#but it has to be you that makes it impossible for him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joemama-2 · 1 day ago

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┊ ❛ ❛ 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬 ❜ ❜ ┊

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: as an ambitious journalist, you’re determined to keep your cool while interviewing Gojo Satoru, the entertainment world’s most magnetic star. but his playful smirks and flirtatious banter make it impossible to ignore the spark simmering between you. when he leans in and invites you to his private room, you tell yourself it’s all part of the job—until the dressing room door closes, and the air grows heavy with unspoken possibilities. his touch is casual but lingers just long enough to make your pulse race, and his whispered promises are as intoxicating as the man himself. tonight, you’ll learn there’s a difference between getting the story and being part of it.

wc: 9.9k

tags/warnings: smut, slight praise, vaginal penetration, pussy eating, cursing, missionary, nipple sucking

Tonight’s a night of luxury, fine wine, expensive clothing, flashes, kisses being shared, awards handed out, and best of all…the interviews.

You’re up and coming, still considered a newbie in the world of journalism even though you have been doing this for almost a year now. But compared to your other counterparts who have years of experience, you understand why. A bright, young face with a compelling aura that just draws people in. Every celebrity you’ve met has come up to you afterward to just rave on about how nice it was talking to you, how authentic it felt. And that’s what you aim for all the time.

At the end of the day, these are real people and a lot of the media seems to forget that. When you’re interviewing them, you don’t want it to seem like a forced meet-up with an intrusive journalist. No, you want it to be like they’re talking to a friend. You want things to just flow smoothly—naturally. You’ve even exchanged numbers with a few of them, waving and delivering a small hug as they pass you on the red carpet to pose for pictures.

It’s a strategy that’s worked wonders for you, and tonight, you’re counting on it to carry you through what might be the biggest interview of your career. Gojo Satoru, the golden boy of the entertainment industry, is notoriously hard to pin down—charming one moment, evasive the next. The man oozes confidence, with his piercing blue eyes and a devil-may-care attitude that has the world wrapped around his finger. A brilliant actor, dancer, and singer. A literal triple threat. The man is good at everything he does. And he looks damn good while doing it.

Your editor’s words echo in your head as you adjust your press badge: “Get something different. Something memorable. Everyone’s heard the same old answers from him.” Easier said than done when the man is practically untouchable, his responses carefully curated to keep people guessing. You would’ve assumed his media training would be on point, considering he’s been a household name since he was just an infant.

A true nepo baby.

There’s a microphone in hand, your camera man, Ito, stood beside you. You glance at him, having to lean in slightly over the buzz of other chatter, photographers telling whatever celebrity to move right or left, other interviews being conducted, the whole sha-bang. “You ready for this?”

The younger man nods with a goofy smile and throws a thumbs-up. “You know it.”

“Remember, get my good side.”

“Every side is your good side, Ms. Y/N.”

You wave him off and swivel your head back around. Titling it as you lift up on your tip-toes for any sign of the snowy haired man. Nope, not here yet. You sigh and drop back down to normal height, anxiously twirling the microphone in your hand. You’re wearing a simple, but elegant black dress. Silk with no sleeves and the back is cut out—still modest enough to now outshine the real important people of tonight. You’ve paired it with gold jewelry, your hair down and tamed, with tiny black heels. Fine makeup with a red lip to top it off.

“He’s not here yet. Let me guess,” you murmur to Ito, keeping your voice low. “He’s going to be late, sweep in like he owns the place, and flash that million-dollar smile that makes everyone forget they’ve been waiting.”

Ito snorts, adjusting the camera. “You mean the Gojo Satoru trademark entrance? Yeah, sounds about right. At least he’s consistent.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of nerves in your chest. You always get nervous but this time, it feels a little extra. He may not even stop for you, don’t get your hopes up.

Gojo’s reputation precedes him, and while you pride yourself on keeping your cool, you’re not immune to his charm. The last thing you need is to fall into the same trap as every other reporter who’s walked away from an interview with stars in their eyes and nothing of substance to show for it.

Scanning the area, you catch sight of a commotion near the entrance, the buzz growing louder. And then you see him.

He’s impossible to miss, standing tall and radiant in a custom black suit that hugs him in all the right places, his albino hair tousled just enough to look effortless. His sunglasses—because of course he’s wearing sunglasses to a fancy event—sit perched on the bridge of his nose, only barely hiding those infamous blue eyes. He’s laughing at something someone said, his presence magnetic enough to pull all attention his way without even trying. His manager, Nanami Kento, walks with him. Occasionally muttering something in Satoru’s ear with his certified stony expression.

“Showtime,” Ito mutters, lifting the camera.

You take a deep breath, straightening your posture. You got this, you got this. He’s not the only charming one. Plastering a big, warm smile. You begin your stride over, hellbent on capturing his attention.

He and his manager are walking down the carpet, already ignoring the reporters that call out his name like he’s some sort of god. Satoru occasionally smiles for a few of the cameras as most of the other actors are silently making room for him on the red carpet. Once he’s done with his pictures, he’s heading inside the venue. Then you’ll lose your chance. So, you have to catch him before he does.

You quicken your pace, moving with purpose. Weaving through the small crowd as Ito is practically stumbling over his feet to follow you. Chin tilting up and raising your voice loud enough so he can hear. “Gojo Satoru, a quick word, please,” you call out, your voice carrying through the crowd, smooth and confident despite the flutter of nerves in your chest.

And as if on cue, Gojo’s head turns ever so slightly in your direction. That was quick. Maybe it’s the fact that you reiterated your call out to him as more of a statement than an annoying plea. You don’t hesitate, smiling and judging Ito to begin filming. You can already see the glint of his pearly whites, the blue twinkle in his pearly eyes that makes women and men alike swoon. He lifts his glasses down slightly like he’s getting a better look at you. His manager is tugging a bit on his elbow to keep him moving, but he simply yanks it out his hold and strides over to you with that trademark grin. As he makes his way toward you, every step exuding confidence, you remind yourself of your goal: keep it professional, keep it memorable, and don’t let him get under your skin.

Some of the other journalists must think they finally have their shot with him, only for their hopes and dreams to be shattered when he approaches you instead. You shuffle closer to him, sparing a quick glance at the camera to ensure it’s rolling before craning your neck up at the man himself.

“Gojo Satoru,” you greet him, flashing your most practiced smile as he stops in front of you. “Thank you very much for taking the time to chat. How’s your night so far?”

He tilts his head, the lopsided smile on his face nothing short of mischievous. “Even better now,” he says smoothly, his voice low enough to make your stomach flip.

Oh, he’s good, you think, your grip tightening on the microphone. But so are you. So, this is how it’s going to be. Fine. You can play that game too.

You force yourself to focus, keeping the conversation light and breezy despite the electric charge in the air between you. “Glad to hear that. I’m sure you’re used to all the attention by now, but do you ever get nervous before big events like this?” you ask, leaning in slightly as if you’re just two people having a casual chat.

He chuckles, a sound that almost feels too intimate for the public space you’re standing in. “I thrive on it,” Gojo replies, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze both teasing and intense. “You know, it’s all part of the game. The bigger the crowd, the more I shine.”

You smile, impressed by his confidence but careful not to let it throw you off your rhythm. “And yet, you still manage to make it look effortless.” You tilt your head slightly, playing along, knowing how easily the conversation could turn into one of those meaningless exchanges. “Is there anything you don’t do effortlessly?”

His lips quirk upwards, that signature grin spreading across his face. “Maybe one thing,” he says, his tone dipping lower, sending a shiver through you. He pauses, his eyes scanning you briefly before locking back onto yours. “But I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”

The air between you two thickens, the words laced with double meaning. You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, but you refuse to let it show. He’s toying with you, but this is your interview, and you’re not about to let him steal the spotlight. Not just yet.

Clearing your throat, you switch the topic. “So, you’re being nominated Best Actor for your show ‘Jujutsu Kaisen’.”

He grins, clearly enjoying the direction you’ve taken. “I wouldn’t say ‘nominated,’” he teases, his eyes sparkling with that signature arrogance. “I’m going to win, obviously. But it’s nice to be recognized by the industry.”

You nod, the banter light, but the tension lingering in the air between you two keeps your mind spinning. You can’t help but wonder if he’s as confident off-screen as he is in front of the cameras. Before you can ask him to elaborate on his confidence, Gojo steps closer, his proximity sending a wave of warmth through you. “So you believe you’ll win this award, no doubt?”

“No doubt.”

“That’s very confident of you.” You chuckle.

Gojo’s lips curl into a smile, his blue eyes never leaving yours as if he’s savoring the moment. “Confidence is key but also very underrated,” he replies, his tone playful but with an edge of something more intense. He leans in just slightly, enough that you can smell the subtle cologne he’s wearing, clean and fresh with a hint of spice. “Besides,” he adds, his voice dropping lower, “when you’re as good as I am, it’s hard not to be confident. And I mean, a lot of people are too afraid to show they know what they’re capable of. But me? I’ve got nothing to hide. I know exactly what I bring to the table.”

You bite your lip, fighting the urge to let your smile slip into something more flirtatious. But his words have an effect—something in you shifts, intrigued and undeniably drawn to his arrogance. "So, you don’t think anyone’s competition?" you ask, arching an eyebrow, testing the waters.

Gojo's lips curve tighter into a knowing smile, a flash of teasing flickering in his eyes. "Competition?" he echoes, his voice thick with challenge. "There’s no competition when you’re in a league of your own.”

You swallow, trying to maintain your composure despite the growing heat between you. “I can see that,” you respond, your voice just a little steadier than you feel. “But what’s your secret? How do you manage to stay so… sure of yourself?”

Gojo chuckles, the sound smooth and low, as he runs a hand through his messy white hair. He looks around briefly, as though assessing the situation, before his eyes lock back onto yours. “It’s not about being sure of myself,” he says with a tilt to his tone, his words carrying an underlying promise. “It’s about knowing I can make anything work. Whether it’s acting, dancing, or…” He trails off, his gaze flickering briefly down your figure before snapping back to your eyes. He chuckles charmingly.

The moment hangs between you two, the air crackling with an undeniable charge. You feel your pulse quicken, but you force yourself to stay focused on the interview. “Well, I’m sure a lot of people would love to know how you make it all look so effortless,” you respond, keeping your voice neutral. “Any advice for those of us who aren’t quite as… naturally gifted?”

Gojo’s grin widens, and for a brief second, you swear you can see a flicker of something more in his eyes. “It’s not just about talent,” he says, leaning in a little closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate level. “It’s about owning the moment, owning the space you’re in. You have to make people believe in you, even if you don’t always believe in yourself.” His intonation is almost hypnotic, and you can feel the pull of his words.

Your breath catches, but you can’t let him see how he’s affecting you. “Sounds like a lot of pressure,” you reply, trying to keep the conversation light. “How do you handle all that weight?”

Gojo’s expression shifts, his playful grin faltering for just a second, his presence overwhelming. “Pressure’s nothing,” he says, his eyes scanning your face with an intensity that makes your skin tingle. “If you’re not feeling it, you’re not doing it right.”

Before you can respond, the sound of a camera shutter clicks in the background, reminding you of the reality of the situation. You’re still in the middle of a crowded red carpet, surrounded by flashing lights and the buzz of other reporters. But somehow, standing so close to him, it feels like it’s just the two of you in the world.

His eyes soften for a moment, like he’s sensing the shift in the air between you. “But hey,” he adds, his tone playful again as he steps back slightly, breaking the moment, “don’t worry. I’ll make sure to win this award for the both of us. Maybe then you can interview me again… under better circumstances.”

You smile, lightly huffing a small chortle as Ito lowers the camera and stops rolling. Nanami begins tugging on Satoru’s sleeve again, attempting to urge the man to walk forward. But Satoru doesn’t budge, leaning down close to your ear. The suddenness causes you to gasp a little, body tensing before leaning closer to hear what he has to say.

“I have a room nearby. Take a left at the end of the carpet, then a right past the VIP lounge, can’t miss it. If you want, I’d be glad to answer more of your questions once I have my award.”

He’s pulling back and looking away, strutting down the carpet before you can even process what just happened. Eyes wide and lips parted, you slowly look over at Ito who gives you an equally baffled expression. “That was…something. I felt the tension even behind the camera.”

You shake your head and regain your bearings, hitting his arm. He dramatically lets out a huff and rubs the spot. “Don’t be stupid, that’s just how he is.”

“Well, yeah. But it seemed extra with you.”

Your lips purse, eyes flickering over to where an enormous space has been made for the man himself to pose for every single camera aimed at him in every pose possible. If you didn’t find him attractive, you would’ve been annoyed by his arrogance—his cockiness. But maybe that’s what you like about him, in some weird way. At least he has the looks to go with his loud personality. “Are you gonna…go?” Ino asks.

You hesitate, unsure of whether yes or no would be the most appropriate answer in this case. Hell, that entire little thing seemed the exact opposite of appropriate. You remind yourself that that’s just how he is. However, you still haven’t gotten a good enough word from him and that tiny, maybe two minute interview will no doubt be overlooked from your boss.

Something different, something more.

And so that’s how you’ve landed yourself in this precarious situation in the first place. It’s late—around twelve in the morning. And this supposed ‘meet-up’ feels more like a booty call than anything else. You won’t voice that thought aloud, of course. He’s sitting on the cuck chair in the corner of his…dressing room? It feels more like a five star hotel room. You’ve taken purchase on the edge of the bed inside, hands tucked into your lap. You’ve opted out of the dress you wore for the event, landing on a simple tee and jeans. Your recorder beside you, with your notebook and pen placed underneath your hands.

He’s just been eating.

Eating carelessly.

It’s already been close to twenty minutes and you don’t know when you should bring up the whole reason you’re even here for. After a few more grueling seconds, the air having been filled with his loud chewing far longer than you have patience for. You clear your throat. “Um…Mr. Gojo? Do you mind if we—”

“Have you ever had Mediterranean food?” He cuts you off, jabbing his white plastic fork in your direction.

Your eyes flick to the fork in his hand, then back to his face. The man looks completely unbothered, leaning back in his chair as though he has all the time in the world. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed casually at the ankles, and his tie is now undone, the top buttons of his shirt popped open. He’s the picture of relaxed arrogance, and it’s both infuriating and—annoyingly—endearing.

“Uh, yeah,” you say hesitantly, thrown off by the abrupt change in topic. “Once or twice.”

He hums, jabbing his fork into another piece of grilled chicken and popping it into his mouth. “Then you’re missing out. There’s this place down the street? Incredible. You’ve gotta try it. I’ll have them send some up next time you’re around.”

You blink at him, unsure how to respond. Is he really talking about food right now? After inviting you here in the middle of the night and keeping you waiting for nearly half an hour while he scarfs down a late-night feast? And is he trying to hint at another rendezvous? Yeah fucking right. Your fingers tighten slightly around your notebook, the patience you’ve been clinging to starting to wear thin. “Right,” you try again, keeping your voice steady, “I appreciate the recommendation, but I was hoping we could get back to the interview. So may we—”

“But you get it, right?” he says, leaning back in the chair, his legs spread out wider, his posture entirely too relaxed for someone in the middle of an impromptu midnight interview. “It’s addictive. This hummus? Unreal. Whoever catered tonight deserves an award more than I do.”

You thin your lips, unsure whether to laugh or remind him why you’re actually here. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” you say diplomatically, gesturing to the plate in his hand. “But I was hoping we could, you know, get started?”

Gojo hums thoughtfully, scooping up another bite with his fork. “You’re right,” he concedes, though the mischievous glint in his eyes suggests otherwise. “But here’s the thing—you can’t do an interview on an empty stomach. Or when the food’s this good.”

You sigh, biting back a retort as he takes another slow, deliberate bite, chewing like he has all the time in the world. “Mr. Gojo—”

“Satoru,” he corrects, grinning as he sets the plate down on the small table beside him. He wipes his hands on a napkin and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he meets your gaze. “We’re not on the red carpet anymore. Call me Satoru.”

His sudden shift in demeanor catches you off guard, the playful air taking on a more serious edge. You glance at your recorder, then back at him, your pulse quickening. “Alright, Satoru,” you say carefully, your fingers tightening around your pen. “Let’s make this count.”

He smirks, tilting his head slightly as if daring you to keep up. “Oh, don’t worry,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “I always do.”

You nod and fumble for a moment before flipping open your notebook. “Ah, well, I was hoping to dive a little deeper into your creative process—how you approach roles and what inspires you.”

Gojo leans back again, the smirk never leaving his face. “My creative process, huh? That’s such a professional way of asking how I make the magic happen.” He chuckles, his gaze flicking over you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. “But I’ll bite. It all starts with... you.”

You freeze, brows furrowing. You don’t know if he’s teasing you or if he’s just being his usual cocky self. “Me?” you manage to say, trying to keep your composure.

“Not you specifically,” he clarifies, though the playful glint in his eyes suggests otherwise. “But someone like you. Someone intriguing, who makes me want to figure out what makes them tick. That’s where I find inspiration.”

The air in the room shifts, the casual atmosphere taking on a sharper edge. You’re getting a little annoyed at the fact that he’s answering the question but also trying to throw you off balance. Either way, you’re determined not to let him see you lose composure.

“That’s interesting,” you respond, forcing a smile as you jot something down in your notebook, “Is there any way you can elaborate?.”

His laughter fills the room, low and rich. “Isn’t that what I just did?” he teases, his tone dripping with playful arrogance. His fingers drum lightly on the arm of the chair as he watches you, a predator sizing up its prey. “I thought I was being pretty clear. Inspiration comes from people—complex, messy, fascinating people.”

That sounds like an insult. You tap your pen against your notebook, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Right, but I was hoping for specifics,” you respond, doing your best to keep your tone professional despite his relentless charm. “How do you translate that into a character? What’s the first step you take when preparing for a role?”

Gojo leans forward again, his elbows resting on his knees, and suddenly the air between you feels far too tight. “The first step?” he echoes, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. “I find the humanity in them. Even in the villains, the assholes, the broken ones. There’s always something real there, something raw. That’s what I latch onto.”

You nod, quickly jotting down his words even as your pulse quickens. He’s finally giving you something substantive, and yet the way he’s looking at you makes it hard to focus. “That’s... an interesting perspective,” you manage, keeping your eyes on your notebook. “So you try to connect with the character on a personal level?”

“Exactly,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s like peeling back layers, you know? Finding the parts of them that no one else sees. The parts they try to hide.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air, and you can’t help but feel like he’s talking about more than just acting. You glance up at him, and the way he’s watching you—like he’s peeling back your layers—sends a shiver down your spine.

“I see,” you say, clearing your throat in an attempt to break the tension, “that certainly explains why your performances feel so authentic. You make it sound almost... personal.”

“It is personal,” he replies, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “Every role I take on, every scene I play—it’s all personal. That’s why people connect with it. They see themselves in it.”

You can’t help but be impressed, even as his words unsettle you. He’s infuriatingly good at this—at keeping you on your toes, at blurring the line between sincerity and seduction. But you’re not about to let him derail you. Not when you’ve finally gotten him to open up.

“Do you ever find it difficult to separate yourself from the characters you play?” you ask, leaning forward slightly despite yourself. He sees this, scooting his chair closer subtly.

Gojo’s smile widens, and for a moment, he looks almost amused. “Now that’s a good question,” he says, his tone laced with approval. “But the answer? No. I don’t separate myself from them. That’s the whole point. If I did, it wouldn’t be real.”

His response leaves you momentarily speechless, and he seems to relish the effect he’s having on you. “Anything else you want to know?” he prompts, his grin turning devilish. “Or are you ready to call it a night?”

Your grip tightens on your pen, and you force yourself to sit up straighter, refusing to let him see you flustered. “I’ve still got a few more questions,” you say firmly, meeting his gaze head-on. “If you’re up for it.”

“Oh, I’m always up for it,” he quips, leaning back in his chair with a smirk that’s equal parts infuriating and captivating. “Hit me with your best shot.”

With another nod, you look up from jotting your notes to see him sliding his rings off his slender fingers. For a moment, you do nothing but focus on the paleness of the digits. You remember him saying in an interview how his fingers were six inches long. You thought he was joking no doubt, doing it all for his thirsty fangirls. But now that you’re looking at them in person…he was actually telling the truth. Your gaze slides up to his forearms that are revealed from his messy, cuffed-up sleeves. Then they travel down his fingers to his small waist, finally to his thighs. Mentally cursing yourself, you glance back at his fingers that flex freely once they’re free from the constraints of the metal. You gulp down the dryness in your throat, an intrusive thought sneaking way into your brain—wondering about what it would feel like if they were—

“A little shameless of you.” He chuckles.

His voice snaps your eyes back up to his. You recognize the playful glint in them, your cheeks heating with embarrassment. “I—sorry. That’s inappropriate of me.”

Gojo leans forward for the nth time, resting his elbows on his knees as his lips curve into a smug grin. “Oh, don’t apologize,” he drawls, his tone oozing amusement. “I’m flattered, really. Most people just stare at my face—nice to know my hands are getting the attention they deserve.”

You let out a nervous laugh, gripping your pen tighter to ground yourself. “Um…it’s not like that,” you protest weakly, though the heat in your cheeks betrays you. “I was just... lost in thought.”

“Lost in thought, huh?” He raises an eyebrow, his grin widening as though he doesn’t believe a word you’re saying. “Thinking about anything particular?”

Your heart stutters, and for a moment, you forget how to respond. His gaze is too sharp, too knowing, like he’s reading the very thought you’d just shoved to the deepest recess of your mind. “Just about the interview,” you manage to say, your voice smoother than you expected. “I was trying to figure out how to phrase my next question.”

“Sure you were,” he teases, leaning back again and sliding his hands into his pockets. The movement draws your attention to the way his pale blue button-up shirt stretches over his broad chest, and you quickly force your eyes back to his face before he can catch you staring again.

“I was,” you insist, determined to salvage what’s left of your dignity. You clear your throat and flip to a fresh page in your notebook, desperate to steer the conversation back to safer territory. “Now, about your approach to emotional scenes—how do you tap into those raw feelings on set?”

Gojo chuckles, clearly enjoying the way you’re scrambling to regain control of the conversation. “Ah, so we’re back to work now? Alright, I’ll play along.” He taps his chin thoughtfully, the playful edge in his expression softening just a fraction. “Emotional scenes are all about honesty. You can’t fake it—not if you want the audience to feel it. You have to find something real, something that hurts, and let it bleed into the performance.”

His answer catches you off guard with its sincerity, and for a moment, you forget your embarrassment entirely. “Something real?” you echo, bending forward slightly. “So you draw from personal experiences?”

“Sometimes,” he admits, his voice lower now, more serious. “Other times, I imagine what it would be like to lose something—or someone—I care about.” His eyes darken briefly, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face before it’s gone, replaced by his usual cocky smirk. “But enough about me. It’s always about me, what about you, hm?”

You blink. “About me? I’m sorry but… I only came here to ask you questions.”

Gojo leans back in his chair, scooting closer in his chair. “Exactly,” he says, waving a hand lazily. “It’s always about me. The questions, the cameras, the lights. Don’t you think that gets boring?”

You tilt your head, once again caught off guard. “I... can’t imagine someone like you ever finding the spotlight boring,” you reply carefully, unsure of where he’s steering the conversation.

He grins, a little too self-satisfied. “Fair point. I do wear it well, don’t I? But that doesn’t mean I don’t get curious. You sit here with your little notebook, all professional and serious. But who are you when the recorder’s off? What makes you tick?”

The shift in focus has your defenses rising, and you straighten your back slightly. “I’m not the one being interviewed, Mr.—Satoru,” you correct yourself when his grin widens at your formality.

“No,” he says, tilting his head and giving you a once-over that feels far too perceptive. “But doesn’t mean I can’t ask, does it?”

You let out a nervous laugh, holding your notebook a little closer. “I don’t think that’s how this works.”

“Rules are boring,” he replies smoothly, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between you. His voice drops slightly, his tone more teasing than serious. “Come on, throw me a bone. A favorite movie, a weird hobby, your go-to midnight snack. Something.”

You hesitate, his gaze pinning you in place. It’s not like you have anything to hide, but the sudden spotlight feels unnerving. “Midnight snack?” you echo, deciding to humor him for the sake of moving things along.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes lighting up like you’ve just agreed to a game only he knows the rules to. “You know, since you’re obviously not here for Mediterranean food. What do you eat when you’re burning the midnight oil?”

You press your lips together, trying not to smile despite yourself. “Popcorn,” you admit finally. “Plain, with just a little salt.”

“Popcorn?” He raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely intrigued. “Huh. Kind of classic, but I can respect it. Guess I’ll have to stock up before our next late-night chat.”

You roll your eyes, though your cheeks warm at his casual mention of a “next time.” “I wouldn’t count on that,” you say dryly, but he only smirks, clearly not taking you seriously.

“We’ll see,” he says, leaning back again and waving a hand. “Alright, you’ve indulged me. Ask away again. I’m all yours.”

The shift back to the original topic throws you off balance, but you take the opportunity and flip open your notebook, determined to keep the upper hand this time. “Great. Let’s get back to your latest role then—”

“But popcorn, huh?” he interrupts, clearly not ready to let it go. “You don’t strike me as a plain kind of person.”

Your pen pauses mid-note, and you give him a pointed look. “Do you always talk this much during interviews?”

He grins, unapologetic. “Only when I’m having fun.”

You sigh, setting your pen down and narrowing your eyes at him, though the warmth in your cheeks betrays your annoyance. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a professional, you’re awfully good at derailing conversations.”

Gojo smirks, he fixes you with that signature, infuriatingly confident gaze. “What can I say? I like keeping things interesting.” His voice dips just slightly, low and teasing, and the way his eyes sweep over you feels more deliberate now, more pointed and slower. Like he’s appreciative. “But if I’m being honest… I don’t mind the view either.”

Your breath hitches, his words make your stomach jump. “The view?” you manage, your voice more balanced than you.

He cocks his head, his smirk widening. “You,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Sitting there, all serious and composed, trying so hard to keep this professional. But I see the way you look at me.”

Your heart stutters, your cheeks flushing hot. “I’m not—”

“Oh, you are,” he interrupts, his grin turning wolfish. “First my fingers,” he flutters his digits in a wavy motion. “Then my thighs,” he pats his lap. “Don’t think I didn’t notice, sweetheart.”

Your jaw drops slightly, heat creeping down your neck. “I was not—”

“Sure you weren’t,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair and stretching, his shirt pulling just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. His voice lowers, smooth as silk. “But if you want to keep staring, I won’t stop you.”

You swallow hard, gripping your notebook like it’s a lifeline. “Mr. Gojo, I don’t think this is appropriate.”

“Satoru,” he corrects, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “And who’s being inappropriate? I’m just making an observation.” He leans forward again, his voice dropping to a near whisper, intimate and teasing. “Besides, don’t you think it’s a little unfair? You get to ask me all these personal questions, but I can’t ask any about you?”

You shift in your seat, your pulse racing. “That’s not how interviews work.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs, his gaze darkening slightly as it locks onto yours. “But we’re not exactly following the rules, are we?”

The tension in the room thickens, his words hanging in the air like a challenge. You glance at the door, a small voice in the back of your mind warning you to cut this short, but another part of you—one you’re desperately trying to ignore—is drawn to the way his eyes seem to drink you in, the way his voice wraps around you like a warm, dangerous promise.

“I’m here to work,” you say finally, your voice firmer now, though it betrays a slight waver.

“And I’m here to have a good time,” he counters, his smirk softening into something more intimate, more dangerous. “Who says we can’t do both?”

You stare at him, your mind racing as you try to find the words to put an end to this—whatever this is—but he leans closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

“Tell me,” he says, his breath ghosting over your ear, “what’s the real reason you wanted to meet me tonight? Because I don’t think it’s just for an interview.”

You force yourself to not visibly react and jolt from the way he’s reached into your personal space so nonchalantly. “Then you’re mistaken. Because I have no other reason to be here if you won’t comply.”

“Oh yeah?” He chortles, glancing down at his fingers that barely skim along your thigh. If possible, his smile widens at the little startled gasp that falls from your pretty lips. “You want me to comply? Comply in what way?”

“H-hey,” you reach out to grip his fingers, effectively stopping their ascent. “What do you think you’re doing?”

When he pulls back enough, he stares into your eyes. It almost scares you just how blue they are up close. You don’t think you’ve ever seen something as majestic as them. Though saying that aloud will feed into his ego.

He tilts his head slightly, his smile turning wicked, like a predator playing with its prey. “What do you think I’m doing?” he counters, voice dropping to a husky whisper. The air between you crackles, and despite yourself, your grip on his fingers falters, his warmth sinking into your skin like a brand.

“Satoru,” you begin, your voice shaking ever so slightly, “this is highly inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” he echoes, coming just a little closer, his lips quirking in amusement. “I was just trying to get comfortable. Didn’t realize I’d make you so flustered.”

Your breath catches, his words striking a chord you’re not ready to acknowledge. “You’re awfully bold for someone who’s supposed to be answering questions,” you manage, your voice sharp despite the fluttering in your stomach.

“And you’re awfully composed for someone who’s blushing so much,” he counters smoothly, his eyes flicking to your cheeks.

“I’m not blushing,” you snap, your tone defensive.

“Of course not,” he replies, his smirk returning. “Just like you weren’t staring earlier.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you glare at him, attempting to regain control of the situation. “I’m not flustered either,” you retort, though your trembling fingers and flushed cheeks tell a different story.

He chuckles, low and intimate, and it sends a shiver racing down your spine. “If you say so,” he murmurs, leaning back slightly but never taking his eyes off you. His fingers slip free from your grasp, but the ghost of their touch lingers, a reminder of just how easily he’s unraveled your composure.

“You’re impossible,” you say, your tone sharp despite the unsteadiness in your chest.

“And yet,” he counters, his grin softening into something more dangerous, “you’re still here.”

You open your mouth to argue, to remind him that you’re here for work, but the words catch in your throat as he shifts again, this time resting his chin on his hand, his gaze trailing lazily over you.

“You’re fascinating, you know that?” he says, almost to himself. “All buttoned up and professional, trying so hard to keep me in line. But I wonder…” His eyes flick to your lips, lingering for a heartbeat before meeting yours again. “What would it take to make you unravel?”

You stiffen, the heat rushing through your body making it harder to maintain your composure. “You’re crossing a line,” you warn, though your voice is weaker than you’d like.

“Am I?” he asks, his tone teasing but his gaze piercing, as if daring you to tell him to stop. “Or are you just afraid of what might happen if I keep going?”

Your eyes dart all across his face, heart rapidly beating, so much so you think it’ll pop out of your chest. And yet, you slowly look back down at the hand that was just touching you. You feel yourself giving in the longer you stare.

He follows your gaze, then moves back up to your face. “You like them, don’t you?”

You nod, despite yourself.

“Knew it,” he smoothly quips back. “Do you want to feel them again? Maybe for longer?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with anticipation, and you can’t seem to swallow the lump forming in your throat. Your mind races, torn between the desire to pull away and the undeniable pull he has on you. His words—his voice—are like a drug, wrapping around your thoughts, clouding your judgment.

You force yourself to meet his gaze, but the intensity there makes it harder to keep your composure. “You’re... bold,” you murmur, trying to keep the tremor from your voice.

Gojo’s lips curl into a knowing smile. “Bold? Maybe. But I’m just asking what you want.” His tone is smooth, low, coaxing. “No need to be shy about it. You’ve been looking, haven’t you?”

Your eyes flicker briefly to his hand again before locking back on his face. His question seems almost too straightforward, too easy, and yet you can’t seem to lie. You feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the truth lingering just beneath the surface. “Maybe,” you admit softly, your voice a mix of hesitation and curiosity.

A soft chuckle escapes him, and his gaze sharpens. “Maybe isn’t an answer.” He leans in slightly, just enough to make your pulse spike. “Tell me, do you want to feel them again? Really feel them this time?” His voice drops to a near whisper, each word deliberate, measured.

You hold your breath, your entire body humming with uncertainty, but you can’t bring yourself to say no. The desire building within you makes your thoughts scatter, your defenses slipping away the longer you look at him. “I... don’t know,” you reply, the words barely audible.

Gojo watches you closely, his eyes darkening with something dangerous. “Mind if I find out for myself then?”

------

There’s a lot of things that you’ve never done in life.

Skydiving, bungee jumping, going backpacking, and making out with an A-list celebrity who’s name holds so much power. Well, that last one you can cross off, actually.

You really don’t know how things have changed so quickly and abruptly. One minute you’re writing down the answers to his questions and the next he’s on top of you.

You don’t think you’ve ever made out with someone for this long. But it feels surpassingly really good. Maybe it’s the way he’s keeping things slow, but purposeful. His hands run along the sides of your body, occasionally gripping your hips or rising high enough to brush along under your breasts. His lips are expertly working your own, leaving you gasping for air when he pulls away for a few seconds before diving in like a starving man. His tongue prods inside your mouth, dancing along yours in a sultry dance. Rubbing it and sucking on it a few times.

You feel him smile against your lips when the arms around his neck bring him in closer.

The kiss deepens, and with each second, you're losing yourself more in the heat of the moment.

His body presses against yours, warm and firm, and the sensation is so overwhelming that you can't tell where you end and he begins. Every breath, every shift of his lips, ignites something inside of you that you can't ignore.

His hands are everywhere now, roaming with an insistent hunger, fingertips brushing over your skin like he's savoring every inch. The low groans he releases when you kiss him back only fuel the fire building between you. He's so confident, so sure of what he wants, and you're too far gone to stop him. The logical part of your brain—that small voice telling you to slow down—is drowned out by the intoxicating thrill of being here, of being with him.

Your hands find their way to his shirt, pulling it free from where it's tucked in, fingers trailing underneath and over the hard planes of his chest. You feel him tense for a moment, as if considering pulling away, but then his hands tighten around you, pulling you even closer. His lips are everywhere—on your neck, your jaw, your ears—each kiss leaving a trail of warmth that burns deeper into your skin.

You gasp when his teeth graze your collarbone, a quiet moan slipping out before you can stop it.

That sound, that reaction from you, seems to drive him even further. "God, you taste really fucking good," he mutters between kisses, his voice thick with desire, making you shiver beneath him. “Almost can’t get enough.”

The weight of his body on top of yours feels right, too right. There’s escaping it now, no turning back. His touch is electric and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to remember what it felt like to breathe without him.

With one final, hard press against your lips, he pulls back. Shifting to his knees, looking down at your sprawled out figure beneath him, cheeks flushed a beautiful red, lips kiss-swollen, dilated pupils that match his. He grins and works at the rest of his buttons with one hand. “What happened to that pretty dress you were wearing earlier?”

“I…I changed.” You shakily mutter out, oblivious to the hint of rhetoric in his question.

“Yeah, I see that. But why?”

“Because it was uncomfortable.”

You attempt to sit up and help him, but he promptly guides you back down. Freeing his shirt, revealing a chest that looks like it belongs to a Greek God. It’s lean, but muscular. It’s perfect, you think to yourself. And you really want to run your tongue along it. “Uncomfortable?” He asks.

You nod.

“That sucks. I would’ve liked to taste you in it.” He’s working on his belt now. “Maybe next time? Wear it again for me?”

“I don’t know if there’ll be a next time.”

He laughs out, tossing the leather to the side and unbuttoning his slacks. It’s only then do you realize the obvious tent in his pants. Your eyes widen momentarily, if it already looks this big…how will it look once he’s naked? “There’ll be a next time.”

He hovers over you again, his fingers deftly walking at the button of your jeans, lips sucking a small mark into the side of your neck. His other hand on your thigh slides up towards your hip, grabbing the hem of your shirt and slowly starts to pull it up. “Now I wonder,” he murmurs, his lips leaving your neck and moving back towards your ear, “if I asked, would I hear a ‘no’ come out of you?”

You’re shivering, breathing labored. Your hands are holding onto his shoulders to keep you grounded. “…no.”

He smiles, kissing your cheek in a gentle manner as his hands simultaneously unbutton your jeans and pull your shirt up. “So, I don’t suppose I’ll hear a ‘no’ for getting a small peek at you, will I?”

“No,” you breathe out, shoving your face into his neck.

With a soft coo and ‘shh’, he’s removing your shirt from over your head. Then working on ridding you of your pants. “I hate jeans, makes things so much harder.”

Your legs tense up once they’re exposed to the cold air. He places his palms to your knees, carefully widening them enough to make space in between. “Have you ever been ate out?”

The question makes you feel more embarrassed—more vulnerable.

You swallow, your heart pounding in your chest. The question catches you off guard, making your skin prickle with both unease and something else you can’t quite name. You hesitantly shift, trying to keep your voice steady. “I… I have,” you manage to say, your gaze avoiding his as your cheeks flush.

“Good?” He licks at the inside of your knee.

Your face scrunches, brows knitting in the middle. “Y-yeah, somewhat.”

“Liar,” he chides, placing small kisses to the spot he just licked, looking up at you. “Can I try?”

And how could you say no? “Yes.” You reply quietly, watching his grin disappear behind your heated center. Eyes fluttering when he breathes warm air against it. Jolting your hips up, to which he holds them down in a gentle grip.

A wet spot has already formed on your panties. Unbeknownst to you, it boosts his ego. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.” He takes a taste through the fabric, silently simmering with enjoyment at the way you squeal. Licking once more before nuzzling his nose against your heat. He inhales deeply, like it’s a sweet flower bathed in honey. Once he’s satisfied, the speed at which he sparingly removes your underwear startles you.

But so does his mouth.

“Ah..!”

Your hand instinctively grips his snowy locks. He makes a noise of approval, lips locking around your puffy clit and giving a soft, but also harsh suck. The air practically removes your lungs, back arching off the bed. Mouth hung open, grip tightening around his hair. After a few seconds, he moves down to your fluttering hole.

His thumb and pointer finger spreading your folds to see you clenching around nothing. His cock throbs in his pants, begging to be released. Not yet, however. You first. His tongue swirls around your hole, licking up every single remnant of juice before digging in. Feeling out every ridge with his wet muscle, eyes closing in delight. His hands bring you closer by your hips, shoving your pussy in his face. The tip of his nose is rubbing against your abandoned clit in a teasing way that makes you hungry for me.

All you can do is gasp and moan out, pathetically rubbing against his mouth before his hands grip you back down in place. Forcing you to feel every amount of pleasure he can give to you. And god, does it feel heavenly. Your free hand is holding onto the sheets below you, crumpling under your fingertips.

Lewd sucking noises are coming from him. It’s obnoxious, just like when he was eating his food from earlier. It’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose. His tongue does a certain move that has you seeing stars, moving in and out at a rapid pace, then circling up to and around your clit before plunging back to your needy hole.

His thumb decides to partake, rubbing heated circles into your clit. “Nnn..nrgh…w-wai—” The words slip from you, just like your orgasm does. You don’t even know you’ve done it before he’s lifting his face up, revealing the pearlescent traces of your release. He doesn’t bother wiping it, instead leaning down to your lips. You taste yourself.

It’s a new taste, one you’re not entirely excited about, but the thrill of it all is making your clench. Shaky thighs being groped by his wandering hands before looking straight down at you. “I’m kind of jealous, you know?”

You’re too fucked out already, half-lidded eyes and mumbling back a simple “what?” to him.

He tsks and easily slips two fingers in. Keeling in on yourself, grasping his forearm for support. “Hey, don’t get all dazy on me now. I’ve just started.”

“I-I’m not…” you protest back weakly, your effort to meet his stare goes awry when you notice him frustratedly pulling the button off and zipper down, yanking the slacks down. With it goes his boxers and you’re shown a thin and curved cock. An angry red mushroom tip. A couple of veins run up his shaft, zig-zagging. He’s already leaking, pumping himself a few times.

A small groan leaves him, placing a hand beside your head. There’s a cinch between his white eyebrows, his face red and a tad bit sweaty. His lips are downturned slightly. After some heavy breathing, he looks back down at you. Silent seconds take over, nothing but the feel of your body against his, your short breathing, the way you look so ready but nervous at the same time. His face softens. “You can take it, yeah?”

His gaze is intense, but there’s something warmer in his eyes now—something that feels almost reassuring, like he’s giving you a choice. The way he watches you carefully makes your heart race, unsure of whether it’s fear or anticipation that grips you. You swallow, trying to steady your breathing, your fingers nervously clutching his shoulders.

The room feels charged with tension, every muscle in your body taut as you process his words. You can feel eyes stuck on you, oddly tender, and for a moment, everything feels suspended in time.

"Yeah," you finally manage, your voice a little shaky but resolute. "I can take it."

His eyes soften further, a trace of a smile tugging at his lips, as if reassured by your response. “Yeah, you can. You’re not a virgin, right?”

“No.”

“Mm,” he hums, nodding briefly before glancing down at his hardened cock, achingly close to where it needs to be. “How do you like it?”

You ponder his question in your mind quickly, not trying to drag out the moment any longer than it should be. “I…I like it hard. Fast, but slow too. I just want it to feel genuine, not like you’re only seeking your own pleasure.”

“Yeah?” The corner of his lip perks up, rubbing his tip along your cum soaked folds. He laughs softly under his breath. “Funny, that’s how I like to give it. Maybe we’re a match made in heaven.”

The humor of his you once found annoying—well, still annoying—feels strangely wholehearted. Like he’s trying to make you laugh and relax your tense muscles. And you do, he meets your look again. Bending down with a soft, saccharine kiss to your lips. The kiss feels more tender than before, like he’s trying to convey some hidden emotion to you behind it all. Or maybe it’s because he likes feeling you moan into his mouth as he’s slowly sliding his cock in.

He mirrors your whimper, moaning out in relief. You feel so snug around him, so tight. “So warm.”

For a minute, he doesn’t move, just basking in your heat. It feels like a warm blanket, he almost—almost—thinks he might cum right then and there with how good you feel. Satoru has had pussy before, good and not so good. “Fuck…oh fuck….y-you feel…really good…”

One thing that makes you the most weak…a vocal man in bed. You tighten around him, his whine gets a little higher-pitched. If this were a different situation, you think you would’ve poked fun at him for it. “Ngh…I—I am?”

“Mmmmnghm.” Is all he can reply back with before he’s moving back slowly, then back in.

Your nails are now digging into the skin of his back, legs locked around his waist. “Be careful, mkay?”

“W-what? Why?”

“Because I might cum faster with you holdin’—fuck—onto me like this.”

You can’t respond before he’s pulling out with a greater force and driving back into you with a harder one. The motion alone jolts your body up, causing your tits to jiggle from beneath their cups. You see the way he’s eying them hungrily, so you do him the favor of pulling them down beneath your breasts. They spill out and he’s immediately on them. Sucking and twirling a wet path around your perky nipple before showing the other breast the same excitement.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes…”

“A-ah! O-oh! Mmmngh!”

You almost feel baffled. He’s moaning more than you are.

His mind is filled with the warmth of you. “Fit like…a f-fuckin’…ring….!” He grunts out, followed by a broken laughter. “I think I’m obsessed.”

He’s leaving marks on your chest, but you don’t protest or even feel them. You’re solely focused on the way his cock is hitting every single spot in your pussy that you don’t even know could be reached. Eyes rolling back, clinging him closer. His tip kisses your g-spot repetitively. His balls slap against your ass, the sound is skin against skin with squelching noises fill the room. It’s erotic, completely provocative. But he’s actually living up to his word, and it seems like he’s more worried about making you finish for the second time tonight than reaching the line himself.

As the minutes go by, he’s moving harder. Barely giving you any time to breath from the force of it, but you’re not complaining.

“S-sat…oru…!” You whine out, biting on his shoulder in an attempt to keep your noises lower.

All that does is spur him on even more, his moans getting louder. The grip on your hip and tit tightening as he pounds his cock into your pussy with complete ease. “So wet, so wet, yeah…oh god, fuck…”

He’s mumbling at this point, but so are you. Each of you is blinded by the pleasure you feel, the passion that’s being emitted and the marks on your bodies that are carved in. His cock twitches, his pace relentless.

The look he gives you feels manic, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving up and down, nostrils flaring in and out. Your hair is messy, laid out beneath you. Mouth parted and dirty sounds exiting it. “I wish I could take a picture right now.” He comments slowly, feeling your thighs tighten. “It feels like your pussy is vibrating,” he chuffs. “Close?”

“Ngh…y-yes!”

“Yeah, me too, pretty. You first, r-right…behind….you….”

You don’t need to hear anything else. Finally letting go, a whimper-whine coming with it. When he looks down and sees the white ring form around his cock, he’s done for. Quickening his pace, gripping your hips with both hands. “Yeah…yeah…yeah…”

He moans in a pornographic way, an eruption of warmth fills you, leaving you in more of a blissed out state. A mixture of cum slowly dribbles out your spent pussy, he fingers it back in all the while his cock is still lodged between your folds. Slumping down on top of you, his face on your shoulder.

The sounds of heavy breathing are heard next, no words. Your chest heaves against his and your legs are like jelly. Slowly loosening their hold from around his waist and falling down to the bed on either side of him.

The silence is almost deafening, punctuated only by the sounds of your labored breaths. His hands move to your back, tender yet firm, as though he's holding onto the moment. The heat between you both is palpable, your bodies still connected in the aftermath of whatever just transpired. His thumb traces slow, soothing circles against your skin, and you can feel his breath matching yours.

You blink, trying to gather your thoughts, but everything feels hazy, like the world has slowed down just for the two of you.

Your body feels like it's still vibrating from the intensity, each breath a little deeper than the last as you struggle to regain some semblance of control. He shifts slightly above you, pressing against yours in the most familiar way, a warmth that you can't quite pull away from.

Slowly, you tilt your head to meet his gaze, your eyes locking with his with an unspoken understanding. He regards you with a tenderness, something different than before.

His fingers lightly brush against your cheek, as if reassuring you that the silence, though heavy, isn't uncomfortable. "Are you okay?" His voice is low, rough, carrying more than just the weight of the question.

You nod, your lips curling into a small, uncertain smile as you lean into his touch. "Yeah, are you?" You don't know exactly what you feel, but in this moment, it's enough to be with him like this.

“Better than okay,” he proudly huffs, carefully sliding out of you, keeping aware of your facial expressions. “Stay here.”

He’s climbing off of you and standing up from the bed. His knees buckle a little, forcing the limbs to walk over to a cabinet in the other corner. His dick flapping as it softens makes you chuckle. When he looks over, you hide it with a cough.

You hear him look for some things through drawers, glancing back over, it’s a rag that he wets under the sink with warm water. He comes back over, carefully opening your legs back up and cleaning up the sticky mess between them. He works gently and slowly, making sure his movements aren’t too hard or fast for you.

A thought suddenly hits you.

“Hey…” you take your time sitting up once he’s down, seeing him lick something off the tip of his thumb. “When you said you were jealous earlier, what did you mean?”

“Oh, that?” He leisurely asks, grabbing the water bottle nearby and taking a sip before holding it to your mouth. You oblige. “I meant I was jealous that someone else got to you before I did.”

“O-oh…” he swipes at the water drop at the corner of your mouth. “But…why?”

“Why?” He repeats, chortling. A sudden soft peck is placed on your lips. “Because I’ve seen you interviewing all those people and I’ve been waiting for my turn. And if you didn’t already notice, I think you’re a very beautiful woman. Inside and out.” He pokes lightly at your thigh.

You blink, as he’s once again managed to throw you off the railings.

“So next time don’t bring all…this,” he lazily gestures to your notebook, pencil, and recorder, rolling his eyes. “Just yourself, that cute dress, and a smile. I’ll pick you up for dinner down that street.”

a/n: hope u guys enjoyed this :) i haven't written a smut piece in a while so im not toooo confident about my work in this. anywho, reblogs and comments are apprecaited <3 thank you all!

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zeta-in-de-walls · 1 day ago

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It's so funny to see all of Dream's manipulative and malicious tactics he's always used in dramas to be properly called out.

None of this is new. Dream loves to sound patronizing to belittle his opponents, to downplay, to put things out of context while throwing so many words and explanation and confusion that it all gets lost. Dream keeps responding because the more he says, the more chance there is that the other person will just give arguing with him because why bother and Dream can act like he has the last word.

He is so misleading. Now he's demanding evidence from anyone he interacts with while cherrypicking what he wants to respond to. Evidence does not clear up as much as you might think.

Information is beautiful. Using graphs and screenshots and making use of data to support your points is gorgeous. It's so satisfying to read a well-constructed argument.

...

Misinformation is beautiful. Using carefully selected graphs and screenshots and making selective use of data to support your points and skew the narrative is gorgeous. It's so satisfying to read a well-constructed argument. It's almost impossible to tell it apart from the real thing.

But today, Dream has gone against someone who has a lot of fans, a lot of fans who know Dream very well and who are patient enough to genuinely dissect his arguments. He lashed out at a beloved figure who's had little real drama and it's crazy how obviously weak his justifications are.

Today he's getting a lot of attention from drama but soon enough it'll pass and Dream's left with even less than he had. Hatewatching is a very temporary hit.

He even mainchanneled this stuff so his viewers who only interacted with him on youtube and barely know much about drama have been made aware. His vid isn't that damning in isolation but some of them are gonna be intrigued enough to check out responses and find out how crazy it is.

#dream situation

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colorlessjay · 3 days ago

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Does s16 Dean miss his version of Cas? Like I imagine him having fun being all flirty but he’s bearded now. In my mind bearded Dean ( tougher appearance = weaker the sauce) has very strict priorities starting with his husband and ending with Cas. Sure he doesn’t want to ruin the future… but him being able to stfu about his husband? Impossible…

ngl this gave me an idea

Remember how I said in a previous post that one of the nicknames Dean uses for Cas is "my Wife"? I imagine if anyone asks about the ring, he just tells them he has a beautiful wife and cut the conversation short

Dean doesn't wanna spoil the future, nor does he really wanna fuck up the timeline that leads to his perfect Apple Pie Life, so he keeps information vague

But he also can't help himself gravitate and be gentle towards Castiel. So he excuses a lot of his behavior as "We get real close in the future" "We're best friends down the road. Thick as thieves" "I put you through a lot of shit, so I wanna make up for it again" just anything to excuse why he's being so affectionate

Technically Dean's still talking about his husband, he's just talking about him to Cas' younger self if that makes sense?

#destielbttfau #castiel #dean winchester #destiel

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rebelfell · 8 hours ago

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So this might be a stretch, but bear with me…

What if you and Steve randomly hooked up?

Like you were sober enough to use a condom, but not enough to notice when it breaks?

And you don’t even really realize what happened for a while, but once you do Steve is already gone. Maybe he gets back together with Nancy and he goes with her to Emerson, or he just leaves for college on his own and barely says goodbye.

Either way, you’re sort of stuck.

You never tell anyone who the father is, just sort of sweep it under the rug in your mind. You know how much Steve has been through and how he’s struggled to finally find a direction in life. You can’t bear to be the one that robs him of it.

But then in like two years or so, he comes back for a visit. And all his friends flock to him to spend time with him, except for you. He calls and he calls and he calls, but there’s no answer.

He thinks maybe you’re avoiding him because of what happened and he can’t take that, he feels so terrible about how it all went down. And he meant to call over the years, but he just didn’t know what to say. Still doesn’t, honestly.

So he finally decides to just go over to your house once and for all. He knocks on the door, ready to deliver a string of long-overdue apologies, to basically grovel at your feet if necessary.

And when you answer the door, it’s just about impossible to read the expression on your face.

Still, you let him in. And he sees all the baby stuff that litters your living room. And he hears gurgles and soft coos as he follows you in the house. And he sees your kid sprawled on a play mat, so tiny and yet sporting the thickest head of hair he’s ever seen on an infant in his life.

Suddenly that ‘unreadable’ look on your face is starting to make a whole lot of sense.

The wheels are turning behind his eyes. He’s doing the math and coming pretty much to the only conclusion he can. But it’s still possible it’s not his, right? He doesn’t know anything about what babies look like at what age—Mr. Six Little Nuggets has only ever thought about kids in the most abstract, theoretical terms.

So it’s possible it wasn’t until after Steve left.

It’s possible, right? It has to be possible, because if Steve has had a kid all this time and he had no idea, it would make him the biggest ass on the planet. So maybe it’s not his. Maybe it’s—

Then suddenly your kid rolls onto their stomach, pushes up on tiny, pudgy little forearms…

And starts crawling backwards.

STRANGER THINGS 4.09 | Chapter Nine: The Piggyback

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve stranger things #stranger things

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daycourtofficial · 1 day ago

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Tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one - part four

Pairing: Eris x reader x Azriel | WC: 3.3k | warnings: general angst, nudity, horniness

Summary: despite the disastrous turn last night took, life continues on. Maybe, just maybe Eris’s treatment of you has Azriel reconsidering things.

Author’s note: happy birthday to me! I’m giving you all angst. Your anguish is the best present I could ask for 🫶🏻 (ps eventually things will be shifting, I promise the angst train has an end in sight)

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The rest of the night had been terrible. After retiring to your room, you bathed quite angrily, splashing water all over the room, uncaring at the mess you made. Even the calming atmosphere of your bathroom did little to improve your mood. You wanted to be more destructive, wanted to throw the bottles of product that lined your bathtub. You added smelling salts and bubbles, lit candles, did everything to calm yourself. In spite of it, adrenaline and jealousy kept pumping through your veins.

It wasn’t just anger and jealousy threatening to tear you apart - the emptiness you felt in your chest made you contemplate sticking your head beneath the water. The once strong mating bond that consumed your every thought was silent, the spot it occupied in your chest feeling like it would collapse in on itself at any moment. Even during your week of avoiding Azriel, some primal part of you still relished in the feeling of him in your chest, at least just knowing he was there.

But now he wasn’t and the bath felt more alone.

Your vexation carried you from the bath to your bed, making it impossible to even read Azriel’s latest journal. You were angry and worried, stuck staring at your ceiling all night, begging for the goddess of sleep to take you under.

She must have taken pity on you at some point, but your sleep still hadn’t been enough. Your eyes were heavy when you woke, head pounding as you went about your day. Most of it was spent with Madja, brewing potions and salves to drop off to patients at the end of the day. The healer had a few appointments with longtime patients, so you spent the afternoon alone finishing drafts and brews. The silence didn’t bother you as much today - your anger long gone, its departure making ample room for the growing hole in your chest.

Overthinking and doubt kept your mind occupied as you went through the motions of bottling and labeling. Would you see Azriel today? His sudden departure last night left your skin burning from his withdrawn touch.

The mating bond was still silent as you worked, a first in the months since the bond had made itself known to you. You passed, a thought overtaking you.

Azriel had seemed startled to know about it, but had he been feeling you inside of his chest since he found out the truth? Or was his chest a tangle of yours and Eris’s emotions? Presently they were likely the same emotions, if Eris’s anger at seeing you was anything to go off of.

You couldn’t drag out the bottling forever, eventually reaching the end with many more thoughts to untangle and work through. A sigh escaped from your lips, but you checked all the vials, ensuring every fae you were supposed to see today had a matching vial. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath, trying to center yourself. The deliveries wouldn’t be too difficult, only a moment of interaction with each patient, but the turmoil you felt made the simple task seem monumental.

How were you supposed to chat with these fae and pretend everything was fine when you had a mate out there who was betrothed to another?

The breath helped you feel slightly better, but it was more difficult than you’d like to admit to take that step out into the sun, the brightness nearly blinding after your night of solitude and sadness.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as you expected. You ran all around Velaris, your feet more sore with each delivery, the pain a new thing to fixate on. The bright sun had made the throbbing in your head worse, the bright reflections off of windows making you squint as you walked the streets.

Your lack of sleep did little to help your mood, but you tried to put on a happy front for the fae you saw semi-regularly. Sleeping tonics, tonics to prevent chills or locking joints, even energy boosting tonics rattled about in your pouch as your boots hit the cobbled streets.

At some point the sun had become hidden by clouds, making the journey a little less intense.

The last potion had been dropped off, just in time for a light snow to begin to fall. You huffed out a breath, watching the air in front of your face steam up from the heat. You smiled, thinking of the tales from childhood of dragons fanning out breaths of fire.

Your chest opened up, the subtle feeling that was Azriel crept back inside, nestling deep within you. His presence in your chest was comforting, a gentle reminder that you weren’t alone.

You turned your attention back to the path ahead only to find the shadowsinger himself where you were headed, his large wings tucked in behind himself, a polite smile on his face. Gone was the anger that dropped your hand and coated the silence, replaced now with as much joy as Azriel puts on display when out in public.

Seeing Azriel at the end of the road once more was a welcome surprise. Every day that you worked he waited for you there before flying the two of you back to the House of Wind. At first you had apologized profusely each time he came, worried he found it tedious and would resent you for it. After the routine of it fell into place, you had stopped apologizing.

Once Azriel had been away, unable to collect you, he sent Cassian in his stead. His brother was not nearly as gentle as he was during the flight, your face more green once you landed at the House.

The next day Azriel had been waiting for you, a box of pastries in apology. The taste of powdered sugar filled your mouth as you remembered him flying you to a park, sharing with him the sugary sweets.

When you had left for work this morning, you thought he would have forgotten to do it, hiding himself away once more. Maybe the Mother made you two mates because she found the two most avoidant fae and thought it would be funny to stick them together, her favorite form of entertainment watching the two of you find one reason or another to avoid each other.

Once you got close enough, you smiled up at him, a weight of worry about him sliding from your shoulders into the thin patch of snow.

“Hi Az.”

He smiled in return, not a trace of the previous day on him. It felt almost like a dream the way he had pushed you aside so quickly.

“How was your day?”

“My feet hurt. I’ve been every which way in Velaris today dropping off restocks.” You don’t mention the previous day, your lost sleep, your being locked out of your bond, or your resolution to beat Eris for Azriel’s affections. You stuck to a safe topic. “I think my boots lost their conformity to my feet in the week I took off.”

He chuckled, wings shaking slightly. The smile made him so beautiful against the snowy backdrop, his black wings and dark skin against the glistening snow making him more radiant. His shadows trailed lazily in the cracks of the cobblestone around you, several of them lingering in your shadow. One bold shadow lingered behind you, swirling where the shadow of your lips laid.

“May I escort you back to the house? Unless there was something else you needed in town.”

You paused, pretending to mull over his question. Had something happened since you saw him almost twenty four hours ago? Had he discovered how terrible Eris truly was by now? You pursed your lips, trying to stop the smile on your face at the thought. A small part of you hoped that wasn’t the case - you were prepared to go to the ends of the earth to compete with Eris Vanserra, ready to prove your worth as a mate to Azriel. Gloating to the redhead was the ultimate goal.

A forfeit from the Autumn heir seemed almost in poor spirit.

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

Stepping forward, his shadows began curling around you, pulling you to their master. You strained your ears, certain you could almost hear a tiny voice cooing mine, mine, mine. Azriel’s warm hand pressed against your back as he lifted you with ease, pressing you tighter to his chest than normal. You were still upset, toeing that line of wanting to mention it. You looked up to find him already looking at you, his eyes shining with adoration, knocking any ill feelings from you.

“Ready?” His smooth voice was quiet, just for you. Just like he should be.

You nodded, your nose rubbing against his neck for warmth. The mating bond pulled at your chest, urging every part of you to touch him. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he took off, fresh fallen snow flying once more as he flapped his wings.

You spent the entire flight focused on his face, watching the snow pile in his dark hair. His heat caused some of the snow to melt, water droplets moving down his neck to beneath his leathers. Your hands were ice without your gloves, a forgotten part of your wardrobe in your tired decision making this morning. You huddled your hands closer to him, pressing them where his chest met your body, desperate for warmth to bring life back to them.

“Almost there.” His arm tightened around you, and you felt his hand reaching out, trying and failing to reach your cold hands.

The House of Wind looked resplendent in the snow, something out of a fairytale. His wings glided through the sky, the snow sliding across the membrane. Azriel landed with practiced ease, a gentleness that kept surprising you. Instead of setting you down like he normally did, he moved forward, his steps gentle. You looked around, confused why you were still in his arms as he stepped inside the house.

“Az, what are you doing?”

“Carrying you.” You sighed as his mouth turned up slightly into a smile, clearly proud of himself for his joke. The flight had already made him shed the public persona he adopts, even in the streets of Velaris.

“I can see that, but why?” Your tone held a touch of faux irritation, only causing his smile to widen.

“Your feet hurt.”

Those words stopped all protests on your tongue. He was caring for you. For you. The thought had heat creeping up your cheeks.

Maybe he felt the same way you had about Eris. That things with you could be easy. That Eris was hard to love, hard to keep secret. But you - you were kind, his family would be much happier with your mateship than his with Eris.

He led the two of you right before your door, a shadow creeping up to twist the handle. Flurries of black slithered the floor beneath your bathroom, the sound of running water making its way beneath the door.

Azriel sat you down in a chair. He kneeled before you before he began unlacing your boots. He looked beautiful, the sight of him before you sent heat through your body.

A little moan escaped as he removed your boot, rotating your ankle to help sooth the dull ache. He started working on the other shoe until that one came off as well. He took his time, scarred hands massaging your calves, his fingers moving in soft circles.

His ministrations slowly took the day off your feet, the ache duller with each passing second until he slowly tapered off, his hands lingering for a moment on your calves.

“I think you can do the rest of this.” He gestured to your clothes, and it took everything not to ask what if I want you to do it?

You were quiet instead as he stood up, dusting off his pants. Your eyes moved to his thighs, trailing to find the imprint of his cock stretching his pants. You curled your hand into a fist, trying to keep your own arousal to a minimum.

Patience.

“I’ll be in the library again, if you wish to sit with me after your bath.”

Your hand reached out, wrapping around his wrist. One word floated through your mind.

“Stay. Please.”

Azriel’s cheeks flushed a brilliant shade that made him so endearing in the moonlight.

“I have books you could read or you could bring your work in here.” He was starting to consider it, hesitation clear in his face. “I’d like the company.”

His shadows danced around him as he sat on the bed, waiting patiently. You stared back at him, slightly surprised it actually worked. Getting Azriel to change his mind was a feat worthy of a trophy. He was the most stubborn of his brothers, an insane feat considering your fight with Cassian over raisins months ago that he still brought up on occasion. Pushing yourself out of the chair, you kept your eyes on him.

“You could sit in the bathroom with me.”

His body stiffened, and doubt crept up your throat. Had you gone too far?

“Do you have any books to suggest?”

You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading before bounding over to your bookshelf, fingers gliding across spines you had abandoned these past few weeks in favor of Azriel’s journals. You quickly find one you know he’d enjoy - a tale of deceit and lies that see two spies falling in love despite their mistruths.

You thrusted the book into his hands, your fingers meeting his before slowly peeling your hands away and turning to the bathroom. A few shadows curled around your ankles as you went, their cool caresses sending heat through your body.

You tossed your hair on top of your head quickly, leaving your outer clothes in a pile on the floor before sliding into the warm water. The comfort the bath provided began instantly, your muscles relaxing.

A shadow squeezed between the door and floor, its entrance dramatic and impossible to miss. You peered over the bathtub as it approached you, reaching your hand out to pet it.

“He can come in.” The shadow hesitated, staying in your proximity, lavishing in your praise as you kept stroking along it. It felt cool and like a contained breeze. You had touched Azriel’s shadows before and they generally had two states - a more solid form like now, where it feels like you’re touching it, and a more loose form, where your hand would pass right through it.

The shadow stretched out like a cat, black wispiness elongating before it finally moved back beneath the door. A moment passed before Azriel walked through the bathroom, his boots loud on the tile. He passed quickly, finding the wall opposite where you faced, sitting and leaning his back against it. A smile crossed his lips as he met your eye before opening the book, sinking slightly further into the floor.

It felt so domestic to be in the tub while he read. The slight musk of his arousal clung to you, the intoxicating scent driving you wild. It wasn’t inherently sexual to be naked in the bath while he sat a few feet away.

Thoughts raced as you thought of the daily routine this could become - the way his hands would trail down your body, helping you with buttons and laces, your own fingers working to undo the intricacies of his leathers. He could be in the tub with you right now, his strong chest behind you as you two read or gossiped about the day.

There’d be a lull, a domestic quiet that say Azriel’s hands moving beneath the bath water, stroking up your thigh, closer and closer to right where you needed him.

You were sure this present version of Azriel could smell you in the room and you weren’t sure if you were disappointed or not he hadn’t mentioned it. His eyes stayed focused on the book in front of him, flipping pages on occasion.

The water stayed warm, but you were tired of Azriel’s focus never making its way to you. A shadow curled around his ear as you reached out of the tub, your towel just a bit past arm’s reach. Azriel’s hand wrapped around the towel, gently unfolding it and holding it out, waiting for you to step into it. You looked up at him, the red tips of his ears the only hint at the effect this has on him.

He looked away as you stood up, his eyes fixated on the ceiling as the water splashed in the tub.

You reached your hands out, using his arms for balance as you stepped out, guiding his hands to wrap the towel around you.

Azriel finally looked back down, his hazel eyes almost black as they met yours. Your hand met his chest, needing his sturdiness to keep your legs from giving out. The low light of the bathroom cast shadows throughout his face, the darkness an endless part of him.

Scarred hands reached up and held your face with such delicacy you almost melted. The water was still in the tub behind you, no sound to be heard save for the anticipation drumming your heart rate.

His lips were so close to yours, one lone shadow moving between your shared breaths, exacerbating the distance between you two. You prepared yourself - breathing in and out, about to push forward, make the leap, when a sharp inhale stopped you.

“I can’t.” Azriel didn’t move, his eyes pained with turmoil. Somewhere deep in your chest your heart shattered, the pieces falling to your stomach. “I can’t cross that line. Not without Eris.”

“Eris?” You said his name as if it was a deadly plague.

Him?

If Eris was still in the picture, why had Azriel come to find you? Why had he been so kind? Why had he treated you with a tenderness you’ve only experienced from lovers?

“I can’t betray him like this. Not after everything.” His hands gripped your waist tighter, as if by sheer force he could change the circumstances.

“I don’t understand, Az. I’m your mate too.”

“Yes, but I haven’t made any promises to you.”

The shattered pieces of your heart were splintering, the pain radiating through your torso, the string around your heart squeezing so tight it was threatening to kill you.

“So I’m once again punished for not being first in line with the mating bond.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” You had to look away from him, unable to look at the pleading in his eyes any longer. What he wanted - you to leave, you to stay, for all of this to be different - you didn’t know.

“It’s certainly what I’m hearing. If you can’t be with me because of Eris, why did you seek me out?”

“It wasn’t intentional.”

“When was it not intentional? You brought me home, you made me a bath. You helped me out of my clothes, Azriel! That’s not something I’d let Cassian do!”

The soft growl Azriel let out at his brother’s name gave you pause.

“I didn’t do that out of friendship.”

“Then what was it out of?”

He stared at you, his mouth opening and closing, indecision laying on his tongue. A shadow nudged his back in encouragement, something he didn’t find. He was grasping, searching for something that never came.

Each beat of your heart caused you to sink further and further into despair.

“Well, if you don’t even know why you’re here, maybe you should leave.”

A wing twitched over his shoulder, but no other part of him moved for a whole minute. The silence was almost painful, his shadows floating in the still air until they were disturbed by their master turning his grip loose on you, leaving you alone once more.

Divider by @tsunami-of-tears 🫶🏻

Only, only one taglist: @paleidiot @becstersworld @seasonallyapril @buttermilktea11 @wolfbc97 @carmenadkins78 @shadowsingercassia @abysshaven @myromanempiree @snatched-bubblegum-bitch @chaos-on-stand-bi @moonlwghts @witchymomfrien @awkwardnerd @ssmay123 @scarsandallaz @meritxellao @saltedcoffeescotch @2ooopenbook @wintersquirrel @manicmanuscription @wavegirl @thisishwrworld @tempermentalbookworm @romantasyreader28 @marina468 @i-know-i-can @rcarbo1 @lifesdisasters @tele86 @ireneisbored @yazzzmints @azysmate @bsenpai @curiosandcourioser @elisha-chloe @yasmin-oviedo @that-one-little-soybean @azrielslittledove @stormieandateacup @anon1227 @phoenix666stuff @asahinasstuff @acourtofbatboydreams @anainkandpaper @mother-above @sunshinedayz19 @bibliophilr @famousprincesscollector @calamislunafox

If you want to be on my taglist or aren’t getting tagged, let me know 🫶🏻

Thanks for reading 🥰

#only only one #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel fanfic #azriel x you #acotar writing #eris fanfic #eris x azriel x reader #eris x reader #eris x y/n #azriel x y/n #azriel x eris x reader #reader x eris x azriel

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bitter-me · 1 day ago

Text

Flustered Biker Boy

Lighter | M. Reader

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Based on one of his Trust Events, where he got flustered/shy from being called handsome. So I took it and multiplied it by three.

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"The Red Scarf," "the Undefeated Champion," "the Champion of the Sons of Calydon."

So many titles just for one man. He must be a legend if people speak of him in such a way. Someone that could be considered as a myth. So surreal that there's no way someone like him truly exists. It's impossible to think one person has the ability fight at least 50 men. Alone. All at once. And emerge victorious.

Yet it's all true. That man does exist and that man...

Is currently trying to hide his face with his scarf.

[Name] laughs at Lighter's reaction. He had just called him handsome and he's already so flustered? Is this the same Champion they talk about in the Outer Ring? But hey, he's not complaining. It's cute~

"Is something wrong? Your face is red." To see Lighter's face slowly rivaling the red of his scarf is a sight to behold. A sight.. only for him to see. Oh what privilege.

Lighter didn't respond. Instead he just cleared his throat. "Anyways.." He tries to act all cool and suave. As if being called handsome earlier didn't affect him in such a way which only earned him another laugh from [Name].

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Hanging out with Lighter had always been a joy. Despite his appearance and the whispers about him. He's quite the character. A man of power who sometimes has a childish streak. Someone who can play along and have fun but act all serious when the situation demands it. Who wouldn't love someone like that? Someone from the Outer Ring?

"Oh, they have a couple discount on the milk tea." [Name] thought out loud the moment he read the sign in front of the store. With a cheeky grin he glances over at Lighter and instantly links his arms around the other, making a B-line to the store.

Lighter was about to ask what's wrong only to be cut off by [Name]'s next words. "Excuse me, we like to take the couple discount, please."

Heat instantly makes its way onto Lighter's face. He originally thought that they were in some kind of danger. That someone was stalking them and planning to strike, which is why [Name] linked their arms like that. Trying to lead both of them to safety or something, but no. He was wrong. There wasn't some bad guy for him to fight. No, this is a different fight. A battle against..

..Economy.

Oh the things they do for a discount.

Meanwhile [Name] is extremely happy with himself. They've gotten milk tea for half the price and saw Lighter trying to hide his flustered face by drinking his milk tea.

What a great day to be alive.

----------

In this quality time of theirs. The two decided to go to the Outer Ring. So far [Name] had always suggested something in New Eridu, making excuses that Lighter should learn a few things about the city. But this time it was his turn to learn about the Outer Ring with Lighter as his guide.

But of course, time flies by fast when you're having fun.

Getting off of the bike [Name] stretched out his limbs with a groan. He had nearly forgotten how long the ride was from the Outer Ring to New Eridu. However it was more than worth it.

"You know, I had fun today." He began slowly before planting a small kiss on Lighter's cheek and pulls away with a cheeky grin. "See you later, biker boy." And with that he went straight towards the front door. Leaving an obviously red Lighter alone on his bike.

The red scarf had always suited him. Making him quite the eye candy. But a red face would definitely make him ten times more handsome.

#seme male reader #top male reader #zenless zone zero #zenless zone zero x reader #zenless zone zero x male reader #zzz #zzz x reader #zzz x male reader #x male reader #zzz lighter #lighter x reader #lighter x male reader #sons of calydon

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arc-misadventures · 2 days ago

Note

Can we get team RWBY's reaction to Jaune helping Whitley get a date and actually start to bulk up

Do You Even Lift, Bro?!

: GrrRRrrrRRR?! RAAHHHH?!!

(Thud!)

: Ha haa haaa...

: H-How did I do...?

: Congratulations, you've managed to do half of a push up.

: I'm making progress!

: Yeah...

Jaune Arc, Huntsmen, Atlasian Specialist, and stuck between a love triangle of imaginable possibilities, both good, and bad. He was stuck on what was slowly becoming an impossible task: Training the twig of a human being, Whitely Schnee to bulk up, more so for his personal imagine, than anything else. His crush would probably like it if he bulked up a bit, but, Fiona didn't strike him as the type who was into muscles.

Jaune: Granted not being able to do a pushup, to being able to do half of a push up is an improvement. All be it an insignificant one...

Jaune: Okay, get up, we'll move on to weights...

Jaune offered, Whitely a hand who took it. Jaune effortlessly lifted him up, even getting some air in the process. Jaune was starting to think he needed to see a doctor, the boy was so light, he was starting to fear he was underweight, or something else.

Jaune: Okay, there's like... no strength in your arms, so we'll work on some dumbbells. Let's start with... five pounds. Okay?

Whitely: Okay!

Jaune handed over one five pound dumbbell, and when he grabbed it what happened, Jaune had expected to happen.

Whitely: Wa-Ahh?!

(Thud!)

Jaune: ...

Jaune watched as, Whitely effortlessly, and helplessly dropped the dumbbell, because it weighed too much, and the kid couldn't hold it in the air for one second.

Jaune: Haa... Okay... We'll start with a, two pound dumbbell...

Whitely: Okay...

Jaune handed, Whitely a two pound dumbbell, and while he was struggling to hold it, he didn't drop it at least.

Jaune: This is going to be harder than I expected...

Weiss: Jaune? Jaune is that you? What are you doing hereeeeeeeee...?

Jaune turned to see, Weiss staring at him with a faint blush across her face. Jaune was dressed in shorts, and a tight tee-shirt showing off his definitive muscles he gained from his life as a huntsmen.

Yang: Ahh, Weiss here you are what are you...?

Blake: Is something going on... Oh..

Ruby: Damn...

Jaune: Girls, can I help you?

Weiss: Ahh... y-yeah... What are you doing here... in the families home gym... and, since when did we have one?

Jaune: Oh, I'm just helping, Whit start his exercise routine.

Blake: Whit?

Jaune moved to the side to see, Whitely Schnee lifting a dumbbell. At least trying to that is.

Weiss: Whitely?!

Whitely: Hmm...? Oh, hi, Weiss!

Weiss: W-What are you doing here?

Whitely: Oh... I'm bulking up!

Weiss: Why?

Whitely: Well... Okay... Can you guys guess my age?

Ruby: Uhh... thirteen?

Blake: I'd say thirteen.

Yang: I agree, I'd guess your thirteen years old.

Whitely: Oh gods...

Weiss: What?! He's seventeen?!

Ruby: What?!

Yang: Seventeen...? This baby faced twig...?!

Blake: Bullshit.

Jaune: Yeah... I thought he was fourteen too. I recommended he change his diet, and bulk up so people don't think he's a kid. That, and he needs to put on some weight, this kid is as light a feather... See?

Whitely: Wha...? No, not again!

Jaune once again effortlessly picked up, Whitely by the scruff of his shirt, and held him in the air.

RWBY: ...

Yang: Ouch...

Weiss: How much do you weigh?!

Jaune: Hmmm...?

Weiss: Whoa...? Hey?!

Jaune grabbed, Weiss by her shirt, and held her in the air like he did with, Whitely. Jaune shook the pair up, and down for a moment.

Jaune: A little less then what, Weiss does.

Yang: Okay...

Blake: He didn't even have to try...?

Weiss: Put me down you brute?!

Jaune: Whoops. Sorry.

Jaune then let the to go, with, Weiss landing gracefully on her feet, while, Whitely fell flat on his ass.

Whitely: Ow!

Jaune: Oh, sorry, Whit.

Whitely: It's okay. I should have been prepared for the drop.

Blake: Why are you calling him, Whit?

Jaune: It's just a nickname I gave him. And, also a cover for when he goes down to, Mantle again.

Weiss: You've been to, Mantle?!

Whitely: Hasn't everyone?

Weiss: It's a dangerous place with lots of people that would harm you!

Whitely: I know that. Do you think I go dressed as in my suit when I go down there, no, I looked like some skater kid when I'm down there. No one recognizes me. You didn't recognize me when I 'bumped' into you.

Weiss: You bumped into me when we're were in, Mantle?

Ruby: Were you the guy that almost made, Weiss trip?

Whitely: Yep! That was me~!

Weiss: You...?! I almost fell into a pool of dirty water, because of you?!

Whitely: Really? I hadn't notice that.

Weiss: Grr! Why you little twerp?!

Jaune: You nearly did that? Maybe you should bulk up too, Weiss.

Weiss: Excuse me?!

Jaune: Now then, is there something we can help you with? Otherwise, Whitely needs to continue his exercises. Get back to it, Whit!

Whitely: Okay.

Blake: No, we were just here because we heard you voice, and we were curious about what you were doing here.

Jaune: Okay.

Whitely: How many of these should I do?

Jaune: When it starts to hurt, count to twenty.

Whitely: But, it already hurts!

Jaune: Then start counting!

Whitely: Grrr...

Ruby: Well, we're going to some shoppes in, Atlas... do you... do you want to come with us...?

Jaune: No thank you, I don't need anything.

Ruby: Oh... o-okay...

Yang, Blake, and Weiss shared a look before making a silent agreement that they needed to end this, and leave before anything happened.

Blake: We better get going...

Weiss: Yeah, don't want to miss the next airship.

Yang: Well, good luck, Whitely!

Whitely: Thank you!

Yang: And, Jaune, keep on looking fine, and hoooooowwWWW?!

: He's looking like what, Yang?

Weiss: W-Winter?

The members of team, RWBY turned to see, Winter Schnee. Smiling a warmthless smile as she was crushing, Yang shoulder.

Yang: H-He's looking...?! Looking...?! Owowowowowo! Please let me go!

Winter: Looking like what, Yang~?

Yang: H-He's looking like a strong, and dependable senior helping out his young disciple?!

Winter: That's right~!

Winter smiled as she walked past, Yang letting go of her shoulder in the process.

Yang: Ahhh?! Ha haaa...?!

Blake: Are you okay?

Yang: Woman's got a grip like a mechanical vice?!

Winter: Now then, why don't you run along girls. I will help, Jaune here with, Whitely's training.

Ruby: A-Are you sure you don't want our help...?!

Winter then turned bending down as she placed her hands on, Ruby's shoulder. Introducing her to her mechanical vice like grip as she stared daggers at, Ruby.

Winter: Listen here you little pipsqueak! I understand you want to make amends with, Jaune. But, my shows about to begin, and I don't want some little brat interrupting me, and my himbo hunk of a white knight! So kindly turn around, and get the fuck out of here! Okay~?

Ruby: O-O-O-Okay?!

Winter: Wonderful~!

With that, Team RWBY made a swift escape, unless they deal with the wrath of a woman in love.

Winter: Ahh~! Say, Jaune?

Jaune: Yeah?

Winter: I can help set up a proper training regium for, Whitely. Why don't you get some exercise yourself; Might I recommend the barbell?

Jaune: Sure, that wouldn't hurt.

Jaune walked over to the barbell, put it on his shoulders, and started doing some lifts. White, Jaune was doing this, Winter stared on, biting her lips as she watched his muscles bulge as he exerted them.

Winter: Mmmm~! Mama likey~!

Whitely: Sister, can you not do that in front of me?

Winter: Let me salivate over my man, or I'll tell, Weiss about your date with, Fiona.

Whitely: Very good, have a nice day, Winter.

Winter: Mmmm~! Eat your heart out, Robyn~! He's all mine for today~!

~~~

Fiona: What's wrong with blue balloons?

Robyn: My colours are red, and green, also some browns, but red, and green balloons are what's needed for my victory celebration, not...?!

Fiona: ...

Fiona: R-Robyn? Is something wrong?

Robyn: I can feel it!

Fiona: Feel what...?

Robyn: That bitch is trying to steal my man!

Fiona: ...

Fiona: Okay.

#rwby #jaune arc #yang xiao long #weiss schnee #blake belladonna #ruby rose #winter schnne #whitely schnee #robyn hiil #fiona thyme #friends au #jaune x winter #winter x jaune #rwby winterknight

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honeyryewhiskey · 3 days ago

Text

BETWEEN HEAVEN AND DESIRE

angel!reader or dean's prayers save you from heaven's merciless punishment. the weakened state of your grace leaves you feeling a plethora of entirely human needs—and you're not sure you have any faith left in the home that crafted you to fight against those desires. warnings!! smut with build up 18+, depictions of violence, blood/injuries that heal, heaven being bad, body worshipping dean?, angel's first time. dean talks u thru it!! bc he would!! 4.8k words

It is not uncommon for angels to go rogue after too much time spent amongst mortals. So much so, Heaven has protocols for repairing a weapon who’s gone soft. Some speculate it’s one of god’s little amusements—create a fleet of soulless celestials, but leave just enough parts for something a lot like a soul to fester when touched by the right human.

It’s this paradox that plagues your mind as a dozen silver blades slice through your flesh and grace—again.

The Council surrounds you in a cold circle of judgment, their faces impassive, their voices ringing with divine authority. Each word of their chant strikes like a hammer to your heart: Traitor. Defiled. Corrupted.

“Do you repent for the sin of your attachment to the mortal, Dean Winchester?” one of them demands through the chaos of sound.

You want to scream, but your voice is lost in the agony. The angel blade—designed to kill—wields a newfound torture as each lashing cuts into your grace. Thick streams of blood pool from glowing wounds, as your knees hit the ground as strength gives way to pain. Withholding the tears that threaten to fall with shaky breaths, you cling to a lingering stubbornness, refusing to answer their demands.

This torment, their means of correction—it’s not enough to strip your wings or grace. No, they want you broken in ways you didn’t think angels could break.

Your response to their demands takes too long. As a result, a blinding light presses into your mind, and with it, flashes of Dean—laughing, swearing, holding you close after the darkest nights. The way his touch melted your resolve, the warmth in his eyes when he whispered your name. These memories are dragged out of you, twisted until they no longer resemble what they were.

They replay your time together, but in each retelling, they inject doubt. The gentle words he spoke now sound hollow, calculated. The moments of connection feel like manipulation. He never loved you, the light whispers, digging deep into your heart. He only used you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. “No,” you choke out, but it’s barely audible over the chanting and slashing.

The blades come down again, harder, carving away the truth of who you are, leaving only what the Council wills you to be.

“You were created to serve Heaven’s purpose,” one of the voices booms. “Not your own, and certainly not his.”

And then, through the torment, you hear it—soft, rough-edged, and impossibly real.

Your name in the form of a mantra, the beginning of a mortal’s prayer.

“Angel? I don’t even know if this will work, if you can really hear me... but I’m trying here.” Dean stumbles around his words, his doubt laced within each syllable.

Your breath catches. It’s a faint echo at the edge of your mind, pushing against the light’s mental invasion that’s trying to rework the fabric of your memories.

“I’m praying,” he continues awkwardly. “Guess that’s what this is. I don’t know where you are, but—hell, I just... I need to know you’re okay.” His voice falters, a pulsing pain taking up the space of his silence before his cuts in again. Quietly, like a bashful sinner in confession, “I miss you.”

The Council continues, oblivious to the sound of him, to the way his words infiltrate their illusions.

“Whatever heaven says—Angel, please, don’t trust them.” his tone shifts, fierce and treading on desperation. “They’re assholes, they’ll do whatever they can to make you be like them. Please, don’t let them change you.”

The tears finally break, streaming down your face as your hands curl into fists. His voice drowns out the Council, drowns out the pain, grounding you in the truth they’re trying so desperately to erase. It’s nauseating, trying to draw strength from your tattered grace. But the strain in Dean’s voice strikes your instincts, and everything inside of you fights against the light reworking your mind.

“I need you, Angel.” His voice cracks, “come back to me. Please.”

When an angel’s grace is weakened, it allows for heaven to remold the weapon like clay. A being reduced to material to work with. However, grace is the luminous silver line separating celestial from human. The more it pools out of you, shimmering amidst the red, the closer you reach mortality.

And the freedom of emotions that come with that kind of existence.

A tidal wave of remorse, anguish, fury, and desire radiate within. You can hardly breathe with the demanding sensations of emotion and survival. It’s consuming, and somehow—powerful.

The Council doesn’t notice the shift in you until it’s too late. The invading light that binds you flickers, then shatters as you push against it with every ounce of your will.

“Enough,” you whisper, your voice trembling through panting breaths.

They realize their mistake as you unfurl what little remnant of grace you can muster, searing their illusions away with a growling scream of defiance. The silver blades raise in their grasps, preparing for battle, as you rise to your feet.

But no part of you aims to attack, the only thoughts you have are of Dean.

“Stand down, Angel. You are not strong enough to take all of us.” one of them warns, but their voice is dim beneath the thunder in your chest.

You glare into their blinding forms, disgust written on their holy faces, chest heaving as your wings unfurl. “I am done fighting.”

And with that, you vanish in a burst of light, tearing through the veil with a single destination in mind.

In a blink, you’re standing in Dean’s motel room on shaky knees. The power you exerted to flee heaven has left nothing but a faint glimmer of grace within.

Dean is a mirage of movement, your eyes growing delirious from the draining of your essence. He catches your weakened form just as you begin to drop to the floor.

“Angel,” he says softly, his eyes raking over your wounds. Dozens of bleeding cuts, your clothes stained and tattered. The pain consumes you again, an aching cold taking over every nerve ending. His hand brushes bloodied hair from your face, his other arm wrapped so tightly around you, you’re sure nothing could rip you from his grasp. Not this time.

“What did they do to you?” he demands as your body trembles, clinging to the bits of grace that remain within your being.

“I’ll be alright,” you whisper, “just need… rest.” His warmth surrounds you as his hands steady you. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, the torment has ceased, and though your mind is a hazy mess of shattered memories there is one thing you know for certain: Dean’s prayers have saved you.

He hooks an arm under your legs and carries you over to the bed. With the gentleness of a man cradling a wounded bird, he sets you down carefully, his movements deliberate and full of quiet reverence. Kneeling on the floor beside you, adrenaline ripples off of him and invades your senses. The rapid beat of his heart, blood pooling his muscles on instinct.

You raise a shaky hand to his chest, but his focus remains on your wounds, fussing with the fabric of your tattered shirt to investigate their severity.

“Dean,” you whisper, but he doesn’t stop, your finger lift to curl around his jaw, “it’s okay—“

“Look at you!” he cuts you off, “why aren’t you healing?”

“I will, I just need time.” you murmur, dropping your hand and letting your eyes close again, “I can smell your anxiety, Dean. It’s—distracting.”

He scoffs, but the concern doesn’t unwind from his brows. “Right. You’re bleeding to death but it’s my anxiety that’s bothering you?”

“Yes.” you manage dryly, despite the moan of pain you expel as you shift uncomfortably, the injuries to your back are making lying down impossible. Through shaky breaths you sit up, Dean’s strong hands hovering your frame as you do so. His eyes are still on your wounds, the beat of his heart finding an impossible speed as you gingerly wrap your fingers around the hem of your tattered sweater, lifting the material to reveal the damage done to your body.

“What are you doing?” Dean’s voice is gruff, his eyes narrowing as he watches you shift uncomfortably.

A flicker of annoyance sears through, the intensity of it adding to your nausea. “Lifting my shirt.” your voice matches the feeling inside, your fingers fumbling with the hem of the tattered fabric as you give him a full view of your injuries.

“Why?” His tone is sharp, matching yours.

Your features contort with confusion, “because you clearly want to make sure I’m healing.”

His eyes quickly advert as he clears his throat, a hand running over his chin—something you’ve noticed he does when he’s ‘at his wits end’ as he likes to phrase it.

“Why are you looking away now?”

“Because you’re—,” he stops himself with a groan, a flat expression on his face as his eyes find yours, “why aren’t you wearing a bra?”

“Oh,” you look down at your completely exposed chest, “it seemed… restrictive.” An unfamiliar emotion prickles heat against your skin: embarrassment.

He nods, sighing as his head tilts, brows raised in quiet agreement. Your wounds remain a blazing red, skin working slowly to stitch itself back together beneath the bloody smear marks.

“See?” you remark, dropping the material to cover yourself again. “Healing.”

There is an anxious swirling in your stomach, one not bred from physical pain like you’re used to. The effects of weakened grace, the invitation of intense emotions feels like an uncomfortable itch beneath your skin.

“Uh, huh.” he hums, but his scowl mismatches the slowing pace of his heart, the anxiety he refuses to acknowledge, subsiding at the sight of your healing skin.

He rises to his feet with a huff, you watch as he disappears into the bathroom. A moment passes until the sound of running water breaks the quiet as he comes back in.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, and you can tell me which sons of bitches I’ll be ganking for this.”

Dean scoops you up again without hesitation, his arms steady despite your weight against him. You don’t have the strength to protest—not that you want to—and simply let yourself sink into his embrace. His chest is warm, the rhythmic beat of his heart oddly comforting as he carries you to the bathroom.

The space is small and sterile, but Dean makes it feel safe. He uses his foot to push the door open wider and carefully sets you down on the closed toilet lid, one hand lingering on your shoulder to steady you.

Steam begins to rise from the filling tub, the water crystal clear and inviting in the dim light. Dean crouches in front of you, his fingers brushing against your knee to get your attention.

"Think you can handle this, or do you need help?" His voice is soft, but the tension in his jaw betrays the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior.

You nod faintly, though your body protests every movement. "I can manage."

He stands, his arms crossed, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he turns his back slightly, giving you the barest hint of privacy while staying close enough to intervene if needed. You peel off your torn and bloodied clothes with shaky hands, the effort nearly exhausting.

As you step into the warm water, a hiss escapes your lips. The heat stings at first, the water seeping into the raw edges of your wounds, but soon the ache begins to dull, replaced by a soothing warmth. You sink down slowly, letting the bath support your weight.

Dean shifts, his eyes flicking over you briefly before settling on a safe spot on the wall. He sits down heavily on the closed toilet lid, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his green eyes sharp and unyielding.

"Start talking," he says, his tone low but insistent. "What the hell did they do to you?"

You hesitate, staring down at the rippling surface of the water. Your voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. "They said I was corrupted... that I’d betrayed Heaven."

Dean’s jaw clenches, his knuckles whitening as his hands ball into fists. "Those pious bastards," he mutters. "For what? Doing the right thing? That’s what this is about, isn’t it? How you’ve been helping me and Sam?" His words dance around the truth. How close you’ve grown while working alongside the Winchesters. Something, an almost malleable energy hangs in the air between you two each time you’re together.

A line never crossed, words never spoken—but it has always been there.

You nod, your breath hitching as the memories flood back—the blades, the light, the voices that tore into you like barbed wire. "They wanted to... recondition me. Make me forget."

"Forget what?"

"Everything," you whisper. "You. Sam. What it felt like to care. They tried to rewrite me, make me believe your—friendship—was all a lie."

Dean’s face twists with anger, his fists pounding lightly against his thighs as he exhales sharply through his nose. "What gives them the right, huh? Because god wills it or some crap?" he says firmly, the words spoken in question, but you know in Dean’s book it’s more of a statement of fact. He doesn’t trust heaven or it’s angels. Well, all of it except you.

"I don’t know anymore," you murmur, your voice breaking. A lump forms in your throat as you consider all that has been done to you by the ones you followed, dutifully, for centuries. Your chest constricts in an unfamiliar pain, hurt and confusion finding an entirely new stupor within your heart. You reach for the soap, focusing on the movement of hands as you scrub the blood from your skin to think of anything but the pain festering within. "Your voice,” you being, voice at a whisper, “your prayer. It brought me back. You reminded me who I was."

He falls silent for a long moment, his gaze dropping to the floor. When he finally speaks, his voice is thick with emotion. "I should’ve prayed sooner."

"You did it when it mattered," you say softly. "That’s what saved me."

Dean looks up, his eyes locking with yours, a flicker of guilt and relief dancing in the green depths. "You shouldn’t have needed saving in the first place," he says quietly. "They’ll pay for this. I don’t care if I have to storm Heaven itself."

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. "I don’t doubt you’d try."

He leans back, his hands running over his face before resting on his thighs. "I just… I can’t lose you. Not to them. Not to anyone."

The weight of his words settles in the air between you, and for a moment, the pain and exhaustion fade, replaced by the quiet certainty that, no matter what happens next, Dean will always fight for you.

You place the soap back on the bathtub nook, the faint echo of the movement breaking the silence. Turning your attention back to him, you murmur, “Thank you.”

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For caring,” you reply, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness of the moment. “And you can’t say you don’t—I can hear your heartbeat quicken when you lie, remember?”

Dean huffs out a breath, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth as he pushes himself to his feet. “Damn angel ears,” he mutters, though there’s no real heat behind it. “Come on, let’s get you outta here before you start pruning up.”

You let him help you out of the tub, water dripping in soft splashes onto the tiles as he wraps a towel snugly around you. His hands are firm yet gentle, careful not to brush against the worst of your injuries as he leads you back into the room.

Settling onto the bed, you adjust the towel around your shoulders, shivering slightly as the cool air brushes against your damp skin. Dean follows a moment later, grabbing another towel before sitting behind you on the mattress.

“Sit still,” he says gruffly, though the way his fingers work through your wet hair is anything but rough. He dries it with slow, deliberate movements, the repetitive motion almost lulling you into a trance.

The quiet is comfortable, filled only by the faint rustle of the towel and the occasional sigh from Dean. His presence, solid and steady behind you, feels like an unspoken promise—a reassurance that, no matter how broken the world might seem, there’s still a place where you’re safe.

“Looks like you’re healing pretty good. You feeling any better?” Dean’s voice is low, his fingers brushing gently over your shoulder as he speaks.

“Physically, yes,” you admit, “but I keep feeling things. Far more intense than I’m used to, because my grace is so weak.”

He frowns, tilting his head. “Feeling things? Like what?”

“Hurt, mostly,” you start, your voice quiet but steady. “And when we’re close like this,” you turn slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, “...desire.”

He clears his throat, the faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck as his eyes dart away. “I’m sure it’ll go away once your grace—or whatever—gets stronger.”

“No, Dean.” You shift to face him fully, the towel tucked around you loosening as your hands reach up to cup his face. It pools at your lap as cool air ripples goosebumps across exposed skin. His eyes snap back to yours, wide but unresisting, his hands folding over yours, warm and steady. There is a storm of hesitation in his stare, but he doesn’t push you away.

The faint scent of adrenaline lingers in the air between you, your heightened senses picking up the slight quickening of his pulse, the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing hitches ever so slightly. You search his face, reading every unspoken emotion that flits across it.

“Talk to me, Angel.” His voice is rough, his green eyes darkened with something you can’t quite name. His expression is soft but insistent, pressing you for more than just what your senses can tell you. “Don’t just sense me out. Talk to me.”

Your thumbs brush over the scruff of his jaw as you take a shaky breath. “The desire I feel has always been there. I’ve ignored it, buried it, pretended it wasn’t real. Because that’s what I’m supposed to do. But now…” Your voice wavers, but your resolve doesn’t. “Now I can’t just ignore it anymore. I need to give in.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and electric, and you watch as Dean’s expression shifts. His lips part as if to speak, but he hesitates, the tension crackling like a live wire between you. His hands tighten slightly over yours, grounding you, even as his restraint begins to waver.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking for,” his voice is low and cautious, like he’s trying to hold himself back.

“Yes, I do, Dean.” Your eyes lock with his, unwavering. “I may not be human, but I am not naive. And I know what I want.”

His fingertips curl into your hands, as if a tightened grip could still the rapid pacing of his pulse. Your stare is intense, boring into his jade irises. Searching for salvation in a new religion, one that might promise more pleasure than pain.

He huffs, a small smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. “Don’t you think fleeing Heaven was enough trouble for one day, little bird?”

You grin, tilting your head playfully. “Trouble’s never in short supply with you around, Dean.”

An exchange of breaths passes the divide, but it’s Dean who moves first. His lips capture yours in a kiss that electrifies every inch of your skin. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into sore muscles—making you gasp at the intoxicating sensation of hurt and relief.

Your lips match his pace, slow and controlled. You pull him closer with your hands on his neck, his body following yours to lie against the old motel sheets. He pulls away, his shirt coming off in one swift movement before he’s back to your lips.

You’ve never been more grateful to feel. Every press of his bare chest on yours thickens the heat claiming the reign of your core. And the deep, primal, desire to cling to him has your nails digging into his flesh. He groans as they do, the sound making you kiss him harder.

His lips trail down from yours to neck, giving ample attention to every spot he tugs into his mouth. One of his hands drag down your naval, fingers exploring new territory until they find your slick folds—plunging into flesh as something between a gasp and moan escapes you.

You’ve never been intimate before, and you’ve always wondered if it felt like possession. An invasive, vulnerable thing. But this—the way his fingers pump in and out—is like being unwound. Every stress and pain you’ve ever felt, untangling in the haze of Dean’s touch.

His eyes find yours, emerald peering through lashes, “you are the only damn thing heaven could ever get me to worship.” He whispers and it sends a shiver through you, the pressure of his thumb against your clit making you shudder beneath him.

“That,” you mumble through shaky breaths, “would be blasphemy.”

His stubble grazes you as you feel every note of his chuckle vibrate against your skin. His lips trail kisses down your body with a deliberate slowness. His fingers don’t cease, working you with ease as he sinks lower.

You grasp for anything—the sheets in one hand, tuffs of his hair in another. He positions himself between your legs, his lips sucking on the sensitive skin of your inner thing. Your body takes over, whimpering and rocking into him as he pulls the skin between his teeth. Retracting, a red love bite in his wake as hovers over your heat.

You glance down, chest rising and falling in an uneven pattern. It’s like fighting, the way your entire body is alive with an instinctual awareness of each part of you. But there is no anticipation of pain, no need to swing first. It’s a tantalizing resolve, a desperate desire to succumb to whatever feeling Dean might insight next.

He exchanges his hand for his mouth, your legs clinging to either side of his head on instinct. It’s a rippling wave of passion that flows through. His hands dig into your thighs, grounding him as his mouth moves at an intoxicating pace.

You’ve never heard yourself make the sounds that leave your mouth now, damn near animalistic as you let go of control. Breath hitching each time he sucked sensitive skin between his lips, releasing and reattaching at a dizzying pace.

“Dean,” you stutter through a shudder, trying to wrap hazy thinking around the sensation building within your core that’s making your back arch, instinct telling you to push into Dean. A tight notch of unused muscles is binding beneath his mouth, like all the tension he relieved is back—balling into your core. You’re squirming for a release as he quickens his lapping and sucking.

All at once—your vision blurs, body tightening as his fingers plunge inside of you again, the medley of pleasure surging into you with force. The notch unravels, waves of tension releasing in hot ripples throughout your entire body.

You’re humming through quieted whimpers as your body goes limp, Dean pulls away slowly—leaving little kisses all over sensitive skin. He runs his hands over your body, soothing the little shudders that remain of you.

He brushes a few strands of hair from your face, his touch featherlight as he presses tender kisses to your temples and cheeks. “We can stop here,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, his gaze searching yours as he hovers over you. “You’re in control here, angel.”

The sincerity in his tone sends a shiver down your spine, a warmth settling in your chest. But his words tug at something deeper, something raw. Control—a concept you’ve only ever understood as an illusion. An angel, a weapon, a tool of Heaven—control was never yours to wield, not even over yourself.

Your fingers glide over his lips, tracing the shape of the words he’s yet to say. “If I’m in control,” you whisper, your voice soft but resolute. “I want you to let me feel everything, Dean.”

He lets go of the breath he was holding, lips crashing into yours—a kiss to seal his promise. Your hands card into his hair as he fumbles with the rest of his clothes. The air that invades the space he leaves is cold and empty, but he returns to your skin swiftly, his hips claiming the space between yours.

He adjusts himself, and you inhale sharply at the pressing of his tip against your entrance.

“Hey,” he whispers, the steadiness of his voice melting any bits of nerves that peak through as he catches your gaze. “‘s all be okay, I promise. Just keep your eyes on mine.”

His gaze is soft and gentle as he eases himself inside your walls. Heat prickles on your skin, making you gasp at the feel of your body stretching around him. He dips his head, catching your lips in his as he sinks deeper. You’re gasping against his mouth, the sound meshing with his quiet groans as his hips rock against yours.

There’s a soreness in the sensation, tension giving out with each thrust. Your hips squirm beneath him, instinctively bucking into his movements, “You’re doing so good for me, angel,” he sighs, voice raspy, sending a shiver through you.

“More, I can take more,” you whisper, the words leaving your mouth without a second thought. All you can feel is a need for all of him—deeper.

He follows your command, his pace quickening enough to make your legs lock around him. His arm slides beneath you, a protective hand wrapping around the back of your neck as he holds your frame closer to his.

Your senses are overwhelmed by his scent—the endorphins pooling off of him and making you feel drunk on the smell.

In one swift motion, he pulls you up with him, arms wrapped around you in a heated embrace as you roll your hips against his—chasing the pleasure of his length knocking into the sensitive spot inside you.

His lips chase yours, a deep slow kiss that makes your hips move more desperately. Little whimpers leave your lips between each kiss, making his wandering hands dig into your skin with a desire to touch every part of you.

“Just like that—fuck,” he groans against your skin, his hands guiding your hips against his. Your arms cling to him as he lowers you back onto the pillows, his claim on your skin intensifying as his thrust becomes more greedy, needy as he takes control again.

His hands run along your frame, inching towards your breasts until your nipples are beneath his circling fingers. It makes your breath hitch, and that notch of tension forms within your core again. Your bucking his and nails digging into Dean’s skin are like an unspoken demand, and follows the cues you’re unaware of by sliding a hand down to your joined bodies.

His fingers work dizzying circles between your folds, your breathing falling uneven against his. Your muscles go tense again, tightening with each thrust of his tip against sore, sensitive flesh.

Tears prickle at your lashes as you cry out his name, losing yourself in the tidal wave of relief that flows through—leaving your body shuddering beneath his.

Your name leaves his lips, a quiet mantra, just as it did when he lifted his head in your prayer. His warm release threads inside you, coating your walls.

His hips stutter, falling into a lazy rhythm until he’s still. Breathing heavy against you, holding you in his arms for a moment as you both come down from the moment.

Sowly, he pulls away, shifting to lay beside you. Your mind is a complete sleepy haze, another new feeling for an angel who has never known exhaustion to the point of needing sleep. It’s a sweet, comforting thing—to want to close your eyes and give in.

Dean shifts, adjusting your body until you’re snug against his chest beneath the covers. His arms wrap around you, firm and protective, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in his world. Being surrounded by his warmth, his quiet strength, feels like a peace you never believed could exist—a haven you’re not sure you could ever let go of.

As your eyes grow heavy, his lips brush your ear, his voice a soft murmur in the quiet. “Sleep, angel. I’ve got you.”

speak for yourself - imogen heap album was on repeat while writing this btw. also i got lazy after dean's munch moment and did nawt re-read or edit the rest so i apologize <3 but i hope this was fun idk i kinda hate it now to be frank i d k ugh bye ily

#dean winchester #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester smut #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x angel!reader

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00hpink · 9 hours ago

Text

⊱ ﹑ THE LOOK OF LOVE . ⌣

𝗌yn. how do they look at you?

featuring ⎯⎯͟͟౨ৎ gojo, nanami, geto, sukuna, megumi, toji, choso x reader. cw ⊹ slightly ooc because i can. fluff!! likes and reblogs are appreciated!

╰ note. inspired by an edit of this that i found in youtube. sukuna being different because he's a cool bitch kid. more under the cuts . . .ᐟᅟ

GOJO SATORU

he gazes at you lovingly. it's a pause in the chaos where his usual joviality takes on an air of tranquility, and you catch him staring. initially, you think it's his usual teasing expression, but there's aa deeper meaning to it, a sincerity that makes your heart flutter.

his ice-blue eyes, usually sparkling with playful intent, now shimmer with something deeper, warmer. they hold a gentleness that feels like a secret shared only between you two.he remains silent at first; he lets his gaze linger, as if trying to remember every detail of your face, from the curve of your lips to the way your hair frames your face.

then, he inches closer, his chin resting on his hand, his other hand reaching out casually to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. his fingers remain a moment longer, as if not wanting to pull away. "you know," he murmurs, his voice deep and unusually tender, "i don’t think you realize how beautiful you are."

there's no trace of his usual sarcasm or theatrics — just pure, unguarded adoration. his eyes never leave yours, as if he's scared that looking away will shatter the stillness. and in that moment, it feels like time has frozen, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of quiet affection.

NANAMI KENTO

imagine nanami kento standing before you, his serious demeanor melting as he gazes at you. his eyes, usually sharp and precise, now carry warmth and something deeper— affection. his gaze is unwavering, yet there's a quiet tenderness, as if he's savoring every second spent with you.

the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes signals quiet happiness, a happiness that comes from simply being with you. his lips curl into a genuine, small smile, the kind that only appears when he's truly comfortable. his gaze carries a gentle intensity, as if he's committing every detail of your face to memory, holding onto the moment as though time might fade away.

you can feel the warmth of his trust, like a quiet promise in the night. his gaze, soft but steady, says more than words ever could. it's not just love that lingers there, but something deeper, like you’re the anchor in his storm, the calm in his chaos. and when his eyes meet yours, it's like he's telling you, 'i see you, and i'm right here, every part of me, with you.'

GETO SUGURU

geto suguru's gaze combines calmness and intensity in a way that’s all his own. when he looks at you with a loving stare, it's as if he's studying you, but not in the detached, distant way he might with others. instead, there's a quiet fascination in his eyes, like you're the center of his world, and he's taking in every detail. his dark eyes are sharp, but beneath them lies something softer, almost tender — a protective warmth.

when his gaze finally meets yours, there’s a flicker of something dangerous and possessive beneath the surface- but not in a way that feels threatening — instead, it's the look of someone who knows exactly what they want and has no intention of letting it slip away. his lips curve into a smirk, playful yet sharp — like he knows something you don't, as if he has all the time in the world to make you see things his way.

even with that smirk, there's a warmth in his eyes that's impossible to ignore, but it's not the kind that comforts you. it's a warmth that pulls you into his world, a world where things are done according to his rules. his gaze doesn't just look at you; it feels like it draws you in, commanding your attention, urging you to stay and be a part of his chaos.

in that moment, his love isn't soft or gentle. it's fierce, possessive, and almost obsessive. you can tell from the way he looks at you that he wants all of you, and he won't let go — not without a fight. his gaze holds a powerful magnetism, dark and captivating, like a spell you can't escape, even if you tried.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

those eyes hold a dark, dangerous allure, drawing you in despite the unsettling chill they deliver. his eyes are sharp, predatory, locking onto you with a wicked intensity that feels almost amused. there's a cold, calculating edge in his stare, as if he's seeing through every wall you've put up — your thoughts, your fears, your desires. when his eyes meet yours, it feels like you're being examined in a way that's both unsettling and strangely magnetic.

his lips curve into a knowing smirk, just enough to expose a glimpse of his teeth, and the air around him grows heavier. his eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if amused by your reaction, yet beneath it, there's a deeper understanding — a sense of dominance, a quiet realization that he controls this moment. it's not affection in the typical way, but there's something intoxicating in the way he watches you, a possessive and almost mocking interest that lingers in every second.

and yet, hidden behind his cold demeanor, there's a magnetic pull — an allure that tugs at you, even though danger is woven into every one of his movements. his gaze demands attention, respect, and a form of surrender you can't quite comprehend but find yourself trapped in.

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

when megumi looks at you, his eyes are sharp and calculating, but there's a steady, quiet intensity that you can't ignore he doesn't show his emotions often, but in that moment, when his gaze meets yours, there's a subtle vulnerability that lingers beneath his calm façade.

his gaze doesn't overwhelm you, but there's a quiet intensity to it. when his eyes meet yours, there's a fleeting tenderness, though it's quickly masked by his usual cool demeanor. he doesn't need words; his look says it all—'i'm here here, i see you.'

there's a quiet protection in his gaze, even when he doesn't speak, as if he's silently watching over you, but in a way that doesn't draw attention. his affection isn't in-your-face, but the way his gaze stays on you just a bit longer tells you everything you need to know. it's a quiet expression of love, one he's unsure how to vocalize, but trusts you to recognize.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

toji's affection is far from conventional, and it certainly doesn't come with flowery words or gentle touches. but when it's you he's looking at, there’s something different in the way he watches you — something deeper beneath the hardened, rough exterior. his gaze, though often sharp and calculating, softens just for you, though only just enough for you to catch a glimpse of it. it's a rare thing, something you'II only see when he feels you're truly his, and when it matters most.

his familiar smirk still lingers, but now there's a change in it, a softness that replaces the cruelty, and something more protective, more invested. his eyes remain fixed on yours, holding the connection with an intensity that seems to savor every second. he's never been one for grand displays, but in the way he looks at you, you can feel the deep, quiet devotion he holds just for you.

words aren't necessary for toji. his feelings are subtle, but when his eyes rest on you, it's unmistakable — he's not leaving.

CHOSO KAMO

choso's gaze is intense and heavy, never giving you a full glimpse into his mind. his dark, calculating eyes lock onto you, and the weight of his attention is clear. he doesn't say much, but his stare carries an unspoken tension, as though he's analyzing every part of you, observing more than you realize. there's a quiet sharpness in his eyes, a focus that suggests he's not easily distracted or moved.

while his expression stays mostly neutral, there's a subtle gentleness in the way he looks at you — something that reveals a side of him not often seen. it’s barely perceptible, but if you look closely, you can catch a glimpse of something deeper beneath the surface, something he doesn't often show. his gaze is both protective and calculating, as if he's silently acknowledging a bond he can't quite name, but one that's undeniable.

his gaze rarely softens, but when it does, it's not the gentle tenderness you might anticipate. it's a deep, quiet admiration, like a rare peek into his raw, unguarded soul, still cautious but filled with connection and perhaps a hint of longing. he doesn't usually reveal this side of him, but in that moment, you know he cares deeply in his own intense way.

YUUJI ITADORI

yuuji's eyes lock with yours, full of unfiltered affection, soft light shining through his eyes. it's not intense, but sincere, the kind of look that makes you feel like you're the only one who matters in that moment.

his look is filled with quiet admiration, as if he cherishes all that you are. his eyes linger just a moment longer, always warm, always fixed on you. no words are needed; his gaze tells it all. it's obvious how deeply he values and cares for you. it's as though he's trying to memorize every little thing — how you talk, how you smile, how you move. there's a quietness to it, but his eyes hold undeniable sincerity.

his love is uncomplicated and genuine, shown in the way his eyes soften when they meet yours. with nothing to hide, his gaze exudes an honesty that you can fully rely on. yuuji’s love overflows with life and joy, and his gaze reflects that energy — bright and filled with hope. his look speaks of a love that reassures, 'i'm here, always,' and you feel its truth in your heart.

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cloudyluun · 1 day ago

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Office Hours | professor!harry

Summary: Harry's got a reputation on campus, and you're curious to find out if the rumors about the enigmatic literature professor are true. When a question about your essay turns into an unorthodox lesson, you realize Professor Styles might be able to teach you more than you bargained for.

A/N: This is my first fic / one shot, i'm don't really know yet if i'm gonna give it a part two, hope y'all enjoy!

Word Count: 2,5k

Warning: Smut (oral sex, rough sex, unprotected sex), praise kink, forbidden romance, power dynamic, fluff

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The classroom is bathed in warm afternoon light, the sun filtering through the tall, arched windows of the university’s historic building. The scent of old paper and the faint scratch of pen on paper fill the room as Professor Styles—Harry to his colleagues, but only “Professor” to his students—leans against the oak desk at the front. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing toned forearms etched with faint tattoos, an unorthodox sight in this bastion of academia.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” he calls, his voice a honeyed baritone that pulls your attention away from your open notebook. The way he says your name, deliberate and slow, sends a shiver down your spine. “Do you have any thoughts on the passage from ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ we just discussed?”

You’ve been half-distracted the entire lecture, tracing the curve of his jaw and the way his fingers tap idly against the desk. Caught off guard, you scramble to remember the last ten minutes of discussion. Clearing your throat, you respond, “I think... Wilde is emphasizing the moral corruption that accompanies vanity?” Your voice wavers slightly, but you hold his gaze.

Harry’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “Interesting interpretation,” he murmurs, eyes scanning you for a beat longer than necessary. “But I’d argue it’s more about the fear of aging and the lengths one goes to preserve youth.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. It’s not the first time he’s challenged you in class, though it always feels personal when he does. You’re not sure if it’s his teaching style or something more deliberate. Either way, the air between you has always felt charged.

Class ends shortly after, and as the other students trickle out, you linger, pretending to adjust the strap of your bag. You’ve been looking for an excuse to speak to him alone, though your intentions blur the longer you’re near him.

“Was there something else, Ms. Y/L/N?” Harry’s voice breaks your train of thought. He’s still leaning against the desk, arms crossed now, his stance casual but his gaze anything but.

“I just…” You hesitate, clutching the strap of your bag tighter. “I’m having a little trouble with the essay prompt. I was wondering if I could get some clarification?”

He tilts his head, regarding you thoughtfully. “Of course. Why don’t you stop by my office during office hours tomorrow? We’ll go over it in detail.”

Disappointment flickers in your chest. You were hoping for a conversation now. But then he adds, “Unless you’d prefer to discuss it now?” His voice dips lower, and there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes—something that makes your pulse quicken.

“Now works,” you say quickly.

He gestures for you to follow him out of the classroom, leading you down the hall to his office. It’s a cozy space, lined with shelves overflowing with books. The scent of leather and faint cologne lingers in the air. Harry moves behind his desk, unbuttoning his cuffs as he sits, rolling his sleeves further up his forearms. He gestures to the chair opposite him.

“Have a seat.”

You sit, your legs crossing nervously as you pull out your notebook. Harry watches you intently, the silence stretching until it feels heavy.

“So, what specifically are you struggling with?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. His tone is professional, but there’s an undercurrent of warmth that makes it impossible to focus.

“It’s the part about…” You trail off, struggling to articulate your thoughts. His presence is so overwhelming that the words tangle in your throat. “About how morality ties into aestheticism.”

Harry nods slowly, his gaze unwavering. “A complex question. But you’re more than capable of handling it.”

The compliment catches you off guard. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he says, and there’s a softness to his voice that makes your stomach flip. “You’re one of my most promising students, Ms. Y/L/N.”

The tension in the room shifts. His eyes hold yours, and for a moment, the space between professor and student feels dangerously thin. You shift in your chair, the leather creaking beneath you. Harry’s gaze flickers to the movement, then back to your face.

“Thank you,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

The air between you thickens. You’re acutely aware of every movement, every breath. Harry leans back in his chair, running a hand through his curls. “You have a lot of potential,” he says, his voice lower now. “I hope you realize that.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. The way he looks at you is no longer just that of a professor evaluating a student. It’s something else entirely.

“I… I appreciate that,” you say, though the words feel inadequate. Your gaze drops to your notebook, but you’re too flustered to concentrate.

Harry stands suddenly, the movement making you look up. He rounds the desk, leaning against its edge in front of you. The proximity is intoxicating.

“Tell me something,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Do you enjoy my class, Ms. Y/L/N?”

You nod quickly. “Yes. Very much.”

His lips curve into a small smile. “Good. I’d hate to think I’ve been wasting my time.”

The double meaning in his words isn’t lost on you. Your breath hitches as he steps closer, his knees brushing yours. The tension is electric now, the lines of propriety blurring with every passing second.

“Professor,” you start, your voice trembling, “I should…”

“Should you?” he interrupts softly, his eyes searching yours. “Or do you want to stay?”

Your resolve crumbles under his gaze. “I want to stay.”

His smile deepens, and he steps even closer, his hands resting on the arms of your chair, caging you in. The scent of his cologne is heady, making your thoughts swim.

“Then stay,” he murmurs.

Your heart is a wild drumbeat in your chest as he leans down, his lips brushing yours in the faintest, most tantalizing whisper of a kiss. You’re frozen, caught between disbelief and desire, until his hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, his lips soft but commanding. Your hands find their way to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. He pulls you to your feet, his arms wrapping around your waist as he backs you against the desk.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your lips, his voice ragged. “If this isn’t what you want, tell me now.”

But stopping is the last thing on your mind. You shake your head, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer.

His lips trail down your jaw, to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, as his hands roam your body. Every touch is purposeful, igniting a fire that burns hotter with each passing moment.

“Professor Styles,” you breathe, and he groans at the sound of his title on your lips.

“Harry,” he corrects, his voice a low rumble. “Call me Harry.”

You comply, his name falling from your lips like a prayer as he lifts you onto the desk, his body slotting perfectly between your thighs. His hands slip beneath your blouse, exploring the soft skin of your waist, and you arch into his touch.

The world outside his office fades away, leaving only the two of you tangled in a web of forbidden desire. You know the risks, the consequences, but the pull between you is undeniable, impossible to resist.

Harry’s hands hover at your waist, his hesitation palpable as his eyes search yours for reassurance. “We don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost pained. “You can tell me to stop.”

Instead of answering, you cup his jaw, your thumb brushing against the stubble on his cheek. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He exhales sharply, as if he’s been holding his breath, and then his lips capture yours again. This time, the kiss is slow, measured, as though he’s trying to savor every second. His hands grip your hips lightly, his fingers twitching as though he’s holding himself back. The weight of his restraint is intoxicating, the tension between you mounting with each tentative touch.

“You’re sure?” he asks, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“I’m sure,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the wild beat of your heart.

That’s all it takes. Harry’s lips move with more urgency, his hands finally roaming your body with intent. He traces the curve of your waist, the small of your back, the soft skin of your arms, as if committing you to memory. Each touch ignites a spark, a slow burn that consumes you both.

When he lifts your blouse over your head, his movements are careful, reverent. He pauses, his gaze sweeping over your exposed skin, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly his shirt is gone, and your hands are exploring the taut muscles of his chest, the intricate tattoos that adorn his skin. He shudders under your touch, his breath hitching when your fingers trace the line of his collarbone.

He leans in, his mouth brushing over your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, his lips pressing tender, lingering kisses to your skin. The slow pace is maddening, the anticipation coiling tighter with every moment.

“Harry,” you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders. “I need…”

“I know,” he cuts you off, his voice low and thick with want. “I’ll get you there, love. Just… let me take my time.”

And he does. He maps your body with his lips and hands, his touch alternating between featherlight and firm. When his mouth finds your breast, his tongue teasing your nipple, you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. His hand trails down, his fingers skimming the waistband of your jeans, hesitating again.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, his voice a strained whisper. “Say the words.”

“I want this,” you say, your voice unwavering. “I want you.”

The sound he makes is low, guttural, as he unbuttons your jeans and slides them down, taking your underwear with them. He stands back for a moment, his eyes dark as they rake over you. “You’re breathtaking,” he murmurs, almost as if in awe.

When he lowers himself to his knees, his hands grip your thighs with more force, his hesitation giving way to something more primal. He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then slowly works his way up, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin. By the time his mouth reaches your center, you’re trembling with need.

His tongue flicks out tentatively at first, testing your response. When you gasp and tangle your fingers in his curls, he grows bolder, his tongue tracing deliberate patterns over your folds. He circles your clit slowly, his movements maddeningly precise.

“Harry,” you moan, your hips bucking against his mouth. He groans in response, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure through you. One of his hands slides up your thigh, his fingers teasing your entrance before pushing inside. The stretch is delicious, and you can’t help the way your body arches toward him.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters against you, his voice muffled. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes you see stars. He alternates between thrusting his fingers and flicking his tongue over your clit, building you up slowly, methodically.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, your voice breathless.

“Never,” he promises, his pace quickening. The tension in your body builds and builds until it snaps, your orgasm crashing over you in waves. Your thighs tremble around his head, and he holds you through it, his movements gentle as he helps you come down.

But he’s not done. He rises to his feet, his lips glistening as he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hands are on your hips, lifting you onto the desk, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

“Tell me how you like it,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough.

“Hard,” you admit, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I like it rough.”

His eyes darken, and a wicked smile curves his lips. “Careful what you wish for, love.”

He unbuckles his belt and frees himself from his trousers, the sight of him making your breath catch. He’s thick, hard, and achingly ready, and the anticipation makes you clench around nothing.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, his voice soft despite the fire in his eyes.

“I can take it,” you assure him.

He pushes inside slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. The stretch is intense, and you’re grateful for his patience. Once he’s fully seated, he stills, his forehead resting against yours as you both catch your breath.

“You feel incredible,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips. He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one pushing you closer to the edge.

As your moans grow louder, his restraint slips. His movements grow rougher, his pace unrelenting as he drives into you. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with your cries and his grunts of pleasure.

“Look at you,” he growls, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you closer. “Taking me so well. So fucking perfect.”

You’re lost to the pleasure, your body meeting his thrusts eagerly. The desk creaks beneath you, the sharp edge digging into your back, but you don’t care. All that matters is the way he feels inside you, the way he’s unraveling you piece by piece.

“Harry, I’m so close,” you manage, your voice breaking.

“Come for me,” he commands, his voice rough. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you, your body clenching around him as you cry out his name.

The sensation is too much for him, and with a guttural moan, he follows you over the edge. His thrusts grow erratic as he spills inside you, his head dropping to your shoulder as he pants against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you move, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breaths. Finally, Harry lifts his head, his eyes soft as he looks at you.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” he says, though his tone lacks conviction.

You smile faintly, your fingers brushing through his curls. “But we did.”

He chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “And I’m not sure I can stop wanting you.”

“Then don’t,” you whisper, pulling him back in for another kiss.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

Part 2

taglist: (join it here)

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing #harry styles x you

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naughtyjjk · 3 days ago

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just a massage (pt. 3)

characters: nanami x fem reader warnings: 18+, smut, massage, teasing, sexual tension, dirty talk, grinding, fingering, edging, creampie notes: this is the final part of the massage series! thank you everyone for your patience with me and i hope it's worth the wait. you can read part 1 and part 2 as well!

you watch with great satisfaction as nanami takes in the sight of you. it’s almost comical how he’s stunned to silence, and you feel your confidence surging as you stand there in front of him.

if anyone happens to open the door right now, you’re sure that you’d be accused of public indecency, given what you’re wearing. you’d no doubt be banned from the massage parlor forever. but you’ve gotten more daring with each session that you attend—more daring, and more sexually frustrated with how nanami insists on continuously teasing you. so, you figure that it’s about time to take matters into your own hands.

“you—” nanami swallows. his voice is strained, and he seems to struggle with deciding on what to say. “you’re… supposed to take off all your clothes before we start.”

smirking, you feign innocence. of course you know by now. it’s far from the first time you’ve been here, after all.

“well…” you drawl, “i was hoping you could help me undress.”

you’re wearing the most scandalous clothing pieces you own today, a matching lingerie set, and there’s no way that you were going to let nanawi start the massage before showing it off. the outer layer, which has already been discarded, consists of your usual work attire. from the perspective of the general public, it’d be impossible to guess that you have something like this hidden underneath.

“fuck,” you hear nanami mutter as he closes the distance between you. he reaches out, slightly hesitant, running his hands over the strap of your bra, tracing it down to where it cups your breasts. the fabric is thin, practically see-through, your nipples visibly hard.

for a moment, he’s entirely captivated by your breasts and the way your bra emphasizes your curves. his fingers slide along the exposed skin, up and down the sides, dipping into the valley between your breasts and continuing further past your stomach. his touch is electrifying. every inch of your body that he explores makes you shiver and when he finally reaches your panties, he follows the thin strap of it along your pelvic bone. stopping right before he brushes a hand against your pussy.

“did you have this under your clothes all day?” nanami asks, arousal evident in his voice, in the way he’s devouring you with his eyes. he’s hard in his pants, so obviously turned on by your lingerie, and he doesn’t even bother to hide it. not that he could even if he wanted to—the bulge between his legs is unmistakable.

you nod and look at him suggestively. “mm, and i was thinking of you the whole time,” you say. “want to see the back?”

you don’t wait for nanami to answer, turning around to show off your outfit—or lack of, because what you’re wearing is effectively a thong, with a single strap that goes down the middle of your ass and just barely manages to cover your pussy. everything else is fully on display, the thin fabric complimenting your body perfectly, making you an irresistible sight. taking it a step further, you bend forward, shaking your ass a bit so that nanami can really see what you have to offer.

it’s clearly working because nanami sucks in a sharp breath. “god…” he seems to be fighting his desires, holding himself back, but eventually reaches out with both hands to slide them down the plane of your back, past your hips, until they’re pressed against your ass, squeezing. then, nanami retreats and clears his throat. “is this something that you wear… often?”

turning back to look at him, you say, “not anymore. it’s been a while.” you lick your lips. “i only put them on for special occasions.”

and with that, your gaze drops to the tent between nanami’s legs, satisfied at the fact that you’ve managed to make him so hard already. leaning back, you press your ass right on his growing erection and grind against it filthily.

immediately, nanami curses, taken by surprise. “fuck, you’re—okay, okay. that’s enough. let’s get you out of these.”

straightening, you mentally congratulate yourself for being able to have such an effect on him simply by wearing a few pieces of suggestive clothing and showing some skin. of course, if he hadn’t pushed you to this point, you would’ve never thought to do this. it almost makes you grateful for all the teasing during your previous sessions. almost.

for a long while, nanami doesn’t speak as he admires your body using both his sense of sight and touch. the silence only makes the tension between you more palpable. you didn’t think you could get more aroused just from the process of removing your clothes, but nanami once again proves you wrong.

a single finger trails down your back, along your spine, and you shudder, embarrassingly close to letting out a moan. your breath comes out shaky, nerves tingling. the delicate touch, the feeling of nanami’s hand on your skin, the sensuality of it all—it’s almost too much for you to handle. but you’re even less prepared for when nanami steps forward and hugs you from behind, both hands slipping under your bra easily and sliding up to squeeze your breasts.

he pushes them together, then apart, rubbing them in circles. he plays with your nipples expertly, knowing exactly what you like by now. grasping the hardened nubs between two fingers, nanami pinches and twists, rolls his palms over them, and earns a soft groan from you in response.

“you have no idea how erotic you look in this,” nanami whispers in your ear, and you could melt right there. his hands roam over your chest and stomach, back and forth, like he can’t get enough. “so fucking hot. so sexy. all for me.”

“k-kento,” you start, but you don’t know exactly what you’re asking for. it’s suddenly too warm in this room, your body heating up from nanami’s proximity.

“lift your arms a bit,” nanami tells you as he undoes the hook and slides your bra off your shoulders, discarding it on the ground. with your top fully exposed now, nanami deliberately avoids touching you and turns his attention to your pussy.

you feel yourself getting wetter once his gaze is fixated on your panties, and again when he traces along the strap of your thong that circles around your hips. it doesn’t go unnoticed how you try to squeeze your thighs together. hooking a finger under the strap on both sides, nanami pulls it down slowly and watches as your pussy is finally exposed.

nanami makes an appreciative sound at the back of his throat, but still, he doesn’t touch you anymore. “you planned this, didn’t you? got all dressed up to seduce me as soon as you walked in…”

you can’t deny it, so you only stand there while nanami drinks in the sight of your fully naked body. there’s hunger in the way he looks at you. there’s lust and desire, too. it feels like he’s spent so long on this—the foreplay, the slow unraveling of your body—but he’s hardly even done anything yet. it leaves you fucking horny, unbearably so, and your dripping pussy is proof of that.

“if you wanted to get me all hot and bothered, i’ll admit that it worked. i’m beyond turned on right now,” nanami says. “but i won’t give you what you want so easily just because you showed up in some lingerie.”

“why not?” you meant for it to sound like a challenge, but it comes out more as a whine, almost pouting as you try to hide your disappointment. “i’m already offering my body to you. don’t you want to take me right here?”

“oh, i will,” nanami says, a promise. his gaze darkens, clearly more affected by all this than he’s willing to admit. “but you booked for a massage, and i’m still a professional. so, get on the bed. now.”

the demanding tone and the way he’s visibly holding himself back makes your pussy throb. you go to lie down as instructed and watch as nanami hovers over you, hands finally returning to caress your body. they move down your sides, tickling your ribs. tracing the v-line of your crotch, starting at both sides of the hips and moving closer together, down toward your pussy.

you struggle to refrain from squirming on the spot, waiting in anticipation of a touch that never comes. “kento, please,” you say. “i’ve been wet for hours thinking about you…”

“god.” nanami swallows. “i can’t get over the fact that anyone could’ve seen how naughty you are. is that something you’re into? did it turn you on walking around like this all day?”

“maybe. would it bother you if someone else noticed before i got here?” you grin, mischievous. “i might’ve even let them fuck me, too, if i was horny enough.”

eyes narrowing, nanami exhales. “how about you show me what that dirty mouth of yours can do instead of trying to make me jealous. come on, we both know you want my cock more than anything. it never takes long for you to start begging for it.”

nanami stands himself next to you. with how the bed is raised, in this position, his erection is right there by your face; if you move even a little bit, you’ll be able to make contact with it. and to your surprise, nanami uses a hand to guide your head in his direction, until you’re pressed right up against the straining tent of his cock.

in this situation, there’s only one thing for you to do: you more than willingly mouth at his cock over the fabric, outlining the bulge with your lips, hot breath traveling up and down the shaft. he moans when you open your mouth, taking in the tip as if to swallow him down, licking all over. you wish that you could remove the barrier, actually see and taste the hardening cock in front of you.

something must snap inside nanami because not a minute later, he’s shoving down his pants and pulling out his cock from the restraints. it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him fully exposed like this, and it’s glorious, instantly reigniting your arousal. he’s only half hard, but his cock is long, and thick, and you’re already imagining what it would look like when it’s curved up toward his abdomen, flushed and glistening with precum.

“this is going inside you later,” nanami says, more of a declaration, a fact, than anything else. he holds his cock so that the tip of it is angled toward your mouth, just close enough to brush against your lips. “be a good girl now and make it nice and hard for me.”

eager, you immediately get to work. you start off by licking his cock, flattening your tongue and sliding up the length of his shaft, swirling around the tip. the taste of precum spurs you on and you trace along the bulging vein on the underside again and again, until nanami has become noticeably more breathless. a low, filthy moan is drawn out of him when you flick your tongue just beneath the cockhead, knowing how sensitive it is there. in turn, your pussy aches, begging for some attention.

but what turns you on the most is swallowing down nanami’s full erection and physically feeling him grow harder in your mouth. the minute you begin to move, bobbing your head and sucking him off with determination, he voices his appreciation in low, strained grunts.

“fuck, yeah, just like that.” he’s panting, struggling to hold himself back from thrusting into your mouth. “oh—oh fuck—you can’t get enough of my cock, can you? look at how well you’re taking it.”

that makes you moan because it’s true. you both know that you’ve wanted nanami’s cock since your very first massage session. you continue to suck him off until you can’t anymore and have to pull away for a moment, but not before giving him a final lick, leaving his cock standing tall in the space between you, spilling precum down the shaft.

“hah—you’re really tempting me today,” nanami says. his gaze flickers down to your breasts, you pussy. “you’re getting off on this too, aren’t you?”

grinning, you lick your lips, still tasting him on your tongue. “can you blame me when i know what’s going to happen next?”

nanami’s eyes darken. “getting cocky, aren’t you? we can’t have that.” he steps away for a second and you almost call after him, but you still have some sense of dignity remaining. nanami returns a while later with a new towel in his hands and places it over your eyes, effectively blindfolding you. leaning in, he licks the shell of your ear and whispers, “don’t forget who’s in charge here.”

shuddering, you have to stifle a moan. the world has turned dark with the towel blocking your eyes and you can hear nanami shuffling beside you, but there’s no way for you to figure out exactly what he’s doing. a part of you knows that you could easily remove the towel if you wanted to—though, if you’re being honest, you have to admit that you find this new predicament fucking hot. you can’t see, you don’t know what nanami will do next or where he will touch. you’re completely at his mercy.

“this is turning you on, isn’t it? naughty girl.” nanami pours oil all over you and spreads it out evenly. he then rubs his hands along your thighs and already, you can feel yourself getting wetter as he spreads your legs apart. “fuck, you should see the state you’re in right now. pussy begging for my attention…”

you whine. “touch me… come on, kento. i wanna—wanna feel you—”

“mm, of course you do,” nanami murmurs but he continues focusing on your thighs and only your thighs. “have some patience, darling. let me take care of you.”

as he says that, the surface beneath you dips, an additional weight added like nanami has climbed on the bed with you. this suspicion is confirmed when you hear his voice next to your ear, “you can’t see me right now, but i want you to imagine that i’m on top of you, my hips hovering just above yours.”

“fuck.” your pussy throbs with desire, and the two of you are so close that you can feel nanami’s cock brushing against your skin when it twitches. it takes all of your willpower to resist bucking up, searching for more of that delicious friction.

both hands reaching down to cup your breasts, massaging them, nanami says, “your nipples are so hard.” squeezing, he fondles them appreciatively, flicking them and making you gasp. “that’s it, let yourself feel good.”

you moan at that. it’s euphoric when nanami finally lines your hips up together and grinds down, an instant rush of arousal concentrated on your pussy. it feels so fucking good. the pleasure continues as he slides his cock back and forth, effectively rutting against you, humping you on the bed with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips. in response, you lift your hips instinctively, no longer in control of your actions as your mind turns into a haze.

but when you do this, every time, nanami always makes sure to pull away so that he’s just out of reach. you figure out the pattern fairly quickly, but you can’t help yourself, thrusting up involuntarily despite knowing that you won’t find any relief. you whimper, wanting more. but nanami is determined to go at his own pace, and it only serves to make you increasingly frustrated.

“just look at you,” nanami says, hips digging into yours, cock pressed against your pussy. meanwhile, his mouth is by your ear and trailing down your neck. “you’re so fucking wet already.”

there’s no hiding just how turned on he you are, not when your legs are spread wide open for nanami to see. you want him inside already. “kento, please…”

nanami shifts a little and positions himself so that his cock rubs against your clit every time he grinds on your pussy, making you curse and cry out at the sudden spike in pleasure. your wetness, mixed with his leaking precum, makes the slide feel that much better.

all of a sudden, nanami grunts, and that’s the only warning you get before the pace picks up, rocking his hips twice as fast. It’s like the last of his self-control has snapped. you’re thrown off guard and the increased stimulation is overwhelming, making you squirm on the spot, back arching. “k-kento—! shit, that’s—yes, yes, keep going—hng—oh fuck, i’m—”

“you’re getting close, aren’t you?” nanami asks. even though you still can’t see him, you can feel the weight of his stare, watching your body closely for any signs that you’ll tip over the edge. it’s like he’s somehow able to read you perfectly even though this is only the first time you’ve properly fucked. “how are you feeling? think you’ll come soon?”

“h-hah—fuck—feels good, feels so good—” you moan brokenly, losing yourself in the sensations. “c-close—I’m close—”

“i know.” nanami is equally breathless, even if he tries not to show it. “you have two options: i could make you come now and give you the release you want right here, or…” he purposely grinds hard against you and you have no doubt that he could follow through on his words, “if you can hold it, i’ll put my cock in you and fuck you hard like the naughty little girl you are.”

shuddering, you don’t even have to think, not with the way you’re throbbing between your legs. you’ve only wanted one thing ever since he saw nanami at your first massage session. “y-your cock—ah, please—want your cock—”

nanami smirks. “yeah? think you can hold back from coming, then?”

“i-i can,” you say, even though you let out a groan immediately after. It’s a gamble, really; you don’t know how much your body can take, but there’s nothing you want more than to have his cock inside you.

“that’s what i like to hear,” nanami praises. “you better not come yet.”

moaning, your entire body is tense from struggling not to let yourself feel too good. the problem is that nanami doesn’t stop; he continues grinding on you, maintaining the brutal speed that has you throwing back your head, trembling with every thrust.

the delicious slide of his cock has you coming undone, and your pussy, your clit, throbs in warning of your release that seems inevitable now. it’s bad because nanami is throbbing too, both of you pulsing against each other, which only makes you more turned on, every instinct in your body telling you to give in.

“no, no—k-kento, stop—ah—hah—fuck, i can’t—i don’t wanna come yet—”

you don’t expect nanami to pull away entirely. it’s frustrating and a relief all at once. the loss of stimulation is abrupt, and you body doesn’t fully manage to catch up until a second later, a wave of heat rushing through you, chest heaving, pussy aching to be touched again. you know that nanami must be getting off on this, sitting back in cruel satisfaction to watch you desperately try to fight off your orgasm.

you arch off the bed, still bucking your hips forward a few times. you just can’t help it. your pussy is dripping with your desire, helplessly horny and so damn turned on. fuck. the denial of your orgasm burns through you, even though it’s exactly what you asked for.

“yeah, that’s it. ride the edge for me. such a good girl,” nanami murmurs, tracing a finger gently along your opening—the opening where his fingers could penetrate you, where his cock could penetrate you. the unexpected contact makes you gasp now that you’re more sensitive than ever. “you like being denied, don’t you? you like being told when you’re allowed to come.”

you moan weakly in confirmation. you don’t want to admit it—that you like the torture, the cruel denial, the drawn-out pleasure that makes you break down. you like being kept on the edge, so close but forbidden from coming. being completely at nanami’s mercy. you want to prove that you can be good, even if your body begs and pleads for release, so that you can eventually earn the reward of his thick, hard cock.

“open your eyes. look at how filthy you are.” nanami reaches over to remove the towel covering your eyes. “look at the mess you’ve made.”

blinking, you adjust to the brightness of the room and glance down as you’re told, seeing yourself for the first time in a while. nanami is right; it’s an absolutely filthy sight, and you would be embarrassed if you weren’t so fucking turned on, judgement clouded by lust.

between your legs, your pussy is swollen and aching, the bed soaked with your arousal. nanami, with his cock absolutely rigid, standing tall and curving up to his abdomen, kneels before you. he’s flushed a dark, hungry red. the veins bulge out along the shaft of his cock, still throbbing and twitching occasionally. His cock weeps, precum glistens down his entire length. his balls are heavy and full and he seems like he’s at his limit, like he’s going to burst with a single touch.

god, you think, this might just be the hottest sight you’ve ever seen. nanami runs a hand through his hair, loose strands falling in front of his face, and his toned muscles shift with the movement, arms flexing. he looks at you like he wants you, like he’s barely managing to hold himself back. he’s not nearly as composed as he pretends to be, considering the fact that his other hand has been stroking himself this whole time.

you watch, mesmerized for a moment, as that hard cock disappears and reappears in his fist. nanami moans, head falling back as he circles around the tip. his breath stutters. then, he looks at you, eyes filled with pure lust and desire. “still want my cock?”

you swallow, mouth dry. “please.”

letting go of himself, nanami licks his lips. “turn around, then. get on your knees.” when you instantly obey, he hums, satisfied. “now raise your ass—yeah, that’s it, show me that pretty pussy of yours.”

a finger reaches out to trace the outer area of your opening and nanami pours more oil, using it to ease his finger inside. he pumps the digit back and forth, slowly at first to allow you to adjust to the sensation. but all you’re thinking about is his cock replacing his finger, his cock stretching you wide, reaching far deeper than—

you gasp when a second finger enters without warning. choking out a moan, you feel yourself loosening to accommodate the extra width, hips beginning to push back and move on their own.

“let’s see,” nanami murmurs. “if i remember, your spot was somewhere here…”

the next few thrusts are done in search of your g-spot, aimed at different angles to draw out that particular reaction nanami is looking for. at some point, you feel a brush against the sensitive nerves, not quite hitting it directly, but it’s enough to make you whine. if you turned around at that moment, you’re sure that nanami would be smiling wickedly.

“found it,” he whispers, a hot breath right by your ear.

you shudder from those words alone. then, you feel his fingers curling just slightly, pressing into that area with the perfect amount of pressure, and your entire body jolts. the pleasure is blinding, so intense that it leaves you trembling in the aftershocks. your mind goes blank, and you can’t stop the moans and whimpers that escape you. “hah—hah—oh my god—f-fuck—please, there—there—”

your pussy throbs, squeezing around nanami’s fingers with every single thrust that follows. as soon as the familiar buildup to your orgasm starts to accumulate, nanami suddenly decides to pull out.

whimpering, your thighs tremble; your body is on fire. you don’t know how to tame the arousal that sears through you or how to handle being this fucking turned on. you just want to be filled again, want to be fucked hard enough that it makes you scream.

“i think you’re ready for me now,” nanami says, and you almost sob in relief. he rubs the head of his cock against your entrance, almost pushing in, before retreating completely. “but first, i want you shaking and begging for this to be inside you.”

nanami lets his cock slide between your thighs, practically fucking you there, brushing against your desperate pussy with every thrust. it’s deliberate, the way he applies pressure, tormenting you with his cock. never giving you what you want. and you can’t take it anymore; you can’t.

“fuck—a-ah—fuck, kento—stop teasing already—” you whine as nanami taunts you with only the tip, not allowing you nearly enough stimulation to get off. it leaves you frustrated, so fucking aroused and riled up beyond return. you’ve been reduced to an embarrassing state, moaning over and over, feeling his cockhead stretching you open only to withdraw, until—

“ah—oops,” he says far too innocently as he plunges the full length of his hard, throbbing cock inside you without any warning. as quickly as it goes in, he pulls out all the way, leaving you desperately empty again before you’re even able to process what happened. “my apologies. it slipped in by accident.”

you cry out, panting, nails digging into the bed. a low, guttural moan spills from your lips and you sound so wrecked, so broken, that you hardly even recognize your own voice. you body is burning and your pussy clenches around nothing. there’s only one thing on your mind, hazy and clouded with lust, pure arousal coursing through your veins: he want nanami inside you, want nanami to fuck you so badly—hard and fast and deep enough that you feel it for days after. you want to fucking come on nanami’s cock.

but nanami has gone back to rubbing the head of his cock by your entrance, denying you of anything more. occasionally, he’ll put in just the tip, just enough to give you a taste of what you could be getting, before leaving you empty once more, whimpering helplessly on the bed.

you’re not expecting it when it happens again—nanami slipping inside you all the way, completely unannounced. this time, you both moan when he bottoms out, balls slapping against your ass. he stays there for a few seconds, circling his hips, cock twitching and throbbing as it hits your inner walls at every angle. as soon as you start to feel good, clamping down around him, he pulls out again, cruelly.

“ngh—p-please, kento—your cock—want your cock—” you beg, and your pussy is so wet for him. so horny for him. “fuck me—fuck me already—please—”

“sh-shit—” nanami’s voice is the only thing that gives away just how much he wants it, too. finally, god finally, he penetrates you, stretching open your pussy and pushing in. inch… by inch… by inch. achingly slow. still managing to tease you on purpose, without mercy, testing your limits in self-control.

you moan loud when nanami buries himself deep, feeling the entire length of his thick cock inside you. he stays there like that for a while, hips moving so minutely that you sometimes think you imagined it. but it’s always just enough for you to feel it; never enough for it to be satisfying.

“hah—feel that?” nanami whispers, voice strained and breathless. “feel my hard cock throbbing inside you?”

moaning brokenly, you do feel it—the way it’s pushing against your walls, pulsing in waves, making your head spin. this has to be the sweetest torture that you’ve ever experienced, only serving to make you more frustrated. you feel nanami’s erection shifting inside you, and just when you manage to adjust to the sensation, he begins pulling out fully—still going slow, letting his cock drag and drag and drag until only the tip remains inside.

fuck. fuck, it’s only been one thrust. the single most agonizing and dreadful thrust that you’ve ever had to endure. nanami is taking you apart piece by piece, so skillfully that it would almost be embarrassing if you were any less aroused. nanami’s sense of restraint is definitely commendable, but god, you wish that he’d just get on with it.

trying to swivel your hips and take matters into your own hands, you desperately try to seek more of the delicious friction. meanwhile, nanami is still rocking into you languidly but only with the head of his cock now, teasing and stretching your pussy over and over.

“i can—i can tell that you want it so bad,” he says, watching the way your body aches for it. “why don’t you use your words, sweetheart. be a good girl and let me hear how well you can beg.”

“kento—” you break off, whining. you yearn for it, need to be filled, need to have all of nanami inside you again. “p-please—hng—you—your cock—please!”

“yeah? and where do you want my cock?”

“i-inside.” you’re trembling, desperate. “in my pussy. wanna—wanna be fucked by your cock—hard and deep—ngh, kento—please just—p-put it in already—”

nanami sucks in a breath, groaning as his self-control withers away upon hearing those words. he looks at you, with your face down and ass up, pussy dripping as evidence of your desire, and finds himself at his limit, too. he’s made you wait long enough. he’s made himself wait long enough.

sinking inside, you both moan as nanami buries himself into you, starting with shallow thrusts that get deeper and deeper as time goes on. each roll of the hips is deliberate, his cock searching for the place that will make you fall apart.

“yes, yes—a-ah!” the stimulation on your g-spot has you shaking, arousal peaking. “right there—fuck, that’s—ngh, so good—feels so good—”

once nanami gets going, he really doesn’t hold back. he pounds into you at a brutal pace, making sure to aim deep inside you every time. clawing at the bed, you try to pull yourself away, just a little bit, but he only drags you back and holds you down in place, forcing you to take it.

“t-too much—hah—it’s too much—shit, kento—kento—i’m about to—”

you hardly even realize that you’re moaning again and again, so consumed by the pleasure, until nanami reminds you, “shh, not so loud. unless you want everyone to hear just how fucking naughty you are.”

heat rushes over you, body burning at the implications, and just the thought alone is enough to almost make you come. it must be obvious that you’re nearing your limit because nanami growls and says, “don’t come. don’t you fucking dare come. i’m not done with you yet.”

those words almost push you right over the edge and all you can do is moan and whimper, helpless to take nanami’s cock over and over, steadily building you up to your climax. “hah—hah—fuck, i-i can’t—can’t hold—” you’re shaking, begging; there’s no relief, just a constant assault targeted at g-spot as you try desperately to stave off your inevitable orgasm. “o-oh my god, i—i’m gonna—i’m gonna come—”

immediately, nanami stops. the whole world seems to freeze.

the only sounds in the room are your ragged, panting breaths. your arms give out and you collapse forward on the bed, ass still raised from where you’re connected with nanami. a wave of the most intense heat you’ve ever felt scorches through your body, and your mind is still a haze, struggling to comprehend what just happened.

“fuck!” you can’t help crying out, desperate for nanami to keep moving. to keep doing—something. anything. “n-no, fuck, please—i-i need—”

but of course, it never comes. nanami made sure of that.

you had been so close; god, you had been so fucking close. between your legs, your pussy throbs in protest. you feel it like a cruel reminder of your almost-orgasm every time it pulses, pulses, pulses, even long after you’ve been denied of any further stimulation. you were so ready for release, so sure that you’d get it despite nanami’s words because of how quickly you had been hurtling toward the edge, mere seconds from tipping over.

“good girl, so good for me,” nanami murmurs, the praise reigniting your arousal. he nods at your dripping pussy. “fuck, i bet you’re just aching for it, aren’t you? i’ve never seen such a desperate, horny pussy before.”

and you’re all too aware of his hands which are circling around your hips, inching toward your clit, which has been neglected since earlier. tingles shoot up your spine as he brushes a finger against it, and you’re still hanging dangerously on the edge, right at the brink.

“p-please…” you say, willing to accept anything at this point. anything that nanami can give you. “i’m so close…”

nanami hums. “how much more do you think it’ll take for you to come?” he asks, fingers hovering right above your clit while you’re still very much aware that his cock is buried inside you. “two strokes on this sensitive clit? a single thrust in your pussy?”

whimpering, you throb under his touch. “i-i don’t—i can’t—”

“let’s find out, hm?” nanami doesn’t allow you any more time to think. his cock, deep in your pussy, begins to move at the same time as his hand, circling your clit while thrusting deep as he rolls his hips. groaning, he begins to count, “one.”

the build-up this time is alarmingly fast, hitting you as soon as you feel him pounding into you, aiming deliberately for your g-spot again. it’s instantly overwhelming, the way his hand makes tight, rapid circles around your clit while he’s simultaneously stuffing you with his cock. the assault is merciless, and you’re far too close to the edge to even try and hold back. “c-coming—ah, fuck—fuck, i’m—”

nanami doesn’t even get to count to two before you’re clenching around his cock and moaning loud and coming so hard that you don’t think you’ve ever felt pleasure like this. nanami’s cock pulses inside you and your mind blanks. you don’t stop coming until he’s finally pushed to his limit, too.

“shit, shit—” nanami moans, low and guttural. he fucks you through it, not stopping until he’s reached his climax, too. “so fucking tight—you’re—ngh, fuck, you’re gonna make me come—”

a moment later, warmth erupts inside you, making you whine softly. nanami’s hips stutter as he throws his head back, panting and moaning through his orgasm. he throbs inside you, continues throbbing until he’s emptied all of his release, filling you up in the best way.

as he pulls out, you can feel his come trickling out of your pussy, so filthy, so fucking hot. you’re sure that the sight of it is erotic, too—thick, white sperm dripping out of you as evidence of nanami’s cock claiming you. breathing heavily on top of you, nanami shuts his eyes to reorient himself from the high of his orgasm.

mind still hazy, you glance at the ceiling, then around at your surroundings. you remember where you are: the massage parlor. right. you can’t believe you really just had sex here; can’t believe it took this long for nanami to finally fuck you without getting interrupted or stopping abruptly due to time constraints.

when nanami opens his eyes again, he looks at you and runs a hand through his hair. the action shouldn’t look so hot—he shouldn’t look so hot after giving you the best fucking of your life. he says, voice low, “you’re going to be the death of me.”

you grin at him. “you can’t deny that it was good, though.”

“i’ve never come so hard before,” nanami admits.

two sessions of teasing each other. weeks of holding back, masturbating to the thought of each other. your attraction to each other, all the sexual tension, everything built up to this moment. you can still feel the aftershocks of your orgasm, the pleasure spreading throughout your body in waves. it's the same for nanami.

neither of you are pretending that this is a massage anymore. truthfully, it hasn’t been for a long time.

“think i can come see you again sometime?” you ask.

“well, i work here,” he says. “and you’re welcome to visit any time you need stress relief, of course.”

of course, you think. you're absolutely going to take him up on that offer.

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