#but this prompt got my attention

[rustbeltjessie]

I love jazz! Oh, how I dig it; Like Miles Davis, “Blue in Green.” Night arrives, my mind goes twilit, I love jazz, oh. How I dig it. That modal mood makes my brain split. Some square cats say: “What do you mean?” I love jazz! “Oh, how?” I dig it. Like Miles Davis. Blue, in green.

—Jessie Lynn McMains, “Untitled (Jazz Triolet)” (NaPoWriMo 2023, Day 4; prompt from NaPoWriMo.net)

[ghostbsuter]

Danny 'always checks if the billionaire he's staying at got a basement/cave' fenton, peacefully eating at dinner.

Bruce speaks up, smiling light. "So, Danny. How are you liking your stay so far?"

Danny, meeting his eyes, answers easily. "Yeah, it's been alright."

The teen keeps staring at Bruce, leaning on his hand and not even trying to hide it.

"I'm sorry, but are we not gonna talk about the fact you're batman and have a massive cave underneath your home?"

Bruce chokes immediately, "Excuse me?" He looks rather baffled.

Danny isn't done yet, deciding that Damian is his next victim. "Or the fact that Ra's al ghul's grandson is next to me?'

Someone is coughing hard, another is hysterically laughing. He doesn't knows who.

"Or," he meets Jason's eye. "He apparently died and came back?"

Danny leans back into his chair, honestly confused.

"You all reek of death, even Mr. Alfred does!" The statement is followed by ridiculous gestures and Duke shrugs.

"You get used to it." He explains, chewing.

"Really? Kinda strange. If I hadn't researched batman before, I'd 100% think Bruce is a villain."

"Amen to that, Bruce being a secret villain seems more plausible than vigilante."

"Yeah!"

The rest of dinner and after was spent on all ridiculous points and theories towards the waynes, Duke and Danny got on like a house on fire.

To the dismay of both Dick and Bruce, for different reasons.

Dick for not being the favorite and Bruce for being found out so fucking fast, he still is recovering.

(He was only slightly glad Stephanie wasn't here during that reveal.)

[casualbluebirdmentality]

Leon's immortality predates the Cup of Life, y'all. he's just Like That

I'm assuming people have probably talked abt this already but if they have, I haven't seen it (i'm relatively new here), so I'm bringing it up myself lol.

(It's important to note here that in the end credits starting from s2e2, Rupert Young has always been referred to as playing Sir Leon, so it is the same character.)

Remember s2e13 The Last Dragonlord, when Arthur asks his knights who among them are willing to ride out with him to fight this big-ass dragon, and Leon is the first to volunteer? And they then show Leon, with Arthur and the others, as they ride out to fight Kilgharrah in that weird-ass square field?

...And then Kilgharrah one-shots literally everyone except for Arthur & Merlin???? And when the two return, they're just like, "yeah all the other knights died valiantly defending the kingdom, very sad" ???????

Personally, I believe this only leaves us with two (2) options:

The writers just straight up Forgot (or maybe ignored) that Leon was one of the knights that died, and just kept writing him in bc he was a well-liked character,

Or,

2. They're therefore implying that, canonically, when Arthur&Merlin got back to Camelot and said that all the knights were dead, they were just straight-up wrong. Which means that Leon had to just... find his own way home, I guess, after having been freshly charbroiled by a fucking dragon.

Merthur: None of the other knights made it, even Leon :(

Leon, covered in burns, wheezing on the ground in that big-ass field: QUIT TELLING PEOPLE I'M DEAD

Merthur: sometimes we can still hear his voice :(

The wiki says that "many believed he'd been killed" when he "was injured by the great dragon," but that "this was ultimately disproven by his return in Series 3"...

...which I believe falls squarely into #2 listed above lmao. He wasn't dead, just injured. They just fucking left him there.

TL;DR: yes, he's immortal, but it's not even from the cup. he's just Built Different

[slugpup2]

inktober day 23: celestial

the part in scarlet weather rhapsody where she just throws you into space...

[teenietinytangerine]

I’ve got a fic I doubt I’ll ever write so let me unload my notes app here:

jane austen period drama setting

a is an adoptee/pupil to a Count who is known as a great music composer, regularly hosts parties and welcomes students in music to educate them over the summer at his home that is always full.

outside of a, also has four sons and a young daughter.

the count took A in because she is the daughter of his life long friend now dead in the war; mom was a working woman that fell ill while waiting for her secret husband.

When her mother died, A moved into the Count's residence, she was about 9.

A is a full sunshine to be around, social butterfly with a sneaky side, she has taken over the role of organizing and hosting the parties as the oldest "daughter”.

a is also a piano genius, she writes songs she sells to less talented, more man, would-be composers (did smn say overcompensing for daddy's approval? no one?)

her origins are known by all, the fact that the Count will always prioritize his own children over her in terms of dowry and inheritance, which keeps all suitors away but not boys with lesser intentions. a is the first one to redirect attentions of the men she finds suitable on her little sister.

b is a broke lord, from a family that cares for nothing but titles and got screwed over by a vengeful accountant (that honestly may have had a point). They managed to keep their financial situation a secret, putting all their hopes on their two sons to marry well before it is known.

b is the eldest, and is a moderatly renowned pianist as his parents kept sending him away to lords and masters (mostly to not have to pay for his upkeep). This is how he caught the eye of the Count and is invited to stay at his Manor to become his student.

during his stay, his family expects a lot, he will never be more in company of young rich ladies.

But, of course, he meets a.

though a bit coldly at first as her entrance disturbs his performance by how loud the children welcome her back.

b does not know about a's circumstances, he comes from too far away, and just assumes she is a bored daughter of a Count that took up music as another hobby.

a takes a lot of pleasure teasing the shit out of straight-arrow-no-funny-business b, quickly becoming their guide in this new fancy world, much like a cat plays with a prey, until the fake flirting became a bit too real, and their feelings menaces their status quo.

b: “I want to finally do one thing I truly want to do before i throw my will away and marry smart and that is to kiss you” a:"we can kiss ONCE but no more, you’ve got to marry well and that is not me”

a: “since we can’t seem to move on, and we’re both very free spirited, we should have sex to get it out of our systems and then forget it all about it” b: “since we can’t seem to move on, we should marry eo actually”

a:”I’m not marrying you bc we’re horny, ur not being reasonable which is very hard and annoying to me bc so far you have been the reasonable one, and I do not appreciate this position when I’m just as damn horny for u”

b:”this is way beyond being horny and ur being blind to how deep we’ve fallen bc ur so sure i'm gonna change my mind, I’m not just willing to give up an easier life for you, I would be miserable without you, therefore this is me being reasonable by telling you I want to marry you and if you keep saying we should just get it out of our systems, then i'm telling you we can’t have sex until we’re married”

a thousand teasings later and flirtatious attempts, a few existential crisis, and resignation over a's own feelings and trust issues*

a: “fine, I’ll marry ur sorry adorable ass.”

b: “that’s such great news, let’s have sex to celebrate!”

a: “nah, we might as well wait now, it’ll be more special *is absolutely taking revenge*”

[cha1cedony]

Thinking about how Lincoln and Chris are both SUPER jealous people. Love them but that must’ve been a crazy marriage lmaoo

[leenesomewhatdraws]

Novembmas, Day 14: Working Late / Surprise Gift !

I intended my "Surprise Gift" drawing for today as a companion piece to my day 8 "Unexpected" art :) (totally optionnal caption but just wanted to share this lol, since I imagined those at the same time so thats why ^^. Making each other happy through small gestures ♡♡)

Transcription :

[1] (E) "Were we expecting a package ?"

[2] (I) "How about you see for yourself ?"

[Arrow pointing towards what Emmet is holding with 'Clothes for Joltiks' written above it]

[starlit-mansion]

between one thing and another, i've stopped talking about my ocs much on here but. that tiktok i just reblogged. is the most malcolm vibes in the WORLD

[sesamestreep]

Don/Sloan, 20

20. I’ve been looking sad in all the nicest places (from this prompt list) I don’t know what this is, honestly. I wrote a whole other fill for this prompt and decided I hated it and couldn’t finish it, then wrote this instead in like half a day. I don’t know. It’s a Good Place AU, I have next to nothing for it built out besides this snippet, that’s basically it. much love and bone apple teeth or whatever…

Sloan is on her fifth straight minute of willing her legs to work and take her back to the party—her own damn party, for Christ or whoever’s sake, she’s not really sure at this point—when someone nearly trips over her. In their defense, she is sort of hiding behind a topiary in a dark corner of the lawn, so there was no way they could have seen her, but she still finds it in herself to be annoyed.

“Could you please watch where you’re going?” she exclaims.

“Uh, sorry,” the man says, fumbling with something in his hands. “Though I don’t really see how it’s my fault that you’re sitting on the ground, in the dark. You’re basically asking to be tripped over.”

Sloan’s legs work just fine then. She stands up, straight as a pin, and throws her shoulders back, getting ready for some variation of the “I’d like to speak with your manager!” conversations she had almost daily back when she was alive.

“Here’s a tip for you,” she says, instead, with as much indignation as possible, “don’t go around accusing women of ‘asking for it’.”

The man winces. “Yeah, I heard it as soon as it was out of my mouth. That was, uh, poor form.”

The easy admission of wrongdoing shouldn’t surprise her here, where she’s allegedly surrounded by the best people ever, but it still somehow does. It helps that this guy doesn’t give the appearance of backing down from fights easily, which makes it all the more impressive that he’s doing so now.

“It’s fine,” Sloan says, backing down too. “No harm done.”

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Don Keefer.”

“Sloan Sabbith,” she says, accepting the handshake.

“Oh, the Sloan Sabbith,” he replies, as he puts the item he’s been shuffling between his hands—a cigarette, it turns out—between his lips. He doesn’t sound impressed. She’s not sure how he sounds, but it’s probably not good.

“I suppose so.”

“This is your house,” he points out.

“Ah, yes. That Sloan Sabbith.”

“I mean, I knew you before,” Don says, and then corrects himself, “Sorry, I knew of you before. I lived in New York, when I was alive.”

“Oh, right.”

“Your name was always in the society pages.”

Sloan shrugs, not sure if humility is the right move here. She’s not certain Don would buy it. He pulls out a lighter and moves to light his cigarette.

“I guess you didn’t see the amount of fundraising I did for the American Cancer Society,” she says, frowning.

Don laughs, but he still brings the flame to the tip of the cigarette. “Sweetheart, it’s the afterlife. Lighten up.”

“I don’t like the smell.”

“Won’t be a problem,” he says, waving the hand with the cigarette between his index and middle fingers around a little bit wildly. “Neither do I. I got that robot assistant woman, uh—”

“Jenna,” Sloan interjects, over-enunciating the name for his benefit.

Jenna, of course, materializes with a soft tone at that moment, making her jump in surprise. How long does that take to get used to?

“Hi,” she says, brightly. “How can I help?”

Don looks at Sloan expectantly, and her face heats with embarrassment and irritation. She pointedly looks away, as if she hadn’t accidentally summoned the neighborhood’s virtual assistant and made a fool of herself.

“We’re good, Jenna. Thank you,” Don finally says, all charm, when it’s clear Sloan isn’t going to be helpful.

“You bet!” There’s another soft tone, slightly different, as she disappears.

“That is going to take some getting used to,” Don says, as if they’re buddies or something.

“You’ve never had an assistant before?” Sloan sniffs, aware that it’s a deeply snobby thing to say and not very concerned about it.

“Not like her.”

She whips her head around to glare at him. “Don’t be gross!”

“I meant because she’s literally omniscient,” he says, looking bored of her now. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Good, because I’d hate to feel any worse for your soulmate than I already do.” Just as she’s winding up to really lay into him, she suddenly smells something strange. It smells like salt water and…something else. Something she can’t put her finger on. She steps closer to Don and inhales. “Do you—what is that?”

“I told you the smoke wouldn’t bother you,” he says, holding the cigarette aloft proudly. “When I asked Jenna for cigarettes earlier, I was worried the neighborhood would have, like, a ‘no smoking’ policy, kind of like the ‘no swearing’ thing? But she told me that, since we’re in The Good Place, the smoke wouldn’t irritate anyone, and when they smelled it, it would remind them of their most cherished childhood memory, if you can believe that.”

Sloan wouldn’t have two minutes ago but now, she’s certain she’s smelling the boardwalk in Santa Monica that she went to constantly with her family when she was young. She hasn’t been back in years, and she supposes now she never will. Suddenly, she feels tears welling in her eyes.

“Thank goodness the tobacco industry didn’t have Jenna on their side,” she says, stepping back and trying to pull herself together.

“True. Though I imagine those guys would have trouble getting into The Good Place anyway.”

“That’s a…good point.”

“So, what does the magic cigarette smoke smell like to you?” Don asks, and then shakes his head. “There’s a question I never anticipated asking anyone. Not sober, at least.”

Sloan laughs, despite herself. “It, uh, smells like the Santa Monica pier. I grew up in the Bay Area, but my cousins lived in SoCal, and we’d visit them on school breaks or vacations whenever we could. The pier was always my favorite place to go.”

When she looks up again, she finds Don smiling at her in an unguarded way she finds…unsettling. Not because it’s creepy, but because it’s familiar. She doesn’t know what that means, but she knows it’s probably a sign of trouble.

“What about you?”

“Well,” Don laughs, looking down at his shoes, “that’s sort of a funny story. You see, I gave up smoking when I was in college, after my grandad died of lung cancer. I’d like to tell you it was because I was being smart and healthy, but the truth is, the smell of the smoke reminded me too much of him. I spent a lot of my childhood with him, because both of my parents worked, so he watched me for them. He was my favorite person, and my reference point for everything, and my moral compass. After he died, it felt like I lost a piece of myself.”

Don pauses, and then shakes his head. “I don’t know why I told you all that. The important part of that story is that he, uh, smoked like a chimney and his whole house reeked of tobacco all the time. His clothes smelled like it, his car smelled like it, everything.”

“Oh, no,” Sloan says, when the penny drops for her.

“Yeah, see? You got there before me,” he says, smiling sadly. “These forking magical cigarettes, they smell like his house, his clothes, his car.”

“It just smells like tobacco to you,” she supplies, and Don nods. “And the smell reminds you of him. And it makes you sad, which is why you stopped smoking in the first place.”

“It’s like some kind of Sisyphean torture loophole,” Don says, still smoking. “You can’t make this shirt up.”

“I mean, they could,” she says, thinking of her first meeting with Will, where he had the file for her entire life, down to the most minor of details. “They’d know about you and your grandpa from your file, right? And you said that Jenna’s omniscient, so she’d know too. That’s…weird, right?”

Sloan glances over at him to find Don staring at her, not smiling this time, but with an expression of barely suppressed horror. She can tell just from the look on his face that he’s running through everything that’s happened since he got to the neighborhood in his mind and looking for more strange occurrences like that.

“Have we,” he asks, hesitantly, “met before?”

“I don’t think so,” Sloan says, but not with as much certainty as she would have a few moments ago. “You mean, when we were alive?”

“Yeah,” Don says. “I guess that’s what I mean. You just feel familiar, in some way.”

“You did say you knew my name from the press.”

“I know, but I don’t mean familiar like that. I mean, familiar like I’ve known you for a long time.”

“We just met,” she says, as firmly as she can manage, though it feels like she’s trying to convince herself it’s true too.

“So, it’s just me?” he asks, and it’s not accusatory so much as disappointed.

Sloan feels so utterly thrown by this, she can hardly cope. It doesn’t help that in backing away from him earlier, she didn’t get nearly far enough away. She can still smell the Santa Monica pier—the sunshine and the sea air and the food stalls—but she can also smell what she suspects is Don’s cologne or soap or maybe just him—this clean, warm boyish smell—and now those two things are going to swirl together in her memory forever, and she’s going to be confused why she thinks of summer vacations whenever she’s near him. Not that she will be again anytime soon, she hopes. This has been too much for her.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she says, still too close to him and not backing away.

Don laughs, softly, and she thinks she can smell champagne on his breath. There was plenty at the party, she remembers, even though it feels like an age ago now. He doesn’t seem drunk, though.

“I don’t know what I want from you either,” he says, watching her closely. He’s not that much taller than her, so it’s pretty easy to gaze deeply into his eyes, unfortunately, and that’s what she ends up doing.

The cigarette falls from between his fingers, and lands harmlessly, already extinguished, on the grass beneath their feet. It vanishes a second later, and a daisy sprouts in its place, which figures. This place is too good to be true, she thinks, and then catches herself. Is it? Has she been thinking that all along?

She looks back up at Don to find his gaze still riveted on her face. “Something’s wrong,” she whispers.

He steps closer to her. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, but something is definitely wrong here,” she says, and it really sounds hysterical but it’s the truth. She can feel it. “Something is not right.”

“Maybe we’re just cynics,” Don offers, with a halfhearted smile.

“Maybe.” Why hasn’t she stepped away from him yet?

“We should…get back to the party.”

“My party,” Sloan says, nodding. “Yes. We should.”

“Our partners will both be looking for us, I’m sure.”

“Right. Yes.”

Neither of them moves, not even a fraction of an inch. Sloan’s hands, seemingly of their own accord, settle on the button placket of Don’s crisp white shirt. She runs a fingertip over a button. His hands come around to rest on her elbows, holding her in place.

“You do feel familiar to me,” she says, in the direction of the button, because she’s not brave enough to say it to his face. “I don’t know why. I don’t understand…how that’s possible.”

“Neither do I, but I’m not—it doesn’t feel like a bad thing, does it?”

Sloan shakes her head, and risks lifting her gaze to his again. He’s still watching her cautiously. She feels herself lean in, and then she feels him reciprocate. They’re only a breath away from kissing when they pause, and whether it’s hesitation or savoring the moment, she’s not sure. She’s watching his face for any sign of second thoughts and finds none, which gives her the courage to lean in that last bit, to close the distance between them.

“Don,” a voice calls in the distance. “Don, are you out here?”

They break apart instantly, putting a laughable amount of distance between them as quickly as possible, as Don curses under his breath. Or tries to, at least, despite the neighborhood’s swear filter.

“Don!” the voice shouts, closer now.

“Over here,” he calls back after a second.

“Where?”

“Here! Follow the….Marco!”

“Polo!”

This, thankfully, only continues for a few moments before a petite, adorable blonde woman rounds the corner. She’s wearing a sensible cocktail dress and has a drink in one hand.

“There you are!” she says. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“I was just getting to know our host better,” Don says, indicating Sloan with a wave of his arm in her direction.

The woman’s gaze swivels to Sloan and her expression opens up even more. “Oh my god, Sloan Sabbith, it’s so nice to meet you! You have such a nice place here!”

“Thank you,” Sloan demurs. She’s not sure how to behave around someone whose soulmate she almost just kissed. She’s not even sure there is protocol for that scenario. It’s probably just something you’re not supposed to do.

“I’m Maggie, by the way,” she says, eagerly. “I should have started with that.”

“Maggie was a professor of ethics and moral philosophy,” Don adds, draping an arm casually around her shoulders as she nestles into his side.

“Wow,” Sloan says. She wants to punch him so much.

“Oh, don’t be impressed,” Maggie says, humbly. “I’ve spent all night talking to people who are way more inspiring than me. And, obviously, my soulmate is this guy, so…”

Don makes a pained face at Maggie’s compliment, which Sloan finds both satisfying and odd. “What’s so impressive about Don?” she asks, coolly, and doesn’t miss the way his gaze flicks over to her sarcastically.

“Oh, he refuses to brag about it, but he was this super important human rights lawyer,” Maggie replies, putting a hand on his chest proudly. “I mean, if there was a cause you cared about, I’m sure he did some legal work to advance it when he was alive!”

“Sloan is a noted humanitarian and philanthropist, Maggie,” Don objects. “I doubt she’d be impressed by my work.”

“Right, sorry,” Maggie says, looking chagrined. “You’re, like, famous!”

“I guess so.”

“No wonder you ended up with Jim Harper as a soulmate! You must feel so lucky!”

“Yes, I certainly do,” Sloan says, with false cheer. She likes Jim. He’s cool. But she only just met him today. She doesn’t know where Don and Maggie get off being so coupled up and settled down already. It’s annoying.

“You guys didn’t know each other when you were alive, did you?”

“No, it’s weird. We somehow never crossed paths.”

“I loved his music when I was alive,” Maggie gushes. “I got a chance to talk to him at the party and he seems really nice!”

“He is,” Sloan insists for what feels like the tenth time. “Actually, speaking of Jim, I should probably get back to the party and, well, make sure he’s doing okay and the guests have everything they need.”

Maggie nods, enthusiastically. “Of course! It was so nice to meet you!”

“Yes,” Don says. “Very nice.”

Sloan has to concentrate very hard not to scowl at him, so she focuses most of her attention on Maggie, who she despises for totally different and completely undeserved reasons. “You too! Always a delight to meet one’s neighbors.”

“Oh, right! You should stop by our place sometime,” Maggie says. “It’s not as grand or as big as your place, obviously—”

“Nothing in the neighborhood is, as a matter of fact,” Don interjects, pointedly. Sloan’s eyes water from the effort of not glaring at him.

Maggie, meanwhile, thumps him lightly on the chest. “Don,” she says, playfully offended. Or maybe not playfully. It’s hard to tell with Maggie. Her smile is just a little too wide and bright to take at face value.

“Don’t listen to him,” she continues. “Our house is the one with the yellow door and the round window at the front, it’s just—”

“Two doors down, of course,” Sloan says graciously. “I did wonder who lived in such a cutesy little cottage and now I know!”

Maggie’s smile falters a bit, and she adopts a more serious expression. “Yes, well, I like it a lot, so…”

“I will be sure to stop by sometime,” Sloan says, trying to be more soothing. She’s a bitch, not a monster, after all.

“We’d love that,” Maggie replies. “Right, Don?”

“Absolutely,” he answers, with a thin smile in Maggie’s direction. To Sloan, he adds, with a significant look, “Don’t be a stranger!”

Sloan nods in acknowledgement and then gets out of there as quickly as possible. She has a feeling, though, that she won’t have much of a choice in terms of Don and Maggie’s invitation. For whatever reason, she suspects she might be stuck with them now.

[jaggedpeak]

if your spotify requests are open, can you do Runningnose 37

ba aparte, ba-mpreună, parcă-s două, parcă-i una (both together and apart, are there two, or just one part?)

[toomanyfandomsneverenoughtime]

.

[starfoam]

//Small rules update:

As of now, I am not looking for child-parent dynamics with Lo as the mother.

[leofromsomewhere]

damn, that's awesome and/or intense. i don't fully get it though, i gave up reading partway through act 2

Ok but consider: A production of Hamlet that starts with the last scene and then Horatio has to play his role in the rest of the play, but he’s still completely dissolved in tears. Everyone else is oblivious and he has to keep it together for the sake of storytelling, but his voice cracks as he says “I think I saw him yesternight”, regret filling his tone, and he frantically holds on to Hamlet as he begs him not to follow the ghost; he practically chokes on his words as he shouts, “Be rul’d!” And he knows it’s no use, but he’s so reluctant to play his part in this and he can barely keep his emotions at bay. And then the end of the story draws nearer. He takes longer and longer to say his lines. He hesitates, tries to stretch out the little time he’s got left with Hamlet. He doesn’t want to be in this narrative, but he is. Until finally, as Hamlet decides to duel Laertes, Horatio simply gives up. Reluctantly, but knowingly, he accepts the fact that there’s nothing he can do but play his part and relive it all, just to honor Hamlet’s legacy and story. And Hamlet dies in his arms a second time.

[spaceratprodigy]

new art in about an hour btw 👍

[zyafics]

CAN YOU PLEASE, PLEASE ON MY KNEES WRITE ABOUT BITCHY!READER X RAFE AND IT'S SMUT?? I FEEL LIKE YOU'LL DO IT JUSTICE!!! thank you

you literally read my mind because i was just thinking of this prompt that works so well with bitchy!reader!! hope you'll enjoy <3 (if it’s bad, look away!!)

WHATEVER SHE WANTS | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Blurb) | x Bitchy!Kook!Female Reader

Content — 18+, power/dominance play, p in v, doggy style, orgasm denial, and dirty talks

Word Count — 2.2K

lıllılı Whatever She Wants by Bryson Tiller

You always wanted Rafe.

It's your right. Since you were a child, you demanded the best in everything—toys, clothes, boyfriends. They had to be perfect. Had to be yours. And yes, it may come off a little superficial but who cares? It's what you deserve, and it'll be hell if you don't get it.

Since the first look, when you caught Rafe lounging on a chair with his friends, tipping the rim of his beer onto his lips, while his eyes scanned over the room in an attractive lazy way, you knew you had to have him. It didn't help that you were competitive, and Rafe garnered attention with women. They flocked to him and begged for a minute of his time. It became a game to you, and that heightened your need.

Everything was calculated. The makeup you wore, the outfits you curated, the glances. You always timed your arrivals—when you knew Rafe would be watching the door—and marked your exits. You knew exactly what to wear—dresses that tantalizing exposes your ass, but only as a preview—and the cosmetic style he liked. Rafe's the type of man who believes he wants a bare-faced woman, but truly, he wants something natural that enhances your features.

You came with friends. You left alone. You drank enough to loosen your nerves and danced with the crowd, but not enough to make a fool of yourself. You knew your tolerance and knew Rafe didn't like a messy girl.

At least, in public.

You caught his gaze a couple of times, flashing a flirtatious smile over your shoulders, but never lingered longer than three seconds. Rafe can't know how easy he can have you, because Rafe, like most boys, loves a chase. You're not easy, you're spoiled. He had to come to you.

And he did.

Rafe tried to introduce himself on several occasions. On those nights when you're leaving early—as planned—Rafe would cut to the door to pay a parting remark. "You're leaving so soon?" he would ask, "Alone? Again?" He would add. You always told him it was because no one caught your eye, and Rafe took that as a personal challenge. He would then try to tell you his name, as if he were different, to which you nod—detached—as if it didn't matter.

It drove him insane.

Because you didn't offer the same courtesy. You kept him guessing. He had to finally ask around to learn your name, which he would use to tease you the next time he saw you. And he did. And you laughed. But you acted like you didn't care. Like all the trouble he went through didn't prove a thing. That's when Rafe knew he needed you.

Tonight's no different. Just as you're about to leave, Rafe catches you with another smooth pick-up line. You just giggle. He studies how your eyes crinkle with amusement, the curve of your lips painted in his favorite shade of lipstick, and the lithe tilt of your head to the side as you ask him with your gaze, is that the best you got?

It isn't. But Rafe's determined to get further with you tonight. He continues to talk, asking about which men disappointed you and the reasons for your constant disappearances from these parties. And, for once, you're answering his questions with little resistance. Perhaps, it's because of the amount of cheap wines you consumed, or maybe you—for once—are tired of the games and want it to come to a fruitful end. Because when Rafe finally asks to take you home, you don't say no.

The walk to his truck is brisk. His arm wrapped around your waist, directing your path, while his fingers trail over the backless cut of your dress, producing a buzzing feeling beneath your skin. He's whispering something in your ear, but all of it is incomprehensible as you revel in the feeling of his touch and his touch alone. The feeling of your game coming to a conclusion.

And, just as you're about to reach the car, Rafe slams you into the side of the vehicle with a searing kiss.

His mouth catches yours and everything feels perfect. As if the buildup leading to this precise moment had been worth it, and every needy emotion rises to the top. His hand travels down the length of your body, to your hips, pulling you closer, and needing to eliminate all the space and wait you made him do.

Rafe's movements are swift and controlled. One of his hands props open the backdoor of his car, pushing you inside, and laying you against his leather seats. All without breaking the kiss.

"You don't know how long I wanted this, wanted you," Rafe blubbers between wet kisses. "Seeing you at every party, in these tiny dresses, not being able to touch," he rasps, bundling the hem of your dress into a tight fist. "Tell me you wear them for me."

"And if I did?" You say with a moan, tipping your head back to grant him access to your neck. "Did you like them?"

"Of course I did," he murmurs against the curve of your neck, the vibration of his words sending heat straight to your core. "You dressing up for me like my own perfect doll."

You want to retort that it's him who's in the palm of your hand, but Rafe sucks on a sensitive spot, causing your eyes to roll back and a whimper to escape your lips instead. He grabs your wrists with one hand, throwing them over his shoulder as he pulls you flush against his chest.

"So pretty, so fucking untouchable," Rafe kisses down the length of your throat, his fingers collecting the spaghetti straps of your dress before sliding it down the slope of your shoulders. "I'm going to fuck you so good."

His words snap you out of your haze. And while Rafe continues to expose more of your body, lamenting each reveal of flesh with a kiss, you withdraw enough to grab his attention.

"You're not fucking me in a car."

"What?" Rafe breaths, unable to snap out of the trace you had him in. Delirious with want, his mind warped around the idea of you being so close to attainable, that all rational manners left his system. He tries to kiss you again, to resume the moment, but you pull enough to send him a deadly glare, pouty and spoiled.

"Rafe, take me somewhere nice or we're not fucking at all."

He can't believe what he's hearing. He can't believe he's contemplating it. But Rafe doesn't understand that you have it all planned out to result in a perfect moment. You won't let it be disrupted just because Rafe can't drive the extra mile to take you somewhere nice. You'd rather leave him with blue balls.

"Are you serious?" He asks slowly, his eyes drawn to your swollen lips, the little pout, and the desperation to have them back on his. Sure, Rafe's had girls who wanted something more than a casual fling. He had them ask him for a better spot, but he never obliged. He never cared. But you're different. He wants you, and it's been a hell of a chase to get you here. He'll be damned if he lets it slip away because of a pretentious standard.

"Does it look like I'm joking?" You cross your arms over your chest, pushing your breasts further up. He nearly groans at the sight. "We're not having sex here."

"The nearest place has to be at least a fifteen-minute drive," Rafe argues. And it makes you upset, brows pinched together. "We can just—"

"I don't care," you snap. "Take me somewhere nice or I'm leaving."

You're serious. He sees it on your face. Rafe can't risk that, despite wanting to protest, because he knows he if he messes this up, he won't have another chance. Swearing under his breath, he drags himself out of the backseat and into the driver's side, pulling the car out of the parking lot.

Dangerously, Rafe speeds down the road, while you're sitting in the backseat with a self-satisfied demeanor, fixing your makeup through the rearview mirror. Occasionally, Rafe spares a glance through the same reflection, connecting with your gaze, and while there's subtle bitterness coiled in his chest, he recognizes the bigger prize at hand.

And what he can do with it.

Because, despite your bratty attitude, Rafe is a person who wants control. You want perfection. You two can have both.

That's how you find yourself in a newly-booked penthouse suite at one of the bougie hotels in Kildare, your head digging into the soft comforter of the bed, your ass in the air, as Rafe drills into you from behind.

When you reached the room, everything moved frantically. Rafe slammed you against the nearest wall to kiss you again—needing your lips, needing your taste—while his hands roamed over your dress and pulled down your cleavage, revealing your tits. Your hands wandered down his pants, unbuttoning them hurriedly, needily, and he assisted you by pulling them off alongside his boxers. His cock was big, slightly red with a pearly bead of pre-cum that rolls off the tip. And you could tell by the look on Rafe's face that he wanted you to suck it.

But you told him, "I don't do blowjobs."

So fucking pretentious.

It didn't matter. He hauled you over to the king-sized bed and pushed you onto the mattress. You landed with a soft thump, while Rafe hauled you up to your ass, pushing up your dress, until it became nothing but a bundle around your waist. His movements were urgent, and he wanted—no, needed—to be inside you because a bratty girl was going to be a great fuck.

And he was right.

You're perfect. The way you wrap around him, the way he sinks inside you. He doesn't know if it's because of the delirium of wanting you so desperately, of chasing you for so long—but he never had better pussy. And it doesn't help that your moans are sweet, breathy, and loud—begging him to go faster.

"Such a pretentious brat," Rafe grabs your throat, hauling you upwards till your spine rest on his chest, airway constricted by his harsh grip. "Making me wait this fucking long."

"R—Rafe," you mewl, eyes rolling to the back of your skull at the way he's angling his cock deep into your cervix, bullying the sensitive spot over and over again until you're seeing stars.

"Had to get the princess treatment, did you?" He murmurs hotly into your ear, nibbling a spot on your neck as you rest the back of your head on his shoulder. His thrusts grow more erratic. "Had to make me earn you, didn't you?"

"You weren't going to fuck me in a car," you persist, and despite how cockdrunk you became, and how much of an attitude you're willing to sacrifice to feel good, you were still adamant about receiving what you deemed enough. He respected that. "I'm not one of your whores."

"But I'm fucking you like my own personal slut. Is that any better?" He bites the lobe of your ear, and his other hand wanders up to grab a handful of your breast, squeezing the fat before rolling your perked nipple between his fingers. You moan louder. "What does that make you?"

You can't seem to answer him, can't seem to find your senses. The words Rafe uses are vulgar, but there’s still no regrets about this entire thing. Rafe wanted you so badly, that he was willing to spend hundreds of dollars on a hotel he probably won't even stay the night in. All because you demanded it.

You win.

"Shut up," you stammer, your stomach tightening. "Shut up and just fuck me, Rafe."

Rafe grins. The hand playing with your tits slips between your thighs to assist, finding your clit easily as he rubs it with his thumb in sync with his thrusts. Breathy moans escape you as you arch into his palm, while he pistons deeper inside of you, bottoming out.

"You sound so pretty, doll," Rafe murmurs against your heated skin, "Come on, take my fucking cock."

Everything’s so dirty. The way he handles you, the way your wetness drips down your thighs, the way his words breathe onto your skin and tighten your core. But you love it. You do, but you're not willing to give in so easily. No matter how good it feels. No matter how much he feels like a prize.

"You don't deserve me." You whisper with a mewl, body tightening with the familiar wave of your undoing.

Yet, Rafe merely grins.

"But you're sucking in my cock like you need me," Rafe taunts, pleasure coursing through his body at the way your walls grip him in a vice. The way your words spark challenge and invitation. He knows, despite your spoiled attitude and pretentious demands, he'll do anything to get another chance like this. "Now, behave like a good girl or you're not coming tonight."

IMPORTANT: if you want to follow my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications!

tagging @starkeysprincess bc she saw it first <3

[hoshigray]

𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭 𝐌𝐞, 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 | gojō satoru

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: bully! Gojo x afab/fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern au! you + Gojo are college juniors - first kiss - fingering (f! receiving) - sqüiřtıng - virginity loss - corruption kink - missionary + deep impact positions - clitoral play - unprotected sex (psa: wrap the willy, you sillies!) - premature ejaculation - pet names (baby, crybaby, cutie, princess) - itty bitty possessiveness - mention of spit/drool and tears.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.6k

“Yo.”

“Yes, Satoru?”

“You never had your first kiss, huh?”

Gojo Satoru takes pleasure in being your bully — nothing in his third year of college gives him much joy than being your one source of torment. Sure, he’s got everything: being the campus’ grounds #1 heartthrob, a star player on the men’s basketball team, and an excellent scholar in all his courses despite being a dickhead. But, even if he possesses the things that put him at the top of the class body, his other fountain of entertainment comes from something - or someone - that playing ball or dormitory parties can’t produce the same level of internal enjoyment. 

You and he were alone in his apartment, umbrellaed under the instruction of working on an upcoming project this month. Of course, boredom is evident in the tall one’s heavy sighs as he looks through multiple articles on his laptop. Cerulean orbs wander away from the device’s screen and land on the other side of the couch; another figure glued to the armrest is concentrated on typing their keyboard to notice the prying survey. 

Gojo’s ennui begins to flicker out the moment he sees you, wanting nothing to do with this damn assignment and just to mess with his favorite pushover. This is precisely why he prompts himself to ask you a question, and judging by how quickly your fingers stop typing, now his attention is hooked onto a matter way more fascinating.

He spots your flattened lips. “…Wh–Where did that come from?”

“Just curious, a random thought that came to my head.” 

“Why was that the thought that—“

“Hey, aren’t ya gonna answer the question?”

You stammer. “What makes you think I never had my first kiss?!”

He lifts a brow; his round shades shine when he smirks. “So you did have a first kiss?” Your lips open with no voice, and both silver eyebrows rise from the silent answer you’re giving, only for you to close your mouth and avert your gaze elsewhere. Gotcha, he stifles a chuckle. “Thought so, you terrible liar. Embarrassed I called you out? Haha, hilarious.”

Your eyes may be on the words of your document on your laptop, but the heat on your cheeks and the uncomfortable knot in your gut kept brewing. You chew on your lips to focus on something other than the guy getting a kick out of your lack of experience — the guy you don’t hear close and place his computer on the coffee table.

“Hey,” the closeness of his voice takes you aback, and you’re surprised to see him sit closer enough to bring a hand to close your laptop. “Wanna kiss me?”

Mortified eyelids shoot wide. “Wanna—Wh-What!?!” What the fuck is going on?!? “Why would you ask me—“

A nonchalant shrug adds more weight to your shock. “Why not? It’s just you and me, alone in my apartment at 8 o’clock. Sounds like a perfect opportunity, doncha think?” 

“Yeah, to do work!” Your emphasis fails as Gojo takes your device to add to the table surface. “I-I didn’t come here for you to question me and ask to—“

“You got someone else you’re waiting for?” He uses a hand to cage you from escaping, a knee between your legs. He knows he has the upper hand, observing behind shielded sunglasses as he awaits your response. 

“I–W-Well,” God, what did I get myself into? “Not necessarily…”

“So, do you not trust me with your first kiss?”

“That’s…That’s not the point—“

“You’re deflecting!”

“Satoru,” the way you say his name — low and soft, a pleading whisper — makes something switch for Gojo, looking at your bashful expression with hesitant hands, barely pushing his chest. “We shouldn’t…Let’s get back to the assignment?”

That wasn’t working on him; he’d never want to stop teasing you, especially now when you look too cute. “Let me kiss you one time, ‘kay? Then, we’ll go straight back to work.” He can see the cogs work in your brain, deciphering whether he is genuine. Was he? He couldn’t tell; all he was thinking about was how your lips felt. “I promise, princess.”

You didn’t mean it to happen, but you scan from his shades to his lips; now, it’s all you can see. The bob of his Adam’s apple, when he gulps, has your breath hitch, and after a few silent seconds with no movement, he begins to descend his face lower, and your lids swiftly close. So does his as he gently places his pillowy lips onto your plump ones, and a hushed squeak doesn’t go neglected.

Cherry — that’s the flavor that Gojo can taste. It has to be from the lip gloss you plastered on your lips that made them inviting to gawk at, pretty lips that the tall other couldn’t stop peering occasionally. He licks the bottom, taking in more of the taste with a soft groan. You yelp, gaping your lips further to give the man above an idea, and chew on your bottom lip. More whimpers slide past your control, hands gripping his sweatshirt as he peppers you with soft kisses, latching onto yours for longer seconds from one after the other — so much for one kiss.

You’re the one to break it off, hesitantly backing away from him to breathe. Hot skin returns to the cold air, and intimate huffs fuel into the space. You open your eyes slowly, half-lidded with knitted brows and scorching ears. You examine Gojo’s neutral expression; orbs that were once filled with reluctance are now replaced with a...wonder.

An innocent wonder that nearly has Gojo shut down from seeing as your hands steadily ring around his neck. There it is again, another switch flipped. This time, a spark ignites his brain, curiosity coursed to a more indecent field after what it feels like taking your first kiss. Because the way you’re looking under him — entirely submitted to him and his touch — wasn’t something he expected to rock his core. And all he can think about now…

…Is what taking all of your firsts would be like.

“—Taaahhh, haah…! Satoru, w-wait a min—“

“Hey, baby, tell me, what’s it like having my fingers inside you?”

Gojo’s little experiment delved into different extremes; your first kiss was the starting point of the many thoughts that perturbed his thinking. He wanted to know more about your potential firsts. For example, such as right now, how you’d be if he were the first to touch your privates. 

The atmosphere around the living room became hotter; the tepid silence switched with the erotic sounds and squeals that exited your system. Your legs spread apart, Gojo in between your thighs as his big, calloused hand swims under your panties to shove away and meet the bareness of your cunt. You were so wet, your liquids effortlessly coating his fingertips with barely any push. An entire mess between your inner thighs and labia. And that made Gojo’s mind go wild.

“Holy shit,” he chuckles in a heavy sigh. “So fucking wet and tight…Heh, you’re all like this because of a kiss, huh? So adorably pathetic.”

Refutation is impossible as he curls his forefinger inside, scraping your upper wall in a manner you never envisaged. “Sator—Mmmph…!” He keeps pushing the digit to the knuckle, touching crevices of your inner channel you could never reach. “O-Ohhh, Jesus…”

“Mmmm, fuck, you're twitching like crazy,” and Gojo was loving every second of it. The taller junior then decides to test something and creeps his middle finger near your opening, smearing itself with your come as lube. 

You sense him push the finger in, nerves heightened. “W-Wait, Satoru, I can’t—“

“Oh, yes, you can.” He interrupts you with a cheeky sneer. “You’re practically asking for it with you twitching so much. Watch.” Gojo pushes the middle digit leisurely; your beseeching babbles become increasingly incoherent when he adds the whole thing with the other finger. Now, both of them have you shrilling from their intrepid fashion, grazing on your vaginal walls with every pull and shove until his knuckles smooch your labia.

Good God, the place is so hot, your face is hot, your body’s hot, your insides feel hot — everything is just too hot for you to handle! And your brain cannot hold itself together as the seconds go. You throw your head back, your eyes sewn shut, “OhGod, ahhck! Wait, stooop! Go slow, go slo—Ohhh!” Gojo does the exact opposite; the pace of his fingers surges to a tempo you find difficult to ride through. Your entire frame locks together, preparing for the inevitable to slip past your hold, and tremors course around you as your orgasm hits you like a train.

Simultaneously as Gojo continues to rut your soapy cunt, a clear liquid disperses out of your urethra and sprays outward. Sprinkling onto the skin of your thighs and drenching your underwear. Although you’re not the only one who gets caught, Gojo at the front gets a genuine display of you showering his forearm with your essence, damping his sweatshirt in the process, and even a bit on his sunglasses.

It happens the third time: something snaps inside Gojo once he sees your oddly beautiful teary face. It’s at that moment that something in his core breaks and permeates his entire body with a force that’s been itching to get out when he kissed you earlier. He swallows thickly because the next thing he does after this will eat him alive, a queerly anticipated feeling for the white-haired man.

Of course, Gojo is astonished at what transpired, the shock in his eyes concealed by the shades. “Did you…just squirt on me?” His ears pick up the sound of you sobbing, your hands covering your face as you whine.

Massive tears roll down your cheeks, “I—hic—I told you to wait…!” 

It’s a no-brainer that Gojo pulls you off the couch and leads you to throw on top of his bed, stripping himself off his pants and briefs to free his raging erection and crawling up on top of you after chucking his shades off. A gasp leaves puffy lips when his pink glans meet the folds of your vagina, burrowing between your labia to coat with your slick.

“Satoru, wait,” you voice. “D-Don’t you have a condom?”

“Sorry, ran out of them.” Lies. Gojo knows he has rubbers tucked in his nightstand. However, the intention to use them is nowhere to be found. Because tonight – knowing completely and damn well you’re still a virgin – he had to fuck you raw. The drive to do so sent shivers up his spine. “Don’t worry, cutie. I’ll promise to pull out.”

Yet again, another deception.

Gojo pushes the tip in as he counts your breaths, watching every wince and contortion of your expression as the cockhead ventures and seeks shelter inside your slit. Your body is squirming through every exhale, and Gojo’s coaxes to relax your rigidness are somewhat helpful as you intake air. Before you know it, your mouth goes to a permanent ‘o’ shape once the tip is inserted, the act of breathing stops, and your body recoils and tenses as he slowly forces the foreign limb to carve your tightness inch by inch.

Oh, fucking shit…!! Oh yeah, Gojo thanks himself for not putting on a rubber. The firm grasp of your walls around his length nearly has him lose balance, sinking into your warm wetness clenching onto him so deliciously. He bites his lip to composure, a futile attempt as he throws in a few slow thrusts, and the snug of you has him in a chokehold. Then, when he hits your cervix, you instinctively grip onto him tighter and wrap your legs around him, and Gojo almost chokes. 

“F-Fuuck, wait, wait..!” He curses, submitting to a release way too early; his hips tremble as his cock ejaculates into your vagina. Shocks rattle his brain, rolling his eyes to the ceiling at the sensation of pooling himself into you. “Shit, oh shiiiit…this fucking pussy is driving me crazy.”

It really does because Gojo, still keen from his climax, dials the cadence, rutting into you with purpose. The sudden movements have your shrieks bouncing across the bedroom walls, and hits to your womb are frequent and cause more tears to strike down without your comprehension. “Nnnmm! OhhhmyGod…! Mmoohh!!”

“Heh, look at you cryin’,” Gojo teases you from above, licking a tear before kissing your cheek and ear. “Guess that’s expected for your first time, huh…Hnnnm, God, you’re clenching my dick so much.”

“Th-That’s because you’re—“The curve of his shaft has the tip graze your walls in an angle that makes your back arch. “Ahhoooo!! I’m fuull; you’re making me fulll…!!”

“Awww, am I making you full, crybaby?” He mocks you in your ear, the snicker sounding too salacious to the drum. “You full with my dick that it got you whining and crying for me?”

I can’t do this! Your brain dissolves into mush, and your face is too hot to construct adequate consciousness. “I can feel it, I can feel…”

“What is it? I can’t hear you through all the sobbing,” Gojo unscrews your legs to maneuver one for him to straddle and the other to lie on his shoulder. The new position gave him a directed way to piston his pelvis into your aching cunt, your squeals turning into screams as pokes to your womb come with the feverish pacing. He’s hitting so deep you can’t catch up! “What, you think you’re about to cum?”

You nod hurriedly. “Yes, yesss!!”

“Oh, that’s what you want now?” The snow-headed man chortles before sneaking a hand to your vulva, where his fore and middle finger swipe on your clit. “Tell me, is that what my pathetic angel wants?” You nod again, so he pinches your bud. “Tell me properly~.”

“—Ahhnnn, ohh, Sa—‘Toruuu!!” You pan to him. “Pleaseee, please make me cum, I wanna cum…!!”

God, this was a picture worth savoring. The image of you being all desperate for release, wanting nothing but to succumb to your wanton desire. You looked so ruined, like a completely different person compared to the meek exterior Gojo used to. And it’s all because of him – his words, his touches, his lips, and his dick – that you’re like this. A fact that only propels him to hammer his hips into you harsher. 

“Good girl,” he bends down to close his face to yours. Surveying you make such erotic faces as he keeps playing with your clit is food for his soul. “Enjoy yourself, princess,” and he steals your lips once more for another kiss.

Your orgasm comes to you quicker than ever, thanks to the work of Gojo’s hips, the hits of your cervix, the pinches on your clitoris, and the sloppy makeout session. Your body freezes and lets the aftershocks jolt you to a rocky clarity, your head in a dense fog, and your vision just about blurry. Your legs quiver with heaving breaths, and Gojo keeps thrusting as you soon fall out of your euphoria. 

The cold air blankets both of you once tense muscles calm down and bring you two back to reality. Silence befriends the lack of words aside from the pants of breath, and Gojo sluggishly withdraws his cock out of your wet chasm, whistling at the sight of his load slowly protruding out of your essence.

“Hey,” your face forms into a helpless expression. “Bet you never tried anal before.”

Tonight was dedicated to conquering all of your firsts. And Gojo means that with every bone in his body!

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 – reblogs and comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ⊹ transparent edit made by me + dividers from @animatedglittergraphics-n-more.