jerk reaction to prove you wrong and take you up on your silent challenge that you’ve presented him with wins out.

Satoru can be a good boy without a doubt.

Sure, he was never the type to care about what other people thought of him, just as long as everyone knows that he’s the reigning king of the yakuza scene. That he’s the richest, the handsomest, everything in that vein.

But the idea of showing you how he could lend his ear to you and listen well, how he was only good for you, that he was only yours to kiss and love and fuck, was enough to drive him borderline crazy.

With his extremely selective hearing and all that corded muscle packed beneath his baby soft skin, you both know damn well that he could steer this situation however he pleased if he wanted to. Yet he goes pliant in your grip, watching, waiting, licking hungrily at his pronounced canines. A predator turned tame as he awaits your order.

It makes you feel drunkenly valorous.

You tilt his head up, angling him so, as if reminding yourself that you’re holding genuine gold and not any of that counterfeit bullshit. His blue eyes are half-mast and dreamy when you peer into them, pupils blown wide. He’s sitting back on his heels with a casual ease, too far away to kiss but not far enough that you can’t smell the intoxicating scent of him, a heady mix of vanilla and cinnamon and sandalwood.

This beautiful, arrogant, infuriating nutcase of a man. Seeing him like this makes your heart do flips. You live for moments like these, when he can let go and just be yours completely. The most feared man in Japan, brought to his knees by the woman he loves.

You tap your chin. “Didn’t your parents teach you that it’s improper to play with your food?”

His retort comes quick. “I think they cared more about making sure I could properly unload, load, and shoot a gun in less than ten seconds. And juggle multiple businesses at once. All of which I excel at, by the way.”

“Smart ass,” you scoff, but the words lack their usual bite. You sound affectionate.

“Mm, but you love my mouth.” Satoru, lecherous, wiggles his eyebrows. You can’t deny that.

“What was it that Suguru told me ages ago?” Satoru wonders aloud, glancing up at the ceiling as if it’ll come to him in a show of divine light. You’re incredibly unimpressed and almost want to shove him face first into you and do all the work yourself, but you wait. “‘Thanks should be given thricefold?’ That’s all I’m doing.”

He replants his face into your inner thigh, wetting the lacy top of your thigh-high with one indulgent lick, then latches onto your plump thigh and sucks and bites with a vengeance. The peachy pink of his shapely lips bleeds forth and mixes with your skin, producing the same color beneath his teeth. Once the hickey is dark enough for his standards and you’re writhing a little, he mumbles a faint ‘thank you’ and switches to your other leg, mauling your skin with obnoxiously loud slurps, leaving a second mark and professing his thanks again.

Then his mouth finally makes contact with your cunt and you’re a goner.

This is the same man that got you a little wet on their first date, you remind yourself. You remember sitting across from him, taking subtle deep breaths as if the very air in your lungs would break every piece of fine china in the five star Michelin restaurant that Satoru dragged you to, and stiffly cutting your wagyu steak.

Satoru knocked back the rest of his non-alcoholic drink like it was a shot, ice clinking against his lips, then sucked the single cherry between them. Grinning a little at you, he chewed into the cherry with crisp snaps of his teeth until only the stem remained. And the show-off kept his mouth open so that you could watch him tie the teeny tiny stem into a neat knot using only his tongue and the support of his teeth.

It’s safe to say that he’s really, really talented with his tongue.

He drags deep, open-mouthed kisses up and down your slit, sloppily making out with your cunt. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and firmly licks into you, and when he moans like a whore into your quivering pussy at the first taste of real, genuine ambrosia, the vibrations take root in your nerves and shake them fiercely. You keen as if you’ve been socked in the stomach, hands digging harder into his fluffy white hair and making him moan again.

“Oh, shit, yesyesyes, good boy,” you pant at the very sudden and very enjoyable onslaught.

From what you’ve learned, the best way to train a puppy is through positive reinforcement, patience, and rewarding good behavior. It works wonders.

Satoru's hand crawls to the underside of your left thigh and he tosses that one over his broad shoulders too, settling in to eat you out with single-minded focus. He feasts on you like a man starved, gathering the wetness that drips from your core, dipping inside your entrance that doesn’t resist him even a little bit to taste you more fully and nuzzling his nose against your clit, spurred on by the praises you keep singing. Three laps and he’s a swimmer. The cocktail of his saliva and your slick coats his chin and pools on the wood beneath your ass.

You dig the points of your stilettos just above his shoulder blades. Using your newfound stirrups and gripping the reins of his hair, you vigorously grind yourself against his face to try and unravel the knot in your stomach. Satoru loves when you get bossy like this, wrangling him so that you can take what you want. It’s so fucking hot.

“That’s what good pussy sounds like,” he groans, muffled by your skin, even though he can barely hear the lewd squelches of your responsive body himself, the wet clicks of his suckling. Your trembling thighs are firmly locked around his head— it wouldn’t be so bad to suffocate here. You squeeze harder, squishing his ears further against his head, as if telling him to shut up and stop quoting Vines of all things while buried in his favorite deep-dish.

He doesn’t stop running his mouth, though. “Tastes so good, f-fuck, bet you feel good too with how soaked you are. Keep moving your hips just like that, mommy, use me— just like that, yeaaah,” is breathed nose-deep into your folds that soaks every word up like a sponge. “Drag that pretty cunt all over me.”

His lips are lovely and warm, diligent in his ministrations. Choppy exhales ghost across your skin and make you flinch. He pulls back a little to lave over your clit, tasting the sweet, salty wetness that coats it, and he sinks into the bliss and into you. He gorges himself on the sweetness of your juices, swallowing it down and letting it trickle down his throat.

Satoru looks up at you, eyes frantic with adoration like he’s pleased to be doing this, just eating you out without any sort of gain for himself. There’s been countless times where Satoru’s pinned you down and munched for hours, languorous in his effort to coax noises and reactions from you. He’s done it in a changing room, during their movie marathons, on his private jet to one of their vacation homes, fresh from beating people black and blue, when you were sleeping in their cozy king-sized bed back at the Gojo estate… the list goes on. Earning gratification via your pleasure is enough for him.

Each stroke through your weeping slit elicits an approving moan or whimper from the beauty perched atop his desk, growing higher in pitch the closer you get to the edge. Your husband sounds just as wrecked, mewling babbled nonsense into you, ferally plunging his tongue in and out of your silken depths that he’d kill to stay swaddled in forever.

You screw yourself down onto him with equal fervor, your body heaving with the force of your pleasure, twisting and writhing and making the desk creak. Perhaps you’re being a bit too punishing with your pace and not letting him up for air, but Satoru takes it all with grace, not a single whimper of protest slipping past your hips that slap against his face.

"Cum for me, angel," he pathetically begs, his thumb seeking out your clit to trace circles against it. His tongue continues its relentless assault, determined to push you over the edge and into blissful oblivion. "Let me feel you. Want my baby to make a mess of me, c’mon.”

When it becomes too much, the fervent sparks licking down the sparkler too fast, you lightly bat his head away. Satoru goes quickly and obediently. Your hips itch to chase him. “Open, puppy,” you bite out.

His mouth falls open, whiny pants drooling down his pretty pink tongue. That’s all it takes to do you in. With his thumb rolling over your swollen rosebud and his eagerness on full display, you let the intensity of your orgasm sweep you away and you keen as you squirt all over his face.

Viscous fluid splashes on his tongue and he moans, looking utterly out of it as he watches you find your release. Slick coats his cheeks, chin, and lips in a glistening sheen and he licks up what he can. Satoru scrambles forward for more of it even as you try to physically hold him at bay with the weak hand fixed in his wavy strands.

“Please!” He basically cries. You’re a sucker for good manners. You’d try harder to keep him away if you actually didn’t want him all over you, so he takes your unspoken permission that comes in the form of a furrowed brow, as if you’re scolding yourself for giving in, and he runs with it.

He practically collapses into you. He seals his mouth back over your gushing pussy, fingers abandoning your clit in favor of clawing at the nylon smoothed over your thighs. Groaning, your shaking legs relax around his head and slip off his shoulders, splayed open for him to lick his plate clean. Satoru does just that, a little clumsy in his haste but no less passionate.

He keeps going until your erratic twitches turn into steady shudders, your nonstop moans quieting down, until his jaw aches from how hungrily he threw himself into the task. He doesn’t even realize that he’s palming himself through his slacks until his hips sway forward and he pulsates in his grip.

Satoru reluctantly draws back as if it physically pains him to not be buried beneath your skin when your high heel lightly kicks at his flank, too overstimulated to allow him to keep going. His gaze drags over you, recommitting every fine detail to memory; trembling lips punctured by teeth marks, your expression dreamy, body curled halfway over him and ripe for the taking. He wants to remember you like this, wants to burn this image into his brain so that he can call it up when the long nights stretch before him and the weight of his duties threaten to crush him.

“You’re so pretty, mommy. My pretty baby,” he whispers.

He meets your eyes that burn into him. He can only imagine what he looks like. Pink from the tips of his ears down to his neck, face messily painted over with your slick, white hair fluffed up and a little frizzy from the sweat at his hairline. A pussydrunk mess.

You almost want to press your high heel to his chest, kick him to the floor, and then ride him until he cries. The lazier half of you wants to sit back and take the reins from below.

“Let’s get those pants of yours off, baby,” you gently coo.

Satoru exhales sharply and fumbles with his belt. The leather strap slips through the buckle with a sharp clink and he tosses it to the floor. His boxers drag along his erection almost painfully as he shoves them and his slacks down to bunch around his shapely thighs.

Flushed and dripping, his cock draws up now that it’s free of the confines and slaps against his abdomen, staining his pristine white button up with the copious amounts of precum that slicks it. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve been convinced that he already blew his load in his pants. You sit up straighter to get a better look, looking as drunk as he feels.

“Please let me fuck you, mommy... I need it so bad. Need to make you feel good,” he pleads, blue eyes nearly rolling up to the light fixtures on the office ceiling as he finally fists his weepy cock. It feels so good that it hurts.

He was never apologetic about his spoiled golden child tendencies when it comes to you, even borderline proud of acting so shameless about it at times.

Still, Satoru needs a certain level of coaxing in order to be truly vulnerable. His obedience has always been fickle— difficult to coax out of him when his head is on straight, his thoughts moving too fast for him to melt like putty beneath you that easy. Pride is a wretched, untamable thing. An unstoppable force and an immovable object.

Yet he’s on his knees begging to get inside of you.

“Get up,” you breathe.

“Huh?” He mumbles stupidly, still fixed on you.

Your laugh is devastatingly fond. “Are we fucking or what?” You shove your pencil skirt up to your midsection.

Satoru gets a little distracted by the sight of your mussed up thigh highs, the tops of them soaked through, the splotchy hickeys dotting both of your legs, and your messy folds. His thumb stutters over his swollen cockhead.

“You don’t wanna leave mommy waiting, do you? Come get your dick wet.”

The second you finish speaking, he’s on you, flying up onto his feet and ignoring the smarting pain in his knees. He reaches past you and wildly sweeps at his desk, sending papers and pens to the floor. In the next instant, his hands are on the backs of your thighs, pushing your legs up and out to get a good look at your bare ass and glistening cunt.

While admiring the view, he risks his precious left hand by letting it come down to deliver a sharp smack to your ass. When you don’t bite his head off, he does it again, because damn, that’s a lot of movement back there. Your asscheek flares red like a warning. He’s of the opinion that you should get ‘Ms. Nasty’ tatted there, but you always shoot down the idea.

Fingers wrench at your hips to haul you forward, making you choke on air. Sweaty palms scramble for purchase on the smooth oak, stretching back behind you and hooking onto the edge of the desk at the last minute before he can send both of you falling to the floor in a heap.

“Gentle,” you scold. The flare of his nostrils gives away his uncharacteristic disappointment with himself, which you think is a little unfair to himself. He really has been so well behaved; one mishap is nothing. Humming soothingly, you pet at his cheek and his tension releases like a deflated balloon.

You shimmy a little, rubbing your velvety warmth all over his cock that he notches at your entrance. "Good boy," you purr, hooking your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles at the small of his back, tying them together with a cute little bow. "Such an obedient little puppy, following mommy's every command.”

Satoru groans, guttural and wet, and surges forward to connect their lips. The tangy taste of your own slick greets you, but you don’t mind, drinking down every pornographic whimper that drips from his mouth.

“Put it in,” you mumble between drawn out kisses. You rub your thumb just behind one of his ears and a pleased hum rumbles through his chest, which rises and falls rapidly as anticipation coils tightly in his gut. You shove his suit jacket off of his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, then loosen Satoru’s tie enough that you can get your fingers on the first button at his collar and work your way down. You leave his shirt hanging from his shoulders but you roll his sleeves up.

Arms that have snapped countless necks flex as Satoru plants his hands on the desk on either side of your hips, caging you in. You drag your hands up and down them, squeezing at the muscle of his biceps beneath his skin, shamelessly feeling up your husband. His cocky smirk is like a brand against your lips.

One, two, three more kisses are exchanged before he pulls back with a wet pop and you can finally peel your eyes open.

Lean muscle and pale scarred skin greets you, peeking from behind the curtain of his undone shirt. Not that you can see it from here, but you can practically picture the massive tattoo of a six-eyed, six-winged angel that he has etched into his back. There’s that jagged scar of his that always makes you wince in sympathy, the line of it running from one shoulder to his opposite hip that an assassin gave him when he was in high school. A smattering of fine white hairs races down his navel to the denser patch of hair curling around his cock. God, you wanna rub yourself all over him like a cat in heat— especially on those washboard abs of his.

With a deep breath, he begins pushing in, working just the tip in past the ring of your cunt. Instantly, Satoru stutters over a moan as if near tears.

Your velvety hole drenches Satoru’s cock with your syrupy slick and clamps down mercilessly as if trying to trap him inside. He shudders, a full-body tremor that starts at the top of his head and travels down the length of his body. Satoru has to grit his teeth to keep from emptying his balls right then and there like a teenager getting his first taste of pussy.

He’s genuinely delirious. His head is dizzy, stupid, because his wife is obscenely fucking tight despite everything and so damn warm. “My toes are throwing up gang signs,” Satoru coughs out as they curl in his Italian leather shoes and you bust out laughing. As responsive as ever, your cunt tries to wring his dick like a towel and he chokes.

You’re actually gonna be the death of him. Here he lies, Gojo Satoru, the deadly oyabun of the Gojo-gumi and the pride of the Gojo clan, dead via sex. May he forever rest in peace.

You’re not faring much better, though. Your previous orgasm left you raw and sensitive, so you’re fighting against the urge to run from his cock and the pleasure that crashes over you each time he throbs inside of you. “And I’m sending off Morse code signals,” you breathlessly joke. It’s a miracle that you’re able to manage a coherent sentence.

“Uh huh, I can tell.” Satoru licks his lips, staring down at where he guides another inch into you, then another, making you slap the desk to try and cope with the way he’s spreading you open. You feel full to the brim and he’s not even halfway there. “Your tight little cunt’s telling me that she can’t handle my cock.”

He needs his mouth washed out with soap. You have to hold back another peal of laughter.

Satoru brokenly whimpers, a sound that’s equal parts pleasure and pain, when you yank at his designer silk tie like a leash without warning. The expensive fabric pulls taut against his throat. Your next tug sends him stumbling forward, hips slapping against the plumpness of your ass with a heavy smack that echoes through his spacious office, forcing him to sink into your welcoming heat up to the hilt. The desk creaks, the wood protesting the rough treatment. Both of you moan when his cockhead smushes against your g-spot and your brain momentarily goes blank.

“You sure it’s not the other way around?” You try for a smirk and it wobbles around the edges.

“Hmph.” Satoru manages to pout at you, pursing his lips. He even rolls his eyes. This diva.

Attempting to dig up the dregs of your sanity and cling to it is hard. You’re one wrong step away from losing your cool, the sheer pressure and pleasure of being practically split in two overwhelming you. It's too much, too intense, and yet you can't stop from leaning into it nor stop the excessive amounts of slick pooling around him and dribbling onto the desk in a steady rhythm, spelling out your arousal. All you know is that you want more— more of Satoru and this perfect, mind-numbing ecstasy.

The man of the hour goes willingly as you wrap more of his tie around your fingers and reel him impossibly closer. He drops his weak head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck as he grinds his hips in tight circles that stir up your insides, practically humping your ass like a rutting canine. He only stops when you let loose an unsteady peep.

His breath shakes out of him in short, sharp gusts, lost in the sensation of being buried inside of you. "You feel so fucking good, sugar," Satoru slurs his words a little, nipping at the tendons in your neck that flex when you swallow before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. He inhales the lip-smacking scent of your natural scent and your perfume. "So wet and perfect. Can't get enough of this sweet cunt."

He kisses his way down your neck and to your collarbone as you both adjust to being so intimately joined, reveling in how you loll your head back to give him more skin to work with. He spies down your shirt that gapes open a little, showing where your necklace is trapped between your heaving breasts, and gets an idea.

The muscles in his arms bunch up right before Satoru rips at the front of your blouse, figuring he’ll buy you a prettier and more expensive one later. He doesn't care. All he cares about is getting his hands on your tits, plain and simple.

You can only watch in mild horror as buttons pop off and fly everywhere (one nearly takes out his eye), ping ping pinging off the walls and the floor, a shower of scattered stars. One goes skittering beneath his office door. Another bounces so hard off of a tiny lamp across the room that it goes careening off of the side table and the lightbulb smashes into bits on the floor.

Since everything’s already going to shit, he doesn’t bother with finesse when it comes to the front of your now decimated, but blessedly open, shirt. He simply yanks the fabric down your arms until it pools around your elbows.

“What the hell, Satoru!” You scold him. The subtle hitch of your hips and your dilated pupils betray you. “I swear to god, if you don’t learn the art of subtlety and figure out how to stay quiet, I’ll—“

“Relax, my men’ll probably think it was hail or something,” he says flippantly.

Your glare is withering. Shit, he needs to score brownie points all over again.

He nips at the soft upper curves of your breasts, burying his face between them as far as he can with the restriction of your bra holding him back, and innocently blinks up at you, trying to look as sweet as pie. “Wait, I’m sorry for interrupting you. Go on, wrap it up. Tell me how you’d shut me up, yeah? Would it hurt? I wanna know all the dirty deets,” Satoru simpers.

“Hit dogs holler.”

Ooooooh.

“Fuck, fuck, stop right there, I nearly came,” Satoru moans dramatically.

Your low, aggrieved noise turns into a wobbly inhale when he leans down to mouth at the swell of your cleavage, tongue tracing the edge of a cup before he pulls that down too.

Out pops your titty. His dick nearly busts inside of you as if saying hi. He quickly yanks down the other cup to let both of your breasts fully spill free, both of them begging to be worshipped. “There’s my girls,” he croons.

Your nipples quickly harden now that they’re exposed to the cool air chugging through the vents. There’s very few things better than anointing every inch of your pretty tits with kisses and licks and nips, which he does happily. He squishes them together to enthusiastically motorboat them (he misses the way your eye twitches), slaps your left tit to watch it jiggle and spits on the right one, watching the strand of saliva slip down the curve of your body. Satoru chases it down and sucks your nipple into his mouth. Being winded by all this stimulation does nothing to stop you from eagerly arching into him.

“Having fun?” You ask dryly. Teeth roll your nipple around, gently biting into it and eliciting a weak spasm from you. Your vision threatens to cross when that makes your body swallow his cock in further.

He pulls back, breaking the seal of his lips on your breast with a lewd pop. Just to ensure he’s covered all his bases, he openly sniffs your chest. You grimace at him. “Mmmmm. Yup. Can I move now, mommy?”

You nod.

“Good.”

You’re promptly fully laid down atop the desk. Before you can even blink, he’s screwing his shoes into the foothold of the carpet beneath him, gripping at your hips, and he plasters half of the weight of his upper half on you without crushing you.

Hips draw back with the tautness of a bowstring, a deadly instrument of war. The tension is suspended when he slides the thickness of him almost fully out, your folds just barely clinging to the underside of his throbbing cockhead.

He releases it. Driving forward, he hits his mark with military precision and you swear you can feel him up in your throat.

“Satoru,” you gasp, your voice nearly drowned out by the sticky squelch of his body reconnecting with yours. You’re leaking so much that your ass and thighs and his pelvis are finely glazed with slick, a concoction as thickly sweet as the one pasted over pastries.

“Shit.” The curse punches its way up his throat and out of the drooling seam of his mouth. Starting up a filthy grind drags more from his worn lungs. He rocks with the sensual finesse and purpose of someone seasoned in the realm of the red light district, dragging along each crevice of your heavenly warmth.

(Your stern, nonchalant facade nearly crumbled when you asked him if he’d ever been to the red light district back when you first started dating years ago, long before wedding bells rang. At the time, you kind of wanted to throw up even though it would’ve made sense and you would’ve understood. Why get jealous of what came before you? However, Satoru looked at you like you hit your head. “For Gojo-gumi business? Yeah, of course I have. I literally own a few clubs in those parts.”)

Every silky inch of you threatens to be his ruin. You’re pillow soft. Satoru has to screw his eyes shut in a futile attempt to handle it. “God, fuuuuck, baby. M’so drunk on this pretty body of yours, so addicted to you that it’s driving me crazy,” he warbles.

His fingertips dig into the soft pouch of your hips, keeping you in place so that you can release your death grip on the edge of his desk. “There you go, that’s— that’s perfect, right there. That’s a good boy. Mommy’s perfect boy,” you babble right back.

The way you praise him all sweet with your voice tuned to a higher pitch, your blessed hands finally petting over every inch of him that you can touch, slipping under his shirt to dance along the knobs of his spine, nails biting into the inked angel on his back, drawing your fingers back out to brush them along his face— it’s like a switch flips in his brain, reducing him to a needy mess incapable of doing nothing but pleasing you. You have him under lock and key.

The poor desk beneath you feebly creaks and wobbles, openly protesting their coupling. Drawers rattle in their slots from the force of Satoru's increasingly powerful thrusts, banging open in a chaotic cacophony and spilling papers and office supplies onto the floor. With a whine, Satoru changes the pace so that he’s battering his way in and out of your cunt to the rhythm of your pulsations around his cock, like a bass being plucked. Your joint moans grow borderline frantic.

“Open your eyes.” Satoru peels his eyelids apart to look at you as requested. He blinks back the spots lining his vision.

Your beauty is the kind that he’s sure artists would kill to put on paper. Sweat glistens enticingly on your trembling body, making it seem like you’ve been buffed in stardust, your abs fluttering every time his cockhead kisses that spongy spot deep inside you that drives you insane. The commanding pools of your eyes reel him in and it makes him melt.

“My gorgeous fucking wife,” he rasps. “Mine.”

The flat of Satoru’s palm smooths down to your stomach. He presses down right where there’s visible distension from the thickness of his cock embedding itself in you. Your lips fall apart in a lewd ‘o’ as the pressure adds to the hot sparks of pleasure flooding your body. “That’s how deep I am, huh, princess? It's allll in your tummy,” he crows breathlessly, trying to sound cocky but failing. Miserably.

Your nod is borderline frantic. “Keep fucking me just like this,” you insist, eyes rolling back, body jolting. And he obliges.

His face is dusted in a dark pink shade that L’Oréal would kill to make a lipstick out of and Satoru’s sporting a fucked-out, hopelessly giddy grin. Sweat marches down his temples, his snow-white hair falling damp and disheveled over his brow from his exertions. His once crisp button-up hangs off his broad shoulders, the tie swinging from around his pale neck.

Blue eyes hazy and wrecked, lust swims in the yawning voids of his irises as he stares down at where he’s joined with his wife. He watches, enraptured, as your stretched cunt greedily sucks him in, tight walls adhering to him and pumping out slick.

With the way Satoru’s sinking into you with heavy deep strokes, you matching him with frenzied ruts of your own hips, it’s like he’s trying to crawl inside of you and never come out. This intimate closeness is what he craves, needs. Satoru’s long white eyelashes, clumpy and wet, veil his vision with how low lidded his eyes are. He blinks at you between the slits with raw, open affection.

Using his hold on your hips, he yanks you onto his cock over and over and over again. His chin drops to bump against his sternum, groans hissing through the barrier of his teeth as you cry out and squeeze around him. “Sosososo fucking good, swear on everything that you’re perfect. Use me for your pleasure. Juuust like that, pretty, I got you,” Satoru spews like a two-bit whore on the street.

He’s too loud. Any illusion that you may have been quiet enough to have gone undetected to the rest of the building has been long shattered, but schematics, schematics.

Your thumb draws at the plump swell of Satoru’s bottom lip, pushing into the slight natural divot of them. His eyes follow the movement, transfixed, and he opens up without hesitation when you replace your thumb with two fingers.

Satisfied, you sink them into Satoru’s mouth. “Stay quiet and occupy yourself with mommy’s fingers.” He lets out a muffled moan in response as you push them deeper, tongue instinctively curling to try and force them right back out, but he forces himself to relax. He draws his tongue lazily over your fingers, tasting his own saliva mingling with the faint flavor of your lotion.

Creeping over his soft palate, you press at the back of his throat, coolly watching him gag around the invading force for a moment before sliding them back out, back in with a wet noise. Drool escapes the corners of his stretched lips in rivulets and dribbles down his chin and onto your sternum, making him look more like a sloppy, over-excited puppy than the feared yakuza boss he is.

The points of his canines shrieeeek over the gloss of your nails when you stretch your fingers apart in a ‘v’ and nestle them between his teeth. Yet he doesn’t bite down. He holds your fingers there like a soft mouthed retriever, docile and tender.

“My baby likes having any part of mommy in his mouth, yeah?” You manage.

He dutifully nods. You indulge him until your fingers prune, letting him suckle and gag himself on you to his heart’s content. There’s a constant stream of gargled moans and whimpers flowing from him, all of his words running together until it’s just meaningless sound. Only then do you pull them out, allowing more of his saliva to splatter on your sternum and ooze down between your bobbing breasts.

It’s a little hard to secure a hold with your wet fingers, but you manage to snag the edge of his tie and once again use it to dictate the pace of his thrusts, pushing and pulling him around the same way one does with a toy.

By now, any semblance of coherency has all but been forgotten and he’s just rutting into you, mindless, puppy-like; the relief of fixating on you and your pleasure a thrilling change of pace from the constant demands and expectations that come with his position. He may be looming over you as he fucks you like his life depends on it, but he’s under no illusion that he’s the one in control here.

They’re moving in sync, two waves cresting and crashing and ensuring each other’s ruin every time they come together. Teeth chafe against skin, promising, before sinking in. Fingers grapple for proper leverage, smoothly trimmed nails sinking into warm thighs and scalps and sweaty backs. Your ass claps against his thighs so hard that it burns, sopping pussy ravenous in its efforts to envelop him.

“Shit, m’not gonna last long,” you heave. Your legs tighten around his slutty ass waist and cling there for dear life when one of his flexing hands drops away from your hip, hurriedly dipping down between you and frantically rubbing his thumb over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“You’re so close, I can feel it, f-fuck, squeezing me so tight. C’mon. Make a mess of my cock, please cum for me again, mommy. I’m all yours, I’m all yours, I’m all yours,” Satoru deliriously whines.

You see red.

It’s not the kind of red that comes from anger. No, it’s the kind that comes from having your brain cells fry from the sheer mind-numbing euphoria that bursts through your body like a supernova. You’re pretty sure you wail as your slick rushes wetly from your plugged up cunt, but it’s drowned out by the roaring blood swelling in your ears.

You babble a litany of nonsense, half of it praise and half of it mindless chants for more, for less, you don’t know. Satoru more than happily fucks you through your orgasm, thumbing your clit, driving wildly into you and making you mercilessly convulse.

"That's it, angel," he groans, feeling his own release fast approaching. A gooey feeling curls in his stomach, hotly insistent, and his balls draw up. It’s riding him hard.

Bowing further over you, he bodily pries your shaking legs away from his waist and tosses them over his shoulders, folding you in half like a lawn chair and making one sleeve of his shirt slide further down his arm. The new angle allows him to push impossibly deeper and your moan scratches it’s way out of the column of your throat.

"I'm gonna... fuck, I'm gonna cum, sweets," he grits out through clenched teeth, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. But it's a losing battle, his body trembling and tensing as he teeters on the precipice of ecstasy. Only you, his anchor, ties him down to earth. "Tell me I can... tell me I can cum inside this perfect cunt."

You don’t respond, either too busy drowning in the remnants of your climax or just blatantly ignoring him, and he releases a big shuddery whimper when he realizes his misstep. “Please,” he tries.

Big blue eyes watery and wide, he looks like a ruined angel above you. “I’ll buy you that new phone you wanted, or take you on a trip anywhere in the world. I’ll do anything, say the word and I will. Just— just lemme cum. Please, mommy.” His saliva-slick lips drag down your chest and seal around one of your pearly nipples, suckling gently and trying to appeal further to you.

He sounds so broken, so desperate, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. It almost makes you wonder if you could cum again just from hearing him like this. You know you could make him beg for hours if you wanted to, even demand that he halt completely, but he hasn’t done anything to warrant being on the receiving end of your borderline sadistic streak.

(Though, knowing this 6’3 eager to please masochist on top of you, he’d rock with it.)

“Go ahead, baby,” you tell him. Nails claw at his back, likely shredding along the feathery lines of the tatted angel’s wings, further spurring him on.

“Ffffuck, thank you, thank you, I love you so much,” he chants around your swollen nipple, voice breaking on each word. He pulls his mouth away, spit clinging to his lower lip and connecting him to your tits that sway every time he rocks his twitching hips against yours.

Satoru greedily paws at you, squeezing your pillowy breasts, tracing your curves, pressing into your navel, anything he can get his hands on. He's like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet, determined to sample everything until he’s no longer allowed to.

Your neck strains as you thrash your head and he visibly wavers like a house about to fall. “What, can’t take it anymore?” Satoru pokes fun, but his question is really a ‘you good?’

“Shut up.” ‘I’m fine, I love you, go ahead.’

The perks of a married couple… telepathy.

Satoru drops his head, slams into you a little faster. The drawers continue rattling like teeth in a jar. Despite the euphoria clogging your pores and melting your brain down, you lift your hands, cupping his face, thumbs fanning outwards from the bridge of his nose and gently digging into the warming apples of his cheeks.

He leans into your touch, nuzzling into your palms as your thumbs brush away tears that he didn’t realize were escaping him. In his electric blue eyes that make your nerves sing with just a glance, you can see the depth of his devotion and trust in you, the way he's utterly handing himself over to you in this moment.

“You’re so good to me, baby,” you whisper. “Mommy’s perfect puppy.”

His vision goes black and his mouth opens. Then, suddenly, a searing and blinding white explodes across his retinas like a droplet of paint in a cup of water as he lets go.

His cock jerks, painting you over and over again with spurts of his spend. He pulses inside you with each aftershock that rumbles through his very bones, your pussy eagerly wringing around him in turn, milking him and siphoning his soul out via his cock, and forcing him to plug his load in deep.

The whole while, Satoru lets out watery whimpers, peppering your scrunched up face in sloppy uncoordinated puppy kisses and grinding into you. If you squint, you swear you can see a fluffy white tail wagging faster than the beat of a hummingbird’s wings behind him.

As he comes down and his movements peter off, stopping to mould his pelvis to the curve of your ass and leave himself buried in you, he nuzzles his way between your tits. Your perfectly soft, plush, pillowy tits. This is heaven. Needily, he rubs his cheek on the gentle swell of your right boob, drinking you and the smell of sex and sweat in.

Your hand sinks into his white hair, stroking the sweaty strands and trying to comb them into place between gentle scratches at his scalp to pacify him further. He practically purrs. In his wife’s presence, Satoru isn’t the almighty oyabun of the Gojo-gumi. Nuh uh, no sir. He’s completely and utterly your annoying husband that scrambles for your affection as if he’s a broke person on the street chasing pennies— and you always give it to him.

Together, the two of you slowly breathe and bask in the afterglow. Satoru, humming out sweet nothings, you, petting over him and probably tracking the fan above them that spins round and round. Minds blissfully blank.

(‘I need to buy this man a collar,’ you think to yourself. ‘And then peg the absolute dogshit out of him.’)

God, he’s so fortunate to be able to come home to you every damn day. He’s been counting his lucky stars since the day they met. A sudden burst of emotion swells in his chest, warm and golden like the summer sun.

“Love you, pretty,” he sighs dreamily. He catches your hand in his, planting a kiss to the back of it, then to your engagement ring and wedding band.

Your hands refix themselves on his cheeks with a gentle squeeze. “I love you too, baby,” you murmur, drawing him into a hopelessly sappy kiss. He pecks you one, two, three more times, chasing your lips, and you laugh softly.

Satoru jolts when skin cracks against skin in a sudden spank, a vicious throb skyrocketing beneath the skin of his ass. “Hey! Way to ruin the moment!” He complains with the most offended look he can muster. You smile with false serenity.

He’s sure it’ll bruise into a small reminder, one that will surely haunt him for days to come whenever he sits in his office chair and feels the bruise pulse beneath the pressure, drawing him back to this moment— Satoru breaking your back on his desk, waiting for you to give him permission to go ahead while he writhes, needy and wanting and begging with his body.

You pull back a little to scrutinize him. “That was for my shirt that you—“ he winces when you jab a finger at him, “destroyed.”

You yelp when he abruptly slots his arms beneath you and hoists you up off of the desk. Satoru drops down into his chair, sending them skidding back a few steps when it gets the wheels rolling, and cordons you off in his lap by squeezing you close, his stupid dick still buried in your guts. You widen your legs to properly straddle him then frown at the sensation of tacky drying cum, slick, and sweat between your bodies.

Behind Satoru, the sun peeks over his head and sets his white hair aglow. Towering buildings go on and on, stretching out before the empire of the Gojo-gumi.

He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear and lets his touch linger a little before he snuggles you closer. In his arms, you’re utterly at ease. He’s equally at peace— always is, actually, in your presence. You quiet the incessant din of his life and fill it with you; your snark, your gentleness that you only ever show him, your authority that he leans on, your love and your dreams for you and him.

You’re intrinsically part of him now. Nothing can ever change that.

“I’ll buy you a new one, relaaaax. You can wear my shirt on your way out and I’ll just grab one of my spare suits for myself,” Satoru cajoles, puckering his lips and theatrically fluttering his lashes. You grumble something highly censorable. Trying to find a way to hush you up before you can let loose on him, he glances around the room, drinking in the pens, papers, the shattered lamp, random buttons, and half of their clothing littering the ground. A mess that he most definitely will not be cleaning up himself.

Then, once he finds it, he scoots them along a fraction in the chair and taps his foot against a certain paper. You look behind you. “Oh, good, I needed your signature on this. Now I can go forward with my plan,” Satoru says cheerily.

You blink, confused. You don’t hold any executive power in this building, not enough to warrant your signature. Nor have you signed anything of note in the last week, here at headquarters, at home, or otherwise.

Satoru taps his foot against it again. Dotted along the paper are dried splotches of what is most likely your wetness. Your supposed ‘signature.’ Heat rises to your face. “I got us a seventh vacation home!”

“Fucker.”

After he has a giggle fest over it and you quiet him down with more kisses and unserious scoldings, which leads to an overly heated make out session that has you evaluating the pros and cons of another round, a fist pounds on the door. You pause in the middle of mauling your husband’s neck, painting the smooth expanse in hickeys in revenge for the two fat ones throbbing on your thighs, and pinch his side to push him into action.

Satoru rolls his eyes so hard that it’s a wonder they don’t get lodged back in his skull. “Does it look like I’m available? The door’s locked for a reason,” he hollers.

A beat. You hear Kento’s familiar, utterly exhausted sigh. “If you two are done in there.” It’s clear what he’s referring to. Your eyes flare again and Satoru tries for a smile. “Gojo is needed elsewhere. I’ve been made aware that Geto has been blowing up his phone for quite some time now. It’s urgent.”

Then, when neither of you answer, Kento adds, “There’s been an incident in Shibuya.”

Oh hell no.

Satoru’s about to show Shibuya a real incident for interrupting his moment with his wife.

author’s note: he will be collared in a drabble GOD WILLING

thank you all for reading this freaky ass shit, hoping to post more of my 1748282 wips soon :3 reblog and/or comment to let me know ur thoughts because i eat replies UP, they’re all greatly appreciated muuuah 🫶🏽

tags: @stuboo2053 @pvmpkingod @spirit-kat @skz8stay @loyalguma @amane1271 @irishiruuu @m1nrrva @onixsky @q2uq2u @enchantinghonymoon @exc3llentshot @libr4sonsa @kaitospo @n1vi @ieathairs

here are my fav comments from my betas (#smashsecretaryreader2k25movement):

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enderlovez · 6 months ago

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No Germs Found

Spencer Reid x Female BAU Reader WORD COUNT: 1000+

Summary: You and the team are back in Arizona on another case, and when an amazing unfortunate mishap takes place at the front desk, everyone is forced to share rooms with each other.

Content Warning: non-sexual nudity, strong language in reference to the temperature, blushy Spence, mentions of heat stroke, pain from the heat, mentions of murder, slightly NSFW at the end, Spencer likes boobs- I MEAN WHO SAID THAT?

A/N This is kind of a continuation of another one of my works called Germs, but they don't necessarily need to be read side by side. There's only one mention of something that happened in the first part, and it's not really that important to the story, so...

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

None of you really anticipated being on another case so soon, at least not in the same place you'd just gotten home from a few days before, and the place you all seemed to... strongly dislike.

Maybe 'dislike' isn't the right word, but one thing is for sure — the moment you step foot off the jet, you feel like you're covered from head to toe in sweat, and your throat dried up like a fish in a desert.

Not to mention how you' were all stuck in a stuffy room all day, with crappy air conditioning that did absolutely nothing for anyone. So far you had practically nothing on the unsub, they were slippery as soap, and that stress — the stress of not knowing who they are, who they are going to kill next — has you in a very grumpy mood.

And despite the inconveniences, the day still somehow finds a way to get worse.

That much is clear as Hotch strolls up to our group of people with an annoyed look on his face — granted he almost always looks like that when we're having a hard time finding anything on the unsub.

"There was a malfunction in their system, and they overbooked their rooms," he says simply, only earning a choir of groans from us, "so we're going to have to double up tonight."

You throw your head back, a heavy sigh escaping your mouth. It's been a long day, and all you want is to lay around without your clothes on and go to sleep — but you can't exactly do that with someone else in there with you.

"You're free to pick your roommate yourself, but please, for the love of God, keep it professional," he finishes as he drops a small pile of numbered keys onto the little table in the reception.

Everyone immediately splits off into pairs, while you make no move to do anything, laying back on the armchair with your neck bent over the top, eyes closed against the white fluorescent lights.

"You know, frequent hyperextension of the neck can have negative effects on its structure and function," a familiar voice says from above you. "Around fifteen to twenty-five percent of North Americans experience lasting effects, such as chronic pain and nerve issues."

You peel your eyes open to find none other than the brilliant Spencer Reid standing over your head, dangling a key over your face, and just like that, all your apprehension melts away.

"Stop flirting with me, Spencer, it's incredibly unprofessional," you joke lightheartedly, a vibrant smile overtaking your face as you pluck the key from his fingers.

He doesn't seem to realize you're joking, though, because he immediately goes to defend himself, stuttering adorably and blushing firetruck red. "No, um, I wasn't — I would never flirt with you!" he tries to defend himself, only realizing a second later how it might've come off. "I-I mean I would, but that's not what I was trying to do."

You shake your head and laugh, standing from the armchair and threading your arm through his so you can lead him down the hallway towards the room you both would be staying in.

The room that was, technically, booked for only one person.

The room that only has one bed.

It's not like you don't want to share a bed with him, you're more worried that he might not want it, with his whole 'germ' thing. Not that he really seemed to care about that the other day, when he drank straight from your water bottle without a care in the world, then proceeded to ask you out on a date.

"I can sleep on the floor, if you'd like," he offers quietly as he shuts the door behind him.

You immediately dismiss that idea, shaking your head before the words are even fully out of his mouth. "You're not sleeping on the floor, Spencer, that's not fair," you say quickly, a sly smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "That is, as long as you're alright with me sleeping in my underwear, because I will be doing that."

Of course you're half-joking — if there's any indication that he's uncomfortable with that idea you'll just sleep in a t-shirt and shorts, it's just that you'd much rather not in this heat.

"N-no, no," he says, his voice pitched just a little too high. He's blushing from head to toe, you know that without even looking at him. "You can s-sleep in whatever you want to, I don't mind."

It's entirely unprofessional, you know that, but you really can't help it as you instantly begin tearing your sweat-drenched clothes from your body, tossing them around haphazardly until you're left in only your bra and underwear. You don't waste another second, flopping onto the bed, briefly stretching your limbs out, then rolling to one side.

It's a relief to be out of those clothes...

Only now do you realize that Spencer has not moved an inch from were he was standing when you initially asked the question, face bright red, breathing uneven as he tries desperately to keep his eyes from dipping from your face.

"Come on, I don't bite," you say quietly, patting the empty space on the other side of the bed, meanly deciding it would be funny to tease him, "not unless you ask very nicely."

Nervously, he drops his stuff beside the door and makes his way towards the bed, siting on the edge of his side. You're sure you can see him sneaking glances down at your chest every now and then, when he thinks you're not paying attention.

Who is he kidding? You're always paying attention to him, clinging onto every word he says like you'll die if you forget a single one.

"Come on, Spencer," you urge, "you've literally shared spit with me, don't get all shy now."

You're phrasing it that way as a joke, and you're sure he knows that.

But the next words that come out of his mouth leave you stunned, mouth dropped open and butterflies stampeding through your stomach, heart beating a million miles an hour.

You're not expecting something like this to come out of his mouth, really, but after his strange confidence the other day in drinking all your water and asking you out, you're not sure what to expect now.

"Can you please bite me, then?"

#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #criminal minds fic #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x bau reader #enderlovez

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neo127 · 7 months ago

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⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ enha!hyung line (not so) subtly checking u out

pairing. enha x reader genre. hcs + fluff cw. only slightly suggestive + not explicitly fem reader but reader is mentioned wearing a dress and skirt

archives

HEESEUNG — he just couldn’t help himself…your skirt was just so short and your pretty legs on display. heeseung had basically ignored every girl at this party just so he could keep staring at you. he hoped the alcohol in his system would give him a bit of courage to go up to you instead of being creepy. but just to his luck, you approached him first.

“see something you like?” you teased, looking up at heeseung with those eyes that could kill him. he hadn’t seen you up close very often, but when he did it always managed to take his breath away.

“damn. and here i was thinking that my staring was subtle.” heeseung chuckled, taking a quick sip of his drink to drown his nerves. you smiled before sitting down next to the man, giving him your full attention

JAY — you were just so beautiful. whether you were wearing a well put together outfit or sweats, makeup or barefaced, you were always beautiful to jay. you were simply washing the dishes but jay was awestruck. he tried to be subtle about his staring, he really did, but he just couldn’t help himself from looking at you for about five minutes straight.

“do i have something on my face?” you asked, breaking your boyfriend out of his trance. jay shook his head and looked away shyly.

“you’re just so pretty…can’t help myself.”

JAKE — he constantly loved admiring you, but when you wore certain outfits he felt absolutely insane. jake was sure that you were trying to kill him when you stepped out of your room in a tight fitting dress. you had bought new clothes and begged your boyfriend to watch you try them on.

“jake, please say something you’re not saying anything.” you spoke up, looking at jake who had been gawking at you for a full minute.

“you look amazing.” he mumbled, practically drooling over your appearance. jake didn’t take his eyes off you, his eyes scanning your body like a starved man as he dragged you toward him on the bed.

SUNGHOON — it was extremely hard for sunghoon to focus during a lecture when all he could focus on was you. love and dating hadn’t interested him much in his teen years, he was too focused on ice skating and making it to his top university. he had mild crushes before, but none like you. you were radiant, a beautiful angel that somehow came into his life to bless it. sunghoon often stared at you in class, not too much to be considered creepy, but just enough so that way you didn’t catch on.

unfortunately for sunghoon, you had noticed for a few weeks now. you turned your head slightly, meeting sunghoon’s eyes and catching the man off guard. his breath hitched and he adverted his eyes quickly, feeling extremely embarrassed that he was caught.

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himasgod · 22 days ago

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Hello! How are you doing? May I ask a reader who is Lilia's wife (and consequently the boys' mother), she has been missing for years, but here suddenly they see her alive and well. Lots of tears of joy, figuring out what happened and at the end she says something like, "well, let me make your favorite food for dinner, shall we?" Boys: *rejoicing that their stomachs will be okay from now on* Lilia: happy, trying to hold back tears. I also want to say that you write so "deliciously" about Diasomnia! Especially about Sebek, I saw that another anon asked something about him and I'm sure it will be interesting and fun to read too!

DIASOMNIA AND READER

Where you are Lilia's wife, missing for years, and you return home.

It began on an otherwise ordinary afternoon in Briar Valley.

Silver had just returned from a training session, his hair still damp from the light rain outside.

Sebek followed at his heel like always, lecturing him about staying alert despite the weather.

Malleus stood near the great hearth of the main hall, idly watching the flames dance.

And Lilia?

Lilia was cooking.

Unfortunately.

The boys had long resigned themselves to his “creations,” though they shared one common silent prayer whenever he stepped into the kitchen: please, Great Seven, don’t let this one kill us.

“I believe I nearly unlocked the secret to curry-flavored cheesecake this time!” Lilia announced emerging from the kitchen with a bioluminescent dish.

Silver’s soul left his body for a moment. “F-father, maybe we could try—”

He was interrupted by a knock at the gate.

Not the main entrance. No, this was the old garden gate—rusted from disuse, half swallowed by ivy.

The room grew still.

“…That gate hasn’t opened in years,” Malleus murmured.

“I didn’t sense anyone approach,” Lilia said, suddenly more serious.

He handed the cheesecake off to Sebek (who immediately looked like he was holding a bomb) and moved toward the hallway.

The knock came again.

Once.

Twice.

Slow. Almost hesitant.

Lilia opened the gate.

And time stopped.

There, standing in the haze of the twilight garden, was someone who had been gone from their lives so long that seeing her again didn’t seem possible.

“Lilia?” your voice was softer now, worn by time. A little hoarse. A little tired. But undeniably you.

His eyes widened.

“…Dear?”

You looked up at him. A little older. But still smiling.

The smile he used to dream about and wake up heartbroken to realize was gone.

“I’m home,” you whispered. “I’m sorry I—”

You didn’t get to finish.

Lilia pulled you into his arms so tightly you could feel the shudder in his shoulders. The way his fingers clutched the back of your coat.

You felt his breath hitch against your neck.

“You idiot,” he breathed. “You’re alive. You’re alive.”

The next moment, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall.

“MASTER LILIA, WHO WAS AT THE—” Sebek’s voice rang out before he skidded to a stop, Silver nearly bumping into him from behind.

And then, silence.

Silver dropped his sword.

Sebek’s mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out.

You looked at them with a trembling smile.

“My boys… You’ve grown so much.”

Silver’s eyes filled with tears . “M-mother…?”

The moment he said it, the dam broke.

He ran to you like a child again, throwing his arms around you and clinging tightly, nearly knocking you off balance.

You laughed, hugging him back, kissing the top of his head like you used to when he had nightmares.

Sebek, meanwhile, dropped to his knees.

“You… You were presumed… H-how can…?”

You knelt down to him and brushed his hair back, just like you had all those years ago when he scraped his knee climbing a tree. “I’m here now. I promise.”

He lunged forward and hugged you, sobbing uncontrollably.

And then Malleus.

Quiet Malleus.

“I had long accepted your loss. But even now… my heart dares not believe this miracle is real.”

You reached for his hand and placed it over your heart.

“It’s me, Malleus. It's me.”

A small laugh broke from him.

He drew you into a gentle embrace, forehead resting against the top of your head.

“Welcome home.”

For several minutes, you stayed like that. Surrounded by them.

The explanations came later, once everyone had calmed enough to speak without sobbing.

A magical accident—your disappearance had been the result of a sealed portal misfiring during a research expedition.

You were stranded in a temporal bubble, barely able to age, watching the years pass. It wasn’t until the rift finally weakened that you’d escaped, fighting your way home.

“I could hear your voices sometimes,” you admitted, sitting on the hearth now, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. “In my dreams. I held onto them to stay sane.”

“And I stopped singing at night,” Lilia murmured, his voice breaking. “Because it hurt too much.”

You touched his cheek .

“Sing again. I’m home now.”

You stood up and stretched.

“Well…” you smiled at the boys, wiping your eyes with your sleeve, “how about I make your favorite dinner tonight?”

Sebek actually yelped in joy.

“Master Lilia's wife cooking has returned. Salvation is upon us.”

Silver burst out laughing. “Father, please let her into the kitchen before you finish your cheesecake.”

“I will gladly yield the ladle- My culinary reign ends tonight.”

Malleus chuckled, a rare sound of true joy. “Then I shall summon the stars themselves to light your table.”

You cooked.

Lilia watched you with a soft smile, brushing away a tear every now and then when he thought you weren’t looking.

The boys sat at the table, basking in the comfort of a meal that tasted of home.

You were home.

#lilia x reader #lilia vanrouge #malleus draconia #silver vantouge #sebek zigvolt #diasomnia #lilia vanrouge x reader #lilia x yuu #lilia vanrouge x yuu #twisted wonderland scenario #twst scenarios #twst x reader #twisted x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted scenario #twisted one shots #twst headcanons

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natalianovnas · 8 days ago

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༄ `. 𝐋𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐇

or - '𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚 𝐮𝐩 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭' : 𝐲𝐧'𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐩𝐬.

comes straight from mmoc au so if you haven't read that one first, you should.

requests : had to mix up three requests together for this one (as insane as this sounds lol) you can find them here : req 1 - req 2 - req 3

warnings: reader being a tease, explicit song lyrics, smut to fluff, top!nat, beefy!nat, sub!reader.

words count : 2.6k

an : i have no knowledge over the games mentioned (as unfortunate as it sounds) so i might have aked for help from my sister || masterlist

It's some time around 5pm.

The kitchen smells like peanut butter and a hint of clean laundry.

Natasha’s wearing gray sweatpants low on her hips, a black tank top, and zero awareness of the chaos brewing behind her.

She’s humming softly, making herself a PB&J before heading out to the gym. Nothing fancy. Just something light to fuel her.

You, however, have a different kind of hunger.

Casually, you stroll into the kitchen like you’re not about to destroy the woman’s sanity, Billie Eilish’s “LUNCH” cued up on your phone as you walk in.

Nat barely glances at you as you lean against the counter next to her. She’s mid-sandwich, mid-bite.

Then, the lyrics actually reaches her ears—

🎶 I'll run a shower for you like you want

Clothes on the counter for you try 'em on

If I'm allowed I'll help you take 'em off 🎶

You're aware that she is watching you and that's al you wanted. However, your focus remains on the video you're recording, showing Natasha slightly and 'subtly' gesturing to her while pretending you don't notice her watching.

Natasha freezes.

One bite in. Mouth full. Chewing slowly like she’s buffering.

Her eyes slide toward you with that patented “Romanoff side-eye of judgment and barely concealed lust.”

“…The hell are those lyrics?” she murmurs.

She narrows her eyes. You smile wider and keep going.

🎶 I could eat that girl for lunch

Yeah, she dances on my tongue

Tastes like she might be the one 🎶

Natasha chokes, actually chokes. She coughs once, turns and grabs the edge of the counter.

“You want me to die or something?”

You’re biting back laughter. “Just feeding you the same energy you give me every time you come out the shower in a towel and pretend you’re not trying to kill me.”

She slowly sets the sandwich down.

“Alright, gremlin. You’ve got exactly ten seconds to run before I show you exactly what’s for lunch.”

“Oh? Is it me?”

She cracks her neck like it’s go-time.

You sprint down the hallway, laughing. “I regret nothing!”

“Too bad,” She calls out in an amused. “You will in ten minutes.”

The sound of your laughter trails down the hall as you run from her, Billie Eilish still echoing faintly from your phone.

Natasha stands there for a beat, amused and exasperated. She rolls her eyes, wipes her hands on a paper towel, and lets out a short laugh.

“Drama queen,” She mutters fondly under her breath, shaking her head.

She should go chase you or pin you to the bed or make you finish the song in a much less innocent setting but she’s got to hit the gym.

Discipline, Romanoff. Control.

She grabs her gym bag and slings it over her shoulder just as you peek your head around the corner.

“Wait. You’re actually going?” You ask, surprised.

Nat smirks. “That a problem?”

You shrug. “Just rare. You usually work out at home and pretend it counts.”

“That’s because it does count,” She says, stepping into her sneakers.

You hesitate, then beam. “Can I come ?”

Natasha pauses. Looks over her shoulder.

“You want to go to the gym?” she asks, genuinely surprised.

You shrug, stepping into the kitchen in a loose tee and shorts again. “Maybe I wanna see you all sweaty and jacked. Motivation.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, amused. “You’re not going to distract me?”

You grin. “No promises.”

. . .

Around forty minutes later, you both walk into the gym.

You’re in a cute lil gym fit— tight biker shorts, low-cut sports bra, hair in a high pony. You look like sin and you know it.

Natasha, meanwhile, is doing reps with a resistance band while trying to focus. Truly. But then you walk past the mirror for the third time, swaying just a bit more than necessary.

“Can’t help it if I’m naturally bouncy,” You whisper innocently as you pass her again.

She glares—whipped and mad about it.

You start doing slow squats directly across from her. Like, directly.

Your back arched. Your form perfect. That smug little smile on your lips.

She drops the band and walks over, towel around her neck. “How’s it going?”

You shrug casually. “Pretty good. Got my form right. You keep watching me or something?”

She raises a brow. “I should be watching my form. But you’re not really making that easy.”

You smirk and pat her chest, trailing your hand just slightly longer than needed.

“Maybe I should be your trainer. Keep you focused.”

She leans in. “You keep touching me like that, and I’m gonna start lifting you instead.”

You blink. “Promise?”

She laughs. Loud and warm and fond.

“Trouble,” she mutters, walking away—but not before giving your ass a swat as she passes. “Wrap it up. We’re doing core next. And no more slow-motion squats, you menace.”

“You love it here.”

“I love you. Working out next to you is just a sexy bonus.”

“You're doing this on purpose,” She mutters.

“What? I’m just trying to be fit like you,” You say sweetly, adjusting your waistband in a way that should be illegal.

“Mm. Fit for hell,” Natasha grumbles, running a hand down her face.

You grab a yoga mat and drop to your hands and knees to start stretching, rocking your hips—fully knowing she’s watching.

“Jesus,” She mumbles under her breath. “Alright.”

You look back innocently. “Something wrong?”

“Yeah,” she says, walking over. “I’m not working out another second until I get this out of my system.”

She grabs your waist and pulls you upright, making you squeak with laughter. “Nat—”

“You wanted my attention?”

“Maaaybe.”

“You got it. And now we’re going home.”

“But we just got here,” You tease as she starts walking you toward the exit.

She glances over her shoulder at the poor guy in the corner who’s been pretending not to stare. “If one more person looks at you like that, I’m getting arrested.”

You blink up at her with that infuriatingly innocent face. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly,” she mutters, grabbing your hand and practically dragging you out. “You just exist. And it’s criminal.”

In the Car

You throw your gym bag into the back seat, barely getting the door shut before Natasha leans over and buckles your seatbelt for you. Her face inches from yours.

“You think this is funny?” She murmurs.

You shrug, grinning. “I think you being jealous is funny.”

She pauses. “I’m not jealous.”

“Oh?”

“I’m possessive. Big difference.”

“You know,” she says, “next time you want to kill me, just wear those leggings around the apartment.”

You squeeze her fingers. “So… you did like the TikTok?”

She huffs out a laugh. “I’m going to block Billie Eilish on everything.”

“Too late,” you grin, “I made a whole playlist.”

She sighs. “God help me.”

You’re about to sass her again, but she starts the engine with one hand and rests the other high on your thigh. Fingers drumming.

The drive is quiet. No music. No talking. Just tension. And her hand creeping slowly toward the hem of your shorts like she’s thinking about pulling over and making a memory in the backseat.

You squirm and she smirks.

Back at the apartment

The door slams shut behind you, your gym bag hits the floor.

You turn around to make a flirty remark—maybe another Billie lyric—but Natasha’s already there, crowding you against the wall.

Her hands plant on either side of your head.

"You wanted my attention at the gym?" She asks lowly, eyes locked on yours.

You smile. “Kinda.”

She hums. “Got it.”

Then, she kisses you—deep, slow, and dangerously patient. Like she’s not angry. Just starving.

You whimper into it, hands curling in her hoodie, already dizzy.

She pulls back only to whisper against your lips, “You think you’re cute when you’re teasing me?”

“A little.”

Her hand trails down your waist to your backside, gripping firmly. “You were showing off on purpose.”

You nod, breath catching. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Oh, baby…” she says with a laugh, lifting you off the floor effortlessly and carrying you straight to the bedroom. “You have no idea what you started.”

Natasha drops you on the bed—not carelessly, not roughly—just with the weight of someone who knows you wanted this.

You bounce once, grinning up at her, hair splayed across the sheets. Your sports bra is damp with heat. Your thighs glisten with a soft sheen of post-workout sweat.

She looks down at you like she’s trying to memorize you. Like she’s trying to decide where to start.

“You’ve got about three seconds to admit you were doing it on purpose,” she murmurs, pulling her ponytail loose.

You smirk. “What if I wasn’t?”

Her eyes darken. “Lie again.”

You laugh—giddy, breathless—as she crawls over you, knee slotting between your legs, hand sliding under your bra to press over your heartbeat.

“Fast,” she notes, leaning in to kiss the edge of your jaw. “Always gets like this when I’m mad at you.”

“You’re not mad.”

She kisses your neck. “No. I’m obsessed. There’s a difference.”

You moan softly when her mouth finds that sensitive spot beneath your ear—tongue warm, teeth teasing. Her fingers slip under your waistband, tugging the shorts just low enough to make you gasp.

"You were walking around that gym like you didn't belong to anyone," she whispers.

You grin, eyes fluttering. “Maybe I forgot.”

That earns you a firm grip on your waist and a slow, grinding roll of her hips down into yours. You groan.

Natasha smiles. “Don’t worry. I’m about to remind you.”

She pulls your sports bra off—slowly, deliberately, watching your eyes the whole time. Like she wants to see every flicker of surrender.

“You look so fucking proud of yourself,” she says, thumbing over your nipple with maddening calm. “All that stretching. That little smirk every time you caught me looking.”

“I didn’t catch you. You were obvious.”

She laughs into your skin. “You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over that bench press.”

“Maybe I wanted you to.”

She stills.

Then sits up between your legs, peeling your shorts off with a kind of reverent cruelty.

You arch toward her, need pooling low in your belly. “Nat…”

“You think this is me losing control?” she says, voice low as she runs her palms over your thighs.

You answer, eyes hazy. “Isn’t it?”

She leans down again, lips brushing your stomach as she descends lower.

“No,” she whispers. “This is me being very in control. And you? You’re gonna feel every second of it.”

Hours later :

You’re boneless on the bed. Natasha is draped over you, skin warm, heartbeat steady against your back. She’s tracing circles on your hip absentmindedly.

“You’re evil,” you mumble.

She hums. “And you love it.”

You smile into the pillow. “I’m never going to the gym again.”

Natasha presses a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s okay. I think I got my full-body workout right here.”

Minutes later

You’re sprawled across Natasha’s chest, sweaty, glowing, borderline delirious—but instead of falling asleep, you're… scrolling through your game folder.

Nat runs her fingers lazily through your hair, barely glancing at the screen.

“You better not be working,” she mumbles.

“I’m not.”

“You better not be shopping either. You just bought another frog mug last week.”

You lift your head, grinning. “I’m opening Minecraft.”

Natasha blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I want to play. Come on. Be my emotional support chaos knight.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t I just ruin you?”

“Yes,” you say sweetly. “And now I want to build a cottage and adopt a Minecraft cat. It's called balance, Natasha.”

“Baby, we’re naked.”

“That’s the best part,” You state with a grin, already reaching for your Switch like this was a trap laid in advance, like nat didn't have full view over your naked back size. “The vibes are immaculate.”

Natasha watches as you boot up the game. She sighs.

She groans but doesn’t actually resist when you hand her a controller. Ten minutes later, she’s beside you, wrapped in a throw blanket, staring at the screen like it just insulted her.

“So what am I doing?” She asks, looking around her tiny blocky world.

“Whatever you want. I’m over here farming potatoes and building a mushroom house. You could help or mine. Or even fight zombies.”

She hums. “What happens if I hit this cow?”

“…Uh. You’ll get leather.”

She punches the cow. Then a sheep. Then another cow.

“Okay. You need to calm down—”

“Can I blow something up?”

You blink. “What?”

She grins. “I found TNT in a chest. I want to see what it does.”

You sigh dramatically, planting flowers near your base. “You’re such a menace.”

“You’re the one who handed me a pickaxe.”

. . .

Fifteen minutes later

You’re curled into Natasha’s side, both of you still half under the covers, screens glowing softly in the dark.

You’re naming your third cat (“I’m calling her Mochi. She’s shy but kind.”)

Natasha’s in a cave halfway across the map, sword out, muttering, “Get wrecked, creeper,” as she wipes out an entire underground horde.

“Why are you like this?” You giggle.

“Because you gave me no outlet for my post-sex rage.”

“You’re holding me right now.”

“Exactly. I can’t take it out on you again—yet. So the skeletons die.”

You plant another flower bed next to your pixelated front door and say sweetly, “You’re welcome to move in next to my lavender garden. We could be neighbors.”

“I’m going to build a bunker with lava traps.”

You press a kiss to her shoulder. “That’s romantic in your own feral little way.”

. . .

Your farm is thriving. Your home has windows. You’ve got a cat named Olive.

Natasha? Has gone full bloodlust.

“Where are you?” you call from your greenhouse.

“In a cave.”

“Do you need help?”

“No. I’m killing spiders. There’s so many. I’m thriving.”

You blink at her health bar. Full. Her inventory? Filled with string, bones, and gunpowder.

“What even is your goal?” you ask, laughing.

“To keep the mobs away from your Barbie dream house.”

“Aw.”

She shrugs. “Also I’m naming this wolf after you.”

. . .

Later still…

You’re in bed, curled up beside her again. The screen glows faintly from your paused Stardew Valley game.

Nat’s voice is low, teasing. “Why do I have to be the one who fights everything?”

“Because you’re scary.”

She smirks. “And you’re not?”

You roll over and give her your most angelic smile. “I have a chicken coop and a Junimo shrine.”

You’ve tamed six animals now, grown your first melon crop, and made a rainbow glass window in your hilltop cottage.

Natasha? Has full enchanted armor and is level 23 from wiping out an abandoned mine shaft.

And yet—when you ask, “Wait, wanna try Stardew next?”, she pauses.

Natasha groans. “Oh my god.”

“...and have pixel babies.”

She rolls her eyes. “You are unbelievable.”

You blink innocently. “Or... we could try Roblox.”

Natasha freezes. “What the hell is Roblox?”

You grin like a devil. “A magical land where you and I can go on weird obstacle courses and dress up in cursed outfits.”

She narrows her eyes. “Is this revenge for earlier?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Yes.”

She looks at you over the blanket. “…Are there weapons?”

You nod eagerly. “There’s a murder mystery game.”

“…Fine. But if someone calls me ‘mommy’ in the chat, I’m deleting the app.”

. . .

Ten minutes into Roblox:

“Why is my character bald—WHY is your character twerking on me—stop laughing, I’m being serious—”

And just like that, Natasha’s whole reputation crumbles in one game lobby while you’re crying from laughter.

Whipped destroyed & undeniably hers.

#𓂃 ๋ ࣭ 𔘓 natalianovnas #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #natasha smut #natasha romanoff #natasha drabble #black widow #wlw post #lesbian

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poguehearted77 · 8 months ago

Text

After Hours

summary: Rafe lets his jealousy get the best of him and it pisses you off, but he makes it up to you after hours.

"Y/n, he's doing it again" Carly whispers over your shoulder as you work on drying off the bar glasses and putting them back on the shelf. You sigh on the outside but your insides warm at the thought of Rafe staring at the back of your figure. This is how it always goes.

He always wants to see you, claiming he can't get enough while you pull away, dedicated to your job. So Rafe decides why not kill two birds with one stone and come see you at work.

Unfortunately, wherever Rafe goes, his posse follows, and considering they're notorious party animals, they can't seem to hold their liquor. "Hey, Let's get another round goin' over here!" Topper shouts, words slurred and eyes heavy-lidded. Anyone within a mile radius could hear the cheers that came from their table at the announcement, and it made you dread going over there, but it's your job.

Not that you hated where you worked, it was right in the heart of figure eight, not too far from where you lived and it pays well most days, but drunk kooks pay even better.

As you walked over with a tray of shots, their hollers grew louder in volume and the environment made you nervous. Not because of the noise at their table, but because of the silence that Rafe held as you placed everything down.

His quiet, blue gaze lingered over your curves as you smiled at the boys. "Wow, you're just too pretty to be working at this hour. How about you pull up a chair and join us?" Topper's hand gently holds your upper arm and Rafe finally speaks up.

Prompted by a flare of jealousy, "Get your hands off her, Top." Rafe's voice overpowers the table to a still silence that even startled you. Topper immediately moves his hand as Kelce 'Oohs'. "Shit man, my bad." He apologizes. Rafe sends you an apologetic glance that you ignore before hastily collecting your tray and returning to the bar.

But it was too late. You were already upset.

The bar had just let out its last customer and you worked on wiping down the tables, most of the lights off and the blinds shut. Some street lights managed to seep through the cracks in the shutters which left golden shadows on the black marble countertops.

It takes a knock on the door to finally pull your head up from the task on hand where you are locking eyes with Rafe on the other side of the glass. You stepped towards the door, not unlocking it.

Your arms crossed and your expression conveyed what he already knew. "Open the door." Voice muffled but you still hear him loud and clear, you huff, knowing he would break the door down if he needed to. You opened it.

"You know I'm not a fucking child, right Rafe?" You sneer, and he locks the door behind him. "I know that. I just hate seeing other guys hit on you. It does things to me- shit makes me just wanna-" his expression contorts, unable to describe the emotion.

"I know, but you gotta trust me. You think I like when that bitch Holly from the yacht club has her hands on you? No, but I trust you." You throw the cloth down on the bar.

Watching as Rafe rounded the island to be on your side, finger under your chin and tilting your head up to look at him. His stone-cold blue eyes run warm as he grins down at you, "I don't give a fuck what Holly does, cuz at the end of the day all I'm thinkin' bout is you."

He leans down, his breath ghosting over your lips. Just barely giving you a taste of what you so desperately need. "I still don't forgive you." You quip, hardly able to step away before his big hand is wrapped around your neck, a light pressure applied, a warning.

"You think I'm lying? I'll show you who the fuck this dick belongs to. How about that, yeah?"

In a blur of heated kisses and hot touches, your clothes were scattered across the floor and your bra had landed somewhere on the rack, forgotten as Rafe fucked you mindless over the counter.

His thick cock pummeling in and out of your soaked cunt. He grabs a fistful of your dark curls, pulling you up so your back can meet his chest. "Now tell me, baby. Who does this pussy belong to, huh?" He hisses through clenched teeth, overwhelmed by the tight grip your walls provided him.

"M-me." You moan pathetically and it makes him laugh. He lets you go, and your upper half falls back onto the counter unceremoniously. He pulled out slowly, all the way until only the tip remained buried. "Try again."

He plummets back inside your core, his tip kissing your cervix and you scream, eyes filling with tears as you blabber, begging him not to stop. "Let's try that again, yeah? Who does this pussy belong to."

"You! You-- fuck! It's yours, all yours. No one else's."

He grins, he already knew this, of course. He just liked hearing you say it.

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demonic0angel · 2 months ago

Note

Blackbat, Red hood, and Red Robin are investigating the Cult of the Ghost King, which has recently moved into Gotham. They get caught up in a ritual and sent to the dp universe, right on top of team Phantom.

"The circle's activating! Hood, do something!" Red Robin screamed.

Red Hood was only able to pull out his sword for only a moment before the ritual activated and then they were transported. Red Hood grabbed both Black Bat and Red Robin, using his armor to cushion them both after being tossed out of the circle. Breathlessly, they were thrown onto hard ground.

... and something soft?

The three jumped to their feet and looked at their surroundings.

What they had landed on was a very unfortunate plant.

"Crap! Sam's Lilith Vines!" One person said and they looked in that direction, seeing a group of four people stare back at them, one of them looking very contrite. “She’s going to kill me if she sees that they’re crushed!”

Another looked at the four with an extremely worried expression on her face. “Uh. This wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?”

The tallest one, who had a black veil over her head, said, “Oh dear. D— Your Majesty, I think this is related to the summoning circles that were copied from the palace libraries.”

Said Majesty, who had been looking at them with irritation, crumpled to his knees with a wail. “Dammit! Not again! Why?! I hate the damn cults!”

The last person said with a hum and a smirk on his green skin, “It didn’t work though. It transported people to us instead of the opposite. Hah! Humans are so incompetent.”

Red Hood stood up first, brandishing his All-Blades. He could definitely feel some sort of evil presence amongst the four and neither he nor his siblings could recognize their surroundings, only seeing a green world with floating doors and islands. “Who the hell are you?! You better answer, or I’ll cut you down!”

The tall one gasped. “Oh! The All-Blades! That’s amazing, I can’t believe that there’s someone in the mortal realm who’s been able to learn—”

“Jazz, please do not fangirl right now.”

Red Robin stepped up, inspecting the group of four as he interrupted their yammering. “Can you tell us what’s going on? We don’t want a fight. We need to get back home.”

Black Bat’s posture was relaxed, which was a good sign. However, Red Hood and Red Robin still stood side-by-side in preparation for a fight from the four beings that were clearly not fully human, evident by their glowing hair and eyes and hidden appearance.

The four all shared a look.

The tall one approached Red Hood and gently lowered the blade of his swords. Red Hood stiffened but allowed it, as the touch of the All-Blades did not affect her. Underneath her veil, was a small smile and both Red Robin and Black Bat shared an exasperated look as Red Hood visibly grew flustered, straightening his back and rolling back his shoulders.

“We’d be happy to help you get back home. I’m afraid that this is… a byproduct of a problem we had a while ago.” There was a cough from behind her that she ignored. Black Bat tilted her head and looked behind Red Hood’s back to stare at the other three as they stifled their laughter and pointed coughs. “We’ll help you in any way we can.”

Red Hood could still sense the evil presence, but the woman in front of him was warm and reassuring. His blades didn’t give any sign of trickery, so he finally tucked them away with a stiff nod.

“Yes please. Lead the way, princess.” His face felt oddly warm as the tall woman gave him another sweet smile, partially covered by her veil.

One of the beings, small and male, nodded his head and said, “Alright, follow me. I’m the Ghost King. We’ll bring you three home safe and sound, on my honor. Promise.”

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moonlight-prose · 8 months ago

Text

angel of the morning

a/n: about a month ago i got an idea for a threesome fic and well it has lived in the back of my head since then. and normally i wouldn't write smut with wade, but this one actually made me feral. thankfully the promptober list this year gave me the perfect opportunity to bring it to life. so i give you a filthy and fun fic brought to you not from the execs at disney, cause let's be honest this would kill them on sight.

logan promptober: day nine - deadpool

summary: wade has a proposition to offer: he will sit quietly (a complete lie) as logan shows him how fucking you properly is done. only it's not up to logan...it's up to you. his sweet angel of the morning.

word count: 3.4k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader x wade wilson

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MDNI 18+ ONLY!!, threesome activities, voyeurism, bondage, wade wilson breaks the fourth wall, oral (m receiving), gags, coming untouched, p in v sex, fingering, cumplay, squirting, logan is rough with the pussy, gratuitous descriptions of filthy acts, biting, unedited + unbetad.

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME SERIES MASTERLIST

"Think of it as a learning opportunity peanut." A glass shattered on impact - ricocheting off the wall and lodged into Wade's chest. Neither the pain nor the blood could get him to stop talking though. "Possibly a way to work out those Hulk-like anger issues."

"No," Logan snapped, itching to rip the voice box out of Wade's throat. Maybe then he'd get an hour tops of silence as the fucker healed.

"You won't even ask her?" he whined. Truly the entire thing reeked of desperation. Wade knew how pathetic he looked right at this moment; whether he cared was an entirely different story.

"Shut the fuck–"

"Ask me what?"

They looked like two deer caught in headlights mere seconds before death. Wade's lips curled into a smile bright enough to rival the sunlight that poured in through the open window. Logan however looked as if he witnessed a ghost climbing out of the shitty painted walls to your right. You stopped inches away from the shards of glass that lined the floor—your eyebrows raised in disbelief at the sight.

How they both wound up in your apartment still remained a mystery to you. Logan went home before you even fell asleep, promising to return with your usual Sunday breakfast from Rosemary's. You came to the conclusion—given the food on the table—that Wade must have followed him. Intent on being a third wheel. Again.

"N-Nothing," Logan replied, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson.

You grinned, eyes trailing down to his jeans that sat snug on his hips. "Are you sure?"

"Sweet angel of the morning can I proposition you for a moment? Don't worry I'm not selling you a car. Although I could." Wade poured coffee into your new favorite mug—a tiny painting of Wolverine sat neatly on the front. "This is more of a learning experience."

"Learning what exactly?" You took the mug with a smile, entirely aware of Logan's eyes tracking your every step.

He thought you were going to run; you leaned into his side to prove you would stay. Whatever question Wade was intent on asking, it clearly touched a nerve. One you had to fix before another mishap occurred in your relationship. Logan wasn't the greatest at communication, but you could make up for his lack of talking in a language he understood well enough. Physical touch.

"Have you ever studied the art—nay the science—of a threesome?"

You choked on your coffee.

Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be enough of a warning for Wade to stop speaking. "There's classes dedicated to its research. I'd be a teacher, but have you met your boy toy over there? He's been alive for two hundred years. There's no way he's not danced the twisters tango."

"Twisters...tango?" Logan's hand patted your upper back as you forced the words out through a choked rasp.

"Twice the fun, three times the knot." He smiled, stepping so face you barely had a chance to stand upright before he was looking down, his finger tipping your chin gently. "Something tells me you'd be an expert."

"Get the fuck off her," Logan snapped, silver flashing in your peripheral.

You gripped his wrist in an attempt to stop the bloodshed from going even further. Cleaning broken glass from your floor was one thing. Scrubbing Wade's blood out of the carpet near your couch was another thing entirely.

The air around you grew tense as Logan's hand fell to your hip in a silent claim you felt curl at the base of your spine. Wade's smile never wavered, even as you felt your mouth dry. The offer circled in your head with a quickness that left you dizzy and gasping for breath. A threesome wasn't the most outlandish of propositions—hell your ex boyfriend had even asked at one point in your relationship.

But a threesome with both of them. Men who never faltered, never grew tired. Keeping up with Logan took the majority of your energy some nights—his insatiable need to have you became an overwhelming trait you grew to crave. Yet the thought of Wade joining in on that. The blood rushed to your head at the very concept, your heart ramming against your chest with each breath.

Logan tensed which gave you the answer you were looking for.

He wasn't worried about his own feelings. He merely wanted you to feel safe. There would never be another day you were put in harm's way because of something he caused. This was simply another one of those moments; a time where the choice remained entirely up to you.

"Drop it mouth–"

"How exactly would it happen?"

They froze, mouths gaping and eyes fixed on your inquiring face. What must have started out as a joke - something for Wade to relentlessly tease Logan over—became something else entirely. Before you could laugh it off, push past whatever awkwardness lingered in the air. Wade's smile returned—eyes alight in a type of joy you'd only seen come from him watching The Great British Bake Off.

Or cocaine.

"So glad you asked angel."

"God this feels like a teacher student porno. Except instead of me getting bent over a desk for being a bad boy I get to watch the teachers fuck." Wade practically leapt out of his skin as Logan tied the knot around his wrists. Pulling until a ring of white formed around the skin. He'd lose feeling in his hands, but something told you that remained part of the appeal. "Do I get to ask questions? In case there's a test?"

You smiled, sitting on the chair stuffed in the corner of your room. "I don't think the professor would like that, Wade."

A soft snarl emanated from Logan's chest, his hands chest heaving with each shift as he did his best not to look at you directly. The bulge on his jeans remained evident enough of what he thought of this. How he had to resist tearing through your clothes to get to what lay beneath.

Logan and self control never went hand in hand. Yet he held on by the skin of his teeth in order to help you settle into a familiar state of comfort. You silently thanked him for that - your nerves jumping with every second that passed.

"You're not gonna fuckin' talk," Logan replied gruffly, pulling out a spare leather belt he kept in your drawer for when he stayed over. "You wanted a learnin' experience. So that's what this is."

"But how am I supposed to learn if I can't–"

The belt went into his mouth harshly, yanking his head back as Logan pulled it closed with surprising speed. You began to wonder if he had done this before. Gagged someone with the efficiency of a pro who partook in sexual activities far more adventurous than what you'd been giving him. Maybe that's what this was all about. Dipping your toe in the waters to see if this experience was meant for you.

His thumb smoothing your furrowed brows pulled you from your thoughts. "You can say no honey. Don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"Logan–"

He shook his head, dropping to his knees before you. "If you say no I'll heat up the breakfast and Wade can put on a movie. Yeah?"

"And if I say yes?" you breathed.

"Then we take it as slow as you want."

The answer lay on the tip of your tongue, begging to be put out into the world. So you pulled him in for a kiss. Your fingers dug into his hair as you licked behind his teeth with a soft moan - the ache from last night building once more in the crevices and curves of your body. Wade echoed your sounds with a few of his own, body writhing to get closer to the edge of the bed. Logan however consumed you entirely.

He rose to his feet, hand cupping your chin to keep you in place. Spit trailed down your chin and for a moment you felt the urge to wipe it away. To clean your body in case that's not what he desired at this time. He cut you off with a growl, licking at the wet smear of spit before letting it fall back on your tongue. His thumb dragging the rest down the length of your throat.

"I want you fuckin' messy honey," he muttered. "Gotta show off my pretty little thing."

A gasp pierced the air, your body jolting at the command. This was familiar to you. Logan leading the dance as you trailed along with the hopes he'd see how good you could be. How much you longed to please him. Somehow the aspect of your relationship flipped when it came to sex. He was no longer tentative or worried there was a chance you might find him repulsive.

When it came to this Logan understood your love for him held no ands, ifs, or buts.

You'd never let him touch you if you didn't love him—that remained clear in his mind. It allowed him the chance to breathe.

"How about we give him a better view."

Whimpering out your unintelligible response, you let him move you with ease. He took the chair, spreading his legs wide for you to prop yourself on his thighs. Tugging at the t-shirt you slept in with a soft grunt he pulled it up and over your head—the softness of your skin on full display. He could practically feel you dripping onto your inner thighs, coating your body in that familiar tangy sweetness.

The thought made him dizzy—his fingers digging sharply into your hips. A stunted groan echoed from the bed, Wade's eyes flicking madly from your breasts to the shiny slick that covered your pussy. His cock strained against his gray sweatpants, a stain leaking into the fabric and turning it a shade darker. If his hands weren't tied Logan had no doubt he'd be fisting his cock to the sight of you naked and wanting.

And what a fucking sight that would be. Seeing this mouthy asshole finally grow quiet just from a mere glimpse at your body.

"What do you think honey? Should we free him?" Logan pointedly looked at Wade's groin—his chin hooking onto your shoulder as his hands slid along your thighs.

You whined, your ass pushing back into his hard cock. "He looks like he needs it, baby."

"Be a good girl and pull it out. Wanna see how wet he is."

"Okay."

Sliding off him, you dropped to your hands and knees, crawling the short distance towards Wade who looked ready to cum right then and there. He sucked in a broken gasp, his hips bucking up into nothing when your hands gripped the edge of his sweats. Your lips dragging along his clothed shoulder—fingers tugging down the waistband until it hung around his knees.

"Oh," you sighed, eyes fixed on the ruddy length of his red and purple cock. It practically dripped like a fucking faucet—spilling onto what sparse hair stuck to the base.

Blistering heat filled your body at the sight of his cock throbbing in your face, the length of it sticky and shiny. Wade never mentioned how much he wanted you. Or perhaps it was the fact that both you and Logan were giving him the show of a lifetime. Indulging him in a fantasy that felt like his imagination came to life.

"Give it a lick," Logan said. "Tell me how he tastes."

Hesitation was nowhere to be found in your body; the thrill of being told what to do shot through your stomach. Wade's eyes rolled back into his head when your mouth closed around the tip, suckling him in between hollowed cheeks—your tongue sliding through the slit.

A choked moan broke free around the belt, spit flying down his throat. You met his noise with one of your own, slick smearing across your thighs, your pussy fluttering at the salty tang of him spread across your tongue.

"That's enough."

You sat back on your heels—eyes meeting Wade's bleary gaze. The both of you were torn to shreds from the inside out. Pieces dispersed in a mess on the floor. Only for Logan to gather what remained—intent on putting you back together.

"C'mere honey," he huffed, gathering you back in his arms.

Logan's touch was relentless. Quick strokes along your bare thighs as you settled in his lap—teeth nipping along the line of your shoulder until pain bloomed beneath the pleasure. Each press of his hands made you melt into his chest, back pressing to his bare chest. The warmth of his arms became something you latched onto.

A constant source of comfort, of a promise to never let you sink below the waters.

You spread your legs over his thighs slowly in a show of revealing your pussy to the man across from you—his eyes practically glued to your pulsing hole. How it fluttered each time Logan sunk his teeth in. How you could feel it leak enough slick to drink down. You wanted to guide his face closer, see if he would like a taste, but Logan had other ideas.

The echo of his belt undoing seared a hole in your chest. Your body vibrated with anticipation—heart hammering a quick timed beat that left you breathless. He pushed you up, the slide of his cock pushing through your glistening lips drew a soft moan to the surface. Your fingers were a tight grip on the sides of the chair, and for a moment you felt a numbing sensation trickle into the palms of your hands.

"She's needy for it huh," Logan boasted, tapping the head against your clit to watch you jump. "So ready to be fucked."

You whined, loud enough to echo off the walls. "P-Please."

"So polite." His hand gripped your hips and in a swift thrust he pushed past your entrance, filling you until your mouth dropped in a pitiful moan. "And fuckin' tight. Don't tell me you like being watched."

A gasp tore from your throat, hips pushing back to take him right down to the base. The burning stretch only helped to drive you even higher. Wade's moans were a muffled chorus in the background, an audience member enjoying his free show. And for a brief moment you opened your eyes to find his gaze.

Tears streamed down his cheeks—agony glistening in his blown out pupils. But it was his cock that grabbed your attention. Purple and strained and aching for someone to touch him. Saliva filled your mouth, a high moan slipping past your parted lips.

"I knew it," Logan grunted, grinding up into you. "My dirty girl. Look at him. He's begging for it."

"L-Logan."

"Give your old man a kiss." He gripped your chin roughly, dragging your lips to his as his tongue invaded your mouth. Sucking the taste of Wade off your tongue with a hoarse moan.

He let you set your own pace, settling back into the chair to give you space and keep you steady. With stunted movements you lifted yourself off his cock and sat back down. A sharp cry bouncing off the walls, each thrust forcing the head of his cock right up against your walls. The slap of skin mixed with Wade's sounds—the wet squelch of your pussy sucking Logan back in echoed filthily in the room.

A sinful euphony of sex that had your toes curling and chest heaving.

Wade's eyes flicked between where the two of you were connected and the bounce of your breasts. The harsh thrusts began to force his cock to jolt—precum pouring into his lap and staining the sheets below. He'd never get tired of this sight. You entirely lost in chasing your pleasure as Logan watched proudly below.

"I-It's hard," you gasped, thighs trembling with each shift.

Logan tutted under his breath. "I know honey. Let me finish for you."

You weren't prepared for the ruthless pace he set. His hands became a vice-like grip on your hips with each pound of his cock into you, the sounds you made nowhere near anything you'd heard before. He fucked you without mercy. Every thrust punctuated with a biting growl—his cock slamming repeatedly into that perfect spot along your walls.

Nails ripped at the chair's arms, your body a shaking mess in his hold, and you could barely see straight in front of you. Wrenching your eyes open, you focused on Wade—your mouth forming a permanent shriek of Logan's name that closer you got to shattering. You watched him struggle to free his hands. His body trembling on the edge of the bed.

"Bet he can't fuck you like this," Logan spit, his teeth bared in a snarl. "Watch and fuckin' learn mouth."

"Logan!" you sobbed, the hot swell of tears spilling rapidly down your cheeks. "I'm gonna. Oh f-fuck–"

"Yeah you are." He yanked you back, his teeth setting into the skin of your shoulder, forming another ringed mark that would serve as a reminder to who you belonged to. A mark of his claim imprinted in your flesh.

The swift slap to your clit wrenched a choked sob from your throat, your eyes rolling back with the second hit. You held onto the edge by the skin of your teeth, your hands moving to grip his wrist. Breath became obsolete with each move and with a harsh third slap you broke with a garbled moan of his name. A wet gush splattered against your thigh, your body shaking viscerally in his tight hold as he came with a broken whine.

The harsh thrusts forced another wave of searing bliss through your body, a second stream of cum spilling onto the hardwood floors. Your eyes were blurred with tears, mouth sucking in sharp gasps, but Wade's pain muffled cry drew your attention back to the present moment.

His hips bucked up into nothing, eyes rolled back and spit drooling down his shirt. The veins of his neck were strained with each shift of his body—for a moment you worried he would choke. Until he came with a muddled shout, cum shooting up to his torso and splashing beneath his chin. The mere sight of it had you clenching down around Logan - your mouth parted in complete awe.

"Shit," Logan gasped, eyes wide and cheeks flushed crimson.

"C-Can I?"

He tapped your thigh. "Go on honey."

On shaky legs you practically fell to the floor and dragged yourself towards Wade. Your mouth immediately swallowing his cock with a hazy sigh—tongue licking up the heady taste of his cum. It slid down your throat, warmed the insides of your body. And Wade looked down at you with eyes full of adoration. A sight you'd never seen him wear in your presence.

Logan shuffled to his feet, quickly moving to undo the restraints. Only for Wade's hands to press against your head—shoving his softened cock down your throat with a soft fuck.

"You guys would make a fucking fortune on Only Fans," he grunted, another spurt of warmth spilling into your mouth.

Logan growled. "Count yourself lucky mouth. She may not want this again."

You grinned, pulling off to press a messy kiss to the still leaking tip. "This was fun." Your voice was hoarse, body covered in a sheen of sweat, yet they regarded you with an emotion you felt weigh heavy at the base of your chest.

A feeling you never believed might occur in your life.

"Logan?" The warmth of his hand spread down to your chest when he cupped your face, swiping at the mess on your lips. "How about that breakfast?"

"Anythin' for you honey," he vowed.

"You guys ever seen the movie Oklahoma?" Wade butted in, his forehead knocking gently against yours before Logan pulled you to your feet.

You laughed, dizzy from the high that still coursed through your veins. A flannel was draped over your shoulders, fingers working to button them up before he got frustrated.

"Might inspire a second round of teacher, teacher, student."

A breathy giggle was muffled against Logan's lips in a swift kiss. "Isn't that musical?"

"It's not just a musical sweet angel. It's a lifestyle. Literally for some people who live in well...Oklahoma."

Logan groaned, dragging you behind him in an attempt to stop the conversation short. You merely called over your shoulder in response. Wade stumbled after you buck naked—his shirt and sweats discarded on the floor in favor of giving the world a view yet to be forgotten. You eyed his chest with a smile, even as Logan palmed your ass to bring you closer.

"Play it." You grinned, hand sliding down to cup Logan through his jeans. "We'll see what happens."

"For fucks sake."

note: i don't even know if this is good. but i hope y'all enjoyed it. drink some water!

#logan howlett x f!reader #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x y/n #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x reader x wade wilson #wolverine x reader x deadpool #wade wilson x f!reader #wade wilson x reader #wade wilson x you #wade wilson x y/n #wade wilson smut #logan howlett #wade wilson #my writing

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yandere-sins · 11 months ago

Note

Can I request a reluctant reader taking care of a very sick yandere? Yandere can be any character of ur choice >.< tyia

Thanks for requesting! ^-^

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

"You're hurt..."

The stench of blood, dirt, and sulfur filled the air in the underground hideout as you climbed off your bed, the heavy metal around your ankles rattling when you moved. You watched as the silver-haired man collided with the wall before sinking to the floor, his body sparely illuminated but his hair shining brightly, giving away his position. Your gut churned with hesitance, with the instinctive need to avoid all evil—especially the one that had threatened and abducted you. But it had been so long since he left. So long that you've been stowed away in secret. You were, unfortunately, drawn to him like a moth to the light.

Even though you kept your distance from your captor, your words barely a whisper as if not to disturb the man sitting on the ground, holding the side of his stomach, Calcharo flinched at the sound of your voice, cranking his head back to look at you. His gaze was unreadable, his whole face a mask free of emotions. But judging by the pool of blood collecting next to him, the wound must have hurt, even if he showed no signs of it.

"I promised I'd be back—" he mumbled as a ripple of tension tightened his muscles, everything in him readying his body to get up from his spot. As if greeting you properly was needed at that moment. But with his teeth bared, the gaping wound stole all of his strength, making him sack back to the dusty ground with a muffled groan.

"Give me a moment. It'll heal."

Curiosity killed the cat as you stretched your neck, bile rising to the top of your throat at the nasty sight of the gash. Even Calcharo's big hands—that you remembered so vividly squeezing and pulling at your body—weren't enough to cover the wound completely, blood soaking all of his clothes and staining the floor. Wasn't there medicine for that kind of injury? Although, seeing a doctor would probably be more appropriate. If it wasn't for the awkward situation you were in, you'd have freaked out at even the thought of seeing someone so badly injured, yet all you could do was stand in one spot, a good five steps out of his reach.

Even when you fiddled with your hands, wrenching and holding them, you were less anxious, knowing he wasn't in the condition to harass you that day. He'd been gone for a while, leaving you to your own devices and the evergrowing boredom. But you were still undecided if you preferred him being back and constantly hovering over you, watching and testing your reactions, or the loneliness and isolation you experienced, chained up and hidden away who-knew-where when he was gone. Both were unideal; both were destructive behavior on his part. You didn't have much choice in it, but him coming back severely injured was a situation you hadn't grown accustomed to yet.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

His head jerked upwards, eyes narrowing at you suspiciously. Yeah... you surprised yourself, too. You weren't the type to offer help, especially not to him. You were his captive, nothing more, nothing less.

"Or not..." Hands falling to your side, you fiddled with the seam of your shirt instead, avoiding his gaze as always. To Calcharo, you were an object to be observed, one he owned now but still couldn't help but expect to be betrayed by. As if you were going to pull a knife out any second now and stab him, even after he immobilized you with the chains around your legs. He was that kind of man; that much you had learned about him, even if it barely seemed to graze the surface. You began hating the feeling of his eyes on you the moment he revealed himself to you in this shabby hideout, his gaze so incisive it hurt. As if his eyes were daggers that he dragged through your flesh, stabbing over and over in an attempt to rip out your soul for him to observe.

"There are some bandages behind the mirror in the bathroom."

Torn from your thoughts, you couldn't help but stare back at him, even as his head fell forward again, his gaze disappearing. You two didn't have that kind of relationship. You didn't help him when he was in need, so you felt surprised at the simple instructions. They held no weight as if he didn't care whether you followed them or not—as if he expected you not to, rightfully so. Glancing at the blood, you thought that a bandage might be useless, that he needed stitches at least. But Calcharo said nothing more, pressing his palm harder against the wound without making another sound. Your head turned towards the door leading to the bathroom, and although it felt wrong to consider helping him, a compassionate part of you recognized that he needed you, your feet slowly turning away, picking up the pace as you disappeared from his sight.

The mirror caught your reflection as you flicked on the light. You had seen better days that much was sure. You weren't famished, the bags under your eyes more from anxiety and stress than lack of sleep. However, the green glow of the light didn't do you any favors either, and although you didn't think of yourself as ugly, you could only wonder what your kidnapper saw in you that he had to take such drastic measures. You were just you. That seemed to have been enough for him, even if it was strange.

The chain around your ankle felt twice as heavy as you wondered how long you'd be in this situation. Would you ever be free? Would he let you go if you helped him? Calcharo had always been silent when you asked him for his reasons. He'd sit by your bedside and wipe away your tears if you cried, begging him to be reasonable, but he never gave you the answers to console you. That was the kind of man you had offered help to. Someone so cold and selfish.

Opening the cabinet, you realized you had never looked behind the mirror before. Why? you wondered, but you were surprised at the amount of medical equipment. There were a couple of first aid kits and a box of resonator-only medicine and tools. He had every shelf stocked fully, and although he only asked for a bandage, you took at least one of everything you could find.

Calcharo was eerily quiet when you returned to his side. It made your pulse rise momentarily as you feared he might have died in the minute you were gone. The chain you were strung to clattered as you ran over, dropping to your knees next to his, dropping some of the extra weight from your arms to the floor in a moment of panic. You realized your closeness too late, anxiety shivering down your spine with how little distance there was between you two. But your focus shifted instantly, relief filling you as Calcharo looked up at you again, his eyes dropping to the items crammed between your arms and body. He scanned over your haul, and you immediately felt silly for worrying about him at all. He was perfectly fine, it seemed.

But what would you have done if he died?

You didn't know how to get out of here in the first place. Calcharo had never shown you any keys to undo your chains or to open any doors. There were no windows, and if you got out, there was no guarantee you wouldn't be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Tacet Discords going for your throat. These thoughts made your heart sink with a sense of panic as if reality was finally hitting you over your head. Or perhaps it was the thought of living with a corpse until you found your demise here as well. Either way, you were glad when he reached for one of the packages, revealing some round pills that he slipped between his lips, glancing up at you for a moment as if to make sure you were watching him swallow them. You fiddled with the medical utensils until you found another package, wanting to give it to him, but he shook his head as you held it out.

"Just use the bandage."

"You want me to do it?" you asked, reluctant to simply act. Glancing at the first aid kit, you were sure you'd find some there, but so far, Calcharo had always handled himself around you. Even when you had an outburst, trying to hit him, he'd let you slap him across the face rather than stop you. You'd half-expected him to retaliate when you stumbled back, recognizing his strength as superior and bracing for the impact, but it never came. He had always remained calm and composed, even with the glowing red hand-mark across his cheek.

It was the same with food or bathing. Calcharo always had enough rations stocked, and if he was back at the hideout, he made you meals all the time, only eating your leftovers or getting something for himself after you had your share. And he never took a shower first, ensuring you had all the warm water that would eventually turn cold (sometimes you let it run out of protest). You thought it might have simply been resourcefulness, but you began overthinking your beliefs now that he wanted you to do something for him.

"Are you sure?" you asked him again. There was a sense of exhaustion when he looked up at you, and much to your own surprise once more, you quickly snatched the first aid kit when he reached for it. "I can do it! Just didn't think you'd want me to..."

Calcharo let out a short grunt before lowering his arm again, not fighting you on this, but his eyes followed every one of your movements as you fiddled with the first aid kit. Ridden with sudden determination, you almost dropped all the contents on the undoubtedly nonsterile floor, only catching the bandage midair while some of the tools clattered to the ground. Quick as lightning, Calcharo caught a small pair of scissors before they could graze your leg, his bloody fist wrapping around it so tightly, you could see his knuckles whiten through the red sheen.

You gulped, watching him drag the scissors and his arm back to his side, too afraid to straighten your gaze and see the wound in full glory. When you agreed that you could do it, you had temporarily forgotten about the truly gut-wrenching part of medical treatment, and suddenly, you were even less sure about all of this.

Calcharo grumbled under his breath, noticing your sudden stiffness. His free hand reached out to touch yours. "Open it," he muttered, and his words put your body into motion. Following his instructions was so much easier than working through the thoughts that made you hesitate. He grabbed the start of the bandage from your hands once you unwrapped it, waiting for you to get onto what he was doing as he placed it over his naval before pressing it down onto the wound.

There was some visible comfort in the way his shoulders rose tensely as he covered the wound, but he dragged the now bloody bandage over the gash with skilled precision. As if he had done this countless of times, and you were almost certain he had. You reckoned that his life must not have been easy if he got so used to hurting himself for the sake of simply healing. But you quickly reminded yourself not to sympathize with him. To not forget how he wronged you despite this moment of unusual humanity. Usually, he appeared to you more like a monster, but right then, he was but a wounded soldier, and perhaps your parents had been right; you were too good-hearted for your own good.

Dragging the bandage to his side, Calchero stopped, huffing as you had stopped unwrapping more of it. He pulled his legs in so he could push his torso off the wall before he looked up at you. Gulping, you knew what you had to do. It wasn't like he wouldn't do it himself, but it was honestly ridiculous that you sat there frozen in place now that you had come so far. Inching closer, you positioned yourself between his legs, hesitating for a split second more before you reached out your arms, wrapping them around his front to reach behind Calcharo.

Carefully, perhaps with less pressure than he would have liked, you wrapped and pulled the bandage from his back to his front again. Calchero released it once he noticed you taking action, but when you reached the blood-soaked gash again, it was his hand that did the dirty work, pressing the bandage down. There was about one more round that you could make, and you quickly guided the wrap around him once more before making an amateurish knot on his healthy side. It was far from perfect, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his blood coating your hands now, too. It didn't feel like you helped him, but it was what he had wanted.

Placing your hands on the ground, you wanted to get up again, get some healthy distance between you two, and clean your hands if you got the chance. But before you could even slip one leg out from underneath you, Calchero's whole body suddenly collapsed forward. In a spurt of a moment reaction, you grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing your own between his collarbones to brace against his weight that could have easily buried you underneath it.

"H-Hey!" you called out, unsure what was happening, when you suddenly felt him inhale deeply, his hot breath releasing against your chest, sending shivers down your spine. And then, he chuckled.

"I didn't think you would."

His voice vibrated against your skin as he spoke them directly into your body. You didn't know what to say nor what he meant, but you felt the goosebumps rise across your arms and neck.

Calchero lifted himself just enough to nuzzle his face between your neck and shoulder, his weight so heavy as it rested on top of you. All you could do was curl your fingers into his body, and you cursed yourself for not immediately pushing him away, a small part of you afraid you might agitate the wound.

"Didn't think you'd care about me."

"I don't," you clarified, sounding pouty rather than confident. It had been a mistake, after all. You should have just let him sort out his own mess and stop being a busybody and help. Then, you wouldn't be in this situation now, your pulse throbbing in your ears as your heart began to beat faster with the anxiety and discomfort.

"I'm glad," he muttered. "Glad you care."

"I don't!"

This time, you did push. At least you tried. Calcharo didn't move an inch away from you, his head resting on your shoulder, his body threatening to bury you underneath if you didn't stay solid in your spot. The thought of Calcharo trapping you on purpose crossed your mind, and you hated yourself for not seeing it coming, walking right into the trap. And even if not, he was clearly exploiting the situation for all it was worth!

Of course, he'd take advantage of your kindness. Of course, he'd use your naivety and kindness to exploit you for something he wanted. Even if you questioned why it had to be you, why he kidnapped you of all people, his intentions—albeit disciplined—had always been clear. Although he held himself back from doing something regrettable so far, you had caught him touching you often: touching your hand while passing you a plate with food, brushing away hair from your face right after waking up, and letting his fingers glide over your arms or legs while you had dozed off, just to name a few. You should have been more careful. Should have listened to your body telling you to stay away. It might have just been something akin to a hug, but you should have never allowed him to go this far.

What if he took your kindness for consent?

"Please stop," you mumbled, feeling the tears shoot into your eyes. You didn't need to turn your head to know his eyes had opened, probably after hearing the sob in your voice. You wished you were stronger, able to push him away. Wished you could have fought him and caused him to stop liking you—wanting you. Wished you never even thought of him as anything but a monster.

"Just a little bit longer," he mumbled, lips brushing against your skin. Even when hiccups shook your body, Calchero didn't move, didn't budge. It seemed he didn't care anymore, getting exactly what he wanted. All you could do was sit there and wait for it to end, just like always. You felt his gaze vanish, the closeness allowing him to observe you differently, without needing to see when he could instead feel you.

His arms wrapped around your body, and you felt more trapped than ever, the feeling only registering when he said two more words that day,

"Thank you."

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serpentandlily · 1 year ago

Text

Sly Fox, Dumb Bunny III

Sly Fox, Dumb Bunny - Eris x Archeron!Reader

Summary: You find yourself ensnared by a sly, cunning fox. A very handsome, irritating one.

Warnings: none

a/n: hope you enjoy this one just as much as the others!

➻❥ Part I ➻❥ Part II

· · ─────── ·♡· ─────── · ·

Part III

· · ─────── ·♡· ─────── · ·

“That was…weird,” Mor remarked.

You agreed. You had no idea what to make of Eris’s behavior. Feyre and Rhys seemed to be locked in a mental conversation, leaving the rest of you to silence. You rubbed at your arm, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. You didn’t want to create any problems for your sister but you also didn’t want to leave.

“He had a point,” Rhys finally said before looking at you with those violet eyes that reminded you far too much of a certain pair of amber ones. They both held too many secrets. “But I don’t think Beron will prove to be much of a problem as long as we keep his focus on other things.”

Feyre nodded along. “Besides, what is Beron going to do about it, anyways? Short of killing us, there is nothing to be done.”

You felt a flicker of fear but pushed it down. Rhys was the most powerful High Lord. Surely he would defend you and your sister if it came down to it. Feyre was also powerful in her own right and could fight for herself but you…

“We won’t let any harm come to you,” Rhys promised, his voice softening. “And what did I say about keeping those mental shields up?”

You turned red and quickly slammed the gates to your mind closed.

“I would like to stay,” you mumbled, sheepishly. “But I don’t want to cause problems.”

Mor waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. Eris talks out of his ass most of the time. He probably just wanted to put us on edge. You being here is not a problem, doll.”

You didn’t feel comforted in the slightest.

“Well, if that's settled,” Rhys said, standing up. “I believe it is time for us to make our way towards the meeting room.”

You let out a breath, trying to settle your nerves from Eris’s display. Feyre gave you a small smile, linking her arm through yours. “Don’t look so nervous. There’s going to be some friendly faces in the crowd.”

You nodded, still feeling anxious about the whole thing. Although you hardly considered Vassa and Jurian your friends, at least you were familiar with them. Unfortunately, you were also familiar enough with Lord Nolan and his son.

Feyre placed her other hand in Rhys’s extended elbow and the two of them led you out of the chambers and into the wide corridor. Your breaths were still shaky once your group got to the staircase that would lead you to the meeting room with the reflection pool.

Feyre unwrapped her arm from yours and Azriel stepped forward instead.

“Azriel is going to escort you in,” she explained. “If you feel nervous, just stay by his side. Okay?”

You gave her a small nod and let them lead the way forward. When your group finally reached the top of the staircase, you were a bit relieved to see that the Autumn Court wasn’t present yet. Your eyes darted around the room, landing on all the various High Lords and their entourages, trying to place them in their respective courts.

“That right there is Tarquin,” Azriel whispered from beside you, following your eyesight. “High Lord of Summer.”

“And him?”

“Kallias, High Lord of Winter. His wife and mate, Vivianne, is the female next to him.”

“Another High Lady?”

“Not quite,” Azriel answered. He inclined his head towards a different group. “That’s Helion, High Lord of the Day Court.”

The male he nodded to was quickly approaching your group, a serpentine smile on his face. Gods, you were still not quite used to how beautiful the fae were. Helion looked like a God in his own right. His eyes passed over your group until they landed on you and lingered for a second longer.

You watched as he greeted Feyre, Rhysand and Mor before turning his head towards you and Azriel.

“Shadowsinger,” he nearly purred, “Always happy to see you.”

Azriel didn’t smile, didn’t move. In fact, he shot the High Lord an exasperated look as if this flirtatious behavior was all too common. That didn’t stop you from blushing when the High Lord looked at you and smiled coyly.

“And who might you be?”

He reached out a hand but before you could open your mouth, the High Lord was suddenly knocked to the side, stumbling over himself.

“My apologies, High Lord,” Eris sneered at Helion. “Perhaps you shouldn’t stand in the middle of a walkway.”

Eris strode away before Helion could even respond, his brothers trailing after him, glaring around the room. Your jaw nearly dropped at his audacity but you quickly schooled your face, watching Helion glare at their backs. He seemed to shake off the encounter quickly, his charming persona snapping back into place as your sister came up on your side.

“Helion,” she said, “this is my sister, Y/n. She’s here to help us discuss the peace treaty with the humans.”

Your introduction with Helion was short lived as Thesan called for the start of the meeting now that everyone was here. The first half of the meeting was just with the fae before the human leaders were to be brought in. Since you were primarily there for the humans, your thoughts drifted away as the fae leaders began their discussions.

Your eyes trailed over all the courts—taking interest in how different each fae looked depending on where they came from. But your gaze kept falling on one fae in particular. The red headed male sat behind his daunting father. He hadn’t once looked in your direction. Part of you was glad for it, because it would be embarrassing to be caught blatantly staring at him as you were. Another part of you longed for him to look your way… You had no idea where that feeling came from.

Eris was dressed far more formally than he had been the last two times you had seen him. He wore a dark green vest stitched with golden thread, tiny leaves embroidered along the seams, on top of a cream button up. A golden fox brooch was pinned at the neck of his collar, probably the Vanserra family’s emblem. His pants were an even darker green, almost appearing black and neatly tucked into his boots. Around his shoulders was a matching green cape coat embellished in gold detailing much like his vest.

His red hair looked like a raging fire next to all the green, his pale skin glistening in the soft lighting of the room. He was so distractingly beautiful, even with that familiar haughty smirk on his face. It didn’t matter that there were far more powerful, commanding fae in the room. Your eyes could not keep off him.

Like a moth to flame.

Eris’s honey amber eyes finally met yours and you felt something snapped inside of you. You gasped as a golden thread unraveled within you and shot out across the room—all the way to the male seated across from you….all the way to Eris.

Mate.

The word clanged through your head, drowning all other thoughts.

Mate.

Eris was your mate.

In your shock, you missed the warning look Eris shot your way. You gasped, loudly, drawing the attention of the room as you stood so suddenly, your chair was knocked to the ground behind you. Your heart was pounding in your chest, that golden thread thrumming with sparks of flame.

Your sister quickly rose from her seat, placing a hand on your upper arm to steady you. Azriel too had jumped up, his hand ghosting over Truth-teller, as if ready for whatever invisible threat was occuring.

Eris stood abruptly, almost panting. Your eyes never left those amber ones. Not even as they seemed to plead with you to sit, to hide, to disappear from this room entirely.

“What’s wrong?” Feyre asked, her voice hurried and filled with concern. Her eyes followed your line of sight and darted back to you and down to the hand you held to your chest.

Rhysand seemed to catch on to what was happening quicker.

“Azriel, get her out of here,” he ordered the shadowsinger.

A scarred hand wrapped around yours and a second later, you were engulfed in a wave of shadows.

· · ─────── ·♡· ─────── · ·

“Rhysand,” Thesan said, “Please answer for that display. What antics have occurred in your court to disrupt such a meeting?”

Feyre’s hands were shaking as Rhysand latched onto them, guiding her back to her chair softly. “Apologies, Y/n is still a bit sensitive to magic since coming out of the cauldron. You’ll have to forgive her sudden departure.”

“And here I thought you had moved on from your lying and deceiving ways, Rhysand,” Beron jumped in, his voice filled with wicked amusement. “It appears a congratulation is in order.” He turned to face his son. “It seems to me that a mating bond has just snapped into place.”

Eris’s face was unreadable as he sat back down, fists clenched at his sides.

“Explain yourselves,” Tarquin interjected, looking bemused. “How do you have another Made female in your court, Rhysand?”

“She is my sister,” Feyre declared. “And she was there the day Hybern forced all of them into the cauldron.”

“Why was she not included in the reports from that day?” Thesan asked, sitting up straighter.

“She was under our protection,” Rhysand answered. “She was hardly more than a child at the time.”

“Liar. She never came out of the cauldron,” Tamlin said, sharply, eyes narrowing. “Your reports never included her because she never came out of the cauldron that day.”

“Well, considering you all just saw her alive and in person,” Rhysand shrugged, picking a piece of lint from his coat. “Obviously, she did. Perhaps your head was too far up Hybern’s ass to see.”

Tamlin growled but was cut off by Beron.

“Where have you taken my son’s mate?” Beron demanded.

“That is none of your concern.”

“Rhysand, you cannot possibly keep her away from her mate,” Thesan said. “He is entitled—”

“He is entitled to nothing,” Feyre snapped. “The Night Court does not force females to accept mating bonds. As she falls under our jurisdiction, she has our full protection against any of your antiquated beliefs.”

“Leave it to the Night Court to spit on traditions,” Beron hissed. “A mating bond works both ways. As the other half falls under my jurisdiction, my son has all the right to invoke a blood duel if you wish to keep her from him.”

The Lady of Autumn looked alarmed at her husband’s words but said nothing. Neither did Eris, who seemed to be choosing his next moves very carefully.

“Wouldn’t be the first time the Night Court stole a female away,” Tamlin said, sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“Oh please, spare us from revisiting your despair,” Helion chuckled, humorlessly.

“Have we all forgotten why we are here today?” Kallias cut in, his tone cold. “Must we argue over something that does not involve the rest of our courts? This meeting has already been derailed and some of us have better things to do with our time then listen to squabbles.”

“This is not over, Rhysand,” Beron hissed. Eris still sat stoically behind his father, not faltering in the slightest. “You and I have much to discuss after we deal with the humans lest you wish to start a conflict between our courts.”

“Fine,” Rhysand growled. “But prepare yourself and your son for disappointment.”

· · ─────── ·♡· ─────── · ·

You paced in the sitting room in the River House, your heart still beating rapidly, your thoughts out of control. A mating bond. A godsdamn mating bond had snapped between you and Eris of all people. Eris, the male whose reputation followed him like darkened clouds. Eris, the male who had left Mor to die in the woods all those years ago. Eris, the Heir of Autumn, the son of one of the most ruthless fae in all of Prythian.

Surely it was a mistake. It had to be.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Elain suggested, gently, patting the cushion beside her on the couch. “Feyre will get it all sorted out. You needn’t worry so much.”

“How can I not worry? How can I not worry when Eris of all people is my mate, Elain?” You rubbed at your chest, already feeling an emptiness there now that you had been separated from him. “This must be a mistake. A trick, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Elain agreed, though she didn’t sound like she believed it for one second. “But there’s not much you can do about it now. Not until they return from the meeting.”

You let out a long breath and plopped onto the couch next to her. Elain brushed a hand through your hair, guiding you to lay down on her lap. “It’ll be okay, Y/n. A mating bond isn’t the end of all things. Feyre would never let that male get his hands on you.”

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Some part of you wanted that male. Not the Eris that the others saw. But the one you had seen in those secret moments between the two of you. The alluring fox behind the mask.

Your heart sang for him now that the mating bond had snapped into place. He hadn’t seemed surprised in the slightest….like he had already known about it. Had it snapped for him? Had he known this whole time that you were his mate? Why wouldn’t he tell you? Maybe…

maybe he didn’t want you…

Hours went by. The whole night passed. You didn’t stray from the couch, neither did Elain. You appreciated your sister comforting you. You wished Nesta wasn’t on her mating vacation and was here to help you as well…maybe she would know what to do.

The door to the house opening had you sitting up, rubbing at your red rimmed eyes. Elain woke abruptly as well, wiping the drool that was dribbling from the corner of her mouth. Feyre, Rhysand and Mor strode in, all looking just as exhausted as you.

“Well, I’m glad that shitshow is over,” Mor said, falling on one of the settees dramatically.

A second later, Amren and Azriel came into the room, both wearing unreadable expressions. Amren’s silver eyes studied you for a moment before moving to Feyre and Rhysand.

“How’d it go?”

“Awful,” Rhysand sighed. “No one could come to an agreement.”

“Did the humans not want to sign?” You asked, purposefully avoiding the other topic.

Feyre shook her head. “No, they were…even less receptive than we thought they’d be.”

“What happens now?” Elain asked.

“We go through that again and again, I suppose,” Rhys answered. “Until a peace treaty is signed.”

The room fell into a heavy silence until you broke it, minutes later.

“And…and what of…” You trailed off, unable to say the words, unable to ask about the male that had been on your mind since you had been whisked away from the meeting.

“Beron will be visiting the Court of Nightmares tomorrow,” Rhys said, hesitantly, gauging your emotions. “To discuss what is to be done. It is unfortunate that he knows about the bond now because there is little Eris can do as long as his father is in power.”

“He can finally kill the bastard,” Mor grumbled into a pillow.

“We must tread carefully,” Amren said. “If Eris is forced to call for a blood duel against Rhysand, he will die and one of his brutish brothers will be next in line for the throne.”

“What!” You exclaimed. “A blood duel? Would he…would he really do that? Fight Rhysand even if it means certain death?”

Eris was powerful, sure. But he was still only an heir, not a full blown High Lord like Rhysand. He would be misted in seconds. Just that thought of it sent you into a panic.

“I’ll fight him in your place,” Azriel said, darkly, looking at Rhys but he shook his head.

“We cannot risk that,” Rhys said.

“Do you really think Beron would have his own son fight and die in a blood duel?” Feyre asked.

“Of course he would. One less person he has to keep off his throne,” Amren said.

“He’s a monster,” Elain whispered, staring at you with concern.

“Yes, he is,” Rhys sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So we must do as Amren said and tread very carefully.”

· · ─────── ·♡· ─────── · ·

The next day, you stood in the foyer of the River House, dressed in a simple dark blue, silk dress. Your stomach was tossing and turning with nerves, scared of what would happen during this meeting with Beron. You hated that you were causing your sister and Rhysand so much stress, hated that you were in the middle of this conflict.

You wished you could turn back time. Wished you could go back to that moment the mating bond snapped so you could hide the realization better. You had always worn your heart on your sleeve and it had finally bit you in the ass.

You had no idea how today was going to play out.

You were certain of one thing, though. You ached to see Eris again. The mating bond had nearly kept you up all night. Feyre had tried teaching you how to block if off, but it was hard. Eris seemed to have no problem keeping his side of the bond locked down. It infuriated you to know he was probably feeling every single emotion from you.

“Are you ready?” Rhys asked as Feyre, Mor and Azriel slid into view.

Rhys and Feyre were dressed like they always were when making trips to Hewn City. Mor wore a scandalous red dress that clung to her beautiful curves and Azriel wore his Illyrian leathers, as per usual, all seven siphons on display.

You nodded, unable to even speak.

The next hour seemed to happen while you were stuck in a daze. Rhys winnowed you all to Hewn City and led you into the throne room where everyone was waiting. Word must’ve spread quickly of what had occurred. Keir escorted Beron and Eris into the throne room after the formalities were done.

You couldn’t find the nerve to look at Eris now that you were in the same room. You had shown your hand during that meeting and had caused an avalanche to fall in its wake. You felt guilty, ashamed and scared…so scared.

A dumb bunny, indeed.

Rhys and Feyre led you all to a private meeting room, shutting the door in Keir’s face as he tried to join. You sat, hiding your shaking hands in your lap, keeping your eyes on the floor.

“Well, I assume you have come to your senses by now,” Beron said, leaning back in his chair as if he commanded the room. “The girl comes with us. The Night Court owes Autumn a bride as it is.”

His glare focused on Mor for a moment and she scoffed in his direction.

“Not so fast, Beron,” Rhysand tsked, pouring himself a glass of wine. “We don’t owe you anything. It was your court that ultimately broke the marriage agreement all those years ago.”

Beron sat up with a sneer. “I believe it was broken the moment that girl decided to whore herself out to an Illyrian bastard of all people.”

You tensed in your seat, gripping the dress in your fists.

“Father, please,” Eris sighed, making you look up at him finally.

Beron glanced at his son before turning back to Rhysand. “You should be overjoyed that we’re willing to take the girl as it is, considering the beasts in your court have probably ran through her already.”

“Watch your mouth,” Feyre snapped.

The smell of burning wood filled the room and Eris flexed his hands, new scorch marks on the table underneath them. “Don’t speak of her like that.”

Beron laughed. It was an awful sound. “Right, my apologies, son. Don’t worry, those mating instincts will go away once you’ve fucked her for a near century.”

Your face turned bright red at the crude words. Eris growled. The sound was so primitive, so animalistic. It sent chills down your spine. Even Beron looked unnerved for a moment.

“You are not winning yourself any favors,” Rhysand purred, smirking at the older male. “Have you any dignity?”

“Have you?” Beron bit back. “You all but spit on the face of the Mother by keeping her away from her mate. This is more of a blessing for you then it is us. A marriage alliance with Autumn, one you do not deserve that we are graciously offering.”

“Let me make myself clear, Beron, since you refuse to listen,” Rhysand snapped. “Our court has no laws that require a female to accept a bond. You would really go to war over something like this? While our courts are still recovering from the last one?”

Rhys and Feyre had theorized that Beron was so adamant about forcing you into the bond not because he cared for his son, but for two other reasons. One, you were Made. They had all seen how powerful Nesta was because of it and Beron craved power above all else.

Two, it was another way to keep Eris in check. To dangle you over his head as a threat.

“Perhaps we should ask what she wants,” Mor interjected.

“What she wants does not matter,” Beron snarled. “She is mated to an Autumn male, by our laws she must accept.”

“She is a resident of our court,” Feyre argued back. “She does not have to accept it.”

“Then you leave us no choice,” Beron said, rising from his seat. He planted his palms on the table, staring at you all of a sudden. You crumbled into yourself. “Is that what you want, girl? You want us to declare a blood duel against your family?”

You shook your head as Rhysand stood, slamming his own hands on the table. “You would have your son fight in a blood duel against me, a High Lord?”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be against you,” Beron laughed, cruelly. His eyes fell on Feyre. “And it wouldn’t be my son. I will demand a blood duel against your mate. A mate for a mate. Very fitting, don’t you agree?”

Feyre versus Beron…. That bastard had planned this. You’d all been so concerned with Eris declaring a blood duel you didn’t even realize this would be a way Beron could kill Feyre as he wished in a legal way—as barbaric as it was.

And most of the other courts held the mating bond in such regard, you wondered if you’d find any allies against him for doing this beside Helion.

Rhysand growled, darkness leaking off of him,

“And I will just fight you in her place.”

Beron smiled. “Oh, but you see, you can’t. Once a blood duel has been declared you either surrender to the terms or fight. I don’t know where you got your information from but there are no place holders allowed.”

Your heart was racing in your chest.

Silence fell so heavy in the room your ears were ringing. All of this was all your fault. You felt tears line your eyes. You couldn’t let Feyre fight for you. You wouldn’t. Even though she could probably hold her own against him, he was ages older than her—more battle worn. She’d be at a huge disadvantage.

And Eris couldn’t do anything about this, not if it was his father who wished to fight a blood duel. He couldn’t order his father not to.

You couldn’t let her do this. You owed your life to her, you owed everything to her. It was time to start fighting your own battles.

“I’ll go,” you whispered, so quietly you wondered if you had even said the words out loud. “I’ll go.”

Feyre’s head whipped to you. “No, absolutely not.”

But you shook your head. “I do not want anyone fighting on my behalf. I will go with them.”

Beron’s grin grew into one that could rival the devil himself.

· · ─────── ·♡· ─────── · ·

“We will find a way out of this,” Feyre whispered into your ear as she hugged you. “I promise. Just hold out for us, okay? We’ll get you out of there.”

You nodded, pulling away to brush the tears off her cheek. You weren’t even going to be able to say goodbye to Elain and Nesta. Beron was demanding that you leave right away.

“I’ll be okay, Fey,” you murmured to her.

“Enough of the dramatics,” Beron called out. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Eris didn’t look at you as he held out a hand. You swallowed audibly and walked to his side, grasping it softly. You spared one last glance at your sister before you were winnowed out of Hewn City and into the den of foxes.

“Come here, girl,” Beron barked, now standing before his throne. “Let me get a look at you.”

You glanced at Eris but he just stood there, stoically, not meeting your gaze. You walked towards Beron, trying not to shake in fear.

The older male grasped your chin in his hand, turning your face from side to side as he examined you. Eris’s other brothers stood at the bottom of the dais, their wolfish grins doing little to make you less nervous. The Lady of Autumn was seated in a small chair to the side of the throne, her eyes not lifting from the floor.

“You look just like my other son’s mate,” he remarked. “Smaller, though. The runt of the family, I’m assuming. Pity. Were you not fed properly as a child?”

You weren’t even sure how to reply to that. You decided not to respond and Beron’s eyes narrowed.

“Hmm,” he mused, finally letting go of you. “Have you sullied yourself with those beasts?”

“Father,” Eris growled, stepping up next to you. “That is enough.”

Beron chuckled, mirthlessly, waving a dismissive hand. “Fine, take her away and get her out of those whorish clothes.”

Eris grabbed you by your upper arm and dragged you out of the throne room. You had to walk quickly, trying to keep up with his long legs as he led you down corridor after corridor. The Forest House was magnificent, beautiful. It was a shame that someone like Beron ran this court, you thought, as you studied the place.

Eris finally stopped in front of a room, yanking the door open and pushing you inside. You glared at him as he slammed the door shut behind him, crossing your arms. You were inside of a huge suite, it seemed. A lavish sitting room, with two doors on either side, likely leading to a bedroom and bathing chamber.

“These are my quarters,” Eris explained as he shrugged off his cape coat and tossed it on the red, velvet couch. He began to unbutton his vest as he faced you. “You are to stay here. Do not leave without an escort. Tomorrow, I will assign you two handmaidens to help you.”

Your eyes widened. “I’m…I’m meant to stay here…in your room?”

Eris let out a long sigh. “It is the safest place for you and I do not want to risk rumors.”

“B-but surely this is improper,” you stuttered. “We are not properly mated.”

Eris let out a cruel laugh. “We wouldn’t be in this situation if you hadn’t made such a spectacle at the High Lords’ meeting so don’t start complaining to me.”

You felt a flare of anger.

“You knew,” you grumbled. “You knew about the mating bond between us and you didn’t tell me! Perhaps if you had told me, I wouldn’t have even been in that room! I would’ve stayed home.”

“Unlikely,” Eris sneered, pouring himself a glass of whiskey from a decanter on a bar cart behind the couch. He chugged the drink down, loosening his collar with his other hand. “You don’t seem to have a lot going on in that pretty little head of yours, bunny. Did you ever stop to think about why I might be hiding it?”

“You are such a prick,” you snapped. “I am not one of your little pawns. I am not a part of your stupid games! You should have told me!”

You went to whirl around but Eris grabbed your wrist, dragging you closer to him. You glared up at him, ignoring the way his heat enveloped you in its embrace.

“This is not a game to me,” Eris growled. “Have you any idea what you’ve cost me? Have you any idea what he will do to you if I so much as take a single step out of line now?”

You yanked your wrist out of his grip. “Have you any idea what this has cost me? I’m the one who's been forced out of my home—forced to come here!”

“And who’s fault is that?”

Eris slammed the empty glass down on the cart.

“Gods, sorry I couldn’t read your oh-so-clever mind! Sorry I couldn’t act like an emotionless shell of a person like you!”

“Watch how you speak to me,” Eris snarled. “I can make your life here a living hell, bunny.”

“I’m not scared of you, Eris,” you snapped. “You don’t fool me. I see the real you under that mask and you know what I think—I think it is you who is scared.”

Eris ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You know nothing. Do you understand? Nothing.”

“Then tell me! Tell me so I can help you! I know you do not wish to see your father in power much longer. Let me help!”

Eris grabbed your chin in his hand, forcing you to look up at him. You hated how cold his amber eyes looked.

“No. Absolutely not. I will not involve you in the slightest,” he snarled before his eyes softened and his hand slipped to cup your cheek instead. “I cannot…I cannot bear to see this place make you cruel. Stay here, where you’ll be safe, bunny. Leave everything else to me. You were not made for this place. But me…You have no idea what kind of monster I can be.”

Eris’s hand dropped back to his side and he stepped away from you, heading towards the door. You were breathing so heavily, your lungs constricting your ribs against the dress you wore.

“Can we talk about this? Please!”

He said nothing, reaching for the handle of the door.

“Eris, please!”

His hand fell against the doorframe, flame licking at the wood—scorching it again. A growl rumbled through his chest and his head hung between his shoulders but he didn’t turn around, didn’t look at you.

“Do not,” he groaned. “Do not say my name like that.”

And then he was gone, leaving you completely alone.

· · ─────── ·♡· ─────── · ·

When you woke up later that night, you found yourself in an unfamiliar room. You sat up, realizing you were laying in a bed. You were certain you had fallen asleep on the couch, not wanting to even go into Eris’s bedroom.

The silk, dark orange sheets next to you were undisturbed. You rubbed at your eyes, getting up from under the covers. You were still in the dress you had fallen asleep in.

You padded over to the door, opening it slowly. You took two steps into the sitting room before you froze in your spot.

There, on the couch, was Eris. The fireplace was roaring in front of him as he slept, a lump on the floor by his feet. You blinked away the blurriness in your eyes to see what it was.

Ashera was curled up there, the dog you had met that day you had accidentally winnowed into the forest here. She slept soundly on the floor next to him.

You stepped back into the bedroom and closed the door behind you, quietly, not wanting to disturb them.

· · ─────── ·♡· ─────── · ·

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