#also hi if youre reading these tags i love you

[peachsayshi]

₊ ⊹ . ݁ THE KING  ₊ ⊹ .

(boxer!sukuna x reader)

⊹ tags: ryomen sukuna x female reader; childhood friends; character mentions: uraume - satoru gojo; unresolved tension; sukuna is oh so in love; fluffy but a mix of angst/smut/fluff; domestic; non curse au; p in v sex; unprotected sex; dry humping; making out; oral sex;

:about: you've known sukuna before he was a world boxing champion, when he was just a scrawny kid who used to hide behind your legs when you were both in kindergarten. sukuna is growing tired of the fame and fortune, and all he really wants is to fall into the arms of the one person who he's always considered his home.

this fic is one shot. I'll happily answer any lore questions regarding boxer!sukuna x reader, but there will not be a part two or more parts of their story. It is a standalone.

wc: 19K+

Sukuna steps out of the shower, his body wound up in a tight coil after the night's fight. He presses the bridge of his nose together to relieve his throbbing head, but his brow is searing with pain. When he opens his eyes he catches a reflection of his self in the bathroom mirror- a split on his bottom lip, a cut on the arch of his right eyebrow and a slight bruise on his left cheek. 

It's rare for him to look this battered after a match. 

He's been untouchable for years, he's almost forgotten what it's like to take a few good hits in the ring. 

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" 

His eyes flicker up toward Uraume, who seems to have appeared out of nowhere.  

He shakes his head at his manager. "Nothing happened, I won. Isn't that a good thing?"

Uraume narrows their gaze, sharp like a sly little fox. They can read Sukuna like a book, but Sukuna chooses to play ignorant and brushes off their knowing stare. 

He knows that the inquisition isn't about the sponsors, the money, or the win. 

He also knows that Uraume never asks questions that they don’t know the possible answer to. 

Thankfully, his manager just sighs. 

"The limo is outside waiting to take you to the party," they state, their heavy exhale indicating that they know Sukuna won't own up to what they are trying to prod out of him. 

"Fuck," Sukuna grumbles. The towel hangs low on his hips, and he throws the one that is around his neck onto the ground. He steps outside to the locker room and proceeds to change. He dries off, puts on his boxers and picks up his black t-shirt before pulling it over his bare chest marked with ink. He then tugs on his jeans, and secures his belt around the waist. "Do I have to go to that?" 

Uraume shrugs, "Don't you want to parade your big victory over Satoru Gojo to the rest of the world?" his manager adds, slipping both hands into their pocket as they stride casually toward Sukuna who is merely trying to gather the rest of  his things. 

The last touch is his signature silver chain necklace. He hooks the accessory around his neck, while mentally preparing himself for the crowd waiting for him outside. For the voices that would be screaming out his name, and the obnoxious paparazzi who can't seem to grasp the concept of personal space. 

They all gawk at him like he's a endangered animal at the zoo.  

His chest seizes at the thought. 

He used to gloat over being in the spotlight. He took to stardom with an extreme sense of pride, but the thought of it right now just makes his skin crawl uncomfortably. 

The only thing that Ryomen Sukuna wanted at this very moment, is to go home in fucking peace. 

He’s given the fans and the world what they wanted. 

"Little shit got what was coming to him," he blurts out in response to Uraume. "It'll take him a while to lick his wounds and get over his broken pride..." 

Uraume chuckles, "and I was worried that he might have actually had an advantage over you..." 

Sukuna swallows the sudden lump in his throat. 

God he was fucking tired. His whole body is aching, begging him to get some much needed rest. He hadn’t trained this hard in a long time. The strict diet, the isolation, the strenuous days in the gym and in the training ring slowly started filtering into him in doses. 

"Almost," he admits quietly, a little bitter over the reality of the situation that he was close to losing. "He's good for his age. Really good actually." 

Uraume's face falls at that. "You don't sound like yourself, my king," they tease half-heartedly, addressing Sukuna by yet another title which he earned in the ring. 

"The King", "The Beast", “The Champ”, “Monster of The Ring”…

There was a time when he was younger, when the fire for the fight burned inside him with such intense conviction, that he found dignity in the titles that he's earned from every match. The thrilling sensation of him standing in the middle of the ring, his hands raised with victorious joy as he looked down at his opponent while the crowd would cheer for him like he was a figure of the divine, used to mean a great deal to him. 

But those titles feel…hollow. An old skin which Sukuna unknowingly shrugged off without even realizing it. 

"I'm just exhausted," he breathes with a hint of frustration, giving Uraume a reply after allowing his mind to drift for a few seconds. "I've got a raging headache and my shoulder is killing me." 

He slings his bag over his good arm, before turning to face his manager. 

The pair walk down towards the end of the hallway, and Sukuna can already hear the muffled voices from the press that have slowly gathered inside. He elongates his spine naturally as he holds a domineering pose. He quietly huffs out a breath and tries to steady the uneasiness coursing through his veins. The second the press lay their eyes on him, they stampede towards Sukuna like dogs off their leash. A flash of white and blue flickers around him, disorienting him for a single moment. 

"Hey, champ! How does it feel to knock out Satoru Gojo after everything he said this season?" 

"Way to prove that you're still The Beast of the Ring! What's next for our King?" 

"You've held your championship title for ten consecutive years! How do you go up from here?"

"Sukuna! Sukuna! Is it true that you've just locked in a multi-million dollar deal with Nike?"  

Uraume steadies the crowd, protectively standing in front of Sukuna as they gesture everyone to calm down. 

Despite the sheer difference in their size, Uraume has a natural way of commanding a room. 

That's one thing Sukuna has always been grateful for regarding his manager; Uraume always looked out for his best interest first.  

"Hello, everyone," they politely speak, their voice calm and pleasant. "While we appreciate the enthusiasm; our champion, Ryomen Sukuna, will only be making a single statement. He's had a long night and needs his rest," they announce, before looking over their shoulder and giving Sukuna a nod of approval to say what he needs to say. 

The man is thankful for Uraume every single day. He already informed them earlier that he wasn't interested in any post-match interview or conversations with the press, and Uraume happily obliged by accepting the privacy that he desperately needed. 

Sukuna tightens his grip around the gym bag over his shoulder. He stares at the small audience before him before clearing his throat to speak. "Young fighters like to run their mouth. I know because I used to be one of them. It's easy to be all bark and no bite. But in my case, I came out teeth first-" he states with a patronizing tone, noticing the press eagerly hang onto his every word and even laughing at his snide remark. 

They are waiting for a brutal comment from the badass himself, for him to add the cherry on top of all the shit-talk he’s already dished out. 

But Sukuna acknowledges that there is no place for it now. 

He doesn't need to add more to the hurt he's already caused to Satoru Gojo. 

Everything was settled in the ring, and now it was over. 

"However, I have to admit that this was one of the best fights of my career. I had fun. He's been a thorn by my side but I respect Satoru, and I know he has a brilliant career on the horizon. That's all I have to say about that for now. Have a good night." 

He steps away from the press, who trail at his feet like a pack of rats rattling off question after question as Uraume tries to console their demands. His manager delays their footing, all the while Sukuna finds the rest of his entourage at the arena exit. 

A string of bodyguards help him get through the second crowd of loyal fans who have gathered. They are waving phones in the air, begging for photos and videos. Sukuna obliges with a few, trying his best to fight off the shakes that's starting to make his hand tremble slightly. People lift up their shirts, flash their cleavage and pull out posters, bras and clothes for him to sign. He does so, his signature faltering from a clean string of letters to a fast doodle of his name. His fans offer him flowers, art, and mementos which he takes, and whatever extra he can't carry he hands off to one of his guards. When he's finally had enough of giving himself to the fans, he bids everyone a wave as his bodyguards escort him to the private parking lot in the back of the arena. 

Sukuna doesn't even realize how hard his heart had started hammering until he's embraced back into the quiet again. He feels incredibly uncomfortable in his own skin, and he isn't sure if it's the apprehension or the adrenaline wearing off from the fight. The phone in his pocket buzzes, probably Uraume wanting to make sure he's made it safely to his vehicle, but he can’t bring himself to answer the call. 

"Sir," one of his bodyguards states, "There's a VIP who is expecting to see you..." 

"So?" Sukuna scoffs, the black Mercedes in the distance a sanctuary. "I don't want to fucking see them." 

"Well, you see, they insisted. They weren't taking no for an answer." 

"And you would be shit at your job if you just let them roll over you like that," Sukuna begrudgingly replies. 

Sukuna wasn't particularly fond of the VIP guest lists. A majority of them were people who wanted to fawn over him, or simply weasel their way into his pants. The other half were people with deeper pockets trying trying to bargain him into fixing fights so that they can win big bucks on their bets.

Sukuna did not have the time or patience for the latter, and even the former as well. 

Especially tonight. 

"Actually, Sir, she's waiting for you as we speak-" the bodyguard stammers, having to look up when he addresses Sukuna. 

The champion stops abruptly to give him a puzzled stare and a piece of his mind over his bodyguard’s stupidity, but his attention is sharply drawn back to the car when he notices a figure step out of the Mercedes. 

You're wearing a denim skirt, a fitted white top and a pair of black boots. Sukuna’s heart skips a beat, noticing that your hair looks a little different from when he last saw you. A sparkle of silver glitters on your neck that matches his own chain, and you beam at him with a bright smile that steadies his soul.

  The click of your heels echo a little louder from the distance as you approach him, waving your fingers delicately in his direction to say your first hello. Sukuna's feet moves faster than the rest of him. He drops his bag off his shoulder, the gifts in his hands splay across the concrete ground and he scoops you up in his arms before spinning you in the air the second he wraps his arms around you. 

You giggle at his greeting, your body trapped in a blanket of muscle and cologne. Your fingers thread between the strands of his red hair, tears pricking your eyes at the sight of your best and oldest friend. 

Sukuna squeezes you tightly, "they should have just told me it was you by name," he exhales with a hint of annoyance, then carefully places you back down to rest your feet on the ground. 

You laugh under your breath, "Don't worry, I gave them hell for it. I told them that I'm the only VIP who mattered considering I have been on that list the longest...." 

You try to loosen your grip but Sukuna tenses up, so you ease back into his hug. 

He didn’t want to let go just yet. 

And truthfully, neither do you. 

"Hi, princess," he whispers in your ear, his voice deep and thick with fatigue. 

"Hey, 'kuna" you reply softly, your fingers curling around the back of his neck, as your heart beats heavily against his now relaxed chest. 

₊ ⊹ .

The light from the car's backseat illuminates Sukuna's ruggedly handsome face. You cup his jaw between your fingers, and lightly trace your thumb over the cut on his swollen lip. Your eyes track upward and you wince at the gash across his brow. 

"He got a few good hits on you didn't he?" you point out, not as a question necessarily but more as a statement of the obvious. 

"A few good hits doesn't mean shit..." 

"When was the last time you got hit this bad in the ring?" you press. 

"I fight for a living, someone was bound to land a punch someday. Besides, it's not a concern. I had my good luck charm tonight without even knowing it..." he responds with a wolfish grin. 

You jab him playfully in the chest. "You're not made of steel you know? You had me concerned for a second..." 

"I roughed him up too," Sukuna states with a pout, "you're all acting like he walked away completely unscathed..." 

He slings an arm over your shoulder, his strength pushing your body weight to lean closer against his side. You shake your head with disapproval as you press the button to switch off the light above you both. 

The city moves past you in a haze, but you can't stop taking in the man before you. 

Ryomen Sukuna. 

The first time you met him was on the playground of your old kindergarten. You were all outdoors, and you noticed that these two bigger kids were knocking him around. The kindergarten teachers weren't anywhere to be seen. At the clear imbalance of power and with your sheer sense of goodwill, you decided to go over there and help. 

Sukuna had just joined your class only three weeks before that. He was the smallest kid, and had a hard time keeping up with everyone else. Everyone made fun of him and called him "chili crisp"  because of his hair. They teased him constantly for how he looked, how he dressed, and how he spoke and simply refused to play with him. 

Being young and impressionable, you never engaged. But you didn't do anything to help Sukuna either. It made you ache seeing him treated this way, and this time you weren't just going to let it slide anymore. 

Sukuna did nothing to deserve this treatment in the first place. 

However, despite his small stature, Sukuna was a fighter even then. 

He kept getting up even if it meant that he would just be shoved down once again. 

You remember walking up to both those kids and grabbing them by the collar. You yanked them off, placing yourself in between them and Sukuna before scolding them both for their terrible behavior. 

"I'm gonna tell!" you squealed with a furious point of your finger, threatening them with snitching words. "And if I ever see you hurt him, I'm going to make sure everyone knows how bad you are! And you’ll get into so much trouble with the teachers!”

You sharply kicked them both in their heels, and watched the kids scamper off, a little more intimidated now that someone they deemed as an equal threat entered the playing filed. Once they were gone, you turned toward Sukuna who was planted on the concrete ground. He was wiping away his snotty nose and trying to hide his tears. 

You scratched the back of your head nervously, your throat all itchy and tight from the sight of him. 

"You're-you're not a chili crisp," was all you could think of telling him in that moment. You gave him a small but kind smile, before offering him both your hands and helping him on his feet. 

He was a whole head and shoulder shorter than you were back then. His clothes barely hung onto his body. He had to fix up his t-shirt and readjust his shorts. 

"I know that," he answered with irritation, and a scowl that never seemed to have left him. 

You assisted in brushing the dust off him. 

"Your name is Ryo-men Su-ku-na?" you asked, breaking down the pronunciation of his name to make sure you said it correctly. 

He nodded his head quietly. 

You gave him another tender grin, and reached out for his hand before introducing yourself. 

"I know who you are, I'm not stupid." 

You frowned at his sharp response. "I never said you were." 

The two of you stood there facing one another in awkward silence, unsure of how to proceed from the moment. 

You shifted your weight from one foot to the next, kicking a random little rock on the ground. "Those kids are stupid." 

"Yeah, they are." He grumbled through gritted teeth. 

"So, if I'm not stupid and you're not stupid, why don't we be friends?" 

Sukuna's eyes widened slightly at your words, like he couldn't believe what you said. 

"Friends?" 

"Yeah!" you squeaked with a little more excitement. "You'll have someone to sit next to and play with every day!" 

He nervously gripped the hem of his tee. 

He never gave you a real response, but the next day he showed up and took a seat right next to you in class.

You were both six years old, and have been insuperable ever since. 

₊ ⊹ .

You press your cheek against his broad shoulder, and Sukuna sighs as his body melts into the leather seat underneath him. His hand gently rubs your own shoulder, with the two of you sitting in silence together as you have done many times before. He instructs the driver to take you both back to his penthouse, disregarding some after party that he's expected to attend. 

At the call, your heart flutters with anticipation because it was a clear sign indicating that he wanted to be alone with you. 

You shivered thinking of the last time that happened. 

It's hard to believe that this version of Sukuna co-exists with the person you've known for a majority of your life. 

The day after he sat next to you in kindergarten, everything changed for the better. 

Sukuna still grimaced at everyone else, but kids no longer picked fights with him and he had a warming smile that was reserved for you alone. 

Whether in class or outside of school, you both spent every spare moment that you could together. You were glued to the hip like two peas in a pod. Your parents adored him, doted on Sukuna despite him resisting their affection. It was only one night, when he was having yet another sleepover at your place, where you finally asked him how is he able to hang out with you all the time. 

Sukuna revealed a truth that broke your heart entirely. 

“Here is better than being home. Usually it's just me..." 

"Just you?" you whispered innocently, "but your mom and dad?" 

You watched him shrink into his blanket with uncertainty. "Don't know. I live with my Grandpa. He works a lot..." 

It's only later in your life where you learnt the full story. 

Sukuna’s parents abandoned him, leaving him with his grandfather to pursue reckless adventures together. At the time Sukuna was only three years old. His grandfather worked hard to provide for the boy, but he was an aging old man and didn’t expect to be responsible for such a young child. Sukuna's grandfather always showed deep gratitude to your parents for helping out and providing Sukuna with another safe space that gave him some much needed stress relief on his end. 

His daughter eventually returned, in tow this time with Sukuna’s half brother Yuji. His dead beat dad was gone for good. But by then Sukuna was already fourteen. 

He’s always had a complex relationship with his family, but things seem to be better with his brother. The two of them could pass off as identical twins, it was almost scary how alike they looked. 

You loved Yuji; he was a living antithesis of his older brother. Always perky, smiling so bright it’s like the sun follows his footsteps. 

Sukuna, on the other hand, carried the shadow and gloom of a waning moon. 

Your childhood and early adolescent years were precious, cherished moments and memories that solidified the strength of your relationship. But despite everything, you were the only person who saw how bright Sukuna's own light could shine. 

The driver finally parks the car in front of one of the most expensive buildings in Tokyo. Sukuna gets out first, and extends a hand into the vehicle to help grab yours. The touch sends tingles up your arm, but you do your best not to read into the reaction just yet. 

The two of you enter the building, passing the security who simply tilts their head in acknowledgment, but from your peripheral vision you notice Sukuna’s eyes shifting around his environment.

“No cameras,” you reassure him with a squeeze to his bicep. “No paparazzi…” 

Sukuna was aware of what he signed up for with fame, but that did not mean that you had to be subjected to the aggressive violation of privacy. 

And after everything that happened, after the horrific clashing of both your worlds, he felt himself breathe a huge sigh of relief. 

“They probably think I am showing up to the victory party,” he answered with gratitude.

The elevator rings, the doors opening as you both step inside. 

Sukuna hits the button to the penthouse suite, and from the way his shoulders slump you can tell there is something off about his demeanor. 

This isn’t the Ryomen you knew who walked away from a fight with the buzz of the winner. 

He’s dimmed. 

A bulb that’s flickering. 

Something’s wrong, you thought, looping your arm around his and keeping your eyes on the numbers increasing as you swallow your concern. 

₊ ⊹ .

Puberty didn’t hit Sukuna; it struck him like a brick over his head. 

At sixteen years old, Sukuna was no longer the loser kid that everyone picked on. He was a tower, a watchful pillar that looked down on those around him with an intimidating stare. All of a sudden this scrawny boy shot up like a tree, his body springing into a new version of himself. His voice broke, dropping octaves lower than the soft tone of what it used to be. His shoulders broadened, lean muscle forming since he spent most of his time wrestling and boxing.  

He became the bad boy that everyone blushed and fawned over. 

The athlete that people admired.

His coaches loved him - called him a prodigy, and a star of the future.

Sukuna carried himself with plenty of self respect, and was extremely well spoken. Outside of his athletics he enjoyed reading and learning history, and his venture into sports only happened because it kept him busy and gave him some much needed space away from his home. He was readjust to a new life with his mom back in the picture, and a brother who was five years younger than him. At first it was simply an escape, but once he settled into the atmosphere of it all, it gave him a sense of structure. Sukuna was diligent about his training and academics, outsmarting and outplaying almost everyone around him. His motivation was fueled with every game and competition, and you quickly saw that Sukuna only had the expectation of being a winner and nothing else. 

Navigating your teenage years was a bit tough for both of you. 

It began with one sleep over just a year prior, the moment where you both recognized that things couldn’t progress as casually as they used to. You woke up tangled in each other’s arms, hyper aware of your bodies and the parts that were blooming. 

Sukuna slept on the sofa every sleep over after that. 

Thanks to your eruptive hormones, the both you bickered often and frequently. As you and Sukuna started understanding your own senses of selves, a hint of distance started to grow. For a long time the two of you only ever had each other, but with Sukuna now a part of the athletic group and you falling in line with your own little clique, the both of you were finding some time away from each other and identifying who you were without the other person around. 

However, you always came back to one another, like two little magnets seeking each other out. 

It’s all you’ve ever known since you were six. 

One afternoon, while hanging out in the school’s basketball court, Sukuna turned to face you as you paced behind him while he was throwing some shots for fun.

“They think you’re my girlfriend,” he casually stated, referencing his new set of friends who always studied you with intense curiosity. 

Your face burned multiple degrees hotter than it should. 

“W-what?” You stammered. 

“Yeah,” he answered nonchalantly, and you watched him dribble the basketball as the awkwardness settled.  

“That’s…that’s weird…” was all you could think of adding on. “You told them I am not, right?” 

Sukuna furrowed his brows and hummed. But he nodded his head. 

“Just because we are friends that doesn’t automatically mean that we are “boyfriend and girlfriend”,” you insisted, using air quotes to emphasize your statement. 

Sukuna turned so his back was to you, and tossed the ball directly into the ring. 

“That’s what I told them…” he reassured, but something about his tone didn’t sit right with you. 

The summer that followed - Sukuna’s grandfather, mom and brother took a trip away. Sukuna declined to join since he was participating in a tournament. After his wrestling team came out victorious, he decided to throw a secret bash at his place to celebrate. 

You were there helping him hide away all the fragile items, before staring at him in shock when he placed a few beer cans on his kitchen counter. 

“How did you get that?” You asked in a low whisper, afraid that you both might somehow get caught for doing something that you aren’t supposed to. 

He just gave you a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry about it, Princess…” 

That nickname stuck on you like glue. It’s something Sukuna called you with annoyance when you were both kids, and you used to call him an angry dragon in return. Even though you stopped using that silly term, for some reason Sukuna’s pet name morphed into one of endearment and affection which he kept using. 

“It’s just the team and a couple of girls that the guys have been trying to get with…” he ensured, “The guys wanted the beers, so I managed to sneak some from my grandfather’s stash…” 

“And what if he finds out?” 

Sukuna laughs, “that old man can’t even remember what day it is. I’m sure he won’t notice a few beer cans missing…” 

That night you had your first secret party, your first sip of beer and your first kiss; it was one of those core memories that lingered that was reminiscent of the adrenaline rush from living out the freedom of being young with no responsibilities. You don’t remember who it was who called out the idea of playing seven minutes in heaven, but suddenly all of you were sitting in a circle spinning an empty bottle on Sukuna’s grandfather’s worn rug. Your heart sat at your throat, your eyes fixated on the piece of twirling glass, half wondering who it would land on. You watched as couples disappeared into Sukuna’s room, everyone snickering in a circle thinking about what the potential couples could possibly be doing. 

The boys were crude with their commentary, and the girls giggled with feign disgust. 

Some people came out looking displeased, clearly unamused by what they experienced, while others had a look of euphoria on their faces. 

When the bottle landed on you, the first person you found yourself seeking out was Sukuna. 

However, the other end of the bottle wasn’t pointing to him, but to one of his teammates. 

His friend’s eyes widen with intrigue, a cute smile forming on his pouty lips. 

Your own cheeks warmed with curiosity. 

He helped you onto your feet, but the two of you were struck with an abrupt question that had you pausing your movements. 

“Do you want to do this?” Sukuna pointedly asked, his focus on you alone and no one else. 

There was a grave but serious look resting firmly on his face. 

Something about his stare made you uncomfortable, though you couldn’t place why. With the eyes of everyone else on you and his teammate, you instantly wanted to divert the intense attention elsewhere. 

“Of course!” You said with a casual shrug, then grabbed his teammate’s hand and led him into Sukuna’s bedroom. 

You’ve been in here countless of times, never once feeling uncomfortable in this space. But this time, you were quite aware of the state of his bed, of the slightly rumpled sheets that were tugged from edge to edge. Your mouth went dry, your body suddenly trying to recollect every movie, book and comic that explained or depicted the intimacies between two people. 

Two hands touched your waist, spinning you on your feet. 

“Time’s ticking,” his friend said. “We shouldn’t waste it…” 

“I’ve never done this before…” you blurted out. 

“I haven’t either…” he answered kindly, and that made you feel better. 

“Okay…” you said, before placing your hands awkwardly on his shoulder. 

“Let’s just start with a kiss…” he suggested and then leaned forward. 

You were frozen then, unsure of what to do. You stood there with wide eyes as you felt his lips on yours, the sensation making your belly tingle. 

He pulled away. 

“That wasn’t too bed…” you admitted and he laughed. 

“Do you want to try?” He asked. 

Your first initiated kiss wasn’t magical, nor was it horrendous as some of your other friends experienced. Even now when you think about it - the only memory that hits you is one of innocent exploration. It took a minute for you to get comfortable with his prodding tongue, to figure out the clash between lips and teeth, and to allow his wet muscle to access our mouth and glide over your own. The sensation reminded you of sticky, tacky popsicles that clung to your lips in summers past. 

It was fun…until a loud bang startled you both, making you split from each other’s arms like opposing forces. 

“Time’s up,” Sukuna growled, before barging in without even so much as asking if you were decent like he did with the other pairs. 

The look he gave his teammate was terrifying, even you couldn’t help but gulp. 

His friend let out a nervous giggle, scratching the back of his head as he scurried his way out. “Damn, that was fast!” He tittered nervously, his voice cracking slightly towards the end. 

Sukuna narrowed his gaze as he watched him leave the room. Meanwhile, you both stood there facing each other, noticing his nostrils flaring as your breath rose and fell. 

“What?” You questioned, returning his hard stare with an even stronger glare. 

He huffed out a breath through his nose, “are you okay?” he asked, in an attempt to compose his clearly frazzled state. 

“Yes!” You blurted back, a little shaken. “Was that even seven minutes?” 

Sukuna grimaced, holding onto your eyes before he stormed out of his room, scoffing with annoyance at your response. 

Neither of you really spoke about the awkwardness of that moment, and instead carried into the heat of that summer like nothing even happened. 

But, what did hurt you after that, was that Sukuna never invited you to any of his “parties” again. 

He fibbed and said it was just “a team thing”, but you eventually heard about the other attendees at the party, and only through the grapevine found out about Sukuna’s first kiss.

It felt like a betrayal in its own way, this sudden shakiness in your friendship as uncertain as tectonic plates waiting to crash into a shattering earthquake. 

You called him one night to confront him, asking him why he wouldn’t tell you about his first kiss when you both should be able to talk about everything. But that conversation just resulted in an argument, a blow out that felt like a collapse in your world. 

You both didn’t speak to each other until the end of that summer, when Sukuna finally waved the white flag by crawling to your front door late one evening with some ice cream as a peace offering. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, while you both sat on the sidewalk, scooping wooden spoons into the tub of vanilla with chocolate chips. 

It’s the first time he’s ever apologized to you. 

Even when you were kids, Sukuna refused to ever say he was sorry. 

He would just pout angrily before over compensating with his sweetness to show you that he didn’t mean it. 

But not this time. 

You licked the vanilla off the spoon, biting down on the rich chocolate chunks, and hoping that the tears wouldn’t fall from your eyes from how your chest swelled at his remorse. 

Sukuna draped an arm around your shoulder, “I hate that things have been weird between us.” 

“You made them weird…” you mumbled and he just sighed. 

“‘Yes,” he begrudgingly admitted, “yes, I did…” 

You turned to look up at him, and he gave you a solemn smile. 

“I’m a little possessive of you, I realize…” he explained, his lips forming into that small frown, mirroring his childlike expression. 

“A little?” you answered back with a snarky tone. 

“You’re my best friend,” he admitted, his eyes downcast with regret. “You have always been my person.” 

“You’re my person too, ‘kuna…” you murmured, “but…but being best friends means that we have to trust each other. That we can’t just…hurt each other. That we should stop being honest or talking to one another when things get bad…that we can’t face things that make us…I don’t know, feel weird and stuff…” 

He rested his chin on the top of your head, the two of you finally bridging the gap of what seemed to be the first real challenge of your friendship. 

“It was a shit kiss…” he sighed, “I was just too fucking embarrassed to tell you.” 

You gazed up at him from underneath your lashes. 

“Why?” You said with a light laugh.  

Sukuna’s attention dipped to your mouth for a split second and back to your eyes again. “I don’t know. You just seemed to have enjoyed yours in comparison. I felt like I lost a game or something. I didn’t want to admit that mine was awkward and wet and just…not fucking good…” 

You laughed at that. 

“Everything with you is a competition…” 

“Not everything…” 

You nudged his stomach playfully with your elbow. “Do you remember when we played Mario Kart for the first time? When you lost three rounds in a row and nearly ripped my head off?” 

“How was I supposed to know you are freakishly good at that game?” 

You laughed, “I stay the reigning champion of rainbow road!” 

“You stay a pain in my ass…” 

You rolled your eyes, “a pain in your ass that will never leave you, so stop complaining about it…” 

Sukuna exhales, “It was…a bad kiss,” he admitted shyly, “She was so damn skittish, and I think I was too. I didn’t…I didn’t think it would be so…ugh. It was just not the right person…” 

“Or maybe you were just nervous…” you answered honestly. 

Sukuna shook his head. 

“No, I know it wasn’t the right person…” he said with confidence. 

You unraveled from his hold for a moment to look deep into those heated eyes. 

“Can I say something?” he questioned, the tips of his ears turning slightly red, a blush you’ve seen before but never realized how adorable it actually looked on him until this moment. 

“Anything”

“I don’t want you to think I am being weird or take this the wrong way…” Sukuna explained, pausing for a single breath before continuing. “I just thought the first person I would’ve kissed would have been…well, you… 

The world went still in that moment. All you could hear was the soft rustle of the trees in the distance, and all you could see was the open vulnerability of Sukuna’s heart resting on his face. 

It’s incredibly rare for him to even show it, your friend guarding that part of himself with such conviction. 

“Oh…” 

“But then I realized that you’re not supposed to be kissing your best friend,” he added on, stomping on the spark that flickered between you both before it even had a chance to even light. 

“No,” you agreed quickly, your eyes darting to the tub of ice cream. You pressed the back of your spoon into the creamy texture, doing your best to ignore the sudden pulse in your chest. 

“My second kiss was a lot better that’s for sure…” Sukuna rambled on, digging his spoon around yours as he scooped himself another serving of ice cream. “Way better actually…and on round three I think I got the hang of it…” 

You swallowed the tiny lump in your throat. “I don’t need to know the gross details, please,” you implored, though your stomach rolled with a hint of nausea at the reality that he’s kissed more people than you expected. 

You never admitted it out loud, but the confession made you a little jealous. 

If you were an option in his head…why didn’t he just ask? 

₊ ⊹ .

. 

Sukuna lost his virginity to a freshman college student a year later when he snuck into a party with two of his former teammates. You lost yours on the night of your graduation party to the same boy you kissed for the first time. You and Sukuna were expected to attend the same university (with him obtaining a full scholarship for academic excellence), but your friend had deviated from the shared path after being scouted. The two of you commuted to see each other often, with you visiting him when he was training and him stopping by the campus whenever he had free time. 

You and Sukuna knew about the other person’s intimate lives from the stories you shared, and despite continuously being plagued with constant accusations of being “more than friends”, you both agreed never to allow that discomforting prospect to intervene with your friendship again after that terribly awkward summer.

Rather than ignore the fact that you were growing to be even more beautiful by the day, Sukuna just became extremely blunt around you. He didn’t hide his eyes checking you out, noticing how your curves were starting to fill out and how you began to mature into your own features. He confidently spoke about how attractive you were, and often boosted your ego in ways that only enhanced your own confidence. 

You enjoyed reminding him that once upon a time he thought “girls were disgusting” and “looked funny”. 

“Let’s not forget I am the first guy to marry you,” he joked, recalling a game you both used to play where you pretended to be characters from a fantasy realm. 

“Actually you were the first dragon to marry me,” you clarified, because Sukuna loathed the prospect of playing a prince. “I don’t really think it counts…” 

“Maybe not - but all these guys fawning over you are going to find out you’re some kind of monster fucker and start running in the other direction…” 

It was safe to say that the banter between you both never changed.

You on the other hand, were recognizing just how handsome Sukuna was becoming too. You’ve seen him shirtless a million times up until this point, but something about watching the definition of muscle build into his new physique, and noticing the way manhood slowly enveloped his body, began to hit you in different ways. This was especially noticeable when you would watch him train in the ring, paying attention to the fact that Sukuna wasn’t built just like any average person. It didn’t even occur to you how incredibly strong he had become until he would lift or move your body around like you were weightless and not a living, breathing human with physical mass. 

One evening, while you both were walking back to your dorm from a dinner at a cheap ramen bar, Sukuna had the audacity to pick you up and throw you over his shoulder because “you couldn’t keep up with his pace”. 

All of a sudden, you were acutely aware that the scrawny boy that you used to protect was now all grown up. 

Sukuna morphed into brick and stone, while you were merely glass. 

For some reason, it put a strain on your heart. 

You guys really weren’t kids anymore. 

This was only solidified a year and a half into his career when Sukuna fought in his first professional tournament at twenty years old. The man dominated the ring against his opponent. He broke the record of the most knock outs and became a household name almost overnight. 

“The King”

Time moved at double speed after that. 

Your fingers that were clinging to bits of nostalgia weren’t able to keep them from it slipping between your grasp. Things were happening in a blur, and the sudden shift in Sukuna’s world felt like a birthing black hole in your own.

The night before Sukuna was flying off on his first world tour, the two of you were cooped up in your dorm room, snuggled underneath the blanket like you used to be when you were both kids. 

This time, it wasn’t awkward. 

You had both experienced love and lust in different ways up until that point. 

You knew that being this close didn’t have to mean anything risqué. 

You were comfortable with yourselves far more than you were five years ago.

“It’s going to be weird not seeing you all the time,” you whispered with a sniffle, while Sukuna traced the shell of your ear. 

Two silver chains mirrored one another, one on your neck and the other on his. It was your parting gift to him, a reminder to keep a piece of each other around when you couldn’t be together. 

You assumed Sukuna would find it stupid, but instead he clasped the necklace around himself before doing the same for you in silent contemplation. 

“I’ll keep in touch, brat” he soothed, but you could hear the ache in his voice too.

You circled your arms around his neck, eagerly clinging onto him as closely as you could for the little time you had. 

“I am really proud of you though,” you spoke, your shaky breath against his collar bone, a tear rolling down your cheek as you inhaled the herby scent of his soap. 

“I’m paying off your loans when the money really starts rolling in,” he chuckled against your temple. 

You shook your head with disapproval. “Just buy your grandpa something nice,” you insisted. “And make sure to spoil Yuji…” 

“That kid’s already spoiled…”

“But he’s a sweetheart,” you emphasized, “and I know he’s probably going to miss you more than me…” 

Sukuna hummed. “I wouldn’t be here without you.” 

You tilted your chin up as he dropped his head down, your noses merely inches apart. You relaxed the muscles on your face, your thumb reaching to smooth the crease from between his brows. 

“God knows what would have happened if you didn’t save my sorry ass back when we were kids…” he said with an easy smile. 

“You would have eventually fought back,” you giggled, “besides, you don’t need me protecting you anymore…” you pointed out, your voice a little breathless, and your anxious mind running on the concern of if you might even fit into Sukuna’s new life after this. 

He wrapped his arms around you, bringing you into the seam of his frame. 

“I always need you,” he confessed, and those words were enough to make you break as the pain of his departure finally collided into you. 

₊ ⊹ .

Sukuna went off to having an extremely successful boxing career. 

At twenty-two, he had turned into one of the hottest sports stars the industry has ever seen. 

He had win after his win under his belt, and the second he partnered with Uraume it was a match made in heaven. 

He was insanely good, and with Uraume by his side, he was now unstoppable. 

You were provided tickets to any of his fights, accompanied with private transportation and accommodation if necessary. Sukuna always made sure that you were well take care of, and you always accepted because it was the only time you were able to actually see him. Those few days were precious together, before you had to depart and return to the real world once again. Each of Sukuna’s fights was a mesmerizing experience. There was something about his flow in the ring that managed to make everything else around him blur. 

He was strong, but agile. 

Brutal but swift with his movements. 

He moved with regal precision, a dancer that understood the rhythms of strength. 

Everyone challenged him, but all of them failed. 

Ryomen Sukuna was a force to be reckoned with. 

Despite the distance, you and Sukuna always made a conscious effort at keeping in touch with each other. You may not be physically there in each other’s presence, but not a day went by without a phone call or multiple texts.

At twenty-seven, Sukuna was at the peak of his stardom. Your best friend found himself tangled between the world of fame and fortune, alongside his old life of normalcy and humble peace. He made good on his promises; setting up a trust fund to ensure that Yuji was well taken care of in every capacity. He paid off all your loans in secret because he knew you would never accept it from him upfront. He bought his grandfather a home in Osaka for him to retire to. And his peace offering to his mom was renovating their old, broken home into something new and vibrant for her to live her life happily now that she seemed to have finally settled down in her third marriage. Sukuna even offered to take care of his step brother, Choso. They may not have been personally close, but he was grateful that Choso was keeping a watchful eye on Yuji. 

Your own life was starting to unfurl as well - you had graduated university, were experiencing your first serious relationship, navigating various friendships and landing your first job. It all felt normal compared to Sukuna, but the man never minimized your experiences. 

When you were together, it’s like nothing had even changed, but the moment your realities bled into each other, it was a constant reminder of how just how far apart your lives actually were. 

You were harassed by the paparazzi who constantly overstepped. 

Sukuna’s boundaries were crossed by the people you knew because everyone wanted a moment with the star. 

You found yourself in environments with the rich whose beauty, wealth and status seemed far out of your reach. 

Sukuna found himself being treated more like an object than a person. 

And yet, you both seemed to be settling down into your own versions of the life you were creating - always weaving the other person in no matter the obstacle.

At twenty-eight, Sukuna had earned more money than he could even imagine, and was still somehow only moving onwards and up. He was plastered on every magazine cover, was the the center of attention on social media by his most dedicated and loyal fans. He was stalked and obsessed over, admired and feared. Networks wanted to feature him on shows, movies and every talk show. The man was a composition of everything that people were projecting onto him. 

He had become an untouchable to the eyes of every living mortal. 

But to you, and just you - he would always be the little boy who was far too small for this big world. 

After years of flings with influencers, models, and high end socialites - it seemed that Sukuna was finally settling down with one of the top actresses in the industry. The moment the two of them were caught kissing at a party, their secret was revealed to the public. 

You, however, knew all the details of the ways in which Sukuna was slowly wooing her. 

At this point you’ve both grown tolerant of hearing about the other person’s love life. And at this time especially, you weren’t affected by Sukuna’s first serious relationship because you and your boyfriend were discussing the possibility of marriage which felt close on the horizon.  You had just bought your first house, and was considering the big gesture of having him move in with you. You had gotten an incredible promotion at work, and for the first time you felt a sense of stability that you had never really experienced before. 

“We should have dinner together!” You offered one night to Sukuna over the phone. 

“The four of us?” He questioned. 

“Yeah, I mean…you know Sousuke really well…” 

“Yeah, and he hates me…” 

“But I haven’t met Mei yet…and no, Sousuke doesn’t “hate you”…”

“I hate to break it to you, Princess. But the guy can’t stand me…” 

You glanced towards your boyfriend who was sitting on the sofa, his attention on the television show he was watching. You stepped away from the living room, and quietly made your way to the bedroom. 

“’kuna…” you spoke, your throat catching, “I think…I think he might propose…” 

“What?!” He exclaimed and you had to pull the phone away. 

“Jeez! Don’t shout! You’re going to make me pop an ear drum!” 

He groaned. 

You sighed, “we’ve been talking about it…and I just…I just really want you guys to get along is all.  I just think you guys are just not seeing eye to eye…” 

Sukuna remained oddly quiet on the phone. 

“Can you say something?” You begged. 

“Fine,” he grumbled, “we can do dinner at my place. The paparazzi have been hounding me trying to get any shot they can find of me and Mei. I would rather we don't go anywhere public...” 

You smiled, “dinner is perfect!” 

At first glance, the dinner seemed like a complete success. 

The four of you chatted and enjoyed your night like you were all old friends, especially after Sousuke got over his starstruck moment when he met Mei. You and Sukuna told stories of your years together, inviting your partners to the pieces of your lives that you both shared. You could see that Sukuna was clearly attracted to Mei, and in turn he could see that you were happy with Sousuke. The night felt like a convergence without an implosion - an easy going settlement on the two roads that you and your friend had taken. 

That’s why when your boyfriend called things off with you three months later, it took you completely by surprise. 

Nothing in this world could have prepared you for that heartbreak. 

It was a grieving period, a dark time of mourning that had you glued to your bed most days. This life that you had been carefully piecing together toppled like dominos. After breaking the news to Sukuna, you spent two weeks isolating yourself from anything and everything else. 

Your best friend couldn’t stand seeing you in this state, and showed up at your door out of the blue one evening.

You burst into tears at the sight of him.

He was there to mend your broken heart, and he never left your side. He told his team that he was taking a much needed break, and during that time made sure that you were fed and comfortable. He handled any extra chores, slept on the floor in your bedroom every night so that you weren’t alone. He spent hours with you in silence while you wept, listened to you angrily vent your frustrations on how your ex could treat you this way. 

One night, he woke up and realized that you weren’t in bed. He searched for you, finding you in the kitchen staring at a small pile of bridal magazines. 

Your clothes were rumpled, you hadn’t changed or freshened up since that morning. 

Sukuna didn’t say anything, just placed two hands on your shoulders and turn you away from the painful memories. 

You gasped and hiccuped into his chest. 

“I couldn’t sleep…” you explained, “I r-remembered that I still had these, and just…just wanted them gone…” 

Sukuna tenderly stroked the back of your neck. “You know,” he said, his voice deeper than the ocean itself, the tone the texture of velvet. “I can always break his fucking legs…” 

The comment made you choke out a laugh. 

“It’ll ruin your career,” you whimpered. “It’s not worth it…” 

“For you,” he soothed, his thumb lightly tracing the space where the base of your neck and spine connected. “It’s always worth it” 

₊ ⊹ .

The blunder in Sukuna’s career hit early last year, when his relationship with Mei fell apart and resulted in one of the worst break ups that people have ever seen. Mei released a public, viral video that had millions of views and thousands of shares. She accused Sukuna of cheating for the entirety of their two year relationship, crying crocodile tears on camera over how she was simply another trophy that he could successfully claim while his heart always belonged to someone else. 

That video made your blood boil. 

You knew Sukuna wasn’t perfect - but if there was one thing you would never doubt about that man it was his loyalty. 

You saw it towards grandfather, to Yuji, to Uraume, and even yourself. 

That man scoffed at the prospect of cheating, believing it to be a cowardice act. 

And Sukuna was no coward. 

Even in prior relationships, he was always clear about where he stood. If he couldn’t commit to something, he made it perfectly known. You still didn’t know what it was about Mei that had him finally let his walls down. But when they were together, he looked perfectly content. Every desire and every fantasy he dreamt up in his youth had finally been accomplished. But all you knew about their break up was that things weren’t working out, and Sukuna wasn’t willing to share more than that. 

You were being respectful of his privacy, understanding firsthand how tough this kind of heartbreak can be. 

He called you when the Mei's video first broke out, his voice strained. 

“You know it’s not true, right?” He questioned before even saying hello. 

“Ryo, of course I know that-” 

“I’m not a little bitch who would cheat. I would never do that. Nor am I that fucking stupid thinking I would ever get away with it-”

“I know…” you reassured, hearing the apprehension laced through his words. “Ryomen, I know you. I know you better than anyone else in this world.”

He breathed a long sigh of relief. “I was just wondering if you might have been convinced otherwise”  

Your stomach tightened. 

“But if you believe me, then I don’t give a fuck about anyone else.” 

Something about that conversation clung onto you, it sat like a weight on your shoulders that you couldn’t quite possibly shrug off. The tabloids, news outlets and social media accounts were throwing ingredients upon ingredients into the rumor pot that was bubbling and boiling over. On top of that, a new rising star had just entered the boxing world, and Sukuna was suddenly dealing with brutal comparisons to the younger, hotter talent that was Satoru Gojo. 

You were the one who offered to take him out to dinner to get his mind off of things, not realizing just how bad it actually was for him. 

When a gossip magazine posted the photos of you both huddled together (as you have done many times before) while having an ordinary dinner, it spun your world inside and out. Though the pictures were quite blurry, there were a few people who were able to recognize you. You were being harassed at your work, interrogated by your friends and were even being accused of being “the other woman”.

The worst part is was when Mei fed into the chaos, making a follow up post and stating that “a woman always knows, and is always right” in regards to her break up situation with Sukuna.

She may not have explicitly said it, but her fingers were pointing at you.  

You don’t know how your address got leaked, but when you started finding paparazzi stalking you in your own home it became far too much for you to handle. 

Sukuna, on the other hand, was infuriated. 

This whole time he was disengaged by what was going on, but once you were caught in the mix of this mess, it seemed that he was suddenly ready to cause equal destruction. 

He sued his ex for defamation, sued multiple media outlets for harassment. He had Higuruma Hiromi, one of the top lawyers in his field, at the helm of this take down, and the second he shot back, it had everyone scurrying in retreat. 

The tabloids, blogs and magazines all redacted the photos of you, reducing your digital footprint. 

His ex, under pressure of Sukuna’s threats, came out with a public apology so that he would drop the charges against her and help her avoid her own PR nightmare. 

The rest of Sukuna’s anger was taken out on the ring, with people seeing another side of what The King could unleash. 

His match against Hajime Kashimo was one of the bloodiest in boxing history, his opponent left crimson and defeated despite seemingly holding a strong front in the beginning. 

They dubbed him: “The Monster of The Ring” after that. 

The damage was already done, and the stress of it all was starting to hurt Sukuna’s focus. When he nearly got disqualified in a match, that is when Uraume intervened, and felt it was necessary to include you in the discussion. 

You’ve always had a complicated relationship with Uraume. They respected you, but you know it’s only because of your mutual relationship with Sukuna. Uraume, however, has made snide remarks  towards you when you were both alone - about how you were merely a distraction when dangled in front of his champion’s eyes.

“I think some time apart would do you both good,” they said. “They are never going to stop hounding you because they think there is something more going on, and besides…we can’t have Sukuna fucking up with Gojo now in the mix. We need to show the world that he’s still as strong and as relevant as ever…” 

“It’ll die down,” Sukuna stated with frustration. 

The both of them bickered over it. It was the first time you have ever witnessed them in a heated exchanged. Your heart started to hurt because you were aware how all of this was only making your best friend see in shades of red. 

He wasn’t himself. 

He wasn’t thinking clearly. 

This was impacting him.  

You getting involved in this was impacting him. 

“Ryomen,” you said seriously, placing your hand over his. “I think Uraume is right…” 

The man turned to you, his fingers lacing between your own subconsciously as he squeezed it tightly in disbelief. 

It was the first time you’ve ever seen him hurt. 

“It’s just a short time apart,” you said with a comforting smile, “once everyone gets bored we can resume our lives in peace. But right now, I can see this taking a toll on you…” 

He furrowed the front of his brows. 

“Uraume is looking out for you, and I think what they are saying makes sense. Don’t you?” 

“No, I fucking don’t…” he snapped, his eyes glaring at his manager who remained stoic as ever. 

“Don’t let your emotions get the better of you,” they remarked, “I know a part of you agrees with what I have to say.” 

“You’re not in the right state of mind, and you need to be” 

“It’s for your own good,” Uraume insisted. "You are gambling with your career. With your legacy"

The decision was mutual but entirely heartbreaking all the same. Sukuna drew the circus away, and it broke you when you realized that in order to protect you, he had to sacrifice something in return. 

The comfort of your friendship, the sanctuary of your company.

It was the price of fame, and one that he was willing to keep paying. 

As a result of this tough decision, Sukuna had grown cold. Not because he was being mean or cruel, but because he thought he was offering you some peace of mind. Because he thought that by withdrawing from you, it would make the pain of the separation easier. He wanted this distance to be a clean break for the both of you, and while he honored keeping in touch, it was just at the bare minimum because his calls and texts were few and far between. 

The most you saw of him was on a screen, and you could see that Sukuna was miserable. 

He was turning into something vicious in the ring, a violent machine that people glorified. He wasn’t moving with the fluidity of an artist that you used to admire when you first started watching him fight. There was a sense of brutality that was now a part of his make up. 

Sukuna was no longer a man, he was a beast. 

His persona was dwindling into only intimidation. Every interview, every guest appearance, and every social occasion was met with detachments or disinterest. He was growing snarky and irritable, no longer willing to charm the people around him. 

Satoru Gojo was the first to shoot at Sukuna with his words, dredging up his painful break up and even dragging you back into the fold with his commentary. The two of them grew to have a very intense rivalry. They exchanged heated arguments on social media, smack talked the other person in live interviews and had tense interactions in public. 

The press and the people were eating up every single second of it.

On the eve of his thirty-first birthday, you received a call from Uraume. 

“We are back in the city,” they said, “Sukuna needs to start training up for his match against Satoru Gojo.” 

You swallowed the uncomfortable lump in your throat. 

“Why didn’t he tell me he was back?” You asked softly. 

Uraume sighed, “I don’t have to tell you that he’s been in a fowl mood. The agency is throwing a huge birthday party for him tonight which he is refusing to attend…” 

“So, why are you calling me?” 

“Because…” Uraume sighed, “he’s about to fly to close to the sun, and I can see he needs an anchor to bring him down to Earth a little bit…” 

Your cheeks burned at the statement. “Are you saying I am his anchor?” 

“I am saying it’s been almost a year since he last saw you…” Uraume explained, “And I don’t want him feeling awful on his birthday. I care about him too, you know?” 

You nodded your head, “No, of course. I know that.” 

“I told him that I would stop by to pick him up for the party, but I think giving him a nice surprise might do him so good. Remind the guy to enjoy himself a little…” 

“You’re sweet,” you said with a smile. 

“As are you, my dear,” Uraume replied tenderly. 

“My, my, are you actually giving me a compliment?” 

“Don’t let it get to your head,” they remarked playfully, and you felt a hint of ease realizing that things might not be as cold between you both as you thought. 

That Uraume was really only ever considering Sukuna's well being first, just like you.

₊ ⊹ .

Uraume made sure that you got to Sukuna’s place in one piece and without anyone knowing that you were even there. You clasped your best friend's present between your fingers, your exposed body shivering from the cold air as you rode the elevator up to his penthouse apartment.

It felt right to dress up; you wore a white mini dress with a mesh overlay that had little embroidered detailing on the fabric. There were cut outs in the back, with an adjustable strap from behind cinching the bodice perfectly to your shape. Your kitten heels clicked against the floor, the nerves suddenly tingling their way up your legs as you thought about what Sukuna’s reaction might even be. 

This year felt like a century in the timeline of your friendship. 

You knocked on his door gently, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth. 

You could hear the trudge of footsteps from behind the frame, Sukuna’s voice bellowing as he spoke. 

“Uraume, for the last fucking time, I told you I am not going, and if you force it I will fire you on the spot-” 

He swung the door open and froze. 

“Surprise!” You squeaked lightly, awkwardly lifting the gift in your hands. “I got you a present!” 

Sukuna blinked once and then twice, his lips parting as if he’s seen a ghost. 

“Uraume asked me to come,” you explained. “They told me that you guys were back…” 

He stood there dumbfounded, for once rendered completely speechless. 

You cleared your throat, feeling a warmth rippling over your skin as the man gave you a once over. His eyes flickered down your body, hovering over all the parts of your exposed skin. Your bare thighs, your décolletage, and up the nape of your neck. 

“T-they wanted you to have fun on your birthday,” you added on with an apprehensive grin, “they actually suggested maybe a quiet night in and thought you might just want to spend it with an old friend instead of a bunch of people you probably don’t even like…” 

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his mouth pressing into a firm line. 

He looked…upset. 

Was he not happy to see you? 

“Uhm,” you mumbled, your fingers toying with the ribbon at the odd dismissal and lack of enthusiasm, “I-I don’t have to stay, but I did just want to wish you a happy birthday…” 

You took a small step forward, holding the present up as an offering. “Happy birthday, ‘Kuna…” you said with a quiet warble in your voice and feeling like a complete idiot for showing up. The disappointment of his response sat heavily on your chest.

He lifted his hand, gripping the present as he plucked it out of your grasp. You cleared your throat, anxiously scratching the back of your ear as you lifted up the strap of your dress which fell on your right shoulder. 

“I’ll just…” you added on in defeat, gesturing behind you to indicate that you were leaving. 

You didn’t even notice his arm sling behind your waist when your eyes fell downcast. 

Suddenly you were pulled over the threshold, the door closing behind you in a bang before your back was pressed up against the wooden frame. Your gaze lifted up to Sukuna, your pupils widening when you you were met with his menacing stare. 

“You know,” you said with a gulp, hoping to the ease the tension as you tried to catch your breath. “You really do look like a dragon when you scowl like that…” 

“Are you stupid?” He spat with irritation. “What if someone saw you come over? We just got the press off our backs…” 

Your pulse hit the base of your throat. “Uraume ensured that no one was around…” 

“I thought we agreed to take time apart…” he argued, ignoring your words. “You agreed.” 

“You’re mad...” You pointed out, the tip of your nose wincing as you pursed your lips. 

“I’m not mad, I’m furious…” he said with irritation. “I’m trying to keep you out of this fucking chaos and you just waltz in, in this sorry excuse of a dress, like everything is perfectly fine?!” 

You looked down at your outfit, and folded your arms over your chest. 

“I…” you spoke, your voice trailing off as your shoulders slumped. 

You didn’t even know if you should apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong and this wasn’t even your idea to begin with. You’ve also never seen Sukuna speak to you this way before, and your confidence bubbled when you recognized that this...wasn’t him. 

You straightened your back, tilting your chin up to face him with defiance. 

You’re the only person in the world who willingly challenges him. 

You don’t even have to raise a fist to watch him break. 

He was pushing you away, the same way he did when you found him on the ground of that kindergarten because that’s what Sukuna does when he’s hurting the most. 

“God, you’re just as miserable as look…” you pointed out with a quirk of your brow. 

His jaw twitched. 

“I don’t give a shit who catches me here,” you boldly claimed, “I miss my best friend…” you added before shoving his shoulder, “and you, you asshole, have no excuse for not telling me that you are back home. Just because I agreed to us spending some time apart, that doesn’t mean you get to just...cut me off like that. To not call me, to barely answer my texts, and to just push me away like I don’t matter to you…” 

Sukuna winced, taking a step closer to seal the gap of space between you both. He brought his head lower, dipping his forehead to press against your own. Your spine seized in that moment, your lips parting feeling the heat of his breath on your skin. 

You were expecting a rebuttal, but this…this wasn’t what you thought would happen. 

“You are a pain in my ass…” he whispered, closing his eyes as he circled his free arm around your waist, “and the only thing that matters to me…” 

He nudged his face closer, so close you swore to yourself that he might kiss you, before tracking his lips along your jaw and cradling his forehead in the crook of your neck instead. 

Your right hand moved him to touch his shoulder, your face contorting with a hint of concern. 

You felt it then, something wet on your skin where his forehead lay, and you took in a sharp breath as Sukuna tightened his arm around your waist. 

“You shouldn’t have come…” he took a deep inhale against your neck, smelling your skin before clearing his throat from any shakiness. 

“You said that already…” you grumbled unamused. 

“Stubborn woman, you never listen...” he breathed in once more, “God, I fucking missed you.” 

₊ ⊹ .

Sukuna opened his present once everything was settled, and once he finally embraced the reunion without questioning any other factors. He laughed at your little DIY stress kit that you put together for him. You both ordered in pizza, sitting on opposite sides of the sofa with the open cardboard box between you. You talked, and talked, and talked into the late hours of the night.  Until there were only crumbs on the bottom of the box which Sukuna placed on the coffee table. The bottle of champagne that you have both been nursing was nearly empty. 

Drunk on each other, with a belly full of food and simplistic joy settling in. Sukuna leaned against the arm rest, sprawling his long legs and patting his thigh sweetly. 

“C’mere…” 

Your heart hammered, and you bit the rim of your champagne glass before obliging. 

You stood up, swaying a little and watching his hungry eyes blatantly check you out as you sat on his lap. Sukuna adjusted his position, before dropping his palm on your thigh, his touch stroking up and down your skin. 

“What’s going on with you?” You inquired, placing your elbow on his shoulder as you rested your warm cheek against your palm. 

You were looking at him with concern, noticing his face sink. 

He rubbed one hand over the exhausted expression, an intoxicated blush painting his cheeks. 

“The press are worse than ever. After Mei, it’s been…relentless. The stories they are coming up with, the things that they are saying about me. I went from being on top of the world to being the guy everyone loves to fucking hate. And with every fight I go into, people are just waiting for me to wash up. The cherry on top of this whole fucking thing is Satoru Gojo, who won’t stop running his fucking mouth. I want cut the little shit in half…” 

You smiled, not to be condescending, but out of gratitude that you both easily slipped back into the shell of your own comfort. “Ryomen, he’s twenty-one years old. Do you not remember how you were at that age?” 

He rolled his eyes. “I had more class than he did…” 

“But you were aggressive,” you reminded, “You weren’t afraid to tear down the legends that predated you.” 

“So, what are you saying?” 

“I’m saying that maybe Satoru drew inspiration from somewhere…” 

You placed the champagne glass on his chest, your fingers holding the stem as you swirled the liquid around gently. The silence hung in the air because Sukuna knew you were right, but there were other lingering questions pressing you at the same time. And thanks to the alcohol, you had all the courage you needed to ask.

“What happened with Mei?” You wondered, shifting your gaze to meet his. 

Sukuna’s index finger tapped up and down your thigh in contemplation. 

He closed his eyes and shook his head before swallowing the lump in his throat. “Nothing.” 

You quirked your brow again, taking a swig of your champagne. 

Sukuna used his free hands to wrap around your own, and he pulled the glass away from you to take a sip himself. 

“Why won’t you tell me?” 

He chugged the rest of your drink, and placed it on the ground beside him. 

“Ryomen…” 

“Don’t push me, brat…” 

“But why not?” You wondered, “I just…it just seemed like you both were so happy and then all of a sudden…” 

He dropped his head back against the arm rest and stared up at the ceiling. From underneath his black shirt you saw the silver chain poking through. 

Your heart tightened. 

You drew one hand on the locket, your finger curling underneath as your thumb tracked over the texture of the necklace. 

“You’re still wearing it…” you mumbled. 

Sukuna faced you. “I never take it off. Only when I have to get in the ring…” His eyes shifted to your exposed, naked neck, and you mindlessly reached for the silver chain that you were currently not wearing. 

“I don’t wear it on certain occasions…” you explained guiltily, “only because I am afraid that I might lose it.” 

“Plus, it wouldn’t go with this dress...” Sukuna nonchalantly added on and you laughed at his comment. 

He sighed in defeat. “The necklace was a small reason,” he opened up. “Mei hated that I wore it all the time. She would badger me about taking it off. The time I spent with you after Sousuke didn’t help…” he added, treading the delicate topic with as much sensitivity as he could, “she accused me for cheating. I told her she needed to back off because you and I had a history that predates her. I told her that if the roles were reversed, you would be there for me because you have always been there for me…” 

Your body froze. 

“She would pick fights with me over everything about you. Finally I had enough, and told her she needed to fucking trust me if this was going to work. But things never went back to the way they used to. It was always up and down with Mei. Finally, when she had enough, she told me that I had a choice to make. Either I cut you off for us to happily together. Or…she leaves…” 

You sat up, staring at him with wide eyes and shock.  

“I’m…” you gasped, “I’m the reason why you both broke up?” 

The guilt struck you harder than you expected, and you looked down at Sukuna’s torso shamefully as you recalled the state of yourself post-break up, thinking of all the moments where you might have potentially stolen precious time away from his former lover. 

“Ryomen, I am so…I am so sorry…” 

Two fingers brushed underneath your chin, and Sukuna lifted your head so you could see him. 

“I picked you,” he confessed, “I picked you.” 

“But-” 

“There is no “but”,” he said with a shake of his. “We’ve been in each other’s lives for over two decades. You are my person. You are my family. You…”, he sighed, “you didn’t deserve what happened afterwards...”

His hands trailed up until his digits caught the hem of your dress. 

“I’m keeping my distance to protect you..."

“But you loved her,” you gasped, “I saw it. I saw you both. I would’ve…I would’ve stepped aside. If I was causing any issues, I would’ve…respected your boundaries. I love you, Ryomen. I just want you to be happy, and if that means that I take a step back-” 

“I did love her,” Sukuna interjected, the heat of gaze flicking upward, the rims slightly red from the alcohol he consumed. “But I love you more…” 

He drew all the air out of your lungs with the slip of his tongue, making you perch yourself up so you were actually looking directly at him. His pupils were dilated, widening as if to give you access to the depths of his soul. In all your years you’ve known him, you don’t think the two of you ever actually exchanged those words. It was always veiled with “I care for you,”, “I adore you,” “You’re my person,” and “this is why we are best friends.” 

But love… 

That felt forbidden to say out loud, even though you both knew that the root of your friendship was only built on love, it shouldn't have come as such a shock to you for the confession to slip so naturally.

You gaze longingly into each other’s eyes, in a way that you haven’t since you were both sixteen years old. 

Wondering…

Considering…

“I don’t…” you said quietly, sitting upright as he shifted beneath you. 

You wound up straddling him, both your hands resting on his shoulders while his own continued to tease the hem of your dress. 

“I don’t know what to say…” you exhaled. 

Sukuna pinched the fabric between his thumb and index finger, allowing the silence to hang for a few minutes before switching the subject. 

“Did you dress up for me?” He joked, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his devilish mouth. He slid one hand underneath your dress, making you gasp as his touch moved dangerously high up your thigh. 

“Wanted to look cute,” you murmured, your words lacing tightly together as the champagne danced across your tongue. You felt a pulse radiate between your legs, and you unknowingly clenched much to Sukuna’s amusement.  

“Cute for me?” He coaxed. 

“Cute in general,” you remarked. 

His other hand sprawled across your back, and you knew he was testing his boundaries.

“Ryomen…” you warned, but it only made him break out into a full grin. His irises were drowning in lust and inebriation, and your own were falling in suit. 

The hand on your hip dragged up further, until his fingers brushed over the string of your underwear. You scratched your nails down his chest, feeling your back arch into his palm as you mindlessly rolled your hips.

His lips moved to your ear, that mellifluous voice dangerously close. “Let’s play a game…” 

He squeezed the fat of your hip, his weight lifting you up and the entire room spun as he pinned you underneath him when he switched your positions. He locked you against the plush sofa with his thighs, a throaty laugh coming through from your sudden squeak of surprise. 

“Let’s see you try to get out of this one, Princess...” He teased, his teeth nipping at the side of your throat. “Or you’ll end up being my dinner…” 

Your body vibrated from the sensation of his touch. You gripped his jaw firmly and pulled his face towards you, your brows furrowing at the proclamation of a challenge. 

“It’s not fair to go against a boxing champion,” you argued, your spine curving as Sukuna slipped his other thigh between your legs. 

He dropped his head to the base of your throat, his teeth catching the sensitive spot just above your collar bone, “don’t worry,” he soothed over the gentle bite, “I’ll play fair…”

“Don’t patronize me,” you grumbled through gritted teeth. 

“You’re fault for waltzing into the dragon’s lair…” he alerted, quoting the very same line he used to when you would both play this silly fantasy game together. 

But you’re not wielding plastic swords and entering into the enemies domain with a sense of courage. Now, it felt like playing with fire. Your skin was burning at the contact, at Sukuna’s weight over your throbbing body. When he nibbled on your neck again, your hand gripped onto the back of his head, tugging his hair a little roughly as you pulled him away. 

Sukuna purred. 

“You’ve never been able to beat me…” you teased, giving into the world of make believe just one more time but speaking the truth regarding this fact. “I’ve always been your biggest challenge…” 

“Watch me win tonight,” he pushed with confidence, reaching for your wrist and pinning it above your head. 

“And what are the rules here exactly?” You quipped, your tongue tingling and your body buzzing with excitement and curiosity. “Am I supposed to kill the dragon and win back my castle?” 

Sukuna laughed, his eyes darkening as he pressed his forehead to yours once more. 

“No need to draw any swords. Let’s play a game of submission…” he boldly claimed, and your attention flickered to find his brazen smile burning even brighter on his face. “First person to cum loses” 

“Are you making a move on me?” You light heartedly disputed. 

“Not at all,” Sukuna maintained, but you can tell from his tone that he’s veiling the truth.

There was something hard pressing up against you, and you had a feeling it was a nudge for some relief. 

“It’s the dress isn’t it?” you giggle.

“If you even call it a dress…” 

“Can’t handle a little skin?” 

“I don’t want to shock you by telling you got me half hard just showing up,” he confessed, something unfolding in your drunken stupor. 

“I can feel you…” you sighed, and the man hummed as he molded his body into you.

You felt him twitch, and it made your thighs tremble. 

“We had too much champagne,” you informed. 

“That we did” 

“We should probably stop…” you exhaled, your lashes fluttering when you felt his thigh flex against your cunt. 

“Do you want to?” Sukuna asks, his voice growing serious. His hand on your hip tugs at the string of your underwear, and he releases it with a snap as it pinches back against your skin. 

You licked your lips, your brain too fuzzy to contradict what your heart wanted. “You know I will never back down from a challenge with you…” 

“That's what I like about you,” Sukuna adoringly praises. 

“And we both know you’re going to lose, right?” 

Your throat shrinks, Sukuna’s hand gliding over your pubis to press the drenched spot against your underwear. 

“Don’t underestimate me, Princess,” he advices ominously, “we’ve never played a game like this before.” 

₊ ⊹ .

Clothes had to stay on - that was the rule you both agreed with. 

To keep things fair. 

To keep it…playful. 

Your nipples pebbled, poking hard against the fabric of your dress as Sukuna sucked on the skin of your neck. You knew for a fact that he was leaving a mark there, and all you could do was bite back as his mouth trailed down the column and over the slope of your breast. You whimpered when he tugged at your clothed nipple with with his teeth, making the muscles in your leg seize from the sudden contact. 

You had to do something, and so you reached your hand between your legs to lightly graze over his erection pressing against his sweats. 

Sukuna groaned, and you sniggered at the reaction. 

You lifted your head and neck, bringing your mouth to his own ear. 

“You know,” you seductively stated, your fingers outlining the length of his hard member. “The first time I ever touched myself was after watching you practice in the ring…” 

Sukuna cursed under his breath, your fingers squeezed around his length. You proceeded to stroke the heat of his member, striking hard for your first blow. “And I always do whenever I watch you fight. I get so hot and bothered seeing you in the ring. I even have a a specific vibrator I use…I named it after you…” 

“Fucking hell,” he hissed when you snuck your hand underneath his waistband, bringing your touch even closer as you palmed him over his boxers. 

“I’ve never told you that secret…” you declared, bringing your own teeth to his earlobe which you tugged mercilessly. 

Sukuna lost himself for a moment, making you think this was going to be an easy win. But you heard him steady his breathing, could his muscles flexing as if to tame his own body back from giving in.  

“I heard you once…” he stammered suddenly, closing his eyes as he recollected his memories. “Back when you were living in the dorm. I came over to drop off something, and you…ugh, fuck-…you were in the bathroom…moaning. I thought you were in pain at first, until I realized…” 

Your own cheeks burned at his confession, the surprise making you ease your grip. 

Sukuna grabbed your wrist then and pulled you away from his crotch. He placed it on your breast, and you absentmindedly pinched your nipple as he slid his hand between your legs. He lowered himself down, slithering underneath you and making your ears sting with vexation. He pushed your dress over your thighs, exposing your light colored underwear. The noticeable wet patch made his eyes glitter with satisfaction. 

“I would have jacked off on the spot, but I left. I was clearly intruding on a private matter, but that didn’t stop me from blowing a load the second I made it to my place,” he carries on, bringing his nose and pressing it against your slit. “So fucking sweet…” 

You tried to push his head away, and in response he dragged his tongue over the moist patch on your underwear. 

“Oh my god,” you moaned, your hips bucking from the sensation. 

“You’re the first person I think of when I touch myself,” he revealed, humming as his tongue lewdly licked over your underwear. 

Your whole lower belly tingled, your arousal only slicking the fabric. 

You needed to distract him from carrying on, but Sukuna hooked two fingers underneath your underwear and tugged them to the side. 

You sat up on your forearms, pressing your thighs against his cheeks to stop him from diving in. 

“Don’t cheat,” you sternly addressed, but Sukuna only scoffed vindictively. 

“You’re still wearing them, Princess…” he pointed out, and the loophole made your core pulse with anticipation. “This isn’t cheating…” 

With your panties tugged aside, Sukuna used two fingers to spread the lips apart. 

He was staring at your pussy, studying it like it was the first one he’s ever looked at. 

You wanted to say something, to ask what he was doing. But to your surprise he just placed a gentle kiss on your clit before murmuring sweetly into your sex. “You’re beautiful,” Sukuna complimented, as if expressing a blessing before a meal then finally dragging his wet tongue up along the slit of your exposed pussy. 

“You’re ch-cheating…” was all you could think of blubbering out in the haze of lust, feeling the vibration of his laugh as he slung one of your legs over his shoulder. 

It hits you then - the fact that this man indulges in going down on women. Though he never explicitly shared all the lewd details with his past partners, he did mention how it was “his favorite thing to do”. After all these years, you finally get to experience it for yourself. Feel how he latches onto your pussy as your arousal drips like he’s pouring honey out of the jar and slurping the sticky, creamy essence. You whine when he prods his tongue between your folds, expertly sliding the muscle as he rolls it in gentle waves to stir a budding orgasm. Your fingers intertwine around his locks, reading to yank him off until he slurps and sucks in just the right spot that has you simply massaging his scalp instead. 

“…’kuna~…” you mewl, your nails dragging over his scalp. 

The man circles his mouth over your tender clit, sucking on the bud before pressing another kiss on the nub. 

Your pussy throbs when he pulls away, but you were proud for holding back. 

It was your opportunity to distract him, and you shrugged off one of your straps to pull down your dress to expose your left breast. Sukuna’s attention flickered upward, watching you tweak at the hard nub as you gave him a shy grin. 

“The felt really good,” you breathily whined. 

He began crawling his way back up, and you used this opportunity to lift your body upright. He was distracted, wasn't even thinking about you finding a way out of this position. His lips instantly latched onto your nipple, his hands gripping the fat of your ass as he sucked on the point feverishly. 

You licked your lips, doing everything in your power not to fall back into the black hole of his gripping dominance.

When he released you, you instantly pushed his back against the couch and climbed on top of him so you were safely straddling him again. You forcefully dragged your wet cunt over his erection, leaving a little trail of you to stain the fabric of his pants. Sukuna grunted with pleasure, bucking his hips as you ground yours. 

“You’re not as sharp with me,” you giggled, languidly gliding your cunt over his begging member. 

“Because you’re fucking distracting,” Sukuna grieves, his hands clenching into tight balls by his side as he refuses to grab onto your ass and push for more friction. 

You felt him sink, using his shoulders as leverage to keep you perched in just the right position so your pussy was rubbing over his cock. You bit back a sound of pleasure from leaving you, and instead exhale softly as you continue rocking back and forth. 

“You’re big everywhere aren’t you,” you tantalized, noting the way his jaw tense as a rumble erupted from his chest in a deep groan which morphed into a slightly sinister laugh. 

“Let me show you.” 

He lifted his hips, making you pause at the sudden awkward shift. He pushed his sweat pants down just to meet the end of his boxers. The removal of the first layer was a small relief, but your eyes widened as he settled back down. His erection was tenting, pressing up against the thin black material and making you see a clear distinction of his balls and thick shaft. 

“Go on then,” he tempted. 

Your could feel yourself getting wet. The tightness in your belly only contracting further. 

You stared him down, knowing full well that he was manipulating you at that very moment. 

“Why stop there?” You rebutted. 

You helped pulled out the weight of his heavy cock from the restraint, watching his length smack against his lower belly as the tip dribbled with cum. Sukuna moaned when your thumb pressed against the slit, your touch dragging back and forth as you aligned yourself. 

The sounds of your panting breaths were far too loud in this quiet room. You hesitated for a minute before lowering yourself, pressing the fat tip at your entrance. You gulped down air from the stretch alone, your arousal enough lubricant for your take him. You sank, your attention on Sukuna’s whose eyes were honed in on the point of contact of your sexes. 

When your pelvis finally kiss his own, when your bodies were merged into one, you felt two hands seek your waist as you trembled in his arms. 

Your dress had fallen back over, covering him buried inside you. You were looking up at him now as his chest rose to press yours.

A puzzle piece finally connecting. 

He twitched inside you, and you clenched around his length, but neither of you moved. You forgot, for a moment, that this was just a game. That the two of you were probably going to wake up tomorrow morning not being able to face the other person. Your heart was racing, your body begging for movement but you couldn’t snap yourself out of the bold decision you already made. 

Sukuna was looking deep into our eyes, the sparkle behind his own irises making you think of embers on winter night. 

His hands slipped up your waist, over the curves of your breast and up on the length of your neck. He held your head between his palms, the tips of his thumbs lightly caressing your cheeks, with his fingers to the back of your neck. He tilted his head down slightly, his nose brushing against the bridge of yours and he did something that caught you entirely off guard. 

His lips were warm on yours, the kiss the softest gesture you’ve ever experienced from him. He held a firm kiss at first, long enough until you were crumbling apart. You parted your mouth, granting him entrance and he swiped his tongue to lick the inside. He was tracing your own, his wet and wanting mouth only growing more hungry as you eagerly accepted his kiss. Your heart hammered heavily in your chest, and goosebumps peaked all over your skin when you felt his thumbs gently caress the soft skin of your cheeks. 

You’ve never been kissed like this before. Never felt bursts of light erupt from behind your eyelids or your stomach explode with fireworks. This always just fun foreplay for you, but nothing that would make you quiver in heat. You almost came on the spot from this one little act that you’ve imagined since you were sixteen, the one which you thought would never occur because of an unspoken rule on boundaries. But it was finally happening, and it was far too magical for you to even comprehend. 

He swallowed your moan, tasted how sweet your desire actually was. The kiss was getting heated, your walls tightening around his cock His lips wrapped around your tongue. He sucked on it, before sliding his own back over yours. 

You felt so weak; were reminded that you truly were just a fragile thing in his arms and nothing more. 

He pulled away, a string of saliva sticking from his lips to yours but you shook your head as you circled your hands around his wrists. 

“More,” you cried desperately without thinking. 

Sukuna smiled against your mouth and obliged. 

You don’t know how long you both sat there making out. But every time he tried to pull you away you sighed “again,”, or moaned “don’t stop”. You didn’t even consider kissing to be an option on the table, but the more you were getting turned on the further your guard went down. Your hips started to bounce lightly, your pussy so bothered that it wanted some relief. You started fucking yourself over his length, your mouth battling with lips, teeth and tongue in a very heated stand off. Sukuna relaxed his body against the sofa, noticing you melt over him like you were wax. Your hips were moving up and down, your tongue languidly rolling around his mouth. You could feel Sukuna moving with you, bucking his hips in return. His jerks were growing sharper, his hands dropping back down to your hips to keep you in place. Your foreheads were touching, lips parting, panting heavily as you climbed and higher. The two of you were lost in the moment, forgetting everything else that led up to this. 

You were going to lose this one, you thought, and you didn’t even care. 

Your head was spinning, your heart bursting, and you reached to hold his jaw in your hand out of desperation, hoping that by clinging to him it meant that you wouldn’t disappear into the haze of it all. Entirely overwhelmed by the feeling, by this particular connection, your eyes started to water, with tears falling as your nose grew stuffy. 

“Ryomen~” you begged, your dulcet voice full of affection. The tip of his cock hit your sweetest spot and at that point you knew you were done for. 

But Sukuna jerked his hips, the groan that ripped out of him made your belly spasm. He pulled out fast, shooting his cum all over you. Your orgasm collapsed into you just seconds after, and the two of you were shaking against one another as you tried to reorient yourselves to the present. 

You were a mess, and so was he. 

Two hands found your thighs as your torso collided into his. You placed one hand on the base of his neck, and rested your cheek against the crook.  

“You lost,” you joked with a sniffle, because you were unsure what to say, and because you realized you had just fucked your best friend and had no idea what that meant. 

Sukuna just grinned, flashing you a knowing smile and a devilish smirk. 

He perched your chin under his fingers, tapping the end sweetly. 

“Doesn’t feel like I did,” he breathed, and your eyes glittered once more. 

You arched up to kiss his cheek, “I didn’t know a dragon could kiss this well…” 

Sukuna chuckled, bumping the tip of his nose to yours affectionately as he tilted his head down. “I’ve had time to practice.” 

You sighed into another kiss, “What did we do, Ryomen?” 

“Something we should have done a long time ago…” he responded in between. 

“You love me…” you breathed. 

“And you’re surprised?” He interrupted with another kiss. 

“I don’t know what that means…” 

He nipped at your bottom lip. “It means what it means. I love you. Fuck, enough that I nearly fucking came inside you without thinking. You haven’t been around and I feel like I've lost my goddamn mind in just a year…” 

Your nails dragged down his chest your heart leaping its way up your throat. 

“I love you too,” you revealed. “I love you, Ryomen. And I missed you too."

You both fell asleep on the sofa, waking up the next morning and replaying the events of your drunken stupor. After you both cleaned up and showered, you had a serious conversation over two cups of coffee. Though, you aren’t quite sure how "serious" it was, considering that Sukuna had you sitting on his lip while you were gently stroking his hair.

He revealed that the reason why he didn’t tell you about his return was also partially due to the fact that he was leaving that very night to hop on plane and fly halfway across the world. He couldn't bring himself to see you for only a short stint when he knew he needed far more time together after everything.

“Uraume is right,” he bitterly admitted, “You are a big distraction for me right now, and I have to be in the right headspace for this fight with Gojo” 

“You sound worried,” you pointed out with a furrow of your brows, your hands dragging back his locks as you threaded your digits between the strands to push his hair back from his forehead.

“If he beats me then I am done,” Sukuna blurted, “what I have built will diminish into nothing. I can’t lose to him. It’ll cost me my career…” 

Disappointment wrapped its arms around you just as Sukuna loosened his own grip. But you could hear the hint of tiny, tiny fear behind his words was enough to you feel hollow. Sukuna has never felt threatened, but this was a serious fight for him. He’s worked so hard for all of this, and he was not willing to give it up to some punk who just shot into the scene. 

“Why don’t we revisit this after the fight then?” You offered.

He glanced at you.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." you exhaled, "what if maybe we just need to wait a little longer before we allow ourselves to have this..."

Sukuna paused for a moment. “You’d wait for me?” He asked. 

A smile ticks at the corner of your mouth. “Yes, because you always come back to me” 

“That I do” he responds

You brush your fingers under his chin, tilting it upward once more to receive another kiss. “I’ll wait for you,” you ensure. "Because I'll always come back to you too."

₊ ⊹ .

One hand slides into the front pocket of your denim skirt, and Sukuna rests his chin on top of your head. You smile to yourself, though he can’t see it, because he’s busy watching you slice bits of fruit as you place it into one of his ceramic bowls. When you were kids, Sukuna would have to look around your arm whenever he hugged you from behind. The years show the evolution of this gesture, from him suddenly perching over your shoulder until he could simply see over your crown. 

He sighs, his other arm curling over your belly as he embraces you. 

“Don’t add the blueberries,” he mumbles. 

You oblige, your back leaning into the breadth of his chest. 

The two of you haven’t touched one another since that faithful night. 

Up until the fight, you and Sukuna simply returned back to the way things used to be. Except this time there were little alterations in your day to day conversations that indicated a shift. 

For one, Sukuna was a flirt. 

You were use to this commentary, but now that your friendship has taken a turn you find your cheeks growing heated more often around him because his words weren't gray. What he says toward you, and the way he compliments you rings very, very true.  There is also a deep tenderness for one another that you both are finally allowing to express freely. You don't dull your affection, and instead allow it to overflow. And last of all, the longing to be back together was pathetically obvious. 

You placed the strawberries, sliced peaches and peeled oranges into the bowl, your fingers a little tacky. “I need to wash my hands,” you indicate, and Sukuna begrudgingly releases you from his hold. 

You’re surprised that he didn’t pounce on you so quickly. 

The two of you only had one other sexual moment just a few months ago. 

Sukuna video called you one evening, his face tight with frustration. 

He was exhausted from training, and even more drained by the press. 

They were claiming that his new “pumped physique” was due to steroid use, and one little rumor had the representatives of the boxing association hounding him like he was a real culprit in this make believe story. Suddenly, his hard work and training was being reduced to the thing that the press claimed him to be: a cheater.

He called you to ensure you that everything was alright. That he was forced to take tests which all came out negative (obviously) and and effectively proved his innocence. 

“I can’t wait to be home,” he breathed with annoyance. “I’m fucking sick of this shit…” 

You were in the bathroom getting ready for bed, gently patting your moisturizer onto your face. “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” you stated, offering him only an apology because it's all you could give. “Is there something I can do to make you feel better?” 

Sukuna arched his brow, his attention hovering in front of the screen. 

“Yeah, you can take off that robe you’re wearing…” he teased. 

You jerked your head to the camera in surprise, noting his cheeky tone. 

“Ha-ha…” you remarked. 

“I’m being serious,” he answered back, his mouth dropping into an instant frown. “I’ve had a shitty day, and I can’t even do the one thing I want to help me relax…” 

You arched your brow. “And what might that be?” 

He revealed his canines, a wolfish grin brightening that handsome face. “Fucking my girl...” 

Your heart thumped, and you swallowed the sudden tightness in your throat. You picked up your lip balm and dabbed your finger into the ointment before gliding it over your bottom lip. 

“Your girl, huh?” You reiterated casually, hoping that Sukuna wouldn’t quite pick up on the catch in your throat. 

“You’re always my girl, even when you weren’t mine to call that…” he added softly, his voice pulling your attention back towards him. 

He wasn’t kidding around, with the look on his face entirely serious. The tips of your ears stung with a heat that you couldn’t explain, and you just had the sudden urge to reach through the screen and pull his face back towards you. 

You wanted to kiss him, to tell him that you always felt like you belonged to him too. 

The two of you an inseparable pair for a reason. 

Instead, you stripped down to reveal your naked form. You perched the camera towards the back for a wider shot, and allowed your body to speak to Sukuna instead. One of your legs was resting on the bathroom sink, the other grounding you on the floor. You had the camera facing your cunt, with your fingers buried deep inside. But it was nothing compared to the stretch of Sukuna’s digits, wasn’t filling you enough to reach you to the pleasurable climax you desired. 

“It’s not enough,” you gasped in between breaths, watching Sukuna passionately jerk off from he other side of the screen, “Need you, ‘kuna~” you whined, “it’s not enough with you…” 

The memory hits you, making your lower belly tighten.

You dry your hands off to face him, only to find the man standing with an expression of guilt on his face. 

The same concern you had earlier when you left the elevator reappeared once more. 

You pick up the fruit bowl from the counter, trying your best not to give the discomfort attention. You offer Sukuna a strawberry, lifting it towards his mouth but he instantly circles his hand around your wrist and pulls it back down.

“I need to tell you something,” 

You scrunch your brows, and place the fruit bowl back onto the counter. 

“What’s wrong?”

Sukuna closes his eyes, a look of shame washing over him. 

You take a step closer, wrap both arms around his waist and rest your chin on his chest. 

“What’s wrong?” You repeat, coaxing him to speak. 

“I nearly threw the fight tonight.” 

You jerk your head up in shock, your lips parting as your jaw falls from the confession. 

“You…what?” 

Sukuna rubs his tired face with one hand, using every ounce of courage to look back at you. 

“There was a moment in the ring when Satoru threw a relatively decent punch,” he explains, “I had the lights knocked out of me for a split second. When I turned to face him it hit me then...that I could fake dodging his next attack before giving him the opening that he needs to win. One more hit and I’d...collapse. Let the referee do his count, and that would be it…”

You knew the exact moment he was referring to. It was the point in the match where your ears were ringing because you truly thought that you would be witnessing a loss on Sukuna's part. The entire crowd was muttering in shock, all of them on the precipice of a potential shift in legacy. 

“I didn’t follow through because I think Satoru noticed a change in my demeanor. It was only a few seconds, but the kid is fucking sharp. He wasn't smugly determined then, he was looking at me with...confusion. I couldn't do it then. I didn't want him to get a cop out on my end. So, I carried on the fight the way I would. After the match, I thought I could just let the moment pass but Uraume tried to bring it up later and I shut it down because I didn't want to admit it. Anyway, I needed to just get it off my chest…” 

“You were going to give him that win?” You expressed with deep concern, tightening your hold around his waist as you watched Sukuna’s face to turn hard. 

It hits you then - that the Champ, The Monster of The Ring, The Beast and King Himself was…burnt out. Sukuna’s fire had been gone for quite some time, you just thought it would reignite after tonight. 

But it didn't.

You bring your hands to his biceps and caress your palms up and down. 

“Ryomen,” you speak, licking your lips with hesitation before finally asking. “Is this what you still want?” 

Contemplative eyes meet yours as his palms find both your cheeks. He drops his head down, his lips seeking yours as he takes into account the gash on the muscle, then places a careful kiss on your mouth. 

“I just want you,” he hums. 

“M’right here,” you murmur back, “Not going anywhere.” 

“I’ve been waiting for this,” he adds on, “that’s all I could think about during the fight. Was just coming home to you, coming home to us…” 

A shiver runs down your back, but your body vibrates with an innocent excitement. “We don’t have to wait anymore,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere no matter what happens. No matter what comes next…” 

Sukuna looks at you then, knowing full well what your statement means. 

Once news breaks out of the two of you being an actual item, heaven knows what might happen. If the paparazzi have been plaguing Sukuna like a curse this whole time, it was only going to get even more complicated with you so intimately intertwined in his world. And now that he was back on top as the champion, he knew full well that all eyes were going to remain on him.

From when he was a child, no matter what he believed about his life that would deter you from him. His broken home wasn't enough to push you. His anger wasn't enough to push you. His detachment wasn't enough to push you. The chaos that is his world wasn't enough to push you.

You have always remained solidly by his side.

His constant. The only thing in the world that he can rely on.

“I love you,” he states under his breath, leaning in to peck you for a second time. 

“I love you too,” you repeated with a smile against his lips. 

There was no epic moment around this sober reveal, no exceptional circumstance other than the privacy of it being spoken with no one else to hear it other than the two of you.

You loved one another, in the deepest possible way you could love a person. From there your lips parted, and you carefully kissed the man before you as he scooped you up in his arms. 

He repeated the phrase again when he placed you on the kitchen counter, with his fingers buried deep within the folds of your wet pussy. 

You moaned it back to him after he carried you into his bedroom, with your fists tangled between his hair as he ate you out. 

He grunted it out one last time, with his hand gripping the headboard as he watched your body melt into the matters when he thrusted his dick in and out of you as he made love to you feverishly. 

And you mumbled it back one last time while he held you in his arms, the two of you falling asleep from a very long night of unbridled passion. 

Sukuna was the first to wake at the crack of dawn. He rolled over to grab  his phone from the side table in an attempt to turn off his alarm before it woke you up as well. As he looked at the device, his heart sank. 

A number of notifications were blowing up his phone and it was making him feel dizzy. 

News articles were already painting him in all his glory after his fight with Satoru, with his opponent looking battered in defeat. The press had finally flipped, and suddenly began to revere him the way he deserved to be. There were text messages from an influx of people, either congratulating him or wanting get his thoughts on the match. Sukuna feels the tremor in his hand build as he starts to scroll through the notifications. 

He places the device on the blanket in front of him, his eyes looking out to the large windows as he watches the sky shift from a deep violet to a lilac blue. He turns this head to gaze at you. This image of you by his side, in a position that he’s seen multiple times in his life, feels different now too. The soft glow of new daylight washes over your body, and the stillness of the hour has him believing that he actually made it to heaven. Sukuna places a soft kiss on your forehead, then carefully kicks off the blankets. He searches for his boxers, then pulls on the pair before stepping out into his balcony. 

He calls Uraume. 

Usually they pick up quick, but Sukuna counts down the rings until they do. 

“My King,” they tease, their voice a little groggy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Sukuna watches a bird fly across the horizon, the ease in his chest an affirmation to what he’s about to say. 

“I’m retiring,” he announces. “I’m done.” 

The silence hangs in the air, streaks of orange and yellow begin to tint the clouds. 

“I had a feeling you were going to say that…” 

“is that why it took you long to answer my call?” 

Uraume huffs out a laugh. “I guess I was hoping for another piece of news…” 

“Are you mad?” Sukuna asks, only honoring Uraume with his worry because he knows how much they have done for him to begin with. 

Uraume sighs, “I’m not actually. It’s the smartest decision you can make. You retire now and you basically leave the game while sitting at the top. You’ve earned that throne, and it won’t be easy for these rookies to take it from you so quickly…” 

Sukuna chuckles, “you’re right about that…” 

Uraume lets the quiet overtake the conversation. “I’ll give it a few days before I break the news to the press.” 

“And then what?” 

“There’s definitely going to be a lot of interviews, and a retirement party that you will have to attend wether you like it or not…” 

“And what about you?” 

Uraume hums, “You and I had a good run. If it’s the end for you, then I guess I can finally retire too..” 

Sukna furrows his brows, his nails scratch over the rail on his balcony. “I don’t want you doing that because of me…” 

Uraume laughs, “You’ve earned my loyalty, what can I say?” 

“Thank you,” Sukuna breathes, “For everything you’ve done for me. You’re more than just a manager, but I think you already know that...” 

“I know it,” Uraume answers back. “And I also know that this is the right decision because you sound…relieved.” 

He hears you then. 

You were calling out to him, “‘kuna, where are you?~” 

He turns his back to face the railing, missing the sun breaking through the horizon at the sound of your voice. He smiles thinking about the adorable, frustrated look on your face when you probably reached out and couldn’t find him, and he slowly begins making his approach back into his bedroom. 

“I am,” he speaks to Uraume, “I’ve got to go. Will talk about this later.” 

He hangs up the phone, and returns to the shadow of deep, restful slumber. He places the phone back on his side table, and smiles at the exact disappointed expression that he pictured when he was outside. 

The second you feel his warmth back in your presence, you snuggle up into his frame. 

“Where did you go?” You mumble with a yawn, and Sukuna wraps his strong arms around you as he nestles back into your body. 

“Nowhere,” he breathes, easing back into your embrace. 

“Heard you talking,” you add on, you eyes still shut but your arm slinking around his neck to keep him close.

It’s taken you both over two decades to get here, and he wasn’t going to allow anything to come in the way of that. “I’ll tell you about it later,” he reassures, keeping his loving eyes on you as he clutches onto his bright, new future with his favorite person.

A life that you both will now get to live in peaceful happiness. 

₊ ⊹ .

:note: hi, everyone! long form fics has been really draining for me these days but these one shots feel like a great refresher. I know this is a monster of a fic, but I hope you enjoy the story. comments and reblogs are appreciated!

tags (only tagging those who asked): @after-laughter-come-tears @not-9ok @axxk17 @sukubusss @lavenderdaydream97 @charlie-xo @kunasthiast @celestep004 @brownskinnedgirll @sukunasweetheart @kunascutie @joontroverted @emi311 @yuujispinkhair @starmapz @bellyei

[draconym]

Thank you for the post about your parrot combining words to refer to specific foods! I always love reading stories about things they say, so so fascinating. Do you have any other examples of combined words or maybe just an interesting anecdote about bird language for someone who’s never looked at your blog before?

Oh, sure. I first read about Lexical Elision in The Alex Studies, and later Alex and Me, about Dr. Pepperberg's "Avian Language EXperiment." Alex famously described apples as "banerry" (banana + cherry) when he first encountered them, possibly because they were pale inside like a banana, but round and red like a cherry--both of which words he already knew.

I guess the thing that's hard about this question is that I have normalized so many things about living with a talking parrot that I think are, for the average person, deeply abnormal. Every morning when I come downstairs he requests various foods from me (most days it's carrot, peanut, berry) and then lobbies for me to let him out by saying "Ripley wanna come out" in various different intonations. When he sees me linger by the door or put on a jacket, he says "bye," often adding, "see you later."

A lot of people think that parrots memorize phrases atomically, as in, if you teach a parrot to say "Polly wanna cracker," it may understand that making those sounds in that order results in a cracker, but it will not mean that a bird understands that its name is "Polly," that it "wanna" something, and that "cracker" is the desired food.

To an extent, this is true. If you teach a parrot a phrase in a vacuum it will never be able to deconstruct it. But most captive parrots capable of language and mimicry are exposed to the daily conversation of the humans around them, and are also inherently prone to making word salad out of whatever they hear. This is fun for them. So Polly will probably eventually learn that Polly is their name, that "wanna" can precede many different desirable things, and that "cracker" is the most important part of that sentence and the most efficient way to demand it.

Ripley loves making new sentences. He says silly sounding things all the time like "Ripley wanna chair" or "gonna watch kitchen" because he enjoys playing with words like Legos. But my favorite Ripleyism is when he says "you're so (random word)." Originally this was "you're so silly" or "you're so nice," which we do say to him pretty often. His favorite compliment is "you're so bird."

I recommend my Ripley Parrot tag if you're interested in Ripley Stories. I also highly recommend reading stories about parrots over living with a parrot.

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

Punish me.

Pairing: Boss!Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: +18, NSFW, MDNI Words count: 5853

Summary: What happens when your boss punishes you but you like it too much? You look for more. And more. Tags/Warnings: POV second person, no use of Y/N, legal unspecified age gap, power imbalance, dom!Joel / sub!reader, degradation, oral (m receiving), spanking, unprotected p in v (reader is on the pill but still, do better irl), initially dub-con but reader is very into it, risk of being caught, a little chocking if you squint, cream pie, squirting, reader has no description other than the clothes she is wearing, manipulation, slurs, pet names, reader calls Joel "Sir". This Joel is low-key inspired by Don Draper from Mad Men and the whole thing was also low-key inspired by Secretary (2002). Let me know if I forgot something important, I will add it right away. A/N: Written for Never Have I Ever challenge hosted by the lovely @yxtkiwiyxt , this was my prompt and I had so much fun working on it! Thanks for giving me the opportunity to join! 🥰 Thanks to @aurorawritestoescape for being the most precious beta and @joelmillerisapunk for being the best support I could ask for and for letting me yap about it for a month and half lol I love you so much 🥹❤️ English is not my first language, every single mistake is still on me, I deeply apologize if you find any. Thanks to anyone who will read! masterlist | Joel Miller masterlist

“Mr Miller wants to see you in his office at 3” When Pam called you to say that a shiver ran down your spine.

Your last client was the owner of a large brewing company, a self-centered rich asshole that you couldn’t stomach in any way.

He had been pressing you for weeks for you to come up with the most sexist and stupidest ad campaign ever, all while you were trying to present him with new ideas that didn't necessarily include 10 women in bikinis at the feet of one man or other such things that had been done 200 times already .

You hated the guy with every fiber of your being and you told him exactly what you were thinking about him when he called you a prude and argued that he could show you what a real man was.

Seeing his sleezy smile as he winked at you and told you that you needed to fuck more was your last straw.

You were glad to be rid of him but you knew well that your boss would not have the same opinion. 

Right out of college what you wanted was to learn the profession as soon as possible, and you wanted to learn it from the best in the business. 

Joel Miller owned the most famous advertising agency in town, so you did everything to get an internship there.

You understood why he was so successful from day one.

__________________________________

Pam was sitting at her desk as usual when you walked in. 

Her desk was a few feet from the door of Mr. Miller's office. 

A large, black, solid wooden door with a fine frame, one of those that seemed to lead to the rooms forbidden to poor commoners. 

She just looked up from the computer screen to tell you to come in, Mr. Miller was waiting for you, and then she was back to work.

Pam was a woman in her 60s, blond hair perpetually pulled back in an elegant bun, a pearl necklace around her neck, cachemire sweaters in all pastel colors, silk blouses and matching skirts.

She looked very neat, austere, you could swear you never saw her smile but heck, she was really good at her job and had been managing Mr. Miller's impossible schedule for many years.

You knocked on the door feeling your heart in your throat, thinking you were one step away from being fired.

Joel's voice bounced through the door, heavy and raspy, "come in.”

You entered trying to maintain a composure.

“Good morning, Mr Miller, you wanted to see me?” 

He put down the papers he was perusing on the desk and looked up at you.

“Oh, it's you,” he said in a very calm voice. “The one who made me lose a lot of money.”

“I...I'm sorry but the guy was too much of an asshole for me to take it,” you spat out.

You knew Joel appreciated people who were standing their ground.

“Excuse me, should I care? You just made a thousand dollar check disappear.” 

The silence that enveloped the room was unreal.

You stood in front of his stately mahogany desk, trying to keep your back straight and your shoulders high.

Of course, he didn’t care, he was an asshole too.

________________________________

He had conducted the interviews personally, without delegating it to his subordinates.

He hired you himself, without missing the opportunity to intimidate you in the meantime.

The first day you had come in you were shy, awkward, afraid of your own shadow. 

How did you think you could deliver a presentation in front of a client if you looked like a frightened little bird that had just fallen out of the nest?

Joel said he took a risk hiring you, the least you could do was to show him how much you really wanted the job.

Eventually you learned to fight. 

It hadn't been pleasant or even easy, Joel wouldn't let you get away with anything, criticized your every idea, sometimes blatantly mocked you. 

He had pushed you to work harder than you would have imagined and you were eager to let him know that you were worth something, that you were not just an honors graduate but could translate your knowledge into the practical field.

You also owed it to yourself. 

Your parents supported you but had always told you that you were not the type to work in advertising.

Too kind, too quiet, too sweet. 

“Honey, are you sure? Wouldn't you rather do some other job?” your mother always asked you. 

No, you didn't want to do anything else. And you were going to prove it to everybody.

You became a sucker for Joel’s attention in no time.

Whatever type he wanted to give to you. 

As you progressed and learned, he became gentler, too much so at times. 

Grazing your knee under the table at meetings, touching your waist way too much as you walked down the hallways talking about some projects, playfully slapping your ass once, after successfully signing your first contract with a client.

It was becoming a relationship that other colleagues didn't have to notice.

He was your mentor, your inspiration, the person who had taken you under his wing and taught you to fly.

Along with the desire to do well, however, something else grew in you over time.

Arousal, desire, need. 

It lingered in the air while you were trying to flap your wings and stay aloft.

_______________________________

“Furthermore…” his voice dropped and deepened, “we don’t tolerate this kind of language here.”

A shiver ran down your spine at the clear change in his voice. 

You knew what he was doing. 

And you liked it.

“Well, I’m sorry but there’s no other appropriate word to describe that person” you chirped.

You didn’t drop the asshole just to have this, you really hated the man with all you had, this was just a pleasant collateral damage. 

Joel being angry at you. 

Joel who wanted to punish you.

He ran a hand over his mustache, looking at you as if he wanted to devour you.

You felt your clit throb in anticipation.

He stood up from his chair, he was imposing, broad shoulders and awe-inspiring piercing eyes.

“Let me explain it to you properly. I don't care if he didn't meet your moral dictates, I don't give a damn if he was so obnoxious that he made you sick to your stomach, okay?” his voice was a thin, cold, steady blade.

“Yes, Mr. Miller” you swallowed, without breaking eye contact. “You acted like a whiny child,” he stated. “ And you made me lose a ton of money” 

His heavy step creaked faintly on the fine parquet floor. He was towering over you.

“Yeah, you said that already,” you rolled your eyes.

You would have sworn you were hearing Joel’s blood simmering in his veins and that was exactly what you wanted. 

“Do you think criminal lawyers like to defend murderers? Do you think they like their clients?” 

“No,” you muttered 

“Yeah, they don’t like them but they do it anyway because it's their job.” 

That was a little extreme example but he did make a point.

You were torn. 

Disappointing your mentor was the last thing you wanted but seeing him like that, ready to give  you a lesson was making you horny like nothing else. 

You craved it. 

“Do you know what they used to do to wayward children like you?” 

You could feel the warmth of his body with how close he had gotten.

“Yeah.” 

His eyes looked like onyx stones.

“Say it.” “They spanked them,” you finally let out.

“Yeah. You’re goddamn right, darling. They spanked them.” His words were a sheet of ice on which you couldn't wait to slide.

“Bend over the desk.” 

“No,” you tried to argue.

“I. Said. Bend.” He ordered, punctuating every word.

You raised an eyebrow, glaring at him, but finally gave in. 

You approached the desk, rested your elbows on it and jostled your ass out, poised on your heels. 

He positioned himself behind you, you turned to look at him, and he immediately hissed, 

"Eyes to the wall, missy." 

You huffed, returning your gaze to the large painting hanging behind the desk. 

His hands slid down your legs. 

It was the first time he touched you, the first time you felt his strong grip on your body, the first time his warmth penetrated your flesh.

“You really disappointed me today.” His voice was calm, low, but full of disgruntlement.

“I'm sorry,” you whispered. 

“It's not enough,”

His hands had reached the hem of your skirt, raising it dangerously, pulling it up, exposing the edge of your thigh-high stockings and your panties. 

“Do you still think you deserve a place in this agency?” 

Panic welled up inside you, you felt your cheeks on fire and your hands trembling on the wood of the desk. 

You didn't want to lose everything you had worked for. 

Joel wouldn't sign any reference letters for you, you wouldn't get a job at any other agency, and your career would be over before it even started.

You remained stubbornly silent, trying not to be seen as weak, until he blurted out, 

“answer me.”

“Yes. I made a mistake.”

“You’re goddamn right, honey,” he replied wryly.”How will you fix this?”

That honey sounded like a mockery. Like you were still too soft to do the job and be successful at it. 

You hated it and it made your pussy throb at the same time.

“I will find a way, Mr. Miller.”

“We’ll see” he retorted “But you still deserve punishment, don't you think?”

“Yes,” you breathed reluctantly.

You didn’t like to admit that but you couldn’t stop yourself.

You wanted it too much. 

You wanted him too much.

You didn’t hear him fumbling with his pants, no zippers coming undone, no buttons slipping through the buttonhole.

You just felt his breath fanning over your back and his hand gripping at your hips.

You felt his gaze seeping into your flesh. 

You would have liked to turn around, tell him to get it over with and fuck you, but you didn’t. 

You stood still in your turn, feeling the tension bubbling in your chest while he seemed so calm and collected.

He was taking his time with you.

You sighed, just before you felt the air shift behind you and his hand landed deafly on your ass.

You gasped. 

Another slap had hit you. 

Harder than before.

Pain spread all over your butt, tingling, until it turned into a destabilizing pleasure. 

You had never done anything like that before and as disconcerting as it was to admit it, you liked it. 

You liked it like crazy.

You felt a slick of arousal wetting your panties while you moaned.

“Do you want some more?” 

You nodded eagerly. 

“Oh. You gotta use your word, I feel like I taught you that, right?” He tutted. 

“Yes.” You whispered “please” 

Instead of continuing, he walked over to the bar cabinet, poured himself a couple of fingers of whiskey into a glass, sat back down on his leather chair and looked you in the eyes.  

“Get out of here.”

You stood there watching him, hunched over his desk, wood still pressing on your clothed tits, feeling like you were in a fever dream. 

Had it really happened? 

The heat still throbbing on your ass cheek told you it had.

You stood up, straightened your skirt, your darting gaze metaphorically stabbing him. 

He had humiliated you. 

How had you let this happen? And most of all, why did you want more?

You left without looking back.

Pam wasn't at the desk when you left, you slipped out as quickly as possible, with one fixed thought in mind. 

______________

The next few days he ignored you. He started following another girl who had just arrived and he was behaving the way he had with you. 

Jealousy had never been a vice of yours. Never. But seeing him chuckle at her jokes, praise her for her efforts, smile at her, start calling her by her name like he had done with you made you furious.

It squeezed your chest in a cruel fist.

You had worked on the presentation for a market-leading make-up client, and fortunately for you, the CEO had been enthusiastic about your ideas.

You didn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know how much he was hurting you but despite the persistence with which you tried, you grew so hungry for him that all you were thinking about was finding a way to make him furious again. 

To get punished again. You hated having fallen for his game, but by now you were a fish seeking oxygen in the mesh of the fishing net.

You were trying to get his attention in every way without success.

At the peak of your desperation, you had passed an embarrassing number of times in front of his office in the hope that he would come out.

You kept meeting only Pam bringing coffee, folders or Joel's personal correspondence.

After a week she no longer seemed surprised to find you there, there was a kind of understanding in her gaze, a muted feminine solidarity, an ill-concealed displeasure.

“Honey, why do you do this to yourself?” she seemed to say.

You didn’t care. Your pussy didn’t care either.

______________

One day, when you saw Pam pass in the hallways during the lunch break, you decided to do something.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You had gotten up deliberately exclaiming, “Oh, I really need a coffee!” And you had pretended to head for the common room. At last you had turned the opposite corner and snuck into the hallway that led to Joel's office. You had to hurry.

You slipped inside in an instant and found yourself in front of the imposing door that led to the office of the object of your desires.

He was talking to someone on the phone, you could clearly hear his voice but none in response.

When he finished, you opened the door and entered, full of doubts and fears but the same moved by a disruptive urge you couldn't say no to.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Joel's rough voice greeted you. “I came to see my mentor,” you whispered. ”And to tell him that tomorrow we will sign the contract with the make-up company.”

You smiled, waiting for his reaction.

He demolished you immediately in response, 

“So? What do you want, a golden star? A kiss on the forehead?”

He raised an eyebrow mockingly staring at you.

“No, I just wanted to let you know,” you countered in a voice far too resentful for your taste.

You were turning on your heels to leave when you heard his voice say, 

“What is the real reason you are here?”

You turned again and looked at him. 

Elbows rested on the desk, the sleeves of the white shirt he wore rolled up to leave his muscular forearms exposed, rolling the platinum ring he wore on his middle finger around, his straight shoulders wrapped in the fabric that seemed to contain his broadness with difficulty, the first few buttons left open giving you a glimpse of a few freckles on his bronze chest. 

The posture of the boss judging you, sitting comfortably in his leather chair, a smirk plastered on his face, a defiant expression in his eyes. 

He was both sultry and irritating. 

You wanted to slap him but also take off your panties and sit on his cock. 

To be honest, you wanted to do both at the same time.

“You walked in here without asking Pam,” he noted amusedly, looking at you as if he could read your mind “What were you trying to do?” “Nothing,” you lied, fidgeting with a button on your shirt. “Just my job”

“I think you were trying to get on my nerves,” he suggested

You scoffed “You think you’re the center of my universe?”

“You’re the one in my office right now. Say what you want. Or leave. But I think you want to stay, am I right? Your pussy wants it.” 

You were speechless, totally caught off guard. 

“What do you need, darling?” He urged you, walking towards you. 

He raised a hand reaching for your cheek, brushing it with his thumb. 

His voice softened slightly, the knot in your stomach tightened. 

It felt manipulative. 

But also arousing when he gently pulled your lower lip open and grazed it with the pads of his fingers. 

He grabbed your chin and tilted your head to face him. 

His gaze was authoritative, demanding but also sweet, like he was trying to get you convinced that he was a good guy, just eager to give you something you wanted so much that you showed up uninvited to his office. 

“Punish me,” you breathed as he was sliding his fingers down your neck. 

“See? It wasn’t so difficult. This was all I needed to know,” he chuckled softly, right after grabbing you by the waist, gentleness instantly out of the menu, pulling up your skirt to expose your ass. 

“You want me to spank you again, am I right?” 

Your voice came out husky and broken, you only managed to mumble a “yes”, the most desperate yes you’ve ever said in your life. 

“That's what I was thinking,” he groaned

His hands were roaming your thighs “Hold-ups. Of course. You’re the target for that Agent Provocateur campaign we launched last month, aren't you?”

You would have laughed if you could but you felt his fingers graze the wet, sticky stain spreading across your panties and you gasped instead. 

And then his hand crushed on your ass cheek, his ring marked your skin, pain spreading across your skin, immediately replaced by an unbearable heat. 

It made you feel alive. 

You had his attention again.

One, two, three spanks burned your flesh, you could clearly feel a trickle of pleasure flowing out of you.

“How dare you come into my office just to provoke me? Don’t you know who I am? Huh, little slut?” 

“Yes,” you muttered. “yes Mr Miller but…” 

You had started this, you would have liked to say. 

You were the one flirting first. 

You were the one leading me to want you, this, always. 

Another slap hit you and you said nothing instead. You just moaned. 

A knock on the door stopped Joel in his tracks.

He froze with his hand high up in the air. 

“Who is it?” He asked nervously. 

He still held you tightly by the waist, you tried to wriggle free from his grip without success.

“It’s Pam,” her voice came muffled from outside the door. 

“Fuck” you whispered, you instantly looked around in panic for a place to hide. 

Not the bookcase, or the bar cabinet or the nice leather couch and armchair that were placed in front of it.

There was only one option.

“Get off of me,” you hissed “now!” 

Joel let go of you and you quickly cowered under the desk.

He sat down and spread his legs just enough to give you room as he moved his chair as close to the edge as he could.

“Come in” he ordered, trying to regain his composure. 

Pam cracked the door open and entered the office. 

You couldn’t see her but you could hear her light footsteps approaching the desk and her voice saying “I brought Mrs. Jones’ presentation that you wanted to review, Mr. Miller” 

“Oh. Thanks Pam” 

You could clearly hear the underlying nervousness in Joel’s voice and it was starting to make you laugh. 

You decided that since he was playing dirty you would do the same.

Your hand slowly moved up his pants, grazing his ankle, then his shin, up his thigh, until it reached his crotch.

Joel was desperately trying to hide his squirming as he examined the work of his new protégé. The one he was trying to replace you with.

It was delicious to feel him like that, helpless, harmless for once, totally at your mercy as you moved your hand up and down over his clothed cock that was desperately straining against the zipper. 

Pam didn't move, waiting for him to finish evaluating the project, only her regular breathing told you of her presence.

You liked the risk, the thrill of being discovered that ran under your skin. 

You could do more. 

Slowly, your fingers closed on the metal tag of Joel’s zipper. 

You pulled it down, while Joel tried to hide the noise with a cough. 

You pushed aside the flaps of his pants, pulling down his boxers to free his cock. He was hard in front of you. 

Thick, pink and darker at the tip, pulsing veins ran along the shaft that was slightly curved to the right.

Little drops of pre cum dripped onto his skin, making your mouth water. 

It was perfect and you had to have it. Right there and then.

You kitten-licked the underside where a white pearly bead was sliding, catching it with your tongue. 

Joel squirmed visibly on his chair, you couldn’t see it but you imagined his eyebrows shutting up and his lips twisting. 

You smiled in the heavy and heated air under the desk.

You hoped Pam would go away, but at the same time you were intrigued by putting Joel through the wringer without him being able to make any fumbling movements to stop you.

You held his cock in your hand, it throbbed in your palm, and a musky smell filled your nostrils. The smell of sex. 

You didn’t resist and licked again, more greedily, its flavor spread over your tongue. 

It was driving you crazy.

You felt his whole body stiffen as he sent his secretary away 

“That's all for now Pam, thank you. Tell the team to refine the graphics and report to Ms. Jones that the idea may work but the slogan is a bit weak, I want more ideas for next week ”

He had tried to maintain a professional tone, but his voice cracked mid-sentence, and you could only be mischievously proud of that.

As soon as Pam came out he yanked up his pants and wrapped a hand around your wrist dragging you out of your hiding place. 

“You dirty slut, what were you trying to do?" he rattled off. 

He had you standing up and trapped you against his chest, his half-dressed erection pressing hard against your ass.

His hand closed on your wrist hurt but you didn't care, you liked being manhandled like that.

You weren’t even intimidated anymore, just feral. 

Unhinged, eager, completely drunk on him.

“I thought you liked some action under the desk, Mr Miller” you replied, sneering without shame. 

“Oh you’re so thoughtful, aren’t you?” He barked, shoving you on the desk again.

“Yes I am.” You have never been so cheeky before, you were quite surprised and proud of yourself.

“No, you aren’t, darling”

With that, he pushed you onto the desk, your breasts pressed against the perfectly polished wood and his hands running to your skirt to hastily tug it down. 

It was like Deja vu.

The best type of.

He moved to lock the door.

“Hands on the desk, darling. And you better not take them out of there” 

He took off his tie, placed it on the desk and walked over.

His authoritative voice sent a rush of arousal straight to your pussy. 

He pulled down your panties, making you walk out of them and throwing them on the floor.

His hand grazed your folds, lightly at first and then he covered your whole sex and squeezed, sending a rush of adrenaline into your system 

“First time doing it? Getting fucked by your boss? Mh?”

“Yes” you breathed “I’ve never done anything like this before”

”You think you earned it?” 

“Yes”

He had withdrawn his hand from your pussy and placed both of them on your thighs.

“Bold of you. And I've already told you, you have to learn to speak properly. Yes, what?” His hands were gripping on your flesh so hard you were sure you'd end up with bruises.

“Yes, please” you whispered. “You think you deserve me giving attention to your pussy, huh?” 

His voice was low and raspy, almost like a subdued roar.

“Yes, please. Sir.” You added, emphasizing this last word.

“That's the way I like it, you're starting to learn. Turn around” You got up from the desk and he pushed you to sit on the edge, your bare pussy leaking on the surface. 

He slipped his hands down your thighs, over your bottom, up your back, stopping at the sides of your breasts. His thumbs rubbed your nipples through your shirt and lacy bra while he held you trapped between his body and the desk, standing between your open legs.

Your naked pussy throbbed against his pants, you could feel it dripping over the fabric, making a mess. He slipped his hand between the two of you, touching your folds with the pads of his fingers, up and down gathering more and more of your arousal and spreading it all over on your lips and clit. You tried hard to stifle your moans but a low husky one escaped your lips as you were rocking your hips against his hand.

“Look what I’m doing to your pussy.” He ordered while he started flicking your bundle of nerves. You looked down at his hand moving obscenely over your pussy, two of his thick fingers sliding inside you, his ring right out that was getting wet with you. You gasped loudly at the sensation when he curled them up just right, reaching for your special spot. “Be quiet” he had warned you off “either that or I’ll stop immediately” “No!” You wailed. “No, what?” He barked grasping your neck with his free hand 

You looked at yourself in his pitch black eyes, losing yourself in that deep darkness.

A taunting smile curved his lips. “No, please” you were quick to correct yourself “That’s right” his hand lightly squeezed your pulse point. “Undo my shirt, now” Your fingers were moving awkwardly over the buttons, trying to unfasten them while he continued to move his fingers inside you.

His skin, unveiled before your eyes, was almost too much to bear: golden and dotted with freckles that you wanted to lick one by one.

He smelled like whiskey and mint and a distinctive something that was only his, filling your nostrils, awakening every molecule of that secret part of you that was a slave for him.

Once you reached the last one you were so worked up you were almost on your brink, Joel noticed that right away and stopped, taking away his hand from your pussy. You whined in disappointment and he retorted 

“You don’t get to complain, darling” accompanying his words with a slap on your right tit “we clear?” “Yes, sir. I’m sorry” you breathed, feeling the pain spread all over your chest.

A rush of adrenaline made you quiver against his hot body.

He put his wet fingers in your mouth. “Clean them up, darling” And you did, you thoroughly swirled your tongue all over them, licking till the last drop, going feral for the taste of you and the way he pushed them through your lips, up to his knuckles.

“Good job”

He took off his shirt and dropped it on the floor. He shifted, moving you in front of him.

“Kneel. Show me how sorry you are for complaining” You kneeled right away, moving your hand over his pants, stroking the underline of his cock. “What do you want?” “Your cock” you purred “Ask nicely” he told you, totally unfazed by your attempt to bribe him

“Can I please pull your cock out, sir?” You would have looked up to anyone, but the power it exerted over you at that point was unmanageable and devoured you.

His onyx eyes were fixed on you, pinning you down to the ground, like he was holding your entire being in his fist. 

You couldn’t ask for anything more.

“Go ahead”

You hastily pulled down his pants and boxers, he stepped out of them and kicked them away.

You took his shaft back into your hand, licking the tip first, coating it in your saliva, until it was glistening and pulsing right before your eyes again.

You slid it in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, savoring his musky flavor, licking him like a lollipop, like the most delicious ice cream you’ve ever had.

“That’s what a good girl does,” he praised you “she fills her pretty mouth with a nice cock, just like that” You relaxed your jaw to take all that you could of him in your mouth.

His fingers reached for the back of your head, holding you possessively 

“Go on, miss, I know you want it, don’t you? You would like my cum on your tongue, huh?” You hummed against his shaft, even more eager for him.

You tried to brush your fingers on your clit, searching for some relief from the throbbing heated mess you felt between your thighs but he scolded you 

“Nuh huh, girl, don’t you dare. You don’t get to come until I say it” You whined, reluctantly moving your hand away.

You kept sucking on his cock, devouring every inch of him with purpose, messy and sloppy, thin trades of your saliva running onto his length to his balls. 

You swirled on the tip before sliding down to them and taking one in your mouth, greedily sucking on it. 

He was granite that crumbled slightly at your every touch, trying to hold back the grunts that vibrated in his throat, trying not to close his eyes so as not to get lost in every lap of your tongue. He tried not to give you any satisfaction but at the same time his body betrayed him, letting slip how much he wanted all of that. And you. 

At his brink, he stopped you, manhandling you back on the desk, tearing away your shirt making every single button pop out and yanking at your bra to expose your nipples. 

His lips closed on one of your hard rock buds and sucked it avidly. You were a whimpering mess, whining under your breath “please sir, fuck me” 

He grazed your nipple with his teeth, running a finger through your folds. 

“Look at you, darling, so hungry for my cock your pussy is weeping,  your body is shaking…” 

With one hand he yanked the papers off the desk, a shower of paper clips followed the sheets to the floor along with a stapler and the golden tag with his name engraved on it.

“Lie down” he hissed 

You lay on the desk, obscenely open and throbbing for him, a raw uncontrollable heat flowing through your body. 

“Please” you cried. 

He grabbed your legs and placed them on his shoulders, holding you tightly by your ankles.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this” he said tapping his cock on your folds and sliding it through them, before starting to enter you agonizingly slow. 

“Mmm feel how good she’s stretching, darling, your tight little pussy’s all full of me” 

“Yes, sir” 

“Say: thank you, sir” 

“Thank you, sir” 

It was all inside you and your pussy was swallowing it hungrily.

He started thrusting into a steady rhythm, slowly at first, like tidal waves hitting you, ripples on a blank shore caressing your special spot, and then stronger, faster, like thunderstorm on the ocean, high dangerous waves making you see stars. 

His huge cock shifting and brushing against your drenched walls, sinking into you again and again. 

Your moans bounced around the room like an echo, mixing with squelching sounds of his dick slamming into you, making you his. 

“Yes, baby, you’re doing so good for me” he whispered “come here”. 

He grabbed you and held you close to his chest, making your legs parting some more, reaching for another angle that made you feel him even deeper. 

His moustache brushed along your jawline, lowering on your neck, his lips sucking on your pulse point.

“Look at you, dripping on my desk,” he muttered softly, his voice reverberating on your skin. 

The impossible pace became too much to bear when his hand moved from your hips to your clit, his thumb brushing on it. 

He looked you in the eyes, feral and assertively “you want to come, huh? Make a mess all over my cock?” 

“Yes.” You cried, seeing the wreck that you were reflecting in his deep brown eyes “yes, please sir I need it” 

“Then come, baby” he said, increasing the pressure on your clit and pushing into you like it was a matter of life or death. 

That was all you needed to hear. 

You broke the dams that still kept you anchored to reality and flooded his cock, squirting all over his desk, a complete and utter disaster disheveled and exhausted. 

The fine wood of his desk was probably ruined forever but he didn't seem to care in the slightest, he pumped into you, grabbing your neck and hair until he spurted all of him into your cunt. 

You felt it warm and sticky, painting your walls, making you full like you’ve never been before. 

He slipped out a moment later, caressing your cheeks and praising you.

You got up from his desk and clung to his neck, pulling him into a long, deep kiss, tilting your head as you felt his tongue play with yours.

“Thank you” you murmured against his lips, smiling softly “And by the way, I’m on the pill”

“I know. I saw you take it the other day in the conference room before the meeting started” he said, while adjusting his trousers and taking a clean shirt from a desk drawer.

“Get out of here, naughty girl” 

“Well, you destroyed my blouse…” you said, picking up the garment from the floor.

“Here, take mine” 

You put on his shirt, too big for you, trying to tuck it under your skirt so it was less noticeable how long it was. He helped you by rolling up your sleeves, barely touching your skin, but enough to make you feel a shiver down your spine. 

“mmm sexy,” he said when he stopped to look at you.

“Let’s try not to make this a habit” he smirked, giving you another playful slap on your ass cheek “We can't do this 24 hours a day, seven days a week.”

“Why not?” You winked right before going out the door. 

You could smell him on you and it drove you crazy. You already knew that you would use his shirt to sleep that very night and for many nights to come.

Once outside the door, Pam looked at you over her glasses, raised an eyebrow, and for the first time you saw a little smile curve her lips.

tag list for this one: @baronessvonglitter @milla-frenchy @thundermartini @probablyreadinsmut @almostempty @gothcsz @harriedandharassed

archive tag: @pedrostories Let me know if you want to be added or removed, I'll do it right away.

[ladyrosemone]

The Other Side Of Paradise

Using Google Translate here! 🗣‼️‼️ This is an intermediate of part one, as the Batfamily's point of view just like you had yours, official part two coming soon! Also my question box is open (I think) and without further ado, enjoy the read! (Thanks for enjoying the read 😭🫶🏼)

Tw!: Profanity (use of prostitute as a derogatory insult), murder, murder scene described, negligence.

Tag List: @tsuniio, @simpingpandas, @dakotali, @softycheol.

Dick is always first.

The first child acrobat of the circus, the first son of Bruce Wayne, the first Robin, the first brother, the first everything.

And he was proud of that, from being an orphan to the pride of Gotham it was not an easy path and much less a happy one, but amidst so much pain and loss he is grateful for having a constant; his family.

Dysfunctional and somewhat shaky, where violence and beatings are the language of love, they find comfort in knowing that they have each other.

He has Alfred as his honorary grandfather, who is the wisest person he will ever meet again.

Bruce, who even with his flaws is his father, who gave him a chance and never abandoned him, making him the man he is today.

Jason, the most distant but beloved of his brothers, knows that he can always count on him and his strength at all times.

Tim, his chair boy, his best confidant, and the best detective in the world, trusts him with his life over anything he can't find.

And Damian, his little brother, his favorite boy in the whole world, the Robin to his Batman, what he wouldn't do for his sharp-tongued brother; even when he came to the mansion threatening and stabbing everything, never gave up on him and the result was completely worth it.

His sisters are also dear to him; Stephenie and Cassandra are strong and independent, but also loyal and loving. Barbara may not be a sister -she still has her father- but she has earned a place in the family and is considered sister as much as Steph and Cass.

Of course he will never leave Duke behind, the newest, the ray of sunshine among them all, he expects great things from him.

Dick is always first.

Dick is the last one to remember you.

Jason hates remembering his life before the well.

He doesn't want to forget, there are memories that still keep him sane; his mother, when Bruce adopted him, his first patrol as Robin. You.

But if it were up to him, he would never talk about them again or even acknowledge their existence. They are chains that bind him, quicksand that make him sink whenever he tries to move forward and personally he is fed up.

Because no matter how many villains he catch and how many more kill, how many people save, nothing will take away the guilt of not having saved that person. Don't save you.

Of not finding the strength in himself to look for you now, because for you, there is nothing but shame and shame for himself. The first friend he had, the first brother he had, his first great loss, his only great regret.

Jason hates remembering his life before the well.

Jason hates being the first to discover your new identity.

Tim is a genius.

Genius falls short, his brain works like a computer within a computer within another; Wires instead of neural conduits and electricity instead of energy is what happens in that brilliant brain of yours.

He was never an ordinary person, he is ambitious and resourceful, intelligent and determined to get what he wants.

That started with the mantle of Robin.

When Jason was still in the portrait, he wanted to be part of the duo; He trained and prepared, ready to help from the Batcave until the Joker thing happened. And even when it felt bad to carry the title of the bat's henchman, he felt proud that his perseverance took him to the top.

And it was the beginning of his destiny.

Robin, Red Robin, the robin's mantle is and will be a part of him that he will never let go, but he is also the one who remembers every detail of every case of every villain of every attack in Gotham, is the one they turn to when they need to confirm exact information. Nothing escapes him, ever.

Tim is a genius.

Tim passed you by and lost.

Damian is the perfect heir.

His father is the most powerful man in Gotham and Batman himself, his mother is a skilled and lethal assassin, daughter of a dynasty of the world's fiercest assassins, and he is the result of the cross between the two.

He is perfect.

That is why he will never deign to look down on the unworthy; Richard is fine, Jason is worthy because served his mother and grandfather, Tim still doubts it, women are strong allies and that new boy has potential. Alfred and his father, of course, are worthy of his obedience.

And you? You are worse than a disappointment.

A stain, a mistake, someone who should never have existed, rotting his perfect legacy, you should be thankful he didn't kill you when he had the chance.

It's not that you deserve it, you don't deserve anything from it.

You are so insignificant to him that not even in his dreams did he worry about your whereabouts, of course he knew that you were no longer there, he had to watch you in case you stole something when you left like the thieving prostitute who was probably your mother, but when you did not return, he felt triumphant for having taken care of -without killing- the family problem.

Damian is the perfect heir.

Damian feels like his throne means nothing in front of you.

Bruce is a father.

He never considered himself one, maybe he wanted it once, when his own father was alive to learn from him, but that dream died when his people did it in the alley.

Despite everything, he tried to be a father to Dick, and his efforts, although questionable, worked. Then Jason with his bright eyes and bubbly personality, taken away too soon, let go too soon.

Even now, so near and so far, it is his greatest loss as Batman, as Bruce Wayne.

Tim was...complicated; arrived when he had not overcome his grief and treated him in the most atrocious way he had ever imagined treating his children. Still, he proved to him time and time again that was more than expected.

Damian was unexpected of an unexpected union; son of Talia Al'Ghul and grandson of Ra's Al'Ghul, he awaited a bloodthirsty and indomitable child. Which started badly ended well, his youngest son is on his way to writing his destiny far from his ancestry, and in his heart knows that did the best he could.

Barbara, although not their daughter, is part of their family, Stephenie and Cassandra are their beloved daughters, and Duke is officially their new son.

Bruce is a father.

Bruce is not your father.

Do others really have a voice in this narrative? You barely remember them, you barely knew them, much less you care about them. Yes, even Alfred.

"I don't understand, there's nothing more" Tim murmurs, looking at the images on the Batcomputer, reading the documents at the same time, his eyes bloodshot and his fingers trembling from the coffee laced with an energy drink that just drank "There must be more"

"You searched enough, you should get some sleep" Barbara intervenes, in her wheelchair "I'll cover you"

"No, there's something I'm overlooking" he insists "I know, I just have to look carefully"

"Tell me it's not that thing again" Jason complains, arriving at the Batcave with his Red Hood suit on, barely removing his helmet.

Dick nods, his usual smile not drawing his face, just a grimace "We're close to finding it, just...something's missing"

The image is clear; a party room, with people dancing and laughing, as precise as a painting but recent that appeared in the newspaper. All of these people are families of dangerous underworld groups.

Lords of drugs, weapons and human trafficking, ex-convicts and people who work for villains are...enjoying the party.

It wouldn't be relevant if it weren't the photo before the tragedy.

⚠️ Description of crime scene, bodies and blood under the cut ⚠️

All of them, women and men, young and old, nothing more than a combined mass of blood and bones, guts scattered on the walls and decorations of the room.

The floor, the stairs, everything contaminated, women's bodies -which were getting smaller, then only limbs such as arms, hands and finally, fingers- arranged on the main staircase. They all point to something;

⚠️End of scene⚠️

A painting.

In the two photos, the painting of a house is what steals the attention; nothing special, nothing grand, just a painting of a gray wooden cave house, with the background of a distant city and without a signature, almost overlooked as another photo if it weren't for the canvases and the paint under his fingers when he touched it.

In both photos the painting is at the top of the stairs, in both the light was shining on them and in both it draws attention before anything else.

Why? What does it mean? What does it tell them?

"There must be something more than that, hidden among the corpses" says Damian, the most obsessed -besides Tim- in discovering the identity of the one who, for months, has left them clues after helping them anonymously, only a pseudonym in your name; The Savior.

Or that is how those who bring your messages to them have referred to you, speaking of you as a Saint, a savior among men, God himself who came down to protect them.

And they can't let that continue.

They must know if you are dangerous, if you are a potential threat or potential ally. They must discover you.

Alfred arrives with more coffee, because he knows his words won't be heard at that point; When the family becomes obsessed with something, they hardly let it go until they get their fill of it.

His eyes pursue that house; small and misaligned, painted in a very specific way, too specific.

Jason doesn't like to remember the past.

"Wasn't there a phantom surcharge on the accounts months ago?" He says in a low voice, almost lost if the echo of the cave had not returned the word to him.

"There are many like that" Tim murmurs without thinking about the matter "Hey-!"

Jason pushes him aside, typing furiously and searching through files, searching and searching remembering remembering until...A contract, simple and almost empty, with a late date and an unknown signature, the name blank but with an address and a photo; the photo of the painting.

The house.

"How did you...?" Tim was surprised, looking at that contract as if he had never looked at it before, reading carefully, sleep and fatigue fleeing his body.

Bruce looks on without speaking, but those who know him know that a war of insecurities is raging inside him; How did it happen? Who was it? When did do it? Has access to all he private accounts? Do has know their identities?

The clue has been revealed, the answer discovered, and the game is just beginning.

"I think it's time to arrange the pawns on the chess board" you say in your luxury suit, the highest in the tallest building in Gotham, looking at the flashing lights that fill the streets, looking at the outskirts of Gotham, looking at your next move, looking at the wide-screen camera that's embedded in the painting's window.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Setting In A Honeymoon

Series Masterlist

Read on A03!

Author's Note: Oh to be loved. (back on my using gifs because they fit the vibes not the plot shit)

Chapter Title from I'm Like A Lawyer by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 5.8k

Summary/Warnings: You and Ben finally get a honeymoon. Takes place about a year post-series.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, tooth-rotting fluff, Ben being old, pre-established relationship, so much horniness (would we expect anything less?), smut (breeding kink, oral, fingering, p in v)

“Sunshine-“

You hold a hand up—your attention still on the suitcases—and Ben falls silent, but you can still feel his glower. “Did you pack a toothbrush?”

“Of course I packed a fucking toothbrush-“

“And shampoo?”

“They’re going to have shampoo there-“

You shake your head, turning around and moving past Ben to the bathroom. “They won’t have the right shampoo-“

“It’s fucking shampoo.” He mutters, trailing after you to stand in the doorframe, watching you rifle through the cabinets with a frown. “It’s just goddamn hair soap-“

“And you have very nice hair, my love.” You walk up to him—bottle of shampoo in hand—and press a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Let me take care of it.”

Ben’s frown deepens, even as his arm wraps around your waist. “That’s not your damn job, Sunshine-“

“Yes, it is.” You give him a wide smile, and feel all his love flare in your chest. “This is a two-way street, Pretty Boy. You refuse to let me fly on a plane, I refuse to let you neglect your hair.”

“Fine.” He grunts, leaning down to pull you into a long, easy kiss, going until you’re melted into his touch and clinging to his arm. But this is the last fucking thing, we need to go-

We have time. You pull away, reaching your free hand up to hold his cheek, your grin unrestrained and a little ditzy. All the time in the world.

Ben sighs, pulls your hand to his mouth, and kisses your knuckles with a deep glare you know is fake. If it’s not in the rough affection and devotion in his chest, it’s in the way he’s holding you so carefully against his body, like he can’t bear the idea of you even stepping away. “Be quick.” He grumbles, and you nod.

“I always am.” You drag yourself away from him, crossing back to the bed. Grumpy.

Shut the fuck up. He moves behind you, almost hanging off your body as you sort through the bags for anything else missing. Tell me how to make this shit go faster.

Patience-

No. Ben lowers his mouth to your neck, and you have to take a long breath as he starts to nip and suck at your skin. I want to take my wife on our fucking honeymoon.

Your wife wants to go on that honeymoon as well, but she also wants to make sure we have everything-

I have you, Sunshine. Ben’s hand grabs your chin, tipping your head back to capture your lips with his. That’s all I fucking need.

You let out a soft, blissful sigh. Romantic, Benjamin-

Only for you, darling. Let’s fucking go.

No, I need to feed Bowser-

I already fucking fed him-

What about the car-

Filled up the gas last night-

Okay, let me just-

Your silent words are cut off with a yelp as Ben scoops you up into his arms and marches you out of the bedroom, his whole body alight with a concrete determination.

“Benjamin-“

“We’re going now,” he grunts your name, shooting you a stern glare. “Everything is fucking fine, we’ve got all we need, and you’re going to fucking hurt yourself if you keep worrying.”

You pout up at him. “I am not going to hurt myself-“

“Yes, you are.” Ben half kicks open the front door of your house. “We’re going to leave, and you’re going to enjoy your goddamn honeymoon without losing that pretty mind about what could go wrong, got it?”

“But-“

“No.” He lowers you into the driver’s seat of the car, kneeling at your side on the pavement and blocking your path back out. “Look at me, beautiful.”

You glare at him, and he reaches up to trace a careful line over your cheekbone, dragging his thumb over your lip in a way that makes it very hard to act genuinely pissed at him.

“We’re good, Sunshine.” He mutters. “Ryan’s with Butcher, Annie and Kimiko have us covered at work, and if any shit goes wrong, which it fucking won’t, we’ll deal with it together.”

You swallow, nodding slowly. “And I get to drive?”

Ben chuckles. “You get to drive, you fucking brat.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, curling into the seat. “You love it.”

“I love you.” Ben rises up to press a kiss to your brow, hunger and his raw, focused love slamming into you like a train when you grab his face between your hands and pull him down into a full, devouring kiss. Fucking Christ, Sunshine, I love you.

I love you too, Benjamin. You pull back to give him a wide, easy smile. Am I allowed to go get the bags?

No. Ben smirks against your lips. Stay in your fucking seat, darling, or you’re not getting fucked for the whole week. 

You snort, because that’s the worst lie he’s ever told you. You don’t think Ben would survive not fucking you for the whole week. He’s been looking forward to this more than you’ve ever seen him be excited for everything. The closer you had gotten to your honeymoon, the more he looked less like a massive, grumpy, amazing man-child and more like a little boy who was about to be set loose in a candy shop and told to go crazy. It’s why worrying about this was, admittedly, a little dumb. Ben wouldn’t let anything go wrong. He’d refused Rome as a destination because he’d never let you fly if he could fucking help it. He’d chosen this resort because they had a very good insurance policy that would allow you to burst into flames and Ben to break a lot of things. He’d even hounded after Singer for a special permission to drive into Mexico, so that the border patrol wouldn’t get all angry about the whole supe thing. 

And you never doubt him. Not for a second. Ben never does anything but what he says he’ll do, and he’s sworn that this was going to be fucking perfect, Sunshine, and he was going make you forget your goddamn name, so it would be good. 

Ben was good, so this would be fucking good.

The drive is long. Almost three days, both of you determined to utilize the advantage of being supes and make it the full drive with only a few stops for gas and one night spent at a hotel near the border. The gas is easy—Ben always stomping out of the station with a prideful glow in his chest as he presents his snack assortments to you like a dog offering its owner a rabbit—and you only leave a slightly charred indent on the wall of the hotel after Ben slams you into it and fucks you until you’re wrapped in flame, but your amazing, impossible husband is not helpful on the actual drive at all. He’s still incredibly anti-GPS, and when he’s not glowering at the map on your phone—grumbling that he’d be able to get you there just fine by his goddamn self—he’s being distracting. Rubbing patterns on your thigh and tracing his hand up to just rest over your pussy, only smirking whenever you shoot him a glare.

“Ben,” your voice is a little strained, because the asshole has started to rub. “You’re going to make me crash the car-“

“We’d live.” He shrugs, pinching your clit in over your panties and drawing a loud moan from your lips. “Need you fucking ready for me, Sunshine, I’m about to fuck you better than you’ve ever been fucked before-“

“You know you’ve fucked me the most, right?” You give him an amused look, trying not to giggle as he pauses, an almost adorable frown crossing his face. “At this point you’re making up about 85% of all sex I’ve had, ever. You’re only competing with yourself.”

Something hot and bright flares in Ben’s chest, his hunger settling right in your core, and you realize your mistake a second too late.

“Am I the best you’ve ever fucking had,” he drawls your name, his hand resuming with long, lazy movements. “The only one who’s ever fucked you properly, like the perfect fucking problem you are, fucking ruined you-“

“Shut up.” You mumble, small lights starting to dance through the car as your face heats up. “Of course you’re the best I’ve had, you asshole, you’re my husband-“

Second mistake. That only spurs him on. 

“That’s fucking right, beautiful.” Ben leans over to growl right into your ear, spanking your pussy once and drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. “You’re fucking mine, and this cock his yours-“

You moan, grinding into his hand and thanking the universe that this highway is mostly empty. “Ben-“

“I’m about to fuck this pretty pussy full of me when we get to the resort,” he grunts, shoving a finger under your panties, right into your cunt. “Already so fucking wet for me, darling, ready to be pumped full of my cum-“

That’s enough. You flip on your turn signal, pull off to the side of the road, and almost leap out of your seat onto Ben’s lap.

The sex is quick, feral, and brutal. You half burn through his pants as you fumble with his belt, sinking yourself onto his cock in half a second, and squeaking as Ben wraps his arm around your waist, pinning you to his chest as he hammers up into you. You’re not quite burning, but you’re lost in the sheer power of the hunger and adoration in Ben’s body, and the sound of his skin slapping on yours, the way he’s biting and sucking at your neck, how deep he’s hitting inside of you-

You find release quickly, a second orgasm rushing through your body as Ben cums up into you with a roar of your name.

He drives the rest of the way—the combination of sex and almost two days of straight driving making your eyes start to droop, so Ben flat out refuses to let you keep going—and you slump in the passenger’s seat, your head buried in his arm and your mind a little high on the smell of pine and coffee and Ben.

You get through border security fast, mostly thanks to Ben’s sheer everything. You keep your face hidden against his body as he glowers at the guards, refusing to answer any sort of question about your lives outside of you’re heading to Mexico for your honeymoon, you have permission from the fucking president himself to cross the border with weapons—you’re the weapons, plus you’re pretty sure Ben has a gun in the trunk—yes, he’s over a hundred, but if these pussies try to act like they don’t know why he’ll fucking kill them, and obviously you’re fucking married, he’s wearing a goddamn wedding ring, and it was all over the damn papers after Homelander’s death.

“Nobody reads the papers, Benjamin.” You mumble as he pulls past the border checkpoint.

“Well how the fuck do those pussies get the news-“

“TV, you old cunt.”

Ben snorts, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and running a hand through your hair until you melt into his side. “Brat.”

You only hum, and the remainder of the drive carries out in easy silence as you drift in and out of sleep, Ben keeping you tucked into his body.

You don’t even realize you’ve arrived until you’re in Ben’s arms, and he’s carrying you up to your room.

“Ben,” you push slightly against his chest, your face still nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “Bags-“

“It’s handled, Sunshine.” Ben presses a kiss to the top of your head, his words low. “Go back to sleep.”

You shake your head, the movement not at all convincing. “Wanna help-“

“You’re on vacation.” He grunts your name, squeezing his gentle hold on your body. “Fucking rest.”

God, you’re going to kill him. You love him more than life and every beautiful thing in the universe, but that’s the fucking problem. Ben tells you to rest, and he’s alive and attentive and devout in your body, so you can’t stop yourself from falling right back into peaceful sleep.

When you’re up, Ben’s body is heavy over yours, his face buried between your breasts and his arms wrapped around your waist. You don’t wake him. He looks so handsome and calm against you, his snores rumbling easily through your body, and his love sitting in content at the top of your chest, so you’ll stay here until he makes you move. Playing with his hair and watching him with a stupid smile, humming softly and letting the room fill with rainbow mist and light until he stirs, looks up and you, and meets your gaze with his own, wide and powerful grin.

“Hi, Sunshine.” His voice is hoarse, his eyes still slightly glazed with sleep, and you don’t think spending eternity with him is going to be enough. You need him all the time before, and now, and a little longer than forever after. 

“Hi, Benjamin, my love.” You lean down to kiss his nose, and he makes a low, grunting noise that goes right to your core. “Thank you.”

He frowns. “I didn’t do fucking shit-“

“You’re here.” You whisper. “You’re taking care of me.”

“That’s my goddamn job-“

“And I’m still thanking you.” You hold his face between your hands, shifting slightly up to he every angle of him impossible handsome face. “I love you-”

The sound that Ben makes is low and primal, and you cut yourself off with a gasp as he flips you over, kissing you into the mattress and rutting into you until you’re writhing under him, scraping at his arms for more.

“Ben-“

He starts to trail sloppy kisses over your whole face, smirking as you let out another strangled moan. “You’re fucking perfect, Sunshine, fucking love you, so goddamn good-“

You whimper as he pins you to the bed with his hips, his mouth trailing down to your neck, over your collarbone, and his hand pushing between your bodies to rub fast, strong circles on your clit.

“So fucking beautiful, already fucking wrecked.” He growls against you, and you can only whimper. “Cum for me, darling, soak my fucking hand-“

You cum with a scream, and Ben groans as he jerks against you, something warm spreading over his boxers as he buries his face in your neck, his own orgasm sending a small, shivering one into your body.

“Did you just-“

“Shut the fuck up.” He grunts, nipping at your skin as he flicks your clit once, your back arching off the bed at the movement. “You’d cum like that as well, if you could see how fucking perfect you are.”

You giggle, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Grumpy-“

“I said shut the fuck up.” He growls, and you just hum, still smiling like an idiot. God, you fucking love him.

It takes an hour for you to get out of bed, and then another two to leave the room. Ben will grumble something that makes you jump on him, and then you smile at him and he’ll pin you to the mattress, or the wall, or just hold you up in his arms as he fingers you in the middle of the room. He tries to get changed and you fall to your knees to take his cock into your mouth. You bend over to pick something up and he drives himself into your cunt from behind. The only reason it ever comes to an end is because your stomach growls, Ben’s head shoots up from between your thighs, and you’re suddenly being dragged down to the lobby for breakfast. 

The day from there is slow and lazy. Wandering around with no destination, Ben’s hand tangled naturally in yours, acting like you can’t see the people silently watching you with whispers and wide eyes. You’d expected it, but it’s still strange, and you’re more than happy to let Ben handle it whenever someone crosses a line. Mostly it’s just the stares, but one very drunk man tells you he could give you cock better than any old Hollywood asshole, and you have to act like it doesn’t make you ache for Ben when he draws to his full height, puffs out his chest like a lion, and hisses that he’s the only fucking asshole in the world that could handle you, because you burn this pussy to fucking charcoal in a second. Then a rich finance dick tries to get Ben to invest in his crypto business, and you get to smile like a dummy as Ben snaps that his wife thinks crypto is stupid as fuck, and she’s smarter than this fucking idiot by a goddamn mile. The best one is when a very stupid woman comes up to Ben and tell him he deserves a real, truly American woman, and you get to watch him go tense and—pulling you so close you think he’s worried you’ll vanish into thin air—sneer that he’s already got the best fucking woman in the goddamn world.

But outside of these sparse moments, it’s all so fucking easy. Ben flat out refuses to wear a Hawaiian shirt because he’s not goddamn Butcher, but you get him into a loose, white linen one that makes you almost climb on top of him in the middle of a very crowded shopping center. He buys you flowers—shoving them into your hands with a low grumble of for you, beautiful and a radiant glow blooming over his ribs—and then tucks one behind your ear with a grin, looking at you like you’re holy. There are a few moments when you have to slap him for saying things that really do prove he’s a hundred years old, but you’d expected that. You know who you psychically bound yourself to for eternity, and it’s a grumpy old man who frowns as you explain why he can’t say that, then nods and never says it again. He doesn’t apologize—Ben so rarely apologizes, and it’s only ever to you and Ryan—but he learns, and he tries, and you love him even more.

It’s only when you go to the beach and you remember why you’d try to talk him out of honeymooning anywhere near the ocean, that the day comes to a crashing halt in the best way possible.

Ben shouldn’t be allowed near a beach. His skin glows golden, and his eyes look greener than the sea, and his bare chest is broad and muscular and covered in a light layer of sweat that you want to taste-

“You’re drooling, Sunshine.” He mutters in your ear, and your knees almost give out from the force of the want in his body. “You need something?”

You swallow, looking up into his lust-blown eyes, and your voice is soft and breathless. “Ben-“

“Fucking Christ,” he grunts you name, spinning your body to fully press into his, his hands drawing rough patterns on your hips. “You’re so fucking beautiful, darling, driving me fucking insane, want to fuck you until everyone can see that you’re mine-“

And that’s enough. You grab Ben’s wrist, spin on your heels, and drag him after you as you half-run back to the hotel.

You make it about ten steps before Ben pulls you back into his arms, picks you up without breaking pace, and marches you back to the room.

You’re barely through the door when you squirm in his hold, reaching down to palm at his bulge over his shorts. Ben groans right in your ear, his grip on your body tightening, and you grin as he twitches at your touch. You manage to twist in his arms, offering yourself more access to slip your hand right into his trunks, wrapping your hand around his thick cock and start to jerk him off with slow, teasing movements

Ben growls, prying you off his body to lower you onto the mattress, standing above you with a stern glare you can feel right in your pussy. 

“Jesus, beautiful,” he grunts, tangling your hair in his fingers, tracing your parted lips with his thumb. “Such a needy fucking brat, need to be damn careful-“

“Or what?”

His throat bobs, and you feel the glow over his ribs grow starved, all of it focused into you, and he says your name in a low warning. “You’re- Fuck,tell me what you want, brat.”

You run your hand up his thigh, making your eyes big and pleading, letting little bit of your sheer desire leak into Ben’s body. “Want you, my love. Want your cock filling me up.”

“Fuck.” He grunts, his jaw clenching as you pull down his shorts. “Want me to fuck your mouth, Sunshine? Want me to feed you with my cock until you’re begging for more-“

You know Ben. He’ll keep dirty talking and taunting you until you either fold into him and start begging before you even taste him, or you explicitly tell him want your big cock on my tongue, Ben, please.

And you might have said that between your minds, because Ben’s grip on your hair does tighten, but it doesn’t matter because you’re not bothering to wait. You take Ben into your mouth in one motion—until your nose is pressed to his abdomen and the head of him is bumping the back of your throat—and look up at him under hooded eyes.

He’s holy. He looks feral—his eyes almost wholly black and his full mouth parted as he stares at you—and a low growl escapes his chest as you hollow your cheeks, lick the underside of his cock, and speak in a needy, high plea into his mind. Fuck my mouth, Ben, please-

You moan as he tugs you almost fully off of him, lets you flick your tongue against the weeping slit of his cock, and shoves your back down until you’re gagging. 

He pauses, his grip loosening slightly as his stone-like concern wraps over your skin, and his voice is strained from above you. “You-“

I’m good. You reach a hand to play with his balls, making your eyes soft and pleading when you look back up at him. Please, just fuck my mouth-

“Fuck.” He groans, repeating the same movement from before, once, twice, over and over until you’re drooling on him, your fingers on his balls light and uncontrolled as you grow cockdrunk. “You’re fucking perfect, Sunshine, goddamn beautiful choking on my cock, pretty lips made to be wrapped around my fucking dick, making sounds like fucking music, sucking on me like a fucking brat, so fucking good-“

You whine around him, your thighs rolling as you try to bunch the sheet between them, and Ben chuckles, the sound raspy and hoarse and shooting through you like lightning.

“Need some help, beautiful? Got a fucking problem, so fucking wet and desperate for me, just from sucking my fucking cock like a good fucking girl-“

God, he can’t be allowed to speak during sex. You’ll never be able to stop him—it would be downright cruel to your pussy, pulsing and grinding against nothing, soaked just from the deep sound of Ben’s voice—but he’s going to make you lose your mind. 

Ben, you moan between your heads, and his dick jerks, heavy on your tongue. Please, need you so bad-

He pops you off of him, angles your head up to hold his gaze, and you whine at how fucking good he looks. How his chest is heaving, and his eyes are pulling you apart under him, how he drags you up to crash into him halfway, making you moan down his throat from his demanding kiss.

“Fucking love you,” he grunts your name, biting on your lower lip and smirking as you start to try and climb up his body. “Want to fill you up, Sunshine-“

You nod franticly, squirming against him. “Fuck, yes, yes please-“

“You want my fucking cum, beautiful?” Ben growls, and when you glance down you don’t miss the way his own words are making his cock jump against nothing. “Need me to stuff that pretty pussy full of me, mark you up with me-“

“Yes,” your moan is shameless, because god, you’ll give him whatever he asks for, and take anything he offers you. “Please, Ben, fuck me, want your cock, want your cum-“

You gasp as Ben rips off your fully ruined swimsuit, tosses you back on the mattress, and shoves your thighs apart with rough hands.

“So fucking wet,” he mutters, running two fingers between your folds, looking up at you with an awe and love that feels slightly out of place for how he’s plunged those two fingers inside you, crooked them in your cunt, and started to rub right against that deep, desperate spot. “Squirt on my hand, darling, need you fucking soaked for my cock-“

Your body obeys his command without thought, and cum with a choked gasp of Ben. 

“There you go,” he growls, scissoring his fingers as your back arches off the bed, keeping his movements careful and measured as he drags you through your orgasm. “Good girl, so fucking good, just for me-“

Just for you, Ben, please. You grab at his wrist with a slack grip, grinding helplessly against his hand. Please, fucking please, my love-

He pulls his fingers away, flicking your clit once and smirking at your high whine before positioning himself between your legs, slowing pumping himself as he scans over your flushed body.

“Beautiful,” he mutters, and it seems to be mostly to himself. “Fucking perfect, love you so fucking much, Sunshine, you don’t have a goddamn clue-“

You have sort of a clue—he does tell you that about five times a day—but your words and mind are lost in a daze of Ben, so all you do is reach pathetically up for him, spreading your legs wider with a sound of need to beg him to just take you. Just fuck you like no one else can, like no one else ever could.

“Christ.” He grunts, shaking his head slightly. “You’re- fuck-“ Ben doubles over with a groan as you raise your arms over your head, your legs splayed fully apart in a silent plea.

Benjamin. You take a long, heavy breath, rolling your hips for him with your best sweet, pleading gaze. Fuck me.

The sound that leaves Ben might be the deepest you’ve ever heard, and his voice is downright animalistic as his hand trails over your abdomen and inner thighs, sending a shiver through your spine. 

“Arms stay up.” He orders, and you nod, moaning as Ben crawls over you, lining himself up to shove into your needy cunt. “Don’t stop looking at me.”

You barely have a moment to hum an agreement before Ben shoves into you, and everything turns into an intoxicating haze of Ben. He’s hiked your leg over his waist to push deeper into your cunt, the tip of his cock slamming into your cervix, and trailed a hand up your arms to pin your hands to the bed, leaving you open and vulnerable for him to use.

And fuck, he’s using you. Ben’s thrusting his cock into you at a feral pace, his mouth biting and sucking everywhere he can reach, pulling you so high you can only moan and whimper his name as he ruins you.

“So fucking perfect, darling,” he groans against your throat, and you throw your head back with a high whimper. “Gonna fuck you full, fill your perfect fucking pussy with my cum, get you fucking round and beautiful with my baby, show the world how good I fuck my wife, how fucking desperate you are for my cock-“

You make a high, breathy noise, writhing under Ben’s touch as his free hand moves to roll your nipple between his fingers. “Fuck, Ben-“

“Say my name, Sunshine, fucking scream so everyone knows you fucks you right, tell the whole damn hotel who you belong to-“

“Ben!” You can’t remember any other words as he moves his hips in a circle, angling you a little higher to somehow hit deeper inside of you. You can’t touch him—your hands still trapped over your head—but he’s so good, and you’re so full, and fuck, you might be crying with pleasure as he bites on your shoulder, and you know whatever mark he leaves will fade in a second but god, you want it to stick- 

“Fuck,” Ben hisses your name as you squeeze around him, and your eyes roll back in your head as his hand snakes between your bodies and he starts to circle around—but never on—your clit. “You’re so fucking good, beautiful, tight and warm, wrecked on my cock, you’re perfect, love you so fucking much-“

“Ben,” you trying to keep your eyes on him, his face filled with a zealous care and hunger, but fuck you need to come so bad. “Ben-“

“All goddamn stupid when I fuck you, smart fucking mouth all, fuck-“ Ben kisses you into the mattress with a brutal force, shoving his tongue down your throat as his thrusts grow sloppy. Christ, need to cum in you, darling, you’re- Fuck- Ben’s hips stutter and you squeak down his throat. Cum with me, Sunshine-

You let go with a scream right as Ben pinches your clit, and he slams home with a roar of your name. You feel his warm cum spread inside you, leaking slowly down your thighs as he pulls out, and when Ben drops his weight carefully down over you—his head resting on your chest as you move your arms to wrap around his neck—you hum in happy, fucked out, empty-minded content.

“You’re really having a lot of fun with the baby thing, my love.” You mumble, and Ben rolls his eyes. 

“You fucking love it.” He pauses, something sore settling over his skin as he frowns up at you, and you can’t stop the small smile crossing your face at the stone like protection wrapping around your body, Ben’s grip on you tightening like he’s trying to protect you from ghosts that never exist when he’s at your side. “You-“

“I do love it.” You whisper, leaning down to give him a soft kiss. “I love you.”

He grunts. “You’re fucking certain-“

“Positive.” You smile against his lips. “With you, Benjamin, I’m always positive.”

His nostrils flare slightly, and everything fades back into furious, bloody, unwavering love in his body. “Then we’ve got a goddamn week to make sure it happens, Sunshine.” He growls, rolling his already semi-hard cock against your thighs. “You’re going to look so fucking beautiful when I get it to stick.”

He always avoids the words when you’re not actively fucking, and youknow why. Ben never seems to fully trust that you’re really ready for this. Not because he doesn’t trust you, not because he doesn’t want it more than you do—if the way he flares and bursts over your ribs at the very mention of it isn’t proof, the way that you’ve caught him staring at baby cribs and clothing when you walk through Costco is—but because he’s a stubborn, protective, amazing asshole who values your comfort above everything else in the world. Once a douchebag congress member accused you of illegally aborting Homelander’s baby, and Ben interrupted the hearing to hold your cold, frozen body against his chest and roar some of the most violent threats you’ve ever heard at the committee.

But Ben’s not Homelander. He’s the furthest thing from Homelander. He’s the light that’s dancing over the room as you lay in his arms, and the whole world inside your body, and the best thing that’s ever happened to you in your life. He gives you everything, and more, and the only thing that could ever be better than him is what you could offer him.  

The only person in the whole world who, after everything, could ever want to offer that.

So you smile at him, playing with the hair of his beard, and crane your neck to whisper against his lips. “When you fuck me full of a baby, Benjamin? When you get me pregnant?”

Ben stiffens, his cock already hard once more and prodding against your thigh, his voice so low you almost cum on the spot. “Christ on a fucking cross,” he mutters your name, ardor and a fervorish, wrathful reverence exploding in his chest, all aimed at you. “You’re going to fucking kill me-“

“No, I won’t.” You grind up into him, and he hisses. “But I am going to let you fuck me stupid, Pretty Boy, let you fill me up with your baby-“

Your blatant bait works. Ben sits up in a sharp movement, pulling you with him, and impales you back on his cock in one, smooth movement.

“Such a fucking brat.” He grunts in your ear, his hands on your hips holding you still, forcing you to just fall into his warmth and clench desperately around him. “You want my cum, beautiful?”

You nod stupidly, and he smirks.

“Words-“

“Want it, Ben.” You moan, clinging to his body. “Want you.”

“You’ve got me, Sunshine.” He mutters, squeezing your ass with a firm hand. “Now be a good girl and take me.”

You half-scream as he starts to move, and you could be happy dying here. With a husband that loves you with such a raging strength, who fucks you so good that all you can do is grow slack in his hold and let him abuse your cunt until you’re his in every way possible.

And you already are. He’s alive inside of you, and molded into you, and wears a matching ring to yours that you think he’d sear into his skin if he could.

But God, it will never be enough. Ben is more than enough, but you’ll never be satiated of him. 

You could never be satiated of him. 

And that’s why, when he cums into you again, you really do hope it sticks. Because the only thing could ever be better than Ben was a bright-eyed, cared for, happy bundle of evidence that you belong to each other forever. A child that will never know the pain you and Ben have held each other through, because Ben doesn’t allow people he loves to be in pain.

And he really deserves more people to love. His own piece of proof that you trust him more than you trust yourself, that he’s repented and you’ll offer him a million smiling children for everything he’s done for you. For how well be cares for you, and how well you know he’ll care for them. For how it will be hard, but worth it, because you’ve bled for less and cried for more. 

And no matter what any form of family comes, you’d never want it with anyone but Ben.

End Note: God please send me someone who's as down bad for me as Ben is for Her.

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@kamisobsessed @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @Jackles010378 @ilovedeanwinchester4 @immastealurkneecaps

@star-yawnznn @chi-raz @Lori19 @wynnthewynnder @fultiana-kh

@woaheasytig3r @lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey @and-i-wish

@jsudsgf @deans-yn @jofinka @allthetroubleiveseen @dyhsversion

@Pillowjj @megara0224 @funkenniffler @disappearintofanfiction @kr804573

[rafedarling]

Can you write a moment of an interview with Jimmy Kimmel asks Drew one or two questions about his relationship since him and actress!y/n have confirmed that they are together on an instagram post (that they are currently this year in a relationship according to the rumor of Internet users and media) and Drew mentions actress!y/n abt how she's amazing, that he will love to work with her one day :)

since i already wrote one for drew at jimmy, i think i should put them both on the norton show. hope you like it!

𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧

pairing: drew starkey x actress!reader

summary: you and drew are invited to the graham norton show to promote your upcoming movie, set to release in april. however, the interview isn’t just about your movie, it also touches on your recently confirmed relationship, sending the audience into a frenzy.

warning(s): english is not my native language. fluff, playful teasing, past pining, and drew being the sweetest boyfriend ever.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. discussion can be send through my ask box, please feel free to send in anything. ⭐️ taglist | tagging: @rubixgsworld @rafeyslamb @bisexualcvnt @tracymbcm @maybankslover @anamiad00msday @stuffyownswrld @httpsdrewstarkey @mileyraes @enjoymyloves @akobx @noobmazter69 @victwrvale @xoxohoneymoongirl @xoxosblogsblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @saviorcomplexrry @percysley @littlelamy @winniemoe @emberaurora @watercolorskyy @kravitzwhore @issabellec7

marie’s note: i just opened my wattpad account! from now on, you can read my fanfics on both tumblr and wattpad. however, i can’t guarantee that i’ll be very active on wattpad. a little update on my upcoming work, i’m currently working on the return of superman mini-series!

Graham grinned, waiting for the applause to settle before dramatically placing a hand over his chest.

“Alright, alright,” he said, pretending to catch his breath.

“Let me sit down first because I simply cannot stand here and do an interview with such a powerful couple.”

The audience laughed, and you shook your head in amusement. Drew leaned back, his arm resting casually behind you on the couch, a smirk playing on his lips.

“So,” Graham continued, eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Not only are you both co-stars in your new movie, but also lovers off-screen. Is it true?”

The crowd went wild again.

Drew chuckled, shaking his head at the dramatic reaction.

“Yes,” he confirmed, his Southern drawl making the words sound even more charming.

“We are lovers off-screen.”

Graham leaned forward, clearly loving every second of it.

“Since you’ve already confirmed it on Instagram, let’s dive in a little. How did this all start? Y/N, do you want to take this one?”

“Sure,” you said with a smile.

“I actually met Drew through his sister, Brooke. I was in her friend group, and she invited me over to her new place once. That was the first time we met.”

Drew nodded.

“Yeah, Y/N was one of my sister’s friends, but after that, she kind of disappeared. We didn’t see each other again for a long time, maybe a year or so.”

“Ah, so was there an instant connection? Or did it take a little while to realize, ‘Oh, that’s the person I want to know more about’?”

Graham asked, clearly invested.

Drew turned to you with a teasing smirk.

“If we’re talking about our first meeting… I didn’t have feelings for her then.”

The audience gasped dramatically, and you burst into laughter.

“Hold on, hold on before you boo me!”

Drew added quickly, grinning.

“At the time, I was crushing on someone else. But when I met Y/N again later, it hit me hard. Like — why hadn’t I asked her out before? What was I doing?”

Graham gasped, clutching his chest for comedic effect.

“Scandalous!”

“I know, right?” you joked.

“Plot twist, I actually liked him from the very beginning.”

Drew’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide.

“Wait, what?”

Graham looked like he had just struck gold.

“Oh, this is juicy. Tell us more!”

You chuckled, shrugging.

“Yeah, I had feelings for him when we first met, but I knew he had a crush on someone else, so I just… kept quiet about it. I liked him so much that I couldn’t even date other guys.”

Graham covered his face, laughing so hard he had to lean back in his chair. The audience reacted with a mix of cheers and sympathetic awws.

“Wait, wait, wait… hold on,”

Drew said, pointing at you in shock.

“You never told me this!”

“I know,” you said, giggling.

“I guess I thought it was silly.”

“Silly?” Drew looked at Graham, then back at you.

“Babe, I feel like I need to apologize to past you.”

Graham wiped away imaginary tears.

“Oh, this is the kind of romantic drama I live for!”

Drew shook his head, smiling.

“I can’t believe you were out there suffering in silence while I was being an idiot.”

“It’s fine,” you teased. “You figured it out eventually.”

The audience burst into applause, and Graham clapped his hands together.

“Well, I think I speak for everyone when I say, thank goodness you did! Now, Drew, if given the chance, would you want to work on-screen with Y/N again?”

Drew didn’t hesitate.

“Oh, absolutely. She’s amazing; such a talented actress. I’d love to work with her again.”

You turned to him, surprised and touched by his words.

“Really?”

“Of course,” he said softly.

“I mean, I get to see how incredible you are off-screen, so getting to experience that on-screen again? That’d be a dream.”

The audience erupted into cheers again, and Graham dramatically fanned himself.

“Well, if you two ever do another movie together, let’s hope it’s a rom-com, because this kind of chemistry needs to be on display!”

Drew laughed, slipping his hand into yours.

“We’ll see what happens.”

Graham then leaned forward, eyes twinkling with curiosity.

“And Drew, since we’re on the topic, what has it been like dating Y/N? Fans are dying to know how you feel about it.”

Drew’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, and for a moment, he looked at you instead of Graham. The teasing smile softened into something more sincere.

“It’s honestly the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he admitted.

The audience collectively sighed in adoration.

“I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s true. Y/N is just… she’s amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who balances me out the way she does. She’s the most patient, kind, and ridiculously talented person I know.”

You felt your heart swell at his words, heat creeping up your cheeks.

Graham pretended to wipe away tears.

“Oh, this is too sweet. Keep going!”

Drew laughed but continued.

“She makes everything feel easier. My life gets pretty crazy, you know? Between filming, traveling, press there’s a lot going on. But with her, it’s like… I always have this anchor. Someone who keeps me grounded. And the best part? She never tries to change me. She just lets me be me.”

The audience let out a chorus of “Aww!” and you squeezed his hand, feeling overwhelmed by how openly he was speaking.

“Okay, this is getting too romantic for me,”

Graham joked, fanning himself.

“I feel like we’re intruding on a private moment!”

Drew chuckled, looking back at you with a grin.

“Well, you asked, man.”

Graham shook his head playfully.

“I did, and I’m so glad I did! You two are adorable.”

The interview wrapped up soon after, but that moment the way Drew looked at you, the way his words made your heart feel like it might burst, was already making waves across the internet. Fans were calling you the Hollywood couple of the year. And honestly? You didn’t mind one bit.

[pedroscowgirl]

I know places

Professor!Joel miller x fem!college student (legal)reader

This is part 2 of this story. So pls read that one first if you haven't yet :))/ Main masterlist

Warnings!! smutt so minors DNI Big age gap(it's legal and reader is in college), power imbalence (professor x student), no!outbreak, possesive joel, jealousy, size kink, p in v (wrap it up), breeding, risk of getting caught, Joel is able to pick reader up, reader is able bodied, lmk if i forgot something! wc: 2,2k A/n: I kinda hurried this one cuz I'm so excited for the next chapter but i hope you still like this. And excuse my Spanish if it's not right and lmk if you want me to tag you for the next chapter! Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated cuz i love ti know what y'all think of it :)) Also I've given up on moodboards cuz it took me longer to find a good one than to write this fic

Weeks passed, and in that time, you found yourself gravitating toward another presence on campus. Professor Ramirez was charismatic, sharp-witted, and effortlessly charming in a way that made it easy to talk to him. His warmth contrasted with Joel’s brooding intensity, and you soon found yourself spending more time in his office, seeking him out between lectures, sharing inside jokes, and slipping into easy conversations in Spanish—something that only made your connection feel even more intimate.

One afternoon, after yet another of your engaging discussions, you stepped out of Professor Ramirez’s office, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder when his voice followed you into the hallway.

“¿Nos vemos mañana?” (See you tomorrow?) he asked, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.

You turned back, flashing him a playful smile. “Sí, claro, hasta mañana.” (Yes, of course, until tomorrow.)

There was something undeniably flirtatious about the way you said it, the way you lingered for just a moment too long, biting your lip before finally waving goodbye. The moment felt lighthearted, harmless even—until you turned around and locked eyes with Joel.

He had just stepped out of his office, standing a few feet away, watching the exchange unfold in real time. His expression was unreadable, his brows slightly furrowed as his gaze flickered between you and Professor Ramirez before settling on you, filled with something dangerous, something possessive.

Your breath hitched, but you schooled your features into indifference, forcing yourself to turn away and walk rapidly toward the elevator at the end of the hall. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of guilt, and something else you refused to name making your steps quicker.

The elevator doors were nearly closed when suddenly, a foot shot between them, forcing them open. Joel stepped in, his broad frame taking up space, his presence immediately suffocating. The doors slid shut with a soft ding, sealing you both inside.

A smirk played at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How do we always end up in the elevator togheter?” he mused, his tone light, almost teasing, though there was a tension in his voice that betrayed him.

You crossed your arms, keeping your gaze locked on the metallic doors in front of you. “Because I’m too fucking lazy to take the stairs,” you shot back, your voice laced with irritation.

Joel chuckled softly, but the sound didn’t hold any real amusement. His hands found their way into his pockets, and for a moment, silence filled the confined space, the air thick with unspoken words.

Then, his voice dropped into something quieter, more serious. “I saw you with him.”

You stiffened, but still refused to look at him. “And?”

Joel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “You know student-professor relationships are illegal, right?” His voice was firm, but there was something else there—something almost vulnerable beneath the authoritative tone.

You scoffed, finally turning to face him with a sharp glare. “You made that very clear last time.”

The weight of your words settled between you like a thick fog. His jaw tensed, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for you but knew he couldn’t.

The elevator doors slid open, and without giving him another second of your time, you stepped out, leaving him behind. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel his eyes on you, burning into your skin, as you walked away, your pulse racing with the thrill of knowing exactly what you had just done.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The following days, your frustration lingered like a stubborn storm cloud. Joel had no right to say what he did. No right to act like he was the moral compass in your life when he had been the one to cross that line first. The thought of it gnawed at you, filling you with a mix of anger and something dangerously close to heartbreak.

It all came to a head late one evening when you found yourself alone in the library, lost in thought as you absently flipped through the pages of a book. The air shifted before you even saw him—you felt it. That unmistakable presence.

Joel.

You didn’t look up. Instead, you turned another page, feigning indifference. But he wasn’t buying it. He pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, his eyes scanning your face carefully.

“You’ve been avoidin’ me,” he finally said, voice lower than usual.

You let out a sharp exhale through your nose. “Maybe I just don’t feel like being lectured again.”

Joel sighed, leaning forward on the table, hands clasped together. “That’s not what I was doin’.”

You snapped the book shut, finally meeting his gaze. “Really? Because that’s exactly what it felt like.” Your voice was sharper than you intended, but you didn’t care. “You’re worried about me having something with another professor now? Are you scared he’ll fuck me before you get to?”

His jaw clenched so tight you thought he might crack a tooth. His fingers twitched where they rested on the table, his entire body wound up like a spring about to snap.

“You don’t know what you’re sayin’,” he muttered, shaking his head.

You leaned forward, challenging him. “Oh, I think I do.”

His nostrils flared, and for a moment, you thought he might get up and leave. But he didn’t. He just sat there, watching you, a storm brewing in those dark eyes. The weight of his stare sent a thrill through your spine, but you refused to look away first.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, darlin’.”

You smirked, leaning back in your chair. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have engaged in it.”

The tension was thick enough to suffocate, but before either of you could say another word, a group of students entered the library, breaking the spell. Joel exhaled sharply, standing up without another glance your way.

But as he walked past you, he muttered low enough for only you to hear, “This ain’t over.”

And you knew, without a doubt, that it wasn’t.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Joel’s jealousy had been growing more and more for days. Every time your hand lingered on Professor Ramirez’s arm, every flirtatious smile you threw his way, every time you spoke to him in soft, teasing Spanish—it all drove Joel insane. And you knew it. You loved pushing him, making him watch, making him burn with something he refused to name.

Tonight, you decided to take it even further. You slipped into a miniskirt again, pairing it with knee-high socks—the same kind that had once left Joel speechless. The halls were quiet, most students and staff already gone for the night, leaving just you and Ramirez standing outside his office, finishing up your conversation before parting ways.

Then his hand landed on your waist. Light, casual, but lingering. His face was close, his breath warm as he murmured something lowly to you. It didn’t even matter what he said—you knew what it looked like. And just as you expected, Joel saw.

He stepped forward, his presence impossible to ignore, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade.

“Young lady, can I talk to you?”

His tone left no room for argument. Ramirez stiffened at the interruption, hesitating before nodding and stepping away, leaving in a hurry—so fast he even forgot to lock his office door.

Silence hung heavy between you and Joel, the air thick with tension. Then suddenly, his lips crashed onto yours.

You gasped into the kiss, caught completely off guard by the force of it, by the way his hands gripped you like he was claiming you, like he was staking his territory. It was rough, desperate, fueled by weeks of frustration and jealousy. He barely gave you a second to process before lifting you off the ground with ease, pushing the door open and stepping inside Ramirez’s office, kicking it shut behind him.

Your back hit the desk, your fingers tangling into his hair as he kissed you deeper, hungrier. His hands slid up your thighs, squeezing, gripping, possessive in a way that made you whimper. The wetness between your legs grew unbearable—you had wanted this, craved this, and now it was finally happening.

Joel pulled away just enough to look at you, his pupils blown, his breathing heavy.

“You really think I was gonna let him have you before I did?” he rasped, voice dark with something dangerously close to obsession.

He slid your panties down, leaving your skirt bunched around your waist, his rough hands spreading warmth across your bare skin. The cool air sent a shiver through you, but it was nothing compared to the way he looked at you—like he owned you, like he was about to ruin you.

His belt clinked as he unfastened it, the sound making your stomach tighten in anticipation. Then his pants hit the floor, and without warning, he thrust into you. A sharp scream tore from your throat, the sudden fullness overwhelming.

Joel chuckled darkly, his breath warm against your ear. "Baby, I’m not even half in."

Your wide eyes darted downward, taking in the sight of him stretching you, so much more than you had expected. A flicker of fear flashed across your face—fear that he wouldn’t fit, that he might break you in half. He caught the look and laughed, his fingers gripping your waist tighter.

"Don’t worry, darling," he murmured, dragging his lips along your jaw. "I’ll make it fit."

His hands found the hem of your shirt, tugging it up and over your head in one swift motion. He paused, his dark eyes gleaming as he took in the sight of your bare chest.

"No bra?" he mused, amusement curling at the edge of his lips. "You’re such a little whore… not even wearing one for your other professor."

A sharp smack landed against your breast, making you gasp, your back arching into his touch.

"No," you moaned, breathless. "It was for you, Joel."

He smirked, his grip tightening as he brought his mouth down to your nipple, sucking harshly before biting just enough to make you cry out. His other hand roamed over your waist, down between your thighs, fingers teasing where you were already dripping for him.

"Call me professor, baby," he muttered against your skin.

Your breath hitched as he lifted you effortlessly, guiding you down onto him inch by inch until he was buried deep inside you. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness. Before you could adjust, he carried you across the room, pressing you against the bookcase with a possessive growl.

Then he moved.

Each thrust sent books tumbling to the floor, the sound barely registering over your moans. He fucked you like he meant to leave his mark, like he needed to remind you exactly who you belonged to. His grip on your hips was bruising, his pace relentless, each snap of his hips sending shockwaves through your body.

"So fuckin’ tight," he groaned, biting at your throat, marking you in ways that wouldn’t fade overnight. "Bet he couldn’t make you feel like this."

Your moans turned to cries, your fingers scrambling for purchase against the shelves as he took you harder, deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the office, mingling with the creak of the bookcase and the ragged breaths you both shared.

A wicked smirk curled on his lips as a thought crossed his mind. He leaned in, his voice a husky whisper against your ear. "Do you find it hot? Knowing I’m fucking you in his office? Knowing he could return anytime?"

The thought alone sent you spiraling. Your walls clenched around him so tight he groaned, his grip tightening as he fucked you even harder, his chuckle dark and knowing. "I’ll take that as a yes." A whimper escaped your throat, your body trembling as the heat coiled tighter inside you.

He pulled back slightly, his dark gaze locking onto yours. "Imagine it, baby. Imagine him walking in right now, seeing you like this, pinned up against his bookcase, dripping for me, coming all over my cock. You think he’d be jealous? “The bookcase rattled with every snap of his hips, books tumbling, papers scattering.

"Joel—" your voice was a broken plea, and he knew exactly what you needed.

"Come for me, baby," he ordered, his fingers pressing harder against your clit, his pace relentless. "Be a good girl and let me feel you."

The pressure inside you shattered, and you came with a sharp cry, your body trembling violently as pleasure crashed over you. Your nails raked down his back, your legs tightening around him as waves of ecstasy wracked your frame.

Joel groaned deep in his chest, his thrusts turning erratic before he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside you with a possessive growl. He stayed there for a moment, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat.

Slowly, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips curving into that damn smirk. "Told you I’d make it fit."

And you knew, without a doubt, that this wouldn’t be the last time.

Not even close.

Taglist: @morganlolitta lmk if u wanna be added

[delusionsofgrandeur13]

workaholic

a valentines weekend event fic!

tim drake x reader: giving your vigilante boyfriend a surprise under the desk in the batcave. now who’s distracting, hmph!

content level: 18+, NSFW

yeah, he’s a vigilante, or whatever, but he’s also your boyfriend. and he hasn’t acknowledged you in forty-five minutes. you’re not really sure how, considering you’re sharing a desk chair with him, on his lap, but his focus knows no bounds.

you’re down in the batcave with him, and it feels eerie, almost like you’re not supposed to be there, but tim said it was fine.

you wanted to see him, but he had a case to work, so he had you tag along to the cave. he’s still in his suit, but his mask’s long gone, hair disheveled. he brushed you off when you asked if he’d eaten, but that’s your boyfriend.

you’re at the biggest computer you’ve ever seen, a little mind boggled at the way tim’s playing with it like it’s a toy, even though you know it took years of mastering.

he keeps muttering to himself, scribbling in a notebook off to the side. you’re not even sure he’s able to read his own handwriting. you definitely struggle with deciphering it on birthday and anniversary cards.

“tim,” you start, wondering if you could do something, like help (or just get a crumb of attention?)

“hm?” he replies, his eyes glued to a certain security video he’s been replaying, which you could recount beat for beat if asked, he’s looped it so many times.

“need any help?” you ask, playing with a strand of hair, looping it around your fingers.

he glances at you, smiling but shaking his head.

“i got it, love. just be your pretty self.” he murmurs, patting your thigh.

you contain a sigh, nodding even though he’s not looking at you anymore.

you squirm a little in his lap, feeling a response. if tim was looking at you, he’d see the grin spreading across your face. you rub your ass against his crotch again, and even through the fabric of his super suit you can feel how eagerly he’s reacting to you.

“baby,” he warns, but there’s no real threat in his voice. you start your descent, scooting the chair back little by little using the toe of your shoe. you turn, sliding off of the chair and crouching under the desk.

he barely seems to register that you’re pulling down his pants, his underwear, until his cock’s exposed to the cool air of the cave. it’s semi hard, sending a thrill through your body that even if he wasn’t paying attention to you, his body was.

“i—what? babe, what are you doing?” you watch his thighs tense in time with the muscles of his lower stomach. you want to trace every individual ab muscle with your tongue.

you look up at him slowly, eyes opened wide as you paint the picture of innocence.

“what?” you reply, fighting back a smile.

“what do you mean, what?” tim says through grit teeth, his cock twitching as he grows harder, staring at your full lips.

he watches as you spit into your hand, slowly gliding your saliva up and down his cock. his eyes widen, eyebrows practically hidden in his hair.

“we’re gonna get caught,” he groans out, and you shrug, swiping your thumb across his tip.

“better be quiet then, huh, red robin?” you say, relishing in the way his eyes widen at his hero name.

you’re teasing him, maybe because you’re a little hurt and feeling a little mean, maybe because you like the way he’s got one hand gripping at the chair’s armrest, the other tight against his mouth as he fights down his moans.

he struggles not to buck his hips, pushing his cock farther into your mouth, struggles not to finish too early, feeling like he’s in last night’s wet dream.

but you bring him deeper, your cheeks hollowed as his tip hits the back of your throat. the hand that was covering his mouth flies to the chair’s other arm rest, and he moans out, his eyebrows furrowed.

“tim,” you say, pulling him out of your mouth. he gasps at the way the cold air of the cave feels on his wet cock, jerking in your hand.

“i’ll be quiet, i swear,” he groans, a blush spreading from his neck to his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears.

you know this is killing him, being at your mercy like this, but you’re having too much fun. you’ve got his full undivided attention now, anyways, and why do anything to change that?

you raise an eyebrow at him, doubtful, but smirk as you lower your head again. tapping his tip against your tongue, he whines, and you swirl your tongue around it, pursing your lips as you focus on it specifically.

he’s covering his eyes with his hand, his lips a thin straight line. you sit back again, fucking his cock with your fist. he drops his hand, eyes glued on the way he’s disappearing in your grip.

“shit,” he breathes out, the armrests of the chair creaking under his grip. he’s trying and failing at coming early, feeling like if he even exhales, it’s over.

you carefully lick a bead of pre off his tip, sucking him back into your mouth with an obscene slurping sound that has tim covering his mouth again. you can hear his groans anyways, his hand barely doing anything to muffle the sound.

your head bobs as you follow your hands down to his base and back up, sighing around his cock. you change it up, going fast, slow, pulling him to the brink as he curses under his breath before stopping completely, making him fall apart in your hands.

your other hand trails down to his balls, cradling them carefully with your fingers. the sensation makes his sack tense in your hands, and he gives up holding back his pleasure.

tim’s eyes roll back, closing, and you know you’ve got him.

“‘m gonna—,” he starts, the rest of his sentence turning into whimpering as hot cum shoots into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat.

you swallow the salty fluid, stroking tim even as he shudders. if you weren’t under the batcomputer, you’d keep going, overstimulate him through another round. but instead you stop, pressing a tender kiss to his tip. you tuck him back into his underwear, pulling his suit pants back up, and he settles you back onto his lap.

with a stupid smile on his flushed face, he kisses you. his lips warm as he swipes his tongue across your lip, nowhere to go but farther into each other as his hand presses against the back of your neck.

you eye the security camera on the opposite wall, and tim notices, grimacing.

“i can do something about that.” tim says, bringing up the security footage for the cave.

he quickly types in the date and time, swallowing as he watches the crystal clear video of you slide under the desk, whipping his cock out.

in the batcave.

he can’t believe it. he can’t believe how much he liked it. he wants nothing more than to get you out of here and under him in bed.

you can barely keep up his hands are moving so fast, replacing the damning evidence with earlier footage on a loop.

“why are you typing in your phone number?”

“don’t worry about it, hon,” he replies, his fingers flying as the clip whooshes off of the screen. “s’all taken care of.”

post divider courtesy of: @thecutestgrotto

[girlsworldillusion]

Scream for me little lamb (FINAL PART)

PART ONE HERE

Ghostface!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Summary: You don't know him, you haven't even seen him before. Yet this cruel killer is in your mind, entangled like a parasite. For just one night you want to get rid of this feeling - to get rid of him. What could possibly go wrong after all?

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Word count: 15k (fuck, that's it, I'm physically incapable of writing something succinct)

Author's Note: This story contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering for some, such as: DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS, BLOOD, MURDER, OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, THREATS, AND ROUGH SEX. Your health (mental and physical) should always be your priority, if any of these themes are too heavy for you to handle I beg that you ignore this post.

Please do not mistake this for a love story. The reader clearly suffers from a serious level of emotional instability and the abuser takes advantage of this fragility to threaten and use her. This is NOT healthy and NOT romantic in any way and I obviously do NOT agree with this attitude in real life. This is just a FICTIONAL HISTORY and it is only in this context that something like this can be tolerated. The tags are all there however and if you do not feel comfortable reading something like this, there is no need to leave any derogatory comments. JUST DON'T READ IT.

To those who stay, enjoy reading!

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

In the previous chapter:

And then the masked figure takes a casual step into the bathroom, the easy confidence in this simple act foreshadowing his ease in overpowering his victims. You swallow hard, backing away slowly as you lock eyes with the killer’s empty holes. The knowledge that there is no way out of the room is painfully obvious to you. The man takes up the entire space of the exit; the width of his shoulders stretching almost from one side of the doorframe to the other, his long legs slightly apart to fill any gaps.

The only way out of here was if you stepped over him; and that wasn’t going to happen.

----

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as your head tilts down discreetly. Submission. It’s instinctive, really. Your body knows what this man is capable of, remembers the brutal, bloody state his victims were found in. You don’t want that fate for yourself.

He hums at that, pleased with your pliant reaction - and you blush at the raw humiliation of feeling so inferior to someone else.

“So good, sweetie.”

He sighs ecstatically, pushing the two of you deep into the bathroom just enough to close the door, the click of the key locking it sounding purposefully loud. You feel the shape of an invisible hand holding your beating heart between its fingers, your breath coming in shallow huffs through your lips. He’s locked you in here, with him.

How did this happen? How did you, probably the only person who was actually taking this whole police alert about a serial killer on the loose seriously, end up here? How the hell is this possible, God?

Your phone vibrates from where it's on the floor and you jump in fright, the screen facing down doesn't allow you to see who's calling when you look at it. But it doesn't matter. You immediately look up at the man, see how he understands what you're going to do before it even happens; his ghostly face tilts toward the ceiling, an almost disappointed sigh sounding from beneath the mask.

"I praised you too soon, right?"

It turns out that if showing their fragile parts to a predator seeking mercy and lowering the head in submission is a natural primal instinct when there's seemingly no escape, then it's also a natural instinct to act immediately when a glimmer of hope and survival appears.

And your phone ringing is a glimmer of hope.

You dive to where it lies with your heart racing, desperate for the opportunity to warn someone of your situation and get help. But your fingers barely graze the object before a large hand grabs a fistful of hair at the back of your head, holding you in place before you can reach it.

On your knees on the bathroom tile, you’re thrashing hysterically in his iron grip, ugly sobs of pain escaping your lips with each rough tug at the roots of your hair.

“No! Let me go, please! HELP!” You scream as loud as you can, hoping it’s enough to alert someone outside, even though the obnoxiously loud music downstairs limits your chances to almost zero. You barely register the heavy thud of the knife hitting the floor as you open your mouth to scream louder, your voice muffled by another heavy hand slamming into your mouth, the leather of his glove squeezing your lips and cheeks until they hurt.

He lifts you to your feet with just his grip on your hair, your scream of agony once again muffled by his gloved fingers. The man doesn't let you go even when he reaches the bathroom sink, where he practically throws you against the counter, your hip bones jarring sharply with the impact. You slip a little in pain, shaking hands gripping his wrist as you claw desperately to make him release your mouth, staring in horror at the shadowy figure behind your body.

Your heartbeat is roaring loudly in your ears as you cease the attack and stare at the dark, empty eyes of the mask in the mirror, his body against yours.

The indigo lighting makes his presence even more sinister, shadowing a tall, frightening silhouette looming over you like a mythological god of death, dressed all in black. Except, of course, for his bizarre mask with sunken, innocuous eyes, like black holes etched in an agonized expression, the mouth dark and open in an eternal silent scream. The material of the mask is so white that it contrasts exaggeratedly against the black background covering his body, even in the violet light of the bathroom. Over his head he wears a wide hood that frames his mask and gathers around the long line of his strong shoulders like an ominous shawl, followed below by a kind of ragged-looking tunic, long sleeves on each arm, a subtle tightening around his waist, deliberately highlighting the defined plane of his abdomen. Below his waist, the tunic continues flowing to his ankles, with an opening running the length of each leg clad in trousers - to allow ease of movement, you presume. He needs agility to stalk students and kill them mercilessly, after all. To finish off the somber look, he wears military boots on his feet, intricate lines of laces running the length of them.

"How about you and I play a little game?" He asks close to your ear, white mask poking the side of your face, empty eyes staring at your reflection in the mirror. You struggle to breathe between the gaps of his fingers on your face, your eyes growing moist as the desperate situation truly sinks in.

"A really fun little game called 'don't scream when I let go of your mouth and in return I won't decorate the floor with your entrails'. How does that sound?" The way he says it, casual and easy, rivals the cruel grip on your hair, or the way his fingers press into the flesh of your cheeks until you squeal in pain.

The smell of blood surrounds you again, the same metallic, damp smell you felt when you were near the dripping knife he had between his fingers, and your senses seem to be heightened by the adrenaline flooding your veins. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the smell is coming from him this time. From his clothes, you notice, as if the slimy stuff had been splattered across much of the shadowy fabric covering his body. And it was. You know it was.

Who was the victim tonight? Who was stabbed so brutally that their blood splattered like ketchup all over this monster’s clothes?

Would you suffer the same fate?

“I asked you a question, princess. Do you want to play with me or not?” He presses, a hint of impatience in his voice, the already crushing grip on your scalp tightening even more.

You nod as best you can at the restraint of his fingers in your hair and mouth, pretending you actually have some say in this, salty tears sliding down your waterline with the shaky movement.

“Good girl.”

He laughs close to your ear, a low, dark — but happy — tremor. He’s enjoying himself, basking in the satisfaction of your scared, teary expression. He’s insane.

“That’s it, love, isn’t it so much easier this way?” He purrs as he loosens his grip on your mouth, the back of his index finger massaging your cheek as you practically choke on the breath that vibrates too raggedly through your newly freed lips. He towers over you, watches you in the mirror with predatory focus - sees you struggle to keep yourself together, fresh tears dripping from your lower lashes, wetting the leather of the glove on his finger. “Mmm, you look so good like this, it makes me so fucking hard to see your tears fall for me.”

“Oh my God…” you choke, absolutely terrified at the man’s sickening sincerity, your eyes wide and wet, face to face with the singular reason for your nightmares. 

“Shh,” he takes a step closer to you, pinning you even tighter against the sink counter and his body, letting you feel the undeniable truth in his earlier statement — the thick tent in his pants digging into your lower back until you whimper out a sharp sound, “calm down, baby. Don’t do anything stupid now.”

You find yourself subtly wilting at the dangerous warning, though more out of sheer horror than subservience.

“A-are you going to kill me?” Your voice cracks at the end, scared and shrill; the sound of someone truly cornered — a little mouse caught in a cruel glue trap, just awaiting its inevitable end.

“Now, that wouldn't be fun, would it?” he pretends to ponder, his gloved fingertip drumming over your jaw now, down to your cheek, and you’re shaking so hard you think you might be shaking his body along with yours. “Oh no, I could never kill you. Hurt you? Yeah, maybe. But killing my little girl? That's a big nope to me.”

If he thought that would bring you any comfort, then he was sorely mistaken.

He grabs your face before you can properly react to his frightening words, his large, strong hand barely needing to exert much effort to do so, eclipsing your delicate features with his long fingers, the endless darkness of the glove contrasting with your skin. He squeezes your cheeks together until your lips purse into a fishy pout, forces your jaw up so you meet the blank stare of his mask in the mirror - and all you can do is cringe under his dangerous aura.

“Look at that, aren’t you the cutest little thing?”

You definitely don’t like the tone he uses, the easygoing, smug way he holds himself above you; as if he knows there’s absolutely nothing you can do to free yourself from his grasp, completely at his mercy. Chest thrusting into you, muscular thighs encasing your hips, hips pressed against your ass; keeping you in place. You try to claw at his wrist again, just to confirm the horrifying fact that no, he’s not going anywhere.

The grip on your cheeks loosens as he slides his hand to your throat, gloved fingers curling to rest over the hysterically pulsing vessels on either side, completely encircling the slender column of your neck with elongated digits like spider legs. He doesn’t apply any real pressure, but he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need to. As he holds your gaze in the reflection with those cold, dark circles of his ghostly mask, the threat of his vast capacity for violence hangs as heavily as he does over your body.

He could rip you apart, right here and now. He could sink his sharp teeth into your neck like a dog would a chew toy, shaking your stuffed body between his jaws until only foam and patches remain.

The paralyzing fear is an increasingly real sensation in your chest, the cold curtain of numbness lifting on your skin and you swallow hard, your throat working under his fingers. Your heart pounds violently, so hard you can feel it in your ears, in your skull. Your eyes flutter in the mirror and your breath is just a broken whistle between your lips. He's pushing you straight into what will be a second episode in the same night, an unprecedented feat in your life - as fucked up as it has been so far.

"W-wait, please I-" You gasp, pulling at his grip messily, already feeling the spiral of panic wrapping around your thoughts like a vise, the claustrophobic noose that is the feeling of total inability to control yourself tightening around your throat.

"Cut that shit, little girl." Your tormentor breathes close to your ear, firm and authoritative, almost sullen as he stares into your terrified eyes in the mirror, his fingers on your throat squeezing slightly - just enough to make you feel it. "You're staying here with me, understand? It was cute the first time, but I don't want to hear about that shit now. I have much more interesting things to do with you than watch that pretty little head go somewhere I can't reach it. Yeah, I'm a selfish guy like that."

He finishes with a dry laugh and you don't know what's worse; his complete disrespect in describing your very real and very traumatic panic attack as something 'cute' or his incorrect assumption that you had a choice in this - that you could simply stop it from happening.

The grip on your throat is tighter now, your breathing becoming severely labored. His hand wraps around your throat and presses hard enough to make you struggle to breathe. You buck and push, running on pure instinct even though your efforts are restrained by his strength, the blood on his black robes spreading across your body like an artist’s brushstrokes in movement.

The notion that this man killed someone before coming to you is there once more, even more prominent now, pounding in your head like blows from a hammer.

“Relax, damn it, or I’ll make you.” He continues his unreasonable demand, squeezing his grip to press you against his chest until you feel every heated inch of him against your body, especially the disturbing way the thick line of his cock inevitably pushes and presses into your lower back with each sharp breath.

You want to scream at him and tell him that what he’s doing is the complete opposite of encouraging you to relax. But anxiety courses through your veins and your eyes close, spilling salty tears. You see grotesque shadows and demons you never thought you would see behind the darkness of your eyelids. It suffocates you, terrifies you, makes you tremble. You can’t move, you can’t escape, you can’t even open your eyes; you can only feel. Your heart is about to explode. You can’t hear anything. Your head hurts and your mind starts to shut down. That’s it, you’re falling again.

And then you feel your body shaking uncontrollably, something crawling under your skin like a lazy parasite. It’s not bad and that’s the first warning sign. Your temporarily inert mind, shut down for God knows how long, restarts with a slow trickle, your breathing becoming a little less hyperventilating and more...warm? However, you can’t force yourself to open your eyes yet, you can’t hear anything around you, you can’t even deduce what’s happening beyond the dark barrier of your closed eyelids. You feel strangely calmer, but filled to the brim with confused apprehension.

You shiver as the strange sensation comes on stronger, sticky molasses coursing through your veins, warming your belly to bring your mind back to reality.

Brought back....

When your eyes open, lethargic and sleepy, tears still blur your hazy vision until you can stare once more at the killer's ghostly mask.

“Welcome back, princess…” The tall man speaks and even hidden under the mask you know he’s smiling. His upper body is hunched over, wrapping your body in a sort of unwanted intimate cocoon. One of his arms is around your torso, keeping both of your arms firmly attached to your sides as if you were a Barbie doll, his other arm stretched down, beyond the visible limits of the mirror. You try to cast your eyes down to see where his hand is, a bad feeling in your chest, but your vision is fuzzy, swimming in dizziness and inconstancy. The threat of a second episode has drained the little strength that was left in your body.

You might even feel compelled to show gratitude for having escaped the oppressive spiral of a new crisis before it reached critical levels. Except something doesn’t feel right.

“W-what?” You ask in a thin voice, your head spinning with tiredness, your body kept upright only by the sink counter and the pressure the man exerts on your back. Feels wrong. You feel like you’re going to throw up at any moment. Your body is begging you to lie down and take a nap for an entire year. It’s a different kind of hysteria, you realize, like you’ve escaped one panic attack only to fall into another completely different one.

Heavy breaths rush from your mouth and your tongue feels sticky and dry as you try to swallow, squinting back into the mirror, trying to piece together the fragmented pieces of information in front of you to make sense of what’s happening.

He’s looking at you too. Even hidden beneath that mask, you feel his gaze burning into your reflection, drinking in the drunken confusion etched on your face, the fear — the shiver of unwanted pleasure that rips through your body like an invisible knife.

What’s happening?

You want to scream.

As you gaze up at him from beneath damp lashes, the burning sensation in your body seems to creep upon itself, gradually merging with the nerves in your belly as something warm and syrupy — needy — pulses deep in your core.

“That’s it, baby. See how much relaxed you are now?” He purrs with lazy irony, savoring each syllable on his tongue like an addictive candy. “Of course you did, the baby just needed something different to focus that little head of her on.”

There’s a gentle but rhythmic swaying of the muscles along his arm, you notice with your eyes locked on the mirror, a disturbingly familiar movement — and a shiver of wet pleasure licks up your spine as you squint, a very instinctive, primal part of your brain finally breaking through the hazy fog to scream that it knows exactly where his hand is.

Your awareness of the world around you returns like a punch to the gut, painful and suffocating, as you feel the leather of his glove between your legs.

"N-no! No, please, I don't want to-" You stammer, tired and scared beyond belief, struggling to escape the man, but his grip around you is like a heavy chain, his arm still keeping yours locked tightly at your sides.

This man has somehow managed to rescue you from a traumatic encounter with your own demons, only to plunge you into a different kind of terror - one even more agonizing.

Your sobbed protests mean nothing in the face of the killer's sick desires, as he languidly slides two of his fingers in a V around your clit, up and down. A shiver runs through you, your thighs instinctively clenching around his hand, a reaction that in turn elicits an amused chuckle from the man.

You shake and beg louder as he continues to rub your pussy, his hand writhing inside the tiny shorts you wear under your costume skirt, ignoring your breathy sobs and whimpers as if you were just a cute, whiny puppy. You shiver, your inner walls clenching around nothing with each lick of his fingers around your clit, reacting against your will to his teasing touches.

A haze of fear and pleasure takes over your mind as you shake your head, struggling to breathe through your nose to keep from passing out. It all feels too much and yet not enough, your hands twitching nonstop where they’re held, your body shaking from head to toe. Your blood runs thick as you stare at him in the mirror, begging in a way. Trying to say anything, since your voice doesn’t even seem to work with the overwhelming wave of feelings coursing through you. Your lips just part, nothing but a wordless plea.

“Oh, poor girl, don’t struggle so much…just relax, I’ll take such good care of you. Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything but staying there and being soft and pretty for me. Let me think of everything else.” He sings condescendingly, the elongated tip of the ghostly mask’s chin appearing in your line of vision as he rests his jaw on your shoulder, the material of the hood brushing against the side of your flushed face.

His scent is enveloping you like a chokehold now; rich, clotted blood, running red and still warm on his clothing — which is now permanently stained on your costume as well, to your horror. But beneath all that disturbing scent of wet iron, there are also notes of crackling, mossy sandalwood and something fresh, citrusy like lemons or bergamots.

If it weren’t for the blood trying so hard to overwhelm everything else, his scent would be pleasant, your clouded mind realizes, seductive even.

The sight before you is breathtaking, to say the least - and not in a pleasant way.

A pathetic, broken little girl is crying, her cheeks red and streaked with tears, her eyes drunk and her brows furrowed in anguish. On her body she wears a foolish Sailor Mars costume that barely covers her body, a stupid thing she didn't even want to wear in the first place, the fabric of the red skirt draped in front of her thighs swaying suggestively, right where the hand of the man behind her remains hidden. The man in question, a vicious killer highly wanted by the police, covers her almost completely with his tall frame and black robes - a stark contrast to the girl's almost childish outfit. The white mask on his face rests on her shoulder, his long arm caging her small body close to his, touching every part he can reach as he squeezes and caresses her as if he would die without it. It's almost romantic, in theory, but horrifying and frightening when you know what's really happening.

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut, refusing to look down and confirm what your nerves and body already know all too well is happening. Fear grips your throat so tightly that you shake like a leaf, tears streaming from your eyes as you feel his first finger delve inside you.

It should hurt. The rough material of the glove in direct contact with such an entirely sensitive part of your body should be uncomfortable, at the very least. But it isn’t. There’s something aiding your endeavor, your hindbrain adds as his finger sinks in all the way to the first knuckle with just a little pressure from his wrist. There’s something sticky and thick there along with his finger, messing with your folds with humiliating sounds — spit, probably.

“Please…stop—” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly you swear constellations explode in the darkness of your eyelids.

“You know,” he begins, ignoring your foolish plea, impatient as he pushes his finger the rest of the way into your trembling, clenching walls until you squeak out a sob, body tensing like a bow beneath his. “There’s a look on people’s faces that I meet. A hysterical, helpless look when they realize that this is the end for them. No matter how much they’ve resisted and fought, they all get that look when the time comes. It’s not exactly a look of begging for mercy. No, they’re usually past that point at this moment.” His chuckle is nothing short of disturbing near your ear, the arm around your waist rising so that he can grab a thick fistful of your hair between his fingers and squeeze until you cry out loudly at the sharp pain and open your eyes, obeying his silent demand to face him once more through the mirror.

“No, it’s not a plea for mercy, sweetie. It’s just a anguished conformity, you know? A part of them even wants to hold out longer, out of instinct I guess, but deep down they know it’s useless. They just know it’s over for them. And that’s when that look appears.”

Your breath hitches visibly as he slides a second finger alongside the first.

“It’s the same look you have now. That look of pure agony and submission on your face, all because you just know you can’t escape me...mmm,” He’s closer than ever, rubbing the mask on the side of your face, and all you can think is that he’s right. As much as your body tells you to run, you know there’s no way you can outrun him, he’s unfortunately more capable than you in every way that matters right now.

He presses himself even closer to your body, his voice slurred in your ear.

“You make me so fucking horny, baby.”

He’s not slow, much less gentle when he moves his fingers inside you. He fucks you with them seriously from the first few seconds, curling them each time he sinks back into your heat, your walls clenching around him, warring to adjust to the unexpected assault. Your cries of pain are interrupted by small involuntary moans and gasps every time he presses too deep inside you, finding a spot that makes you dizzy, held only by his painful grip on your hair. You bite your lip, struggling to keep the noises inside.

He makes a grunting sound, tongue clicking disapprovingly beneath his mask.

“None of that, princess. Let me hear those beautiful sounds. They’re there because of me, I cultivated them...they’re all mine.” Your head falls back on his shoulder as he suddenly moves his hand down your clavicle, long fingers pushing aside the fluffy purple lace of your costume to grip one of your breasts tightly. “You’re all mine.” Even over the fabric of your clothes, his grip on your breast is possessive, and you wish your arms would fight back when he starts dragging his palm across your nipple, prickling it until it becomes a sensitive little peak. But all you can do is lift your hands to rest them on the counter, your head still thrown back against his chest.

“Fuck,” he groans, his thumb now rubbing against the nub of your nipple with small flicks that send a jolt of pleasure straight between your legs. “I knew you’d be perfect. So pathetic to me, baby. You feel so good…”

You squeeze your eyes shut, a muffled sob escaping your lips as he pushes your body forward, making you arch into the counter, his larger body pressed against your back, his hands still glued to their respective places. He curls his fingers into your pussy, a small moan leaving you, and begins to pound against your back. He keeps you bent over as he thrusts his clothed cock between your ass cheeks, each rough thrust pushing another inch of your skirt up your hips.

“Spread your legs for me,” he pants next to your ear. When you tense and don’t comply immediately, the hand on your breast squeezes so hard it actually hurts. “Are you going to make me repeat myself, princess? Every second you make me wait, I get more impatient. Are you sure you want to see me impatient?”

You quickly part your legs, the action causing his fingers to dig deeper between your swollen walls with each hard thrust, wet sounds sounding too loud in the cramped bathroom. His hips move against your back in rough motions, grinding up and down, causing heat to spread throughout your body until your head is spinning, broken sounds leaving your lips. The gummy walls of your pussy contract around his fingers and he growls as he ravages your body like it belongs to him.

You feel good and horrible.

Blood on fire, nerves on fire, you breathe as a way to steady yourself in this moment of maddening agony. You are uncomfortable in every way possible in the given situation, and oh how it fills the void in your soul with something...alive.

Here, at the mercy of this killer's cruel hands, you feel alive for the first time in what feels like forever. It's horrible and unwelcome and scary as hell, but it's also absolutely electrifying.

How fucked up is your mind anyway?

The man continues to grind into your ass with every heated inch of his cock, the movement of his fingers in your pussy quickening, the heel of his gloved hand rubbing relentlessly against your clit in this position. The hand on your breast doesn't stop teasing your nipple, poking and pinching. With every noise he pulls from you, his movement becomes faster, hips matching the rhythm of his fingers in your intimacy. As if you were egging him on. You whimper, squeezing him so hard you could tell you were trying to keep him out, but the action only serves to heighten the sickening pleasure coiling in your stomach.

“Shit,” he hisses, thrusting his fingers in and out, in and out, watching in the mirror as your face contorts with pleasure. “So good. Feeling so good to me. You squeeze my fingers so hard, princess. Fuck. That’s my good fucking girl, yeah?”

Admittedly someone with a blatant emotional inability to accept any kind of compliment — especially one from a fucking serial killer who’s currently keeping you impaled on his fingers while grinding his cock into your ass and making you cry like he’s getting paid to — you slump your shoulders and pant, staring wide-eyed at the man, your rapid breathing fogging the glass of the mirror. His words sink into your bones, stoking the rising heat in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around his fingers again. He lets out a short laugh, rubbing his masked face against your burning cheek.

“Do you like that, you filthy slut? Do you like when I tell you how good you feel? Hell, you’re fucking squeezing me. Your pretty little pussy wants me so bad.”

Your eyelashes flutter and your breathing becomes more ragged; fear, pleasure, and pain combine into one intense experience, and you realize with horror that you’re approaching orgasm. It’s humiliating, but it doesn’t stop you from tentatively moving your own hips against his palm, seeking more friction on your little clit as heated tears roll down your cheeks.

‘No, no, no, please.’ You whimper to yourself, eyes nearly rolling into the back of the head as you arch your ass into his hips in involuntary response to the inescapable, frenzied sensation coursing through your body.

“The poor baby’s gonna cum.” He chuckles, though his own voice is breathy, wild. “Yeah, gonna make a fucking mess of that pussy and get it all nice and wet for my cock, right?” He growls wickedly between his chuckles, pushing your body forward with each hard drag of his cock into your ass, grinding the leather of his glove into your clit as he repeatedly hits the same sensitive spot in your cunt.

You can’t take it anymore, your clenched jaw slackening as you begin to give in to the pleasure. The overwhelming wave of your coming orgasm is visible on the horizon and you can’t do anything but stare at it head on, waiting helplessly to be absolutely swept away by it.

"Ah ah, fuck!" You cry out between parted lips, viciously squeezing the edge of the counter between your fingers, losing control over your body, unable to stop yourself from moaning lewdly in time with the forced climax.

With one last flick of his fingers and a pinch to your nipple, you have no choice but to stare blankly into the mirror as you shatter into a thousand pathetic pieces with a strangled scream. The trembling of your inner thighs is quickly followed by your toes curling inside the red boots of the costume as you cum hard around the masked killer's fingers.

Your pussy quivers violently as he shakes with laughter against your body, with a dose of sincere joy that you would find almost childish if it weren't for the obscene way he is still thrusting his cock into your back. He continues to finger fuck you throughout your orgasm, leaving you gasping and writhing in shocks of pleasure, your eyes wide and wet in the mirror.

“Please stop, that’s enough-” You gasp, your legs locking from the overstimulation as he continues to work your clit mercilessly. “P-please, I’ll do anything, please just stop! Stop now -"

You're interrupted as a whirlwind of dizzying events ensues; one moment he's fingering your pussy to overstimulation with no intention of stopping - the next he's pulling his fingers from your quivering walls with such force that it elicits a shocked gasp from you. Your body is suddenly spun around and your back slams painfully into the mirror with an impact strong enough to crack the glass into several sharp ridges on your back, small shards getting stuck in the back of your costume. You have half a second to scream at the dangerous sensation before he's straightening you up on the counter, his body wedging between your parted legs before you can even react and close them.

You're still trying to figure out what happened; how he managed to just lift you into the air and slam you into the counter like you weighed nothing. How he was so quick to do it and, most importantly, what motivated him to do it. But all is forgotten when he grabs your neck between his fingers, roughly pulling your face closer to his until you're face to face with that ghostly mask.

But there's no fake face in the world that can hide the anger bubbling through the man's pores. A feeling so obvious, intense and abrupt that it makes you shiver and try to pull away reflexively, but his grip won't let you go anywhere. His already undeniably imposing figure straightens to its full height, intimidating and dangerous, a ominous and dark aura that encircles your body like a spool of doom.

"Stop? Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me when to stop? Do you know who decides when we stop, you bitch? Me! That fucking cunt belongs to me. It's mine as fuck and you're not going to tell me when I should or shouldn't touch it. Because your whole body, your mind, your fucking soul, is mine. Mine."

He curses and bites acidly right in front of your face and fear hits you all at once, absolutely terrifying: the way he’s panting under his mask and hissing with barely contained rage, the way your name leaves his lips in a heated growl. A direct threat from a mindless animal. It’s all clear — so, so clear.

He’s dangerous and unstable and horrible and you can’t escape him.

Your hands start to tug at his wrist, pushing him away, already sensing what’s coming - and it really comes. Ignoring your futile attempt to push him away, the hand on your throat tightens. His fingers press, cutting off the air, squeezing and hurting your flesh. Your windpipe is tightly caged between his palm and thumb and he shows no hesitation as he presses hard, suffocating you with a cruel grip.

Now, unlike his outburst of anger a few seconds ago, with your life literally being measured in his hands, he becomes the cold and indifferent embodiment of his alias, watching your fight as if it were nothing new.

It isn't.

The world around you begins to spin as you feel dizzy, your head swimming and spinning as your heart beats uselessly against the finger over your carotid artery, numb lips and throat working ever more slowly beneath his hand. Your struggle is over, as meaningless as it was to begin with.

You surrender to this ghost, dropping his hands from his wrist and letting your body go limp beneath him.

The monster senses your surrender, humming contently at your soft submission, even though you are barely conscious enough to notice. The grip on your throat loosens and you instinctively tilt your head away from his grasp, gasping for breath in desperate noises, coughing and spitting as tears spill over in response to the throbbing sting in the circumference of your throat. You feel a large hand stroke your hair as you struggle to catch your breath; and the almost patronizing touch, as horrible and unwelcome as it is, grounds you for a moment, helping you gradually transform your rapid, labored breathing into deep sighs.

"Don't forget what I'm going to say now and maybe we won't have to go through this again, princess:" He whisper at you with serious voice. "You're mine. For better or worse. You're mine."

The hand in your hair moves forward, tangling in the strands, massaging your skull, and it's probably just the hazy haze of suffocation that keeps you from noticing his next move, but it's the feel of a gentle, wet kiss on the bruised line his fingers have left on your skin that makes you conscious once more. He holds your head firmly by the hair, preventing you from moving to get a better look, but it's immediately clear that he's pushed the mask up enough to expose his lips, which continue to slide along the curve of your neck and jaw.

Your ears are throbbing with the pounding of your heart as you stare over the killer’s shoulder at the wall across the bathroom with wide eyes – the man blowing puffs of pure wet heat across your skin to leave goosebumps in his wake. His mouth is undesirably soft and delicate on your bruised skin (pleasant really, you’d say, if you weren’t, well…in the situation you’re in), his other hand coming up so he can rub his thumb across your lips, slowly parting them until he pokes your teeth with the tip of his glove.

“Open that pretty mouth and show me you know it, sweet little slut.” He whispers the degradation with a noticeably lessened dose of hatred than before – low and breathy, his mouth on your cheek, his thumb pulling away to run his index and middle fingers across your parted lips.

His breath bathes your skin in wet heat, the refreshing scent of some mint gum he chewed recently still there. (He was chewing a damn piece of gum while he murdered someone, your mind completes in full hysterics. Brutally piercing some poor student's insides with the sharp blade of that knife while he carelessly rolls the soft gum between his teeth. He's sick, sick, sick.)

"Suck them clean." He orders, cutting through the murky waters of your wandering mind as pushes two fingers onto the flat of your tongue, forcing you to accept the invasion.

It's on autopilot that you register the strong, smoky taste of leather mixed with the familiar taste of your arousal, which still glistens with the fresh wetness of your orgasm on the surface of his glove. You squeeze your eyes shut, gagging more at the sheer depravity of the act than the intrusion itself.

"That's it, princess. So beautiful like this, taking my fingers like a good girl..." he pulls his face away to look at yours, smiling at your fearful gaze; you close the lips around his fingers, sucking and licking slowly at the soft leather of the glove as you clean your own taste from the material as if you meant it - even as the tears keep falling. All you can see in the purple lighting of the bathroom is the lower half of his face and even that is partial, the white mask resting on his nose shadowing what little skin is visible. Despite that, it is evident how his smile stretches, wide and mischievous - pearly teeth slightly crooked at the front, canines sharp and shiny, like those of a cunning predator that has caught up with its prey.

His grip on your hair tightens to keep you still, his fingers coming to life as he thrusts slowly, out and in and out and in, into the cozy warmth of your mouth. You choke around him, saliva pooling between teeth and flesh as he pushes your tongue down, fucking your mouth like it’s a pussy — each slow stroke pushing deeper, until you feel the tips of both his fingers sliding down your throat.

“God, I want to feel so bad that pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock,” he sighs, his gaze locked on yours, fascinated by your gasps and sobs, his smile slowly dying so he can bite his lip as he hums dreamily, “you’re going to be so good to me, I just know it.”

Your wet gaze is half-lidded, mouth slack and full, only giving in to the forced intrusion when you feel him gather the strands of your hair into a messy ponytail in his other hand to pull and push your head along his now-still fingers - the explicit and purposeful parallel of the depraved act with another very unique one does not go unnoticed.

He's guiding the rhythm of your head as if he is dictating how you suck his cock.

It is humiliating; a byproduct of male dominance that is offensive and filthy in its most brutal form. You hate every damn second of this silent abuse. But your pussy seems to have a mind of its own, because with each forced thrust against the saliva-soaked leather of the glove, it clenches a little tighter around nothing, demanding attention.

You whimper at the betrayal of your own body, mouth stuffed and saliva beginning to drip down your lips and chin.

When he withdraws his fingers from between your lips, it is with calculated slowness, prolonging the elasticity of a thick thread of saliva that remains joining the digits in the glove to your loose tongue. He grunts a satisfied sound at the debauched sight, lowering his face to stretch out his own tongue and break the sticky bond after a few seconds of contemplation, licking the saliva accumulated on your chin upwards with a greedy drag of the wet and hot muscle, lighting flames of embarrassment on your cheeks.

You shudder at the grip on your hair as he pulls your head back at the same time as roughly sinks his teeth into the soft plush of your lower lip. Your little hands immediately spread themselves on his chest to try to push him away, but this and your cry of pain only serve to draw an amused laugh from him. It is obviously of his own free will that he mercifully gives in to your plea after a few seconds of torture. He sucks the sensitive flesh into his lips, licking and soothing the bite with a gentle, wet suction.

Mistakenly, your body decides to relax against his hands, welcoming the gentle but cunning care that is his tongue caressing the small, bloody cut he left on your lip. He eases your pain, even if it is because of him that you feel it in the first place.

It is natural for the contact to evolve, after all, his tongue is right there; sliding across your lower lip, his lips brushing yours provocatively. It is really predictable what would happen next, but it still pulls a dazed gasp from your throat.

His fingers hold your head firmly by the ponytail and his mouth covers yours completely, like a wet, warm cocoon that you cannot escape. The groan that sounds from his throat at the feel of your lips on his is one of deep satisfaction, a breathy appreciation that rumbled as he curls his body over yours, locks your legs around his waist, and moves his mouth over yours.

It’s nothing like any kiss you’ve ever experienced in the past. You’re not even sure if it could even be called a kiss.

There are perhaps no words for it other than hunger and need as he barely touches his mouth to yours before his lips are forcing yours apart so the wet muscle of his tongue can slide between your teeth. He’s rough and intense, kissing you like he’s kicking your soul out of your body. It’s all a clash of teeth and tongue that leaves you with your hands trembling in the collar of his robe, your eyes half-lidded and your cheeks flushed as you struggle not to choke on the wild rhythm of the pseudo-kiss. Every inch of the contact feels equally forced and premeditated, an unaltered conclusion that has you subtly pushing your hips forward against him as the sheer surprise and discomfort of the act subsides into something deeper. Darker. You can barely breathe in the tiny, moist inches that open between your lips, making small choking sounds in his mouth - stunned, outraged, humiliated, bursting into flames-

The pointed chin of the mask is digging painfully into your skin at this angle and all you can do is try to tilt your head to the side to avoid hurting yourself, since the man doesn't seem to have the slightest interest in your comfort. But not even this is enough to contain the chilling flame that grows between your legs with each hot breath that leaves the killer's nostrils on your cheek, his greedy tongue licking your teeth and his lips drinking your saliva as if it were the most delicious wine.

When he breaks the kiss it's like breathing after a long time underwater, your other senses dulled and directed only at him like a funnel.

"What in the bloody hell was that? Getting a guy all heated and bothered with a kiss," He grins between a breathy laugh, barely separating his lips from yours, rubbing the tips of your noses together in a comical imitation of affection as you both breathe heavily, "you really are something special, aren't you little girl?"

As you gasp for air, feeling your cheeks darken several shades at the unwanted compliment, the man caresses your face in a disturbingly affectionate manner, as if he's rewarding you for letting him kiss your mouth like that, even though it's clear he's not done yet. Pulling away from you just a few inches, you twitch and yelp as he roughly grabs you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the counter, making you subconsciously lean your back. A second later, he rips the tiny shorts you're wearing down, skimming over the curve of your ass and thighs, grabbing the flesh there greedily as he simply rips the thing off your body.

It takes a few seconds for the realization that there are no more barriers in place to keep the killer at bay to sink in — not that it ever did stop him before anyway. But knowing that beneath your red pleated skirt there’s no covering to offer even a modicum of safety (even if misguided) is nerve-racking in a way that makes your blood roar through your veins, and, illogically, not in a bad way.

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs, wet, breathless lips brushing the hollow of your throat as he bends down slightly to unbuckle his belt. The clink of metal is nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the loud music downstairs. “That’s what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you look up with those big, shy eyes — I want you to look at me, I need that look to be mine. And you don’t understand, do you? You drive me so fucking crazy, girl.” You barely put up a fight when he takes a thigh in each hand and wraps them around his waist before taking his cock in his palm and stroking it a little. It takes everything in you not to look down, teeth sinking into the soft, swollen surface of your lower lip as you hear the wet squelch that the contact between his gloved fingers and his cock makes with each lewd tug.

There should be more resistance in you, but all that’s left at this point is exhaustion and the painful slap of reality that comes with accepting the fact that you’re not rejecting this as much as you used to. There’s a war going on between your body and your mind. Where, of course, you know how sick this man is and how dangerous it would be to give in, there’s also the certainty that he brings out something undesirable in you — that intoxicating, dark sensation of feeling good about being so violently desired by someone. It’s not something you’re proud of, of course. But there’s no denying the way your body wants to succumb to it, to give itself completely to this cruel man you don’t even know but who is obviously obsessed with you. It’s something you can’t begin to comprehend, much less accept, but it comes rushing back to you anyway.

Your poor therapist might have a thing or two to say about such urges.

He rubs the bulbous crown of his cock against your sensitive, shamefully touch-starved clit and you shiver as the heat and dew of his pre-cum spreads through you at the contact. A warm, newborn droplet trickles over your bud of nerves, bathing it in tingling as he steadily nudges the tip along your wet folds. His thumb joins in the teasing, swirling with a few hard rubs followed by a softer touch, too deliberate to be anything but expert, pushing against the hood and pulling it back, exposing your nub to him even more. From his expose lips he makes a deep sound as he feels you getting wetter, more slippery. He circles your clit relentlessly and it’s him who moans louder between the two of you, even though it’s you who’s eyes are rolling back in pleasure.

He recovers quickly, though. Hearing and seeing how loud the sounds of your wetness ring out in the small bathroom, he breathes a laugh so mocking and icy that you feel yourself immediately wither against the mirror behind you, your face burning with the blush of a new wave of humiliation. The killer ignores you, of course, using one hand to lift your thigh up and to the side, doing the same with the other, adjusting both of your legs so that your feet rest almost flat along the edge of the counter - exposing you as if your modesty and dignity mattered nothing at all.

And it doesn't. Not to him.

"So wet." He teases, annoyingly making a point of giving voice to what you've both already realized. His hand slides over the curve of your thigh possessively, pushing the draped fabric of your red skirt with it so that it bunches at your hips. He groans as watches his length freely slide through the slickness between your legs, giving a shallow pump forward. The gloved thumb presses with just the right amount of force, rubbing in a circular motion that makes your toes curl inside the boots and your throat tighten at the noise you suppress. That is, until the soft, wet tip catches against your opening and he pushes inside without further ado.

You gasp loudly at the sharp pressure, reflexively slapping the hands against his chest to push him away, but soon both his arms are around your body, preventing you from going any further, pinning you against him with his strong hands and his cock.

“Aaaah!” You cry out, and he immediately brushes his lips against your ear, leaving a sharp bite on the sensitive flesh, enjoying the struggle evident on your face. Your pussy hasn’t been used properly in a long time, and this man certainly doesn’t lack in the size department.

“Shhhh,” he hums, sounding too pleased for it to even remotely be interpreted as an attempt at comfort. “You can handle it, baby,” he whispers in your ear, one hand relaxing its iron grip on your body to cup your cheek, “I know you can.”

It’s not like he’s giving you any options other than to handle it. And yet, over the sting of the stretch and the ache of being taken without denying it, your insides burn with dark desire. It’s like being fully satisfied with something you didn’t even know you needed.

“That’s it?” he asks as you throw your head back in the mirror, eyes closed and teeth digging into your bottom lip. “Does it feel good to you like this? Baby likes a little pain, yeah?”

You blush, unable to think about it too much without feeling like you could go straight to the hospice.

Thankfully, he doesn’t press you for an answer. Instead, firmly breaching your tremble hole, he thrusts and thrusts and gasps heated and wetly into your ear, pressing deeper until he’s halfway in. And then he stops. The fingers of one hand close loosely on the bruised skin of your throat and you freeze, fearing for a moment that he’s going to choke you once more — this time while impaling you on his thick cock. But as the seconds stretch by without such a thing happening, you begin to notice something else. Those fingers; cruel, bloody fingers, responsible for the deaths of many people, are unsteady on your flesh.

He’s trembling.

The elongated digits are gripping your flesh with no real pressure, just a nice, soft collar around your throat, but the way they’re trembling is noticeable even through the barrier of the glove.

You open your eyes to a slit, knowing you can’t see him properly with the way his mouth remains pressed against your ear, breathing heavily and heatedly. And there’s no logical explanation as to why such an action catches you so off guard. But feeling this killer, this horrible, terrifying man who is obviously incapable of a basic level of respect for human life, gasp and tremble at being inside you, makes you gasp in response. Your insides clench involuntarily and more moisture coats the heavy shaft in your pussy, making it easier for him to pass through.

Then, slowly, he moves his other palm up to squeeze your breast over the fabric of your costume before he begins to pump the rest of his length inside you.

“Mmm…that’s it,” he murmurs, “f-fuck, you feel so good, so good.”

Again, you say nothing, burying your embarrassing moans and your tears as best you can — both from pleasure and humiliation. The man is so disturbingly warm curled up against you, his body broad and tall and so firm, dark clothing heavy but soft over his defined stomach that flexes against you with each thrust - the mask poking your flesh every now and then as his breath hitches in your ear. You want to cry out in fear as much as you want to scream in pleasure.

It’s a bitter kind of betrayal the way your body seems to want to decide the game for you; your quivering pussy giving in, against all logic and reason, to accept the forced intrusion, allowing the rest of his cock to pass inside your silky walls. You lose the battle almost immediately after that, gasping at the feel of every inch of his thick member firmly seated inside you, breathless at what he’s daring to do to you. Worse than if he had broken into the bathroom to murder you, you’d say. Because here, he’s not just violently attacking you and taking your right to life, without you being able to fight back. Here he’s making you submit to him; making you want to surrender to the overwhelming sensations that he brutally rips from your body - like a priest exorcising a poor possessed soul. He humiliated you in the worst possible way and he knows it.

And you find yourself less and less concerned about it.

You tilt your head to the side - and now there is no more internal restraint to prevent your moans.

“Please…aaah…”

“That’s it, princess,” he chuckles, as if he senses you’re giving in.

The time he stays still inside you doesn’t last long, just the few seconds long enough for you to feel the heat and enlargement of his cock, the thick veins pulsing as he bounces between your walls. It’s as if the pain has pierced you beyond anything else, pierced you like a sharp bolt of lightning that has fried your nerves until it’s left behind nothing but a sense of…overwhelming fullness. You’re completely boneless, trapped between his strong body and the mirror, your hands clenched loosely in the dark fabric of his robe. It’s a sensory experience that quickly becomes too much, but not enough.

When he pulls his hips back you experience a confused moment of panic, frustrated as you feel him pull away from you to leave your pussy achingly empty. There’s no time to question the insanity of your thoughts though.

His fingers are still shaking as he pulls away from you, releasing your throat to tangle them deep into the roots of your hair as a scream is forced like a punch from your lungs when, in a single strong thrust, he is fully sheathed within your quivering insides once more.

Between the iron grip on your hair and his hand gripping your breast like a vise, all you can do is grip his robe tighter as he ravages you. His teeth are where your neck meets your shoulder with a sharp bite, pulling away to thrust inside you in another violent thrust, your hole stretched and more vulnerable than ever. Your frantic brain is making you all too aware of every little sensation racking your body. The way his thick cock opens you, how each thrust makes your smaller body tremble, leaving you breathless as you dig your nails into the soft fabric of his robe to try and hold on through the punishing rhythm of his hips. When this night is over, and assuming you’re still alive, you know you’ll be bruised and sore everywhere, from your hips and ass to your breasts and throat. In your mind and in your soul. Right now, you don’t know if you’ll ever recover from this. If you’d ever want to.

"S-stop..." You don't know why the words are coming out of your mouth; not only would they be useless to the man, but they also carry no real force behind them. You don't even know if you really want him to stop. It feels more like an instinctive reaction than what your brain deems to be the right thing to do. "I - I'm going to scream."

He laughs, recognizing your empty threat for what it is, but your stomach still twists when he grips your hair to pull your face towards his.

"Oh, you promise? Please do it, little girl."

Out of spite, you close your mouth, but that only seems to incite him. With an amused chuckle and one last pinch to your nipple, he releases your breast to grab both of your thighs. His hands are large on your flesh while his fingers bruise the soft skin even more.

"Such a stubborn little thing. We can't have any of that, can we, sweetie?"

His hands curl under your ass and, after a greedy squeeze, he’s lifting you up, not letting his cock slip out of your pussy for even half a moment before he slams you against the wall. Your spine arches and your bones rattle from the nothing short of violent impact, but he doesn’t care, writhing and pulsing inside you, undeniably stimulated by your pain - and oh god, this definitely shouldn’t feel as fucking good as it does.

It barely takes a second before he’s holding you steady and still by your thighs before he starts ramming his wet cock in and out of you again, like a machine, so hard that each thrust of his hips makes your back hit the wall.

In this position you’re forced to wrap your arms behind his neck for safety, feeling his hands close on the inner curve below your knee to spread your legs even wider, his body so intimately pressed against yours that it’s almost unsettling. Especially after so long without any human contact like this. You feel, to say the least, overwhelmed by such a sudden onslaught of intimacy.

You tense when he thrusts in a particularly dirty way, grinning like hell when you hiccup with a moan. He repeats the movement out of pure tease, his mask askew but turned toward you, the mocking line of his lips right next to yours.

“Mine,” he whispers, “My princess, my little pet, my cute little toy.”

His thrusts become not only hard but fast as well, and you can hear each time his body hits yours with a wet slap, each withdrawal slick and sticky.

“Please, w-why are you doing this? Why me?” It’s all you can manage to ask, your head growing increasingly confused, your pussy growing wetter.

He slows his movements to a blessedly slower grind, humming dramatically as he pretends to ponder your question.

“Why you?”

In an abrupt movement that you wouldn't have expected in a million years, he lets go of one of your thighs and abruptly rips the mask off his face, with such ease that you initially don't understand what it means. But then, with finality and violence, the weight of reality falls upon you.

He took off the mask.

He let you see his face.

The face of a murderer wanted by the police.

You were already dead. Yes, if such a fate was uncertain before, it certainly isn't anymore.

The shock of the revelation is so absolute that it takes a few seconds for you to actually focus on his face. But slowly, each individual feature seems to stick to your mush brain.

First you are greeted with that shock of long platinum blonde hair, tied in a loose bun, a few strands stuck to the sweaty skin of his forehead and the sides of his face.

The hair alone would be enough for you to easily recognize him.

But then your gaze falls to those eyes.

Eye, actually. A single, functional one, a stormy blue — enigmatic and dark as the turbulent waters of the farthest reaches of the ocean. The other, or where the other should be, is occupied by some kind of ocular prosthesis of a blue hue that could not be less like his good eye — a vivid, electric blue, like a rare, brilliant sapphire stone.

It is the first time you have seen him like this, so exposed. Always hidden by a pair of sunglasses or, failing that, a surgical eye patch. The pale skin of the man’s face would be flawless, were it not for the long, jagged scar that cuts across his cheekbone to above the line of his damaged eye.

The purple hues of the bathroom highlight all his sharp angles and an elegant appearance that is characteristic of the aristocratic genes of someone so well born.

Yes, you know this man.

Aemond Targaryen.

A college guy. Normal, as far as you can tell. Or as normal as someone privileged and born with a silver spoon in their mouth could be. Yes, he was introverted, arrogant even with his silent and mysterious attitude, as if everyone was beneath him. The few times he was pushed to enter a conversation or any other social interaction (most often by his own brother) his comments were imbued with a polite acidity that is totally unique to someone with class, or with discreet but effective jabs that carried a humor considered, at least, questionable.

Aemond constantly balanced on the fine line between cool elegance and petulant irreverence, which generated controversial opinions about him among the students. To you, he was intriguing. Someone you quietly admired, offering polite greetings and a sincere smile when your paths crossed.

Yes, you knew him - as did the entire student body knows him. The Targaryens were obscenely wealthy, widely recognized for carrying an exorbitant legacy not only of family polemics, but also of successful generations, all in the field of technology and communication.

And yes, Aemond Targaryen was someone seriously conflicted, with his taciturn and enigmatic aura.

But a serial killer? That would be impossible.

And yet he was here, smelling of leather and sandalwood - as well as blood and death, wet crimson stains on his dark robes, forcing you to the most terrifying and controversial act of your entire life.

The dawning horror of the notion that the killer on the loose could be someone you know, someone who was present in your daily life, who attended the same classes as you and yet, who you never even dreamed of suspecting, seems to want to suffocate you momentarily.

“I see you around campus. You know, some wise ones tend to avoid me whenever possible, and then there are those pathetic rats who try to get close out of some specific interest in what my clown family can offer. But you? You’re always kind. Even with your mysterious and solitary attitude, you’re still so stupidly kind to me. It’s ridiculous, princess, but also so cute.” He’s pleased by the utter shock on your face, grinning evilly as he shoots his hand out and wraps both forearms around the inside of your knees, his cock thrusting deeper into your pussy, leaning in menacingly until his teeth are grazing your ear.

“You’re all I can think about, baby. You’ve invaded my mind, my body, my life. You’ve fucking ruined me.” He speaks directly into your ear, a harsh whisper that makes you gasp and shiver despite the crushing weight of the discovery still fresh in your mind.

“It’s only fair that I ruin you too, right?”

You glow at the intimacy of his words, incandescent with the blush spreading across your cheeks, your throat, your collarbone.

“You...oh, fuck...” Your accusatory words to him die on your tongue as one particular thrust hits a spot inside you that has you curling the toes in response. Little gasps escape your lips as he hits the same spot over and over, your eyes filled with revulsion and desire beginning to soften with an inevitable flutter of the lashes. 

 “That’s right, just take it, baby.” He sighs with a smile, kissing your jaw as you tilt your head back. His voice is like molasses; soft but rough around the edges — sweet but dark with the huskiness of his lust. It’s getting harder for you to control this feeling now. You feel your legs tighten, instinctively trying to wrap yourself around his waist tighter. A hand rising from his broad shoulder to tangle in the platinum strands of hair at the nape of his neck, eliciting an approving grunt from the man. He watches you with awe and a hooded gaze as you give in to that feeling of helplessness once again.

“You feel so warm and wet, dripping all over that pretty pussy, drooling on my cock like that…you’ve been just as desperate as I have, umm? So lonely…you’ll never be lonely again, princess,” he promises hotly, groping his way up your thighs until he grabs your ass, thrusting slowly, deeply, brushing against your cervix each time.

“I’m going to fuck your ass like that someday.” He says casually with a sly smile as his fingertips slide along the crack of your ass, thrusting his cock into your pussy harder to show you what he means, making your breath shallow and your eyes widen. “I think I’ll do that next time indeed. Fill every tight little hole in your body. Mark every inch of your skin as mine.” 

“Oh, God -” You feel tears forming in your eyes and streaming down your cheeks as you squeeze them shut, shaking as he teases you with wicked words, his hands coming up to grip either side of your waist. “Stop, please.”

“Oh no, baby, I’m not stopping. Not now and not ever. I’m going to claim that body in every damn way I can. With my cock, my fingers, my tongue.” You moan and pull away from him, your cheeks red and wet, shaking your head in a mumbled protest that’s too weak to be taken seriously. There’s more pleasure on your face than fear. He chuckles. “Do you like that? Do you like the idea of ​​my tongue in that sweet pussy?”

Before you can think to deny it, his mouth crashes down on yours, rough and brutal, hungry. There’s blood on your tongue, you notice, the cut reopened in his greed, the taste ferrous and acrid in your mouth as his tongue slides inside — his, maybe, or yours, or both, you don’t know.

As quickly as it begins, it ends. Aemond pulls back enough to brush his lips against yours, sharing quick, wet breaths.

“Oh yes, you do. You love knowing that I want to lick that pussy until you come, once, twice, three times — until you squeal and beg me to stop. But I won’t. I’ll make you come as many times as I want, as many times as your body can take. And even then, even if you pass out from exhaustion, I’ll fuck you. Like a beautiful little sex doll.”

Amidst the sensual humiliation of his wanton words, you feel your back scraping against the wall; up and down, over and over. The grip of your fingers in his hair tightens and he growls in his throat, palming your ass to move it with more fervor. He holds his own body still, using only the strength of his arms hooked in the crook of your knees and his hands on your waist to move you up and down his cock.

His face, though it still manages to hold that cold, wicked smirk, is smudged with a soft blush across his cheeks and the bridge of the nose, the rest of his pale skin glistens slightly with sweat, and his good eye is dark with desire — the pupil so wide it almost completely overpowers the blue of his iris. And he’s beautiful like that; even with the prosthetic eye and the frightening scar. Beautiful and ethereal, completely belying his sick personality and unforgivable sins.

Through parted lips he gasps with effort and it takes a moment, but when he pushes you up again, your face completely implodes into flames as you realize he’s using you to masturbate. He’s doing exactly what he said he would, using you like a sex doll, a flashlight clenched around his cock.

His thrusting becomes faster and rougher as he grips your waist tighter between his broad palms, dragging your pussy down his cock with short strokes. Your own breaths shorten, becoming ragged sobs each time the fabric of his robe rubs against your sensitive clit. When he’s basically grinding your pussy against him, undulating your hips in a hurried back and forth, he leans down to press the forehead to yours. His heavy, cold gaze stays locked on yours through each drag. 

“That’s it. That’s it. Look at me. You’re so tight, so good. Keep looking at me. Good girl.” He punctuates each word with breathless slowness. Each guided movement of your hips is intentionally placed — rubbing your walls against his thick cock while simultaneously stimulating your clit against the mound of fabric of his tunic in a way he knows will send you over the edge.

Despite the order, your eyes grow heavy and fluttery, beginning to roll back as the muscles in your thighs and abdomen tense in preparation for the inevitable climax. That scary and wonderful cliff that taunts you in a messy way, approaching faster than you can understand.

A hard slap on your cheek brings you back.

“What did I just say, princess?” he growls, his voice rough with the effort of holding back his own desires. And your cheek stings where he’s hit you, glowing an even deeper shade of red, but you barely give it half a second’s attention — not when he’s looking at you like this; all breathless, sweaty lines and smoldering gaze.

“Keep your fucking eyes on me.” He releases your jaw with a warning jerk, sliding his hand down through your wet mess to find your swollen clit and circle the bud with his thumb, his other hand still tight around your waist. His body grinds into yours, flattening you against his lean muscles and the wall, slamming his hips into yours without pause.

You take a deep, shaky breath.

Your boots cross behind his back, skirt swinging at his waist with each thrust. And yet you do your best to hold Aemond’s obsessive gaze – unable to even name the intensity of the emotion swirling within you. The muscles in your thighs now tremble visibly, clenching tightly around his body in your impending release.

“Aemond – I need, oh, I can't…” You whisper, barely realizing what comes out of your mouth, a broken moan escaping along with the jumbled words, your entire body twitching under the expert assault of his thumb on your clit and his quick, relentless thrusts. You were close. So close. Balancing precariously right on the edge. And he knew it too. 

“That’s it, say my fucking name as you cum for me. Come on, do it now little girl.”

It happens quickly after that, relentlessly, your eyes trying to close without your permission, but you are obedient and keep them half-lidded as you stare at Aemond, a choked cry finally escaping your throat. 

“Aemond!”

With a determined growl, sweat dripping down his temples, he thrusts into you harder and harder until the tight coil snaps. Shockwaves of electric pleasure overwhelm you, forcing all the air from your lungs in a messy gasp. You shake as you come, clenching the fist against your attacker’s chest, nails digging into the roots of his silver hair, trying to ignore the stinging taste of shame as you find purchase in his body. 

“Look at me. Look at me, baby.” He pushes his forehead against yours, sending you a sly, proud smile as your eyes flutter and water with the effort of keeping them open through the climax. His pace quickens with the excitement of seeing your drunken gaze and flushed face.

His own release washes over him like the purest rush of insanity; brows furrowed as if he’s in pain, lips parted in a hoarse groan that raises every little hair on your body. His warm cum fills you, bubbling at the tight rims of the ring of muscle where his cock stretches you. He stays buried inside as his balls empty, his head finally tilting back and breaking intense eye contact as his lips release another long, satisfied groan.

When it’s all over, he slowly leans down to touch your foreheads once more, and you feel an overwhelming, incoherent wave of satisfaction when notice the muscles in his arms and fingers trembling where they touch your skin. 

“You’re mine,” he murmurs between labored breaths. “All mine.”

He babbles possessively, rolling his hips into you to prolong the intimacy, even as you feel him softening discreetly within your walls.

“I’ll burn the world for you, I’ll do anything to keep your eyes on me like this. I’ll kill as many as it takes to have you by my side.” His voice, husky and haunting, makes you shiver with horror — with heat.

You don’t think he needs your involvement in the story to fulfill the last part of his dark promise. Not with the previous list of confirmed murders or the blood that stains his clothes tonight. That stains your costume now too. But his words still send a swarm of butterflies dancing in your stomach and, not for the first time, you find yourself questioning the integrity of your mental health.

He’s smiling at your flushed, uncomfortable features, swollen lips brushing against yours playfully as he catches the breath to say something else that will surely upset you deeply. Before he can, however, his broad body freezes against yours, whatever he was about to say abruptly dying on his tongue.

Like a tense and intriguing suspense, the two of you are slowly bathed in the garish red and blue lights that filter through the small bathroom window, overshadowing the soft purple lighting from before.

The police.

Just as the realization sets in, the sound of sirens is heard; loud and distinctive. And it is then, and only then, that you notice that there are no more sounds of music coming from downstairs.

When had it stopped?

Relief is the first thing you feel. Hope and security flicker in your chest until a new wave of tears blurs your vision. But the feeling quickly withers before another realization. The police, along with your college friends, were minutes away from finding out where and who you had been all this time. They would find Aemond, it was true. They would finally arrest the killer known as Ghostface. But they would also find you. You, abused, raped and humiliated.

God, could they deduce just by looking at you that, at some point during this violation, you had started to want this?

Your jaw is gripped by his firm fingers, making your wide, wet eyes focus on the man in front of you. He looks at you with such intensity, serious and analytical, and in that moment you are sure that he knows exactly what you are thinking.

“I know where every single one of your friends lives, what every single one of them does during the day — every damn minute of their activities is recorded for me,” he whispers slowly, sinking each word into your overworked brain to make sure you understand. “The same goes for your family members. I know where they live, who they are, and what they do. Dare to open your pretty little mouth to anyone about me and you’ll get one of their heads every time you open your dorm room door in the morning. I’ll even do the favor of gift wrapping it for you, baby.”

Your stomach lurches with sudden nausea, all the color draining from your face at the threat you know he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out if need be.

“I truly hope you won’t betray my trust, love. Like I said before, I don’t want to kill you.” He smooths his knuckles down your tear-stained cheek, softening his tone to something softer and gentler — yet equally terrifying. “But I’ll do it to someone you care about without a second thought. So don’t test me.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he seals his lips on yours. Just a light, wet touch, more an intimate exchange of heated breaths than a kiss. With an approving grunt when you sigh and surrender to his touch, he pulls away.

Your shaky, weak legs give way as he leaves your body, and you slide down the wall in a confused, weeping heap until you’re sitting on the tiled bathroom floor.

Hovering above you, Aemond tucks his penis into the pants and fastens his belt, straightening the robes with a perfectly neutral expression and calm manner, as if at this very moment the cops aren’t searching the frat house for him. Long fingers casually grip the mask lying on the counter, giving you one last intense, appraising look, licking his lips slyly before covering his face.

That ghost mask is back then, cold and frightening, pulling the hood up over his head before bending down and holding the bloody kitchen knife in the palm of his hand. Black boots click on the tile floor as he turns back to you and heads for the door, casting a glance over his shoulder as he places hand on the doorknob.

“This won’t be the last time, princess. I’ll come back for you.” His voice is dark and muffled by the mask, sounding more like a threat to your life than a lover’s promise, especially now that he’s back in his ghostly, cruel persona. “Until then, try not to miss me too much, and of course, be on your best behavior.”

He leaves as disturbingly as he came, with a dark swish of his cloak and an amused chuckle, closing the door with a teasing gentleness — as if he’s trying not to scare you. You might even buy his act, if it weren't for all the psychological terror he's inflicted on you so far.

And then you find yourself alone in the bathroom once again, with nothing but your own shame and accusatory thoughts.

And that's exactly how the cops find you a few minutes later. Sitting on the tile floor, pale as death, your Sailor Mars costume stained with blood and throat marked from the cruel grip of your attacker's fingers. Your cheek still stings from the slap he gave you.

You think you can hide the finger marks on your thighs by deliberately tucking the legs in, taking the opportunity to keep the messy puddle of cum out of sight of the lawmen. But one of them still wraps his jacket around you in a gesture of solidarity as he leads you out, reciting kind words that, despite their intention, do nothing to actually calm you.

“Oh, thank God!”

You stagger back at the sudden hug Mako gives you as you exit the house, crossing the area marked off by yellow police tape. The officer next to you clucks his tongue in disapproval, but steps aside to offer the two of you some privacy.

“Someone called the police when they found the bodies on the next street. It all happened so fast. The party was going on and then everything turned into absolute chaos and I couldn’t find you anywhere!” She babbles quickly as pulls away from the hug, looking you up and down with her puffy, red eyes, her hands shaking where they are — clenched tightly on the arms of the police jacket you’re wearing, as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. “W-when they said that you could be upstairs with him…I-I thought…fuck…I really thought—”

“I know. But I’m here now. And I’m fine.” You cut her off, wiping away your own tears as you try to give her a very unconvincing smile. Predictably, she doesn’t buy your lie, but doesn’t press it either.

“They couldn’t catch him, pumpkin…” she says slowly after a moment of silence, her face contorted in pain for you. “By the time they got upstairs, he’d already escaped. I'm sorry."

You want to tell her that you know that, you were there when he fled before could be caught. Before you can, however, the officer from before is back - this time accompanied by another, a tall, tired-looking man with a gray beard. The sheriff, you assume.

"If you don't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions, miss." The older man grunts, looking like he wants to be literally anywhere else but here.

"She does, actually. Can't you see how she looks?!" Mako is quick to respond, leaning forward to position herself in front of you like a protective barrier. The officers look at her like she's a little girl throwing a tantrum, nothing but tired indifference on their faces.

"It's okay, Mako. I got it." You try to calm the situation, placing a hand on her shoulder to gently guide her to the side. "I'd rather do it now, actually. I just want to put this all behind me as soon as possible."

It's impossible to put this behind, but you don't say that part.

Mako holds your gaze for a few seconds, keeping such a watchful, worried glint in every expression on your face that, for a minute, you fear she might know exactly everything that happened just by that look. When she sighs and steps aside in reluctant surrender, you almost sigh along with her.

"Okay. But I won't go far, I'll be waiting for you right there."

You mumble an 'mkay' and she reluctantly walks away, not before casting a sharp glance at the two officers standing in the same position near you - who promptly ignore her silent attempt at a threat. When she finally walks away, you sigh, staring at the badge on the older man's chest for a few seconds as you prepare to craft a narrative of the facts that doesn't reveal anything about the killer's identity.

"Alright. What would you like to know, Sheriff Myers?"

Fortunately, the police in your town have never been the most diligent or perceptive, and while they may ask a few important questions here and there, they generally remain naturally ignorant to some confusing gaps in your version of events. You are careful to avoid saying anything about the sexual assault you suffered, opting to tell them only about the physical violence that they have inevitably noticed by now; the marks on your neck, wrists and the red slap on your cheek.

They accept your half-truths so easily that you would be offended if that wasn't exactly the goal. In the end, all that matters to them is the answer to one question:

"Did you get a look at his face? Skin color, hair, eyes... anything that might help us identify this fucker once and for all?"

And in that moment you think of Mako, her cheerful smile and irreverent attitude. You think of your parents, so safe and oblivious in your hometown. You think of the faces of every your family member, friend and colleague who could suffer an agonizing death at the hands of the killer if you dared to answer the wrong way.

"N-no, sir. I'm sorry, but no, I didn't see anything. He was completely covered the whole time, with gloves and a mask." You huddle deeper into the thick jacket over your shoulders, your arms wrapped around yourself.

The sheriff takes a deep breath, clearly disappointed at once again running in circles, but he doesn't press you on it. And after a few other less important questions, they both say goodbye with a standard guarantee of protection that you don't trust for a second.

They've barely moved away from you when your phone vibrates in the pocket with the warning of a new notification. After glancing over your shoulder in alarm to see if anyone was watching, you feel the heart race before you even reach for it, fingers already shaking with nervous anticipation, knowing exactly who the notification is from. With a shaky click of your thumb on the now mostly cracked and destroyed screen, the thing lights up for you:

--

Notification Center

2:23am - Unknown number

"Well done, little girl. You made me proud (and a little horny, I must admit) with all those pathetic little lies to the authorities. Keep being a good girl and everyone you care about will be safe. Scout's word.

We'll meet again sooner than you think.

A.T."

--

[scarameownya]

tags ran out so im continuing it here JAJSJSDJJD

on a second thought i should have tagged this as nsfw before the tags ran out 💀

#GRANDMA LOST HER SON AND DAUGHTER IN LAW... STOP IT STOP I DONT WANNA GET EMOTIONAL JAIL JAIL FOR YOU

#"grandma filled the roles so well even if his heart bled, not too much blood spilled out" thats its im stealing your brain this is actually insane writing and wording IM IN LOVE

#NO NO NOT HIM REGRETTING NOT BEING TO HELP HER AS A CHILD NOBONONOON

#AND HER DEATH HELLO ?!?!?! ok and ik u didnt intended for it to be but id like to think him brushing off people's remarks

#are somewhat in a way him grieving cause hes knows all of it and in a way because he knows his child self could not reciprocate all of it

#DO NOT TORTURE ME MORE WITH HIM READING HIS PARENTS LETTER AND FUCKING CRYING RIV I WILL KILL YOU HELLO IM ?!?@?@?@?#?@#*×*

#ALSO AUAGAHAHAHA I LOVE THEIR BANTER SO MUCH OMFGGGGGGGG THE FACT THAT HE HAS SOMEONE TO SHARE AND CALL A HOME WITH AUGAHSHSHD

#als his thought process during the smut scene... :[[ poor lil brain boy.. he's literally so happy at how you are so perfect for him

#and just how whole you made him feel... wahhh :"[[[[ riv should get her device taken away signing a petition rn //lh

#THE LETTER AT THE END ?!?!?! OMFG HAITHAM YOU CHEESY ASS //POS ALL POS HES JUST SO ?!?!?! SO ?!?@@??!

#seeing haitham this gentle is insane omfg riv i love love LOVE your version of him so much-- lowkey got me blushing at it like-- STOP

#ALL IN ALL HELLO ?!?!?! THIS IS INCREDIBLE IM LITERALLY SO HOOKED IN EVERY WORDS AND THEYRE ALL SO WELL WRITTEN

#eating your brain i need that nutrients PLS I JUST ?!?!?! I JUST LOVE THIS SO MUCH OMFG UAHSUAHDHSDHDHFHDH

#what if i die for just liking this too much-- IM SORRY BUT JUST ?!?!? EVERYTHING FLOW SO SMOOTHLY AND AND ITS SO NATURAL AND I JUST LOVE SEEING IT PLAYED OUT FROM START TO FINISH

#whens the wedding this should be at 28 ill be waiting //lh

like a lotus in spring, you are mine to bloom — ft. alhaitham

synopsis: at twenty one, you’re just a girl he meets as he trains for the role of scribe. at twenty four, you’ve become everything he loves in this world. after three years of knowing you and nearly two and a half decades of life, alhaitham finally realizes why his father left letters for his mother instead of just saying the words outloud

❤︎ word count: 7.7k words — we find ourselves here in the same old situation again, i see LOL pls give it a chance though!! plssss

❤︎ before you read: female reader ; 18+ content — not suitable for minors ; not proof read ; strangers to friends to lovers ; mutual pining but not at the same time for a bit (he falls first <3) ; jealous alhaitham ; hinted drunk sex ; getting together + love confessions ; alhaitham character story spoilers + references to his grandmother and parents ; semi-clothed unprotected sex ; no prep ; some nipple play ; creampie ; the cringiest love letter at the end LOL

❤︎ comments: guys every time i write alhaitham it’s so corny and cheesy but . he is my fav genshin guy of all time i deserve to be allowed this okay

TWENTY ONE. 

You’re still a student when you first meet Alhaitham. (Not a student for much longer, but a student all the same. With a little luck on your side and good graces from your darshan’s sage on your thesis, you’re expected to graduate in just a few short months.)

You don’t have the best first meet. In fact, your impression of Alhaitham starts off entirely on the wrong foot. 

He’s newly graduated, just freshly rewarded a degree for his (impressive) efforts, and is now well on his way to training for the role of scribe—you heard he was offered far more prestigious roles, but for some reason, a genius like him settled for a role like that. You try not to judge. People have their passions, after all, and if that’s what he wants to do, well…who are you to make comments? (But amongst a school that only houses the brilliant, Alhaitham is, very undoubtedly, a standout. It’s hard to stand out in a school filled with only the best minds, but he manages to do so with ease. Sometimes, you’re almost jealous. You can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t aim a little higher than he does.)

He trains in the house of Daena. His first order of training is to fact-check ordinance drafts using books so he can better get the hang of drafting them himself in the future. You’re also in the House of Daena to find the last book for your thesis—after weeks of begging, you’re finally granted access to the restricted section to find it. 

And you do. Except your palm meets warm skin instead of the cold leather cover of a book. You pause, glancing up as sharp, teal eyes meet your gaze, staring at you expectantly as if you should be the one letting go. But you need this book. It’s the final research element to finish your thesis, and you’d like to be done with it. End of story. No matter how devastatingly handsome the man (because he is handsome, you’ll admit at least that much), you will not be handing over the last, final key to your academic freedom.

“Um, excuse me,” you say politely, “I was kind of reaching for that.”

“As was I,” he says, staring at you with a bored, almost uncaring expression. Your eyes narrow. “Now, if you’d please kindly take your hand off of mine.”

“I believe it should be you taking your hand off of mine,” you correct, huffing as you add stubbornly, “I reached for it first.”

He blinks at you, bland and a little irritated, as he points out, “Your hand is on top of mine, which means I reached the book first.”

Well.

Maybe if you were feeling particularly patient, you’d be inclined to admit that, yes, he does have a point. But stubbornness, combined with pure exhaustion, has you at your wit's end, and if you have to play the role of a difficult student, then so be it. You’re pretty sure you need it more, and you’re probably a much speedier reader anyway. You’ll have it done and returned in no time.

This guy, on the other hand…he doesn’t look too bright. You’re not willing to take your chances and let him walk off with a book that you might never see again.

“I started reaching for it first,” you scowl, “you just sped up your hand once you saw me. I should get it.”

“Unlikely,” he scoffs, “I didn’t even see you. Although,” he gives you a once over with his eyes, making you feel uncomfortably seen under his judging gaze, “I suppose you were a bit easy to miss.”

You gape at him. “Just what does that mean?”

“It means,” he smirks, taking the opportunity to grab the book as you stand in shock, “that I got here first.”

“Hey!” You glare at him, seeing red for a moment. What a perfectly good waste of a perfectly handsome face—and such an awful attitude coupled with his ridiculously smug grin couldn’t make for a worse combination. But, before you can even say anything, the book is being pressed back into your hands.

“You seem like you want it more than I do, though,” he hums, “I suppose I can let you have it. It’s a bit outdated for this ordinance, anyway.” With that, he saunters off. You push down the soft flutter in your heart for a moment and force yourself to hope you’ll never see him again. (Faintly, you hope your wishes don’t come true—but you refuse to admit it to yourself.)

Unfortunately (and fortunately at the same time) for you, you do see him again. Many, many times, in fact. When he works in the House of Daena as often as he does, and you like to spend all your free time there to study if you can, you’re both bound to run into each other often. Very often. 

And sometimes, it’s quite literally running into him. 

“Oof,” you hiss, staggering backward and hitting your head against the bookshelf behind you as you bump into a sturdy figure. You drop the books in your hand, blinking before reaching to rub your read as you start to apologize. “Sorry, I didn’t see you—oh. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” he says, looking mildly entertained. Alhaitham is everywhere. Everywhere. You can’t escape him if you try, and now, you can’t even avoid him in your own personal space. “Although, I think I should be the one apologizing this time. I was too busy reading to pay attention. This section is usually empty at this time.”

“How often are you in here to know what section is empty at what time?” You raise a brow. 

“Too often to be considered good for my well-being,” he says dryly, sighing in misery. You crack a smile at that. Oddly enough, so does he—you don’t think you’ve ever heard someone say they’ve seen Alhaitham smile. It must be a rare sight that only you, and perhaps a very few others, can say they’ve witnessed. “I was just about to take a break to buy a coffee—I’ll bring one back for you, too, to make up for the cranial damage I’ve supplied.”

“A most wonderful idea,” you perk up instantly, “I love when I get to drain the wallet of a man.”

He gives you an amused look at that. And somehow, bringing you a coffee along with his own during his breaks is a habit that seems to stick for a long, long while after that. 

────────────────────────

TWENTY TWO.

Alhaitham’s feelings are hurt. Not a lot of words tend to do that—he’s been blessed with thick skin and an unbothered attitude to a fault, sometimes. But something about today, for some odd reason, hurts his feelings. 

Your words to the waiter who took your order keep ringing in his head. 

Oh goodness, no, we are definitely not dating!

Most people mistake you and Alhaitham for a pair of lovers rather than a pair of friends. It’s just the way things go when a man and a woman are seen together for extended periods of time over and over. It doesn’t help that Alhaitham doesn’t really have any friends. He had one before you, but…well, things are complicated now. Far too complicated to think about it more than necessary. He has you, and that’s enough. But the matter still stands that most people tend to assume that something blossoms between the two of you that isn’t just friendly. 

He was starting to think it was true himself, too. He knows it’s true from his end, at least. But you say those words with such a sure, definitive tone that it almost sounds like you’re offended by the notion of being seen as his girlfriend. And sure, he would be disappointed—he’s no liar—if you didn’t feel romantically for him, but he’d understand. It’s not something you can help. But you brush off the idea like it’s an anomaly of sorts in the universe for someone like you and someone like Alhaitham to be a couple. It hurts his feelings. More than it should. 

(He knows deep down, in the depths of his heart, that you don’t mean it that way. You never would. But irrationality is but one of many feelings that bloom when it comes to romance.)

Alhaitham knows from a young age he’s different than most kids his age. This fact doesn’t change as he gets older. He’s brighter than most of his peers—which is certainly saying something because Sumeru is a nation filled with enough sharp minds, it’s as though brilliance were the average trait. People don’t typically like Alhaitham (which is fine by him, he doesn’t like most of them, either. They mostly don’t meet his standards). The kids don’t play with him in the parks that Grandmother would leave him at while she shopped around at the market, and they don’t sit with him on his one and only day at the Akademiya when he is but an elementary scholar. It never bothered him. He preferred reading under the trees and self-learning at home, anyway. When he’s older and enrolled in the Akademiya full-time, they don’t prefer to partner with him for projects for any other reason than simply being guaranteed a good grade, and they don’t spare him a glance when they all converse in groups outside of class. He never cared for freeloaders, anyway—he only trusts himself for projects, and he is at the Akademiya to learn, not make friends. 

It’s not until he meets Kaveh does he consider the idea that friendships are meaningful enough to spare some effort into. But the end result of that only solidifies that he is best when in solitude. 

But then he meets you. Some part of Alhaitham knows very early on that you would never be just a friend to him. If it was friendship that he craved, he would have looked for it elsewhere before running into you. Something about you from the very beginning makes him yearn for things much deeper than that. Things that remind him of his parents. 

Friendship is fleeting. People at the Akademiya go their separate ways and meet new people. They fall out and have arguments. They grow up and grow apart and become different. But love blooms like the Kalpalata lotuses on a vine, timeless as time itself. It starts and never ends, one root stemming into more and more vines until they never stop growing.

Alhaitham has fallen in love with you. Logic tells him it’s only a recent development, but his heart has known this outcome would be brought about for a long, long time. And, in all truthfulness, your words have hurt his feelings. 

And yet, he still loves you through it. He thinks that even if you crushed his feelings with a cold, indifferent smile, he would still love you through it. 

A hand waves in front of his face, pulling him from his thoughts as you take a sip from your coffee. Puspa Cafe is not as busy at this hour, most people are in the middle of a work day, but Alhaitham is allowed to pick his lunch hour, and yours happens to be earlier than most.

“Sorry, I just have to ask—are…are you upset?” you ask gently, making him pause. 

Yes.

“No,” he says simply, “why would I be?”

“You seem upset.”

“I’m not.”

“You were fine up until…I don’t know, a few minutes ago. Is something on your mind?”

You know him so well, he thinks. How could you not see how perfect the two of you are together?

“I’m simply concerned about your sugar intake is all,” he eyes the cold, iced drink in your hands with more syrups than he deems necessary. You always have a penchant for choosing the sweetest drink off the menu, and Alhaitham will never understand how your teeth don’t rot.

“Well, that’s very funny,” you roll your eyes, “because I was just thinking about how low on vitamin D you must be—do you ever leave your study to see the sun?”

He spares you a soft chuckle at that, shaking his head before taking a sip of his own coffee—hot and black and with two spoons of sugar. Simple, like how he prefers. You make a face at his drink as he sets it down. 

“Have you ever thought about what you look for in a partner?” he asks suddenly, making you blink in shock for a moment. He flinches at his own forwardness just a tad. 

“Umm, I suppose a little here and there…why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he shrugs, “just curious what your type was, that’s all. You’re painfully single, so I figured your taste was rather distinct.”

“Rude,” you scoff, rolling your eyes enough that he thinks it’s safe to assume you’re not suspicious. “Are you here just to poke fun at my choices today?”

Alhaitham should not be asking you this. Not when the answer so clearly is going to hurt his already very bruised feelings. Of course, your type won’t be him. And, of course, he is going to mourn your answer the second you give it, which is his own fault considering he’s the one who asked. (He has to wonder, for a moment, if this constitutes as an undiscovered hidden kink of his and whether or not he really just gets off on some unnecessary pain. Why else would he willingly subject himself to this?)

But, he’s caught off guard when you shrug and simply say, “I suppose someone who’s intelligent. I’d appreciate some good discussions. And…and maybe someone who’s kind, y’know? I would be rather sad if they were mean,” you pretend to sniffle dramatically.

“That’s…that’s it?” He tilts his head in equal parts shock and equal parts confusion. 

“What did you expect me to look for in a partner?” You snort, “A three-story mansion? A rock-solid, chiseled chest to lay on?” 

“Well, no,” he rolls his eyes, “Maybe something a bit less generic to narrow down your pool, I suppose, but if that’s your bar, so be it. There are far too many men who are intelligent and kind, you know.”

“Yes, but none of them show me any signs of interest,” you pout, “I must be undesirable or something.”

I desire you, he wants to say. He can’t quite find the courage to get the words out, though—and as if the universe has it completely out for him, the same waiter from earlier who is responsible for asking you the question that kills Alhaitham’s mood for the day comes back with the bill. And something else, too. 

Something that kills his mood for the week. 

His jaw clenches a tad when you flush at the note scribbled on a napkin for you, eyeing your flustered reaction while you read over the words: I get off at eight if you’d like to find me. You stare for a moment before you murmur, “Well, look at that. A sign of interest—it must be the Dendro Archon’s divine power.”

“The Divine have no say over who you fall for,” he insists.

“You don’t know that,” you hum thoughtfully, “The God of Wisdom knows her people better than anyone else, you know. I’d like to think she knows when love is bound for two people.”

You fold the napkin carefully and keep it in your pocket, and Alhaitham fishes out his mora pouch with stiff fingers. He leaves a very shoddy tip on the table before he exits after you. 

────────────────────────

TWENTY THREE.

You wake up in his bed. 

It’s a foggy memory, but you know you fucked Alhaitham after more sips of wine than you can count and one flirty comment too many. It happened in a blur last night, and you can’t say you’re surprised that it finally happened at all. Alhaitham is a man just like any other, and mingling pleasure with friendship is a normal thing to do. Falling under him on his mattress is not something you never had daydreams of—but the truth of the matter is that your daydreams don’t just stop with the bed.

They end with a toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. A mug next to his in the kitchen. Your shoes kicked off along with his at the entrance of a home. Your laughter and his bouncing off of the walls. A ring, maybe. One on your hand and one on his. 

In your imagination, it starts with pleasure, but it ends with love.

Falling in love with Alhaitham is a peaceful ordeal. He’s dependable and inherently kind. Strong and impressively capable. Intelligent and objectively handsome. You’d bring him home to your mother and father, and they’d thank Lord Kusanali for smiling down upon their humble little family and their darling little daughter by sending such a divine man your way. 

You don’t think you can pinpoint when exactly it is you started to love this boy, but you know loving him became as simple as breathing. You never thought about it. Never learned to do it. Never questioned it, even. You inhale the scent of his spicy, woody cologne and exhale the warm breath of your affections stored in your lungs. He lives somewhere nestled so deep in your ribcage that you think you’d have to crack each of them one after the other before you could pry him out.

You love Alhaitham. You think you know everything there is to know about loving him. You think you’d do it right—better than anyone else. 

He only drinks his coffee when it’s piping hot, and his wine can never be one degree less than iced. He has dry hands, but he hates the feeling of lotion. He doesn’t like raw onions but he doesn’t mind them cooked. When the sun is in his eyes, he’s in a foul mood, but he enjoys napping under the warm rays, much like a cat. He laughs surprisingly boyishly from his belly if you manage to deliver a dry yet clever enough joke, and he clears his throat and gets a bit shy once he’s realized he’s let it out. He twirls his pen in his hand when he’s bored, and he only uses the kind with gel ink because they write smoother. 

You love Alhaitham. For you, it’s always been him. 

When you wake up to his bare, warm body next to yours, breathing peacefully with an arm thrown over your waist, you can’t help but selfishly wish he’d stay asleep all day. Just for a day. Just for the amount of time you get in between the sun’s departure and the moon’s arrival. Just so you can watch him exist in this moment where it’s you, him, and the liminal space between friends and lovers. Just so you can admire how beautiful he is without worrying about his eyes opening and the inevitable conversation of what you’re both doing is brought up. 

People (like Kaveh, or Dehya, or Tighnari, or…anyone) tend to insist that Alhaitham loves you. It’s obvious, they say, just as obvious as your love for him. You never believe it. It’s not because he’s bad at love or because you’re bad for him. You think he’d make a good lover—contrary to popular belief, you don’t think Alhaitham is uninterested in intimacy or affection. And you think you’d make a good girlfriend—unlike other people, you understand him and like what you see. 

But he doesn’t love you. That much is a fact you’ve long accepted. It’s not because you’re bad for him or because he’s incapable of feeling—but rather, it’s just that bitter, soul-crushing reality that you can’t help who you love and who you don’t. Alhaitham doesn’t love you—it’s not something either of you can really change. Because if he did, he’d waste no time. He’d get to the heart of the matter and quit dancing around the issue. 

It’s just the kind of guy that he is. 

So, because this is your first and likely last time seeing him this way, you slowly reach over and brush a few strands of messy, unruly bedhead from his forehead before cupping his cheek in your hand. His skin is soft and warm under your palm, much more delicate to the touch than you anticipated from how chiseled his features are. Your thumb gently brushes along the slant of his cheekbone, eyes softening at how he lets out a puff of air as he sleeps. 

“Morning,” he says hoarsely, eyes still closed and making you jolt in surprise. He lets out a quiet, sleepy chuckle that would make you melt if not for the way your heart still pounds from the shock. 

“You’re awake?”

“Mhm,” he hums, nodding before finally cracking an eye open. “For a while now.”

“Why pretend to sleep then, you creep?” You scoff, glaring at him as he sits up slightly and glances at you with a teasing glint in his eyes. No part of him seems to be shocked about you being nude in his bed. Or the fact that you’re even in his bed at all, nude or not. 

“You’re the creep if we’re being technical here. It’s undoubtedly a little on the creepy side to study someone with such careful touches while they sleep.”

“That’s your main concern…?” You stare at him—and for lack of better words, you’re dumbfounded. You and Alhaitham have been friends for two years and counting. You’ve never once crossed the line or even toed at it to step beyond the border of anything more. And, yet, here you are. In his bed. Completely nude. He was lying there and felt your delicate touch along his skin, felt you act like a lover and not a friend on a quiet, intimate morning when in fact, you both should be shamefully avoiding each other’s eyes in a moment that’s anything but intimate as you leave. 

He makes no move to ask you to leave or even question why you’re still here. You make no move to really leave—it’s not like you want to. 

“What should my main concern be, then?” he looks at you expectantly, like he really doesn’t know.

“Oh, I don’t know, Alhaitham—shouldn’t you be a little more panicked by the idea that I’ve trespassed into your bed and seen you…bare?”

“Well, to be fair, you didn’t trespass. I let you in—and also, to be fair, I saw the same for you, too, so we’re even.”

“You’re oddly calm about this,” you hiss. “This doesn’t bother you even a little? That things might change?”

He looks at you funny—like you’ve just told him a joke that hardly makes sense but makes him want to laugh anyway. “You’re too brilliant to be this dense,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’m quite open to the idea of change.”

You take offense to the first part enough to completely miss the second part of his statement. 

“I am not dense,” you huff, “I’m incredibly bright. I’ll have to send you my thesis sometime.”

“No need,” he responds through a low hum. He pulls you closer, flush against his chest. Bare skin on skin. Intimate skin, at that. You shiver for a moment as his warm, large hand wanders lower and lower before stopping just at the small of your back, rubbing slow circles at the dimple where your spine ends. “I’ve read it plenty of times. It was very insightful.”

“Well, in that case, you should know not to insult my intelligence—”

“If you don’t notice my affection for you, I’m afraid you might not be as observant as I initially thought.”

You pause. Your heart flutters. Then it feels like it decays. Your eyes widen a fraction. Then they feel like they need to be squeezed shut for fear of tears. You feel your fingers twitch to reach for him. And yet they stiffen in distrust. 

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you whisper. Because you don’t.

You really fucking don’t. You thought you knew. His feelings and how to read them. His thoughts and how his mind works. Every little quirk of his and how he approaches every damn thing in this world. You thought you knew.

Now you feel like you don’t know much of anything, especially not what he means right in this moment. 

“You don’t?” He whispers, hand moving to grab your wrist and bring it to his cheek so his lips can brush along the delicate lines of your palm prints. (If he was brave, he’d tell you that his destiny and yours are written in those very lines. Maybe someday he’ll build the courage.)

“No,” you say through a shaky whisper. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I love you. Just like you love me.” He says it so plainly, that you almost feel like it's a dry, cruel joke. (You know him a little better than that, though, to know he’d never.)

“How do you know I love you?” you challenge just because it’s all you have left to cling to—easy, instant denial. 

He laughs. Soft. Quiet. Melodic. So fucking sweet. “I’m too smart to act dense,” Alhaitham teases. And then, for a moment, his eyes soften enough that they almost look vulnerable. “And only someone who loves me could deal with my… peculiarities. Though, I will admit, it took me quite a while to reach this conclusion. You made me work for it.”

“If you’ve known all along—” 

“Not all along,” he corrects, “like I said, it took me a while to come to this conclusion. But once I did, it was rather obvious.”

You scowl with a finger prodding into his chest, eyes misty with relief and the faintest traces of agitation, “Well, regardless, why haven’t you said something all this time? Obviously, I wasn’t as aware as you seem to be, so the least you could have done is spared me the pining and heartbreak of wondering if you’d ever look at me—”

“I wanted to make sure I could offer you a peaceful life first,” he says gently. You blink. He smiles, eyeing something in the distance—you don’t quite catch it, but you think it might be the old, worn-out stack of envelopes sitting on his desk. 

“What?”

“When you’re with me,” he whispers, leaning in so that his lips brush over yours, “I can lead a peaceful life. I wanted to make sure I could give you the same.”

“And what does that consist of?” you raise a brow. 

“Well,” he murmurs, pecking the corner of your mouth, “A stable job with a generous income, which I now have. A fixed schedule, which I have also negotiated. A proper home to house the both of us, which you are comfortably laying in. And…” he grabs your hand, bringing it to his chest where his heart is beating erratically, “A rock-solid, chiseled chest to lay on, which I have dedicatedly worked to add to my physique for you.”

“Haitham!” you squeal, shoving him away with a horrified shriek as he laughs with a wide grin. You don’t even know why he still remembers that comment to poke fun at it, but you suppose that is the tragedy of falling for a prodigious scholar. His mind is sharp. And so is his memory. “Enough!”

“Okay, okay,” he grins smugly. “I want us to lead a peaceful life.”

“There’s not a lot of peace I am counting on with you.”

“I will elect to ignore that statement,” he says dryly, “But that’s why I waited this long,” he buries his face into your neck, nose pressing into the skin as he inhales, “I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer, though. Won’t you accept my frugal attempt at a serene life with you?”

“Perhaps I can make do,” you fight back a stupid grin.

He smiles into your neck. You can feel it. You can practically see it. You hope you’ll grow old with it, too. 

“Then I suppose I’m forever indebted to your graciousness, my love.”

────────────────────────

TWENTY FOUR.

When Alhaitham was eight, Grandmother told him the story of how his parents had fallen in love. It was a typical love story, he thought at the time—nothing overly special or unique. A simple, sweet bond between two people who became friends and something more along the way.

What stood out were the letters. Not very much at first, but with time, he’d realized how special they were. 

Grandmother handed him the letters with a soft, melancholy look in her eyes that made him realize he hadn’t just lost his father and mother. She had lost her son and daughter-in-law. Alhaitham felt the absence of his parents often. It was hard not to at that age—he didn’t have a father to throw a ball to or tag along with to the market. He didn’t have a mother to hum him a melody or make his favorite dish for dinner. But Grandmother filled the gaps in those places well enough that even if his heart bled, not too much blood spilled between the cracks.

But he was no son. Not a proper one for her at her age, anyway. She raised him like he was her own, but she grew older every day, and he didn’t grow fast enough to keep up. He couldn’t take care of her in her old age the way his father would have. He couldn’t do much besides bring the vegetables for her to cut or set the table while she cooked. He couldn’t offer her the mora when she went to the market or carry too many of the heavy bags while they walked home. He couldn’t let her rest in her old age too much because, regardless of how mature and bright he was for his age, Alhaitham was just a child. Her child, nonetheless—Grandmother didn’t let him forget that fact. But a child.

When she died, he arranged the funeral alone. He didn’t cry throughout the whole ordeal. Her old colleagues from way back in her Akademiya days came, as did some of his parents’ old acquaintances. No one he knew too familiarly, though—no one who really mattered when they clasped his shoulder and told him to hang in there.

She was a good woman. He knew that already.

She was very intelligent. A very obvious fact.

She was exceptionally kind. A rather unsurprising observation.

She loved very deeply. Well. That one stung—as true as it might have been.

He remembers it so vividly still. How he had walked home alone after it all. How he had taken off his tie (a very poorly tied tie, at that—Grandmother had always helped him before) and silently entered his room.

It wasn’t until he had eyed his desk that finally, it all sank in. The notes—the ones his father had so carefully written his mother while they were still just starting to fall in love, sat there as if waiting for him. He read them one by one, just like he had so many times before. He didn’t realize he’d started crying until a rivulet of his sorrow landed from his cheek to the page, staining the paper a darker shade of heartache. 

Alone. 

That’s all Alhaitham had ever been since the tender age of four. At least, that’s what people had always thought—but he’d never felt the sorrow people tended to feel for him. Not having a father and mother was okay. Hard at times, but okay. Grandmother had been everything he needed. More than what he needed, in fact. 

Grandmother was everything. And she had left him just the same way his parents had. He’d cried that night—alone in a house that was nothing more than just a house. Not a home, not a place where he could return to and look forward to it. Not a place where love was waiting for him to shelter him as soon as he came back from the cruel, outside world.

Grandmother was gone. Mother and father had left so long ago. But they all had each other—in whatever world they’d crossed to, they’d had each other. 

He remembers it all so vividly still. How he’d read his father’s words, and for the first time in all his life, he’d craved it. What his parents had. 

To my love, my soul, my heart. I am yours, always. 

He wondered that night, through teary and blurry eyes, if love like that would ever find him. If he’d one day be able to call someone his love, soul, and heart.

He thinks now, as you laugh with your head tilted forward and a tweezer in hand while sitting on his lap, that he can. 

“Hold still, you,” comes your teasing remark, “you said this would be nothing. Now look at you.”

“You’re being too harsh,” he grumbles, pouting slightly. With a smile, you bend your neck down and press a soft kiss to his jutted lips, humming before pressing an extra one to the corner of his mouth for good measure. (And yes, the grand sage—acting, you can almost hear him correct in your own head—can pout. He is rather frequent at curling those lips of his in your presence when he wants something, in fact. Or when he is teased too much. Something about you brings about a side of him that is much less stoic and far more dramatized.)

“You can just admit it hurts, you know,” you say through an amused snort.

“It won’t hurt if you just do it right.”

“I’m an expert at tweezing eyebrows,” you huff, “I do mine all the time. And I would know that it hurts.”

“It can’t be that painful,” he clicks his teeth, “just be gentle.”

“I cannot gently pull out a hair from your follicle, Haitham—I don’t know what you want me to—hey!”

He grabs the tweezers from your hand and pulls you close, hugging you tight enough that his nose digs into your skin a bit as he buries it into your neck. It’s Saturday. His first out of two days off for the week—standard scribe work weeks are nine to five on weekdays, and he very much appreciates his weekends away from the bustling, lively Akademiya nonsense. 

Saturday happens to be your day off, too. 

“Where is Kaveh?” you ask quietly, playing with the hem of his shirt. He raises a brow, eyeing the suspicious movement of your fingers.

“Working with a client in Aaru Village. He won’t be back until tomorrow evening. Why am I not enough company for you?”

“Oh, be quiet,” you roll your eyes, and this time, your hands wander under his shirt, palms slowly dragging along his chiseled, planed abdomen while he shivers slightly under your touch. “I was just asking if…”

“If…?” he urges you to continue.

You know he knows. But, for the sake of indulging his smug, teasing little game, you huff and push his shirt up to expose his chest before murmuring, “If we would be interrupted or not. I don’t fancy such awkward run-ins with your roommate.”

“Our roommate,” he corrects, “this is your home, too.”

“Yes,” you smile, brushing your palms over his pectorals, watching as he stiffens when you graze along his nipples, “I suppose it is.”

“Well, he’s not here. And he won’t be, so kiss me,” he demands through a breathy whisper. You do. You kiss him instantly—because kissing Alhaitham is what you do best. When he’s happy, sad, angry, distressed, or just plain tired, kissing him is how you know him the most. When your breaths exchange and your life force and his mingle to become one, singular unit. 

You sigh into his mouth, letting his hands cradle your jaw and tilt your head to better meet his mouth, all while your hands still explore his upper half. He moans under your touch, cock springing to life slowly below you through his pants. You angle your hips forward, inching higher up his lap to drag your crotch along his and help the erection grow against the friction. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, hard and heavy between his legs in no time. 

“Haitham,” you breathe, feeling that familiar ache build between your own thighs. 

You kiss him like that for a bit. Messy, deep, sloppy, and so, so slow. With all the time in the world. Languid strokes of your tongue against his as he rolls his hips up from underneath you, dragging his clothed, bulging cock against your dripping cunt. The fabric separates you, rudely so, and it’s not long until you both grow tired of it. 

“Off,” you whine, tugging at his pants, “off, off, off!”

“So demanding,” he chuckles, pecking your nose sweetly before he lifts his hips, letting you slide off his sweatpants. “Satisfied?” 

“Yes,” you beam, “You always give me what I want. It’s my favorite thing about you.”

His gaze darkens at that—not for any other reason than it makes him so incredibly filled with lust when you speak to him like that. So spoiled and happy about it because it’s him. Him. You’re happy that it’s him. And he’s happy that it’s you. 

You don’t even bother undressing yourselves fully—he pulls down your own pants just enough to expose your pretty, leaking folds, and his hands wander under your shirt, where he almost short-circuits for a moment. Braless. Because you just love to drive him mad, he thinks. This much easy access to your soft, delicate breasts and the pert nipples that decorate them is enough to make him curse under his breath as his thumbs tease over them. 

“You’re a tease.”

“For simply existing?” you gasp, making him crack a small grin. 

“Yes,” he hums, “Your existence on its own teases me at all times. I’m afraid it drives me mad.”

You hum, reaching forward to gently take his hard, leaking cock into your hand and give a light, teasing squeeze. “Maybe my goal is to turn you completely into a lost cause.”

“Then,” he groans, throwing his head back against the couch cushions while he breathes harshly, “then you’re definitely succeeding. Is that what you wished to hear?”

“Yes,” you whisper, kissing his jaw, “It is, actually.”

It doesn’t take long at all before Alhaitham has tossed you back against the couch, laughing as you shriek at the sudden change of position. You glare at him, fighting back your own chorus of giggles as he moves to hover over you, kissing and biting playfully along your cheeks. 

“I love you,” he mumbles.

“Aw, so sweet,” you coo, “say that again.”

He rolls his eyes. His lips curl into the brightest grin at the same time. My love, my soul, my heart—the words are ingrained in his memory always. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” you whisper.

He leans in for a soft, slow kiss as the tip of his leaking cock slides against your folds, tapping against your clit before rubbing along your entrance. You gasp, shuddering against him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. 

“You know,” he murmurs, “I could get used to this.”

“Sex on the couch? We can do that any time—”

“A weekend with just the two of us,” he groans, dropping his head to your neck as you laugh loudly. Bright. Airy. A sound the wind carries to him in his subconscious. He hears you even when you’re not there—even when you aren’t around, he searches for you. 

“Oh,” you say playfully, “Yeah, I guess that’s nice too, isn’t it?”

“I’ll show you just how nice it’s about to be,” he hums. The tip of his thick, blunt head is pressed against your folds—you’re leaking just as much as he is. You slick, and his pre cum mix for a messy collision of arousal as he presses into you slowly, so carefully, you feel like you could break at any second with how he handles you. 

He’s patient. When Alhaitham fucks you, he’s patient enough that you feel like his other half and not his means of pleasure. Like he fucks you for you and not for himself. 

“More,” you insist, impatient as you add, “I can take it.”

“Patience is a virtue,” he clicks his teeth, “I want to take my time feeling you.”

And he does. He rolls his hips slowly. So slowly, you feel delirious. It’s a painful, gradual build-up of pleasure that has you trying to roll your hips into him to meet him halfway, a pathetic attempt when he’s on top of you to press his weight down on you to keep you in place. 

“Please, Haitham,” you whine, sweat shining across your sweet, pleasure-hazed face as he stares down at you, “Please more. I need it—need you. Need all of you.”

“You have all of me,” he groans, feeling the tight walls of your cunt squeeze around him, the squelching noise of his thick girth bullying into your folds in and out, in and out, in and out, driving him to the brink of insanity. “You’ve always had every piece of me.”

“I want more,” you hiss. 

He lets out a breathy laugh that turns into a soft moan. “If that’s what you want.”

The next thing you know, two strong, muscled arms are grabbing your thighs and bringing them around his torso to wrap around him, and his large hands grab your hips and pull, practically manhandling you deeper onto his cock. You shudder, letting out a shrill, high-pitched gasp as he intrudes further into your cunt, nudging the head of his cock against your sweetest of spots and making your body tremble. 

“Haitham,” you gasp, “Haitham, fuck—fuck, you feel so good. So deep—love when you fuck me like this.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, kissing in between your pretty little scrunched-up eyebrows, “I love fucking you like this, too. When you take me so well, squeeze so tight, and let me feel you like the good girl you are.”

His words make your folds squeeze around him, and fuck—he’s close. So fucking close, the pad of his rough, callused thumb meets your clit as he rubs circles, trying to bring you to the edge before he goes plummeting himself. 

“‘M close—almost…almost there,” you pant.

“Me too, baby,” he groans. He slams into you, skin slapping against skin and the glistening sheen of it mixing your sweat together. His mouth parts with pretty, low sounds of his pleasure, and your face twists with the devastating rush of yours. 

Once. Twice. A third time, and you fall apart as he thrusts into you and presses the tip of his thick length against the spongey spot in the back of your walls. 

“Haitham,” you gasp, legs tightening around him as your nails press crescent shapes into his back. “Fuck, I’m c-cumming…oh, Gods.”

“Good,” he gasps, and with one last roll of his desperate hips, he spills into you, too. A thick, sticky, familiar rush of heat fills your cunt, topes of cum painting you white within with every twitch of his aching cock. “Fuck—you feel so good. So perfect—you were made for me. Me.”

“You,” you whisper, breathless. 

You let him shudder over you, fingers running through his hair as he finishes releasing his load into you before he slumps his wait over your body. It’s a small couch—decorative more than functional. (All thanks to Kaveh, of course.) But you don’t particularly care when you’re under him. It feels right all the same. 

“We have the house to ourselves this weekend,” he reminds you after some time of catching your breaths. “So…so we can do this all you want.”

You giggle, rolling your eyes as you poke his forehead. “You’re obscene.”

“I’m romantic,” he corrects, “I just want to be with you and nothing else. Can’t blame a man when he’s been gifted such a beautiful sight before him.”

“And cheesy, too,” you huff. 

He smiles. My love, my soul, my heart. 

——————————

You wake up Monday morning to Alhaitham already gone—it’s rare that he’s ever up before you. He leaves the house just in time to make it to work exactly on the dot and not a moment sooner or a moment later. But, as is with any Akademiya position, there are quarterly meetings that even the scribe can’t avoid. You giggle at the image in your head of a grumpy Alhaitham carefully tiptoeing around the room as he miserably gets ready for an early morning of extra work, all while making sure he doesn’t wake you. 

You yawn, sitting up to start your morning for your own day of work ahead—but it catches your eye before you can fully rise from bed, making you pause. 

A note? No, you realize almost instantly. Not just a note—a letter. 

To my love, my soul, my heart: Kalpalata lotuses will bloom soon. I forget how beautiful the world is sometimes, and I suppose it’s because I am always distracted by your beauty alone. Will you laugh as you read this? I suppose you might because even I must admit, it is a rather cliche thing to say. I can just picture your smile now, and I am certain I will have it memorized until my last breath. It’s easy to remember it so well when it’s all I see in my dreams. Have I told you how often I see you in them? It’s difficult to think that there was once a time in Sumeru when we did not dream. It seems like sleeping beside your body is no longer enough—your presence is required even in my slumber for me to truly be at peace.  Perhaps when the lotuses bloom, we can take a trip to the deeper parts of the rainforest to catch a glimpse of a few. They say the vines are blessed by The Lord herself. I was never one to seek out the divine, but perhaps with a gift as sacred as you, I should take the time to thank Lady Kusanali for granting such brilliance to take bloom in my presence. Only, the difference is that here with you, there are no cliffs to climb or seasons to await. You are mine to bloom, always—my precious, beautiful lotus.  Forever yours,  Haitham ♡

ITS DONE. HAPPY LATE BDAY TO MY FIRST AND LONGEST LOVE. YOU MEAN EVERYTHING AND MORE TO MEEEEE

[steveseddie]

happily ever after

written for the @steddiebingo kissing booth mini event | prompt: happy ending | rating: t | wc: 1,7k | no cw | tags: pre-relationship, oblivious steve, dungeons & dragons, love confessions

read on ao3

Steve doesn’t know when it happens but at some point, he stops hating Dungeons & Dragons.

He still calls it anything but its actual name to the kids’ faces, and he still bitches and moans about having to drive them to and from their stupid meetings, but he can admit that he kind of likes it, at least to himself.

Definitely not enough to play it. He still believes there’s way too much math involved and he gets a headache just thinking about memorizing an entire character sheet, but he does enjoy it enough to sit and watch the kids and Eddie play.

Eddie is also probably a big part of why Steve started liking it. He has a way of making everything interesting. His voices, the way he insists on randomly jumping on his chair or shooting up to his feet, and the twists and turns he weaves into a story so expertly.

There’s also the fact that Steve is head over heels for him and sitting through one of their games is the perfect excuse to stare at him all he wants.

Realistically, he can’t be at every one of them. He has a job and a tiny shred of reputation to maintain. He can’t be seen dedicating all his free time to a game for nerds.

He can, however, dedicate his Friday night to it when Eddie invites him over for the big finale of their latest campaign.

“It’s going to be great, Stevie, I’m telling you!” Eddie says, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “You can’t miss it!”

“I won’t, Eds, I promise,” Steve tells him, trying not to show just how easy it is for Eddie to get him to agree to anything.

The big finale does end up being great. The kids spend the whole time sitting at the edge of their seats and Eddie delivers twist after twist until finally the legendary sword is found, the kingdom is saved and everyone lives happily ever after.

Or maybe not everyone.

There’s something that stays with Steve even after Eddie dramatically announces it’s the end, but he doesn’t get to ask him about it until two days later when they’re hanging out at the trailer.

Steve is sprawled on the bed, leafing through a sports magazine he swiped from Wayne’s stuff and Eddie is pretending to organize his desk. In reality, he’s spent the last twenty minutes playing with a rubber ball he found among his things.

“Hey, Eds,” Steve says just as Eddie throws the ball toward the ceiling. He turns his attention to Steve and forgets about the ball, which bounces against his face.

“Ow! Shit!” He swears, rubbing at his eye. Steve stifles his laughter behind the magazine. “What’s– what’s up, Stevie?”

“Can I ask you a question about Dorks & Dweebs?”

At that, Eddie snaps to attention. His eyes are wide and one of them is a little red from the ball hitting it. “Steve Harrington, did you just say you want to ask me about Dungeons & Dragons?”

“I said Dorks & Dweebs, but yes.”

“I don’t even care that you refuse to call it by the proper name,” Eddie chuckles disbelievingly, then he jumps to his feet and joins Steve on the bed, a big grin on his face. “Holy shit, yes! Of course, ask me anything you want!”

Steve can’t help but chuckle at Eddie’s excitement. The way he rests his chin on his hands and stares expectantly at Steve like this is the most amazing thing to happen to him. It’s very cute. “Okay, you weirdo,” he says, his voice dripping with fondness. “At the end of your last game–”

“Campaign.”

Steve waves him off. “At the end of that, what happened to the singer guy? The bard? Uh, Everard?”

Tilting his head, Eddie asks, “What?”

“You know, the– the guy that helped the kids– uh, the party find the legendary sword. The EMT or whatever.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches amusedly. “The NPC.”

“Yeah, that.”

“Well,” he says, scratching his head. “He died.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he got mauled by carrion crawlers, Steve.”

“You got mauled by bats and you lived!” Steve argues. Eddie’s nose scrunches up, most likely at the mention of his near death. “Couldn’t one of the kids have used like, a healing spell or something?”

Eddie taps his lip with his finger, thinking it over. Steve can’t help but follow the movement with his eyes.

“I guess they could but– he’s not important, man, he’s just there to help them find the sword.”

Steve averts his eyes from Eddie’s lips and crosses his arms over his chest. “If he’s not important then it doesn’t matter if he lives, right?”

“Okay, sure,” he snorts. “He can live if you like him so much.”

“Good,” Steve says, nodding. Eddie rolls onto his back, probably assuming the conversation is over but there’s something else Steve has been wondering about. “Does he go back to the princess?”

Eddie’s whole body visibly tenses up. “W–what?”

“Everard is in love with Princess Soliana, right? Does he tell her?”

“No,” Eddie says, his voice sharp.

“Why not?”

Eddie groans, sitting up on the bed so he’s facing away from Steve. “Because that’s not relevant to the campaign!”

“It’s relevant to me,” Steve huffs stubbornly.

“Why?”

Because Steve is a romantic and from the first time Eddie mentioned this NPC or whatever, Steve felt drawn to him for some reason. It might sound stupid, he’s just a character after all, but Steve wants him to be happy. “Because Everard loves her.”

“So?” Eddie snaps, “there are things even love can’t fix.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “In real life, maybe, but in fantasy, man? Anything can happen.”

“That can’t,” he grumbles. He still won’t face Steve, his shoulders hunched over.

“But why?”

“Because!” Eddie snaps, finally turning around. His face is pinched, his lips pursed. “Bards don’t marry princesses, Steve!”

“Says who?”

“Me, and I’m the DM so I make the rules.”

“Which means you can change them, give them a happy ending!”

Eddie drags his hands down his face. “There’s no happy ending for Everard, Steve. He knows that. He’s not the hero who gets the princess, he’s the sorry son of a bitch who almost dies. Even if he lives, he won’t do it. He won’t risk the friend– the kingdom when he knows the princess doesn’t love him back.” He says all of that through gritted teeth, and his voice sounds sad like– like he knows what he’s talking about.

“She’s royalty, Steve. She’s beautiful, she’s brave,” Eddie goes on, his eyes boring into Steve with an intensity that makes him shiver. “And he’s– he’s no one and he’s broken and– and scarred, and–-”

“You,” Steve whispers as the realization hits. “He’s you.”

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut. He gulps, but he doesn’t deny it. He can’t. Now that Steve knows it’s so obvious. The similar name, Everard’s funny and flirty personality, the way he joins the party later in the campaign, and how he’s mauled by creatures trying to save them.

And if that’s Eddie then–

“The princess is me.”

Eddie lets out a sigh, his shoulders slumping. “Finally caught on, didn’t you, Stevie?”

“You– you based those characters off of us?”

“Yeah.”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “But you killed Everard.”

Eddie shrugs. “Yeah, well. I took some liberties, I didn’t want to make it too obvious, you know? And I did die for like a couple of minutes, so–”

“But the part about Everard being in love with the princess. Did you take liberties with that?” Steve asks quietly, holding his breath as he waits for Eddie’s answer.

“No,” he says, ducking his head, his hair falling over his face. “That part was accurate.”

The admission makes Steve’s heart try to beat out of his chest. “You– you love me?” He asks with a shaky voice.

“I do,” Eddie says, his big doe eyes finally meeting Steve’s gaze. “But I meant what I said. Everard wouldn’t risk anything, not when I know– when he knows you– the princess doesn’t want him.”

Eddie’s eyes are sad and pleading, like he’s begging Steve not to be mad at him. But Steve is mad. Just not for the reason that Eddie thinks.

“You don’t know that,” he says, frowning.

“I told you–”

“You told me what Everard thinks, now let me tell you what the princess thinks,” Steve says, shutting Eddie up. “She doesn’t think Everard is broken, she thinks he’s strong. He might be scarred, but so is she. And– and he’s beautiful too! Maybe she never thought she could fall in love with a guy– with someone like him but she loves him, Eddie.” He reaches for Eddie’s hand on the bed. It’s shaking. Steve squeezes it. “And I love you.”

Eddie’s jaw goes slack. “Steve–”

“That’s Princess Soliana for you,” Steve tells him, trying to lighten the mood.

It works. A joyful, high-pitched laugh tumbles from Eddie’s lips. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he agrees with a giddy chuckle. “I– did you– do you mean it?”

Another squeeze. “Of course, Eds.”

With his free hand, Eddie grabs a lock of his own hair and tugs it across his face to try and hide the blush creeping onto his cheeks and that just won’t do. Steve uses his hand to tuck the hair back behind Eddie’s ear. “So, now that Everard knows this, what’s he going to do?”

Eddie doesn’t even need to think about it. His eyes instantly dart down to Steve’s mouth. “He’s going to kiss the princess,” he says, his jaw set in determination.

Warmth shoots through Steve’s body, the corners of his mouth curl upwards. “Good,” he says, and then Eddie is pulling him in by his shirt, their lips crashing together in a kiss. Steve’s hand finds its way to the back of Eddie’s neck so he can keep him in place, kissing him back for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes.

“I guess– hmph, I guess Everard did get his happy ending after all,” Eddie mumbles against Steve’s lips after some time. “And so did I.”

Steve’s face splits into a grin. “Nah, Eds, this might be the end for them,” he says, pushing at Eddie’s shoulders until his back hits the bed and he can climb on top of him. “For us, it’s only the beginning.”

[hivemuthur]

Nothing's New - Ch.6.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!

AU modern era, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, angst & smut present

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 8,8K (sorry!)

warnings: angst, unsafe sex, dacryphilia, spanking, d/s undertones

tag: #nothings new

author's note: It's Sunday where I am lol. No real notes, just thank you for coming with me on this journey, it's very weird to bear your soul like this and people reacting well, never happened to me before. Moments like this, I love internet. @rennethen beta read 🖤

Cross-posted on AO3

—

It took a long time for you to part on Sunday evening. You stood in the hallway, arms wrapped around Viktor, his arms wrapped around you, and only the sound of breathing surrounded you both. He pulled away first, placed a hand on your cheek, and said, “Think about everything. And let me know.”

You nodded, and a question—the answer to which you so desperately needed—was resolved before you even mustered the courage to ask.

“Come on Friday. I’ll text in the meantime? Or call?”

“I would like that,” you admitted with a relieved sigh, and Viktor offered you a kiss on the forehead. When you finally stepped out through his door, he lingered in the frame until the lift swallowed you.

The week passed in a diluted blur of working, eating, and sleeping, interrupted by little earthquakes in the form of Viktor’s messages and brief calls. Nothing with significant push or pressure—just simple, casual chats that let you know he hadn’t forgotten you, and made sure you wouldn’t forget either. And each one made your face beam in a way that earned you silly and curious “Who is that?” questions, until you were red-faced with a juvenile blush.

It happened every time your phone buzzed. You’d be in the middle of scanning through data, only half-listening to a coworker’s offhand remark, when you’d catch a glimpse of his name on the screen, and suddenly, the rest of the world blurred at the edges.

I am convinced my students are attempting to end me. I asked one of them to justify their methodology, and they said, “I just had a feeling.”

A barely suppressed laugh slipped out before you could stop it. You masked it with a cough, ignoring the glance your colleague shot you from across the table.

Another time, you’d been elbow-deep in paperwork, eyes dry from staring at the screen too long, when your phone lit up with another text:

I hope your day is going well. Eat something before you get grumpy.

You scoffed but still reached for the protein bar you’d left untouched beside your laptop.

And then there were the messages that made your stomach turn weightless, that left you pressing your lips together to fight off a giddy, ridiculous smile.

I dreamt of you last night. It was... pleasant.

It was impossible to focus after that. You stared at your screen for a full five minutes, rereading the words like they might change or disappear. Your mind whirred with possibilities, until the sound of your name snapped you back to reality and you scrambled to act as if your brain hadn’t just short-circuited.

Not once had he asked what you were thinking. Not once had he pushed beyond a sweet Goodnight call in the evening and a Good morning text when you woke up. It made the days more bearable, but it also made new questions rise. Is this trust already? Or just caution?

You faltered on Wednesday, when there was no message to greet you. And then no message to remind you to drink water.

You told yourself it was fine. That he was probably just busy. That this wasn’t some sort of test. But by lunchtime, the silence had settled too deep, turning over thoughts you didn’t want to examine. What if he’d changed his mind? What if he was waiting for you to make the next move? Or worse—what if this was a quiet way of pulling away? Your sanity was wearing thin.

You weighed your options, over and over. If you texted and he didn’t answer, would calling be too much? If you called first and he didn’t pick up, at least you could still send a text after. But would that make you seem desperate?

It took another ten minutes of pacing before you finally pressed the call button, cringing at the way your heart was thundering in your chest. The dial tone felt impossibly loud. One ring. Two. Three—

“Hello?”

And just like that, the breath you hadn’t realised you were holding slipped out of you. “Hi! Oh, um… why are you whispering?” You blurted out the words in a rush, voice pitched higher than you intended.

There was a pause, followed by Viktor’s voice, low and steady, tinged with quiet amusement. “I’m in the middle of a lecture—”

“Oh shit, Viktor, I’m so sorry!” you gasped and started to whisper yourself, as if the class could hear you. You winced, clasped your hand to your forehead and hoped that Viktor didn’t hear the sound of the slap.

“—but I am happy to hear you,” he continued smoothly, the warmth in his tone easing some of the tension gripping your chest. “Let me call you after?”

And he did. And you talked about nonsense until Jayce caught Viktor twirling his hair, hunched over his desk like he was trying to hide.

This was your week—full of insignificant, annoying events that conglomerated into something called life, interrupted by small Viktor moments. And for Viktor, it was small you moments.

And even though a massive weight had been lifted off your chest during that session of helpless sobbing on the couch, nuzzled into Viktor’s neck, you still feel a pang of guilt each time you replay the events of last weekend in your head. It’s hard to pinpoint where it comes from, but it’s ever-present.

Now that it’s Friday, finally, you write it down on a piece of paper filled with bullet points for later this evening. Absolutely convinced you won’t use it, you still write every single invasive thought down—just in case you gather the courage to tell him.

Before leaving, you make a few critical last-minute decisions—hair up or down, skirt or trousers, or a dress? Makeup or none? Take extra underwear, or not tempt fate to make a joke out of you?

You end up in a dress, with no makeup, your hair gathered into a loose updo, and a wishful-thinking extra pair of knickers stuffed into your purse.

You walk to make yourself less giddy. You stop to buy some food for later, glancing nervously at your watch, only to see that you are, in fact, too early. Sitting on a bench to read is futile—you just end up staring at your phone, willing the time to pass.

And when you finally, finally buzz his door, it’s like last time—you are immediately let in, without him checking the intercom. But this time, you almost run to the elevator, jabbing the button over and over for the doors to close and carry you upward. When you step out, Viktor is already waiting by the entrance to his flat, greeting you with a quiet, sweet, “Hi,” as soon as he sees you.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first, not even the breathless hi yourself you’ve prepared. The week of waiting, of uncertainty, of second-guessing every moment—was it real? Was he real? Or was this just a fragile illusion, something too good to hold? The part of you that has spent too long in doubt tugs at your resolve, asking if you’re just imagining the warmth in his voice, the way he’s looking at you like he wants you here.

But then his fingers brush against yours as he plucks the bag from your hand, and the heat of his touch travels up your arm, quieting the noise in your head. The doubts don’t stand a chance once his hands slide up your thighs, wrapping around your waist, anchoring you to him. Your back thuds lightly against the door as he kisses you. You don’t even get a proper look at him before his mouth is on yours, his hand pulling your updo apart, fingers tangling into your hair.

Your palms clutch at his shirt and slide up his neck, pulling him closer. He muffles a quiet ah against your lips when you tug his hair and nip at his lower lip. His hips press into you, your chests flush together, and he breathes in deeply, catching up with your scent—the one he’s been missing for five days.

When he finally pulls away, he says again, “I said hi.”

“Hi yourself,” you reply, smiling sheepishly against him. You brush your thumbs over his beauty marks, and his eyes flutter closed. Your foreheads touch. Viktor looks relieved.

“I missed you,” he says, feeling stupid for admitting it—five days is nothing compared to the six months you spent apart, yet it still felt like agony. “You smell nice,” he adds, nosing at your neck, his lips curling up at the sensation of goosebumps rising under his touch.

“Thank you,” you whisper, dumbfounded by this unfiltered flood of affection. Viktor chuckles, realizing he’s overwhelming you. He moves away, and you would protest—if not for the fact that he’s still holding your hand. You squeeze it tightly, letting him lead you into the kitchen, where you watch him make tea.

“So,” Viktor starts, setting a cup in front of you before taking the seat opposite. “How was your week?”

“I—” Horrible. A blur. A very long blur. Long. Painful. “Painfully long,” you finally huff out with a chuckle, feeling the warmth of a blush creeping up your neck. You lower your gaze to your fidgeting fingers, and soon, in the periphery of your vision, Viktor’s hands creep in, cradling yours across the table.

“And why would that be?” he asks quietly. You don’t have to look up to know his eyes will be hooded and his mouth quirked into a sweet smile.

With a pained sigh, you pull your hands back, stand up, and in a heartbeat, you’re kneeling between his legs, resting your head on his lap, arms wrapping around his hips.

“And whatever is that for?” Viktor giggles, startled by your clinginess, unaware of the quiet, pathetic truth that you feel safest like this—between his legs, wrapped in his warmth. You breathe in the scent of his clothes and whisper, “You smell nice too. I missed you too.”

He places a hand on your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, and you inch your hands toward his belt. Slowly, his palm comes to rest over yours, halting your movement. When you lift your gaze to meet his, Viktor almost melts into a puddle at the sight of you—kneeling at his feet, eyes pleading—but he has to ask, “What is this about?”

“I just really missed you,” you say quietly, fingers twitching at his fly. “May I?”

He studies you for a moment, swipes his thumb over your lips and says a breathless, “Yes,” reinforced with a nod. And then his eyes glue to your fingers undoing his belt and tugging at his pants to slide them down all the way to his ankles, to finally discard them. And then—

Viktor’s breath hitches, but you cannot help yourself. You press your face to his boxers, breathing in his scent and it’s a gesture so full of adoration, he whimpers despite himself. You unroll his waistband and kiss him softly with your mouth open, leaving a slick trail all the way up from his base to the tip. He is still soft, his skin is warm and silky, and he shudders at each and every one of your pecks.

You slide his underwear down and make your way up, starting by kissing his knee, up his inner thigh, to finally take his balls into your mouth and hum at the contact. Viktor’s fingers curl in your hair, his legs straighten out in front of him, head falls back, and he gives out a deep, long moan.

It’s almost crushing to feel so worshipped. You’re being so gentle with him—it reminds him of your first time together. Back when things were easy, full of possibilities. Now, things are a little harder, but the possibilities keep slipping back in, one by one, with each passing minute.

He sags in the chair, eyes glazed, and cheeks reddened when he looks down to you—rubbing your face against his cock with reverence that makes him want to pull you up and kiss you until you can’t breathe. And you hum, and kiss and lick off his pre-cum for the longest time before you give him as much as an actual proper lick to his underside, tracing the prominent vein with the tip of your tongue. And Viktor twitches and writhes under your touch, his cock resting heavily across your face.

When you finally take him into your mouth he shudders, his legs jolt and he scolds himself for acting like he’s being touched for the first time. But after a second, he decides he feels safe enough—to let you touch him like this, to give you this power over him. And as if you catch that split-second hesitation in the way he tastes, you release him with a quiet pop and ask gently, “Is this alright?”

“More than alright,” Viktor slurs, his thumb sweeping over your lip again. The string of drool connecting his cock to your mouth now clings to his hand. He leaves it. “Please, don’t stop,” he adds, a blush creeping beneath his shirt.

With a smile, and God help him, another hum, you take him back in, placing your hand on whatever you can’t fit into your mouth. Viktor sighs, the sensation of being enveloped in warmth flooding over him, when you do something that nearly makes him come on the spot­—your hand flattens at the base of his cock and you push him past your throat, releasing a fresh wave of spit to drip down his length, while you gag, and the sound makes him go insane. He looks down, and oh, there it is—the first tear you shed today as you disconnect from him to catch a breath and stroke him with a slow movement of your wrist.

It’s a small tear that dries out somewhere in the middle of its journey between the corner of your eye and your chin, but it’s there nevertheless and Viktor commits it to memory. So when you kiss his tip again and open your mouth for him, he cradles your face and gives you one, languid roll of his hips. He stops to ask, “Can I?”

Your eyes flutter open, then closed, then open again. You nod, mumbling a sound as close to yes as you can manage with your mouth full, and you hope Viktor won’t retreat because you don’t want to lose the feeling of his hands cradling you and the feeling of his cock pulsing between your lips.

And, oh God, he takes it as it is. And he gives it back to you, with another thrust, careful and slow, his mouth falls open and eyes are fixed on yours. You see the vein in his neck pulsing, and you take your quick breaths through your nose each time he retreats to push back again. His cock keeps hitting the back of your throat, gently, just a touch, just enough to make your thighs clench and your knuckles go white on his thighs.

And you watch him becoming progressively prettier and prettier as sweat pearls up on his forehead and his mouth loses restraint with all the sounds he is giving you. “My good girl,” he keeps whispering. “Fuck, you are so good,” falls out next. “I love you so much, I missed this so much,” is your favourite one and makes your heart jump all the way up to meet the head of his cock in your throat.

He pants out your name, his grip tightening and the last thing that tips him over is when he sweeps your hair away from your neck to gather it in his fist. And he sees them, his own fingertips already yellowing on your skin, a faint memoir of bruises that were once there, from when he had forced you to look him in the eye while you admitted to still loving him.

“Oh, fuck,” is all Viktor can say as he spasms between your lips and spills himself inside and over, even though he wants to tell you how amazing it feels. How amazing you are, how amazing it is to fuck your mouth. How amazing it is that you shed another tear for him and that you swallowed almost all of his cum, and to convey it, he pulls you up just as he wanted earlier.

And you sit across his lap where he is still warm from your touch. And his mouth is on yours, and oh, it’s almost like the first time. The taste of him still lingers heavily on your tongue and he sucks on it with love and care and gratitude, humming and licking into you, caressing your hair and your shoulders. He kisses you like you are worthy of redemption. Finally his head falls into the crook of your neck, skin clings to skin, as he mutters, “Thank you.”

"You taste just as I remember," you say absently, the words bouncing off the shell of Viktor’s ear. Just when he thinks he cannot possibly come undone any further, you take him apart.

"What have I done to deserve this?" Viktor asks weakly, and you huff a quiet laugh at how dramatic he’s being over a blowjob. You take his face in your hands, guiding his gaze to meet yours.

"There are things I have no idea how to tell you. But you deserve this every day," you whisper, resting your forehead against his.

Viktor sits there, dumbfounded, with you perched over his naked lap, foreheads touching, his pants and underwear crumpled in the middle of the kitchen. And as if your thoughts have seeped from your mind into his, understanding dawns.

"Is this your way of repenting?" he asks, trying to catch your gaze.

You say nothing, only scrunch your nose.

"Hey, look at me, please," Viktor says firmly, his fingers tilting your chin up. The warmth of his touch is steady, grounding, but not forceful. His eyes search yours, full of something unknown. "What are you trying to atone for?"

"For… everything," you sigh, pressing yourself down until you sag against him, your body moulding into his like you could dissolve there. The warmth of his skin on yours should be comforting, but it only makes the ache deeper, and you wince at your inability to express yourself.

"And yet, there is nothing," Viktor replies without hesitation. His fingers remain at your chin, keeping your gaze locked to his, as if he won’t allow you to look away, won’t allow you to slip into this spiral.

"Viktor—"

"I do mean it," he interrupts, his voice unwavering. "I do not want any of this. We start anew, sins not forgotten but cleansed. We learn, and we start over. Nothing to repent for."

"But—"

His other hand tightens around your waist, a small squeeze that grounds. "What do you feel?" he asks, softer now, but still insistent. "You have to tell me."

You hesitate. The words feel thick in your throat, soaked in self-doubt. "I—" You inhale sharply, then admit, "I feel shame. Or guilt. Or both, all the same."

"And whatever for?" Viktor presses, patient, his thumb brushing idly over your skin, a subconscious motion of reassurance.

"For how this went before, Viktor," you say, voice strained. "I see it now, and I just can’t—"

His brows pull together in concern, but he doesn’t let you trail off into silence. "What do you need to get over this?" Ever the problem-solver.

You huff out a mirthless chuckle, the sound brittle. "I don’t know. Punishment?" you say, half-joking, half-serious, but the weight in your chest doesn’t lighten. A punishment seems fitting. The insistent heat of tears pricks at your eyes, and you try to blink them away.

"I don’t think you deserve that," Viktor says immediately, voice firm, as if the thought alone is ridiculous. His hand moves to swipe the tear from beneath your eye while he does his best to remain unaffected.

"Hey—" He moves in by an inch, your stuttering breath fanning over his face. "I really don’t," he murmurs, quieter now, more to himself than to you. His grip tightens, like he needs to keep you close to not break. "We’ve changed, and it’s alright. Oh, God," he exhales, as his thumb swipes the tear from your cheek and his expression shifts from worry to adoration in an instant.

Your brows furrow, confused. "What?"

A flicker of hesitation crosses his face. He swallows. "I have my share of shame in me as well, love."

Your stomach twists at the admission. "What? Why?"

He exhales sharply, pressing his forehead to yours. His voice drops lower, as if he is giving away his best-guarded secret. "I… seem to enjoy it when you cry," he admits. "Not in the sense of enjoying your suffering," he clarifies quickly, "but somehow, being cried for, or in front of, makes me feel… loved."

"Oh, Viktor," you whisper and pull away, your hands moving instinctively to cup his face. His skin is warm beneath your touch, the sharp angles of his cheekbones softening under your fingers. "I am doing a terrible job with love confessions if you have to seek confirmation like this," you mumble, a self-deprecating huff of a laugh dancing under your nose.

Viktor shakes his head, pressing his forehead against yours again, unwilling to let you part. "I disagree. I felt just as loved a minute ago." Then he exhales, long and slow. "I think… it’s just a byproduct of everything," he says carefully. "A change." He pauses, then asks, voice softer, "Does it repulse you?"

"Of course not," you answer instantly, faster than a blink. Your thumbs brush over his cheekbones, gentle, reverent. "You could never repulse me."

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, like he’s soaking in your words, like they’re something sacred. When he opens them again, there’s a softness in his gaze that crushes you completely. "The feeling is mutual," he murmurs.

He studies you for a moment longer before speaking again. "So tell me—what do you need to overcome your shame?"

And you hesitate again. It still lingers. Creeps up to coil somewhere around your throat and you can’t possibly bring yourself to say this, can you? The most obvious stupid cliché. Not because of the act itself, but because of the nature of it. Because of the reason for it. You crave to shed it, to start anew, to get all dressed up in your fresh new skin, old one feeling to tight around your bones. But this is Viktor. And of all people, he’s the one you would ask.

So you lean in to whisper your undisclosed desire straight into his ear. "Spank me."

Viktor stills, his mouth falls open, and he covers it with his hand. Not in shock—just to think. He doesn’t let the moment linger, as his brain works fast. He cups your cheeks and sweeps his thumbs under your eyes. Takes a deep breath.

"This is your wish?"

You nod, lowering your gaze and fixing it on the space between you, but Viktor tsks at you. "I will need you to use your words for this and all the way through. Is this what you want, for sure?"

"Yes," you answer, quietly, but audibly enough for Viktor to accept.

"Alright," he says firmly, then smiles and places a kiss on the corner of your mouth, sweet and lingering. "Will you pass me my pants?"

You huff out a laugh but scramble up from his lap, helping him get roughly dressed—underwear left in the kitchen—when he leads you back to the bedroom. And it’s all so very sweet. He leans on you, just like last time. Kisses your cheek and neck all the way through. You manage not to look at the empty spaces this time.

He leads you to the bed, where he sits down, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. Holding your hand, he guides you to sit beside him. Without question, you do, heart all the way up in your throat.

"Alright, let’s go over this, yes?" Viktor states, as if this is a project. Safety rules, roadmap, scientific approach. He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze and smiles softly. "I will check how you are doing constantly. If you tell me to stop, I stop immediately. If, for whatever reason, you don’t feel like you can tell me, you tap my thigh three times. If you don’t like it, we never do this again. If you do, we will explore. What do you think?"

"You don’t think it’s weird?" Do you think I’m weird is truly what gnaws at you, but you can’t bring yourself to ask it. You just look at him, waiting, excited and scared.

"Of course not. Peculiar, at best," Viktor smiles again and places a flurry of kisses on your face. "Do you wish to continue?"

"Yes," you answer with more confidence now.

"Then lay across my lap, please," he says, leaning back, hands still on you—grounding and reassuring.

Air gets momentarily knocked out of your lungs when your belly presses across Viktor’s thighs. He runs a hand down your spine, finding himself strangely excited about this. The trust he asked you for last week now lay splayed across his knees—he couldn’t help but think. All he has to do is indulge you.

His hand slides down, cradling your ass. He lifts the skirt of your dress, draping it over your lower back, and runs his fingers under the hem of your underwear. Gently, soothing you with soft sounds as he does, he pulls your knickers down to your knees. Your face burns, heat prickling across your skin in goosebumps with every touch—nails grazing over the inside of your knee, up your thighs, stopping at your core. He palms your naked skin and hums once he realises you are wet.

“Good,” he murmurs, playing between your legs for a while. Your mouth parts and eyes close, while you give him quiet gasps. He spreads the wetness onto your ass cheeks and cradles your bum one last time before starting. And then, without warning, the first slap lands—firm, of medium strength—but still, you yelp in surprise.

The sensation is alien—it both hurts and doesn’t. With the mild pain comes something else, something fleeting, but you can’t quite grasp what it is. Warmth spreads across your skin, and you dig your fingers into Viktor’s thigh.

Viktor, however, receives something entirely different. Nothing flees him—something grows. Both between his legs and in his chest. He has to take a second before he asks, “How was that?”

“Good,” you reply immediately.

So he continues. Another slap echoes through the room, and Viktor watches as the imprint of his hand whitens against your skin before dissolving into pink a second later. How pretty it looks. He checks in with you again. And again, you encourage him.

Slowly, slap after slap, each one interrupted by Viktor’s questions, you feel lighter, warmer. A strange feeling of relief washes over you. At some point, your skin begins to sting, and even that is welcome. Your mouth loses restraint, and you moan each time Viktor’s palm connects with your ass. Your back arches, ribs pressing into his legs, and you feel a drop of slick rolling down your inner thigh.

So debauched. So pretty, Viktor thinks.

He can’t help himself and runs his fingers down between your legs. Gasps at the wetness pooling there. “More?” He asks, voice breathy, eyes completely transfixed on your reddened skin and he almost drools at the sight. All his doing. His hand did this. This, and the drenched state of your cunt, it’s all him.

“More,” you say weakly. The burn feels good. You feel the doubt seeping out with the warmth radiating from your skin. With each touch, something inside you feels lighter. Bigger. Like there is more of you and less of whatever had been gnawing at you.

Viktor gives you three more slaps, and when your thighs quiver with the last one, his hand comes to rest at the base of your spine. “How is that?” he asks, admiration seeping into his voice.

“I think it’s enough,” you reply in a small voice. His hand returns to your bum, a gentle caress spreading from the tops of your thighs to your hips. Slowly, you rise from his lap, only to straddle him and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” you breathe into his skin. Viktor pulls you close, inhaling deeply through his nose.

“Thank you,” he murmurs in return. “Please, lie down on your stomach. I’ll be right back.”

You blink in quiet question but obey. Crawling onto the bed, you curl up on your side, fingers ghosting over the heat still lingering beneath your dress. When Viktor returns, the soft tap of his cane against the floor announces him, and you wonder how he got all the way to the kitchen without it.

“I said on your stomach,” he says gently, placing a hand at the small of your back. You roll over, propping your head on your crossed arms.

“Good girl,” he coos before exposing your reddened ass. The mattress dips on each side of your knees and once again you feel Viktor’s hands on you. Soft, gentle. Callouses gliding over your tired skin with care and love. He presses his face against your cheeks, holding them firmly, hums in appreciation, making your toes curl and your back arch, belly pressing into the bed. Then his mouth joins, as he licks you with a flat tongue. Lips grazing over you, the trail of open mouth kisses spreading all the way from the crease of your ass to the small of your back. You press yourself into him and bury your nose in the sheets, trying to muffle your whimpers.

 And then comes the coolness pressing against you, making you wince at the first touch. A cold compress.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Viktor whispers. His free hand comes to thread gently through your hair. You feel safe. Whole. That sense of belonging blooms within you again—stronger this time—and you are so, so glad it’s with Viktor. You sigh and close your eyes.

He lies beside you, his hand running up and down your spine. When you blink, your eyes meet. “How are you feeling?” he asks, and he looks so in love your heart is about to burst.

“Very good,” you say quietly, offering him an honest smile. You turn onto your side to face him, the compress slipping off. “Better. Empty and whole at the same time,” you murmur against his mouth, kissing him with reverence. “You?”

Viktor thinks for a second before answering. "Knowing you trust me enough to let go like this makes me feel irreplaceable," he says finally, and you are left speechless. Because he is. And it feels great that he knows.

“It’s all very new, isn’t it?” you ask finally, and Viktor gazes at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“No,” he murmurs, pulling you closer, your name falling softly from his mouth. “Nothing’s new. It’s still love.”

You nuzzle against his neck and sigh, your eyelashes tickling his skin. The last question gnawing at you slips past your lips before you can catch it.

“Do you hate me less now?”

Viktor scoffs, outright appalled. He pulls you back by the neck, forcing you to look at him, his eyes full of intent as he replies simply, “No.”

Your heart beats only once before stopping entirely. Then Viktor’s expression softens, and he speaks again.

“I never hated you. If anything, I only love you more.”

And your heart resumes beating—hard and erratic. You wrap yourself around him, letting out a shuddering breath. “God, how can this be so good now when we’ve fucked up so badly?”

Viktor picks up what you’ve put down. “Change is inevitable. Sometimes abrupt. Maybe this is where we were supposed to be to get here, miláčku.”

Oh, God. There it is again—dragged up from the pit you were hoping to forget. The one thing that once felt most dear, a treasure Viktor gave freely, only to let it slip into someone else’s hands. Now it’s tarnished, dulled with grime. It doesn’t sound sweet anymore. It tastes bitter, feels wrong. Feels like it doesn’t belong to you.

Your heart drops again. Your voice shrinks to almost nothing as you push him away and plead weakly, “Please, don’t call me that again.” Tears are already pricking at your eyes, and you wonder when you became so quick to cry.

“Wha—Why?” Viktor chuckles, trying to wrap his arms back around you, but you keep your distance, splaying your palms flat against his chest in quiet defiance. And then he sees it.

“Oh, darling. It never happened, I promise you. The note, I—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, as if you don’t already know. Your brows knit together, a tear clinging to your lashes. “It was on the note,” you try again, your voice frail with disbelief. Your lips press into a tight line, and Viktor looks so remorseful that you fear what’s coming next.

“It was on the note,” he says carefully, “because I was fully lying to you.”

It’s so quiet you almost don’t hear him. Your eyes flick between his eyes and his lips, your mouth parting—but nothing comes out. A couple of imaginary pins drop on the floor, the sound echoes in your head.

And then a sob slips through as you blink rapidly, trying to hold back the tears. “No. Viktor, I thought—”

“I’m so sorry.” He tries to cradle you, but you resist. “I knew it was horribly wrong as soon as I saw you that day. I regretted it in an instant, and oh,” he murmurs, pulling you against his chest. He holds you tight through this last, stupid display of jealousy, doing his best to reassure you.

“I would never. I would never call anyone else that. You are the only one, I promise. It’s all yours. Please forgive me. Miláčku, please forgive me,” he pleads, pressing his face into your hair, into the crook of your neck.

You don’t respond—not with words, not yet. Your breath is shaky against his collarbone, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto. His heart hammers against your ear. You know he’s afraid.

Viktor shifts, pressing a kiss to your temple, lingering like he’s willing you to believe him through touch alone. His hand cradles the back of your head, his thumb brushing small, rhythmic circles at your nape.

“Please,” he whispers again, softer now, like he’s running out of words, running out of ways to reach you. “I promise it’s yours. Forever.”

“How do you know it’s forever?” you ask, voice hollowed out. That would be a gift too good to be true. Yet. You dare to have your hopes up.

Viktor winces. Your body grows pliant against him. He hooks his leg over your hip bone and nestles you close, his arm wrapping under your waist, his palm resting between your shoulder blades. His other hand cradles your cheek, his face inching closer. Your noses press together, and when Viktor speaks his quiet truth, your lips brush.

“Because loving you isn’t a feeling that fleets,” he murmurs, pouring the words into you. “It’s a condition. And I will carry it with me always, no matter what happens between us.”

Your breath hitches, and you shudder. You squeeze your eyes shut, searching for something—anything—to say. But instead, you press your salty lips to his, not in a kiss, just a press. Just to steal a breath from him.

“Come back to me,” he coaxes, his knuckles paling against your skin. “Miláčku, come back to me.”

And Viktor doesn’t really believe in any higher form of consciousness controlling the universe. The only thing he believes in is the void, that we scream into like an echo chamber, questions bouncing back to anyone who’s asking. That we only get one life and have to make the very best of it. He doesn’t believe in God, that he has called upon too many times already in the spirit of figurative speech. But if there was one thing he would pray for, it would be this.

To tether himself to you, bind himself to something real, something beyond the desperate loneliness he’s learned to live with before he’s met you. He’s been waiting and waiting for this love to fleet, and it never fucking did, no matter how hard he’s been trying to squeeze it out of himself. So, instead of praying, he offers himself to you, tries to prove in the only way he knows how that he is yours, that he will always be yours—with his needy hands that chased away your shame, with his loving eyes so honest they pierce right through you, with his hot mouth that needs, needs, needs to suck on you so his lungs could expand, and his heart could beat.

And as if gears slowly begin grinding against each other in your head, you give it all back. You kiss him—deep and messy, snot mingling with drool. Viktor sighs in relief, the taste of your tears on his tongue sealing something unspoken between you. He murmurs sweet things between breaths, hands tangling in your hair, legs hooking you closer. And he needs, needs, needs to show you how much he wants you to come back. How nothing else could ever compare. How the thought of anything else is harrowing and empty.

“So we start over,” you slice through his thoughts, stating more to yourself than to him, as if the matter has nestled in your head securely only just now.

Viktor nods brushing his nose against yours and whispers a quiet, “Yes.”

“Yes,” he says again as his shaky fingers begin to unbutton your dress. “Yes,” he breathes when his thumbs brush under your breasts and palms twitch to cup them. “Yes,” comes another murmur when his tongue meets your skin, tits squeezed together so he can lick between them, and then a moan escapes him as you slide your hands to the nape of his neck and tug at the short hair there.

Your back arches, excited and willing when the sensation of his tongue on you mingles with the sounds he makes echoing in your mind, and you breathe out a needy plea, “Do it again.”

Viktor cocks a brow, hums into your skin as he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, and asks a playful muffled, “Which one?"

“Oh, God, both,” you whine, squeezing your eyes shut and buck your hips against thin air, Viktor’s knee too far for you to reach. Your fingers pull at the base of his skull, and Viktor chuckles, a flush creeping up his body underneath the layers of clothing when he sinks his mouth into your breast and obeys—letting out a quiet, wrecked, “Oh, fuck,” somewhere around your heart.

His thigh finally, finally, comes to your salvation, sneaking between your legs and pressing on your core with a quiet obscene squelch. The thought of a wet stain he will get to see there makes his cock twitch painfully against the half-assed job you did of buttoning up his trousers earlier on. You breath grows short as you rub yourself on him and when a stuttered whimper escapes your mouth, Viktor huffs, “Please, do it again,” through a sharp exhale.

You tug at his hair, forcing him to look at you. "Give me a reason," you whisper in a strangled breath.

Clearly, you have no idea what you’re asking for. The cry that escapes you when his knee retreats is, to say the least, embarrassing. The sound transforms into a quiet gasp, when his hands leave your chest, one finger slides through your slit and Viktor hums, so, so pleased with you, “Baby, look how wet you are.”

“So wet for me, my girl,” he coos, and he sounds almost too grateful as his lips come back to kiss you, and a gush of cold air fans over your nipples. He palms your sickly heat, grinding the heel of his hand against your clit and you blink rapidly as your eyes roll back in your skull. Your hands fumble blindly to unbutton his shirt in a need press yourself flush against him.

And you do a very poor job, jolting and pulling at his buttons whenever Viktor’s hand parts you and his fingers tease your entrance, so his other hand comes to help you, undoing what you can’t with an ease that has you huffing. It’s annoying that he can do two things at once, while you clearly cannot. Your sulking doesn’t last very long, because as soon as his naked chest is free to be roamed, you leech yourself to his collarbone and suck a red glaring love mark into it.

Yours. All yours.

And Viktor slips, figuratively and literally, as his head instinctively falls back to grant you full access to his neck and his two fingers push inside you, where you are so, so hot it almost burns him. As if the mark on his neck wasn’t red enough, you bite on it, trying to muffle a groan. Viktor has nothing to muffle his groan on, so you can feel it crawling up his throat and vibrating under your lips.

When his fingers push in further, the only gesture you can muster is to hook your hands over the waistband of his trousers, mouth choking on his neck. You pull his pants down and he hisses as the material hooks over his cock before it springs back to slap heavily against his lower abdomen. You try to distract yourself by sliding your palms flat up and down the slope of his sharp hips, but it’s futile once Viktor buries his fingers knuckle deep and curls them brushing the sensitive spot within you. He twitches as you moan. Precum leaks out of his slit. No thoughts cross your head, only impressions. Only want and need.

You can’t decide which one it is—want or need—when your fingers wrap around his length and rub whatever weeps at the tip all over the head. He’s silky and heavy in your hand as you trace your favourite vein with the tip of your finger.

“Oh, God,” Viktor whimpers to the imaginary being again, pumping you with a stuttering rhythm of his wrist. Feeling every crevice of your cunt, he pulls you in for a kiss and you no longer know where he ends, and you begin. Attached by the mouth, his hand deep inside you, your needy wanting hands on him, just drawing gasps and moans from each other.

He has to retreat to pull his pants further down and has an audacity to chuckle when you whine in protest. His hand leaves you drawing a wet sound and your thighs fall back together with a sticky smack. “So impatient,” he hums, while doing a shitty job of undressing himself, kicking off one leg of his pants, while the other still entangles around his calf. He hooks his freed leg over your hip, takes his cock from you and aligns it at your entrance. You are completely wrapped around each other—leg pressing on leg, arms hooked around necks, fingers adding to already damp hair.

“Do you want me?” he asks, pressing his cock against your clit, hard. You tie up into thousands of knots, trying to suck him in by the force of your sheer will when you see the question is honest. He really wants to know. Eyes pensive, hooded, mouth parted. So you kiss this mouth, bite his lips until he hisses and breathe into him, “I want you, fuck, I want you.”

A silent moan rips through him, as he enters you, inch after painful inch until you can feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his cock against your walls. At this point you are just clashing mouths and teeth in something that once was a kiss. He fills more of you than was empty as you lose control of the clenching and unclenching of your own muscles. A quiet ah falling from him dies in the sound of a slap as your hips slot together.

He stills for a moment, buried deep, and you swear you can feel his pulse inside you, thrumming in time with your own. Chest to chest, forehead to forehead, he exhales heavily through his nose, his grip on you tightening. And then he moves.

Your mouth falls open so wide your jaw aches, breaths intermingle, brows knit together. Viktor's hands anchor around your ass as he thrusts into you, slow and deep, each movement pounding the shape of his cock into your core. You arch against him, offering yourself, giving him everything you have. Your fingers twist in his hair, and the moment you tug, he groans—a low, breathy sound that coils something filthy at the base of your spine as your skin slaps against his.

And Viktor feels himself melting against your lips, inside you, as your walls squeeze tighter and tighter around him. He loses control of his hands—they just roam, fisting at your dress, kneading the soft flesh of your thighs as he sinks deeper, hitting a spot that has you gasping hiccupped breaths straight into his mouth. He pants, struggling not to be the one who falls first, trying not to look, not to think about your clumped eyelashes, the tears that he is fucking out of you. He tries not to think about how every slap of his hips against yours must echo across your poor ass, how pleasure and pain must be bleeding together inside you.

But it just feels so fucking good for you. Every roll of his hips is a reminder of how his fingers sank into your skin not long ago, heat pouring out of you in waves. You don’t move anymore—it’s only Viktor’s sloppy, determined thrusts guiding you toward the edge. You cross your eyes to focus on his parted lips, the beauty marks dusting his cheek and lip, and when his breath fans over your face, you let your lashes flutter closed, surrendering to it. Letting it build, slow and aching, every deep stroke tightening the coil inside you until you’re cramping around him.

“Fuck,” Viktor pants as you curl into him, whining his name into the crook of his neck, fighting the urge to bite down on his tendon. Your thighs squeeze tight around him, and your cunt grips him like a vice, milking him as you finally break apart. You spasm and clench around him, neck wrenched and jaw tight as you try to catch a breath through your silent shout and it’s almost impossible for Viktor to move in the tightness you’ve created. His sweat drips onto your cheeks, and, at last, he can stop holding back.

He curls his arms around you and rolls you over, pressing you down with his weight. Adding gravity to every snap of his hips, his stomach cramps more and more with each desperate thrust as he fucks you through the aftershocks, chasing his own undoing. His mouth hangs open against yours when he holds you tight enough for his fingertips to whiten, bruises already threatening to bloom where he grips. “I’m so close,” he whispers on a breath, and you thought it impossible, but you clench even tighter at the sound of his strained voice. And when he cums, it’s with a wrenched-out grunt, his head buried in your neck, his body trembling against you.

A few stuttering jolts of his hips, spilling his seed deep inside you, and the sensation of being filled, of being utterly his, has you moaning one last time, spent and breathless. Eyes unseeing, mouth touching mouth when he falls on top of you and just stays.

And then, nothing, for a moment, only your damp stomachs rising and falling against each other.

Until Viktor is the one to move first. He pulls out, his cum spilling from you onto the sheets with a wet spurt, and rolls onto his back, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. A shuddery breath escapes him as he presses a hand to his chest.

“Viktor?” you say softly, gliding an open palm over his stomach.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what—” he croaks, then pulls you in, guiding your head to rest against his chest. His heart pounds beneath your ear, his breath uneven, and when you lift your chin to look at him, you catch the glistening trail of a tear slipping down his cheek, barely visible.

And Viktor has no idea what came over him. He has no idea whether this is a stupid way of paying back his debt to you or is it just a surge of affection that he cannot hold in, but it feels strangely freeing to pour all this fear into a wet breath. Or maybe his fucked out brain just can’t keep up with the bliss, he doesn’t know.

Gently, you tug his arm away from his face, nuzzling into him as you whisper, “It’s okay. You’re okay.” You press a soft kiss to his lips, and he exhales shakily, like he’s been holding something in for far too long. And to come undone like this is completely unlike for Viktor. You are fairly sure you’ve never seen him cry before, though you’ve heard the legends. And now they all come true, before your very eyes and even though you feel nothing close to arousal watching him spill his emotions over, the feeling you do have in your chest is about to make it burst, nevertheless.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, kissing you back through an embarrassed chuckle. “I guess something is new after all.”

“Don’t apologize, please,” you whisper, nuzzling your nose into the hollow of his cheek. “I love this.”

Viktor offers a smile and a squeeze to your neck. Wordlessly, you fall into each other, arms tightening, bodies entwining. The roam of your hands slowly dying to settle on each other’s hollows. The scent of sweat and warmth heavy between you, intermingling, blending—just as you do.

And even though all of this looks hurried and disorganised—your dress half undone, his pants tangled around one leg, brace slid down from his knee, shirt twisted around him, cold compress melting away, dampening his sheets—it feels right. And as you rest against him, your heart slowing in tandem with his, you think of how this is both familiar and new. How you’ve shed the bad and kept the good. How it’s all very fucking new and exciting and frightening, but it’s good, because it’s with Viktor.

At some point, the sun has set as you both drift into sleep. Heavy breaths, calm, bodies still half-clothed. Your dress has rolled all the way up, exposing your lower half, and Viktor, with sleep-ridden hands, pulls it down before throwing a blanket over you both. No dreams interrupt you, only the damp cloister of your shared aftermath.

He’s closed his eyes a second ago, and when he opens them again, the night has turned into a blue morning. No sun yet, but the dark already pales. Carefully, he shuffles from between your legs, pressing the soles of his feet to the wooden floor, blindly reaching for his cane. Then, takes a long breath. His knee is aching—a faint, but present feeling. Slightly annoying. Managable.

He discards his pants to the floor, the outline of the fly buttons pressed into the skin of his calf after clinging to it the whole night. He glances over his shoulder—you, fast asleep, hair clumped into a tangled mess spilling over his pillow. Mouth open, soft breaths coming in and out, the faintest sound nestling in his mind. His hand hovers over your cheek as he dusts away a stray eyelash. Moments pass as he just looks.

Quietly, he stands and expands himself into a slow stretch. Breathes out long and heavy. Then, half-naked, walks toward the kitchen. And there—his underwear on the floor. Two cups resting on the table. He puts his cup in the sink and reaches for yours—half-drunk tea, a once-wet, now dried-out ring left behind. He smiles.

Nothing’s new, comes the thought.

He drinks your cold tea and puts the kettle on.

[whizzing-fizzbee]

I Remember

Sebastian Sallow x GN!Reader

Rating: General (death, mild violence) Words: 5,339 Tags: G/N reader, G/N MC, angst, grief, mourning, death, love, hurt no comfort, heartbreak, sad Sebastian Sallow

Summary: You died during your seventh year at Hogwarts before you could tell your best friend, Sebastian Sallow, how much you loved him. But when he discovers a box of your pensieve memories, he learns the comforting, yet cruel truth.

Notes: This is a little different from my usual smutty crackfics. So enjoy a bit of angst and have no fear, I’ll be back with more of my usual work soon.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Sebastian Sallow hadn’t been a fan of birthdays in years. He shared his own with a twin sister who no longer cared to speak to him. Their parents hadn’t been alive to celebrate with them in ten years, and now, you – the only person he ever loved romantically – were also gone.

Now, people couldn’t help but whisper and wonder if death favored poor Sebastian Sallow.

Life had been far too cruel to Sebastian for him to care about something as flippant as his seventeenth birthday – especially when it was the first birthday he’d spend without you.

Sebastian never told you how he felt. He could never quite find the words or the right time. A teenage boy plagued by so many misfortunes couldn’t be expected to understand such love anyway. All he knew was his eyes constantly searched for you in every room. He knew he craved lapsang souchong tea, because that’s what you drank – bold and smoky, just like you. And he knew that he would have died for you, without question, if he’d only been a little faster.

It happened three months ago, though it replayed in Sebastian’s mind with such frequency and clarity, it could have happened three days ago, for all he knew. 

The two of you had ventured into the Scottish Highlands in search of dittany leaves for a potion. It had been a soft, serene morning punctuated by a mild breeze and the maternal kind of sunshine that embraced you with warmth, offering no inclination you’d endure your demise that day.

After all, you’d eliminated Ranrok and his loyalists. You’d saved Hogwarts – and wizardkind – all while helping the Keepers preserve the secret of your ancient magic in the repository. Your biggest fears these days were Potions exams and Imelda Reyes’ taxing quidditch practices.

But poachers and Ashwinders remained, operating under new unscrupulous undertakings. You knew that – you eliminated them whenever you encountered them – but you hadn’t expected them to be camped outside of Keenbridge that day.

You and Sebastian laughed and joked, unaware that those three Ashwinders were very aware of your presence. So while the two of you cackled about Puffskein Duncan’s hideous new haircut, those Ashwinders were watching. They observed as you gathered your potion ingredients and stashed them inside your bag. They saw the way you tried to shove Sebastian in a creek when he teased you. They noticed the way Sebastian’s eyes lingered on you as you drank from a canteen you’d nicked from Gladwin Moon.

But they didn’t care. And then they struck. 

They ambushed you both when your guards were down, your eyes too busy clinging to each other and your thoughts too consumed by your pounding hearts.

An Incarcerous spell struck Sebastian first, whipping ropes around his hands and feet so that he fell at your side. You knelt to help him, shielding you both with Protego until you managed to hit one Ashwinder with a stunning spell. 

Another Ashwinder drove you backward with a slew of spell combinations, leaving Sebastian bound and helpless in the grass. He writhed and jerked in desperation. You took the second Ashwinder on, your eyes shifting between her and Sebastian. And when you saw the third Ashwinder approaching him, you lost all regard for anything but him. 

“Expelliarmus!” you shouted as you disarmed the third Ashwinder. You sent another cast at Sebastian, freeing him from his bindings so that he could scramble to his feet. You caught his gaze, admired those deep brown eyes, and he smirked at you. The two of you had been in similar scenarios more times than you could remember. And you always walked away unscathed.

And then, the explosion sent you backward. The Ashwinder you had been fighting seized that opportunity when you were lost in Sebastian and sent you flying off your feet until you toppled over the edge of a cliff.

You fell and fell, a slow-motion stage exit to the grand production of your short life. It was quite a letdown of a finale. Surely someone with experience like yours would die in a much more grandiose manner than a few lowly Ashwinders.

The last thing you heard was Sebastian’s scream before your body returned to the earth. Your soul never did, though.

So while Sebastian managed to escape those Ashwinders with his life, he walked away from that day drained of his will to continue surviving.

He’d lost nearly every person close to him. It made him question everything – his purpose, his resolve, and every choice that had led to so many devastating conclusions.

He had to be the one to apparate back to the Hogwarts grounds with your body. He could still hear the whispers – then the screams – as your fellow students realized what had happened. He sat through your funeral while Headmaster Black prattled on some performative prose about how wonderful you were. Then he clung to a corner of the Slytherin Common Room while your housemates drifted past, mumbling their condolences. 

And then, whatever spell had been placed on the world was lifted. Hogwarts was no longer frozen in time. Your classmates returned to their studies and professors went about their lessons. The morose hallways reignited with their old energy, ringing with jubilant chatter. Even the weather moved on, its summer blossoms and laughing waters wilting amid a cold cast of clouds and decay.

Life carried on for everyone but Sebastian. He remained there with you, rooted to the spot in time where he watched your spirited life reach its screeching halt. While everyone else drifted forward, Sebastian lingered in place, searching for you in every new moment while the old ones anchored him to his anguish. 

It had become a canon event in Sebastian’s life, a familiar foe he couldn’t outrun. He lost someone he loved, the world felt sorry for him, and then it moved on. It left Sebastian lonely and isolated, smothered by a grief few others could comprehend. Hogwarts had been his home for years, but your absence made him homesick.

That’s why no one blamed Sebastian for hating his birthday today. No one even dared to approach him, except Ominis in the morning. He urged Sebastian to eat but left when he was met with a cool response. It made no difference. Sebastian had mastered the art of saying words he didn't believe, even if Ominis saw right through them. Instead of attending classes, Sebastian retreated to the Undercroft.

The dark, damp dungeon missed you desperately. When Sebastian first introduced you to the space, you had insisted on tidying it up. You used scrubbing spells to clean the surfaces and fire spells to clear the cobwebs; then you used Professor Weasley’s conjuration spells to add furniture and desks. You even placed thoughtful little trinkets to a tabletop, a touch that reflected your desire to add warmth and comfort wherever you went.

But now, the Undercroft was achingly empty in your absence. Though the traces of your previous presence lingered, the room’s creaks and groans seemed to whimper for your return. The surfaces had collected dust and the floors were dingy again, desperate to be disrupted by your tread. The braziers were dimmer, begging for a blast of your fiery existence. 

Sebastian hated that room now. It was once his recluse; his safe space meant only for him and the three people he cared about. But now that your handprints were all over it, it was lacking the life you had once breathed into it. 

Sebastian left the Undercroft and ascended the Astronomy Tower. When the Room of Requirement appeared for him, he strode right in. It would provide him with whatever it was he needed.

He visited your room often, simply to stand and feel its pulse. You were everywhere. And unlike the Undercroft, you lingered with life here. Sometimes, Sebastian sat on a sofa in the side room until he dozed off. Other times, he’d venture into the vivariums to check on its inhabitants. Most times, he merely felt ; the room seemed to know Sebastian wanted to remember you, and it often hummed with a calm, quiet murmur reminiscent of your soothing tone.

Today, the room seemed to know Sebastian was in need of a birthday gift. As he wandered toward the side room, his eyes scanning the bookshelves you’d filled with your – and Sebastian’s – favorite novels, his eyes fell on a trunk. He had never noticed it before. 

Sebastian frowned and eyed the trunk’s lid. There was no lock on it. 

After you died, your friends had been careful with your belongings. Sebastian kept everything of sentimental value in a trunk of his own, from your school robes to the notebooks containing your scribbles about ancient magic. Everything that mattered to you was in his care now, so it struck him as odd that there’d be a secret trunk in your Room of Requirement.

Sebastian swallowed, unsure of what he would find as he kneeled over the trunk and waved his wand. The lid clicked open and he lifted it, revealing some old clothes. Sebastian blinked. It all seemed rather anticlimactic. But as he lifted an old sweater from the top of the pile, he stilled.

The familiar S.S. initials were embroidered across the left breast. He had wondered what happened to this sweater and assumed it was lost in the laundry ages ago. Beneath it, was a scarf. His school scarf. 

At the very bottom of the trunk was a package – a small box wrapped in brown paper with your familiar scrawl in ink. You had written his name across the top.

Sebastian stared at it, as if lifting it from the trunk would shift the paradigm of his universe. But curiosity was Sebastian’s Achilles, and he soon found himself setting his old clothes aside for the package.

He brushed dust from the top of the wrapped box, his fingers tracing over his own name as if the ink you’d left would leech into his fingertips, absorbing you with it.

He treated the paper with the utmost care, peeling it slowly away from the box to ensure it wouldn’t tear. It revealed an old wooden box, unremarkable and unassuming. Sebastian turned it over carefully, the sounds of delicate glass tinkling from inside. Once he confirmed there were no markings or inscriptions on the box, he flipped it back over and snapped the top open.

Inside was a folded sheet of old parchment and a set of tiny glass vials, each filled with clear liquid. Dust clung to the vials, leaving Sebastian’s fingers dingy as he examined each one for clues revealing their contents. Each cylinder was labeled with a date so small, Sebastian had to squint to see them.

He set the box on the floor next to the trunk and carefully unfolded the old parchment with both hands. Again, your familiar handwriting revealed itself.

Dear Sebastian,

Happy birthday! Please view these pensieve memories on your own time, in private. You’ll understand once you see them. Then come find me when you feel the time is right, no pressure. 

Love always, Your kindred spirit

Sebastian smiled. Your voice echoed in his mind and ears, like you were reading the letter aloud right next to him. He hadn’t smiled at the memory of you since you died.

Instead, his grief had crawled into every crevice of his brain and body, constricting him into a body bind of immobilizing heartache. It clamped down on his veins and arteries and cut off his blood supply. His brain screamed for some semblance of life. It left his nerve endings void of all sensation and pooled in the pit of his stomach, an omnipresent offering of torment and guilt.

Sebastian scrambled to his feet, cradling the box in his arm as if it contained the most important secrets in the world. To him, it did.

He scurried from the Room of Requirement and retreated back to the Undercroft, now grateful for its quiet seclusion. He set the box carefully on a table and sorted through each vial until he found the one with the earliest date.

After he uncorked it, his hand shook as it hovered above the pensieve. Its swirling liquid seemed to beckon him, pleading for memories to resurrect it back to life. But Sebastian hesitated, fearful for what lay on the other side of this moment.

He trusted you more than anyone, but you clearly had meant for these memories to remain a secret until the right moment. Sebastian was sure you’d packaged them up under the assumption you’d be alive for his birthday. What if your death had changed everything and these memories were supposed to die with you?

The last thing Sebastian wanted was to betray or dishonor you. Your life had been so full of intention – from your determination to stop Ranrok to your sincere endeavors to help cure Anne’s curse. Sebastian wanted to preserve your memory with love and admiration. But these were his memories now. You’d wanted to share them with him and he would honor that, no matter their contents, no matter the cost.

Sebastian tipped the vial and watched a single drop ripple across the pensieve’s surface. It glimmered and swirled, stirring wispy trails in its gentle wakes. Sebastian didn’t wait to plunge his face in.

More smoke swept past him and he hurtled straight into the Slytherin Common Room. He immediately spotted himself, pacing in front of the fireplace with his nose in a book. He recognized this moment better than his own wand. 

And then you appeared. You paused behind the sofa and watched Sebastian curiously. He had never noticed that. Your eyes studied him until he finally looked up from his book.

Sebastian had to watch himself meet you for the first time all over again. It tugged at his heartstrings, twisting and tightening them inside his chest. You were right there, mere feet from him, but he couldn’t reach out and touch you.

He watched as you introduced yourself and smiled as you inquired about his book. He told you not every useful spell could be found in assigned textbooks, to which you expressed your intrigue. And that was when Sebastian declared you kindred spirits; the phrase that would connect the two of you by an unseen thread for life.

Sebastian was uncertain why you chose to return him to this particular memory. He remembered it far too fondly to need a refresher. But as he watched your first meeting come to an end, he noticed as you walked away and paused to turn, your gaze lingering on his form long after he had returned his attention to his book. 

He hadn’t known that happened.

The memory ended and thrust him back to the Undercroft, where Sebastian stilled to process your replay of your first meeting. What was he meant to take away from such a simple moment? Of course, the events that followed had been anything but simple. You became the most complex person to ever enter Sebastian’s life.

He fumbled quickly through the remaining vials for the next and wasted no time tapping another drop into the pensieve. This memory seemed to shimmer and sparkle as it dispersed across the pensieve’s cloudy waters. Sebastian drew a breath and dipped his head.

This one was clearly Christmastime. You, Sebastian and Ominis were cozied up in the common room. You were seated between the two boys on the sofa, a blanket thrown across your lap while you clutched a mug of cocoa in your hand. Ominis looked relaxed, a rare change from his typical poise. Sebastian slouched lazily in his seat, a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans in his lap. The fire crackled as you laughed at one of Ominis’ dry remarks, though your eyes were on Sebastian.

He watched as you smiled at his pensieve form, warmth radiating from your gaze. Your lips curved as you teased him about his tousled hair, to which he became indignant and tossed a jelly bean at you. You squealed and nearly splashed your cocoa on Ominis, who squawked in displeasure.

You picked up the jelly bean and chucked it back at Sebastian, who caught it and popped it in his mouth before his features contorted in disgust.

“I think that one was dirt-flavored,” he whined. 

“Good, serves you right,” you declared happily. Sebastian’s pensieve version reached toward you to give your hair a sharp, playful tug. You swatted his hand away and laughed wildly, all while Ominis chided you and Sebastian for making a mess.

It was another moment Sebastian had committed to his own reserve of memories with clarity and fondness. But again, your version was different. 

This time, he noticed the way you noticed him. Your eyes never left him, even when Ominis spoke. You leaned closer to him, your body nearly touching his when you teased him. And then there was the moment your hands brushed – completely innocuous – but Sebastian noticed the way your breath hitched and your cheeks flushed. His did the same.

He watched as Ominis yawned and declared it was time for bed. Your mutual friend said goodnight and disappeared toward the boys’ dormitories, leaving you and Sebastian’s pensieve form in each other’s company.

The pair sat and talked quietly, an occasional giggle interrupting your murmurs, until the fire waned to soft embers and you dozed off on his shoulder. That was one of Sebastian’s favorite memories.

But he remembered the subtle smell of your hair, the warmth of your body and the soft breaths that sighed from your lips during your slumber. He didn’t remember what happened once he fell asleep.

And so he watched as the memory shifted like a leap in time, and then you stirred, likely in the middle of the night. You lifted your head and peered upward at Sebastian, smiling as you watched him sleep. Your chest swelled and eyes softened until you gently returned your head to his shoulder until the morning.

As the memory came to a close, Sebastian began to wonder. What were you trying to tell him? What did those stolen glances and secret smiles mean? 

The third memory surged inside the pensieve when the liquid met the surface. This one stirred a storm of dark and volatile streaks, which made Sebastian scared to see its contents. But once again, he dipped his head with bated breath.

He recognized the Feldcroft catacomb immediately. And in a sudden rush, he watched himself sprint past, toward the exit. Sebastian couldn’t forget this moment if he tried – and he often did.

“Sebastian!” you cried as you jogged into view. Tears streamed down your cheeks and your face was bleeding from your fight with Solomon. You begged Sebastian to stop, but he was far too gone – in every sense of the phrase – to even acknowledge you.

Shame surged through Sebastian as he relived one of the worst moments of his life. He followed after you as you pleaded with his pensieve version to wait until you eventually stopped calling his name.

But when you reached the exit, the memory shifted and Sebastian was thrust to your dormitory. This scene was new to him. 

His expression fell as he watched you sink to the floor, your body hitching with violent sobs. Your hair was still disheveled, robes torn and tattered, and blood streaked across your cheek from the fight in the catacomb. Sebastian had never seen you so anguished. The sight would haunt him the same way your death would. 

He stood in the corner of the room, tears welling in his eyes as he watched you unravel, scared and alone. You sobbed so hard your chest heaved and your stomach lurched. 

The scene blurred again until Sebastian was returned to the Undercroft, this time as a voyeur. He caught his breath as he watched you plead with Ominis to refrain from turning him in for killing Solomon. 

“I don’t want to lose Sebastian, but I don’t think we have a choice,” Ominis said. 

“We do have a choice,” you insisted. “What good would it do if we turn him in now? He clearly regrets everything. He’s not going to do anything like this again.”

“We both heard that before,” Ominis argued. 

“But we also need to think about Anne. She’s lost her health. Now she’s lost her uncle. Do you really want to take her brother away from her too?” you pushed. 

When Ominis finally relented, Sebastian watched as more tears streamed over your cheeks. Your eyes were empty, no longer brimming with your bold energy. Sebastian had drained it from you. The realization shattered his heart. 

“You really care about him, don’t you?” Ominis asked you. 

“I care about them both,” you answered. “I know Anne doesn’t much care for me, but Sebastian needs her… and I need him.”

“You love him, don’t you?” Ominis asked quietly. 

You nodded in response. “I do.”

Ominis sighed, though it was evident he wasn’t surprised by your revelation. You and Sebastian were as clear as diamonds — and as hard as them, too. As much as it frustrated Ominis, he knew it was also what made the two of you so simpatico. You understood Sebastian on a profound level few others could even scrape.

“You’ve got to save him,” Ominis whispered. “He can’t save himself. He’s too far gone. You have to be the one to help him. You’re the only one.”

You nodded in understanding, your cheeks now raw and red from the salty sting of your tears. 

“I will,” you said softly. “I love him too much to lose him to this.”

The memory ended and Sebastian swished back to the Undercroft, now in its present state. He gripped the edge of the pensieve to hold himself upright, its cold stone pressed hard against his fingers. He was crying now, his breath shaky as he fought for air. 

His legs gave way and he collapsed to the floor on his knees, his body bent in child’s pose as he choked on his own sobs. He remained there until his bones seemed to disintegrate. His body felt like a vacant home left to rot into ruins.

You loved him. He watched you admit it. You loved him, and you fought for him. When others wanted to give up on him, you were ready to step closer. You vowed to save him because he had meant that much to you. 

And you had succeeded. Because once your fifth year ended, you inserted yourself to Sebastian’s side, an extension of his own body. You resurrected him from the cavernous clutches of dark magic and desperation, and revived him with renewed energy. You let him lean on you in the days that followed Solomon’s death. You talked him through his guilt and reminded him he was worthy of a good life that shouldn’t be defined by his past. You refused to allow him to punish himself, but ensured he was remorseful for what he did. You showed him what it meant to become redemption. 

Your empathy and understanding nursed Sebastian back to his old form – the charming, friendly and resourceful boy he was before your fifth year – the boy you had never even met. You were his savior, not because you needed another person to rescue, but because saving Sebastian from himself also saved you.  

After all the evil you’d endured, you needed to believe that people could still be good. You needed reassurance that light could still outshine dark. And you needed to know if your love would be enough for someone, even if it wasn’t reciprocated.

Because the one thing that saved you and Sebastian Sallow both was your best shared attribute: your optimism. 

Sebastian lay curled up on the floor of the Undercroft for a good hour. He was overcome with grief, guilt and regret, and they all clashed at once, straining his heart until he was certain it would sever inside his chest.

What if he had simply told you he loved you? Maybe it wouldn’t have prevented your death, but at least you would have known. At least you would have died with a full heart and the comfort that the boy you cared about the most needed you in all the same ways. 

And selfishly, maybe you would have told Sebastian you loved him, too. 

When silence returned to the Undercroft after Sebastian’s sobs subsided, he sat up, his weight supported back on his hands. There was still one vial remaining.

He wasn’t sure he had the energy to witness any more monumental memories, but truly, he had no choice. He wouldn’t rest until he understood every message you were trying to send him. He owed you that, at the very least.

Sebastian gathered himself up off the floor to retrieve the last vial. He was cool and clammy, which caused him to grip the vial particularly hard amid concern he would drop it. As he tilted it over the pensieve with a shaking hand, it splashed and shimmered streaks of gold that reminded him of sun rays.

He recognized this memory instantly. It had taken place a week before you died. The two of you snuck out of the castle to explore another old cave. You weren’t looking for anything in particular, other than an adventure. Sometimes, the two of you merely created your own expeditions for old time’s sake.

This one led you all the way to the Clagmar Coast. Once you determined the cave housed nothing more than a chest of old spectacles, you and Sebastian decided to sit and watch the stars under the cover of the cave’s secluded opening. It overlooked the sea, which shimmered beneath the moon. You could hear the churns of the waves smashing into the cliffside below, but not even the surf’s rumble could drown out the slamming heart inside your chest.

You hugged your knees as you sat close enough to Sebastian that you could feel his warmth. The salt air whipped through your hair and he laughed as you struggled to keep it in place, finally admitting defeat when it plastered itself to your face.

Sebastian watched as you shivered. He had chided you for wearing only a knit jumper, even though he had done the same. What he hadn’t known was that your shivers weren’t from the cold. As so when he draped an arm around you and pulled you close against his body to keep you warm, your own body shuddered more. You welcomed its response because it meant he’d hold you even tighter. You did this more often than you’d ever admit – sometimes you pretended to be cold just so Sebastian would hold you.

Sebastian had dwelled on this memory at a damn near obsessive rate. His head had become a vast vault of moments with you, each one stored away in meticulous order that would make Madam Scribner proud. But this one sat on the nearest shelf, within easy reach so that he could call upon it often.

He hadn’t known it would be one of his final fond memories of you. 

But again, your version was different.

Because this variant exposed everything. The moonlight cast itself over your eyes, which softened every time Sebastian glanced at you. But as you snuggled closer to him, Sebastian watched as you squeezed them shut. They looked like a camera shutter, committing the moment to the film inside your head.

And then you stole one more glance up at Sebastian’s pensieve form and your eyes screamed louder than the waves below. You gazed at your freckled friend with so much love, it made Sebastian’s chest cave as he watched.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t utter the words that were perched on the tip of your tongue. You didn’t have to. Neither of you did. 

Finally, Sebastian understood. 

That was the beauty of it all. For all of your unspoken words, your silent declarations, and your desperate desires, you were both enough. 

You and Sebastian adored each other in secret and in silence. But you lived and loved out loud. 

And though you both wished you could have experienced that love to its full extent and in its truest form – raw, real and unrestrained – what you did share was enough.

So when Sebastian returned to the Undercroft for the final time, the last of your pensieve memories complete, he sank back to the floor with his back pressed against the wall.

Because even though he understood now, even though he realized he’d always carried your love, he was in mourning.

He mourned the romance you’d never have. He mourned your future cut short by the sharp, cruel blade of an unfair fate. And he mourned your memories – all of them – because this wasn’t how you’d intended him to see them. 

He was supposed to view them and then sprint to you. Had you been alive, he likely would have found you tucked away in a quiet corner of the library or en route to the Three Broomsticks for butterbeers with Poppy and Natty. He would have chased you down and told you he’d seen all the memories. He would have told you he loved you, too. The two of you would have laughed at how silly you’d been. And then he would have kissed you and stolen you away from whatever endeavor you had going on to make up for lost time.

But now, you’d lost more than time and nothing would make up for it. It would gnaw away at Sebastian forever. 

But the worst part was he couldn’t save you. He could return to your memories to see you again, but he couldn’t touch you, couldn’t feel you, couldn’t speak with you or reach out to pull you to safety. He couldn’t bring you back.

Soon, those memories would be gone, too. The vials you left were no bigger than Sebastian’s index finger. They’d run empty if he revisited the pensieve too often. He hated how he had to ration you like this. You loved each other. He deserved you with boundless abundance.

And though you’d found a way to tell him how you felt, he would never have the chance to tell you. He silently prayed you somehow secretly knew, but you deserved more than the cowardice of unspoken words. You deserved a loud and vibrant love, obnoxious to those who envied you and beautiful to those who understood you.

And then Sebastian realized. 

He scurried from the Undercroft, your vials left in their box to be retrieved later. Right now, he had to get to you.

You were buried just south of Hogsmeade, near the observation platform that overlooked the South Hogwarts region and the castle. It was your favorite place, because you said it presented you with a perfect view of home and everything you loved. 

When Sebastian reached your grave, he fell to his knees before it. Tears returned to his eyes and he choked back a sob.

“I saw them,” he sputtered. “I saw everything – all of your pensieve memories. I wish you’d told me. I wish we could have known how it felt to be together. And I wish I could have told you how much I love you, too.”

And then he wept. He wept for himself, for you, and for the universe that had to continue its existence without the privilege of your presence. 

He cried until every emotion had poured itself from his eyes into the soil of your grave. He prayed his tears would seep six feet under and find their way to you. You had given him your tears – they now sat in those tiny little vials that Sebastian would treasure forever. The least he could do was gift you with his, even if it was his birthday.

He stopped celebrating for good that year, electing to instead spend every birthday returning to your pensieve memories until one day, those were gone, too. 

[sanguineterrain]

the worst day of february | jason todd

Summary: Cold and defeated on the worst day of February, you stand on your apartment rooftop, contemplating giving up. Then the Red Hood drops in and makes you tea in your apartment.

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader 

Word count: 2k

Warnings/tags: suicidal ideation, disordered eating and sleeping habits, depression, reader doesn't attempt suicide but thinks about it a lot. a sort of hopeful ending. jason being a really really good guy.

please take care of yourselves - don't read this if you think it'll upset you.

divider

One day in February—it doesn't matter which day; it might be someone else's day too, but it doesn't matter, and it doesn't matter which February either—you realize that you've forgotten how to be happy.

When you think of February, you don't think of much, except that on those big visual calendars of the months that they put up in kindergarten, February is always pink. Pink like an organ. Pink like guts. Pink like love.

But your February—all the Februarys you've had—is blue-gray. It's like someone's cast a moody shadow over your February. It's the director's choice, clearly, to light your February like you're at a wake. It's not your choice. It's never your choice.

Here is the problem. The problem is that you're too scared, but you want the attention of someone who's killed themselves. Shame digs its claws into you at such a perverse thought. But it's true. Even if it's one person who takes a moment to inspect your guts on the sidewalk, or your body in the bathtub, you want them to hold your rigor mortis and say, what a loss. Is there anything I can do?

And then you'd pop up from the bathwater and say, why yes, there is something you can do, would you mind changing the lighting? It's bringing me down.

You're on the roof of your apartment. You don't know why, because as stated, you're too scared. And it's nighttime, and you're a speck of dust, which is comforting at times and haunting at others. Dust on a roof. Easy to be carried off by the wind.

You don't want to die, exactly. You want to rest. No amount of sleep destroys the exhaustion. Instead of marrow in your bones, it's the desire for rest that only comes through death. Unfortunately, despite not wanting to die, death seems to be your only path.

His footsteps are quiet. You don't realize that you're not alone until he's there next to you, hunched over the ledge on his elbows.

You flinch.

"Sorry," Red Hood says, and there's no smoky breath that accompanies his words like they accompany everyone else's. You wonder where the air from his helmet's filter goes.

"It's fine," you say, even though your nervous system is still reeling. It's not fine, because you hate being scared, but it also doesn't matter, so it's fine in that way.

You have a great view from the city up here but appreciating the city is difficult when it's all blue-gray shadows. Your stomach hurts. You've never felt more unbearably yourself in your life.

"Everything okay?" Hood asks.

"Yeah," you say, not bothering to lie. Not bothering to tell the truth either.

"'S cold up here."

"I'm not gonna jump."

"Didn't say you would," Hood says mildly.

"That's why you're here. You think I'll jump, and it's your duty to make sure I don't. But I won't. Too scared. I just wallow instead."

"Wallowing ain't so good either."

"Yeah," you say, throat hurting like you've swallowed a splinter. "Probably not."

An audience would see your funeral-lit life and make the obvious prediction that something bad is about to happen. The director is telling a story, and he's giving hints. You, as the protagonist, are expecting bad things too. Perhaps this is where it starts.

"You live here?" Hood asks.

There should be a curl of fear that strikes you, because Red Hood—terrifying, gangster, born and bred Gotham Red Hood—shouldn't be landing on your rooftop and checking to make sure you aren't gonna spill your guts.

He doesn't seem so terrifying, though. He doesn't seem like a gangster either. And what's wrong with being born and bred Gotham? You like it. Hood is familiar even though you've never met him before. Something about his voice, his stance, the fact that he gives a shit enough to talk to you for a minute. It feels like maybe the universe doesn't want you to kill yourself right then.

"I live here," you say, taking too long to answer.

"Alright," he says. "Lead the way."

You look at him. He's turned around now, facing the roof access door.

"What?"

Hood points a thumb at the door. "Let's go to your place."

"Why?" Why, you ask, instead of the fuck?

"'M thirsty," he says.

Well, if he's here to assassinate you, it won't matter if you bring him to your apartment or not. And now that he's mentioned it, it is cold. Probably because you're up here without a coat. A coat hadn't seemed important when you were in your apartment choking on stale black air.

Maybe you should warn Hood about the stale black air. But you feel like he won't let you return to your apartment if you do.

Hood goes first, leading you back inside. He goes down the stairs slowly, letting you drag and set the pace. It's so stupid. You feel like crying. Why is he going down the stairs with you at your stupid slow pace?

You stop two floors down. This would be another hint to your audience, the fact that you're so close to the roof that you can just climb a couple flights.

You open your apartment. You'd left it unlocked.

"Do you often leave your place unlocked?" Hood asks.

You shrug. "I don't go out enough to get the chance."

Hood doesn't say anything else but he does do the deadbolt when you're inside, as well as the chain lock.

"Shoes off?" he asks. You nod. You both remove your shoes.

Then you stand like you're not in your own apartment. Hood herds you like a sheepdog to your tiny kitchen table. Then he starts opening cabinet doors.

"Got a kettle?" he asks.

You stare at the back of his helmet, your eyebrows knitting. "A kettle? How many Gothamites do you know own kettles?"

"It's the only dignified way to make tea," he says.

Maybe Hood isn't so born and bred Gotham. "Were you raised by British monarchs?"

"Kinda," he says. He evidently gives up on finding a kettle and instead puts water to boil on the stove, even though you have a microwave. Weirdo.

Suddenly, you realize you haven't thought about death for a whole five minutes.

"Got any decaffeinated tea?" Hood asks.

You have a barely opened box of Sleepytime. You point at the top shelf. He hums and retrieves the box, taking out three tea bags to drop into the boiling water.

Hood takes out two mugs. He's surprisingly apt at navigating an unfamiliar kitchen.

He gives you your mug and sits across from you at the table. He's huge at your table, but he gracefully crosses his legs despite the limited space.

"Didja eat?" he asks.

"I had some cereal a few hours ago," you say.

Hood nods. "Fine. But you gotta eat real dinner too."

You don't think it really matters what a corpse-in-training eats, but you nod anyway. Hood's tone invites no deliberation.

"What's your favorite food? Drink your tea."

You scrunch your face and take a hesitant sip. The hot liquid burns your tongue for a moment before you swallow.

"I like pizza," you say. "And burgers. And ramen. But lately, everything tastes like nothing."

You'd tried to find joy in food a few days ago because you couldn't find it anywhere else. You'd torn open a pack of Swedish Fish and shoved the box into your drawer after eating two pieces because it'd tasted like melted plastic to you.

Then you'd bought an expensive brand of chocolate bar, desperate to be happy, desperate to be flooded with dopamine. Nothing. You'd tossed the chocolate, feeling distinctly broken. What monster doesn't find joy in their favorite candy?

You only eat to cure the hunger pains, because you can't take anymore pain. You eat to survive. Not because you want to, but because dying by starvation takes too long.

"That's okay," Hood says. "'S good you're eating."

You scoff. "I don't need consolation."

Hood doesn't give you the satisfaction of an argument. He's going to make you feel alive in a gentler way, even though you don't deserve it. "Drink your tea."

You drink. His mug remains untouched. You feel like you're in a play. This isn't even real tea, it's just colored water. And Hood's stage direction is to not drink his colored water. It's just for show.

You look out the window, expecting to make eye contact with an audience member. You're waiting for the second act. You're waiting for the end.

"I don't want anymore," you say when your mug is half-finished. Trying to finish the tea feels like prolonging the inevitable. The audience wants to go home. They have lives to get back to. They can't live with you and the stage forever.

To your surprise, Hood nods. "Okay. C'mon."

He stands up from the table. You follow him to your bedroom. He pulls open your shirt drawer. You notice the two guns strapped to his hips, two strapped to his ankles, and one bigger gun on his back. You wait for the director's guidance on how you should feel. None comes, so you remain apathetic.

"Choose a shirt," he says. You pick a plain pink t-shirt. Hood closes that drawer and opens your pants drawer. "Choose."

You take a pair of worn pajama shorts because you overheat when you sleep, especially when you're depressed. You're sweaty from your lie-in till two that you took earlier today. Your face is greasy. You're sure your hair isn't nice either.

"Go change," Hood says, walking out of your room. "I'll be outside." He closes the door behind him.

You change, if only out of shock of the Red Hood giving you orders.

"Done," you say, probably too quiet for anyone to hear. But Hood comes in. He looks you over.

"Good." He points to the bed. "Lie down."

You do. Your sheets are gross. They haven't been changed in at least a few months. You're suddenly swollen with shame that anyone, even the Red Hood, is seeing you in this state. Your eyes fill with stinging tears. You should've died before it came to this.

"I'm sorry you had to stop to do this," you say.

Hood's silent for a moment. Then he walks to your side of the bed. He crouches down. His helmet eyes glow in the dark. You've never been less afraid.

This is a plot twist you did not foresee. A new character. A guardian angel. Red in your blue-gray.

"'S not always gonna feel like this," he says.

More tears, more splinters in your throat. "It's felt like this for so long."

"Yeah," he says gently. Gentler than you fucking deserve. "I know."

The writer has overridden the director's wants, and has introduced some new foreshadowing. Should your audience believe it? Or is this a fake-out?

You lie back and want to die a little less. One young woman in your audience chokes up. She believes that you believe you’ll live. She will stay here for as long as it takes for you to make it through act two.

"If you have to go, it's okay," you say.

Hood settles against the wall near your bed. He pulls one knee against his chest. It's almost like you have a friend.

"Nah," he says. "I don't have anywhere to be. I finished my patrol. I'll stay till you fall asleep."

He doesn't ask to stay, and that feels good, not having to make the choice, to face the shame of wanting another person to care about you.

You screw your eyes shut. "Thank you," you whisper.

"I'm gonna bring you a kettle," Hood says.

You laugh. It's small and brittle but it's real. "Okay." You'll have to make it through the night. Red Hood is bringing you a kettle.

You lay there for a long time, not sleeping. You keep your eyes closed. You focus on keeping your breathing even. Then you open your eyes to check.

Hood is still there, sitting against the wall. You wonder if he's fallen asleep too. His voice startles you.

"Still here," he says. "Said I wouldn't go till you sleep. Meant it. Don't worry."

Maybe tomorrow's sun won't be so blue or gray. You fall asleep.

[raycatz]

Hi Ray!! Hope you're doing fine ^^

Kinda random question, but I guess Wind is your favourite Link so, do you have headcanons for him?!

And if not, who's your favourite blorbo? >:·3

(no pressure to answer this ask tho hehe!)

Hiya Perry!

My favorites go like this! >:D

(Hyrule and Wild are fighting for 4th with Hyrule at a lead lol. He's grown on me since getting to know Zola! xD )

I can share some headcanons for the top three! (I got excited getting an ask from you so I drew a couple things and wrote a lot ashgfjsdfs. The post got long so I'll thrown in a read more somewhere.)

Four

Reading buddies with Twi. They tell each other about what they're reading. Sky and Wind like to listen and ask questions.

Pegasus boots + Roc's cape = some pretty impressive jumps (eight-foot vertical leap Griffin McElroy meme.) He's only outmatched by Rulie. Four and Legend should compete to see who has the greater horizonal distance.

Four loves purple sweet potatoes! It's sweet, umami, filling, and how often do you get to eat something that's purple? It's kind of an expansion of/inspired by a hc + art by w1lmutt. (imo Four's a fan of purple food in general. Four and that one girl from Tarrey Town are the biggest fans of Wild's monster cake recipe.) Set Four up with a purple potato right off of the fire and he's doing great. (Do you think he could have a potato cooking on the side while working at the forge? in like a dutch oven? put the potato in the forge!!!)

The name of the forge is the Four Element Forge (which I first read in blueskullcandy's fics! ("Alone Together" I think?))

Four has a cat! Tongs the Benevolent has my whole heart. (Tongs is also the creation of blueskullcandy @fuckit-hero-of-trains. Hi Train! Here's a little fic of them meeting x. here's art I made of her x. here's Train's tag for her x! More!)

Four with headaches / migraines. There has to be some trope about inflicting the clever/thinker character with head hurty and I'm here for it with Four. Any pain can make it difficult to think, but having that pain be concentrated to the head is more poignant, idk xD something to impede a strength of his. I also think that Four having migraines that are worsened by light is poetic, as being hurt by light gives him something in common with Shadow.

(Four with a headache with Tongs and Twi helping <3 )

Thoughts on the Four Sword's abilities: Can the elemental magic infused into the sword be tapped into and does it still have the ability to make ghost / prism refraction copies?

(img from IGN)

cont. In Minish Cap, as you power up the White Sword with the elemental stones, you're able to summon copies of Link. However, Link can only do this over specific tiles, the prisms run on a timed meter, and if they're hit they vanish. It's like a magic meter! I headcanon that Four isn't great with magic himself. However, if the prisms are summoned by magic, then what if it's Four channeling his magic into the White Sword to get that to happen. (also, maybe he's been relying on help from the tiles or Ezlo.) At the end of Minish Cap, he put the sword back and that was that. At the start of FS/FSA however, something changed when he pulled the sword, causing him to split fully. Maybe the sword needed something different from him. Maybe he was so frantic about Zelda being kidnapped and needing to defend himself from Shadow that he poured too much magic into the sword and it changed him. Maybe the sword's power upgraded. Whatever happened, he no longer has access to the prism ability of the Four Sword and instead splits, with splitting not being a drain on his magic. Four has just assumed that the prisms is an ability the Four Sword no longer has. Put the Four Sword into the hands of someone else with magic, though, and this isn't the case! (or maybe it's a scenario with an earlier iteration of the sword.) I have a scenario in my head where Four is separated from it in battle and Wind picks it up. Wind channels some magic into it on reflex for a spin attack or something and the prism copies pop up much to EVERYONE'S SURPRISE. Wind would think it's So Cool. Why haven't you shown us this before??!! Meanwhile Four just, honestly didn't know it could do that anymore. Cue Four Sword show-and-tell because what could be the harm (Four doesn't have to tell about the splitting thing and maybe the chain can help him learn about the copies) Wind, Legend, Time, and Hyrule can pull them up with ease. Put the sword into the hands of Hyrule or Legend who are more familiar with magic, however, and I think they could tap into the elements infused into the blade. Each of the copies channel a different element: being wind, fire, ice, and stone (with the Four Sword itself being Light.) Hyrule's able to move the copies around independently of each other but it takes a lot of focus. Legend on the other hand is better with the elemental stuff but he can feel there's something more to the Four Sword. Like, "Four, the magic well in this item is pretty deep / unstable. I don't want to tell you how to use your items, but careful not to put too much into this." Four: *wtf wtf wtf.* Or Legend would try pushing the boundaries of the sword, start going weird and flickery, and would be hastily stopped by Four.

Wind

He and Aryll meow at each other! >:3c He meows during a side-quest and I want an excuse for him to do it more often. I think he and Aryll are very much the type to make weird noises in greeting.

Cartography and navigation buff! Phantom Hourglass has you marking up the map so I think it's something Wind's good at and enjoys. Celestial navigation is in there too. Beyond using the stars to navigate, I think he's into star stories. Each constellation has a story that Wind is happy to retell. He wants to collect as many and their variations between eras as possible.

Wind has to admit that Twi, Sky, and Wild's pumpkin soup is pretty good (not as good as Grandma's, but still pretty dang good.) He got a pumpkin sprout in Sky's era and it lives in one of his bottles. Its name is Soup!

Fandom headcanons I've picked up that I'm fond of: Wind can see ghosts, Wind needs new shoes and isn't super jazzed about all this walking, Wind's family shield is passed down from Four, Wind is scared of / intimidated by large birds which opens up storytelling opportunities with Sky's loftwing, (honorable mention to the WW headcanon that Link's nearsighted due to him squinting in cutscenes. I don't hc it for LU Wind but it's neat to see it picked up! (ex: Wind from Linked Maze!))

Legend

I love Sister_Dear's writing (@sister-dear hi Sister 😳) and my interpretation of Legend reflects that. (here's Sister's list of Legend headcanons lol) (Keso's art is a big influence as well.)

Legend with arthritis / chronic pain in his hands/knees. It's just nice to see nods to it. Legend massaging his hands, or using a cane (louieeeee!), or grumbling about the weather. There's a headcanon that goes along with it that he has rings which lessen the symptoms.

Legend as poly and bi for Marin and Ravio. Courtesy of Wolfy (@wolfy1298) and this comic.

Genderfluid Legend. I like Sister's bullet-point, "Goes by ‘he’ but feels fairly ambivalent about the pronoun. Doesn't like to present as overly masculine. (Either a case of Legend being all ‘fuck gender roles’ or his Hyrule just having different gender norms.) Likes putting on dresses and makeup when the opportunity arises, doesn't like to do his hair." That! But I like to add that Legend will swap pronouns as well on what feels best. Hand-Me-Downs by That_G3_Obsessive (@that-g3-artist 👋) is a favorite of mine and has beautiful representation of genderfluid/queer Legend. Legend figures Wind could use some better fitting clothes, and shifting through Legend's wardrobe leads Wind to ask about the dresses there.

(has Taako from The Adventure Zone vibes going on in presentation and snark. Love me a bunny toothed GNC gay elf wizard twin who has a secret they don't want anyone to know and who's done with this shit. Please appreciate Taako thank you yippee yahoo!)

(Tried drawing Taako to mixed results but I think Legend would dig his vibe!)

I tried to throw in a number of hcs~ideas that are more personal / that I haven't had the opportunity to show through fanwork yet. To be fair, sooo many of the headcanons I have for the chain though are an amalgamation of things picked up from the fandom (I could go on with Legend and bunny mannerisms or Four with portal sickness xD ). There's a lot of really great work put together by so many people. It's wonderful to get to be a part of it!

Thank you for the ask Perry!!! >:D

[glikeriya-narkevich]

Tagged by @ggswaywardgifrepository , thank you!

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With no pressure I tag: I apologize, but I don't know who to tag. 😅 So I'm asking everyone who reads me and who is suddenly interested in communicating with me to reply with a repost. I will be glad to read your responses.

rules: tag nine people you want to get to know better

Tagged by @indrid-hot - thanks a bunch!

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With no pressure, I will tag: @geminyde, @caseyscraftycorner, @swords-n-spindles, @alpacazappa, @rosesonneptune, @rose-of-pollux, @zooarchaeologyatdinner, @kalikatze aaaaand I can't decide on a 9th person to tag so whoever wants to do this: You're It!