#but there better be another one somewhere down the line

[rafesangelita]

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 WHEN YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW | PROLOGUE

a pogue!sweetheart!reader series by rafesangelita ©

SUMMARY: nothing could’ve ever prepared you for the handsome kook that came crashing into your life.. quite literally. it’s hard to think that at one point you and rafe didn’t know one another, especially since you two have spent every passing day together for the last four months.

WARNINGS: drug use, driving under the influence, reckless driving, rafe arguing with ward, descriptions of a mild injury, mentions of addiction and sobriety, blood, reader tends to rafe’s wounds, fluff, opposite of slowburn, forced proximity (?), time skip (from four months ago to the current day), slight angst

AUTHOR’S NOTE: ahhhhh!! it’s finally here, and i couldn’t be more excited to share this with all of you!! all feedback is deeply appreciated <3 feel free to ask to be added to the taglist if you’d like!

LINKS: series masterlist | next chapter

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

rafe set a new record for himself tonight, and he wasn’t proud of it. not only did he lose count of the lines he snorted off of topper’s coffee table, he also had ward blowing up his phone. “aye, man, i don’t think you should be driving.” topper slurred, downing the alcohol in his glass. cleaning the residue from his nose, rafe shook him off, stumbling through the crowd of people in the living room before hopping in his truck and peeling out of the packed street.

jaw ticking, rafe cursed to himself when his phone started ringing, ward’s contact lighting up the screen. “i’m going home already, alright? yes— yes, dad! i know we have a meeting with some investors in the morning.. what? no i’m not fuckin’ high!” he rambled on, feigning offense when his father called his bluff. “just stop— i know, okay? i’ll be there in a minute—” before rafe could finish his sentence, he took a sharp turn, swerving onto the curb before hitting a light pole.

you were locking up the icecream parlor when you heard the high pitched squeal of tires against the pavement, a loud crash making you jump from your spot in front of the door. spinning on your heels, your eyes widened when you saw a black truck just feet away from the main street, smoke billowing from under the hood. unsure of what to do, you looked around to see if anyone was nearby, but of course, the strip was always empty at this time of the night.

“son of a bitch!” you heard someone groan before they tumbled out of the front seat, falling face down against the concrete. you gasped, dropping your purse before running across the street. “are you okay?!” you helped the stranger sit up, wincing when you saw blood dripping from his nose. he stared at you wide eyed, his pupils blown as you kneeled in front of him. he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

“it’s okay, you don’t have to say anything.” you reassured him, slipping off your cardigan before holding it against his nose. you noticed the open gash on his brow, your heart sinking when you saw his eyes soften. “we really need to get you to the emergency, do you have a phone?” rafe shook his head, leaning back against the tire of his truck. “no. well, yes, i have a phone.. somewhere.. but i can’t go to the emergency, not like this.” just then, rafe felt a sharp pain shoot up to his temple from his neck.

“yes, like this! you’re all scraped up.” you said incredulously. “no, i mean i’m not sober.” as if he was waiting for you to judge him, rafe watched as your expression didn’t falter. “i promise you, going to the emergency and getting help from a professional is a lot more better than not going at all. your truck can always be replaced; you can’t.” your words lit a fire in his chest, the sincerity in your tone making him crack a pained smile.

“i’ll go to jail for this, and i just can’t do that right now. i have to be somewhere in the morning, my dad will kill me if he finds out..” remembering that he was on the phone with ward before he crashed, he scrambled up to find the device, only to groan and plop back down on the street. still holding the pink cardigan to his head, you guided his hand to hold it for you. “what are you looking for? i can try to find it.” rafe let out a shaky breath, mumbling “my phone.” before you got up and spotted it near the tire.

turning it over, you held it up for him to see. it was completely shattered. “i don’t think it’s going to work..” you handed it to him, a bitter laugh falling from his lips. “what the fuck?” he breathed out, holding his head in his hands. you’ve never seen someone look so defeated before, your feet moving on their own before you could think. “do you think you can walk? my place is only five minutes away.” rafe looked up like he couldn’t believe the words that just came out of your mouth.

“your place?” he repeated, half shocked and half confused as to why you’d offer him help. “yes,” you nodded, taking his hand in yours, “i don’t have a phone there, but i can at least get you cleaned up..” rafe tried to weigh out his options, only to realize he didn’t have any. “are you sure?” he was truly at your mercy. “yes. here— just keep holding this to your head, let me go get my purse and we can be on our way.” you left him with your cardigan, running across the street and grabbing your bag before getting him up.

“i’m a lot stronger than i thought.” you joked, attempting to lighten the mood as you wrapped one of rafe’s arms around your shoulders. “fuck, what about my truck?” rafe leaned his weight on you, nearly making you topple over before you took a step. “someone will find it and call a tow, you could call the towing company tomorrow,” you explained to him, “do you have anything valuable in there?” rafe laughed, shaking his head. “just my piece of shit phone that has no value now.” he grunted, walking with a slight limp.

“hey, uhm, what’s your name?” rafe looked down at you, both of you sharing a glance before he looked away. despite him not being in the right state of mind, there was no doubting how insanely pretty you were. “y/n.. and yours?” why on earth were you getting butterflies right now? “rafe.” was all he replied before he started asking you an abundant amount of questions. rafe learned a lot about you in the short five minute walk to your camper. what you did for a living, where you currently worked for some extra money, what your hobbies consisted of.. along with being a pogue.

“so.. you live all alone in this pink camper in the middle of the woods? aren’t you scared some psycho will come across it and want to know who’s inside?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “a psycho?” you flashed him a playful smile, “like you?” rafe watched as you unlocked the small screen door, a chuckle threatening to slip from his throat. “i would laugh if it didn’t feel like i had a thousand needles stabbing me in my brain right now.” he swallowed thickly, accepting the hand you offered him to step in.

he was immediately hit with the smell of freshly baked cake and vanilla frosting. he loved it. “i know it’s really small in here, but you could just take a seat right there on that little couch and i’ll go get my first aid kit.” rafe did as you said, eyes darting around your space. pink florals, white lace trim, usually he’d be irked by this kind of decor, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, he didn’t mind it this time. rafe leaned back on the soft sofa, settling into the cushions while you scrambled for the little first aid kit somewhere in your bathroom.

spotting the small box on your little shelf, you grabbed it before making your way back to where rafe was sitting. he opened his eyes momentarily, finding you even more pretty now that darkness didn’t surround you two. he kept his gaze on you, watching as you took your bottom lip between your teeth. “sorry about this..” rafe took the pink cardigan away from his head, the fabric now stained with blood. “oh, don’t worry about it,” you smiled, “you needed it more than i did.”

pressing a damp cloth to his nose, rafe groaned when you applied the slightest bit of pressure. “i’m sorry!” you pouted, taking a seat next to him. rafe reassured you he was alright, a groan leaving his lips as he clutched his stomach. eyebrows knitting in confusion, you lifted his shirt, your eyes widening at the sight. he was scraped and bruised, a small wound adorning his lower abdomen. “here, lets get this off.” you pulled rafe’s t-shirt over his head, both of your cheeks heating at the compromising position.

“we could stop if this is too weird for you—” you shook your head, taking an ice pack out of your freezer. “no, it’s okay.” you pressed the cold bag to his skin, still wiping away the dried blood on his face. “i’m not sure how far you live, but i don’t think it’s a good idea for you to walk anywhere.” your voice was barely above a whisper, the sound of it soothing rafe more than any kind of medicine he could take right now. “don’t worry about me, i’ll be fine.” rafe watched your fingers dance across his stomach, your nails sparkling underneath the dim lighting of your camper.

you thought for a moment. “i guess what i’m trying to say is; i think you’re better off staying the night here..” you trailed off, meeting his gaze, “you’ll be able to get to a phone in the morning and call whoever you need to. you should just get some rest right now.” rafe was stunned. you wanted him to stay? “i don’t know..” he sounded uneasy, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t help but feel like he was imposing. “it’s okay, i swear! you could take my bed since there’s no way you’ll be able to sleep on this little thing.”

“no, no way, i’m fine with sleeping on the floor.” you smiled at him, eyes flickering down to his lips. “no, really, it’s okay…?” you trailed off, unsure of what to call him since you didn’t know his name. “rafe.” he answered. “rafe,” he liked the way his name sounded rolling off of your tongue, “i’ve fallen asleep plenty of times over here, i’ll be fine on the couch.” you got up, wringing out the towel you were using to clean him up. “i just have one rule, though,” rafe held the ice pack to his stomach, humming as you grabbed some ointment and a couple of bandages.

“you can only lay in my bed if you’re clean.. and you need a shower.” the corner of rafe’s lips quirked. “if you want to see me naked all you have to do is ask.” you blinked, pushing his chest softly. “that’s not what i meant.” you giggled. “i’ll get you a change of clothes, just get in there for right now.” rafe was already too far in to look back. getting up with your assistance, you guided rafe to the bathroom before shutting the door behind him. “there’s clean towels and wash rags on the shelf!” you called from the kitchen, yawning as all of tonight’s events started to catch up with you.

rafe didn’t know what to make of all of this. one minute he was high out of his mind, crashing into a light pole with his dad on the phone, and the next he was inside some gorgeous girl’s camper getting tended to before using a strawberry scented body wash in her shower. what the fuck was his luck? taking his time in the shower, rafe thought about how he’d explain everything to ward tomorrow, from the towed truck to the cuts and bruises.

he wondered if ward would even care.

by the time rafe was done, he was stepping out of the bathroom smelling like a slice of strawberry cake with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. he glanced over at the couch, your back facing him as you slept soundlessly. moving aside the pink curtain that concealed the doorway to your room, rafe slipped into the sweatpants you left out for him, settling underneath your silky soft sheets shortly after.

how was it that you just happened to be the only person around when he crashed? how did he crash right in front of where you worked? and why were you being so nice to him? rafe had so many questions and couldn’t think of any logical answers. he didn’t believe in fate, but looking back on it, that seems to be the only explanation. the next day he woke up to his clothes freshly washed and wearable again, your music playing softly in the kitchen. “good morning!” you chirped, your hair and makeup already done for the day.

“hey..” rafe was still shirtless, his eyes following your every move. “what time is it?” he took a seat at the little booth by the wall, his head no longer pounding the way it did last night. “it’s about to be ten. i was debating if whether or not i should’ve woken you up earlier, but you really needed to sleep.” you leaned back against the counter, admiring the handsome man in your camper. “your wallet should also be with your clothes there on that chair,” you started, “..so i was thinking; the little store just right outside of these woods has a pay phone that you can use.”

rafe nodded. “yeah, that sounds good.” he couldn’t think of the last time he woke up without wanting the day to be over with already. “hey, listen— uhm, i owe you a huge one for everything you’ve done for me.. i apologize if it was an inconvenience in any way, but i really do appreciate you.” rafe got up, grabbing his wallet from your room. “here. please take it.” you looked down at the hundred dollar bills tucked between his fingers, shaking your head as you moved his hands away.

“absolutely not.” you laughed. “no, please, take it.” rafe got closer, opening one of your palms before closing it around the bills. “rafe, i don’t want it!” you backed away, “i’m serious.” rafe let out a sigh. he already knew how this would go, so instead of urging you to keep it, he placed the money on your dresser after he was done changing. “well i guess i’ll be leaving now.” you masked the disappointment on your face by offering him a smile. “yeah, i guess so..” without saying a word, you and rafe stared at each other before he wrapped his arms around you, the action giving you butterflies.

before you could say or do anything, he pulled away and left, leaving your camper feeling more emptier than usual. you walked over to the door where you watched him walk away until you couldn’t see him anymore, a pout on your lips as you did so. while you were sure that you would more than likely never see him again, you couldn’t be more wrong. that day was the first of approximately one hundred and twenty one days, and counting, that you two would spend together. rafe came back to you the next day with a brand new pink cardigan to replace the other one you so selflessly let him ruin.

one icecream date turned into several, which then progressed into him coming over to your place with an overnight bag, his very own toothbrush now taking a spot next to yours. which then led to him picking you up and dropping you off at work, and so on until he finally said that you were his. you two spent the entire summer underneath the trees, rolling around in the grass as you two gasped each other’s names into your mouths, sharing sweet kisses and an even sweeter love that continued to grow with no intentions of ever stopping.

rafe had gotten sober out of fear that he wouldn’t remember what a love like this felt like if he was high all the time, and without judgement, you were there with him every step of the way. you stayed by his side when he felt like all hope was lost, and for that he could never thank you enough. although ward wondered where rafe would go off to, he didn’t bring himself to care as long as he was doing what he needed to do for the family business. with his dad off of his back, and you to come ‘home’ to everyday, he could say that he was truly happy.

even now as you two sat in your favorite diner, sharing a milkshake and laughing at whatever the other was saying, you felt no worries when you and rafe were together, your heart threatening to burst at the seams everytime you looked at him. everything was perfect.. at least for now. all good things must come to an end, and when you two are threatened by none other than ward himself, the love bubble you two have been mindlessly floating in is suddenly popped.

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[curtins]

🌿 I LOVE YOU SO MATCHA! — gojo satoru sfw!

prologue. → green was the color of life, and gojo satoru, in all his contradictions, carried life in the way he loved recklessly, laughed shamelessly, and held you like the universe began and ended with you. 🌿 🤍 part of the cookbook (@antizenin)

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

but green is the colour of earth. of living things, of life. and of rot. — unknown.

warnings+. sweetness and established relationship, there's angst in this i genuinely couldn't help it, reader wears a dress in a scene, mentions of injury!

word count. 4k! song inspiration. luther — kendrick lamar, sza

a/n. i'm doing the sukuna shibuya bow from making another predictable twist and ending. but i actually rlly loved writing this, this fic is gonna stay with me i fear <3 gif made by me!

mp3. if it was up to me, i wouldn't give these nobodies no sympathy. i'd take away the pain, i'd give you everything

most people think of gojo satoru in shades of blue.

not the soft and wistful kind that paints summer skies, or the quiet ripple of a lake at dawn. no, they think of an unearthly blue. sharp and electrifying, the kind that stings your eyes and lingers even after you look away.

the shocking azure of his cursed technique, like lightning bottled and ready to shatter the earth. or maybe it's the endless stretch of his eyes, the kind of blue that is so bright, you may burn yourself if you look too long.

to everyone else, gojo is blue. bold, and unrelenting and impossible to ignore.

but to you, gojo satoru is green.

it took time for you to notice it. green doesn't always shout or demand attention. it waits quietly in the background, sometimes content to let others take the stage.

but once you saw it, it was everywhere. it bloomed and took over your life.

the café smells like freshly brewed coffee, warm bread, and the faint sweetness of jasmine blooms sitting in a vase by the window. it's a quiet day, the kind that only seems to exist when gojo has finally managed to wrangle some rare time off.

your boyfriend sits across from you, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, grinning like he's thought of something utterly brilliant.

"okay, hear me out," he says, holding up a hand like he's about to make a groundbreaking declaration that will shatter the earth and bring world peace, "you're the oolong one for me."

you pause and scrunch your face, mid-sip in your tea, "please don't."

gojo leans forward, his grin growing wider ever still, "no? how about this? you're simply tea-rrific."

you bury your face in your hands, as an elderly couple looks at the two of you oddly, "you're unbearable."

"tea-rrific. like terrific," gojo laughs, wagging a finger like a professor lecturing his class, "get it? because -"

"oh, i get it," you cut in, shaking your head but still smiling at your entire world of a boyfriend, "i just refuse to reward bad behaviour."

but you should know better than to think you've tampered down on the relentless force that is gojo satoru. he is relentless in all things, especially when he decides to make you laugh. he's launched into an entire string of tea-related puns, each one worse than the last.

chai think you're amazing! we're a matcha made in heaven! leaf me alone, i'm on a roll!

and somehow, somewhere between the chai and matcha, you start to notice the green.

the delicate stems and leaves of the jasmine says slightly as the café door opens and closes, catching your eye. their soft green isn't loud nor is it attention-seeking. just quietly present, a backdrop to the white blooms that adorn their head.

it is the kind of colour you don't realise you've been missing until it's suddenly there.

you glance at the window, and the trees lining the street are the same, their leaves dappling the sunlight as they sway in the breeze. even the café walls, painted in a muted, sage-like shade, seem to glow just a little in the sunlight. a backdrop to gojo's charming antics.

he's still in front of you, his hair gleaming the same dewy shade as the jasmine blossoms. so animated as he explains why leaf me alone was an under appreciated pun.

there's green in him too, you think.

not in the obvious sense for gojo satoru is far too outwardly vivid to be defined by something as soft as the green akin to your matcha. but it's still there, beneath the flash of his grin and the sharpness of his humour. in the way that he leans closer to make sure you're still smiling.

in the way he somehow turns the whole world into a quiet garden on days like this.

"okay," gojo says, leaning back to cross his arms over his crisp white tee, "i'll stop. but admit it, i brewed up some great ones."

you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betray you, "fine. one of them was acceptable."

gojo gasps, clutching his chest like you've delivered a fatal, cleaving wound, "one? one? i give you comedy gold, and the love of my life repays me like this!"

the jasmine leaves quiver again as your knee knocks up, shaking the table, "you're impossible."

gojo smiles softer this time, tipping his head as though you've delivered the greatest compliment in the world, "yeah. but love me so matcha!"

the strongest sorcerer in modern history is cracking himself up again, and you can feel the warmth of the colour green around you. in the leaves, in the dappled light, and the man across from you who somehow makes the world softer, and sweeter. and full of life.

there's a matcha-green hoodie in gojo's closest. it's oversized, cozy and worn just enough at the cuffs to feel like a bit of a secret. something loved so well that it holds pieces of him in the quilted fabric.

it's nothing like the sharp navy and indigo of his uniform that he wears on duty, where every line is a untouchable warning. no, these clothes are the opposite for you. it's familar. it's gojo's off-duty self, the one that the rest of the world doesn't get to see.

gojo only really wears it at home, when he's padding around barefoot with tousled, snowy hair brushing over his forehead as he pretends to tiptoe (and fails spectacularly) to let you sleep in. it's the kind of green that somehow makes the mornings softer, as if the day dances quietly around you too.

it's also the green of the evenings when he drapes himself over the couch in your apartment, long legs dangling over the armrest while he beckons you with a lazy smile.

the fabric is impossibly soft against your cheek as you settle into his broad chest, and his arms loop around you like they were always meant to belong there. it smells like him too, a little like cedar and a little like pine. and you think it might be your favourite place in the world.

one time, you stole it.

you hadn't planned it. you had been cold, and it had been right there. before you knew it, you had been walking around the house in its oversized embrace.

when gojo had caught you for the first, his grin stretched wide, playful and wicked.

"hey, well," gojo had drawled, leaning against a doorframe like a cartoon cat that had finally cornered the mouse, "look who's going through other people's closets."

you tugged the sleeves further over your hands, "it's comfortable. you take my shit all the time."

"it's cute on you," gojo says, sauntering closer and placing his large hands on either side of your face, "but you know...no one looks cuter than me."

you snort and turn your back on him, which only encourages for the six-foot-three man to chase after you. and even though he claimed he needed it back, he didn't get it for a week.

maybe because you refused to give it up, or maybe because every time he saw you in it, he just shook his head, grinning as if he’d been caught in the middle of something he didn’t mind losing.

when gojo invited you back to the family estate, you had braced yourself for grandeur. looming gates, and endless halls. the suffocating weight of tradition.

and yes, the grandeur had been there. but what lingered most in your memory wasn't the vastness or the architecture. it was how beautiful it was.

there were several shrines that lay nestled among the estate, hidden away on plots of land. this one had been worn soft by time, covered in moss and nestled among the larger stones.

spring had woven itself into every corner of the estate, from the blossoms swaying overhead to the long grass brushing against your ankles as you walked.

gojo stood a few steps ahead of you, glancing back as if to make sure that you hadn't disappeared, hadn't been swallowed up by the earth. he was dressed in far more traditional robes for once, navy linen lowing and rippling as he moved.

but there was something endearingly out of place about him here, like a bird perched on the wrong branch.

"spring makes it look nicer than it is," he said, running his fingers over the soft, white edges of his undercut. you can hear the underlying vulnerable note in his seemingly casual voice.

you didn’t reply right away, too caught up in the way the sunlight filtered through the cherry blossoms, scattering dappled green shadows across the worn stone steps. when you reached the base of the shrine, you paused, taking it all in: the moss, the blossoms, the breeze, and him.

"it's beautiful," you said finally, and he gave you a lopsided smile that felt more honest than any grandeur could ever be.

he waited for you at the top of the steps, his gaze steady and warm as the spring air. for a moment, he looked like he belonged here, a part of the ancient garden itself. like a carven statue created by loving hands, forever memorialised as something not quite human. but you knew better.

he didn't like this place — this house that felt more like a museum than a home, this estate heavy with the weight of a family name he wore like armour. since arriving, he’d been quieter than usual, his usual spark dimmed by old memories and expectations, and constantly bowing servants who called him lord and master gojo.

but now, as gojo watched you walk through the long grass, something shifted. his shoulders have relaxed, his hands hung loose at his sides. and then, so softly you almost missed it, he says, "i want to marry you."

you froze, the words catching in the breeze between you.

he wasn’t looking at the shrine anymore, or the blossoms, or the sky. gojo satoru was looking at you, his blue eyes calm and unwavering, like he’d found his answer in the very place he’d been avoiding.

"i know it's not much right now," he added, his voice low and rough around the edges, as though he wasn’t used to baring this part of himself, "and i don't care what the elders say. but you're the only person i want."

at the edge of the jujutsu high campus, there's a vending machine of incredible drinks. its green paint had faded, and chipped from the years of stubborn sun and countless coins clinking into its slot.

it hums faintly, blending into the scenery like a reliable friend that carried you through your own years of high school.

somehow, it's become your spot. not officially, no. there was no grand declaration, no conscious agreement and treaty. but after his classes, he always ends up here.

and so do you.

it starts the same way each time. gojo satoru saunters up to his fiancé with that unmistakable grin, white hair catching the light as if he was trying outshine the sun itself.

you watch as he slides a coin into the slot with theatrical position, with his finger hovering dramatically over the buttons. like he's choosing between life and death, instead of commercial canned drinks.

"one iced matcha," gojo announces in a tone meant for a training arena, and not a quiet campus corner. his hand arcs in an exaggerated flourish as he offers you the drink, "for the love of my life."

you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betray you, "flattery won’t get you anywhere," you reply, accepting the can and cracking it open with practiced ease.

it's a dance you've done a hundred times, but somehow it never gets old. he leans against the vending machine, towering and smug, watching you take a sip like he’s waiting for something.

"don't even think about it, satoru" you warn, holding the can just out of his reach.

but it’s gojo, so of course he thinks about it. he grins wider — how is that possible? and in one fluid motion, he leans in and steals a sip before you can react.

"i will get revenge, always so difficult," you weakly huff, but your fond smile gives you away.

"difficult to resist," he counters, winking like it’s a challenge, "besides," gojo adds, holding the can up to the light as if inspecting its soul, "it tastes better when it’s yours."

you snatch it back, pretending to glare at him, but he’s already leaning closer, his hand brushing yours as he reaches to press another button.

"second round?" he asks, as if this isn’t already part of his plan.

the vending machine hums again, green and steady and familiar, as it delivers another drink with a satisfying clunk.

green had grown to be more than just a colour. it had been a thread that stitched its way through your love story. quiet and constant.

so when the day came, when your heart thudded heavier than ever before and your hands shook just slightly as you smoothed down the expensive fabric, it only made sense that the colour of vitality and new beginnings was everywhere.

the first ceremony itself had been steeped in tradition, from the elegant folds of your formal robes to the rhythmic chants that seemed to echo on in your head. you were grateful for its beauty, but it was the dinner afterwards that felt like yours truly.

the reception was tucked away in a corner of the sprawling grounds, where the tables were adorned with white lilies so luminous they seemed to carry their own light. they sat in vases of muted jade, the colour rich and soft, like the grass after a spring rain. the candles flickered in delicate green holders, casting shadows that waltzed across the tablecloths.

gojo was, of course, the first thing you noticed when you stepped into the space. he wasn’t wearing robes anymore; he’d swapped them for a sleek black suit that fit him perfectly, save for the ever-so-slightly loosened tie (because he couldn't help himself). his hair, as untameable as always, gleamed in the low light.

and then there was you, in a flowing green dress that felt like you’d stepped out of a dream and into his orbit. the soft fabric caught the candlelight, shifting from deep emerald to pale sage as you moved, shimmering. you thought about how this colour, the one that reminded you of leaves and tea and moss-covered shrines — had always meant life to you.

gojo's grin when he saw you was wide enough to rival the moon, and he made a show of adjusting his tie like a movie star spotting their co-star for the first time, with an awfully cliché wink.

"you clean up nice," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief, and then something more love-struck, "my beautiful wife. i must be the luckiest man on earth."

"and you’re just realising this now?" you teased, the soft fabric of your dress whispering as you stepped closer.

dinner wasn’t a grand banquet, but it was perfect — just your closest friends, a table overflowing with warmth, and gojo stealing glances at you as if you’d disappear if he looked away for too long. between bites of food and sips of something sweet, he leaned over to whisper ridiculous commentary in your ear about your guests: how much wine nanami had thrown back, or how shoko had situated herself perfectly near the food.

but then, in quieter moments, he’d reach for your hand beneath the table, his thumb tracing soft, lazy circles on your skin.

the night blurred into laughter and soft music, of digital cameras and drunk speeches. the green hues around you shifting like memories folding into themselves. you caught sight of the lilies swaying gently in the breeze and thought about how gojo had insisted on them when you’d been indecisive.

"white lilies mean devotion," he'd said, smirking like he knew something you didn’t.

"and green?" you'd asked.

"green's for us," he replied, "or for you. i know you like it so much. an' it's cute when you're sentimental."

by the end of the night, gojo's tie was completely undone, and his jacket hung over the back of a chair. he pulled you onto the dance floor despite your protests that your feet hurt, practically yelling in their strapped heels.

"then i'll carry you," he said dramatically, dipping you halfway before breaking into laughter when you yelped.

the two of you swayed there, in the gentle green glow of the reception, his arms wrapped around you and the world falling into place. your husband smelled faintly of the lilies and something warm you couldn’t name. you're sure if you put pen to paper, like a poet of old, you might be able to name that feeling.

"you know," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple, "i've been to a lot of ceremonies, but this one’s definitely my favourite."

"oh? why's that?" you asked, resting your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"because this time, i got to marry you."

you used to love the colour white. it had been the colour everything pure. everything soft that made you feel safe. the brightness of it had brought a clarity to the world.

it was the colour gojo's unruly hair, glistening in the sun like a crown. you had been so enamoured, watching him run slender fingers through soft strands. to you, white had always been perfect and radiant in all of gojo's unbridled glory.

but the winds of the snow storm must have shifted.

you still remember that day so vividly, as if your mind could never forget it no matter how much you wished it could. the white falling on the streets of shinjuku, covered with layers of freshly fallen snow. pristine and untouched.

but there had been a sickening crack of flesh against pavement, the wet thud that only those who've known death too closely can identify.

you had seen it before you'd even registered the horror of it all. the red, the bright crimson that bled into the snow. staining it, warping it. turning it into something so vile. the ministrations of ryomen sukuna.

gojo's body, cleaven and unmoving. the garnet staining his snow-white hair as it pulled from under his spine. the quiet calm that had settled over his face, as if he had seen something so wondrous in his last moments.

that snow, once so untouched and pure, was suffocated by the iron scent of blood. and at that moment, when you had lost him forever, was the moment you knew that white would never mean purity again.

the colour of white, the colour of christmas eve — no longer held any softness for you. it wasn’t the gentle lightness of his hair; it was the cold, hard truth of loss. it was the memory of blood seeping into that pure snow, the last thing he saw before his life was ripped away.

now, you avoid it. you avoid white whenever you can, as if by doing so, you can erase that moment from your mind. you keep your house warm and cozy, perhaps almost unhealthily so, with shades of warm and soft earth tones, and you dress your daughter in colours that remind you of life, of what was still worth living for. but white? it's a shadow, a reminder. so, you avoid it.

but then, one afternoon, a few months later, your daughter tugs at your hand, small and warm, a soft giggle escaping her as she skips ahead of you. you can’t help but smile at her, at how much of gojo satoru is in her — the way she laughs without hesitation, the way her energy fills up every room, every corner.

you're walking down the street, the air still crisp from the tail-end of winter. it's one of those moments when the world feels ordinary, but in the best way possible. sunlight filtering down between reconstructed buildings, the bustle of the city in the background, your daughter's little chirp bubbling in the space between. you're lost in her, in the joy she brings.

but then, you stop.

you don't mean to. you didn't even notice where your feet were taking you until it happens. your gaze drops to the ground, and there it is.

that spot. the place where it all happened. the very spot where the white had been stained with merlot, the place where gojo's life was stolen from you. the pavement looks the same, the cracks just as they were before, but there's something different now.

a tiny green plant, barely noticeable, growing through the crack in the concrete. the leaves are soft, a rich shade of green that seems to pulse with life. it's small, fragile, but determined, its roots pushing through the cold, unforgiving pavement.

you swallow, the lump in your throat almost choking you.

"satoru..." you whisper to yourself, but your daughter’s voice pulls you from your morbid, breaking thoughts.

"look!"

you glance down, seeing her kneeling beside the plant, her tiny hands reaching out to touch it with wonder in her eyes.

"it's pretty, isn’t it? can i pick it?" she asks, her voice light and innocent.

you nod, tears welling up in your eyes that you refuse to let fall. you hold your breath, trying to steady your heart. it's absurd, you think, how something so small, so simple, could make you feel so much. how something as insignificant as a sprout could make the weight of the world feel just a little bit lighter.

nitrogen, iron and phosphorus are all found in human blood. and hey! they're also needed for plants to grow!

you hear the voice of teenage shoko, kicking her legs back as you tried to finish your homework, right before yaga assigned you another detention. but now the memory comes back to you, sickens you. tears at your heart.

you crouch down beside her, your fingers gently brushing against the plant’s leaves.

"yeah, it's pretty," you whisper, voice barely audible. “best let it rest where it is, yeah?"

you've taken a deep breath and stand up, your daughter tugging you along as she continues on her path, unknowing, innocent. entirely unaware of the memory of her father, lauded as a hero and as a sharp weapon by all those who knew him.

most of those who knew him.

but you glance back at the little plant, the green leaves waving in the soft breeze, and for the first time in months, you don’t feel the crushing weight of grief.

you just feel… a little less lost. and for the first time, the colour green feels like something more than a memory of gojo satoru.

more of a promise for the future, for those who lived on.

[twocorvids]

screw ur zodiac sign— what adorable nickname do u think Rick will call morty next?

[tteokdoroki]

ೀ⋆OCT 1ST PRINCESS DIARIES ━━ satoru gojo + breeding !

୨୧ — caution, you are now watching. satoru gojo + breeding. thirty days until you become queen, thirty days to get married and thirty days to stop sneaking around with the man trying to steal your crown… (5.2K)

୨୧ — rated r. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! nsfw, heavy smut, royalty!au, enemies to lovers (?), forbidden romance, infidelity and cheating, spit kink, breeding kink, daddy kink, pregnancy kink, breast play, agoraphilia, baby trapping, oral sex (f!recieving), unprotected sex, princess + fem!reader, lord!satoru gojo.

୨୧ — director’s note. woo happy spooky season my loves. welcome back to another tteokdoroki kinktober! im excited for you to see whats in store this year, hope you enjoy this fic to start off mwah! - m.list ⋆ kinktober m.list ⋆ taglist ✧

you have thirty days to get married.

being from a small town, somewhere that’s not even on the map — you never expected your family name to carry much meaning aside from the one you carved out for yourself. let alone expect your name to come from royalty.

if you thought discovering how to be a teenager at sixteen was hard, then try discovering how to be a princess at sixteen on for size. everything you’ve ever done since finding out you were royalty has been for your family. you’ve kept your head down, out of the spotlight aside for the occasional appearance and charitable events. you’ve studied hard, double-majoring in international relations alongside political science and diplomacy. 

you’ve prepared yourself thoroughly enough to feel ready to take the mantle of queen — especially with your grandmother planning to step down. all of your accomplishments have been leading up to this very moment — it’s so close that you can practically feel the weight of the crown on your head. 

except there’s one itty, bitty, little problem.

you still have to get married in thirty days. otherwise, your family title will be poached from right beneath your nose.

satoru gojo (aka public enemy number one) is the nephew of a member of parliament who just so conveniently knows genovian law better than your grandmother does. since satoru came of age before you did, and he’s lived in genovia for longer than you have, and has some random distant relative in connection to the first king — the men of parliament have decided that he too is in line for the throne. 

especially if you, the princess, do not marry before your coronation. 

how ridiculous is that? 

and not only is this satoru gojo an evil, conniving, crown-stealing bastard. but he’s charming, a silver tongue wrapped around each and every one of his words. charming, like a prince (blegh) he’s also stupidly attractive. with deep sapphire blue eyes that are gorgeous enough to make the crown jewellers weak in the knees and a smile so sweet it feels like a sugar rush whenever he looks at you. there’s something so unique about the frostiness to his soft white hair, matching his unfairly long lashes — the ones you know girls back home would kill for. 

it angers you to know that you’d been dancing with your rival at your welcome ball, pains you to know that you’ll never forget his slender fingers splayed out against the small of your back to guide your every movement. if you had been back in college (and had a few litres of hard liquor in your system), perhaps gojo would have been the type of guy you’d have snuck into the dorms for a night of fun and an NDA in the morning — your secret signed away from the paparazzi’s keen eyes. 

alas, these are very different circumstances and there’s a lot riding on you being sensible about the situation. yet, satoru proves himself to be a problem every chance that he gets — cornering you in closets with his breath hot against your ear, trapping you against the walls while the ghost of his touch feels like heaven against your skin… on the staircase too, insistent on reminding you of the passionate dance you once shared.

all while you’re set to marry the duke of another country so you can keep your fucking crown (pardon the language, your highness).

suguru geto would be the perfect king consort if you managed not to mess this up. he is warm, where satoru is a flip between disastrously hot and frustratingly cold. he balances you out, a mellowness to your clumsiness whilst understanding your need for a rushed proposal and wedding. raised a gentleman, suguru is mindful of you in every action he takes. he doesn’t stare too long but smiles when you think he’s not looking and he’s a wonder with your grandmother — the parents, too. his family gem (a serpentine, making you feel much like a snake) sits heavy on your ring finger, dazzling under camera flashes at your engagement dinner…. and he recognises duty and honour above anything else too. 

if satoru is your enemy, then guilt is your friend. no matter what either of the men in your life do, you find yourself comparing their every move. when you’re with suguru your mind is away chasing the fairies, imagining the touch of another man who sets your heart alight in a cool blaze — like gasoline trickling through your veins waiting for its candle match. when you’re with satoru, all you can think about is how wrong this is. how geto doesn’t deserve this. but you’re an addict without a cure, and your drug is satoru gojo and you don’t see yourself ever  quitting him.

you're in desperate need of a wake up call and a nicotine patch, the cocky yet lecherous air about him almost acting like a smog in your healthy and capable lungs. sometimes through the fog, you wonder if satoru knows how much he weighs heavy on your mind— though if he did, you’d never hear the end of it. 

the current queen tells you not to worry about the white haired man that’s slowly freezing over the four chambers of your heart. you tell yourself that suguru geto is the only man that you need, one that could help you rule and create a beautiful and better kingdom for many years to come. geto tells you that he loves you, that he can’t wait to marry you in two or three weeks time and you respond with equal (yet, faux) excitement.

perhaps that’s why you find yourself sneaking away from this respectful, loving man to be with the one trying to ruin your life?

why are you following satoru gojo deep into the royal gardens, where the rose bushes are the only witness to your sick and twisted sins?

your back hits the jagged pattern of tree bark before your brain can catch up — causing a little wet whimper to bubble up on your pinky-peach tainted lips. the flutter of pain just beneath your skin only lasts for a second before it’s replaced by the sensation of satoru’s fingers traversing up the dips and curves of your body. he soothes you where it hurts the most, rough fingertips leaving bruising marks made with affection along your thighs and small of your back while he swallows your sweet gasps — licking into the wet cavern of your mouth to taste you. 

“you’re not even…” his words spill into you, adding fuel to the spark of lust beginning to form a pit in your stomach. “you’re not even attracted to him,” he spews, surging forward like a storm knocking on your door to press his greedy spit slicked lips to yours. his tongue, syrupy and wet, intertwined with your own, filling you up and giving you something to suck on. 

before you can even think of kissing your rival back, he retreats and takes his swollen lips with him — latching onto your neck and weaponizing his teeth against it. you gasp, your angel’s song tipping out into the rose garden while your fingers tangle in silver-moon locks and let him work against you, claiming you just below the neckline of your dress where no one will be able to see. 

except for maybe your fiancé and only god knows how you’ll be able to explain the marks to him tonight. ‘oh you know me, suguru. i’m way too clumsy for my own good.’ you’ll say, all while thinking about how the man after your crown blew your back out at your engagement party. 

you know why satoru’s acting such a fool — taking risks that he wouldn’t normally. the dress you’re wearing, the colour of his eyes, drives him fucking insane. you can’t say that you didn’t ask for this, like it wasn’t on purpose. 

“can’t fucking stand you,” gojo groans against your skin, nose pressed to your collarbone as he inhales the candied notes of your perfume. “been giving me those angel eyes all day. knowing that i can’t take my fucking eyes off of you when you wear that colour, princess.” 

he’s insufferable, but here you find yourself at the mercy of his touch — offering up your body to satoru gojo like a sacrificial lamb as your back arches away from the tree and presses your chest into his eager strawberry tongue. it leaves a slimy track over your neck and dips between the cleavage of your dress while gojo makes his descent down to hell — tasting the shimmering crystals of salt on your skin. 

satoru gojo belongs on his knees. 

kneeling before you with the royal blue tule of your dress between his shaking hands. you can tell he’s trying not to rip it off of you. born to worship you.  mirth weighs down his lashes and desire dances between the navy blue flecks in his sapphire eyes — he needs you so bad it might kill him. from this position he can practically smell how turned on you are, he’d recognise the mouth-watering aroma of your drooling cunt anywhere, slick gathering in the crotch of your barely there panties. 

there’s a depraved, royal treasure hidden between the string of fabric that runs between your juicy pussy lips — swollen and waiting to be devoured by your enemy. not that you’d ever admit that to him. “i think you should be referring to me as your queen.” you manage between ragged breaths, satoru eyeing the way your chest heaves from beneath the bust of your dress. 

instead of responding, his head unceremoniously dips beneath your skirts and he drags a thigh over the width of his broad shoulders. “watch your mouth,” the lord purrs salaciously as he licks up your inner thigh, the vibrations shooting straight to your swollen clit. “let’s remind you of who’s really in charge.” the both of you feel it, the aching throb of your pussy against gojo’s lips as he wedges his face right between your thighs. you can’t help but grind against him in wanton, desperate to be filled up with fingers, tongue whatever your sworn enemy has to offer up to the crown. 

but your warmth and wetness does nothing to coax satoru into tongue fucking his way past your clenching, creaming entrance. rather, he draws his head back just a touch and rubs at your cunt like he loves you, dips his fingers just into your quivering hole and then — smack !

juices run down satoru’s arms as if he’s taken a bite into the fruit that tempted eve while he laughs in awe of just how fucking sloppy you are between your thighs. the spank to your puffy folds makes you jolt in surprise, causing you to scratch your back against the jagged tree bark. 

“gojo!” you squeak in warning as your thighs close around his veiny hand. 

he sticks his tongue into his cheek, smirking in amusement before prying your shaky legs apart. “that’s not quite right, try again for me, princess...” gojo repeats the process, running between your slick folds and spanking you against them when you fail to respond. “you know my name, baby. c’mon it’s easy, i’ll even say it with you. d…d…” 

you refuse to stoop so low, to let demeaning words escape from underneath your tongue but not having satoru’s mouth on you is like torture — just his breath against your cunt is akin to dangling a carrot in front of a starving horse. you know what that pleasure is like, you crave it and you’re not above begging no matter how royal you may be. 

“f-fuck, daddy!” you whinge defiantly, screwing your eyes shut and letting your head fall back against the tree. satoru wastes no more time then, slotting his hot mouth against the entire length of your silken slit. the first thing he does is moan, the vibrations shooting twinges of ecstasy from your clit through the rest of your body and even reaching your head — making the world around you spin. 

the tip of his tongue teases its way past your entrance, squirming around to brush up against pleasure spots your little fingers can’t even reach. “that’s right princess, knew you could do it. you’re not just some stuck up little girl.” the white haired lord praises, drawing back from your quivering hole — connected to you by a string of your glistening slick. 

“shut up, just… put your mouth to good use.” you grunt, your hips canterint down onto gojo’s face to keep him quiet. your fingers take root in his silvery moon locks, dragging the man and his pink tongue onto your sex once more. gojo takes the hint, making your cute little clit his next victim as he rolls it between perfect rows of pearly whites and sends your eyes into the dark depths of your skull. 

the sinful and salacious sensation provides a welcomed distraction from your responsibilities as the crown princess. if your grandmother could see you now, you know that all she’d feel is disappointment— especially if she knew her granddaughter was fucking the biggest threat to the crown. and suguru, your poor fiancé — he was probably stuck mingling with guests he didn’t even know, looking for your eyes in the crowd like he always did. 

shame should be burning through your veins, not the white hot trickle of desire that you’re filled with as satoru slurps your juices from between your fat pussy lips. the needy groans he lets out against you inch down your spine, drown you in stormy waves of lust and you find yourself addicted to the bob of gojo’s head from underneath your tule skirts. you’re just so wet, pouring the royal family’s riches, liquid gold straight into the man’s greedy mouth as he drinks you in.

your nectar glazes his cheeks and chin in a devilish shine, brighter than the crown set to sit atop your head — his mouth barely parts from your ravaged and swollen romping as if he’s married to eating you out, tongue licking you up and down before your juices even have a chance to drip to the ground. you can only imagine what would happen if the press found out, your life would be over and so would satoru’s. but you don’t care, because every second that gojo spends between your thighs dragging you to orgasm is worth it. every single time. 

he grips at your ass, pulling you back onto his tongue as it flickers in and out of you. the whole ordeal is disgusting and delightful and you never want it to end. pleasure mounts high within you, evident in the shakiness of your gripes and grouses, lust laden in its tune. 

“s-satoru…satoru. i’m gonna… g’na fuckin’ cum!” a high pitch squeal tears in your throat like music to gojo’s ears — now working relentlessly to get you off just like you need. he doesn’t care if he’s suffocating, at least he’ll die a happy man between the thighs of a princess. 

he chuckles against your sex. “such a dirty mouth for such a proper lady.” the lord says as if he’s a scolding you.

but you can barely hear him, for static rings in your ears as your body loses the war to your orgasm. your release bubbles up on his tongue like the fresh pop of champagne, while your brain fizzles and clears itself of all logical thought. guilt is replaced by bouts of lust, making you realise that this cycle of avoiding and fucking gojo will never end. you’re too addicted to him and he’s too obsessed with you, as long as things remain that way — sex with him will always be on the agenda. 

you can’t promise yourself, your grandmother or suguru that this will be the last time. 

dopamine dances across gojo’s brain as he drinks in the tangy-honey flavour of your release, letting it splatter against his puffy lips as they encircle your clit to prolong your orgasm. you gush as if you’re a rushing erotic river, spilling into satoru’s earnest mouth while he licks you clean with wanton.

“look at that… oh look at you. cumming for me already.” 

“f-fuck you.”

“fuck me?” he smirks, making your gut lurch with wanton. “fuck you. i’m the one that’s working on it, princess.” satoru slowly rises to his feet, licking a nasty spit-slicked trail from your hole to the cleavage peeking out from underneath your dress. he doesn’t even stand to his full height, his large frame towering over you as he yanks down the front of your dress to lick and suck and play with your breasts until you can’t tell what’s up or down anymore.

his perfect teeth graze a pert nipple which makes you gasp and cry, loosely looping your arms around satoru’s neck while his ravaging mouth works your sensitive breasts, even going as far to swipe his tongue over the spot where each one meets your ribcage. he doesn’t leave any marks, you’re not his to keep. large and rough hands replace the warmth of his mouth on you to toy with your mounds of flesh — pinching and pulling as satoru kisses you senseless. you groan at the taste of your slick on his tongue and salt of your skin as well, tugging him closer so that there’s no space between your heated bodies. 

“don’t cry,” satoru comments softly against your swollen, cherry-bitten lips — cupping your face between his fingers. blinking slowly, you allow your frenzied brain the chance to catch up to reality  and you don’t realise the tears that wet your cheeks until he points them out. why are you even crying? “you’re too pretty for that.” his compliments do nothing to clear the lustful, confused fog settling over your mind like a dark cloud so you follow your body’s instincts and reach for the metal clasp on his belt. 

nimble fingers make their way down the front of gojo’s dress pants and he hisses at the quick pumps of his perfectly hard cock before you’re dragging up your skirts and guiding him towards your entrance. “baby, wait—“

you push his pants down enough to let his erection spring free, pulsing with need and standing at full mast against the cotton blouse covering his tummy. “i need you.” you sniff, dropping your panties to your ankles. “please.” 

the thing about sex with satoru is that it never feels like just sex. he tenderly hikes the meat of your thigh over his slender hips, lets his dribbly, sticky cockhead twitch forward and ease past the salaciously slick barriers of your empty hole, and presses your bodies so close together that you think you might forget how to breathe. satoru makes love to you each and every time — and it’s terrible. 

like eating too much sugar or indulging in a bad smoking habit. you’re not supposed to be in love with him and the way he fucks up into you, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis even with all of the fabric in the way. “don’t cry for him, f-fuck,” the both of you look down, your pupils dilating at the sight of your pussy swallowing his lengthy shaft whole — catching on the ridges of each blue vein spiralling around him. “cry for me, princess. i’m the one that’s ruining you.” 

with his forehead pressed to yours, silver hair matted down by the line of perspiration against it — satoru braces a hand against the tree above your head and sets stream to his passionate thrusts, fluid like water under a bridge. it’s not fair, how wrong this is and how good it feels to have gojo lick over the parts of you he would bite down on if you were his. your pulse point, your neck, the spot just under your ear that’s way too sensitive for your own good. it should be suguru fucking you like this, your fiancé. 

yet, there’s no room for self-loathing and despair between the rough tree and satoru gojo above you. nothing aside for the thick curtain of lust that protects you from prying eyes in the rose garden, floral scents twisting with the raw, aphrodisiac-like smell of sex and sweat while he pounds away at your swollen pussy, grinding his cock wetly against the sweet spots dotted along your ribbed walls. 

“i should put a baby in you,” he says suddenly, just barely audible over the wet pap, pap, pap of your sexes working together. embarrassment burns bright under the surface of your cheeks because you’re that wet and it’s that loud, the remainders of your previous orgasm making it easier for satoru’s cock to glide in and out of you. “leave you with a little gift. a present — reminder of our time together, yeah?” he knows that he’s not making any sense, leaving his confession behind sex and sultry words. he would never admit to how much he loves you, he’s already ruined you enough. he’s already taken more than enough from you too. “i’ll get to the crown either fuckin’ way.” 

satoru talks with his dick and you fucking like it, squeezing the damn daylights out of him. he can barely pull back with you locked down on like that, his seedy tip snug between your ruined folds — clinging into him by viscous ropes of your last orgasm and freshly formed globs of his white hot precum. “you like that, don’t you princess?” he coos down to you condescendingly, picking up the pace of his hips as he rams into you mercilessly. the tree shakes from the force, sprinkling pretty and innocent petals over you both. “you wanna make me a daddy? my queen? give me a little prince or princess.”

“fuck yes, satoru!” nodding your head with wanton, you press yourself into his neck and squeeze him close by the ass cheeks so the only place your lover can go is deeper. you want to be able to feel him in your guts, hot in your womb like an iron rod — anything to forget the trickle of betrayal filling you up like a glass of wine. “i want it, i want it…i want—“

you cut yourself of with an abrasive sob, as you moan your agreements. i want you. you feel the words on the tip of your tongue, drowned out by the slippery sounds of sex and creaking tree trunk. you’ve never wanted anyone as much as you’ve wanted satoru gojo.

but he’s the wrong person, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. 

“i know you do, i know,” you can feel gojo move to slobber over your chest, pacifying his whistle tone whimpers with your nipples bouncing in his mouth. he looks up at you with vacant cerulean eyes that shimmer like the skies above, the crude mix of your arousals slinging at the point at which your bodies join. “tell me how much you love daddy’s cock, princess.” 

he goads because he craves your attention. satoru can feel you slipping from between his fingers, the guilt that rolls off of you in waves as he languidly rams into your cunt. he’s asking a lot of someone who’s too stimulated, too fucked out to speak — your tongue barely staying in your mouth. 

“sato—!”

“c’mon… answer me, fuck, there we go.”

that’s when he hikes you up in his arms, lifting you a little to feverishly thrust up into you — dragging you closer to another high. your nails dig deep into his taut ass, nudging his dick against your g-spot. suguru would never be this rough with you, would never want to fuck you so good that the pleasure hurts.

shaking your head, your eyes glisten but the denial doesn’t stop small streams of arousal from squirting out and webbing against gojo’s soft pubes. “i-i can’t! i don’t—“ satoru bites down on your nipple, hard, cutting through your train of blurry thought. “i love…h-him!” 

you love your fiancé, but you both know that’s a lie.

“yeah, sure you do. that’s why your pussy’s huggin’ my cock so tight. you don’t wanna let me go, baby.” even while he’s a mess for you, your rival still finds it in him to be such an egotistical prick. you can’t even tell him that he’s wrong, because you never ever want to be without satoru, without this immensely overwhelming feeling of ecstasy fluttering through your entire body. it’s all too much, he’s too much, stretching you wide and filling you with the love (and cum) you should be getting from suguru. 

thunder cracks above your head, lightning flashes through the trees as if the higher power up above is bearing witness — growing distraught at your sins. it’s not long before the heavens open up on you both and your sweaty, sex slicked bodies are doused in rain. but it doesn’t stop you, doesn’t stop satoru from dragging down your bottom lip to lovingly spit into your mouth. 

he kisses you as if it’s not enough, rocking his hips into you so he can bully your insides and mark them with his pre. “bet he’s lookin’ for you right now, hm? his precious wife to be…drenched in my cum ‘n drenched in the rain.” satoru heaves, letting the patter of the rain drown out the sound of his tightening balls slapping against your ass. “bet he wishes he could fuck you like i do.” 

you can’t tell if it’s the tears of guilt and longing or the rain that blurs your vision. “h-he doesn’t get to!” you cry like a dirty porn-star, hardly becoming of a soon to be queen. “o-only you!” 

“only me, hm? i’m flattered.” he seems elated, hiding his flushed face and happy smile in the junction between your neck and shoulder. his wet hair tickles your skin. “too bad he doesn’t know his princess comes used and abused between her pretty legs, huh?”

the rain is cold against your skin, seeping through your clothes, ruining your makeup — but the way satoru licks up your hot streaky tears and the droplets of water against your skin as if to sooth you… the way he does it fills you with warmth. 

your limbs become heavy from your water-logged clothes and exhaustion, your whole body slumped against satoru’s strength but you still manage to rake your nails down his back as if you can’t be any closer. gojo doesn’t let your hips run from his either.  his mind races, stuck on the idea of asking you to run away with him because he can’t just let you go back to geto. not again. 

he can’t let you marry someone you’re not in love with. 

it would be selfish of him to ask you to stay, even when you wrap your legs around him and have him plug up your tiny little hole with sticky white. he sees it in your eyes how much you care for him, even through the rain. he’s ruining you, from the inside out, knocking the crown from your head and he hates it.

“daddy loves this pussy,” he wishes for the moment to last forever, but you’re already so close — crying from every hole, suffocating his throbbing cock. neither of you can hold back. “he loves you. i love you.”

the confession nearly tears your world in two — but it’s all you need to hear before everything comes crashing down on you. “i-i love you!” you tell him, wailing the words loud and proud as you release on him for a second time, gushing obscene amounts against gojo’s tummy smooshed up on your clit. “sato—! satoru! cum with me, cum inside me!” scratching down his back and screwing your eyes shut, you tilt your head up to capture his lips in a passionate kiss. 

the taste of salt on your cupid’s bow throws gojo over the edge too — his cockhead pours viscous white directly into your womb. “fuuuck, you’re so good princess…” and even though you know you should tell him to pull out, you don’t want him too. you want his baby, want his cum, want him always. even if that’s greedy of you.“fuckin’ take it…take all of me. all of that cum’s for you.” he slurs, beyond brainless.

lewd clapping noises echo between your bodies like the thunder up above as satoru fucks you through the rest of your highs, nose nudging your cheeks tenderly to soothe your tears. moaning, and crying against one another’s swollen lip. when his slow grinds come to a stop and your breathing recovers, the white haired lord gently sets you back in the ground — tenderly helping you to fix your drenched clothes back into place. 

your thighs are completely bruised and his back is completely torn up. the last marks you’ll ever leave with each other.

“so about—“

“we… we can’t do this anymore, satoru.” you say almost immediately, shaky as if you’re in the verge of panic. 

for the first time since you started doing this, sneaking off with one another, gojo notices the glint  on your ring finger. and you feel the very same weight of that ring. 

he shrugs you off, pulling up his pants and smirking. “that’s what you said last time—

“no satoru, i mean it now. we can’t.” it’s like you’ve come to your senses, realised the gravity of it all and what’s at stake. thirty days to get married, thirty days to become queen. “i’m going to become queen, your queen, in a matter of weeks and to do that i need to be married to him. i can’t mess this up. we have to stop.”

“but you don’t even want him,” he growls like a petulant child, roaring above the rain that cascades down on you both. “you want me. i want you. who gives a fuck about anything else?”

“duty gives a fuck! i have to marry him!”

throwing his hands up in defeat, satoru steps towards you, loud and intimidating, and you step back towards the tree. “you can’t even say his fucking name.” 

“his name is suguru geto and i will marry him because you forced me to.” you spit, going toe to toe with him — chest heaving but tight from your heart break. “if you and your stupid higher ups had just stayed out my way. maybe there could have been a chance for us. but they didn’t and here we are and duty freaking calls, gojo.” 

you storm off shortly after, be before he can see you cry again (for real this time). from his place hidden in the royal gardens, gojo watches sullenly as you approach your grandmother and fiancé — the elder queen disappointed in your current state and suguru clearly worried that the rain might make you catch a cold. 

the perfect alibi to cover up the fact that you’d just fucked satoru gojo. 

but the entire time, you never look back. 

you don’t even look at gojo — and  that’s how he knows you meant it. you always look back, always look for him in the crowd. 

the knowledge hits him like a strike of lightning. he’s royally fucked up — you’re marrying for the crown, all because of him. and there’s no room for loving when you’ve got the weight of the nation on your shoulders.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[ozzgin]

OZZ OMG OMG OMG THAT YANDERE PRISON THING OMG OMG OMG

*jitters with excitement*

I NEED MORE AHHHHH IT TICKLED MY BRAIN THE RIGHT AND WRONG WAY AT THE SAME TIME

Like if you're nice they'll just become your dogs and if you're not nice they'll give you a very rough foursome I'm down for either OMG OMG OMG help I have problems

To quote Markiplier: "I'm not a masochist, this is about power"

*drops dead*

*instantly revives*

Ahem, I saw you mention you might come up with small plots, so I'll do the logical thing to try to inspire you:

- clueless darling ask the leaders about their gangs and whatnot. Like nonchalantly. Because they're too nice darling thought it's no big deal lol

- darling subconsciously avoid blonde man (even tho he is my favourite hahah) after seeing him beat up the guy

- darling got drunk (somehow in a prison) and either gets horny (and try to let it out under the blankets forgetting they got roommates)or innocently touchy hugging all three of them and poking their unique features, sitting in their laps and so on. Or better yet, touches/approaches other inmates in front of the roommates...

content: gender neutral reader, alcohol consumption, NSFW below the cut!

Inmates are creative. They will always find a way around the rules, and this time it happened to be a rather clumsy attempt at brewing alcohol. Had this been discovered by a guard, whoever concocted the beverage would've landed in detention.

Instead, it was you who found it, innocently assuming someone must've forgotten their water behind. You gulped down the clear liquid, thirsty after you walk, then promptly grimaced at its unexpected bitterness.

Safe to say you're now quite drunk.

That in itself would already be troublesome enough, but another thing is endangering yours and everyone else's peace: you're in a particularly flirty mood.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The officer's smile drops instantly, and he turns towards the deep voice. One of your criminal roommates glares at the sight with hollow eyes. You were clinging to the officer's arm, a dumb grin plastered on your face. The man in uniform quickly shoves you aside, his features pale and drained.

"It wasn't me who started it," he pleads.

You're quickly picked up by your bunkie, who is still staring at the guard. He won't be leaving this prison alive, that's for sure. Now, however, his priorities lie somewhere else.

The hallway spins as you're being carried away, and you shamelessly cling to your ride, feeling and groping the muscles and tracing along his tattooed skin.

"My God, at least wait until we're back to our cell," he groans with flushed cheeks.

The blonde one is trying to play it cool. Come, now, you're obviously out of it. He needs to be mature and tuck you in, or something along the line.

Easier said than done, especially with a raging boner. You're quick to notice it, and you certainly don't hesitate to point it out, making lewd gestures with your hands as some sort of offer.

"Are you sure you won't regret it tomorrow?"

"Hey now, I'm drunk, not unconscious," you bark between hiccups.

He may have interrogated you further, but the thought of your pretty little mouth struggling to take him in is too much to bear. He's essentially drooling by the time he pats his knee for you to come over.

The pierced one drops you on your bed with a flat expression. Annoyance? A closer look at his pursed lips, and one can tell he's really just struggling to maintain his composure.

"Please, I really need to-"

You hold him back by the arm and bat your eyelashes. In return, he clicks his tongue. Is this some sort of test from above? His beloved Darling is essentially begging to be fingered. Yet, he shouldn't be taking advantage of your state. He shouldn't...

Too late. You gasp at his rough fingers making their way in.

"Alright, don't be too loud," he concludes with a faint smirk.

The masked one gently places you on your bed, then plants himself before you with crossed arms.

"Nonsense. You're drunk."

"I mean it", you repeat yourself.

He does his best to look imposing. Truth be told, his knees weakened from the moment "fuck me" slipped out of your mouth. He gladly would, but he has morals. Well, when it comes to you, anyways.

Your pout seems to suggest this would be a long standoff. He sighs, then pushes you back onto the mattress.

"How about this? I'll take care of it," he explains quietly, his cloth hovering above your groin. "I'll be awaiting your offer again once you're sober."

For now, his tongue will have to do.

[Yandere Prison] | [More Yandere Stories]

[teeramoonlover]

Knock, Knock

Billy Loomis x Fem!Reader x Stu Macher

(NSFW)

This is my first time writing oneshot, let alone smut. English is not my first language so bear with me.

Warning: Reader is a Virgin, Cussing, alot of cursing, knife play, mask kink, bondage, fingering, cunnilingus, deep throat, anal, threesome, and double penetration.

*Bold - Voice modulator, Italic - inner voice

“Hello?”

“Hello.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. You didn't recognize this deep voice talking to you.

“Who’s this?” Instead of hanging up, your gut feeling tells you to continue the conversation with this stranger. Maybe you’ll get something out of it.

“You don’t need to know about me. I just want to talk to you.”

“Now why should I do that? Stranger danger. Didn’t your parents teach you that?” You saunter around the kitchen counter and stare at the sets of kitchen knives. You pull out a cleaver and wait for them to reply.

The stranger chuckled, amused with your response.

“Just want to call you so I get to know you better.”

You poked your tongue inside your cheek. You put the knife back in its place, humming to yourself.

“Alright, Mr Stranger. You got my attention and I'm bored as hell. Shoot your million dollar question.” You leaned your back on the counter, hand in pocket while another's still holding the phone.

“Tell me, do you like scary movies?” 

“Uhh, yeah.”

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

“Does The Addams Family count? 1991 is the best.” You shrugged, checking your nails. The voice grumbled, annoyed with your movie choice.

“That’s not even a scary movie. And it’s a kid show.”

“Excuse me, that movie is my fave and you don’t get to judge my beloved Morticia Addams just because I watch a ‘kid show’. Besides, that movie is still considered horror okay. Take examples like Tim Burton’s production. Even though most of his movies are suitable for children, he still wants to insert horror elements so they could find comfort and won’t make them feel scared anymore. You should try Nightmare before Christmas or maybe Edward Scissorhand for starters.” you jested.  

“Not my kind of style. Edward is weird as fuck.”

“Oh now you’re crossing the line Mr. Nobody. Fun fact for you, Johnny Deep with or without heavy makeup is hot as fuck. Hell, if there’s any Johnny copycat out there, I’ll ride his dick straight away.” you mused. The audacity of this guy.

The stranger hummed.

Is it creepy that I can see him smiling through the phone?

“You should be careful what you wish for. It might come true.”

“Then, Amen for that. I ain’t regret what I said so if you have a problem with it, you jerked your tiny dick somewhere else.” 

He chuckled darkly.

“So, do you have a boyfriend?”

"What if I have one? Or maybe a girlfriend? What ya gonna do about it?” You rolled your eyes.

The phone went dead silent until a deep growl came out on the line. His voice changed to menacing.

“You don’t have a boyfriend. You’re not even lesbian.”

“Slow down tiger. I can change my preference wherever I want. Anyway, congratulations! You’re successful become from a total stranger to a fucking creep. Now no more games with me. What do you want?” You huffed, getting annoyed and a little creep out with his manic voice.

“Oh baby, you think this is a game? I’ll play a real game for ya. Knock, Knock.”

You yelped when you heard someone banging on your front door.

Shit. Wrong move.

You pull out a metal bat under the counter like you knew this would gonna happen and check around, especially every closed door inside the house. You already watched too many horror movies with Randy that you even know where the killer always comes out from.

“I ask you want more time. What the hell do you want from me?”

“You wanna know, you have to play the game with me.”

You jumped when you heard another banging. And this time, at your backyard.

“Knock. Knock.”

You gulped and took a glimpse at your back. As you saw nobody's there, you pressed your back on the wall and focused on the front door.

“Who’s there?”

You make sure all the doors and windows are already locked as your father went out training with his buddies. He says he will be coming home late.  

Double. Shit.

“Johnny.” 

You innerly scoffed. Oh he likes this game too much. 

“Johnny where?”

“Clever girl. Guess.”

You rushed to the front door and took a look outside from the window. No one was there. You blurted out the answer.

“The backyard.”

“Wrong.”

You shrieked as the sound of a crash came out from the living room. You ran there to see a big gape hole at your now shattered window. You scanned the whole room. Only one wooden chair and shattered glass all over the floor. 

He couldn’t make it inside that fast. You raised the phone as you heard his voice.

“I give you a second chance. Knock, knock.”

“Oh fuck you with your knock knock shit game! What do you want from me?!”

“I want you…to ride me.”

You inhaled sharply at his answer as you turned around with a bat raised in front of you. 

“You’re messing with the wrong person here.” You spitted. He chuckled mockingly, amazed that you still have a bit of spite even though you know you're about to lose the game.

“You should be asking where I am, (Y/N).” He enunciated your name deeply.

Sweat trickle down your temple as you took a step back one at the time. This stranger knowing your name just shot up your nerve haywire.

“Where the fuck are you shithead.” 

“Behind you.”

You turned around and hit the phone right to the side of his face.

His Ghostface leather mask to be exact. 

He covered his head from the hit with his gloved hand and you took that opportunity to bash his head with your metal bat. He doubles in pain as you hit his back with more force and knocks his feet to the floor. He lay on his back, gripping his back painfully as you stepped on his body.

“Now let’s see who's behind the mask.”

Before you could bend down to grab his mask, the air got knocked out from you as someone rammed from your side. Your head got slam on the floor hard followed by a body that stumbled right above you. 

There’s two of them?!

You tried to pry him off from you but it was no use. You could see from your blurred vision that two masked men were now crowded right in front of you. 

The first guy above your head took both of your hands and held them tight, giving out a painful moan from you, while the other one sat on top of your low waist between his thighs, securing your legs from moving.

You tried to trash your body only to feel a sharp knife under your throat. You looked up to see the second guy shaking his head. 

A warning.

“Looks like you lost the game.” Second ghostface seems satisfied seeing you beneath him. The knife in his hand trailed lower and lower to your neck. You could feel a prick of pain as the knife cut deep at your collarbone.

“Losers need to pay the price.” The first ghostface giggled, bringing out a rope from his black robe and tied your hand above your head.

“Two against one? Really fair, does it?” You gritted your teeth. Even though you’re already at their mercy, your mouth still runs like a goddamn sailor.

“Didn’t know this should be a fair game.” Second ghostface shrugged, still lingering his knife around your neck area. 

“So what? You gonna kill me?” 

“Careful, you shouldn’t challenge a killer with a knife. Now you said it, that does sound tempting.” The killer dragged down his knife to your waist. The cold of his blade sent chills down your spine as it put pressure on your stomach, emphasizing his words.

You gulped as you eyed the two ghostface. The one that sat on top of you seems like a person you don’t want to mess with. The way his voice held authority, meaning if he wants to kill you, he’ll make sure you’re good as dead. Even though he’s wearing a mask, you could feel his hot gaze on your throat to your collarbone that already bleed out from the small cut. His gloved hand reached out, smearing your oozing blood with his thumb. He loves it, you can tell.    

Another one above your head, however he's a different kind of persona. He seems to like goofing around and having fun stabbing his victim. More sadistic, more of an unhinged bastard. If he takes his mask off, you bet he'll be that funny, easy going guy. His head tilted to the side, staring at your body in awe. Like you'll become his biggest meal tonight.

"But since you beat my friend here, I'll give you a chance. If you want to live, you need to do something for me." He hinted at the end of his sentence. The first Ghostface started to laugh hysterically. 

Somehow you know what he meant, knowing what they're gonna do to you.

"What do you mean?" You shuddered.

In a split second, he pulled your body and switched position, making you on top of him. You could feel the bulge between your legs as his hands gripped your waist.

"You know what I meant."

Your whole body shivered in fear and excitement. You don’t know why your body react that way. Fear, yes but also excites you?

You already soaked in your panties, though it was the adrenaline of the chase.

You subtly rubbed yourself on his groin. He sighed in content as you kept rubbing his hard on. 

“That’s it, babe.” His breath ragged as both his hands moved your hips and pressed deeper to his crotch. His hips thrust to your core, making you let out a soft moan. 

You feel someone's hand held the back of your head, turning you to meet the first Ghostface. His gloves were already gone from both hands, as he’s working on to half-done his zipper jeans.

“Open your mouth, kitten." He slipped his thumb, pressing your lips to open. He inserted two fingers in and out as you swirl your tongue around his fingers. They were so long that you gagged as it reached at the back of your throat. When he pulled out his fingers, a string of saliva coated them.

“I’ve never done this before.” Your face was red, embarrassing to admit that you never had sex before.

“We know you’re a virgin.” He whispered. His thumb stroking your lower lip, his mask titled to the side.

“Don't worry about that. We promise to make you feel good, m'okay?" The Ghostface under you sat up, his hand tugged teasingly at your waistband while the other one caressed your cheek. His deep voice is surprisingly tender, luring you in like a moth to his flame.

Without thinking, you nodded at his words.

Beneath those masks, their smirk grew wider, finally getting you hooked with them. 

"Lift your hips for me, baby." 

He tore his gloves from his hands and guided your hips upward. As you stand on your knees, he tugged down your shorts and panties in one go. You gasped at how rough, desperate he wanted to strip you naked. 

He took out his knife and started to rip them in half. You shiver from the cold as your clothes discard aside.

A pair of hands from behind reach out to your breast and fondle them. You whimpered as he pulled and squeezed your nipples. Another hand slipped to your wet cunt, thumb circling your clit.

"Gosh, your pussy is so wet for us. We're just getting started." He mused. Slowly, he inserted two fingers inside you, thumb still rubbing your clit. You shuddered, your back laid on someone's chest, who still continued grasping your breast.

"Look at you, seeking pleasure from two psychotic serial killers. Ain't ya a dirty little slut." The one from behind cackled in manic, enjoying seeing you completely vulnerable for him.

You subconsciously ride your hips with his fingers inside you, reaching your high. Your tied arms pressed in front of his chest as his friend from behind starts to dry hump your ass. You could imagine how big their dicks are, one pressing from the back while the other one underneath your pussy, still finger fuck you.

As if they knew you're about to come, he pulled out his fingers. You let out a small whine, feeling the loss of your pussy to be filled. He dip his finger beneath his mask, groaning in pleasure as he tasted your juices with a mix of blood.

Your hair got clutched from behind and dived you to his tent. When he pulled down his boxer, you were awestruck at how thick and veiny his hard rod is. He tapped his dick on your mouth, precum smeared at your lower lips.

"Like what you see?" He chuckled, seeing you looking at his cock like that got him more turned on. 

You flustered, eyeing the two black holes resemble eyes staring at you, silently to gain his permission. He nodded, pushing his tip further into your lips.

You subtly open your mouth, licking his precum and heard his deep groan in return. This made you sucked and licked his tip and moved your hand up and down his length.

He tilted his head back. Though you couldn't see with his mask on, a sense of pride grew in you, pleased to see him feel that way.

"You're sure this is your first time? Fuck, this feels amazing." He bucked his hips in your mouth.

"Open your mouth wide open, tongue down. I'm a deep throat till you swallow all of my cum." You do as he said. He thrust his dick deep in your throat, making you gagged but you held it in. 

He fucked your mouth relentless, both his hands keeping you in place. Tears pooling down your face as saliva spilling from your mouth until your nose touches his pelvis. You tapped his thigh, coughing up when he pulled out his dick from your swollen lips.

You're too focused on the man in front of you, that your ass was raised in the air and gasped as you felt a tongue licking at your entrance.

"Damn I can eat this pussy all day." He growled from behind, licking and biting your clit. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as his tongue does wonders to you. 

You gagged as he pounds in and out of your mouth, while from behind a tongue lick deep in your entrance. His nose teasing your clit, earning you a moan vibrating through the dick in your mouth. Both of them release low moans, reaching their high.

You tap his thigh, pull you away from his dick as you feel a knot in your stomach.

"I-I some-something d-down there." You cried out, feel his friend's wet tongue thrust in and out of your cunt. You gasped from sensation, as he's licked your rim hole.

"Then cum all over his mouth, princess. Let him taste every drop." He strokes his dick as you stick your tongue out to his tip. You feel your release as the man behind lapping your juices clean.

"God, she tastes so good. I wanna fuck her wet cunt till she's scream."

The killer in front of you didn't say a word, staring at his friend 

"You can't have her. She beat you up, remember?"

"The fuck that's supposed to mean? We won, she lost."

"Correction, you get beat to a pulp and I'm the one stopping it. So, I get the prize and you just, I don't know. Enjoy the show?"

"I'm already hard and you’re telling me just to watch you all over her? Hell no man!" 

They way they're talking about you like you aren't there bothers you, but at the same time kind of hot.

You could tell his friend was frustrated, agitated while him with you on his lap stroking his tip to your folds. You whimpered as he nudged his face mask closer to your neck. You could feel his wet tongue licking and sucking at the cut he gave you. 

Deep down you know your choice terrifies you but you don't want his friend left behind.

"There's two holes for a reason, ya know." You mumbled low, but somehow both killers caught on to what you said. They both were stunned. Not long after, the one you sit on his lap snickered darkly.

"You're one dirty little virgin. Didn't know you're into that." He gripped your hips closer to his already hard crotch. You blushed at his indication.

Truth is, you stumbled upon a porn magazine from Stu's wardrobe, asking you for his sweatpants as he was in the bathroom. Curiosity kills you when you open the magazine, the page showed a blond woman penetrated by two men, dick in her cunt while another in her ass.

The image haunted you yet deep down you want to know how it feels like, to get banged by two. As you stare at her lustful face, you jump when you hear Billy's voice from outside Stu's room. So, you threw away the magazine and hastily grabbed his shorts. When Billy enters the room, he stares at you intensely. He always does every time you're in his sight. He raised an eyebrow as you gave the shorts, muttered, "Give it to Stu, he wants it." and you made a mad dash out of his room.

You know for the fact that the chances you're getting DP is slim to none. But seeing as of now, your fuzzy brain was like why not.

"You're an angel, you know that? That's why you're perfect for us." The frustrated Ghostface was now like he's in cloud nine when you told him that, hugging you from behind.

"You're meant for us, (Y/N). Remember that." The one with you on his lap was now laying down on the floor, bringing you with him so that your pussy was placed right on his outstretched cock. As his tip penetrated your entrance, you whimpered as the slight discomfort got you. As your tied arms gripped the black cloth of his front, his hand teasing your clit, trying to distract you from the pain.

As he is completely inside you, the discomfort was replaced slowly with pleasure, fullness from his thick length. His sighed in relief, loving his dick snug deep in your pussy like a vice.

"Fuck you're so tight, baby." He rasped as he helped adjust his length inside you. When he felt you ready, he slowly thrust in and out of you, making you moan.

"You like that? You like riding this cock?" His slow thrust became erratic as he rammed your throbbing cunt. Your mouth gaped open, couldn't reform words when he hit you at the right spot. 

"Y-yes, right there. Shit! You're so big." You uttered breathlessly, bouncing his dick as he thrust deeper in you. 

As you ride him, you feel another one trying to penetrate your asshole. You jumped at the sudden intrusion, stopping you as he continued to push in, hissing at your shoulder.

"S-shit! My cock gonna cut in half if you keep squeezing me like that." He buried his face on your neck as he roughly thrust you in one go, making you scream.

"M'sorry babe. Can't help it."

You try to glare at his face, or more precisely his mask. You could imagine his stupid grin, staring at you adoringly. 

This is too much. For you, a virgin and never been fuck let alone anal, this is a lot to take in. You could feel their dicks stretched inside every hole of you down there. You try adjusting to this new stimulation. They’re both moving in sync, in and out of you, feeling both of their dicks rubbing your wall one at the time. It makes you see stars as they fasten their phase.

Skin slapping filled the room, with your moan and their groan in a mix.

“Fuck fuck fuck I’mma cum!” You feel his hand gripping your hips as his thrust turns sloppy. Your body started to shake as the one beneath encircled his arms around you, keeping you close to his chest as he slammed you hard on your g-spot. 

You nearly scream from pleasure as orgasm washed over you, followed by the one behind, pumping his seed into your throbbing asshole. Your pussy tightens is all it needs from the one beneath you to paint his cum on your walls. 

He gave his one hard, second thrust at your asshole then pulled out his softened cock. The way he stared at his cum spilling from your ass stirred something inside him.

His fingers subconsciously slipped his overflow cum inside your hole. For some reason, he doesn’t want a single drop of his seed leaking out of you.

You take a deep inhale as your eyes flutter close, trying to calm from your euphoric state. You could hear his heartbeat thumping as your head laid on his chest, with him too catching his breath.

The only thing you remember is feeling a peck on your forehead and a kiss from your nape, with a deep raspy voice you manage to hear before exhaustion overtook your body.

“That’s my good girl.”

After you pass out…

“Man, that’s the best thing happen in my life!” Stu sighed, satisfied as he pulled off his Ghostface mask and slipped in his now soft dick in his pants. He looked over at his friend who was still lying on the ground with their favorite girl on top of him.

“You're lucky I came up with this plan. Knew it our girl had same fantasies like us.” He grinned, smiling like an idiot, while Billy too slowly took off the mask.

“If you didn’t pull out that porn magazine, she wouldn’t even think about it, genius.” He murmured as he stroked your arm. He sighed in relief with his eyes closed, hearing your soft snores calmed him.

Maybe they could pay you another visit, and it will be on nice bed this time.

And sure as hell he'll make sure of that.

[pedgito]

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒 | General Acacius x reader x Emperor Geta

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | General Marcus Acacius has one thing Emperor Geta doesn't, you.

author's note | @pr0ximamidnight is FULLY responsible for this. she had an idea, i flip-flopped and threw out another one, and here we are. paige thank you for being a constant source of inspiration in my life and pea brain, ily. and thank you for beta'ing.

content warning | 18+ smut, DDDNE, dubcon - power imbalance and forced cuckolding | additional warnings: reader is a servant (but also participates in s*x work), established situationship with the general, marcus is a soft but guilt-riddled man, geta is literally just a gremlin asshole with an ego and you know what? i'm okay with that, heavy degradation, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, fingering, f voyeurism/exhibitionism. extra note: please heed the tags and proceed with caution. do not read if this icks you out, that simple. also we can just say this is au to avoid the bs. i just wanted to write a fic with both of my blorbos <3

word count —2.7k

There was something special about being bedded by a General, one so illustrious and generous as Acacius, but an Emperor, that was a wholly different experience. 

He knew you belonged to General Acacius, in a sense. One of his loyal servants who had sailed across the sea with him to the palace of the Emperor brothers who ruled here—Caracalla, a slimy and disgusting man, alongside his brother Geta, who wasn’t much better. He was smarter, though—albeit not by much, but his choices were calculated, vengeful, planned.

He had his eyes set on you from the moment you entered his home, alongside General Acacius in your unsuspecting and flimsy garb, a white and pristine material to match that of your General, detailed with gold specks and a tie at your waist that kept you modest.

“Serve them, appease them,” General Acacius had told you, “they are tempered men, do not upset them.” He’d meant it as a warning; watch yourself.

Acacius was a caring leader, for the most part. You stayed out of politics and war, dutiful to him and his needs wherever and whenever he needed you—and if that meant buried in his sheets when you were away with him on one of his many triumphs around Rome, that was his business and your secret to keep. The gold necklace that hung around your neck was a gift from him, a thank you for all of your hard work, but a silent reminder that you were his. None of the other men touched you, like a brand on your body that had them running in the other direction.

But, not Emperor Geta.

He tips your chin up with his finger, your body shaking nervously under his touch as he uses his other hand to spread your legs apart at your knees, stripped out of his cloak and down to his tunic, but even that was hanging on by a thread. 

He’d commanded you to strip down in front of him, your clothes pooled somewhere on the floor near his bed.

You’ve been in plenty of situations like this before, sex with men you didn’t care for. If it meant sustenance and another day of breathing, you didn’t care. You did what you had to. But this, it felt off. There was a constant snarl to his face, his gold crown displaced beside your head as his finger trace and followed until he was gripping the underside of your chin in his palm and pushing up, fingering the necklace with a smug, salacious grin.

“He’s got you collared,” Geta breathes, “like a dog, doesn’t he?”

Don’t speak, he’ll hear the quiver in your voice.

“Answer me,” His voice booms, “does he fuck you in secret?”

You blink, watching his lips pull back in a thin line and his gaze—it was frightening.

You nod despite yourself, not prepared to see what would happen if you had lied.

The thing with Geta was he also disguised his intentions behind momentary kindness.

A kind smile as you offered him a full goblet of wine or refilled his plate, as you trailed alongside him holding another gaudy offering to appease the other ego-driven men who pursued this place—General Acacius knew he was losing you to him and there wasn’t a thing he could say or do without risking your life in the process.

His face softens for a brief moment, feeling the hard swallow from your throat as it strains, eyes droning into the bedpost above your head as his fingers flex, debating on whether he should rip the jewelry from your neck or leave it be. 

Eventually, he decides for the latter.

“Show me,” Geta commands, “how you please him.”

He loosens his grip on your chin and allows his hand to fall, watching as you rise up slightly on your elbows, breasts shaking with the movement and you can catch the way his jaw clenches, salivating at the sight. You pull at the tie on his skirt, finding that he was already bare underneath, his hard and aching cock springing from underneath as you pushed it away.

His confidence wasn’t a cover, you could confirm. He was large, not nearly as much as General Acacius but given the amount of situations you’ve caught yourself in, staring up or down at men who just needed a quick taste of you and the pleasure you had to offer, he was quite enough.

The tip, red and dripping already, he palms himself. A chuckle escapes his chest as he flings the rest of the fabric to the floor, his hand cupping around his balls and rolling them between his fingers before he’s gripping his shaft and then your own hand, allowing a few strokes before he intructs you to do as he’s asked. 

You squeeze, apply an ample amount of pressure as you pull at his shaft, watching as he slowly canted his own hips into your palm, his hand gripping into your scalp to keep you upright, hair tangled around his fingers as he breathes out roughly through his nose.

“Always know a whore when I see one,” He denotes and you have to fight the urge to bark back, “do you suck cock like one too?”

If anything, it was a silent order.

You push up onto your palm, feeling the strength of his grip as he yanks your head back, forcing your eyes to lock with his as he uses the other hand to guide his cock head to your lips, sneering as he spreads the glistening precome over your lips before pressing further. You open your mouth to him, allowing the heavy weight of his cock to split your lips apart, giving you very little time to adjust before he’s eagerly thrusting into your mouth, using your hand to cover the rest of his cock you couldn’t fit, feeling more shameful than you should about how you weren’t as bothered by him as you should be.

He wasn’t some strange man pandering you with a pile of coins on the street or around the dark corner of the palace—he was power. An emperor with little remorse.

You can hear him chuckling darkly above, his eyes wild as you suck at his cock, spit pooling in your mouth and dripping down your chin.

“Messy bitch,” He mutters, picking up the pace considerably as he began to fuck into your mouth, the tip of his cock pressing against the back of your throat forcing a garbled gag around him, “—are you of the thankful sort or are you ungrateful?”

He pulls you back suddenly, leaving you to gasp out in desperation at the sudden relief, looking up at him with watery eyes, swallowing against your sensitive gag reflex.

“Thank—thankful, sir.” You confirm with a weak nod.

“No sir,” He counters, “Emperor. Let me hear you speak it.”

“Thankful,” You affirm, “I’m thankful, Emperor.”

“Good,” His thumb traces your bottom lip, mixing with the spit and slick of him that was covering your mouth, “so you’ll take my cum and say thank you, won’t you?”

You nod obediently, feeling him loosen the grip on your hair slightly as he fisted himself, using the copious amount of spit as lubricant. You watch as his abdomen flexes under the guise of his impending orgasm, how jerky his movements become as his teeth dig into his bottom lip, a muffled curse slipping beyond his lips before he’s pressing his cock to your lips without warning and expecting, knowing that his obedient little whore would be willing and waiting. His cum pools in your tongue, salty and warm as he jerks himself a few final times before he pulls away, watching carefully as you swallow down the taste of him. It was then that he finally allowed you a break, releasing his grip on your scalp as you fell back.

“What a harlot you are,” Geta comments, but seemingly pleased as he leans back on his calves and pulls you upright, awaiting until you’re sitting less rigidly before he drags a hand across your breast, his thumb rubbing over your nipple and watching as it pebbled underneath his touch, “might I suggest an audience?”

You have no time to respond before he’s fetching for one of his other many servants, a name you’ve never heard before being thrown across the room and you scramble for the covers, desperate for some protection to your state of undress. Geta allows it, but he doesn’t hide the smirk or laugh that escapes him, his eyes creasing in amusement.

The servant peaks around the door dutifully, wide eyes dropping on you before quickly averting to the Emperor.

“Fetch the General for me, would you?” He asks, “I’ve been meaning to show him a proper good time.”

The servant nods meekly before departing and when Geta looks at you—he sees it.

“What?” He remarks like a child, “Don’t fear for your modesty now—“

The footsteps grow closer, heavy and slow as they thump, thump, thump against the floor, matching the quick beat of your heart.

“Emperor Geta—“ His voice brings you to tears, looking away in fear that he would judge, seethe, leave you to be eaten alive by the Emperor on your own and finally rid himself of you.

“General,” He boasts, still stark naked but using your legs as a makeshift cover over his cock, despite how bare you were, “won’t you join us?”

When you do look at him, he’s stoic. Fearful just as much as you. In fact, you’ve never seen him this worried. Not even in the depths of war.

“Are you asking, Emperor?” He counters, “Or ordering?”

Geta answers with a wave of his hand toward your naked body and Acacius pushes down the sigh that wants to escape through his nose, closing the door shut behind him.

“She’s quite the woman, you must know,” He comments and General Acacius' nose flares at the words, lifting himself slowly onto the bed to sit near you, still a distance away. If you reached out, you could touch him, “beautiful, obedient—the perfect whore, really.”

“Emperor, forgive me,” Acacius argues, “but I am not sure what you want from me in this situation.”

“She’s yours, is she not?” He asks, flinging the necklace up lazily before it hits your chest again and Acacius eyes immediately draw to the jewelry. “This reeks of you.”

“It was a gift, for her diligent and loyal work.”

Because as much as you had served General Acacius in many ways, you were still tending to everything else without complaint and with a good attitude. In another life, if things could be different, you might have him as your own. But, that wasn’t possible.

“Do you fuck her?”

Geta knows the answer—all of you do.

“That is none—“

“As she is under my rule—it is my business,” He snaps, “Do you fuck her, General? Is she a good fuck?”

Lord above, put me out of this misery, you think.

Acacius offers nothing but silence.

Geta nods with finality, “Fair—you can watch and tell me if her moans sound the same while my cock is inside of her.”

And Geta catches the way your hand in his sheets inch closer toward Acacius out of instinct, wanting his touch just as bad.

He furrows his brow and nods toward the General.

“Prepare her for me,” He orders, “touch her.”

Your eyes flick up toward him, a silent and pleading echo of Marcus behind your eyes. Serve him, appease him.

He closes his eyes and breathes a deep sign, his fingers trailing down your stomach until they can hover over your cunt, his middle and ring finger placed and at the ready. You nod, mouth instantly falling open at his touch.

The Emperor smirks, watching Acacius dexterous fingers work over your clit and your chest rise and fall in quick succession, his hand fisting his own cock lazily. 

“I can see why you’ve taken such a liking to her,” Geta notes, speaking as if you weren’t in the room, as if he wasn’t fisting his cock at the entrance of you cunt, “I owe you, for bringing her to me—and leaving her with me.”

You can see the way Acacius' face twitches in anger, but his eyes never leave yours when they open again, using him as a solace in this complicated time. You grab for his wrist when you feel yourself growing near, breathing out a shaky moan.

“There, stop.” Geta orders and Acacius' hand drags away slowly, fingers drifting along the edge of your jaw with a fondness that was reserved for you alone.

You smile sadly.

I’m sorry, you convey silently.

In this world, Acacius knew you had no choice in the matter. It was survival and had you been born into a wealthier family, a better life, maybe you would be at the other end of this situation.

“Look at me,” He commands you, pulling your face away from Acacius grip and forcing your eyes on him as he presses inside of you slow, hand gripped at the base of his cock as he split you open, his face pinched as you squeezed him, cunt sucking him in greedily. 

You bite at your cheek, trying to stifle the involuntary moans from the stretch of Emperor Geta’s cock. You could deny and say that it didn’t feel good, but that would be a lie. Your selfish body was betraying you and you didn’t want to give the Emperor the satisfaction, not yet.

Acacius shakes his head minutely, a subtle movement you barely catch. Don’t defy him.

“Tell her,” Geta says through heavy breaths, his hips snapping into you steadily, your thighs being pressed tight to your body with his grip on the back of them, “keeping silent will do her no good.”

“Dove,” He comforts you, “let go.”

“You’ve named her!” Geta exclaims in amusement and genuine disbelief, “You’ve named your whore? Pathetic.”

“She was never a whore,” Acacius snaps through gritted teeth, “she is loyal—good, and she does not deserve this. She would give you anything you asked if you did it with kindness.”

“I’m right here!” You shout, fed up with the unjust tension, your voice riddled with the building pleasure in your groin, the feeling of Geta’s thumb ghosting over your clit.

“Grab her face and look at her,” Geta orders roughly, his chest flushed from exertion, “and be sorrowful that it isn’t you making her fall apart—seeing as this is the last time you will ever be allowed to see her.”

You sob out, both from the crest of your orgasm and the hate behind his words, eyes locked on your General for the brief interim that you fall apart, pulsing tightly around the Emperor’s cock until he comes with grunt, slipping out of you just in enough time that has seed doesn’t spill into you. The last thing he needed was a bastard son.

“You will learn to respect me,” He snarls, grabbing for his clothes haphazardly and retrying them around his waist.

You shake with a silent cry, hand still latched around the General’s wrist, too afraid to let him go.

“You have five minutes,” Geta bites, “say your goodbyes and leave my sight, both of you.”

The moment his footsteps finally descend and you feel the momentary relief, he deflates.

“Marcus, I never meant—“

He shushes you quickly, pushing the stray hair from your face as you lean up, reaching for him and he tucks you into his chest.

“You are safer here,” He promises, “I cannot protect you like I once could, and you’re smart—I know you are. Geta is a temperamental but immature man. Get in his head, manipulate him. Live.”

“Where are you going?” You ask with a somber tone.

“Away,” He replies simply, not willing to elaborate.

It tugs at your heart deeply, feeling the material of a blanket being slide up over your naked body.

“Fight,” It’s one of the last words he says to you, pressing a kiss against your forehead before he reaches your lips, and it lingers for a while, but not nearly as long as you wish, “if not for me, but for you.”

And you would, even if it killed you.

[suksatoru]

𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓁𝓈.

satoru gojo drabble ༘⋆🌷🫧💭₊˚ෆ

╰┈➤ satoru!gojo x reader ೃ⁀➷

synopsis; you catch the eye of the famous satoru gojo!

ೄྀ ࿐ fluff, head over heels toru!! ˊˎ

The first time he'd seen you, he was positively sure his eyes were playing some sort of a trick on him.

You had been sitting a few tables down, hands holding a book as your delicate brows were pulled in concentration. He watched you take a bite of the pastry in front of you - and was sure he was about to faint right then and there.

"What are you making that stupid face for?"

Megumi sat in front of him - who may have been speaking to him. Or maybe not - Satoru was too focused on you to even notice as he shook his head, still in a daze.

"Nothing!" Satoru says a little too happily, an attentive smile on his face as he watches you tuck your legs over one another - an elegant finger mindlessly twirling a strand of your hair as you continued reading the piece of literature in front of you

He follows his teachers line of sight to the pretty girl who's simply minding her own business, raising a brow as Satoru's rare show of genuine interest in a woman

"I'm gonna marry her." Satoru says proudly, and Megumi can only roll his eyes as he continues pushing the food around in his plate

"You better leave her alone. God forbid she has to encounter - Hey! Satoru Gojo wait!"

Megumi can only face palm as he watches Satoru giddily approach your table, hands in his pockets as he walks with long strides in your direction. He has the cheesiest smile on his face - and before Megumi knows it, his teacher is eagerly sliding into the chair across from you

He can see your smile as you engage into whatever despicable conversation Satoru must have trapped you in, but he can't seem to stop himself from craning his neck towards you to try and hear you guys better

He couldn't lie to himself - you were easily one of the prettiest girl's he'd ever seen. From your dazzling eyes to your sweet smile - he couldn't even blame Satoru for marching over to you with such a passion. Hell - maybe he would have done the same thing if he had the unrelenting pride of Satoru Gojo.

He huffed, slumping in his chair and ticked that his teacher had so quickly abandoned him. Every few minutes, he would hear his teachers unmistakable and very loud laugh, but Megumi couldn't stop the small smile that found it's way onto his face at the genuine pleasure in his teachers voice - a sound he did not hear too often.

Eventually, Satoru was waving goodbye to you as you left - presumably having somewhere to go. You were blushing as you tucked your hair behind your ear, cradling your book to your chest as he bid you farewell.

Megumi watched as Satoru walked back to their table with a shit eating grin on his face, the grown man was humming like some sort of love sick teenager, and it made Megumi scowl. He had a small slip of paper in his hand too - the pink ink on it signifying a phone number you must have given him

"You abandoned me? You know, we were talking about a very important upcoming mission, and - "

"I am totally going to marry her."

Megumi can only groan as he watches Satoru excitedly input your number into his phone - the contact name reading wifey, but not without a few dozen hearts placed right after the word.

[theonottsbxtch]

I LOVED YOU FIRST | FC43

an: guys i’m so sorry for the atrocities i’m about to cause by posting this, i’m especially tagging @obxstiles to make sure they don’t miss it and that they cry muahaha there MAY be a part two to this

summary: for as long as she’s remembered she’s loved franco, wether those feelings were ever reciprocated she doesn’t know.

wc: 4.4k

She remembered the sound of wheels against gravel. Even as a kid, Franco was fast—kicking up dust and stones as he went, all edges and adrenaline. They grew up on the same street, a road that was more dust than pavement, cutting through a small town nobody had ever heard of, deep in the countryside of Argentina. Back then, he raced down that road on a beat-up go-kart that rattled and threatened to fall apart with every turn. But he didn’t care. Even at eight years old, Franco could talk of nothing but cars and speed and the shimmering, impossible promise of a life far from here.

She was the one who stood at the end of the road, cheering him on as he came barreling toward her, heart in her throat every time he cut it too close. She told herself that’s just what friends did—waited around to see the other one make it back in one piece. But there was more to it, even then. She’d never told him, of course. Franco had always been too focused on the next race, the next finish line, to notice much about her that wasn’t familiar. It was easier that way. They were friends. That was enough.

Years passed, and with them, his childhood kart became a racing simulator, then an actual car, then a series of wins that only proved what she’d always known—that Franco was going somewhere.

Last year, his parents sold their house so he could go further, could reach another level she couldn’t quite see. He moved in with her and her family when he wasn’t racing, and for a few months, it was as if they were kids again, laughing late at night, plotting his future as he spilled out every dream he’d ever had. That was the year she started imagining he might finally see her the way she saw him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Franco saw everything she wasn’t: the girl from another world, polished and magnetic, with a face and laugh that gleamed like the trophies he’d already started to collect. She caught him, snared him in a way that didn’t even seem real.

It was this girl—her name slipped off his tongue so easily when he let it—who went to the big events with him, who stood beside him when photographers crowded around after his races, a reminder that he’d already begun to belong somewhere else. She wanted to hate her, this stranger who was everything she wasn’t, but what good would it do?

It was easy to tell herself she was Franco’s friend. His best friend. The one who’d been there since the beginning, the one who stayed up with him on those late nights when all his dreams felt heavy enough to drown him. She’d learned to wear it like armour—the friend, the constant, the steady hand on his shoulder when his voice cracked and his confidence faltered.

No one else knew the small things about him, the things that made him human. Like how he had a superstition about not putting on his helmet until the very last second before a race. Or that his favorite thing in the world was the sound of tires on wet pavement, a soft hiss of rain and speed. Or that he used to dream of buying back the house his parents sold and giving them something better.

The nights she couldn’t sleep, she’d replay those memories to herself, like scenes from a film she’d seen too many times. They were pieces of a person she’d built up in her mind so completely, so painstakingly, that she sometimes forgot he wasn’t hers. Not really.

Now, Franco was leaving again, but this time it was different. The call had come last night, and she’d been there when he answered it, watching the way his face shifted, lit up with something she hadn’t seen since they were kids. He’d been invited to join a Formula 1 team—a chance to race against the best, a dream finally realised.

And she’d been the first person he told. “I’m in,” Franco had whispered to her after he hung up, his voice hoarse with disbelief. “I’m actually in.”

He’d pulled her into a hug, and for a fleeting moment, she let herself believe this moment was for her too—that she was a part of the dream. But when he finally let go, she could already feel him slipping away, his mind racing miles ahead, far beyond anything she could reach.

And now here they were, standing on the same dusty road they’d grown up on, only this time the road was empty. She could almost see his silhouette against the horizon, an outline that belonged to no one, not even her.

“So… this is it, huh?” she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady, her hands stuffed deep into her jacket pockets. She knew this was her job now: to be strong, supportive, even as she felt her chest tightening with everything she’d left unsaid.

Franco glanced over at her and smiled, that careless, easy grin she’d fallen in love with a thousand times. “Yeah. This is it.”

There was a part of her that wanted to say something, to tell him what it felt like to lose him, to have spent all these years beside him only to watch him walk away. But she didn’t, couldn’t. Because he needed her to be his friend, his rock. And that’s exactly what she would be, until the moment he disappeared from sight.

“You’ll be amazing out there,” she said softly, swallowing hard against the ache in her throat.

“Thanks,” Franco replied, his gaze drifting to the horizon, to whatever was waiting for him. He didn’t see her watching him, didn’t notice the way she tried to memorise every detail of his face, the way she gripped the fabric of her jacket so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Because that’s what she was: the person who stayed behind, the person who would cheer for him no matter how far he went, even if it took him far beyond her reach.

His first race was in Monza.

And Franco had made sure she’d be there.

The roar of engines echoed across Monza, the air thick with the metallic scent of fuel and adrenaline. She stood just outside the paddock, watching the mechanics scurry between cars, drivers in their fireproof suits weaving through a sea of engineers and cameras. It was Franco’s first Formula 1 race, the one he’d been chasing since the days they’d spent on that dusty street back home. He’d called her a week ago, saying he’d arranged for her ticket, that she had to be there, that it wouldn’t feel right without her.

She glanced down at her pass, fumbling with it between her fingers, her eyes darting over the crowds, wondering if she’d see him. But instead, she saw her—Franco’s girlfriend, standing just a few paces away, a beacon in the busy paddock with her polished, perfect smile.

She thought about turning around, slipping into the crowd where she could cheer Franco on from a distance, as she’d always done. But then Franco’s girlfriend caught her eye, waved her over with an easy, welcoming smile, and suddenly it was too late.

“Hi! You’re Franco’s best friend, no?” she said brightly, as if she’d been waiting for this meeting. “Franco’s told me all about you.”

She managed a smile, trying not to let her surprise show. “Nice to meet you,” she replied, her voice steady but her heart churning. This girl looked so effortlessly perfect—too perfect, really. She wanted to find something in her to resent, a crack, a flaw, some hint that would make her presence easier to bear. But the girl’s smile was warm, even gentle, and there wasn’t a hint of cruelty behind her eyes.

“You know,” she continued, turning to look at the track where the cars were being readied. “Franco always talks about how you’ve been there from the start. He says he wouldn’t be here without you.”

It was a sentiment she’d waited years to hear, but hearing it now, coming from someone else, made it feel empty, hollow. She nodded politely. “He’s worked so hard for this. I just… wanted to support him however I could.”

The girl looked at her, a spark of admiration in her eyes. “That’s really special. I think it means a lot to him, having someone who’s known him for so long.” She hesitated, her fingers twisting a ring on her hand. “I think he’s planning to introduce me to his family soon.”

A prickle of something sharp and painful settled in her chest. She managed to keep her face composed, even as the words sank in. “That’s great,” she said, injecting her voice with encouragement. “That sounds really important to him.”

The girl smiled, her gaze drifting as if she could see the future taking shape right in front of her. “Yeah… he said he wanted to wait until we’d been together for a year. He’s so thoughtful like that, you know? He really wants things to be right before introducing me to his family.” She looked at her, a touch of gratitude in her expression. “I think he got that from you—from seeing how much his family means to you.”

It was a kind thing to say, too kind. She wanted to hate her for it, but she couldn’t. There was nothing false about the way this girl looked at her, no jealousy or possessiveness. She was just… nice. The kind of nice that made her ache with the unfairness of it all, because it made it impossible to hate her, even though she desperately wanted to.

“Well, his family will love you,” she said, meaning it even as the words felt like they were tearing something fragile inside her. “He deserves to be happy.”

The girl gave her a soft, almost sympathetic smile, a smile that made her wonder if maybe she already knew—if she could see right through her, if she understood the look in her eyes, the one she tried so hard to hide.

As the engines started up in the distance, the girl reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you,” she said, her voice warm. “For being there for him, for being his friend. I can tell he’s lucky to have you in his life.”

She returned the smile, feeling a heaviness settle deep within her. Franco was lucky, that was true—but not in the way she’d once dreamed he might be. He had everything now: the career, the future, the love of a woman who deserved him in ways she never could.

And as the cars roared to life on the track, she stood there beside his girlfriend, feeling like a silent ghost on the edges of his new world. She would cheer for him, just as she always had, but now she knew exactly where she stood—at a distance, a quiet fixture in his past, cheering him on from the shadows as he sped toward a future that had no place for her.

The race had ended hours ago, and the hotel was hushed, the lights dimmed in the halls. She was alone in her room, her suitcase half-packed, clothes folded neatly on the bed. She’d changed her flight back to Argentina; she would be gone by morning.

The evening had been a whirlwind—Franco finishing in P12 on his debut race, his crew and his girlfriend embracing him, his face beaming in a way she’d only ever dreamed of seeing up close. She’d stood in the background, clapping politely, just another face in the crowd, happy for him but feeling her heart splinter with each cheer.

A quiet knock broke her thoughts. She looked up, heart catching in her throat. Franco was standing in the doorway, his face lit with a warm smile.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside, his hands in his pockets. “I was hoping you’d still be up.”

“Yeah, just… packing,” she murmured, glancing at the clothes on her bed. “I’ve got an early flight back.”

He frowned, like he hadn’t expected her to be leaving so soon. “I thought you’d stay a bit longer,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “It meant a lot to me that you were here, you know. I’m not sure I could have done it without you.”

She swallowed, trying to muster up a smile. “I’m proud of you, Fran. Really. You deserve all of this.”

He gave a modest shrug, his usual humility shining through. “It’s crazy, right? Like, it still doesn’t feel real.”

She nodded, unsure of what to say next, her hands clenching as she watched him, the words fighting to break free. But before she could speak, he went on, his face lighting up with excitement.

“Oh—and I wanted to tell you. Over the summer break, I’m planning to bring my girlfriend—” he gestured to the wall, where his girlfriend was probably just sitting in their shared room—“back to Argentina. She’s going to meet my family. I think they’ll love her.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She felt herself unraveling, her heart breaking open. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Why her?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Franco blinked, looking at her, startled. “What do you mean?”

“Why her, Franco?” She repeated, her voice trembling, louder this time. “Why not me? What is it about me that you don’t find appealing? Am I too loud? Too… different? Do I not fit into your world somehow?” Her voice cracked, the weight of her words finally spilling out. “What is it about me that you don’t love, that you love about her?”

For a moment, he just stared, taken aback, as if he was seeing her for the first time, really seeing her. But his eyes were filled with confusion, like he was trying to make sense of what she was saying.

“Wait—” he started, his voice halting, uncertain. “I… I didn’t know you felt—”

She cut him off, her voice fierce, raw. “I loved you first, Franco.”

He went silent, the words settling between them like stones in water, sinking deeper and deeper.

“What?” he whispered, his voice almost as quiet as hers had been.

“I loved you first,” she repeated, her voice shaking. She could feel the tears gathering, but she didn’t want to cry, not now, not here. “Since we were kids, since you were that crazy kid racing down dirt roads, I loved you. I’ve been there every step, every race, every victory, every failure. I was the one who held your dreams when they felt too heavy to carry. I loved you first.”

She watched him, waiting, hoping for some sign of understanding, some glimmer of the love she’d imagined so many times. But his eyes were wide with shock, his face torn between pity and discomfort.

He shook his head slowly, the words seeming to catch in his throat before he finally managed to say them. “But… I love her.”

The words were a knife, sharp and relentless, cutting through the last fragments of hope she’d held on to.

She let out a hollow, broken laugh, her vision blurring as she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “I know,” she whispered. “I know you do.” She took a shaky breath, her voice trembling with a rawness she couldn’t contain. “But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the weight of years pressing down between them. She could see the guilt etched into his expression, his mouth opening as if he wanted to say something to make it better. But there was nothing he could say—nothing that could change the reality that he had chosen someone else, someone who wasn’t her.

“I never meant to… I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, reaching out as if to comfort her, but she stepped back, her arms wrapping around herself protectively.

“It’s fine,” she said, forcing the words out, feeling them scrape against her throat. “I… I just needed you to know. I needed you to know that I was here, that I’ve always been here. But now…” She trailed off, her voice breaking, the words she’d held for so long finally running dry.

She looked at him one last time, memorising the shape of his face, the boy she had loved and lost long before he ever realised. Then sat back down on the floor and continued packing, folding each piece of clothing and putting it away in silence, each one a silent goodbye.

When she noticed he still hadn’t left, that he was just watching him, she looked up at him. “I hope she makes you happy, Franco,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Really. I hope she gives you everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

She looked back down not wanting to catch Franco’s look of pity and closed her suitcase as he walked out of her room.

Walking out of her life for what felt like forever.

It was the peak of summer, the air heavy with heat and the scents of wildflowers and sun-baked earth drifting through the open kitchen window. She was sitting at the table, picking absently at a bowl of sliced fruit, half-listening as her mother hummed while tidying up, when her mother paused and gave her a look she couldn’t quite decipher.

“I almost forgot to mention,” her mother said, wiping her hands on a towel, “Franco’s coming back to town soon. Said he’ll be here next week with his girlfriend, so they can meet his family.”

She looked down, letting the words sink in, feeling a familiar tightness bloom in her chest. She hadn’t spoken to Franco in weeks. Not since that night in Monza. Not since she’d finally let herself say all the things she’d bottled up for years, only to walk away feeling like she’d left a part of herself behind.

“Oh,” she murmured, keeping her tone as light as she could. “That’s… that’s good. His parents will be thrilled to meet her.”

Her mother looked at her carefully, her gaze soft but probing, as if she could sense the ache that lingered beneath her daughter’s casual words. “I thought maybe you’d be excited too,” her mother ventured, her voice gentle. “It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him.”

She forced a small smile, looking down at her hands as she fiddled with her napkin. “Actually, I was thinking about going to Buenos Aires for a bit. Just a week or two with Tía Blanca. I’ve been meaning to go see her.”

Her mother tilted her head, her expression somewhere between sympathy and exasperation. “You can’t keep running from this, mi amor,” she said, her voice tender but firm.

Her shoulders tensed, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She knew her mother was right; every time she thought about seeing Franco, the old wound seemed to ache again, still raw, still fresh, no matter how many miles or weeks lay between them. But she wasn’t ready to face him yet. Not when the sight of him with someone else would only reopen everything she’d been trying so hard to let go of.

“I know I can’t keep running,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. “But I can now. And I can cope with that.”

Her mother sighed softly, reaching out to place a warm hand over hers. “Mi amor, one day, you’re going to have to stop protecting yourself from the things that hurt you. It’s the only way to truly move forward.”

She nodded, her throat tight, unable to meet her mother’s eyes. She knew her mother was right. But all she could think of was that moment in Monza, the echo of Franco’s words—But I love her. Words that still stung like salt on an open wound, even now.

“Maybe one day,” she whispered, more to herself than to her mother. But for now, Buenos Aires felt like the safest place to be—far from the memories, far from the impossible hope she still carried in her heart.

Her mother squeezed her hand gently before letting go, her silence filled with understanding. “Then go,” she said, with a small, knowing smile. “But you’ll know when it’s time to come home.”

And as she sat there, her heart heavy with everything she couldn’t say, she only hoped her mother was right.

A few days later, everything was sorted and she was ready to go to her aunt’s place.

She swung her bag over her shoulder, taking a deep breath as she stepped out of the house, the warm morning sun casting long shadows across the familiar dirt road. She was just two steps away from the car when she spotted it—Franco’s car, parked at the edge of the drive.

Her heart lurched, her mind scrambling, and she muttered under her breath, “No, no, no… please, not now.” She moved quickly toward her own car, fumbling for her keys as if speed alone could make her invisible. But before she could open the door, she heard his voice behind her.

“Oye, there you are!” he called, a wide, relieved smile on his face as he jogged over, his voice bright with the kind of joy she hadn’t heard from him in years. “I was hoping I’d run into you before you left. It’s been too long.”

She barely managed to keep her face neutral, clutching her bag as if it could shield her. “Yeah, well, I’ve got to get on the road. Don’t want to get stuck in traffic,” she said, opening the boot to toss her bag inside. She avoided looking at him, focusing on the small tasks—closing the boot, brushing off her hands, reaching for the door.

He took a step closer, his hand resting on the car door as if to keep her from leaving. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his tone softening. “You… you didn’t answer my calls after Monza. I didn’t know if… I just wanted to see you.”

She swallowed hard, glancing away as she forced herself to stay calm, the last words she wanted to hear sitting heavy between them. “That’s great, Franco,” she said, barely meeting his gaze, her words quick and mechanical. “But I really should get going.”

“Wait—” He looked at her, his expression slipping from surprise to concern. “Can we talk? Please?”

But she was already climbing into the car, her hands gripping the steering wheel as she turned the ignition. She couldn’t bear to stay, couldn’t bear to let him see her break again. “Take care, Franco,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she closed the door.

Before he could say another word, she pulled out, the tires kicking up dust as she drove away. In the rearview mirror, she saw him standing in the drive, watching her go, his face a mix of confusion and something close to sadness. She looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat as she focused on the road ahead.

But the further she drove, the harder it became to ignore the weight of all the memories tied to each familiar street and turn. Every signpost, every curve of the road reminded her of him—their childhood spent racing bikes and kicking up dust, lazy afternoons wandering these streets, dreaming of the future he was now living.

Tears blurred her vision as she drove, the memories rushing in like floodwaters, filling her mind with images she’d tried so hard to push aside: Franco at fourteen, laughing as he beat her in yet another race down the hill; Franco, younger still, sharing a quiet moment in the field just beyond town, his eyes bright with the dreams they’d both carried.

She wiped at her eyes, her heart aching as each memory pulled her further into the past, a past where they’d been inseparable, a past where she hadn’t yet realised what loving him truly meant. She could almost hear his laughter, feel his presence beside her, as if he were still the boy she’d known, before life had pulled them down different paths.

By the time she reached her aunt’s building in Buenos Aires, the weight of the drive had started to lift, the city’s pulse a welcome distraction from the quiet countryside. She parked and took a moment to gather herself, feeling the ache from earlier settle into something softer, something that no longer felt as urgent or raw.

Just as she opened the car door, a familiar voice called out.

“¡Mira! Is that really you?”

She looked up, startled, and felt her heart lift slightly. Standing by the curb was Angelo, an old friend from summers in the city. He had the same easy smile, his hair a little longer, his build a little broader, but his presence felt exactly as she remembered—warm and solid.

“Angelo!” She smiled, the weight on her shoulders easing just a little more.

He walked over, giving her a friendly hug before reaching into the car to help with her bag. “Let me help. You’re here for a visit?”

“Just two weeks,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady as she glanced up at the familiar apartment building, a place that held a lifetime of summers, laughter, and memories untouched by the pain she’d left behind.

“Well, then,” he said, grinning as he hefted her bag easily, “we’ve got time to catch up.” His tone was light, but there was something else in his eyes, a quiet warmth that made her feel unexpectedly hopeful.

She followed him up the steps, comforted by his familiarity and the steady, unhurried way he moved, like he knew every corner of this building as well as she did. As they reached her aunt’s door, she felt her pulse slow, steadied by his presence.

The door opened before they could knock, her aunt’s familiar face breaking into a radiant smile. “There you are, mi niña!” She hugged her tightly, then turned to Angelo with a knowing smile. “And look who brought you all the way to the door! Angelo, you’re a sweetheart.”

He grinned, shrugging. “Anything for your family, señora.”

They all laughed, and for the first time in months, she felt a genuine ease settle over her, as if she’d left more than just a town behind—she’d left the weight of everything she’d been carrying.

As she glanced between her aunt and Angelo, the ache that had gripped her chest all day faded. The streets of Buenos Aires were bright outside the door, warm and humming with life. She breathed it in, feeling herself begin to let go of everything that had haunted her on that long drive.

Because maybe now that she was here, she could forget Franco.

to be continued…?

[3rdgymbros]

━ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐎𝐟 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞 (𝐕𝐢𝐥).

— pairing; vil schoenheit x ramshackle! reader

— summary; you make out with vil, cue his walk of shame back to his own dorm.

— notes; please donate to my kofi if you like my work. and know that i am mentally smooching everyone who reblogs my stuff.

❋ It had been a surprise when Vil had shown up at your doorstep this late in the evening, bearing some new skincare product or another and insisting that it would do wonders for your acne-prone skin.

❋ He’d gone out of his way to make the long trek over to Ramshackle, and so you’d invited him in, half-expecting him to decline since your dorm was old, dusty, and generally below his standards.

❋ You didn’t think that he’d actually agree.

❋ And you didn’t think that things would . . . Escalate.

❋ (Note to self: Vil Schoenheit apparently has a thing for your granny pyjamas. Or maybe it’s a thing for the person wearing them. Who knew?)

❋ To his credit, Vil tries to exercise some restraint at first. Just a kiss. Maybe two. But every time he tries to pull back, you’ll look up at him with unfocused eyes and a soft plea on your swollen lips, making him lean in again with a smirk and a sigh as he sinks deeper into the kiss, into you.

❋ Somewhere in the heat of things, he loses track of time entirely, and by the time he realizes he should be heading back to Pomefiore, it’s way past curfew. The haze of lust quickly clears once he catches sight of the alarm clock on your nightstand. There's no way he's making it back without attracting attention.

❋ He quickly disentangles himself from you (no matter how much you pout and beg for ‘just one more’), and turns his attention to fixing his makeup.

❋ He’s absolutely horrified once he catches a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror. Smudged lipstick, mussed hair, flushed cheeks, wrinkled shirt — how positively unbecoming! Vil Schoenheit doesn’t get caught looking disheveled.

❋ Unfortunately, there aren’t many high-end makeup products available to him in Ramshackle right now. Sighing heavily, Vil makes a mental note to start leaving some of his own products in your drawer, especially if these romantic escapades are to continue.

❋ He’s almost tempted to cast a small glamour to cover up the evidence. Almost. He’s Vil Schoenheit, after all, and the idea of concealing a makeup smudge feels both laughable and tragic to him. No, he’ll wear the consequences of your enthusiastic show of affection.

❋ He leaves with his head held high, hoping that with his usual haughty attitude and poise, no one will dare comment on his lateness . . . And more importantly, his appearance.

❋ No such luck.

❋ The first person he encounters on his way back is none other than Rook, who seems to appear out of thin air with glittering eyes and a knowing smile. “Ah, the scent of amour is unmistakable! You must have been at Ramshackle, non?”

❋ Vil can feel his cheeks pinkening as he hisses at Rook to keep it down. “Not. Another. Word. Understood?”

❋ He can’t catch a break in the dorm, either. It seems as though everyone is awake even at this god-forsaken hour, lining the hallways, pointing and staring and whispering. Vil grits his teeth and presses on, unwilling to falter when he’s almost made it to the safety of his room. Internally, he’s wishing he’d come in through the back door or, better yet, stayed hidden in Ramshackle.

❋ Finally, just when he thinks he’s in the clear, Epel catches sight of him, and opens his mouth. Vil raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow, daring him to try, and Epel shuts his mouth (he does start laughing once Vil is out of earshot, though).

❋ Once he’s back in the relative safety of his expansive room, Vil tosses his coat upon his bed and heaves a sigh of relief, catching his breath before he cleans up and does his nighttime skincare routine. His eyes flicker to the smudge of your lipstick on his collar with a little smile . . . Though he’ll never admit he didn’t wash it out right away.

[moondirti]

featuring: ghoap x nanny! f!reader. parenthood. adoption processes. fluff. slice of life. reader is given an age range

hear me out: simon and johnny transferring to reserve duty – i.e., serving the military on a part-time basis rather than being on active call – once they make the decision to become dads. it comes after a long period of deliberation (and healing on simon's part), but after they're absolutely sure that they want to start this next phase of life together, they call price to get it sorted.

who is thrilled for them, naturally, but warns that they still have a specialised commitment to the task force. if he needs them, then they best make sure they're there. the world isn't a better place yet, and no one can do what the pair does.

fine by them.

so it begins. instead of the complex and ethical choices that come with surrogacy, they opt for adoption and work with an attorney to facilitate the logistics. months of searching come up with a young mother, whose unwanted pregnancy has interfered with her life thus far, and is unwilling to make the further sacrifice that comes with keeping the baby. they must be more understanding, or otherwise less overbearing, than the other candidates – because two months later, they're in a hospital waiting room, anxiously lingering to meet the new addition to their family.

isla riley-mactavish. named after the river where johnny realised he'd be much happier with his lieutenant by his side.

the first few months are bliss. exhausting bliss, but a type of contentment that neither man has known since they first confessed to one another. isla's fussy through nights but they take turns settling her down, and if they have military duties to attend to then it's usually never at the same time. she's spoiled rotten – not just by them, but by the captain and gaz as well, who visit more often than not with bags full of toys they have nowhere to put. a little princess in the eyes of everyone who knows her.

by month five, she's teething and can hold her head up unsupported. simon reads somewhere that it's one of the most pivotal points in her development.

of course the call has to come then.

in the middle of the night, no less, and loud enough to wake her up from her crib. johnny scrambles to calm the bairn down as simon answers, price's grave voice crackling in from the other end. expected to be a long haul. a month at least. state security's at serious risk here, simon. i wouldn't ask you to come out otherwise.

and they made a promise. no matter how much it aches them to leave their darling girl behind.

rdv on base in a week.

he knows that one week is a matter of grace. he can feel the captain itching to hatch the operation as soon as possible, but has staved off to give the boys time to order their affairs. that doesn't mean simon's happy with the timeline, though. seven days is not nearly enough to find a sitter they can trust, especially given their own hindrances.

regardless, they send a job posting for a live-in, 24/7 nanny to close friends – no way in hell are they advertising it to the open internet – and hours later, johnny's sister lets them know of a girl who substitutes at the same primary school she works at. a real darling, apparently. honest 'n' stowed oot of energy, th' weans love her, and she haes experience with bairns too!

promising, but word of mouth isn't enough. they get a name and ask laswell to run a thorough background check. to their relief, it comes out squeaky clean. no arrests, no dui's, no shady travel history. modest socials with only a handful of followers. it's in line with what they know so far, solid enough to encourage them to reach out. so they do: just a brief email, asking what time and place would be best for a face-to-face interview.

they bring isla with them to the agreed meeting spot. a cozy cafe nestled in one of the safest parts of town. it's an early saturday morning and they're scheduled to leave in three days. so far, they've put all their eggs in this basket. johnny has to hold onto simon's hand when he notices the nerves dancing behind his partners usually void eyes. but if he were being honest with himself, he's just as scared.

they notice you as soon as they walk in.

sitting at a table for four, mug of coffee steaming as you bend over a well-loved book. despite your preoccupation, you're observant – they inch in your periphery and your head snaps up, a brilliant smile parting your lips as you spring up onto your feet. simon tallies a point on the ledger in his head. good. alert is good.

as is true for them, it's abundantly clear that you're who they're supposed to meet. johnny can't imagine anyone but a children's educator dressing like that: a gingham babydoll dress over a pair of blue tights, which carries over to the bow in your hair and is juxtaposed by the white oxford lace-ups on your feet. he startles when you extend your hand to shake his and he finds a painted fruit on each of your short nails. positively adorable. and so unlike anything they know.

simon shuffles next to him. isla reaches out from her bugaboo stroller, the colours having caught her eye.

"well hello there! aren't you just the cutest angel i've ever seen? do you like my dress?"

that's another point for immediately engaging with the object of your soon-to-be care. simon watches as you pull out a rattle from your purse, handing it over to the cooing baby. warmth blossoms in his chest, and his apprehension fizzles out in the heat. they hadn't told you they'd be bringing isla – opting to catch you off guard and seeing how you'd deal – so he assumes you carry the toy around for emergency purposes, like anyone else of their ilk would carry a gun.

something about that quirk just screams safe.

"it is a nice dress." johnny pursues, voice smooth in that way it gets when he's flirting but doesn't want it made clear. it took weeks for ghost to attune himself to it – he always just thought the scot spoke like that – but now that he's able to hear it for what it is, he shoots him a cautionary look. not so much mad as he is cautious. wouldn't want to scare her off.

"oh! thank you very much. it's my grandmother's design." you straighten up once isla gains a proper grip on the rattle, patting the skirt like you're basking in the praise. "shall we sit? i assume you have a lot to discuss, and i promise you'll want to try the maple scones they make here."

"please. after you." simon nods.

an hour later, you're giggling into your palm as johnny deviates into a story of the time they took isla to the hospital because they didn't know the soft spot on her head could pulse. simon is quiet in contrast, though not displeased. rather, he's focused on keeping the tally of all the green flags you've exhibited thus far. he doesn't mind that the conversation hasn't followed a typical interview format. in fact, people are more likely to show their true nature when in relaxed settings such as this, which is perhaps why johnny hasn't stuck to the script of questions they'd prepared beforehand. the man is better at social manoeuvring than simon is, anyway. he trusts him to direct this where it needs to go.

"it can be freaky! especially if you've never been around a child that young. i had a similar reaction the first time i babysat my neighbour's infant at sixteen. did you know that they can break out like teenagers? i noticed the poor thing's skin erupt in acne at just a month old and called his parent's crying." you wheeze, wiping the tears along your lashline.

"have ye worked wi' many bairns?"

"oh, yeah. it's been my primary source of income since secondary, all the way through uni. i just finished a master's degree in early childhood education, actually! and i wrote a list of referrals you can call if you need to double check on any of that." you rummage through your purse and pull out an apple-shaped sticky note. "do you mind if i ask what you do? people don't usually look for a full-time nanny unless they're really busy. not that i'm judging! i would ne–"

"military." simon interrupts, ensuring his tone is gentle enough to reassure.

"that makes sense! i mean, for an indefinite amount of time, the pay you're offering is more than perfect. above industry standard, really." you pause, brows furrowing like you're doubting whether you should have said that. "ah– whatever. anyway. isla is wonderful, just the sweetest. and the provided accommodation is an added plus. if you guys have no other qualms, then i'd love to accept the position."

"does i' bother you that there are cameras on the property? porch, kitchen, and living room. jus' for security's sake." simon tests, though he knows he doesn't need to, for extra measure. to someone with bad intentions, CCTV is a massive dealbreaker.

you don't hesitate before answering. "makes total sense! you guys are well within your right to check in at any time."

and they don't have to consult each other to know. johnny is practically buzzing in his seat, muscles flexed with enthusiasm as his gaze flits all over you. lingering on your chest in particular, before he looks over to simon and smiles in an offensively handsome way. simon can't help but smile back, crinkling his eyes more than necessary so the both of you can tell what's going on behind his mask.

it feels a little too good to be true, hopeful in a way that sets off the alarm bells in his head. he's stable enough to recognise that it isn't your fault, though. stable enough not to pin his distrust on you. this is likely the best shot they've got at ensuring their daughter's safety while they're away, and it's come in the form of a vivid, bright little blessing.

(with great tits.)

he'd be a fool to sabotage it.

johnny beats him to the cause. "ye'r hired."

[ next ]

[sabertoothwalrus]

so I’ve been gaining a lot of insight into the animation industry recently, especially in regards to pitching & the creation of new shows. There’s a few ways to go about it.

First, there’s pitching to a studio. When you pitch, it has to be SHORT and CONCISE. You may write a lovingly detailed pitch bible that perfectly breaks down episodes and characterizations, and it might barely even get read. First impressions, first impressions, first impressions!

Most peoples’ first projects don’t get picked up. I’ve heard a few stories from directors that said they tried pitching a story they’d had for years, which got rejected, to then spend a week or even several hours in their car coming up with a new idea, only for that to get greenlit.

But that’s not the end of it. Just because a show gets greenlit, doesn’t mean it will ever get finished. There’s lots of things that can happen. Sometimes, unexpected major world events (like… a global pandemic) can cause projects to get chopped. Sometimes, a CEO change or studio merge means a single person can decide a project “no longer fits with the company’s brand.” Sometimes, the one producer that was rooting for your project gets laid off, and no one else cares enough, so it gets shelved. Sometimes, a streaming service decides to create an animation department, and then they decide they don’t want it anymore. Sometimes, the studio will be simultaneously be developing another project that was too similar to yours and they just didn’t think to tell you until they decide yours is the one with less potential.

On top of that, almost everyone in the industry is saying that “studios just don’t pick up original content anymore.” Studios want something they can franchise, something that will bring in money. New content is risky. Established fanbases are safer.

However! Studios can still be a very good thing. They can be unionized. They can provide better benefits and resources. They can have connections and infrastructure and a larger volume of workers. At a studio, you can divide the labor and produce more in less time. Longer episodes, longer seasons, more consistency in quality.

But this comes with all of the disadvantages of having more in the kitchen.

The alternative is indie animation.

With indie animation, you have total freedom. Full artistic control. It doesn’t even matter if your idea sucks ass, because there’s no one to tell you you can’t make it. You could make it anyway, and you can make it whatever you wanted.

The thing is, making animation is hard. In my production class last semester, the average maximum animation one person could make in that timeframe was 30-60 seconds, and that’s not even counting background design, sound design, or cleanup/color. To make a 5 minute animated short, you should probably have at least 5 people.

And it is CRUCIAL you have a production manager. Ideally someone who’s not already doing art for the project. Most projects without a production manager will fall apart pretty quickly. Once the adrenaline and impulse-fueled motivation wears off, you need someone to hold you accountable and enforce deadlines and proper time management.

Speaking of time, that’s also hard to get. The more people you have, the more likely schedules won’t line up. Most people will have school, or other jobs.

And it costs MONEY!!!!!! You either have everyone work for free and volunteer their time & energy, or you establish a business as a proper indie studio, with people who may or may not have experience on how to handle paying someone else’s salary. And the money has to come from somewhere, so you have to rely on crowdfunding like patreon or kickstarter. (This, by the way, is why I could never fault an indie animation for releasing merch with their pilot.)

And like, maybe you wanna do a series, and all your friends agree to volunteer their labor and time to make the first episode, but it was unanimously not sustainable. Deciding not to produce a second episode until you can raise enough money is not being suddenly greedy, it’s attempting to compensate people rather than expecting them to be continuously taken advantage of.

You have to consider your output as well. There are some outliers like Worthikids, who afaik does all his animation himself, and afaik can work on it full-time thanks to his patreon subscribers. And he still has only produced a total of 30 minutes of animation (for Big Top Burger specifically) in the past 4 years. This is an IMPRESSIVE feat and this is with using a lot of 3D as part of his pipeline!!

Indie animation also has the complication of being more accessible for fandoms. When you’re posting your Official Canon Content on youtube, it doesn’t look a lot different than the fandom-created video essay in the sidebar next to it. What’s canon vs what’s fanon becomes less distinguishable. The boundaries are blurrier. When the creator is just some guy you follow on twitter, it’s easier to prod them for info regarding ships and theories and word-of-god confirmation. They don’t have a PR team or entire international tv networks to appeal to. And this is when creators get frustrated that their fans snowball and turn their creation into something they don’t recognize (and no longer enjoy) anymore.

So it’s tricky.

Thankfully, the threshold to learn animation is fairly low nowadays!! There are TONS of resources online to learn it on your own without forking over a couple hundred thousand to a private art college. There are conventions and discord servers and events where you can network, if you know where to look.

I know it can seem discouraging in the face of capitalism, but I think that’s all the more reason why it’s so important to BE DETERMINED about animation!! We’re already starting to see the beginning of an indie animation boom, and I think it’s a testament to humanity’s desire to tell stories and create art. Even if there’s no financial gain, we do whatever it takes to tell our stories anyway.

[faebled-stories]

The Weight of Approval

Kinkvember Day 19: Facesitting

(G)-IDLE Cho Miyeon x Gender Neutral reader

11.7k words

It’s just another shift at the café—a grind that blurs together with yesterday and all the days before. The worn counters, the hum of the coffee machine, the clink of mismatched mugs—it’s all routine. The same cracked tiles beneath your feet, the same smudged menu board hanging above the register. The café isn’t much, tucked into the corner of a busy street, frequented more for convenience than ambiance. It’s the kind of place that serves as a pit stop for hurried commuters, not somewhere anyone lingers.

You barely register the motions anymore. Each cup you fill, every polite smile you force, feels like another tick of the clock until your shift ends. But even then, that only means returning to your tiny apartment—three floors up in a creaky, aging building where the walls are thin, and the heater groans louder than it works. Inside, there’s a stack of unopened bills on the kitchen counter, a fridge that hums louder than it cools, and shelves lined with little more than ramen packets and canned soup. Payday is still a week away, and you’ve already done the math—it won’t stretch far enough.

Every month is the same. Rent looms like a guillotine, always just one mistake away from coming down. The café job was supposed to be temporary, just something to cover the basics until you landed something better. But “temporary” stretched into months, and now it feels like a trap, closing in around you as the bills keep piling higher. Nights at your other job—a late shift at a dingy convenience store—blur into exhaustion. Between the two jobs, sleep is a luxury, and dreams? Those have been shelved for “later,” though you’re no longer sure when “later” will come.

The bell above the door rings, jolting you from your thoughts. It’s automatic to glance up, expecting a regular with their usual small talk and routine order. Instead, she walks in.

The woman is striking, her presence undeniable from the moment she steps inside. Everything about her is sharp and precise, from the tailored fit of her sleek black suit to the effortless grace in her stride. The glint of her designer heels catches the dull light of the café, momentarily outshining the worn surroundings. Her dark sunglasses obscure her eyes, but you feel the weight of her gaze, like she’s sizing up the entire room in a single sweep. She’s out of place here, like a panther wandering into a pet shop.

She doesn’t wait in line. Instead, she glides directly to the counter, her movements fluid and purposeful, ignoring the subtle whispers and curious glances from the few other patrons.

“I’ll take my usual,” she says, her voice low and polished, each word perfectly enunciated.

You blink, caught off guard. There’s an air of expectation in her tone, as though her usual should be obvious. For a second, you feel like you’ve failed an unspoken test, unable to recall what she’s asking for. “I—uh—I’m not sure what your usual is…”

Her sunglasses slide down just enough for you to see her eyes. They’re sharp and assessing, a piercing gaze that seems to cut straight through you. “Is there a problem?” The question is more of a challenge than a clarification, her tone daring you to falter.

Before you can stammer out an apology, your coworker Minnie steps in, her movements quick and anxious. “I’ll take care of it,” she says, her voice soft and hurried. She doesn’t look at you as she nudges you aside, her trembling hands already reaching for the espresso machine.

The woman steps back, folding her arms as she waits. Her gaze, however, doesn’t leave you. It’s piercing and unrelenting, a quiet power that feels suffocating. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to—her presence alone commands the room.

Minnie works quickly, though her nervousness is evident. She fumbles slightly with the milk, spilling a few drops as she pours. When the drink is finally ready, she hesitates, glancing at the woman as if trying to gauge her mood. After a tense moment, Minnie takes a deep breath, picks up the cup, and walks it over.

You watch as she offers the drink, her posture stiff, like she’s bracing for something. The woman leans in slightly, inspecting the cup with the precision of a jeweler examining a diamond. She murmurs something, soft and deliberate, but her eyes remain locked on you.

Minnie freezes for a beat, her shoulders tightening before she nods and turns back toward you, her steps quick and unsteady. Her face is pale, her usual cheerful expression replaced with unease.

“She…” Minnie begins, her voice barely above a whisper as she sets the cup down on the counter in front of you. Her hands fidget with her apron. “She wants you to bring it to her.”

You glance at Minnie, confused. “Me? Why?”

Minnie shakes her head, her eyes wide. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “But you should just do it. Don’t… don’t upset her.”

The anxiety in Minnie’s voice sends a chill down your spine, but there’s no time to question it. The woman hasn’t moved. Her gaze is fixed on you, calm and unwavering, yet it carries a weight that feels oppressive, like a predator sizing up its prey.

You pick up the cup, its warmth doing little to steady your trembling hands, and step toward her. Each movement feels deliberate, exaggerated by the tension in the air. Her eyes track your every step, sharp and unrelenting, leaving you feeling utterly exposed. The café’s noise—the hum of the coffee machine, the soft chatter of patrons—fades into a dull background buzz as all your focus narrows on her.

When you’re close enough, you extend the cup toward her, your pulse hammering in your ears. Her fingers brush yours as she takes it, her touch cool and fleeting, yet it sends a shiver racing through you. Her lips curl into a faint smile—small, deliberate, and unsettling, like she’s amused by some private joke you’re not in on.

“Well aren’t you adorable,” she murmurs, her voice low and smooth, with just enough of an edge to leave you unsure if it’s a compliment or a taunt. Her gaze lingers on you, unhurried, peeling back invisible layers like she’s already learned more about you than you’d ever willingly share.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat as she tilts her head slightly, her expression shifting into something closer to curiosity—or is it calculation?

“How would you like to earn some extra money?” she asks, her tone casual yet deliberate, as if the question is part of a test.

The words land like a thunderclap, unexpected and disarming. You blink, caught off guard, the full weight of her presence pressing down on you as the question hangs in the air. The answer should be obvious—of course you do. You think of the bills piling up on your kitchen counter, the hollow ache in your stomach from skipping meals, and the rent looming over you like a storm cloud. But there’s something about the way she asks, something that makes your pulse race with more than just hope.

“I—uh…” Your voice wavers, and you hesitate, but the intensity of her gaze pushes you to nod, slowly at first, then more firmly. “Sure.”

Her smile deepens, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Instead, there’s a flicker of satisfaction, like she’s just confirmed something she already knew. She reaches into her purse with a deliberate, practiced motion and pulls out a business card. The action feels almost ceremonial as she hands it to you with a lazy grace. The card is pristine and minimalist: Ascend International. Cho Miyeon, CEO.

“Come to this address at 8 pm tonight,” she says, her tone smooth and unyielding. “Don’t be late.”

You glance down at the card in your hand, its edges crisp and cool against your fingertips. The weight of it feels disproportionate to its size, like it’s a key to a door you’re not sure you’re ready to open.

Her gaze flickers down to your mouth, and for a moment, she pauses, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as if an idea has just occurred to her. “Stick your tongue out,” she says suddenly.

The request catches you so off guard that you hesitate, unsure if you’ve heard her correctly. But her expression remains unchanged—no humor, no patience, only expectation. The air between you feels heavy, charged, as if she’s testing you.

Against every instinct, you comply, your face heating as you stick out your tongue. You feel ridiculous, exposed, yet there’s a compulsion in her gaze that makes resistance impossible. She studies you for a beat, her smirk deepening in satisfaction before she straightens, her presence as composed and commanding as ever.

“Good,” she murmurs, almost to herself, before turning and striding out of the café, her movements fluid and unhurried, like someone who always gets exactly what they want.

As the door swings shut behind her, Minnie sidles up beside you, her voice low and shaky. “You… you have no idea who she is, do you?”

You shake your head, your fingers clutching the card tightly. “No. Should I?”

Minnie’s eyes widen, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by something cautious, almost fearful. “Cho Miyeon,” she whispers, glancing toward the door as if expecting her to walk back in. “She owns half this city. If she wants something from you…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Just don’t screw it up. People don’t usually get second chances with her.”

You look down at the card again, its elegant design somehow intimidating. It feels out of place in your hands, like it belongs in a world far removed from your own. Yet, as the weight of her gaze lingers in your mind, you think about your reality—your landlord’s last warning, the meals you’ve skipped, the endless grind of multiple jobs that never seem to be enough.

Maybe this is the kind of risk you need to take.

If you can survive it

-----

Stepping into Ascend International’s headquarters feels like stepping into another world. The building itself is a towering monolith of glass and steel, its sleek facade reflecting the city skyline with an almost arrogant perfection. The sheer scale of it is intimidating, a symbol of power that dominates the horizon, making everything around it feel insignificant by comparison.

The lobby is no less imposing. It’s cavernous, every surface polished to a mirror-like gleam. The pristine marble floors stretch out endlessly, their subtle veining shimmering under the soft, calculated lighting. Minimalist artwork, abstract yet commanding, adorns the high walls, while brushed metal accents catch the light in subtle, expensive flashes. It’s a space that whispers sophistication but demands reverence, as if even the air inside has been curated for those who belong.

The people moving through the lobby only add to the sense that you’re out of place. They stride with purpose, their designer suits immaculate, their gazes fixed straight ahead as if they’re always on the brink of something important. No one lingers. No one hesitates. Everyone here seems to belong, moving in seamless synchronization, like pieces in a machine that runs on ambition and authority.

Clutching the business card Miyeon gave you, you force yourself to breathe steadily as you approach the reception desk. It looms ahead of you, an enormous slab of black marble so flawless it seems to absorb the light around it. Its size and stark design make you feel even smaller, dwarfed not just by the desk but by the sheer magnitude of the world you’ve just stepped into.

Behind the desk sits a young woman, impeccably dressed and exuding the kind of confidence that only comes from being part of something this powerful. Her name tag reads Song Yuqi, but it’s her sharp eyes that capture your attention. They snap up the moment you approach, and in a single, sweeping glance, she seems to assess everything about you—your clothes, your posture, the nervous energy you can’t quite suppress. It’s a look that feels both brisk and invasive, as if she’s already reached a conclusion before you’ve even spoken.

“Hi, I’m here for an interview with Ms. Cho,” you manage to say, though your voice sounds smaller than you’d like. You straighten your posture, hoping it’ll help mask the nervous tension tightening in your chest.

Yuqi’s lips twitch into a faint smirk, a flicker of amusement crossing her otherwise polished demeanor. “Oh, I know what this is about,” she says, her tone light and almost playful. Her gaze drifts over you again, slower this time, adding an unsettling layer of scrutiny. It’s as if she’s sizing you up for something you’re not privy to, enjoying a private joke at your expense.

Without another word, she opens a drawer with precise, practiced movements and pulls out a slim stack of papers. She hands them to you with a flick of her wrist, her smile deepening as though she’s waiting for your reaction. “Here,” she says, the amusement in her voice unmistakable. “You’ll need to sign this.”

You glance down at the papers, your breath catching as your eyes skim the first few lines. The text reads: Employment Contract. The words jump out at you—personal assistant, non-disclosure agreement, exclusive services—but most of the document is dense with legal jargon that blurs together as your eyes dart across the page. Then, a number leaps out at you—the salary.

It’s staggering. More money than you’ve ever made in your life. More than you’d even dared to dream of earning, even after years of grinding through multiple shifts and sleepless nights. For a moment, the weight of it all hits you at once: no more overdue bills, no more rationing groceries or waking up in a cold sweat over rent. This could change everything.

You glance back at Yuqi, who’s watching you with that same faint smirk, her amusement sharpening as if she can read every thought racing through your mind. There’s something unnerving about how much she seems to know—like she’s been expecting you to react this way all along.

Your hand hesitates over the contract. Rationally, you know this is unusual. Signing a contract before even meeting with Miyeon feels strange, almost reckless. But the rational part of you is quickly drowned out by the sheer allure of the number staring back at you. Slowly, almost dreamlike, you pick up the pen and sign your name. It feels surreal, like you’re crossing an invisible threshold into a world you’re not sure you belong in.

When you look up, Yuqi’s smirk has widened, her amusement shifting into something sharper, almost predatory. She takes the papers from you with a practiced efficiency, her fingers grazing yours briefly before she sets them aside. “Top floor,” she says, her voice smooth and a little too cheerful. “Room 2601. Don’t keep her waiting.”

You nod, your throat too tight to respond, and turn toward the elevator bank. As you walk away, Yuqi’s voice trails after you, light and teasing but with a faint edge of something you can’t quite place. “Good luck,” she calls, her tone carrying a hint of pity that sends a shiver down your spine.

As you press the elevator button, the weight of what just happened settles over you. The sleek lobby, the polished marble, the silent power radiating from every corner of this place—it all feels like it’s pressing down on you, reminding you of how small and out of place you are. Yet, in your hand, the signed contract feels heavier than it should, a reminder of the door you’ve just opened.

After stepping into the elevator, the doors glide shut with a smooth finality, sealing you off from the world below. Yuqi’s soft chuckle lingers in your mind, faint yet cutting, like the echo of something you can’t quite grasp. Was she mocking you? Warning you? The question gnaws at you, but there’s no time to dwell on it.

The elevator begins its ascent, smoothly but at an unnerving speed, and each floor that flashes by on the display only amplifies your anxiety. By the time you reach the top floor, your heart is pounding, each beat echoing in your ears.

The doors open with a soft chime, and you step out into a long, dimly lit hallway. It’s strikingly different from the bright, bustling lobby below—quiet, almost unnaturally so, with thick carpeting that muffles your footsteps. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one side of the hall, offering a sweeping view of Seoul’s glittering cityscape far below, the lights sprawling endlessly in the night. The silence is profound, almost oppressive, heightening the tension coiling within you.

At the end of the hallway, a single door waits: Room 2601. The numbers gleam in brushed silver, unassuming yet undeniably foreboding.

You approach the door slowly, each step making your breath come shorter, the weight of anticipation settling heavily on your shoulders. Reaching the door, you raise a hand, hesitate for just a moment, then knock. The sound is barely more than a whisper against the thick, quiet air. Then you wait, each second stretching out into tense silence, your mind racing as you imagine the woman behind the door—the woman who is already reshaping the course of your life with a single, strange offer.

Finally, the door opens. Miyeon stands there, poised and composed, her gaze sharp enough to cut through the tension you’ve built up in your mind. Her presence fills the room instantly, commanding and undeniable. The tailored lines of her outfit emphasize her power, every detail of her appearance deliberate, perfected. She doesn’t say anything at first; her cool, assessing eyes are enough to strip you of any lingering confidence.

“Did you sign the contract?” she cuts the silence, her tone calm but unyielding, the question landing with an air of finality. Her gaze doesn’t waver as she waits for your response, clearly expecting nothing less than the truth.

“Yes, Ms. Cho,” you reply automatically, trying to keep your voice steady despite the nervous tightness in your chest.

A faint, almost predatory smile touches her lips, curving with just enough subtlety to unsettle you. “Good.” She takes a step closer, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor, her eyes narrowing as she studies you. The weight of her gaze feels unbearable, as though she’s deciding whether you’re even worth the moment she’s spending on you. “Let’s begin your orientation,” she says smoothly, though there’s something in her tone that makes it feel less like an introduction and more like a trial.

You nod, swallowing hard, trying to push down the uncertainty tightening in your stomach. She watches you for a moment longer, as though savoring your discomfort, then parts her lips, her words delivered with meticulous precision.

“I need to know if you’re capable of handling my needs—whatever they may be,” she says, each syllable deliberately enunciated. Her eyes stay locked on yours as she takes another step forward, her voice low and unyielding. “This position demands complete obedience and total surrender. Is that clear?”

Her words hang in the air, their weight almost suffocating. You hesitate, the gravity of her demand pressing against you. “You…want me to surrender?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, exposing the crack in your resolve.

A flicker of disappointment crosses her face, quick and sharp, like a blade slicing through your hesitation. “Yes.” Her tone is calm, yet there’s an edge to it that leaves no room for misunderstanding. “If you want to work for me, I expect unquestioning compliance.”

She lets the silence stretch, forcing you to absorb the weight of her words, her gaze unrelenting. Then, her expression hardens slightly, and her voice lowers, smooth and controlled. “Do you understand?”

You nod quickly, a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. “Yes, Ms. Cho.”

She pauses, her eyes narrowing further, as if testing your sincerity. Then, with a measured look, she speaks again. “Good. Fetch the bench from the corner.”

The command catches you off guard, but her tone leaves no room for hesitation. You glance around quickly, spotting the object she means. The bench’s design immediately captures your attention—sleek and purposeful, with polished steel legs and padded leather cushions. Its unique height and tilted headrest stand out, clearly crafted with precision, though its exact purpose escapes you. There’s an air of deliberate intent in its construction, as if it was made for something specific, yet unknown to you.

Miyeon’s gaze remains fixed on you as you approach the bench. The weight of her stare makes you hyper-aware of your movements as you grip the sides of the bench and carefully drag it to the center of the room. The polished floor amplifies the sound of the legs sliding into place, each scrape making your pulse quicken. The act feels symbolic, a deliberate display of your compliance, and the tension between you thickens with every passing moment.

When you’ve positioned it where she wants, you glance back at her uncertainty. Her expression remains unreadable, but the faint quirk of her lips suggests satisfaction. She steps closer, her heels clicking softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“Lie down,” she commands, her voice calm yet leaving no room for doubt.

The words catch you again, and you hesitate for a brief moment, your body instinctively stiffening. “Ms. Cho, I—what exactly do you mean by…?”

Her gaze sharpens instantly, silencing you with a single look. Her voice, deceptively soft, cuts through the air like a blade. “Are you questioning me again?” she asks, her tone laced with challenge. “I thought you understood what surrender means. Lie down. Now.”

Her words land with finality, and you feel a flush of shame rise at your hesitation. Swallowing hard, you nod and lower yourself onto the bench, the cool leather pressing against your back as you settle in. The elevated headrest cradles your head, tilting your face upward as though the bench itself is positioning you for her. The chill of the leather seeps into your skin, grounding you in the moment, while the faint scent of her perfume lingers in the air, mingling with the tension that fills the room.

Miyeon steps closer, standing above you, her presence towering, her gaze unbroken. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches down and hikes her skirt up to her hips, revealing toned thighs and the delicate edge of lace. Her movements are smooth, calculated, as if every motion is part of a performance meant to remind you of your place. She slips her panties to the side with practiced ease, her poise never faltering, and positions herself above you.

Her movements are deliberate as she lowers herself onto the bench, aligning her body perfectly with yours. The height of the bench leaves her perfectly positioned—not too low, ensuring her weight presses against you with satisfying firmness, yet not so high that she feels unsupported. The angle of your head allows her to settle fully, her thighs bracketing your face as her warmth and presence close in around you. The air feels thick with her scent—rich, musky, and faintly floral—flooding your senses and leaving your head spinning before she’s even settled fully.

Leaning forward, she braces herself on the bottom of the headrest, her hands naturally finding the spots perfectly molded for her grip. The design seems intentional, as if tailored for this very moment. Her fingers tighten briefly as she steadies herself, her gaze flicking down to meet yours. There’s no softness in her expression, only a sharp, expectant coolness that cuts through the haze clouding your mind.

“Stay still,” she murmurs, her voice calm but carrying the weight of command. The words feel like a seal on the moment, binding you to her expectations. Then, with deliberate ease, she presses down, enveloping you completely.

Your world narrows to her—the pressure, the weight, the intoxicating heat of her body as it moves against you. Tentatively, you extend your tongue, pressing it to her for the first time. Her taste floods your senses, earthy and rich, tinged with the saltiness of her skin. It’s overwhelming, disorienting, but also grounding, her presence completely consuming every thought, every breath. Encouraged by the faint shift of her hips, you try again, moving with more intention. You let your tongue trace slow, deliberate strokes, convinced you’re finding the rhythm she expects.

Her thighs press firmly against your head, creating a perfect seal that traps you beneath her. The leather of the bench beneath you feels immovable, your position leaving you utterly at her mercy. With her weight pressing down, each inhale becomes a struggle, your breaths reduced to shallow pulls of air through your nose—and every one of them is filled with her. Her scent is heady, musky, and floral, a potent blend that seeps into your senses and clouds your thoughts. It feels like you’re breathing her in completely, your lungs filled with nothing but her presence.

Her body feels warm, responsive, as though she’s relaxing against you, her hips beginning to move in slow, deliberate rolls. The grind of her pelvis against your face is measured, controlled, and demanding, and you adjust your movements instinctively, matching her pace. Her thighs tighten subtly around your head, holding you even more firmly in place, leaving no room for error, no room for escape. You feel every shift, every slight increase in pressure, and interpret it as a signal that you’re doing something right.

The faint tension in her breathing seems to deepen, her exhalations growing slightly louder, and you take it as a sign to focus more, to give her exactly what she needs. You adjust your tongue, letting it trace patterns you think she’ll enjoy, responding to the subtle cues in the way her hips shift. Her warmth spreads against you, slick and inviting, and you press more firmly, convinced you’re making progress, that she’s responding to your efforts.

Her scent grows stronger, mingling with the heat radiating from her skin, and you lose yourself in the rhythm she’s setting. Each movement feels purposeful, deliberate, as if you’re aligning perfectly with her desires. Her faint exhalations become the only sound you can hear, soft and measured, a quiet reward that urges you to keep going, to match her pace with precision. Her thighs flex against your head, squeezing slightly, and her hips grind down harder, forcing you to adjust to her increasing demands.

Trapped between her thighs, the pressure becomes all-encompassing, the weight of her pressing down leaving you barely able to think beyond her. Each inhale feels heavier, as though her scent is suffocating you in the most intoxicating way. You pour everything into your movements, your tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles, convinced that her silence is approval, that the steady roll of her hips means you’ve found exactly what she wants.

The seconds stretch into minutes, your efforts intensifying as her body shifts with increasing deliberation. The grind of her hips becomes more insistent, demanding, and you press harder, moving your tongue with more purpose. The pressure of her weight feels all-encompassing, her thighs gripping your head tightly, leaving you immobile, entirely at her mercy. You focus entirely on her, responding to her every movement, certain that you’re meeting her expectations.

Then, you feel it—a subtle, unmistakable slickness spreading against your tongue. It’s warm, intoxicating, and sends a jolt of confidence through you. Her arousal feels like confirmation, a silent acknowledgment that you’re doing something right. You match her movements with renewed focus, interpreting the growing wetness as proof of your success.

But then, without warning, her weight lifts.

The sudden loss of pressure is startling, disorienting, and you blink against the light as your eyes flutter open. The brightness of the room feels blinding, a harsh contrast to the cocoon of warmth and scent you’d been engulfed in. Her essence still lingers heavily in the air, clinging to you, intoxicating, making your head spin like you’ve been drinking something far too strong.

“Wait…” you murmur, the word slipping out unbidden as she rises fully. Without thinking, you push upward, your body instinctively trying to follow hers, desperate to maintain the contact, to hold onto the sensation. You feel drunk, untethered, and you try to lift your head toward her, as if that alone could pull her back down.

But Miyeon moves with calm, dismissive ease, pulling her skirt down and smoothing it into place with the same practiced precision she began with. She steps off the bench, her movements steady and composed, as though what just happened was a passing thought, nothing more than a fleeting interruption.

Her expression remains untouched by the moment, her gaze sharp and appraising as she looks down at you. The cool detachment in her eyes feels like a splash of cold water, banishing the haze that had clouded your mind. The confidence you felt just moments ago evaporates as she folds her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Time’s up,” she says smoothly, her tone businesslike, almost bored. There’s no emotion, no warmth in her voice, as though she’s closing a meeting rather than commenting on your performance.

You sit up slowly, your body unsteady, your breath uneven as you try to process what just happened. The remnants of her scent and taste cling to you, making your head feel light, dizzy, as though you’re still intoxicated by her presence. Your mind clings desperately to the moments when you thought she was responding—the subtle shifts, the pressing weight of her hips, the slick warmth of her against you. You were so sure you’d succeeded, but the cold finality of her words shatters that illusion.

Miyeon steps back, her expression unchanging as she watches you. Her gaze remains fixed, cool and detached, giving nothing away. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, as you wait for her to say something, anything, that might redeem the moment.

But she doesn’t. Her stance, her tone, her movements—all of it makes one thing clear: you’ve fallen short.

Her silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, before she finally speaks.

“You get a C,” she says, her voice unhurried, calm, and somehow all the more cutting for it. Each word lands with surgical precision, slicing through the hope you’d just started to build. Her tone is devoid of emotion, her expression cold and detached, as though grading a forgettable report. “You missed the mark entirely.”

The words feel like a punch, knocking the breath from your lungs. You stare at her, struggling to process, grappling with the sudden weight of failure. “You’re giving me a…C? But I thought—I felt you get wet, Ms. Cho. I thought…”

Her eyes narrow just slightly, enough to silence you before you can finish. The room feels colder as her gaze sharpens, pinning you in place.

“Did you?” she replies, her tone so detached it feels clinical. “Just because my body has natural reactions doesn’t mean you were doing anything remarkable. Don’t confuse basic biological responses with skill.”

Her words hit like ice water, cutting through the fog of your confusion and hope. She takes a step closer, her presence looming, her expression hardening as she begins to dissect your performance with brutal precision.

“Your efforts lacked strength,” she begins, her voice carrying a steely edge. “Your tongue was weak—unfocused. No rhythm, no consistency. I set a pace for you, and you couldn’t even manage that.”

She pauses, letting the words sink in, her critical gaze sweeping over you as though she’s already dismissed you. The weight of her disappointment presses down harder than her thighs ever did.

“And you completely ignored my clit,” she continues, her tone growing colder, harsher, each syllable cutting deeper. “I practically guided you there, made it obvious, yet somehow, you missed the most important part.” Her lips curl into a faint smirk, but there’s no humor in it, only a razor-sharp derision. “I even grinded myself against you, practically handing you the answer, and still, you failed to deliver.”

Her words are relentless, brutal. Each one dissects a flaw you hadn’t even realized, exposing every weak point you thought you’d hidden. It’s as if she’s stripping you down to the core, piece by piece, revealing everything you couldn’t see in yourself.

She takes a measured step back, her voice dropping lower, colder. “The bare minimum,” she says, enunciating each word with icy precision, “is to make me cum. And you couldn’t even come close to doing that.”

The words hit like a hammer, reverberating in the silence that follows. The finality in her tone leaves no room for argument, no possibility for redemption. Her gaze remains fixed on you, sharp and unwavering, her disappointment so palpable it feels like it’s physically crushing you.

“I don’t need someone who merely tries,” she continues, her tone growing colder still, like frost spreading across the room. “I need someone who performs, who instinctively understands what I require without me having to spell it out. Excellence isn’t negotiable in this position.

The words leave you hollow, your confidence shattered under the force of her critique. Each syllable lands with precision, tearing apart every scrap of pride or hope you’d felt during the act. The air feels suffocating, thick with the weight of her disappointment.

“Please, Ms. Cho,” you manage, forcing the words out even as a lump rises in your throat. “Give me another chance. I can do better—I’ll work on everything you said, I’ll improve if you just—”

She raises a hand, cutting you off, her expression turning to stone. The gesture alone silences you, her gaze cold and unrelenting.

“There won’t be another chance,” she states, the words cold and final. “Not here. I don’t invest my time in mediocrity.”

Her dismissal feels absolute. Her attention shifts away from you, as though you’re no longer worth a moment of her time. She steps back to her desk, picking up a pen with the same calm precision she’s shown all evening, and resumes her work without so much as a glance in your direction. The sound of the pen scratching against paper feels deafening in the silence.

“You may leave,” she says coolly, her tone as unyielding as stone. “This position requires skill, precision, instinct—and you’ve shown none of those.”

The words hang heavy in the air, sharp and final, cutting through the silence like a gavel. Your body feels frozen in place, unable to move as the weight of her judgment presses down on you. Slowly, numbly, you rise, your legs unsteady beneath you, your chest tight with the sting of failure.

Each step toward the door feels heavier than the last, your mind replaying her critique with relentless clarity. The sharpness of her dismissal leaves you feeling stripped bare, your confidence shattered completely. You’d thought you’d done well, thought you’d sensed her responding, but her cold, clinical analysis has left no room for doubt. You fell short—entirely.

As you reach the door, you glance back once, hoping for even a flicker of warmth or reconsideration in her expression. But Miyeon’s gaze remains fixed on her paperwork, her focus already shifted, as though you’ve ceased to exist in her world.

You leave, her scent and the weight of her words lingering heavily in the air around you, each step away from her office feeling like another layer of failure pressing down.

The weight of her words settles heavily in the silence that follows, each one lingering in the air like a closing door. You stand, feeling hollow, the sting of failure biting deep. Each step toward the door feels impossibly heavy, as if you’re dragging your very sense of self along with you. Her critique replays in your mind, each cutting line driving the shame and disappointment deeper. By the time you reach the door, her dismissal has stripped you of whatever pride you had left, leaving you exposed and aching with the sting of her judgment.

As you step out of the building, the scent of her perfume still clings to the air around you, subtle but intoxicating. Her taste lingers on your lips, and her piercing gaze haunts your thoughts, replaying again and again with relentless clarity. You can’t stop thinking about every moment, every mistake, every opportunity you missed. Her words echo in your mind, each replay stinging more than the last, but beneath the pain and disappointment, something else lingers—a pull, an inexplicable need.

There’s something magnetic about her, something that refuses to let go. The effortless authority she carried, the way she dismissed you without a second glance—it’s intoxicating, a force that leaves you restless, unsettled. The intensity of her presence lingers, drawing you back even as the humiliation burns. Somehow, you want another chance, not to prove yourself to anyone else but to her—to earn her approval, to be exactly what she demanded.

-----

The morning after that unforgettable Monday encounter with Miyeon, you wake with her still lingering in your mind—her voice, her scent, the calm precision with which she had dismissed you. The memory of her critique, her unyielding detachment, plays over and over, cutting deeper each time. Somehow, she has taken root in your thoughts, filling them in a way you can’t ignore. Her essence lingers—not just a memory but something that feels alive, woven into every corner of your mind, unrelenting and impossible to shake.

The café where you usually spend your mornings feels miles away, though it’s just down the block. Instead of showing up to your shift, you find yourself sitting at your small kitchen table, staring blankly at your phone, waiting for something—anything—that might offer a way forward. The thought of pouring coffee, of going through the motions while she dominates your thoughts, feels unbearable.

By late morning, desperation pushes you to try a respectful, measured call to her office. Yuqi’s voice is professional, polite, and painfully impersonal. You introduce yourself, forcing your tone to stay steady even as urgency tinges every word.

“I wanted to see if Ms. Cho might be open to reconsidering…” you begin, your heart pounding with every syllable. “I know I didn’t meet her expectations, but if I could just speak with her, I’m sure I could—”

“She’s made her decision,” Yuqi replies with finality, her words cool and unyielding. “Ms. Cho has a very clear standard.”

The line goes silent, and you’re left holding the phone, the emptiness pressing down on you like a weight. Your heart sinks, but the idea of giving up feels unbearable. That night, you sit down at your desk, composing an email that takes far longer than it should. Every word feels inadequate, yet you pour your sincerity into each sentence. You admit your mistakes, express your deep respect for her, and humbly ask for another chance. As you hit send, you close your eyes and release a shaky breath, hoping your words will reach her, that she’ll sense your sincerity.

By the next morning, there’s no reply. The café calls to ask if you’re coming in, but you barely register the message. You can’t go back—not yet. The silence from Miyeon feels sharper now, amplifying your anxiety. Without thinking twice, you call her office again. This time, your tone carries a quiet urgency, though you fight to keep it professional.

“I understand Ms. Cho’s standards are high,” you say softly, your voice earnest, almost pleading. “But I know I can meet them. I just need a chance to show her.”

The rest of the day drags, heavy with unanswered questions. As evening falls, you find yourself composing another email, this time rawer, more vulnerable. You lay everything bare—your mistakes, your desire to improve, and just how much this opportunity means to you. With trembling hands, you hit send, feeling both exposed and hopeful.

By midweek, the desperation gnaws at you like a dull ache that refuses to leave. Miyeon has somehow consumed your every thought. Her presence is no longer just a memory—it feels like she’s there, looming in the edges of your mind, controlling your every emotion. Her scent, her voice, her unyielding control—they haunt you in the quiet moments, filling your chest with a weight that grows heavier with each passing day.

You’ve stopped checking your work schedule entirely. The thought of being surrounded by noise and chatter while Miyeon’s critique echoes in your mind is unbearable. It’s as if nothing else matters but reaching her, proving yourself worthy of her attention, her approval.

That afternoon, you decide to go in person. Nerves buzz under your skin as you step into the sleek lobby of Ascend International, the company’s towering headquarters. Yuqi greets you at the desk with a polite but distant smile, her practiced professionalism impossible to crack.

“Hi,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m here to leave a message for Ms. Cho. I’d like to speak with her if she’s available.”

Her smile doesn’t waver, though there’s a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. “I’ll be sure she receives your message,” she says with polite finality.

As you walk away, hope mingles with dread. You tell yourself she must know—must feel—how far you’re willing to go to prove yourself. It’s impossible to imagine her being unaware of your persistence, of how deeply she’s embedded herself into your thoughts. Yet the silence continues to gnaw at you, relentless in its clarity.

Thursday passes in a haze. You leave another voicemail, your voice trembling with the weight of your growing need.

“Please,” you say softly, almost whispering into the receiver. “I know I fell short. But if she would just allow me one more chance, I won’t disappoint her.”

The intensity of your plea surprises even you, but at this point, pride is irrelevant. You’d give anything just for the chance to redeem yourself. As you leave the office, you find yourself in the lobby once more, hoping for even the faintest sign of acknowledgment. Yuqi looks at you with that same polite sympathy, her small kindness like a bitter reminder that you’re clinging to something fragile.

By Friday morning, the week’s silence feels unbearable. Every unanswered call, every unread email, weighs on you like a sentence passed. Miyeon’s critique plays in your mind with brutal clarity, her voice sharp and cutting as she dismisses you. It’s as if she left a part of herself with you, tethering you to her, drawing you back no matter how much it stings. You can’t let her go, and yet you fear that every effort has been futile.

Then, just when your resolve begins to waver, your phone rings. The unknown number on the screen sends your pulse racing, and you answer with shaky hands.

“Ms. Cho has agreed to see you,” Yuqi announces, her tone brisk and efficient. “Tonight at 8 p.m. sharp. Do not be late.”

Relief crashes over you like a wave, your heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and gratitude. You’ve been granted another chance—a chance to prove yourself, to rise to her impossible standards. As you hang up, the tension that has consumed you all week begins to dissipate, replaced by a renewed determination. Tonight, everything will change

-----

By 7:30 p.m., you’re pacing in the sleek lobby of Ascend International, nerves thrumming under your skin like a live wire. The building’s towering glass walls reflect the city’s lights, casting long shadows across the pristine marble floor. Yuqi sits at her desk, her posture casual yet poised, her sharp eyes occasionally flicking up to you as you move restlessly.

When the clock hits 7:40, you finally gather the courage to approach her desk. Yuqi’s gaze snaps to you, her lips curving into a faint smirk as she leans forward slightly, her tone light and teasing. “Nervous?” she asks, though it’s clear she already knows the answer.

You nod, swallowing hard. “She’s expecting me,” you manage, trying to keep your voice steady, though it cracks slightly under the weight of your nerves.

Yuqi doesn’t hide her amusement. “Oh, I know,” she replies, her tone bordering on playful, though there’s something sharp beneath it. She taps a perfectly manicured nail against her desk before gesturing toward the elevator. “Same room. You’re cutting it close, so I’d suggest moving quickly. Miyeon’s not known for her patience.”

Her words make your pulse quicken, and you nod quickly, stepping toward the elevator. But just as the doors slide open, Yuqi calls out, her voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial. “Good luck,” she says, a hint of mock pity in her tone. “You’ll need it.”

The elevator ride feels endless, the quiet hum of the machinery doing nothing to calm your racing thoughts. By the time you reach the top floor, your hands are trembling, and a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. You step out into a long, dimly lit hallway, its polished floors gleaming beneath your shoes. The door to Miyeon’s office looms at the end, imposing and unyielding, and you force yourself to move forward, each step heavier than the last.

At exactly 7:45, you’re standing outside Miyeon’s office. The weight of the moment presses down on you, suffocating, as you glance at the sleek double doors. This is it—the culmination of a week spent consumed by thoughts of her, by desperation, by the need to redeem yourself. Her dismissal on Monday has been looping in your mind, relentless and unforgiving, and you’ve been preparing for this moment every second since.

Taking a deep breath, you press your hand to the door and push it open.

The atmosphere inside Miyeon’s office is heavy, almost oppressive. Everything about the space exudes power, from the minimalist decor to the sharp angles of her desk.

Miyeon is seated behind it, her posture as precise as ever, her face unreadable. Tonight, though, there’s a sharpness to her expression, a tension in the way her hands rest on the desk. Her gaze lands on you the moment you step inside, freezing you in place. Her eyes are piercing, cutting straight through any pretense of confidence you’ve tried to muster.

“You’re back,” she says, her voice sharper than you remember, each word clipped and deliberate. The skepticism in her tone slices through the air, leaving no room for pretense. She lets the silence linger, her gaze unrelenting, before she adds, “I suppose you’re here to prove something.”

“Yes, Ms. Cho,” you manage, forcing yourself to stand taller, to appear more confident than you feel. Your voice is steady, but inside, you’re unraveling under her scrutiny. “I’m ready to meet your standards.”

Her lips curl into the faintest smirk, though it holds no warmth. If anything, it feels like a challenge, an unspoken test to see if you’ll falter. She stands slowly, her movements deliberate, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor as she rounds the desk. Every step feels measured, calculated, as if she’s sizing you up all over again.

When she reaches you, her gaze doesn’t waver. She tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studies you. “You’ve had an entire week to think about Monday,” she says, her tone cool, almost conversational. “Tell me—what makes you think this time will be any different?”

You swallow hard, the question hitting you like a punch to the gut. “I’ve… I’ve thought about everything you said, Ms. Cho,” you reply, your voice quieter now, but no less determined. “I know I fell short, but I’ve prepared. I’m ready to prove that I can meet your expectations.”

Her eyes flicker, the faintest glimmer of something unreadable passing through them. She doesn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch until your nerves feel like they’re about to snap. Then, with a brisk motion, she gestures toward the center of the room.

“Then show me,” she says simply, her voice low but charged with authority. “And don’t waste my time.”

Without needing further instruction, you step toward the corner of the room where the bench waits, sleek and polished under the dim office lights. You retrieve it carefully, its weight familiar in your hands, and position it in the center of the room. The leather gleams, the elevated headrest perfectly angled for what you know is to come, designed to cradle you in place beneath her.

You lower yourself onto the bench, the leather cool and firm beneath you, grounding you as you settle into position. The headrest cradles your head, tilting your face upward in a way that leaves you open, exposed, perfectly aligned beneath her. Your breath quickens as Miyeon steps closer, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Each step feels deliberate, each sound echoing the weight of your expectations.

She stops just in front of you, her sharp gaze sweeping over you, calm and detached, as though calculating every detail. Without a word, she slips off her heels and sets them aside. Her fingers move to the hem of her skirt, gathering the fabric upward with fluid grace. Her thighs come into view, smooth and commanding, a contrast of elegance and strength. The edge of her lace panties teases at your vision before she moves them aside with a simple, routine motion.

Her scent—muskier, richer than you remembered—immediately fills the air. It’s overwhelming, a heady blend of something primal and intimate, saturating your senses as she steps forward and positions herself above you. It’s a smell that haunted you this entire week, lingering like an ache in the back of your mind. You’d tried to forget, to push it aside, but nothing could dull the memory of her—the way she consumed you so entirely, only to dismiss you without a second thought. Now, as her warmth radiates above you, it feels like you’re being granted water in a desert, but only if you can prove you’re worthy to drink.

When she lowers herself, her weight presses down fully, engulfing you in her presence. Her thighs press against your cheeks, trapping you completely beneath her. Each shallow breath you manage is filled entirely with her scent, and for a moment, you’re paralyzed by how familiar it feels, how much you’d been craving this. It’s as though the week of rejection, of begging for this chance, has only amplified your hunger. Nothing else could satisfy you but her.

Tentatively, you begin, pressing your tongue to her with slow, cautious strokes. Her taste fills your senses—earthy and rich, tinged with saltiness, intensely familiar and utterly consuming. The longing you’ve carried for days surges forward, and you push past your hesitation, tracing deliberate patterns as you adjust to the faint shifts of her body. Her warmth grows against you, and you focus entirely on her, on the faint signals she gives—the flex of her thighs, the subtle tilt of her hips.

Her breathing remains steady, restrained, and her body feels poised, in control, as if she’s still testing you. You move with more purpose, pressing your tongue more firmly, hoping to draw a reaction, to prove you’ve learned. Her hips begin to move slightly, setting a measured rhythm, and you match it, your tongue tracing careful circles in time with her movements.

Her thighs tighten slightly, holding you in place, and her warmth presses against you more firmly. For a fleeting moment, you think you’re succeeding, that you’re drawing her into the moment. But then, her weight begins to lift.

The change is subtle at first—the brief press of her thighs as they shift upward—but it’s enough to make your heart drop. Her warmth pulls away, leaving a sudden void that feels unbearable. Her expression is faintly impatient as she rises, her movements deliberate, as though confirming what she already suspected: that you’ve failed her again.

A horrible sense of déjà vu washes over you, sharp and unrelenting. The rejection from your first evaluation, the cold detachment in her voice, all come rushing back, amplifying the ache in your chest. The memory of that moment has haunted you all week, and now it feels as though it’s happening all over again. Panic claws at you, raw and immediate.

Her voice cuts through the silence, low and unimpressed. “I see you haven’t learned anything.”

The words slice through you, sharp and final, and desperation surges in their wake. You can’t let her leave—not again. Before she can move further, you reach up, your hands trembling as they find her hips, gently but firmly holding her in place. Your lips brush against her folds, pressing soft, pleading kisses that linger just a moment longer than they should.

“Please, Ms. Cho,” you whisper against her, your voice breaking. “Don’t leave. I know I can do better. Please—just let me try.”

She doesn’t move. You press another kiss to her, slower this time, the desperation in you mounting. “Please,” you murmur, your voice shaking. “I need this. I need to show you. I won’t fail you.”

Another kiss. She doesn’t lower herself, doesn’t speak, and the silence feels crushing. Your kisses grow more frantic, more desperate, your lips trembling as you pour every ounce of pleading into them.

“Don’t go,” you whisper between kisses, your voice cracking with emotion. “Please, Ms. Cho. I’ll do anything—just give me this chance. Let me prove I can please you.”

You press another kiss, and this time it lingers, your lips soft and reverent against her warmth. “Please…” you murmur again, the word barely audible, carrying the weight of everything you’ve felt this past week—the sleepless nights, the ache in your chest, the obsessive need to have this moment again.

For a moment, the air is suffocatingly still. Her body remains poised above you, her thighs tense, her piercing gaze boring into yours, unreadable and unwavering. You’re left hanging, each second dragging painfully as you wait for her to decide if your pleading, your desperation, is enough.

Finally, she shifts, lowering herself back down slowly, deliberately. Her weight settles on you again with a quiet finality, her thighs bracketing your face and trapping you completely beneath her warmth. Her presence floods your senses again, her scent, her taste, her closeness—more consuming now, more intense after nearly losing it.

“Continue,” she says, her tone clipped and cold, leaving no room for hesitation. “This is your last chance.”

Her words settle heavily in the air, fueling your determination. She lowers herself slowly, her weight pressing down on you with deliberate command. Her warmth engulfs you completely, her thighs framing your head, trapping you in place. Her scent surrounds you—intense, musky, and deeply familiar, stirring the longing that had haunted you since her rejection. This is your moment, your chance to prove yourself, and you won’t squander it.

You press your tongue to her carefully at first, savoring the sensation. Her taste floods your senses—earthy, slightly salty, and utterly her. It’s overwhelming, a reminder of everything you’ve been craving since that first evaluation. You move cautiously, tracing along her in slow, deliberate strokes, letting her subtle shifts guide you.

As you work, her hips begin to move slightly, a faint rhythm that you match immediately. You focus entirely on her clit, finding it with purpose and letting your tongue trace precise circles over the sensitive spot. Her body responds subtly at first—a slight flex of her thighs, a faint deepening of her breathing—but then she begins to grind against you, her movements deliberate, setting a demanding pace.

Her thighs tighten around your head, holding you firmly, and her warmth spreads against you as her arousal builds. The faint scent of her grows stronger, more intoxicating with each passing moment. The low sounds that escape her—soft, unrestrained moans—cut through the silence, quiet but impossible to miss. The sound of her pleasure fills you with renewed purpose, driving you to push harder, to make her lose the control she clings to so tightly.

You adjust seamlessly to her movements, your tongue pressing more firmly as her hips set a rhythm that grows more demanding with each passing second. The warmth of her envelops you completely, her scent thick and intoxicating, saturating your senses until nothing else exists. Her thighs flex around your head, tightening their hold, as if to anchor herself against the rising tide of sensation. Every inhale you take is filled with her, each shallow breath a reminder of the position she holds over you.

Her soft moans slip past her lips, each one slightly louder than the last, their restrained nature fraying at the edges. The controlled grace she carried moments ago begins to falter, her movements sharpening as her hips grind against your tongue with increasing insistence. You respond instinctively, letting your tongue trace circles that align perfectly with her pace, adjusting to every subtle cue her body gives.

Her thighs tremble against your cheeks, their strength faltering as the tension in her body builds. The moans grow breathier, tinged with urgency, and her weight presses down more fully, holding you in place beneath her. Her breathing becomes uneven, hitching with every deliberate motion of your tongue as you follow her lead, unrelenting in your efforts to meet her every need.

Suddenly, her movements grow erratic, the control she held so tightly slipping entirely. Her body tenses above you, her thighs clenching tightly around your head, cutting off your world to everything but her. A sharp, shuddering moan escapes her lips, low and unrestrained, the sound raw and involuntary. Her hips press down fully, grinding against your tongue with forceful, almost frantic motions, riding the crest of her climax.

Her body tightens completely, trembling violently as wave after wave of pleasure overtakes her. You remain steady beneath her, your tongue moving with careful persistence, guiding her through every pulse, drawing out each lingering sensation. Her knuckles whiten as her grip on the head rest tighten, her breaths coming in short, uneven gasps.

For a long moment, she remains like that—tense, trembling, pressing herself fully against you as the final shudders of release course through her. Only when her body begins to relax does her grip loosen, her thighs softening their hold on your head. Even then, you don’t stop entirely, your movements gentle now, offering a last, tender caress as her breathing begins to steady once more.

Her breathing slows as her movements begin to still, her weight easing slightly as she lifts herself just enough to create space. But as her warmth pulls away, a thought flashes through your mind: this isn’t enough. You can’t just meet her expectations—you need to surpass them.

Sliding your hands up, you let your palms glide over the curve of her hips, steadying her as you adjust her position slightly. Your fingers trail downward, curling firmly to grab handfuls of her cheeks. The sensation of her soft skin under your hands is electrifying, and you feel the tension in her body shift as you grip her firmly. You spread her open with care, creating the perfect angle to access her most sensitive, tightest spot. It’s a bold move—one she hasn’t guided you to, one she hasn’t even hinted at—but you know you need to take this risk. You have to make yourself unforgettable.

With deliberate intent, your tongue traces lower, teasing the sensitive curve of her entrance before pressing further, exploring the tight ring of her ass. The sensation is new, unexpected, and her reaction is immediate.

Her body jolts slightly, her hips lifting momentarily in surprise as a sharp, breathy gasp escapes her lips. For a split second, your heart races, unsure if you’ve overstepped. But then her hips press back down against you, a reflexive movement that tells you everything you need to know. Her thighs tremble against your cheeks as her weight shifts fully onto your face, and the tension in her body gives way to something rawer, more unrestrained.

Her moans begin to spill freely now, soft and breathy at first, slipping past the tight control she holds so carefully. The sound fuels you, driving you to press deeper, to let your tongue move in slow, deliberate circles over her most sensitive areas. Her grip on the desk falters as her hips grind harder against you, her movements growing more erratic, more demanding.

You alternate between her ass and her folds, moving with seamless precision. Your tongue delves deeply, savoring her, while your nose brushes against her slick warmth with each shift. Her hips jerk, grinding against your face as though her body can’t decide which sensation to crave more. The weight of her bears down heavily, leaving you struggling for air, but all you can think about is her. Every detail—the way her thighs tighten around your head, the faint tremble in her muscles, the unrestrained sounds spilling from her lips—it consumes you entirely.

Her thighs shift slightly, and then, with a deliberate motion, she lifts her legs off the floor, letting her entire weight press fully onto you. The headrest beneath you creaks slightly, adjusting to the added pressure as she settles in, trapping you completely beneath her. The shift is overwhelming, her body sinking into yours entirely, her warmth and slickness engulfing your senses. Each shallow breath you manage is filled with her scent, and the sensation is intoxicating.

Your hands tighten on her cheeks, spreading her wider as you focus entirely on her ass. You let your tongue explore deeply, pressing into her with slow, deliberate strokes, circling and teasing the sensitive area with unrelenting purpose. Her body tenses above you, her thighs trembling violently as her breathing turns ragged and uneven. Each exhale is sharp, shaky, and punctuated by guttural moans that grow louder and less restrained as she begins to lose control.

Her hips grind down against your face, her rhythm faltering, her movements desperate. Her breathing becomes erratic, catching with each flick of your tongue, until the sounds spilling from her lips dissolve into broken gasps. The pressure of her weight presses down harder, and her thighs clamp around your head with such force that it feels like she’s grounding herself entirely in you, refusing to let you go.

Her body begins to quake above you, losing all rhythm as her hips move erratically, chasing the sensations building within her. Her breathing stutters sharply, and then, with one raw, unrestrained cry—the loudest, most primal moan you’ve ever heard from her—her climax overtakes her.

Her entire body shudders violently, her hips grinding down fully, pressing you deeper into the headrest as she rides out wave after wave of intense pleasure. Her slick wetness spills onto your face, warm and undeniable, marking the raw power of her release. The sensation spurs you on, your tongue moving with soft but purposeful strokes, coaxing every last tremor from her body.

Her thighs quiver uncontrollably, gripping your head like a vice as she rides through the overwhelming storm of her climax. Each moan spills from her lips in sharp, uneven bursts, her control shattered entirely. Her grip on the headrest tightens, her knuckles white, as though anchoring herself against the intensity of the moment.

You can feel her unraveling completely, her body vibrating with aftershocks that seem to go on forever. Her weight remains heavy on you, holding you in place as she takes in shallow, ragged breaths, her body still trembling with the echoes of her release. Even as her movements begin to slow, her thighs remain locked around you, as though she’s reluctant to let go of the sensation. Every ounce of her focus is still on you, every ounce of yours entirely on her.

Finally, her body begins to relax. Her breathing slows, and her thighs loosen their hold, trembling slightly as she lifts herself off you with deliberate care. Her legs are unsteady as she straightens, smoothing her skirt with the practiced precision you’ve come to expect. Her breathing is still uneven, her chest rising and falling as she regains her composure.

For a moment, she stands there silently, her gaze heavy and unreadable as it lingers on you. The scent of her, the taste of her, clings to you, saturating your senses entirely. The room feels charged, her presence commanding even in stillness. You dare not assume anything—she’s still the one in control, and any sign of approval must come from her. Yet, in the weight of her silence, you can’t help but feel that you’ve done something right.

Her chest rises and falls evenly as she regains her composure, her expression remaining as poised and inscrutable as ever. You think you’ve proven yourself, think you’ve risen to her exacting standards, but the thought lingers, unspoken, as you wait. Every second stretches, heavy with anticipation, until finally, she speaks.

“Well done,” she murmurs, her tone softer than usual but still carrying that commanding edge. The weight of her approval lands squarely on you, and a quiet sense of pride begins to unfurl in your chest. Then, with a slight glance back at you, her lips curve in what could almost be a smile—subtle, fleeting, but unmistakable.

“Bold,” she says, her tone as measured as ever, but there’s a hint of something beneath it—impressed. “Unexpected, but… effective.”

The words hit you like a wave, filling your chest with pride, though you keep your expression neutral, refusing to let the satisfaction show too openly. Still, the acknowledgment lingers, affirming that your risk wasn’t just noticed but appreciated.

“Report here Monday morning,” she continues briskly, her tone returning to business. “You’ve earned your place.”

Her words hang in the air, settling over you like a blanket of relief. You don’t let the triumph show too openly, knowing she’s still watching you, but a quiet sense of accomplishment blooms within. She turns away, stepping back toward her desk with deliberate, unhurried movements, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The sound carries finality, a subtle dismissal, but also an acknowledgment of what you’ve achieved.

You remain where you are for a moment, your chest rising and falling as you catch your breath, her scent and taste still vivid, still clinging to you. The weight of her words settles warmly over you—a victory hard won, a moment of validation you’ll carry with you. You’ve proven yourself tonight, but you know better than to assume it’s enough. This is only the beginning.

A faint trace of satisfaction flickers across her face as she glances at you one last time, her gaze lingering briefly before returning to her work. With an elegant nod, she dismisses you, her attention already shifting back to her desk.

Carefully, you rise, your legs unsteady from the intensity of the moment. Before leaving, you reach for the bench, the familiar weight grounding you as you lift it and carry it back to its original place in the corner of the room. The small act feels significant, almost ceremonial, as though returning it to its spot closes this chapter of the evening. Once it’s in place, you step back, sparing a glance at Miyeon, who is already engrossed in her work, her demeanor as composed as ever.

Each step toward the door feels deliberate, carrying the weight of everything it took to earn this moment. As you leave her office, the memory of her words—and her body—lingers in your mind, a reminder of what you’ve achieved and what’s still expected of you.

The quiet buzz of the building greets you as you exit, a stark contrast to the intensity of the room you just left. The evening air feels cooler, crisper, as you step outside, but the warmth of her approval stays with you. Miyeon’s words echo in your mind, solidifying the pride swelling in your chest.

“Bold. Unexpected, but effective.”

Those words, more than anything, stay with you, reminding you of the risks you took and the reward you earned. Monday will bring new challenges, but for the first time, you feel fully prepared to meet them. You’ve been given a chance to prove yourself again, and you’re determined to exceed every expectation.

-----

Back in the office, after the door softly clicks shut, Yuqi steps inside and leans against the frame, arms crossed and a smirk on her lips. “Alright, spill,” she teases. “What’s the deal? You actually allowed a second chance? I thought that wasn’t your thing.”

Miyeon glances up from her desk, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Oh, please. I knew from the start I was going to,” she says smoothly. “There was potential. I just needed to see it under the right conditions.”

Yuqi raises an eyebrow, the smirk widening. “So the whole week of calls and emails? You’re telling me that wasn’t just for your entertainment?”

A faint smile curves Miyeon’s lips as she leans back in her chair. “Maybe I enjoyed it,” she admits. “But desperation does something extraordinary—it strips away everything unnecessary. What’s left is either weakness or strength.”

“You and your tests,” Yuqi mutters, shaking her head with a laugh. “You could’ve just brought it up on Monday.”

“That wouldn’t have shown me what I needed to see,” Miyeon replies with a knowing glance. “Pressure reveals everything. It’s like a diamond—only the right conditions bring it out.”

“Wow,” Yuqi says, stepping forward to nudge Miyeon’s shoulder lightly. “Soft-hearted Cho strikes again. Admit it, you like a little drama.”

Miyeon chuckles, her tone turning playful. “Only when the effort is worth watching.”

“Noted,” Yuqi replies, heading for the door with an exaggerated wave. “Don’t worry, I’ll mark this historic event down. Second chances with Miyeon Cho—they’re like spotting Bigfoot. Rare and highly debated.”

Miyeon shakes her head, unable to suppress a laugh. “Get out of here, Yuqi.”

Yuqi grins, pausing at the door. “Hey, if you get bored over the weekend, you know where to find me. Or maybe I’ll just swing by Monday with popcorn to watch the show.”

Miyeon points to the door, her expression feigned exasperation. “Out.”

“Fine, fine,” Yuqi says, throwing her hands up in mock surrender before slipping through the door with a grin. “Don’t get too sentimental on me, boss.”

As the door closes behind her, Miyeon’s smile lingers. Her gaze drifts back to the now-empty space, thoughtful yet satisfied. She had known all along what could be achieved, but sometimes the right kind of desperation was the key. Pressure, determination, and grit—it all had to surface naturally, and it had.

With a quiet exhale, she turns back to her desk, already contemplating the days ahead with a sense of certainty.

[oceantornadoo]

sleepy morning (simon riley x f!reader)

part 4 of the two lieutenants series...HORNINESS LEVEL 1000

tw: wet and messyyyyyyyyy MDNI

--

that had to have been the best sleep of your life.

no seriously. extra strength melatonin could not compare to sleeping with simon THEE “ghost” riley. you had never had such a broad, thick man on top of you. and you liked it.

now, however, you found yourself in a much more compromising position.

the sleep had started innocent enough, you both insisting it was a platonic arrangement, a cheap version of getting a weighted blanket. but you had shuffled in your sleep, and now your bodies were tangled. simon's head lay on your collabone, his mouth hovering over your clothed breast, emitting small sighs in his sleep. your nipples were aching at the prolonged stimulation, his breath changing the temperature and making them harden. his hands grasped you beneath your arms, thumbs brushing the sides of your tits. you didn't think it was on purpose, but you had been on the edge for hours.

simon nuzzled closer into you, feigning sleep as long as possible. his left thigh wedged between your legs, his right bracketing the outside of yours to keep you right there. his morning wood, clothed by his thin sweats, laid heavy against your thigh. he could almost smell the wetness between your thighs, the way you tried humping him when you were asleep. little, uncontrolled movements of your hips, up and down, chasing friction. he tried to stop his teeth from sinking into your clothed tit, the softness of it so tempting. you were right there, almost his, yet so far it felt like foreign territory. somewhere he's been plenty of times, unwelcome. he had to tread carefully. then of course, soap had the gall to knock.

"l.t.? yer on recruit training, started a couple minutes ago." simon groaned against you, providing even more friction to your tit. guess he couldn't pretend to be asleep anymore. "'m sick. cancel it." a pause, soap was unbelieving. when simon was sick, if anything, he coached the recruits with even more vengeance than usual. "yer sure?" simon propped himself up on his forearms, squishing you in between them even more. you looked up at him, a dream with your tired eyes and a bit of drool at the corner of your mouth. he laid a small kiss to your forehead, so small you must still be dreaming. "cancel it. 'm bedridden today." his gravelly morning voice must have been enough for soap, who he could virtually hear straightening up after leaning against simon's doorframe. "got it, l.t."

simon breathed a sigh of relief. finally, finally, he acknowledged you. "mornin' dovie. sleep well?" sleep well?! you had slept like the dead. "best sleep of my life, simon. might have to make this a regular thing." you joked, still unsure of the lines that had been erased last night. and that forehead kiss. "available whenever ya need, love." you were still tangled together, his cock still against your cunt. you bucked against him again involuntarily, the whisper of friction too light for you. you both looked down together at where you were almost touching, separated by two layers of fabric. "simon i-"

another loud knock. "what." simon gritted out. "seen the better lieutenant, ghost? we're supposed to run drills today an' i can't find her." it was gaz and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. simon looked down at you questioningly and you shook your head vehemently. "she's sick. contagious." gaz was choking back a laugh. he must have talked to soap before this. "alrigh', i'll tell price. get better, you two." fuck.

"shit, si, i'm sorry. should have slept at my own place i-" another forehead kiss this time, a bit longer than the first. he trailed his mouth to your nose, small pecks here and there. turning his head down, he nosed your jaw, inhaling the smell of your mixed scents. like you were two of the same. one.

"can i?" you were so far gone it took a bit for his question to register. you had tilted your head back to give him more access, a willing prey to your domestic predator. "can- can you what?" he moved down a bit more, cock moving away from your cunt. you unwillingly let out a whine at the loss of contact and he chuckled into your skin. "suck your tits, baby." oh. oh.

"yes, yes. please"

he laughed again, the sensation vibrating through your skin. his mouth finally made contact with your tit, mouthing at it over your t-shirt. thankfully, it was thin, so you can feel the slight suck and the ghost of a bite. he alternated between your breasts, hands rolling the other nipple he wasn't sucking. your shirt was wet, sticking to your skin, drenched in saliva. "simon, can you- please." the last part was a moan as he gave you a bigger bite. "use your words, lieutenant." he was rutting into the bed, cock chasing much needed friction. he didn't want to scare you but his need for you was bubbling over, a pot on the stove too long. "my shirt, ah, my shirt off."

he freed you from your shirt, the fabric drenched in his saliva, sticking to your skin as he peeled it off. your tits were wet and slightly bruised from his minstrations. marked.

"you like my marks on you?" you looked down, not caring about the unsexy double chin as you took in what he had done to you. keeping it platonic was done and dead, and you were going to take advantage of it.

"more."

a willing soldier, he dove back in, licking and sucking like he had been made for it. his right hand went lower, palm pressing against your wet pussy for some much-needed attention to your clit. you had never come from nipple stimulation alone, but you had been edged for hours while you were sleeping. the pressure on your clit was perfect, the wetness seeping through your sleep shirts onto his callused hand. he let go of your nipple with a loud smack, a string of saliva dripping from his chin. "think you can come like this, dove?" you nodded furiously, his desperate little dove. simon went back down to your abandoned tits and you gasped at the feeling of his bite. he pressed his palm harder against your aching cunt, virtually feeling the flutter of your wanting pussy, pleading for him. he rubbed it in circles, up and down, listening to your sounds to find a pattern you liked.

and suddenly he had it, your back arching as you felt that telltale spark at the base of your spine. simon felt it, your desperation increasing tremendously as you bucked into his hand, thrusting out your tits like a bitch in heat. "right there, baby. come fer' me, hm?" you nodded as he gave your tit one last long suck and pressed his palm right where you needed it, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train. he lightly tongued your breasts as you came down, cleaning up his mess. "feel better?" you groaned, the reality of how desperate you had acted finally hitting you.

"they all know, simon. the whole base knows by now." he moved up until you two were face to face. so what if the whole base knew? you had been his since that first handshake.

"so what?"

--

guys this was so horny wowwwwwwwww ovulation hitting me fr

[minniesmutt]

☾ ━━━━━━ 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧

☾ ━━━ PAIRING: OT8 X READER ☾ ━━━ CONTENT: ALPHAS!OT8, OMEGA!READER, OMEGAVERSE, SEX TOYS, DOUBLE PENETRATION (V AND A), PET NAMES, ARGUING, KNOTTING, MULTIPLE ORGASMS, BREEDING, READER IN HEAT, MULTIPLE SCENTS ☾ ━━━ WC: 1.7K ☾ ━━━ NOTE: this could of been better but i've had zero creative (and no energy in general ) energy and I tried ☾ ━━━ 18+ work!! minors and ageless/blank blogs DNI! you will be blocked, put an indicator on your blog somewhere that you are 18+ before interacting with this work/blog

     Y/n hated that her heat lined up with the full moon. The days leading up to the full moon weren’t terrible but the night of was a different story. 

     The eight alphas knew just by the scent. That heavy, delicious scent that filled the house. To them. It was a pain for Y/n. 

     Her eight alphas were gone most of the day at work while she was home alone, horny and in pain. No one seemed to be answering their phones either. 

     She was rotating between all their numbers throughout the day until Hyunjin finally picked up. 

     “Hey darling, everything okay? Saw you called a few times.”

     “Are you guys busy?” Y/n asked 

     “Yeah. They had us filming a Skz Code. We’ve mostly had our phones off but we just got finished. What’s wrong?”

     “Sorry for spamming all your phones,” Y/n groaned as she curled into herself in her little nest on their bed, “My heat started so —“

     “It did?!” Hyunjin yelled

     She heard a little more commotion on his side of the phone till Seungmin’s voice rang through the speaker, “You’re heat started pup?”

     “Yeah…”

     “Did you make your nest?” Changbins voice came

     “Mhmm. Not enough though,”

     “We’re almost done filming. Can you hang on for just another hour?” Chan asked 

     “I don’t think so…”

     “Sure you can jagiya,” Mingo said

     “Wait, who has the lovense on their phone? Think that would help?” Hyunjin asked

     “We all do,” Jeongin said

     Y/n groaned as she snuggled into the pile of t-shirts, Jisung and Felix’s scents mixing and filling her nose. 

     “Can you grab the toy box, baby?” Chan asked 

     Y/n managed to get up and grab their sex toy collection, “Got it.”

     “Grab the lovense baby,” the oldest instructed

     The omega grabbed the toy and sat back on the bed, in her safe space. “Got it.”

     “Slip it in and turn it on for us baby. We’re on our way home,” Hyunjin said

     Y/n slipped off her bottoms and underwear and tossed them into the hamper. She spread her legs, slick coating her folds making it easy for her to slip to toy in and lay back. “On,” Y/n said 

     “It’s on.”

     Y/n was about to ask him something when the vibrations kicked on. It didn't help her heat issue at all but it did make the time fly by. Before she knew it all eight of her mates were fighting to get to her side. But there wasn't any race when Chan was the fastest in their pack—practically jumping over the rest of them and into Y/n's nest.

     “Didn’t make you wait too long, did we?" Chan asked as he pressed his lips to hers.

     “You did. 'S okay though,” Y/n mumbled against his lips as the rest filled the room, groaning as they saw their leader pressed against their favorite omega.

     “Come on Chan!" Jisung groaned in annoyance.

     “Don’t keep her waiting." Minho interrupted as he made room for himself. The other six followed suit. Making room for all of them somehow. 

     Jeongin pulled out the vibrating toy and tossed it to the floor. Felix had somehow managed to get Chan off her with minimal growling and pushed up her legs. Seungmin sat her up just a bit and pulled off her shirt. Leaving her naked and for them to play with and mark up as they please.

     “Why are you going first?” Changbin whined

     “Got here first,” Felix said as he pushed his pants down and pushed his tip to her aching hole.

     “Actually I got there first,” Chan chimed in

     “But you let Felix get away with everything,” Jisung said

     “Someone just breed me!” Y/n yelled, cutting off any argument, “Don’t care if it’s one or eight, just please!”

     “Can she take all eight of us?” Jeongin asked

     “Let’s not find out,” Hyunjin said, a bit concerned

     “Maybe just two of us at a time,” Chan suggested

     “So who’s in with me,” Felix said as he pushed into her.

     “Fuck,” Y/n groaned, some of the pressure already being relieved.

     “Move over,” Minho said and maneuvered his way under her. The boys helped her sit up as Minho got under her and lined his cock up with her back end. Slowly pushing into her with Felix’s help.

     “Think she could take three,” Seungmin shrugged

     “You’re just desperate to knot her,” Changbin said

     “We all are. Which is why there’s usually a system—” Chan started

     “Fuck that system,” Y/n moaned as both the alpha’s started thrusting into her

     “And she’s desperate to be knotted,” Seungmin argued

     “No one is going to have room once our knots swell,” Felix groaned as he moved in sync with Minho

     “Could you imagine taking two knots in one hole,” Jisung shivered

     “You want to find out?” Jeongin teased

     “Innie,” Y/n moaned

     “She wants your attention Innie,” Jisung teased back

     “Hey pretty pup,” Jeongin leaned down over her. Y/n wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down to her lips. Moaning into his mouth as the other two alphas moved in and out of her.

     “Pretty thing’s about to cum,” Minho chuckled 

     “Kept her waiting all day. Surprised she hasn’t already,” Seungmin teased

     Y/n gripped onto Jeongin as she clenched around both the alphas inside her. Not being able to hold back her impending high anymore. She practically was shaking as Minho and Felix's knots swelled inside her. Their own orgasms building and building until she felt their cum flood both her entrances. Trapping themselves inside her until their knots deflated. Though she knew from previous experience that it would only be a couple of minutes before they could slip out of her, that felt like an eternity for the six other alphas, desperate to also breed their omega.

     As soon as Felix had pulled out of her, Jeongin rushed to fill the empty spot. Pulling her into him and pulling her off Minho. Changbin maneuvered Jeongin onto his back and slid into the omega. The youngest alpha grabbed hold of her hips as Changbin held onto her waist. 

     Both holding her steady as they rutted into her. Y/n tried holding herself up as best she could but it didn’t last long with the two alphas desperation, knots building and trying to get inside her with each thrust, the scent of the four alphas waiting to breed her, and the two that had their turns but staying to watch. Falling onto Jeongin’s chest just for him to wrap his arms around her and press her closer to him.

     Y/n moaned into the alpha’s chest as both of them pumped themselves in and out until their knots swelled inside her. Her hands grasped Jeongins shoulders, nails leaning crescent marks on his shoulders. Feeling Changbins hands hold her tightly, practically pinning her down onto the second alpha. Two more loads simultaneously spilled into her which riveted her second orgasm. All while she was trapped between two alphas with four more to go.

     The two slowly pulled out of her once their knots deflated. Chan helped her off the youngest and pulled her against his body. “Need a break pup?” Chan asked, planting kisses on her skin.

     “No. More,” Y/n whined, pressing herself into him. Chan laid back into the nest, helped her straddle him, and slipped inside her. Pushing back in the cum that spilled out. Y/n moaned as he pushed in and she got a whiff of a second scent behind her. Immediately knowing it was Seungmin behind her. 

     “Extra needy today?” Seungmin teased as he managed to slip into her second hole. 

     Y/n nodded as Chan grabbed her hips and rocked her back and forth against them. Seungmin kissed her shoulders and helped hold her up, helping the oldest move her against them. 

     Y/n placed her hands on Chan’s chest, missing as Seungmin nipped her shoulders and neck. Their paces slowly picked up till they were no longer moving her and thrusting recklessly into her. Her senses were still in overload with all their scent which sent her spiraling over to another orgasm. Clenching around the two alphas. Both groaned and picked up their pace until their knots were lodged inside her. Filling her with two more loads and making sure they stuck. 

     Y/n could do nothing but moan and milk then as much as she could before that pulled out and eagerly Jisung and Hyunjin filled their spots— briefly arguing on which one of them would get her cunt before Jisung pushed himself in and claimed the hole. Y/n laid on her side with Jisung in front of her and Hyunjin sliding in behind her. 

     Both desperately thrust into her and kissed along her exposed skin. Y/n didn’t have much of her energy left to grasp onto them or claw at their skin. Simply getting drunker and drunker on their scents. Whining endlessly as the two thrusting into her seemed to do the same. She was whining as they kissed her skin as she clenched around them. 

     It was only a matter of seconds later that she was cumming again. Sensitive from everything around her breaking her down one last time as the two alphas desperately worked to theirs. Knotting her one last time before she could rest into the bed. 

     “Feel better?” Hyunjin asked from behind her

     Y/n nodded, eyes drooping. Her body was ready to sleep.

     “Hey sleepy, gotta clean you up,” Minho’s voice came 

     “Bath,” Y/n whined

     “With who pup?” Felix asked 

     “Bin.”

     Y/n zoned out as the alphas did their aftercare chores. Jisung and Hyunjin slipped out of her once they were able to and Changbin helped her into the bathroom. A warm bath waiting for her and Changbin helped her in before getting in behind her. He gently helped her clean herself— doing all of the work really. 

     “Tired?” Changbin asked and kissed her cheek 

     “Mhmm,” Y/n hummed 

     “Still got to eat something, baby. Didn’t eat today did you?”

     “No,” Y/n admitted 

     “Still got to eat when you’re in heat.”

     Y/n cuddled into him as he finished cleaning her, helped her out, and got her dressed before joining the rest of the group in the living room with food. Y/n found herself curled up with Felix. The group turned on a movie and joked about for what Y/n could remember. She ate a little bit of the food before falling asleep on Felix.

☾ ━━━━━━ KINKTOBER M. LIST     M.LIST    TIP JAR

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[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ KISS IT BETTER — GETO SUGURU.

contents. post hidden inventory arc, healing suguru agenda !!, fluff + established relationships, suguru has nightmares :(, chest kissies for sugu <3, reader lays on top of him, like very cheesy banter my bad

suguru gets nightmares—it’s expected, but it’s not easy. it breaks your heart—very painfully so—every time he jolts up with frantic eyes and labored breaths.

he tries to shake you off and pretend he’s fine the first few times, but by the time it’s happened enough, he resigns himself to letting you handle things, just like you always do.

it’s easier when you handle things—he’s starting to realize that more.

“another one?” you mumble through a yawn, sitting up and hugging him from behind as your cheek rests on his bare back. he grunts, hunched over with his head in his hands.

“‘s okay,” he says quietly, “you can go back to sleep.”

“we both know i’m not doing that, suguru,” you hum, palm rubbing slow circles into his abs. he sighs, melting into your touch eventually as he leans against you, head falling back to lay on your shoulder.

“sorry,” he whispers, “i didn’t wanna wake you.”

“i wish you would,” you hum, tracing his nose delicately as you kiss the side of his head, “i wish you’d let me help, baby.”

“you already help enough,” he mutters—almost bitterly, you note, “i don’t need to make you lose sleep over it.”

“you’d do the same for me,” you say gently, “wouldn’t you?”

“of course,” he says instantly.

sometimes, suguru is too kind for the world. it tramples him and leaves him curled on the floor under its cruelty. sometimes, he gives too much and forgets to take, to ask, and it’s starting to show. it’s starting to pile up and become too much and you think, just for once, someone should give to suguru too—because he deserves it.

“it’s a two way street, y’know,” you smile against his temple, “wake me up next time. please?”

“you really wanna see me at my lowest, huh?” he tries to crack a joke and dodge the question—but you know suguru, and you know what he needs. sometimes before he knows himself, even.

“everyone needs someone in their lowest, baby,” you mumble, “it helps more than you think.”

it’s silent for a bit. it’s like that more often than not with suguru these days—he’s silent, prefers the quiet and tender moments alone with you when you happen to catch them. he doesn’t have the energy to talk, and you don’t make him, and he’s grateful. he’s grateful when your fingers weave into his hair and your lips find his cheek, when you’re content with laying your head on his chest and just being there as he thinks.

you look down as he lays against you, his back to your chest and his body slotted between your legs, resting in your hold. it’s silent—he doesn’t always want to talk, and you don’t make him.

and he’s grateful.

finally, he breaks the silence first. “i felt it all over again,” he mumbles, “the…on my…”

his hand instinctively covers his chest, and you know what he means—he doesn’t have to finish, doesn’t have to say anything else before you press a tender kiss to his head. suguru doesn’t have scars on his chest. shoko’s reverse cursed technique heals well enough that the scars on his chest don’t remain even a little. it’s almost like it never happened—no proof of the x shaped slashes from blades to his chest.

but suguru can still feel his skin slicing sometimes—in fact, he thinks he can never forget it.

“hmm,” you think out loud, “well, there’s only one remedy for this i’m afraid.”

he looks up and raises a brow, staring at you before you crawl from under him, letting him plop down against the pillows as your body turns to hover over his.

“what are you—”

“mwah,” you press a wet kiss to his chest, starting from his collarbone before continuing in a diagonal line down the rest of his sternum. he can’t help but let his lips slowly widen into a smile with each one, letting out a soft chuckle when you tickle the skin slightly. “i read somewhere that kisses are really good for healing,” you murmur.

“ah yes, your doctorate from webmd is really coming in handy,” he teases, grinning when your lips press against his collarbone once more, on the other side this time as you peck along his chest in another diagonal line. it’s silly, a little pointless even—the wounds have long healed and you can’t even be sure you’re kissing where the scars would be, but suguru seems to brighten considerably with every touch of your lips.

it’s enough.

“well, my handsome patient,” you say cheekily, “did that help?”

“oh yes,” he nods dramatically, “i feel better than ever. thank god i have a gorgeous doctor like you.”

“hmm, i am rather gorgeous,” you brighten, giggling as he pulls you down by the wrist to kiss you softly. his hands are on your cheeks, cupping your face delicately as you hum against his mouth. “better?” you ask pulling away, pecking the corner of his mouth.

he nods, wrapping two strong arms around you as you lay over his body, grinning up at you.

“better,” he assures, “they should let you open up your own clinic. you’d put the hospitals out of business.”

“but suguru,” you gasp, “then i would have to kiss random men—surely you can’t let that happen!”

“you’re right,” he plays along, eyes widening in faux concern, “i can’t. i guess i’ll have to be your only patient.”

you smile at him—it’s radiant enough to clear the dark clouds of his shoulders, gentle enough that he feels the hardened parts of him start to go soft just a little. sometimes, suguru gets nightmares—they’re not easy, but you make them feel a lot less impossible.

it’s enough.

“what a waste of my higher education,” you sigh, “but fine. you’ll be the only one i kiss better.”

“i’m so grateful,” he snorts, pulling the blanket over your bodies as he holds you close.

sleep comes easier that night—and every night after.

i’ve decided to give this lil healing sugu series a tag so it’s: #operation: heal suguru! and you can click the tag below on this post to read the earlier drabbles !!

anyway unseen footage from this moment is that i actually sucked his tiddies as i kissed his chest. bc lord knows he just needed his tiddies sucked and he’d have been 100% happier and fine