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onebadassunicorn · 2 days ago

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The Spy Who Loved Me

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: none so far...

word count: 2.9K

Taglist: @motheroffae

If you would like to be added to the taglist, please leave me a comment!

Image owned by Velocity Visual Media.

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Trying a new way of writing and dropping the POV before each chapter. The editing was driving me crazy and I can still get both points across without it, allowing the reader to read it as if it is happening to them but also seeing what the MMC thinks and feels.

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Chapter 1

The Autumn Court was alive with decadence, the air heavy with the scent of falling leaves and spiced wine. Golden and amber lights glittered in the sprawling hall, illuminating masked faces and figures clad in luxurious silks and velvets. The masquerade was a swirling chaos of intrigue and beauty, and you moved through it with calculated grace.

Draped in a gown of shimmering deep red that hugged your figure like molten fire, you were a vision, drawing eyes wherever you went. Your mask, gilded in gold and adorned with delicate leaves, hid much of your face but couldn’t obscure your striking honey-colored eyes, which glimmered like liquid sunlight. Your long dark hair cascaded down your back in loose waves, catching the light as you moved, commanding attention even as you pretended not to notice.

You weren’t meant to draw attention, not truly, but it was impossible not to. The room seemed to part in your wake, the beauty of your long dark hair and enigmatic presence captivating everyone who dared to look too long.

Including him.

Azriel saw you the moment you entered the ballroom.

He had been standing in the shadows, as he always did, his Illyrian leathers hidden beneath a formal jacket of midnight blue. His cobalt mask—simple and unobtrusive—did little to conceal the sharp lines of his face or the cold calculation in his hazel eyes.

But that coldness wavered the moment he saw you.

You moved through the crowd like a phantom, an apparition of elegance and control. There was something in the way you carried yourself—graceful but purposeful, detached yet dangerously alluring. He watched as Eris’s gaze followed you too, the red-haired heir clearly already ensnared by your presence.

That alone was enough to put Azriel on edge.

But it wasn’t just Eris who noticed you.

It was him.

And that unnerved him far more.

Azriel wasn’t accustomed to distraction. Decades of service in the shadows, of mastering the art of secrecy, had honed his focus to a blade’s edge.

Yet here you were, blurring the lines of his thoughts with every step you took.

The way your gown clung to your figure, the way your hair shimmered under the golden light, the way your honey-colored eyes seemed to pierce the very fabric of the room—it all felt like a threat.

A beautiful, maddening threat.

You felt his gaze before you met it.

A searing weight, as though his hazel eyes could strip you of all your secrets if you lingered too long under their scrutiny. But you didn’t falter. You dipped your head in acknowledgment, just enough to be polite, and continued your path through the crowd, your heart pounding harder than you cared to admit.

Your mission was clear.

You were here to ensnare Eris, to weave yourself into his web and extract the secrets he guarded so closely about Beron’s plans. Tarquin had entrusted you with this task, knowing your skill in subterfuge, your ability to become whatever your target needed you to be.

You couldn’t afford distractions.

When you finally paused at the edge of the ballroom, Azriel didn’t hesitate. He moved toward you, his steps silent, his shadows curling faintly at the edges of his form. You turned just as he reached you, as if you had felt his approach, and when your eyes locked with his, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you.

“Dance with me,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

You hesitated, your gaze flickering over him, assessing.

He wondered what you saw.

A threat?

A distraction?

A man you could manipulate, perhaps?

Finally, you inclined your head, offering your hand. “If you wish.”

Azriel took your hand, his scarred fingers brushing your smooth skin, and led you to the dance floor. The music shifted into a slower, more intimate melody as he placed one hand on your waist and the other on your hand. You moved together, your steps perfectly in sync, as though you had rehearsed this dance in another life.

“Who are you?” he asked after a beat, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You tilted your head slightly, your expression unreadable beneath your mask. “No one of importance.”

The words should have dismissed him, but they only intrigued him more. He studied you as you moved, his sharp gaze lingering on the curve of your lips, the way your lashes brushed your cheeks when you blinked. There was a strength in your bearing, a quiet fire that belied the cool detachment in your voice. He wanted to know everything—your name, your purpose, what secrets you held behind those golden eyes.

“Somehow, I doubt that,” he murmured, his voice softer now, a thread of curiosity weaving through it.

Your lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Doubt what you like, Shadowsinger.”

His breath hitched at the way you said it—his title, not his name, as though you knew him already, as though you were peeling back the layers of who he was with every passing second.

But the truth was, you didn’t know him.

You only knew the legend of him: the spymaster of the Night Court, a male who wielded shadows and silence with a precision that had no equal.

And yet, the stories hadn’t prepared you for the way he looked at you, as if you were a secret he was determined to uncover.

Nor had they prepared you for the way his presence made you feel—unsteady, drawn to him in a way you couldn’t explain.

The dance continued, but Azriel’s mind was a storm.

His instincts screamed at him that you were dangerous, that you were hiding something.

But another part of him, the part that had been starved for something other than duty and shadows, couldn’t pull away. You were a puzzle, a mystery wrapped in beauty, and he couldn’t help but want to unravel you piece by piece.

“You’re not going to tell me your name, are you?” he asked, leaning just close enough that his breath ghosted over your ear.

“I don’t see why it matters,” you replied, your voice as steady as you could manage. Inside, your heart was racing, a storm of desire and fear.

“It matters to me,” he said simply, and for a moment, his vulnerability was disarming.

You met his gaze, your walls wavering for the briefest moment. “Some things are better left a mystery, Shadowsinger.”

When the music ended, you stepped back, slipping out of his grasp before he could hold on to you. breaking the spell. You curtsied slightly, your movements fluid and elegant. “Thank you for the dance.”

Azriel’s hand lingered on yours for a fraction too long, his eyes searching yours. “Will I see you again?”

You hesitated, something flickering in your gaze—

A look of longing?

Then you smiled, soft and enigmatic. “Perhaps.”

And just like that, you slipped away into the crowd, leaving Azriel standing alone, his thoughts a tangled web of frustration and fascination.

The music shifted again as you finished your dance with Azriel, your hand slipping from his grasp like a fleeting shadow. His hazel eyes burned into you as you disappeared back into the crowd. His shadows curled around his shoulders like restless sentinels, whispering something only he could hear.

But he didn’t need them to tell him what he already knew: you were dangerous.

And undeniably captivating.

Before you could retreat into the anonymity of the masquerade, another presence intercepted you.

Eris Vanserra.

The heir to the Autumn Court’s throne was as sharp and polished as ever, his crimson hair gleaming under the golden lights of the ballroom. He extended his hand, a sly smile curving his lips.

"Would you grant me the next dance, my lady?" he asked, his voice smooth and tinged with an air of entitlement.

You hesitated for the briefest moment, acutely aware of Azriel’s gaze still fixed on you from somewhere in the room.

Refusing Eris would draw suspicion, and you couldn’t risk that. Placing your hand in his, you allowed him to lead you back onto the dance floor.

Eris was confident, his steps practiced and elegant as he guided you into the rhythm of the music. His amber eyes roamed over your figure, admiration thinly veiled behind his mask of charm. "You move as if you were born to rule a ballroom," he remarked, his tone a mixture of flattery and calculation.

You responded with a small smile, careful to remain enigmatic. "A skill that comes in handy when navigating courts such as this one."

As the song transitioned into another, Eris pulled you closer, his hand slipping slightly lower on your back. You didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, even as his touch lingered just a fraction too long. You had prepared for this—Tarquin had warned you what it might take to secure Eris’s attention.

Your mission depended on it.

From across the room, Azriel’s jaw tightened as he watched the exchange. His shadows writhed, agitated by the sight of Eris’s hands on you, his proximity to you. Azriel told himself he was only observing because you were suspicious, because he needed to uncover what game you were playing here.

But the sharp flare of jealousy curling in his chest said otherwise.

Eris leaned in, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear as he whispered, "You’re far too intriguing to be from the Autumn Court. Tell me, where does such beauty hail from?"

You laughed softly, the sound light and practiced. "Does it matter? I am here now, and that should be enough."

Eris chuckled, clearly charmed. "Fair enough, my lady. But I suspect there’s more to you than you let on."

The dance continued through another song, and then another, with Eris becoming bolder with each passing moment. His hands strayed more freely, lingering on your waist, your back. You allowed it, playing your role, though your skin prickled under his touch. You were keenly aware of the weight of Azriel’s gaze, even if you couldn’t see him. You knew he was still watching.

When the final note of the song faded, Eris leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "Shall we take a walk in the gardens? I find the company in here far less captivating than you."

You nodded, offering a demure smile. "Lead the way."

He guided you through the golden doors that opened onto the sprawling gardens, the cool night air brushing against your heated skin. Azriel followed silently, his shadows wrapping around him as he melded into the darkness, his jealousy simmering as he watched from a distance.

As you strolled through the maze of hedges and autumn blooms, Eris asked, "I must admit, I’ve never seen you at any court functions before tonight. Who are you?"

You had prepared for this. The persona you and Tarquin had carefully crafted slipped into place seamlessly as you replied, "My name is Kaela. I am from a lesser court, though our ties to the Summer Court have granted me certain... privileges. Tarquin himself encouraged me to attend."

Eris’s interest deepened, his amber eyes narrowing as he took in your words. "Tarquin, you say? I wasn’t aware the Summer Court was fond of sending such exquisite creatures into our midst."

You smiled coyly, your expression perfectly masking the calculations behind it. "Perhaps they saw it as a gesture of goodwill."

Eris chuckled, stopping beneath the boughs of a tree draped in glowing autumnal leaves. "Well, if their goal was to enchant me, they’ve succeeded." He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met."

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips pressing softly to yours. For a moment, you let it happen, knowing it was necessary to cement the illusion, to draw him further into your trap.

But Azriel, hidden among the shadows of the garden, felt his jealousy flare into a near-unbearable heat. His hands clenched at his sides, his shadows lashing out in frustration. He wanted nothing more than to step forward, to rip Eris away from you, to claim the place that Eris had stolen for himself.

But he stayed rooted in the darkness, reminding himself of his duty, of the need to remain unseen.

When the kiss ended, you stepped back, offering Eris a faint smile that carried just the right touch of shyness. "You flatter me, my lord. But I believe I should return to the ballroom before my absence is noted."

Eris’s gaze lingered on you, but he nodded. "Very well. But I hope this won’t be the last time we meet."

You inclined your head, turning and walking back toward the ballroom, your heart pounding—not from Eris’s kiss, but from the knowledge that Azriel had seen everything. You could feel the weight of his gaze even as you reentered the hall, leaving Eris and the gardens behind.

In the darkness, Azriel remained, his shadows whispering their discontent.

He had come here to gather information about any potential threats from Autumn Court, but now he had more questions than answers—chief among them: who were you, and why the hell couldn’t he stay away?

********

Azriel stepped into the war room of the Night Court, the weight of his observations from the Autumn Court still heavy on his mind. The great windows of the House of Wind let in the cool starlight of Velaris, casting an ethereal glow over the dark table where Rhysand sat, reclining with effortless poise.

"You're back earlier than expected," Rhys noted, tilting his head as Azriel approached. His violet eyes gleamed with curiosity, though his tone carried the faintest edge of concern. "What did you uncover in Beron's court?"

Azriel’s shadows swirled around him, restless and faintly agitated, betraying the tension he kept buried. He recounted his observations—the intricate dances of politics, the subtle shifts in alliances, and, finally, the details of you. He kept his tone even, his words concise, but the moment he mentioned you, the shadowsinger’s usual composure wavered, just slightly.

“There was someone unusual there,” Azriel said, his voice low, his hazel eyes fixed on Rhys. “A female. She claimed to be from a lesser court with ties to Tarquin, though I’ve never seen or heard of her before.”

Rhys straightened, his brows lifting slightly. “A lesser court? Tarquin usually keeps his allies close to the Summer Court. Sending someone to the Autumn Court, especially now, is… odd.”

Azriel nodded, his jaw tightening. “She was… difficult to read. She spent much of the night with Eris, clearly capturing his attention. But her presence felt… calculated. Every move she made was deliberate. And yet, I could sense no immediate threat from her. No allegiance to Beron, at least not openly.”

“And you’re certain she’s tied to Tarquin?” Rhys asked, his tone sharper now.

“She claimed as much when Eris pressed her. Her name is Kaela—or so she says. She mentioned Tarquin encouraged her to attend, though why he’d send someone from a lesser court remains unclear. If she is working for him, she’s operating well outside the bounds of standard diplomacy.”

Rhys tapped his fingers against the table, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve heard no whispers of such a mission from Tarquin’s court. If this Kaela is who she claims to be, she’s done a remarkable job of keeping herself off my radar.”

Azriel hesitated for a moment, his shadows curling tighter around his shoulders. “There’s something else. She… seems to have captured Eris’s attention. He followed her around most all night, taking her to the garden and talking before kissing her.”

Rhys blinked, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And that’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

Azriel’s gaze darkened. “It’s not relevant.”

Rhys chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, it’s relevant, brother. Whether you realize it or not. But we’ll set that aside for now.”

“Do you trust her?” Azriel asked, cutting through Rhys’s teasing. His voice was quieter now, but there was an edge to it. “Tarquin has been a steady ally, but sending someone so… covert… doesn’t feel like something he’d do without a purpose.”

Rhys’s humor faded, replaced by a calculating seriousness. “I don’t know. Tarquin’s a clever male, but he’s not one for underhanded games. If this Kaela truly comes from him, there’s more at play here than we’re seeing. Until we know what, I want you to keep an eye on her.”

Azriel inclined his head. “There’s an Autumnal Equinox gathering in a week. She might attend.”

“Then you’ll attend, too,” Rhys said firmly. “If she’s there, get closer. Figure out what she’s after. And if she isn’t—” he paused, his gaze sharp, “—then find out why Eris is so smitten with her that he’s letting someone outside his court get this close. That alone is worth investigating.”

Azriel nodded, though his thoughts churned. The memory of you, of the way you’d moved through the Autumn Court’s masquerade like a phantom, lingered in his mind. He didn’t know if he trusted you—or if he wanted to trust you. But something about you had unsettled him, had made him feel… unbalanced. He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the mission ahead.

As he turned to leave, Rhys’s voice stopped him. “And Azriel?”

The Shadowsinger paused, glancing back.

“Don’t let her distract you. If she’s working against us, you can’t afford to let your fascination cloud your judgment.”

Azriel said nothing, his face an unreadable mask, but his shadows whispered otherwise as they trailed after him, restless and drawn to the memory of your honey-colored eyes.

Chapter 2

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel x reader #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #azriel #azriel x y/n #azriel x you

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baldurs-gape · 2 days ago

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Puppetry of the Penis: Wizard Edition

All Gale ever banged on about was the Weave and its greatness. Quite frankly, it was rather tiresome. Weave this, Weave that, the Weave could probably solve all the problems of all the realms if Gale was to be believed. Nobody bothered to even argue with him or point out the flaws in his doting ramblings. Namely, spells needed verbal and somatic components, both of which could be rather easily interrupted by mundane things like a gag or some rope.

Luck was never on the group's side it seemed. Not only were they captured, the cultists at Moonrise were competent. Methodically stripped, all of Astarion's hidden weapons were revealed and removed. Wyll's hands were bound and a gag was threaded between his teeth and tied to his horns. Similarly, Shadowheart was restrained and silenced. Last to be given the same, thorough and humiliating treatment was Gale. Recognising him as a wizard, he wasn't only tied up like the others, he was manacled to the wall, hands above his head and even his fingers were firmly immobilised. At least the others were allowed to sit on the cold stone floor if they so desired.

For good measure, 'Silence' was cast on their cell. It might have been a trick of the light but it was almost as though Gale rolled his eyes as the spell settled and the lock clicked shut on the door. Even if they hadn't been cooped up in a bubble of magical silence, none of them had much to say. They had failed and been unable to escape. The taste of defeat sat bitter on tongues, only rivalled by the rags stuffed in their mouths.

At first Gale only shimmied and adjusted his feet in awkward shuffles. While the others were all trying to maintain some form of modesty and cover themselves, that wasn't something afforded to Gale. Not that he really seemed to mind, in sharp contrast to the stories of how he wouldn't even get changed in front of his tressym. The wriggling continued and it was more and more difficult to avert eyes from his awkward ministrations. Astarion was the first to give up and he almost instantly regretted it. If Gale was uncomfortable, that was one thing. But to see him roll and thrust his hips like that, it definitely gave the wrong impression. It seemed it wasn't just his tongue that was well practiced. Watching him, the motions were gradually getting larger and his dick flopped around. In any other circumstance, it would have been comical. Perhaps he had finally truly lost the plot and was doing the mating dance of a giant eagle out of sheer boredom now that he couldn't hear his own voice.

A flash of blue magic fizzled out in the middle of the cell. Given how Gale's nose wrinkled, it was probably accompanied by a growl of frustration. Another hip thrust, another twirl of dick and another flash of blue. Teeth bared, Gale tried again and Astarion was glad there was a silencing spell as he watched the silent slap of large, soft cock against thick thigh. So caught up in such a thought, Astarion startled when a Mage Hand blinked into life and made a beeline for his bindings.

It took no time at all to be free and get the others free. The most difficult part was opening Gale's manacles but even those released with a bit of persuasion. Last thing to come out was the gag in Gale's mouth and he licked at his lips and teeth in repulsion.

"Urgh. Let's not have a repeat of that, yes?"

Huddled close as they were they could hear each other now and Astarion's eyes drifted to the thankfully no longer flopping around dick between Gale's legs. Alas, his gaze was caught and Gale beamed proudly.

"Any wizard worth his salt is well prepared for any eventuality. Alas, not many wizards are worth their salt, this is a Gale Dekarios Special."

Swallowing thickly, Astarion dragged his eyes up Gale's body deliberately slowly. Aiming for seductive, he asked, "Any other Gale Specials I could convince you to share?"

"I thought you'd never ask!"

What Astarion had thought to be an acceptance of his flirty offer turned out to be something quite different. Never again was he going to be the same after Gale led the storming of Moonrise in retaliation for their capture, all while completely naked and firing spells hands free like no wizard had done before.

However, it turned out that all those hip roll and thrusts worked a magic of their own, Astarion found out later. Coupled with Gale's very practiced tongue, he could safely say that he was finally bested in the bedroom.

#bloodweave #gale/astarion #gale x astarion #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #astarion #bg3 astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3

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tinydefector · 2 days ago

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Behind the Scenes 2

Tim Drake x Male reader

Masterlist

Word count: 6.1

Warnings: Tim being Tim in his slight stalkerish way for work.

Cut chapter three out otherwise this would have been over 11k words. So I'll edit that tomorrow at some point.

________________

The rhythmic tapping of Tim's fingers on the keyboard slowed as he stared at the email in front of him, his jaw tightening. It was yet another "gentle reminder" from the pharmaceutical marketing team about their meeting today. He hated these meetings—the endless pitches, the justifications for greed masquerading as "business strategy." Wayne Enterprises was supposed to stand for more than profit margins. That had been Bruce's vision, and it was one Tim was determined to uphold.

The sharp knock on his office door pulled him from his thoughts. He didn’t need to look at the clock to know who it was. “Come in,” Tim called, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples. The door opened smoothly, revealing Lucius Fox. The older man stepped inside, his calm and collected demeanor instantly filling the room. He carried a leather-bound notebook in one hand and a tablet in the other, his expression a mixture of professionalism and mild concern.

“It’s time,” Lucius said simply, his deep voice cutting through the quiet hum of the office. Tim let out a low sigh, his hand dropping from his face as he sat up straighter. “Right. The pharmaceutical showdown.” There was a faint, bitter edge to his voice. Lucius raised an eyebrow at Tim's tone but didn’t comment immediately. Instead, he stepped further into the office, glancing briefly at the coffee cup on Tim's desk. “Triple shot?” he asked, his tone light but knowing.

Tim smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Had to. I need all the help I can get to sit through this one.” Lucius nodded, settling into the chair across from Tim. “I can’t say I blame you. The pharmaceutical team’s proposals have been... aggressive, to put it mildly. I assume you’re planning to shut them down again?”

Tim scoffed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “Of course. There’s no way I’m letting them push a campaign to jack up prices on essential meds. Insulin, for crying out loud. Amoxicillin. Levothyroxine. These aren’t luxury items. People need them to survive.” His voice rose slightly, frustration slipping through his usually composed exterior, but it was something he was passionate about, not to mention something that affected, not nearly as much as others, but with one of those medications being one he used it was a subject he was very willing to fight over.

Lucius regarded him carefully, his expression thoughtful. “ You know they’re going to push back harder this time. They’ve already been courting some of the board members, trying to sway them to their side.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Tim muttered, his fingers drumming against the desk. “I’ve seen the emails. The ‘we’re only doing this for the good of the company’ spiel. As if gutting our reputation and alienating the people who rely on us is good for anyone.” Lucius sighed, adjusting his glasses. “It’s a delicate balance, Mr. Drake. The board still has to answer to shareholders. Some of them might see this as an opportunity to boost profits.”

Tim’s eyes darkened, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “And that’s exactly why I’m going to shut this down. We’re not some faceless corporation that only cares about the bottom line. This is Wayne Enterprises. We’re supposed to do better.” A small smile tugged at the corner of Lucius’s mouth. “You sound like Bruce.”

Tim hesitated, then gave a small nod, the weight of Lucius’s words settling over him. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “That means a lot.” Lucius straightens his jacket. “Well, we’d better get to it. The board’s already gathered, and I’m sure Marketing is eager to make their case.” Tim rose, grabbing his tablet and the half-empty cup. He lingered for a moment, his fingers tightening around the tablet as if bracing himself. “Let’s do this.”

Together, they walked down the hallway toward the boardroom, their footsteps echoing against the polished floors. Tim’s mind raced, already preparing counterarguments and anticipating the tactics the pharmaceutical team would use, he knew it all already, as much as he wouldn't admit it to anyone, he had seen all the emails passed between different board members, and knew the words different executives would say. Bruce would say it was Paranoia to be this into it, stalking people's emails and ‘private’ work conversations, Tim on the other hand believed it was being thorough and Knowing his enemy.

When they reached the boardroom, the double doors loomed before them. Tim took a deep breath, his expression hardening into the calm, resolute mask he wore for these kinds of battles. Lucius gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before pushing the doors open. The room was filled with the murmur of voices, the long conference table surrounded by board members and executives. At the far end, the representatives from Marketing and Pharmaceuticals were already seated, their polished smiles and expensive suits doing little to disguise their predatory intent. They wanted to play predator. Tim would show them what happens when you think the hunter is prey.

As Tim stepped inside, the room quieted. All eyes turned to him, and for a brief moment, the weight of the company’s legacy seemed to rest squarely on his shoulders. But he didn’t falter. He squared his shoulders, walked to his seat at the head of the table, and set his tablet down with a quiet thud as he takes his seat elegantly.

��Good Morning,” he said, his voice steady and firm. “Let’s get started.”

The boardroom was tense, the air thick with the weight of the discussion about to take place, many picking up on the way Tim Drake’s presence seems to almost shift the air of the room, he wasn't trapped in here with them,they were trapped with Him. Tim sat at the head of the long conference table, His fingers drummed lightly against the polished wood, a steady rhythm that betrays nothing of his thoughts to them.

Around him, the board members murmured quietly, and the team from Marketing and Pharmaceuticals sat with their polished smiles, exuding the confidence of people who thought they were about to win. Lucius sat to Tim’s right, When the room finally settled and all eyes turned to him, Tim leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“Alright,” he began, his voice steady but sharp. “What is your proposal? you pulled me away from my family for this meeting, I hope it is worth my time” he states plainly, his icy blue eyes focusing in on the head members, who squirm slightly under his gaze. One thing was for sure, Tim Drake may have been young but he held a Boardroom with more power than Bruce ever did, Bruce used charm to win over people's hearts, Tim used cold hard facts, logistics and blackmail when he felt it.

The head of Wayne Pharmaceuticals, a man named Eric Drayton, cleared his throat and stood. He adjusted his tie as he began to speak, his tone practiced and smooth. “Thank you, Mr. Drake-Wayne. As you know, over the last quarter, we’ve seen a significant rise in production costs, particularly in the pharmaceutical division. After careful analysis, our team believes that a modest increase in the pricing of certain medications—such as insulin, amoxicillin, and levothyroxine—would allow us to maintain profitability while continuing to deliver high-quality products.”

Tim’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent, letting Drayton continue. “The marketing department has already prepared a campaign to frame this adjustment in a way that emphasizes the value and innovation Wayne Pharmaceuticals brings to the market. We believe that this will not only bolster shareholder confidence but also ensure we remain competitive in the global pharmaceutical industry.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable but he doesn't blink and it's clear he's unsettling a few attendees. When Drayton finally sat down, clearly pleased with himself, Tim let the silence hang in the air for a moment. Then, he leaned forward, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

“Let me make sure I understand your proposal,” Tim began, his tone calm but the ice in it cuts. “Your big idea to ‘maintain profitability’ is to price-gouge people for life-saving medication. You want to charge more for insulin, amoxycillin, and levothyroxine—medications that people literally depend on to stay alive. Is that correct?”

Drayton shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his polished confidence faltering under Tim’s sharp gaze. “Well, it’s not ‘price-gouging,’ Mr. Drake-Wayne. It’s—”

“It’s exactly price-gouging,” Tim says, cutting him off. “Let me give you an example. In Australia, insulin packs cost $6.94 that is after Tax and with their healthcare system, it does Vary but Australia has a protection on Medical and medications, but that’s what people pay for it. In America, the same insulin costs $98.70. *Before* tax. And you want Wayne Pharmaceuticals to join in on this racket? To charge people even more for something they can’t live without?”

The room was silent, the weight of Tim’s words pressing down on everyone. Drayton opened his mouth to respond, but Tim didn’t give him the chance. “And let’s talk about Wayne Pharmaceuticals’ insulin,” Tim continued, his voice growing sharper. “Right now, we currently charge $23 for it before it's Taxed by the chemist. That’s already more than triple the cost in Australia. And now you’re saying we need to raise the price even higher? If I may Mr Drayton, do you currently use medication?”

Drayton cleared his throat, his face reddening. “Mr. Drake-Wayne, with all due respect, these adjustments are necessary to keep up with rising costs and—”

“Don’t,” Tim said, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t try to justify this to me. I take amoxycillin due to my immune system being compromised from my Spleen. I know exactly how often I need new prescriptions for it due to not having a Spleen, which is an organ that I can live without, and I know exactly how much it costs. I can afford it because of my position here and because of my family’s wealth. But what about the people who can’t? What about the single parents, the minimum-wage workers, the people who are already drowning in medical debt? Do you honestly think they’re going to look at your ‘modest price increase’ and say, ‘Oh, yes, I’d love to spend even more of my paycheck on staying alive’? Or are they just going to stop taking their medication altogether because they can’t afford it?”

Drayton looked like he wanted to sink into his chair, but Tim wasn’t done. “And if you think the public is just going to roll over and accept this, I’d suggest you take a look at what happened in New York. The CEO of United Healthcare was gunned down in the street. And you know what the public’s reaction was? Nothing. No one cared, they celebrated it. Because he’d spent his career profiting off people’s deaths, and everyone knew it.”

His words cut through the room like ice. “Is that what you want Wayne Enterprises to become? A company so reviled that people cheer when one of our executives gets taken out? Because if we go down this road, that’s exactly where we’re headed.”

Lucius, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. “Mr. Drake is right. Wayne Enterprises has always prided itself on being a company that puts people first, we are known as a world class company for affordability for everyone. If we abandon that now, we’ll lose more than just our reputation. We’ll lose the trust of the people who rely on us. And without that trust, no profit.”

Tim nodded, his gaze sweeping over the room. “If Wayne Enterprises wants to stay a leading company—if we want to remain the most sought-after name in the industry not only in America but the world, then we need to stand for something more than profits. We need to stand for people. And if anyone here thinks otherwise, I suggest you find another company to work for, because I’m not budging on this. And if anyone tries to bring this proposal to me again it will be thrown out before the Email even reaches me”

The room was silent, the weight of Tim’s words hanging in the air. Drayton looked like he wanted to argue, but one glance at the determined set of Tim’s jaw told him it would be pointless. “Any other questions?” Tim asked, his voice sharp.

No one spoke.

“Good,” he said, standing and grabbing his tablet. “This meeting is over. I hope you all enjoy the rest of your day, I have another meeting to attend too” And with that, Tim strode out of the room, leaving the stunned board members and executives behind.

The boardroom door clicked shut behind Tim, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His footsteps echoed through the quiet hallway as he made his way back to his office, his mind still replaying the meeting. He could still feel the tension in the room, the weight of the arguments, and the barely restrained frustration threatening to boil over. But it was done. For now, at least.

When he reached his office, Tim pushed the door open and stepped inside, letting it close softly behind him. His eyes immediately darted to the espresso machine in the corner. The idea of another triple shot espresso was tempting—too tempting. He stood there for a moment, staring at it like he was trying to will himself to resist. Finally, he shook his head.

turning away from the machine. Instead, he moved to the small fridge tucked under the counter. Pulling the door open, he grabbed a cold bottle of apple and blackcurrant juice. The condensation felt cool against his palm as he twisted the cap off and took a long sip. The tart, sweet flavor was refreshing, and for the first time that morning, he felt himself start to relax, just a little.

Tim crossed the room and sank into his office chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. He leaned back, letting the cool juice wash away the residual bitterness of the meeting. For a moment, he closed his eyes, the faint hum of the building around him a comforting white noise. The knock on his door was soft but didn’t surprise him. He didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. “Come in, Lucius.”

Lucius stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He carried the same leather-bound notebook he’d had in the meeting, but his posture was more relaxed now, his expression less formal. He walked over to one of the chairs across from Tim’s desk and sat down, setting the notebook on his lap. “You handled that well,” Lucius said, his voice calm and steady. “Firm, clear, and you didn’t let them sidestep the issue.”

Tim gave a small, humorless chuckle, swirling the juice in the bottle. “Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ll be getting any Christmas cards from Drayton this year.” Lucius smiled faintly. “I doubt you were ever on his list to begin with. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you made the right call. The board needed to hear it, and so did the pharmaceutical team.”

Tim sighed, setting the juice bottle down on his desk with a soft thud. “They’re not going to stop, you know. Drayton, the marketing team, the board members who only care about the shareholders—they’ll keep pushing. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but they’ll try again.”

“Of course they will,” Lucius said. “That’s the nature of the business. But as long as you’re here, Tim, they’ll know they have to fight for every inch. And that kind of resistance can make them think twice.” Tim leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I just... I hate that we even have to have these conversations. This isn’t what Wayne Enterprises is supposed to be. It’s not who we are.”

Tim looked down at the desk, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the wood grain. “It’s just... exhausting. Knowing that every day there’s going to be another fight. Another argument. Another group of people trying to convince me to put profits over people, especially in that industry.”

The two sat in companionable silence for a few moments, the tension from the morning slowly ebbing away. Tim reached for his juice and took another sip, the tart sweetness grounding him.

Finally, Lucius stood, smoothing his jacket. “I’ll let you get back to it. But if you need anything”

“I know,” Tim said, looking up at him with a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Lucius.”

Lucius nodded and made his way to the door, leaving Tim alone in the quiet of his office. Tim leaned back in his chair again, staring up at the ceiling as he let out a long breath. The fight wasn’t over. not by a long shot, but for now, he’d won. And that was something.

Tim glanced at his watch, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His next meeting wasn’t in some stuffy boardroom or sterile office space—it was at the Wayne Enterprises steel manufacturing and shipping plant with Mr. Brill. Out of all the meetings he had to attend, this one was a rare bright spot.

Brill was one of the good ones, a man who didn’t just care about deadlines and quotas but about the people who worked under him. He was the kind of manager Tim wished every department had, hardworking, down-to-earth, and fiercely protective of his teams, he wasn’t a head but as leading hand of manufacturing Tim had made it very clear he would be dealing with him instead of another Executive. It was evident in everything he did: the way he supervised, the way he fought for fair wages and better conditions.

By the time Tim arrived at the steel plant, the familiar hum of machinery and the rhythmic clang of metal filled the air. The factory floor was bustling with activity. workers in hardhats and safety vests moving between massive equipment, forklifts whirring as they transported raw materials, and the faint smell of oil and heated metal clinging to the air.

Mr. Brill was already waiting for him near the entrance, his broad frame and weathered face instantly recognizable. He was leaning against a railing, clipboard in hand, scanning over some papers. The moment he spotted Tim, he broke into a wide grin. “Mr. Drake!” Brill called, his voice booming over the din of the factory. He strode forward, extending a hand. “Good to see you again, son.”

Tim returned the handshake with a warm smile. “Good to see you too, Brill. And please, drop the ‘Mr.’ stuff. Just Tim.” Brill chuckled, the deep sound echoing as he clapped Tim on the shoulder. “You say that every time, and I still can’t get used to it. But alright, Tim. Let’s get started. Got plenty to show you.” The two of them set off across the factory floor, walking side by side. Workers glanced up as they passed, offering nods and waves, which Tim returned with ease.

“How’s the team doing?” Tim asked, his voice raised slightly to be heard over the noise. Brill’s grin widened. “They’re doing good, real good. We’ve been hitting our production targets ahead of schedule, and the new safety protocols you approved last quarter? They’ve made a world of difference. Injuries are down, morale’s up. Can’t thank you enough for pushing that through. we have had 12% increase in sales, not to mention contracts”

Tim waved it off. “You’re the one who brought it to my attention. All I did was make sure it got funded.” Brill nodded appreciatively. “Still, we all know it wouldn’t have happened without you backing it. These guys out here? They notice things like that. They know who’s looking out for them.” As they walked, Tim took in the sights around him. Workers moved with practiced efficiency, their faces focused but not strained. There was a sense of camaraderie in the air, a stark contrast to the corporate world Tim had just left behind, it was like a den of hungry wolves waiting for a scrap.

“You’ve got a good crew here,” Tim said as they climbed a set of metal stairs that overlooked the factory floor. “That I do,” Brill agreed, his tone proud. “Best damn team in the business, if you ask me.” They stopped at the railing, looking out over the bustling plant. Brill gestured with his clipboard. “So, here’s the deal. We’ve got a couple of new contracts coming in over the next few months, big ones. Steel for infrastructure projects, mostly. Bridges, rail lines, that sort of thing. It’s going to ramp up production, but we’re ready for it. Got the equipment, got the manpower. Only thing we’ll need is approval for some overtime pay to make sure the night crews are covered.”

Tim nodded thoughtfully. “Consider it approved with time and a half added as an extra benefit on top of it. If this is going to put extra strain on your team, they deserve to be compensated for it.”

Brill’s grin returned. “Knew you’d say that. I already told the guys to expect it.” Tim smirked. “You’re making me predictable, Brill.”

“Predictable in the best way,” Brill said with a chuckle. “It’s why the guys out here respect you. You don’t just talk, the talk. you walk it. That matters. your not a suit to these men, funny enough you take after Bruce”

Tim leaned against the railing, his gaze drifting over the factory floor. It was easy to get caught up in the chaos of corporate meetings, budgets, and shareholder reports, but being here, seeing the faces of the people who actually made Wayne Enterprises run, reminded him of why he fought so hard to keep the company’s values intact.

After a few more minutes of discussion about logistics, safety protocols, and upcoming projects, Brill led Tim back down to the floor. As they walked, workers continued to wave and call out greetings, and Tim made a point to respond to each one. When they finally reached the exit, Brill turned to him, his expression warm. “Thanks for coming out, Tim. It means a lot to the crew and to me.”

Tim kept walking alongside Brill, the steady hum of the factory floor a comforting backdrop to their conversation. His hand rested lightly on the steel railing as they passed rows of machinery, workers busy at their stations. He couldn’t help but think about how much he preferred this—the clanging of metal, the smell of grease and oil, the laughter and banter of workers over the constant, sterile chatter of executives, shareholders, and marketing teams. These were the people Tim appreciated. The ones who kept the company running.

“If I could, I’d spend the whole day down here,” Tim said, half-joking but with a trace of honesty in his voice. Brill laughed, a deep, hearty sound that echoed over the noise of the factory. “Can’t say I’d blame you. Sure beats sitting in some stuffy office all day, doesn’t it?”

“You have no idea,” Tim replied, glancing over at one of the welding stations where a worker gave them a quick nod. Tim returned the gesture with a small wave. “The meetings today have been... let’s just say I’d rather be anywhere else.” Brill raised a brow, his curiosity piqued. “Rough morning already?”

Tim snorted softly, his expression hardening just a little. “You could say that. Some office heads decided it was a good time to try and pitch a price hike on our medications. Insulin, amoxycillin, levothyroxine. They tried to frame it as a business strategy.” Brill’s face darkened at that, his hand tightening around the clipboard he was holding. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was,” Tim said, his tone sharp. “They were throwing out all the usual excuses ‘production costs,’ ‘shareholder confidence,’ ‘maintaining profitability.’ But it’s all just corporate-speak for ‘let’s see how much more we can squeeze out of people before they break.’”

Brill shook his head, his expression grim. “You shut them down, though, right?” Tim gave him a sidelong glance. “What do you think?” Brill cracked a small grin despite the frustration on his face. “Good.”

Tim stopped walking for a moment, turning to face Brill fully. “You know what pisses me off the most? You. Your team. These guys are out here. You’re the ones I think about when they start pulling that crap. I know plenty of people here rely on Wayne Pharma medications.”

Brill’s expression softened, and he rested a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Tim. Not a lot of people in your position would give a damn about this stuff. Most of them wouldn’t even know what their workers are dealing with, let alone care.”

Tim shrugged, looking down at the floor for a moment before meeting Brill’s gaze again. “It’s not hard to care when you actually look around. These guys work their asses off every day. They deserve better. And it’s not just about them, it’s personal for me, too. I’ve been on amoxycillin since I was 13. I know how often I need to refill the prescription.”

Brill watched him carefully, his respect for Tim deepening with every word. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, kid. Bruce would be proud.” Tim smiled faintly at that, though there was a sadness in his eyes. “I hope so. I’m trying to do right by him. By all of this.” He gestured to the factory around them.

Tim was leaning casually against a railing, chatting with Brill about one of the new infrastructure contracts, when he spotted a familiar figure moving through the bustling factory floor. It was hard to miss Alfred he was impeccably dressed as always, his suit and tie a stark contrast to the high-vis vests and steel-toed boots surrounding him. Yet, despite his formal attire, Alfred moved through the factory with ease, his calm presence blending seamlessly with the industrious energy of the workers.

He was speaking to one of the crew, a man in high-vis gesturing toward Tim. Alfred nodded politely, offering a small smile before continuing in Tim’s direction. Brill turned to see what had caught Tim’s attention and let out a low chuckle. “Looks like you’ve got company.” Tim laughs. “Of course I do. Alfred always finds me.”

“That man’s got a sixth sense when it comes to you, doesn’t he?”

“You have no idea,” Tim muttered with a grin.

When Alfred finally reached them, he gave a polite nod to Brill before turning his attention to Tim. “Master Timothy,” he said in his usual calm tone, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I see you’re keeping yourself busy.” Tim waved a hand toward the factory around him. “Just catching up with Brill and the team. Honestly, I’d happily spend the rest of the day here if it meant avoiding another meeting.” Brill laughed, clapping Tim on the back. “You’re welcome anytime, Tim. But something tells me Alfred’s not here to let you hang around.”

“You would be correct, Mr. Brill,” Alfred replied with a faint smile. “I’m here to collect Master Timothy for his scheduled outing” Tim groaned playfully, though there was a hint of genuine reluctance in his tone. “Right. I almost forgot about that.” Alfred raised an eyebrow, a smile working its way to his lips. “I highly doubt that, sir. You promised me this morning that you’d make time for it.”

Brill chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, I won’t keep you, Tim. But don’t be a stranger, alright? You’re always welcome here.” “Thanks, Brill,” Tim said, shaking his hand firmly. “And thanks for everything you do. Seriously.” Brill waved him off. “Just doing my job. You take care.”

With that, Brill turned and headed back toward the factory floor, leaving Tim and Alfred standing by the railing. Tim glanced around the bustling factory one last time, feeling the faint pull of wanting to stay.

As they exited the factory, the noise of the machinery faded behind them, replaced by the hum of the city. Alfred led the way to the sleek black car waiting just outside, holding the door open for Tim. Finally, he sighed and slid into the car. As Alfred took his seat in the driver’s position and started the engine, Tim leaned back, the faint smell of steel and oil still lingering in his mind.

“Alright, Alfred,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s go pick out some plants.” The car pulled away from the factory, heading toward the nursery. And though Tim’s mind was already drifting back to the battles he’d fought that morning.

True to his word, Alfred made a slight detour on the way to the nursery, pulling the car up to the curb outside Tim’s favorite café. It was a cozy little spot nestled on a quiet street corner, the kind of place that didn’t rely on flashy signs or gimmicks to draw customers. Instead, it was all about the warm atmosphere, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting out the door. Tim perked up as the car slowed, his earlier reluctance to leave the factory melting into a small smile. “Thanks, Alfred. You didn’t have to, you know.”

“Nonsense,” Alfred replied, cutting the engine as he glanced at Tim in the rearview mirror. “I believe I recall someone declaring this café’s iced Lungo to be ‘the single greatest invention mankind has ever achieved.’ I couldn’t possibly deny you such brilliance on a day like today.”

Tim laughed, shaking his head as he opened the car door. “Did I really say that?” “You did,” Alfred said, his tone dry but fond. “Though I refrained from reminding you that the same could be said for the wheel, penicillin, and indoor plumbing.”

Tim grinned as he stepped out of the car, closing the door behind him. “Fair point. I’ll keep that in mind.” The café was already buzzing with its usual mid-afternoon crowd, the hum of quiet conversations mixing with the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. As Tim walked through the door, the familiar scent of coffee and baked goods enveloped him, instantly making him feel just a little more at ease.

“Tim!” one of the baristas called from behind the counter, a young woman with a bright smile and a teal streak in her hair. “The usual?” “You know it, Jess,” Tim replied, leaning casually against the counter. “How’s it going today?”

“Same old, same old,” Jess said as she started working on his drink. “Though I’m guessing your day hasn’t been quite as mellow, huh? You’ve got that ‘already over it’ look.” Tim chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “You have no idea.”

Jess smirked as she handed him his drink. “Well, at least you’ve got this. One iced Lungo, with an extra shot of espresso because I’m guessing you’ll need it.” “You’re a lifesaver,” Tim said, handing her a generous tip before taking a sip. The rich, smooth flavor hit him instantly, and he let out a satisfied sigh. “Perfect as always.”

“Glad you think so,” Jess said, waving him off as another customer approached the counter. “Take care, Tim!” Tim gave her a small wave as he headed back out to the car, the drink already working its magic. Alfred had the door open for him by the time he reached the curb, and Tim slid back into his seat with a grateful nod.

“Feel better, sir?” Alfred asked as he started the car again, merging smoothly into the light afternoon traffic. “Much,” Tim replied, holding up the drink like it was a trophy. “This is exactly what I needed.”

“Excellent,” Alfred said, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “Now, if you’re properly fortified, we can continue to the nursery.” Tim chuckled, leaning back in his seat as the car moved through the city streets.

As they approached the plant nursery, Tim glanced out the window, his thoughts starting to shift. He was looking forward to the greenery, the quiet, and the chance to spend some time with Alfred away from the chaos of Wayne Enterprises. The drive to the nursery was surprisingly pleasant. The city’s bustling energy gradually gave way to quieter streets lined with trees and the occasional glimpse of open fields, a rare sight that Tim couldn’t help but appreciate, even if he wasn’t particularly looking forward to the task ahead. Alfred, however, seemed to be enjoying himself. Tim caught the faint smile on the older man’s face as the car rolled to a stop in front of the nursery’s entrance.

The nursery itself was charming, a sprawling space filled with rows of vibrant plants, earthy tones, and the sweet, clean scent of flowers and soil. A hand-painted wooden sign reading "Sarah's Green Thumb Nursery" hung above the entrance gate, swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. Beyond the entrance.

Alfred turned off the car and looked over at Tim, his smile still lingering. “Here we are, Master Timothy. I’m sure you’ll manage to survive this ordeal, even if it’s not a boardroom battle.” Tim rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “You’re enjoying this way too much, Alfred.”

“Guilty as charged,” Alfred replied smoothly, stepping out of the car.

Tim followed, stretching briefly before shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. He glanced around the nursery, taking in the sight of vibrant flowers, rows of potted plants, and the occasional worker moving between tasks. As they approached the main office, the door swung open, and Sarah, the owner of the nursery, stepped out. She was in her late 40s, her sun-kissed skin and earth-stained overalls a testament to the amount of time she spent working outdoors. Her warm smile widened when she spotted Alfred.

“Alfred!” she called, wiping her hands on a towel slung over her shoulder. “It’s been ages!”

“Not that long, Sarah,” Alfred replied with a chuckle, shaking her hand firmly. “You’re as lively as ever, I see.”

“And you’re as sharp as ever,” Sarah quipped before turning to Tim. “And this must be the ‘young man’ you’ve been telling me about. Tim, right?” Tim offered a polite smile, shaking her hand. “That’s me. It’s nice to meet you, Sarah.”

“Likewise,” Sarah said, her eyes twinkling. “Alfred’s been singing your praises for years. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” Tim shot Alfred a look. “You’ve been talking about me?”

“Only occasionally,” Alfred said innocently. “Mostly when I’m in need of an amusing anecdote.”

Sarah laughed as Tim sighed dramatically. “Well, don’t worry, Tim. We’ll go easy on you today. We’ve got plenty of plants to look at, but I promise we’ll make it as painless as possible.”

Tim smirked. “I appreciate that.”

As Sarah led them deeper into the nursery, she pointed out various sections of flowering plants, shrubs, herbs, and the greenhouse where some of the more delicate plants were kept. Workers bustled around, potting plants, trimming leaves, and watering rows of greenery. Tim’s gaze wandered as they walked, eventually catching sight of one of the larger greenhouses. Inside, a young man was working diligently, earbuds in as he hummed along to whatever music was playing. He moved with practiced ease, pruning plants, arranging them neatly on benches, and sorting orders with a quiet focus.

Tim found himself watching for a moment, intrigued by the calm yet efficient way he worked. There was something oddly soothing about it—seeing someone so at ease, so immersed in their task. Sarah noticed Tim’s attention and glanced toward the greenhouse. “That’s Y/N,” she said with a smile. “He’s one of our best. Always up early, always working hard, and somehow always in a good mood. I don’t know how he does it, but the plants seem to love him.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You make him sound like a plant whisperer.” “Sometimes I think he might be,” Sarah said with a laugh. “He’s been helping me here for a while now. Great kid. If you need someone to find a particular plant, he’s your guy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim said, his tone light but genuine. Alfred, of course, noticed Tim’s interest and gave a knowing smile. “Perhaps you should introduce yourself, sir..” Tim shook his head slightly, though he was still watching Y/N from the corner of his eye as the young man carefully placed a potted mix of Peonies onto a waiting cart. “Maybe later. Let’s get through the plant selection first.” “Very well,” Alfred said, with a content hum.

_______________

#dc tim drake #dc universe #dc comics #dcu #tim drake x you #tim drake x male reader #tim drake x reader #batman #batfam #red robin x reader #red robin #red robin x male reader #red robin x you #red robin x y/n #tim drake x y/n

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sturnmeovr · 46 minutes ago

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♡‧₊˚ Video Clips of Sweethearts Pregnancy - Second Trimester

First Trimester Video Clips

♡ ‘big momma don’t play’ - video length: 9 seconds

Chris’ face fills the frame, he had goofy smile plaster on his face as he pops another french fry in his mouth. He double taps his phone screen, turning the camera around to reveal a very pregnant Sweetheart biting down on a cheeseburger. His soft chuckle can be heard behind the camera as Sweetheart looks up, crunching her eyebrows as she makes eye contact with the bright flash right before the clip ends. He sends it to his snap group, captioning it; ‘big momma don’t play’

♡ ‘so fucking cool’ - video length: 27 seconds

Sweethearts baby bump takes over the screen, Chris’ large hand placed gently over the top of her stomach. He presses down on her belly, “c’mon,” his raspy voice echos out of frame, “don’t be camera shy kid,” he coos, his chest vibrating against Sweethearts thigh as he speaks. She lets out a soft giggle, her belly jump with each breath she lets out. Chris sucks his teeth, “he’s not gonna do it — little asshole.” His comment earns another giggle from Sweetheart before baby Bean presses his foot against the barrier of her stomach in one swift movement. Sweetheart gasps, Chris’ eyes widening, his hands trembling as a bright smile makes its way onto his lips. He focuses in on her belly, capturing another sharp kick from their unborn baby. It was a cute video to send to his friends and family. It was one of the few times the two had felt their baby kick.

♡ 'yes daddy' - video length: 15 seconds

Steady clicks of Chris computer mouse fill the, otherwise, silent bedroom, Sweetheart cuddles up with her body pillow on his bed, her phone pointed towards him as she holds down the record button. Chris looks over his shoulder for split second, speaking on cue, "y'wanna go get my mini pizzas from the microwave, baby? I made some extra for you," Sweetheart knew he wouldn't be able to pull himself away from his Fortnite session if he tried, especially considering the fact that the microwave alarm sounded minutes ago. Her pregnancy hormones were like a rollercoaster, already planted the idea in her head before she started recording, "yes daddy," she coos sweetly. The clip shows Chris' head snapping so fast it looks like it could twist around and roll right off his shoulders. Sweetheart lets out a giggle before ending the video and exiting the room to retrieve the mini pizzas.

♡ 'Its a boy!! 💙💙👶🏻' - video length: 42 seconds

Nick points his phone towards Chris and Sweetheart, focusing the camera on the expecting couple who stood at the end of the long dining table Family and friends filling each seat around the table, giving the pair their full attention. Sweetheart has her bottom lip pinned between her teeth, chewing on it nervously as Chris wraps an arm around her waist, lowering her head to whisper something in her ear. A small, toothless smile pulls at Sweethearts lips as Chris smiles at her, pressing a light kiss to her temple. Matt can be seen at the edge of the frame, "they're so cute, it makes me wanna puke. Nick nudges him with his elbow, making the camera fall out of focus and zoom in on Jimmy's face, "I'm recording, y'idiot." Nick quickly pans the camera back to Sweetheart and Chris, letting out a snort in the process at his fuck up, don't worry — I'll edit that out." Thankful he got it together before the group starts counting down in unison, "three ... two ... one!!"

Their heads turned away and their eyes clamped shut as they press their wine glasses down into the neatly decorated cake that Mary Lou ordered specifically for the gender reveal. They crowd cheers as Chris and Sweetheart turn to look at the cake, lifting their wine glasses at the same time to reveal a white and blue striped pattern. Sweetheart slaps a hand over her mouth, taking a step back in shock as the room combusts into a symphony of cheers. The clip catches Chris dropping his wine glass, thrusting a fist into the air, and shouting, "I fucking knew it! I'm having a son!" He wraps an around Sweetheart once again, pulling her in for a bear hug, rocking their bodies from side to side before Nick ends the video.

♡ 'half way done🥹🤰🏻' - video length: 18 seconds

Sweetheart stand in front of the bathroom mirror, phone in hand as she shows off the front view of her growing bump. Chris towering over her from behind, his hands resting on her waist and his chin resting on top her head. He loved the glow that pregnancy induced on her, it was like she swam in the fountain of youth the way she woke up glowing every morning. Chris smooths a hand over her bump and Sweetheart turns to flaunt her bumps side profile, a bright smile etched across Chris' face as he admires her in the mirror.

♡ 'she thinks I'm funny 🥰' - Video Length: 6 seconds

The clips starts out black, Sweetheart voice sounding through the screen, "s'not funny — Chris stop!" You can hear her trying to contain her laughs as Chris pulls the camera back, zooming in on the grey leggings she wore, a dark wet stop stained between her legs and down the inside of her thighs. Chris wheezes from behind the camera, completely hysterical over Sweetheart peeing her pants right in front of him. In her defense, her son had been pushing her bladder a lot more the past week, and Chris couldn't set up a baby car seat if his life depended on it.

♡ ‘I feel so bad’ - video length: 8 seconds

Sweetheart sits on the floor of the kitchen; tears stain her cheeks as she sobs over the last bowl of Mary Lou's chili she so clumsily spilled. Her belly bump getting in the way, making her stumble and lose her balance, ending with her collapsing on the floor in tears over the last bowl of sacred beans. Chris clears his throat, "its okay, babe. We can get some more," he attempts to soothe her, lowkey trying to hold back the laughter in his voice because he knew it'd send her into a rage. They both knew it was silly for her to be bawling her eyes out over a lost bowl of soup, but her pregnancy hormones had her in a chokehold lately. Sweetheart looks up at him, her eyes puffy from crying, "it's not the same, Chris!" she whines before dropping her hands to her lap, letting out sobs as she looks back down at the mess in front of her

♡ 'pregnancy comes with perks 😋' - Video Length: 4 Seconds

Sweetheart is reclined back in the corner of the sectional, a box of Mcdonald's chicken nuggets in her lap. Her feet rest on Chris' thighs, his hands gently massaging circles into the bottoms of her swollen pads. She dips a nugget in the opened sweet n sour cup that sits in the cardboard box before zooming in on her babydaddy, Chris looks over to her and giving her a cheesy koolaid smile as she ends the clip.

♡ 'and you guys wonder why she's pregnant' - Video Length: 17 Seconds

Matt sits at the kitchen island, a bag of Doritos and a pink lemonade placed halfway out of frame as he points the camera to the living room; showing Sweetheart sitting on Chris' lap as they share a intimate, steamy kiss. His hand pressed to the back of her neck to keep her close while her hands ball fists into his shirt. Matt double taps the camera, revealing his signature mean mug before ending the clip and sending it to his close circle - including the Chris and Sweetheart.

♡ 'nesting or whatever the pregnant ladies call it 💪🏻' - Video Length: 12 Seconds

Chris pans the camera to Sweetheart; laundry baskets boxing her in as she folds each piece of baby clothing. A gasp leaves her lips, "awee, Chris!" she coos, holding up a small onesie, "look at his one!" She lips curling into a sympathetic frown at how adorable the newborn sized onesie was.

♡‧₊˚ Cheys Note - Happy Friday 🥳 We ready for today's video?!! Sorry I've been a bit inactive this last week. I'm currently dealing with the flu and my period at the same time, so I feel like death tbh. I figured I'd do video clips again since the last one did so good <3 Emotional support should be out soon, sorry for the delay 😭

Masterlist

Babydaddy!Chris Masterlist

Taglist (comment to be added)

Send me asks and suggestions about babydaddy!Chris & sweetheart <3

Check out my Pinterest for their board 😋

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sevilai · 1 day ago

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Why yes, the horrors persist, but so do I

Just got done with a piece I can't share yet so I'm in sneaking some art that I wanna do before I reopen for commissions. And shockingly, at least TWO other human beings wanted to see him, too, so I made a little reference for my headcanon Shadow design! As a treat <3

Not part of an AU or anything this is just what he looks like in my heart

Some dumb assorted headcanons I have for him under the cut(should you want those):

The fifth inhibitor on his neck does much less work than the other four and can be removed safely for an extended time. He doesn't make a habit of removing it, though.

He's realistically only about 20% hedgehog, and that's being generous. His genetic make up reads something like, "16% hedgehog, 68% Black Arms, and around 16% various other animal DNA to bridge the gap between them. He exhibits very few hedgehog behaviors aside from curling up, raising his quills and making that godawful engine revving noise when he feels threatened.

Tail lashes when he's angry or focused.

He doesn't have 'true' spines. Where say, Sonic's spines would be a solid grouping of quills forming the shape, Shadow has something more akin to fleshy horns with fur and quills covering them.

Has a tapetum lucidum that reflects yellow in the light.

Oddly at home in the water.

His fur is only this shiny during periods he's taking decent care of himself (rare).

An amount of genetic editing was done to ensure he expressed softer traits; His scales are soft and smooth, his fur is sleek, and his quills aren't that sharp. Though he was required to be a weapon, the professor ensured he'd still be an acceptable amount of cuddly as Maria's medical support animal.

Can absolutely breath fire. He is Black Arms after all.

#I draw his shoes and gloves indentical to canon so I just didn't draw them. You know what they look like lmao #please enjoy my stupid lizard son <3 #I'm particularly excited about that mouth :3c #my art #sonic the hedgehog #sonic #shadow the hedgehog #sonic x shadow generations #headcanon #my headcanons #headcanon design #redesign #id in alt text #Will probably draw out some of the written headcanons when I have time. I feel like the quill one would make more sense visually

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synintheraven · 1 year ago

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Thank you Līga @whitedarkmoonflower my beloved for providing me with pics of my (second) husband 😏

#edited the light and sharpness of these but that's it #the color is just as it is in the show #would die for candle light Ragnar!!!#*roars*#lol #every dane is a hottie with the correct light 😌#Ragnar ragnarsson #my edits #I mean sort of Liga took them okay I take no credit in that!!#Ragnar the younger #Tobias Santelmann

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elmonstro · 9 months ago

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HELLO FELLOW BIGBANG PROCRASTINATOR. I SURELY AM NOT ALSO PROCRASTINATING. Good thing our partners for it will NEVER find out;)))))

ummmm <3 maybe percy for 1? or haha a rodimus for 7? :3

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRIEND!!! Hope you have an awesome dayyy!

SHHHH don't let them hear!! I had to stop procrastinating lmao but here they are, you can have both <3 as a treat

From this expressions challenge, I'm still open to requests but might take a while

Bonus sketch for u

#perceptor #rodimus #rodimus prime #mtmte #more than meets the eye #lost light #transformers #my art #really like how percy turned out his sharp edges are so satisfying to look at #it's the first roddy i draw #hope you like them! the smoke was therapeutic to paint #edit: forgor half of percy’s pen lmao

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scottinaussie · 2 months ago

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Fr. Mike Schmitz

October 2024

#Father Mike Schmitz #Mike Schmitz #Fr Mike Schmitz #usersam #usermack #malebimbo #my gifs #roman catholic #catholic priest #hierophilia #another set from that same vid #no sharp no color no edit #just pure natural lighting and insane facecard from dad

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curestardust · 5 months ago

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"Most Rusalki choose to live in lakes or under the sea... While I choose this land." Vila Trailer - "Another Fairy Tale"

#reverse 1999 #reverse 1999 vila #reverse 1999 avgust #r1999 #r1999 edit #Reverse 1999 Farewell Rayashki #*r #flashing lights #her little sharp tooth made me gasp i love her concept so much

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sienna-the-doe · 1 year ago

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This.

is a pan.

I do a lot of photography and abstract art, but I dont post a lot of them.

This is a major intersection for me with the two kinds of art that I do, and Im so so happy I took and edited this picture. Pretty heavily edited too, lol.

:3c Stay Silly, Make Art, and Have Hot Sloppy Sex.

#photography #abstract art #my art #The editing process was really really fun tbh #in the original picture you couldnt see the scratch mark lines #but when I raised the light balance #lowered the exposure and increased the sharpness slightly #and I got those incredible almost textured looking lines

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autistickaitovocaloid · 2 years ago

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Hey, don't cry. Entire Project Diva Extend Rolling Girl PV in one gif, okay?

#art talks about stuff #if you saw me post a version of this gif like a minute earlier no you didn't #this took forever to get right gif editing sites just hate me i think #<- i said this in the old post but not exactly but just to be safe because sharp camera cuts #id in alt text #flashing lights

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norikuna · 1 month ago

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SHE TOLD YOU THAT SHE CELIBATE, SHE TOLD ME I COULD NAIL HER SH*T — gojo satoru minors dni

PART I. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

prologue. → you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. college au, reader wears a skirt, reader is choso's twin and yuuji's older sister, but no appearance detailed. kissing, making out, óral (f) receiving, general bitchiness and fuckups 😚 ensemble cast of poor bystanders (geto, shoko, sukuna, yuki etc)

word count. 10k! song inspiration. gang baby — nle choppa

a/n. it's because of that one edit by satorupedia that's going around rn. yall know which one 😭 art by touno_stupa on twt!

dedication. yayyy decided to start my little gift series for new years with this fic inspired and dedicated to @fushitoru who was one of the first blogs i followed on here before i was super familiar with jujutsu kaisen. aashi writes thee most wonderful gojo fics that are so well characterised and heart-stoppingly adorable and HAWT. 😁 🤭 and i easily associate her with physics/college au gojo now, ever since her spiderman gojo fic that lives in my head!!!!

gojo in this fic:

ACT I. don't puck around and find out!

"i ran into gojo today," choso says, his voice as unbothered and monotone as ever, scraping the gravel lazily with the heel of his scuffed combat boots, "or he ran into me."

"gojo satoru?"

"how many gojos do we know?" your twin brother huffs, giving you a dry side-eye. but before you can retort something equally acrid, he's yanking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, halting you midstep, "wait. car."

you blink out of your tired daze just in time to see a battered camry putter past, its engine groaning like it's on its last legs. just how you feel after a long day of seminars and lectures. the car rattles down the street with the grace of a tin can tied to a string.

"thanks," you mutter, half-heartedly as you shift your laptop case from one tired arm to the other, "could have been the end of my genius academic career."

"would have been a short one either way," choso quietly quips, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"so?" you press on.

"so, what?"

"what did gojo say?"

"ohhh," choso drawls, in that irritating way of his that indicates he has no idea how to deliver good gossip, news or any form of tea, "he asked if i wanted to play hockey for his team tomorrow. they're down a player ever since kento went on exchange."

"hockey?" your eyebrow arches, and skepticism curls your lips for choso is hardly known for his athleticism. you mean, you're sure he has the physical ability in him somewhere but you (and the rest of the world) are yet to see it, "are you gonna join the team, then?"

not that you care about gojo's stupid, state-tournament winning team. of course not. you're just curious. and curiosity is harmless.

it has nothing to do with the fact that you woke up last night wanting to jump gojo satoru's bones. just like you did the night before, and before. and the week before that. yeah, suffice to say that this has been going on for a while.

"nah," choso says, shaking dull, greasy strands of dark hair out of his eyes, "got placements tomorrow."

right. placements. choso's all about pathology and lab medicine and test tubes, while you get queasy at the mere mention of haemoglobin. and it unsettles you mildly at how your twin brother's eyes light up at the mere mention of a blood test.

"and?" you prod when he starts to drift off again, his attention wandering like it always does.

choso is often like a calm river. slow, broad and lazy.

this time, you pull at his one of his headphone cords to reel him back, "did gojo say anything else?"

choso gives you that dull look, quiet but loaded. like he's already solved a puzzle that you didn't know you were trying to hide. it just makes your stomach twist, "why do you care what gojo satoru says?"

"i don't," you snap, far too fast, like your tongue is racing your brain to a crash site. the lie sits heavy in your throat, thick and obvious.

choso's pale and dry lips twitch, and you wondered what happened to the lip balm you threw into his christmas stocking last year, "should i have told him you could sub in for his team instead?"

"no-one likes a smartass, cho," you grumble, speeding up your steps as your twin leisurely rummages through his fraying backpack for his house keys. you roll your eyes and push ahead, jamming your own keys into the lock before you die of boredom waiting for him to dig through the trash heap that lies at the bottom of his bag, "anyway, i was just asking. you brought gojo up."

choso trails behind you, his tone infuriatingly casual, "you always get weird when someone mentions him. i thought you guys were friends."

"we are friends. and i don't get weird."

"you get so weird. even yuki said so."

"i love yuki, i do. but she has no idea what she's talking about —"

the door swings open, cutting off your false deflection. standing there is yuuji, with half a sandwich dangling from his mouth like he's some kind of feral creature. there's a smear of mayonnaise clinging to his cheek as he yanks a red, track hoodie over his tank top.

"mmph! hey, you guys!" he muffles through a mouthful of bread, waving at you with the enthusiasm that only a teenage boy could muster after inhaling half the fridge.

"where are you off to?" you peer at your younger brother, your eyes zeroing in on his mutilated sandwich. a sandwich that you're certain you made for yourself this morning, leaving it for a study session upon your return.

"track practice," yuuji says, swallowing the last bite whole, "then dinner with fushiguro and kugisaki." he's already halfway down the driveway, sneakers untied and laces flopping on the pavement behind him.

choso narrows his eyes, "got money? or a water bottle? a hat? did you wear sunscreen?"

"i'm good!" yuuji calls back without breaking stride, waving a quick hand at the two of you.

"why don't you hold his hand and walk him to school, mother?"

"shut up," choso grumbles as he brushes past you into the house, throwing you an exaggerated scowl of wounded, elder-brother pride over his shoulder, "why don't you hold gojo's hand to hockey practice?"

your bookbag swings through the air, connecting to the back of choso's oversized head and a loud thud follows.

ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine

you had been in this library for hours, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook stubbornly refused to make sense. it was all a gross blur of terms and diagrams, and your $8.00 coffee had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that was the plan, no distractions.

your phone, however, had other ideas as it sat innocently next to your stack of notes. you tapped the screen quickly under the guise of a 'quick break' but before long, you were deep into instagram stories. someone's dog, a flyer for a rave that you definitely weren't going to, and then, of course, him.

gojo satoru. on someone's reposted story with a classic, grainy photo of one of the campus's most darling boys. long arm draped casually over some girl. both of them lit in the neon glow of what looked like a party bus. he wasn't even looking at the camera, just flashing that effortless grin that you had seen your entire life growing up. and the girl was gorgeous, obviously. not that you cared about that.

but speak of the devil and he hath appear. a long shadow fell over the table, and you felt the chill in your bones, trying not to shift in your seat.

"go away, gojo," you muttered, not even deigning to look up.

"how'd you know it was me?" his voice is teasing, all light and airy as he's pulling out the chair next to you.

"what can i say? lucky guess," you reply dryly, keeping your eyes glued to the suspiciously-stained textbook. worried that you'll look up and your iron resolve will disappear from one glance at big, blue eyes.

but out of the corner of his eye, you try not to twitch at the sight of the soft, pale blue hoodie that swallows his broad frame whole. thick, white strands of hair that fall gently over his face. and that cloying scent of mint and something faintly sweet that leaves your ears hot and your heart sitting in your throat.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that's what you tell yourself in a now failing mantra.

"are you following me today?" you ask, flipping a page with exaggerated nonchalance, like you're not about to tear up pathetically from a stupid crush.

"caught me," gojo says, the grin audible even in his voice, "i just couldn't resist finding you. is that what you want me to say?"

you finally look up, swallowing at unfairly fine features, "saw you were at some party yesterday. i didn't think you'd be on campus today."

gojo just laughs, the sound soft and infuriating, "keeping tabs on me now?" and he's rifling through his bag for something, "or you don't think the library's a good look for me? i'm broadening my horizons. testing the waters."

you narrow your eyes, willing the heat rising in your face to stay put and not crawl into your voice, "i think you're testing my patience. i have a test tomorrow, so if you're here to waste my time..."

"maybe i just wanted to hang out with my friend," gojo says, tearing open a kitkat wrapper in an obnoxious way that echoes through the silent hall, and the crinkle of plastic grates against your nerves, "we haven't seen each other in ages."

"don't you have a lot of other people to hang out with nowadays?" you're mentally beating yourself with a bat at your question, wincing at how it sounds like you keep count of who he hangs out with, and you're pathetically down bad for him. like a 90s singer begging on his knees for a kiss.

"i mean, i could hang out with them," gojo says, breaking his kitkat horizontally like a monster, "but they're not you."

his sunglasses are gone, revealing eyes so blue they look otherworldly, and he's throwing you that smiling, lopsided grin that makes your heart run around a room and bang into the walls. but no. you were not going to let gojo satoru get to you. he probably made every girl feel like this, like they were the centre of his fast-paced universe. until the next shiny thing came along.

besides, gojo satoru dated models. or stunning cheerleaders. the kind of people who looked good under strobe lights, and in the glow of his party bus digital camera pics.

and hey, it's not like you were self-depreciating or awfully insecure. you liked who you were and you would never change it for anyone. quiet and ambitious. reserved, but down for some fun. you'd like to think you were the type of person who saw the world in a beautiful, cinematic light. but it was maddening how gojo satoru seemed to bring out the most juvenile issues in you that had your stomach turning itself into ugly knots.

"gojo," you try to sound as nonchalant as possible, "are you even here to study?"

as in why are you really here? please ask me out.

gojo looks unbothered, unshaken, "coffee. cake. maybe even some flirting, if you're up to it."

the universe hates you. it has a way of delivering what you want right into your hands, when...you don't exactly want it.

you blink at the white-haired man, disbelief bubbling under your skin, "you're not serious."

"why wouldn't i be?"

"c'mon, satoru. everyone knows you're not the actual dating type. you ever been in a relationship that wasn't pr and lasted for more than two weeks?"

absolutely bonkers at how your heart and your tongue are not on the same wavelength at all. it's like your mouth missed the memo and is just firing bullets that have gojo's grin faltering a bit, as a flicker of heated annoyance flashes in his eyes. even hurt, but it's gone too quickly for you to read into it.

"didn't realise that you thought i was that much of a joke," and you're not fond of how gojo's voice is quieter now, and a pretty sneer is dancing across his lips. you're biting your lip before you lose your stupid, petty resolve to not get involved with someone who could truly break your heart.

"if you didn't make everything a joke, it wouldn't be," you snap at him, and you're not even sure what you're angry at. there's no reason to be annoyed, or frustrated or even hurt and snippy with a friend who came and sat with you to catch up.

but you don't want to untangle whatever you're projecting onto gojo satoru, so you let bitter words spill over, "some of us don't have time for your games, gojo. we have real lives to deal with."

gojo's expression shifts completely, and that playful spark in his eyes is replaced with something colder as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, "right." and his tone is clipped, pissed, "got it. no time for games."

you watch as gojo walks away, already tapping away on his phone, but his footsteps are quieter than you expect. part of you wants to call after him, to take back the teeth and claws that painted your words.

but instead, you just look away from him and grimace. you must have pulled an awful, twisted face — for the man sitting across from you leans in and asks if you need to take an aspirin, or if you're low on fibre.

ACT III. between the covers

the bookstore smells faintly of old paper and new ink. a sharp contrast to the chill lingering outside, so the warmth hits you like a welcome blanket. the air buzzes with the muted chatter of customers, and the occasional beep of a cash register.

you're winding your way through the aisles, set on two missions. find that jacket-cover book that you had been wanting for weeks, and to hunt down the manga that yuuji had begged you to pick up for him.

you dart past a couple lingering in front of a 'booktube' bestseller display, narrowing avoiding a child wielding a stuffed dragon that you can only assume is smaug the magnificent from the hobbit. straight into the quieter section of the store, tucked in the back and smack-bang right into —

thud!

your shoulder collides hard with someone else, sending you stumbling back a step.

"fuck's sake. watch it," the person snaps, his tone sharp.

"maybe you should —" you start to retort, before the words die and patter out on your tongue as your mouth goes dry.

gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.

he's scowling at you, with sunglasses pushed up onto his head that expose those ridiculously pale eyelashes under the glow of the overhead lights. he's layered on a crisp varsity jacket, over a thick hoodie, all shades of soft blue and grey. and he looks irritated, with thick brows furrowed at you. but you don't miss the faint surprise that flutters across his face when he takes you in.

"seriously?" gojo murmurs, though more to himself, and his voice still holds an edge that has you wilting, "out of all the aisles in this store..."

you blink, caught somewhere between an apology that dances on the edge of your lips, and a bewildered laugh at how the divine powers deliver the worst luck on you. instead, you shove your hands deep into the pockets of your aviator jacket, "sorry. didn't see you."

gojo's shoulders relax, but just barely. as though he's still caught in the heavy fog of tension from your last words to him. but to your mild credit, he doesn't quite look ready to storm out either. progress?

"so. what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to break the ice and pretend that you're not doing internal pirouettes.

"just had to pick up a textbook," gojo mutters, holding up a thin and over-priced looking book on something like...quantum mechanics, "exams are coming up. gotta keep the top spot, you know."

you blink, "you're actually studying?"

gojo raises his eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smile, "what? you think i roll into my classes and ace everything through sheer willpower? or i spend all day being a joke and annoying everyone, right?"

you sigh, feeling the frosty, ice-gaze settle once more over you, paralysing you from head to toe, "look, gojo. i don't know what came over me that day," and now you're being sincere, looking away from his narrowed stare, "it's like some crazy, evil monster came over me and it possessed me. i think i incarnated some demon king in me and i said all that mean shit."

he shifts slightly beside you, and you don't miss at how gojo's lower lip juts out at your apology, or how close he is to you right now. "and i was jus' being stupid. swear i don't think you're a joke." you try to pick up some random book, pretending you're very busy as you speak.

but it's very hard to look genuine when you've just picked up a glossy copy of 'stand and deliver: a hard look at fixing male erection problems.'

it earns you a small laugh, light and quick, that has you almost falling to your knees, and you can hear choso's voice in your head. muttering out a dulcet 'i told you so. you want him so bad.' but it's worth it as gojo leans against the nearest shelf, the annoyance from earlier starting to ebb.

and for a moment, gojo studies you and his expression is unreadable. for your part, you're pretending to read the back cover of 'stand and deliver' and some blurb about how this award-winning author managed to help her husband 'get it up' after twenty years of marriage.

but the tension in his posture dissolves, relaxing further and gojo hums, "noted." that's all he says, and an awkward silence hovers. it hovers so uncomfortably, leaving you floundering for a new topic until gojo's voice breaks the silence.

"choso's doing good, yeah? i heard he got a girlfriend."

you smile, "yeah. yuki, she's like really cool. i don't know how he did it."

gojo snickers, "i asked if he wanted to play hockey and i think he's been avoiding me all week."

you try to pretend its not because of how you re-enacted your little spat with gojo, demonstrating the entire thing for your twin brother. who had just called you stupid afterwards. among other not-so-flattering terms, with little consideration for your crushing, beating heart.

"you going to suguru's party next weekend?"

ah, now that's a curveball.

because, again, you are your own brand of cool. or so you'd like to think, so this isn't really a matter of pitying comparison. but geto suguru is like on another level of effortlessly vogue. at least in your eyes. you know that he's gojo's best friend and he delivered a (controversial) and killer project on gene editing last semester. you know that geto's involved with gig photography as a hobby, and thus, has personal access to some of the coolest bands in the city.

and you also know that he occasionally waves a hand to you, but it's not like you actually know the man. it's just mutual association.

"i wasn't planning on it," you hesitate, for you really had been planning to cram through a mid-term session, "but someone asked me to go as their date."

gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"

"naoya zenin," you say cautiously, watching as gojo's face twists. like he's resisting the urge to gag and tear his hair out.

"naoya? he's like a walking billboard for being an entitled cunt," gojo groans, running a hand through glossy hair that has you trailing your gaze over slender, sculpted hands.

you narrow your eyes, "he seemed...okay. smart, i think."

"oh, he's smart. i'm not questioning that," gojo crabs, "he's so arrogant though. i grew up seeing that guy everywhere. our families were like, half friends."

you cross your arms, suddenly defensive, "are you warning me? or just mad that he asked me out?"

gojo seems to flounder for half a second, quick enough that you could miss it and he could deny it, "jealous of naoya? please," and he scoffs as he leans back against the shelf, "i have taste. unlike some people."

"you can't be the one giving me a lecture on dating etiquette. i mean, how many dates do you have lined up for geto's party? two, three?"

gojo gives you a sly grin, "more than that, hah. gotta keep my options open."

"tacky," you wrinkle your nose, trying to pretend that you don't feel like you just guzzled a gallon of curdled milk, "and classless."

"yes," gojo sighs sadly, "and endlessly charming. it's so hard being me," shooting you back a quizzical look as he pulls up to the register, paying for his textbook.

as he paid, you linger near the shelves, pretending to browse while stealing glances at gojo satoru. there was something different about him today, something quieter that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

and on gojo's way out, he pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. his expression is still entirely unreadable, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. and then he was gone.

ACT IV. blush confidential

there's a soft hum of pop music wafting from someone's phone, blending in with the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a straightener. your bedroom is a whirlwind of motion and chaos, with clothes thrown over chairs, and pre-game drinks piled up over your vanity.

"i can't believe you're not coming with us," you gripe to yuki, watching as she lounged up on your bed, denim crinkling as she shifted to adjust herself.

"tch, you know i love a good party," yuki grins with sparkling ideas, "but choso and i have a date tonight. he's been texting me about it all day."

you snicke at the thought of your hapless twin, "yeah. he was practically glued to your dm's. ran into the kitchen table twice this morning."

shoko snorts from her spot at the vanity, from where she's running a brush through cropped, chestnut hair, "choso nervous? i need to see that," she catches your eye in the mirror, "do you still have that lip gloss?"

"on it," you're digging into the vast depths of your purse, grazing your wallet and a hal-featen granola bar. stubbing your finger on an opened gel pen, before clutching a small shiny tube that you toss to shoko.

"so," shoko smacks her lips, "how's it going with naoya?"

you blink, pausing in the middle of capping all your drying pens, "what do you mean how's it going? nothing's going."

your friend swivels on her stool, raising a thin eyebrow, "he's your date at this party, right? and why him, of all people?"

"seriously. that guy's got a reputation. and not a good kind, for a very good reason," utahime chimes in from her corner, where she's yanking on a ribbon woven through her hair.

you shrug, suddenly feeling defensive under their collective scrutiny, "hey. he asked, i said yes. it's not that deep."

shoko exchanges a pointed glance with utahime, and both of them looking equally skeptical in a way that has you flushing.

"he's just annoying, you know," shoko points out, "he thinks he's better than everyone else, and half the time? it's just hot air."

"and the other half?"

"still hot air," shoko flatlines, "you can do better."

"anyone's better than gojo," utahime mutters, "you don't want to be stuck with him."

yuki's snickering, and you're doing your utter best to pretend that the mention of gojo satoru doesn't have you crawling up and down the walls like a termite on crack.

"speaking of gojo," yuki drawls, running a comb through a golden sheaf of thick hair, "is he going with anyone to this party?"

you freeze for half a second, before busying yourself with some new body mist that you picked up from a sale, all vanilla and coconut and macademia, "i ran into gojo the other day," and you keep your tone as neutral as possible, "and he said he had a few dates."

"ugh," shoko groans, wrinkling her nose, "of course he does," and utahime mutters an affirmative, exasperated sigh, echoed only by yuki, who pauses mid-brush to look at you sympathetically.

"what?" you snap, defensive, "why are you all looking at me like that?"

shoko tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "well, i mean. you like gojo, right? like really like him?"

"huh?" the question catches you so off guard that you're left sputtering, as the perfume leaves a sharp and awful taste on your tongue, accidentally leaving a fresh spritz into your mouth, and not the curve of your neck.

"oh, blech. absolutely not," you say vehemently, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "i don't like him like that. not that i think he's awful or anything —"

utahime crosses her arms, white sleeves brushing against each other, "he is awful."

"yes, thank you for that, utahime. but he's just not my type," you finish firmly, "he's loud. he's disruptive. he can't take anything seriously. i can't date that."

yuki gives you a long and knowing look, "oh, he likes you," she says lightly, as though she's telling you a casual piece of news, and not something that has you biting your tongue till iron spills, "he's been crushing on you for so long."

you feel your stomach twist uncomfortable, like little, evil goblins are dancing in your gut, "that's ridiculous," you mutter, fiddling with the clasp of your purse, "if he liked me, he would ask me out properly. and not date half the student population."

"he probably thinks it's fair, because you keep turning him down," shoko says matter-of-factly, standing up to grab her bag.

"i just don't think he's good for you. or anyone," utahime mutters, earning a pinch from you.

ACT V. stereo love

normally, gojo thrived at these parties. suguru was always able to pull a crowd that straddled the line between chic and cool, with just enough alcohol to keep things interesting. the thrum of the bass-heavy music should have been the perfect escape after a gruelling day spent staring at equations, leaving him half-convinced that his course coordinator was plotting against him and wanted him dead.

but now gojo satoru was just jittery, restless. and he hated that.

so for now, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a full cup in hand, watching people spill out of the living room and into the backyard. it seemed that other students had been aching for a party, something to take them off mid-terms and yet here he was, scowling like a storm cloud. he took another swig of his drink, ignoring how his own stomach was doing unexplained cartwheels.

"you good?"

suguru's low voice cuts through the noise, startling gojo enough that he has to tighten his fingers around his cup so sticky beer doesn't spill over pristine tiles.

gojo waves his closest friend and confidante off, "i'm fine. obviously."

suguru's frown deepens, though it's obscured by his loose, choppy dark hair. and there's skepticism painted all over his face, "you're never this quiet at any party. i thought that by now, i would have had to convince you not to jump off the roof."

"you think too little of me."

"you think too much of yourself," suguru drawls, but he's leaning against the counter beside gojo, as leather and cool metal rustle against each other, "so where's your date? or dates, i should say?"

gojo freezes, his cup halfway to his lip, "come again? what are you talkin' about?"

suguru arches a thin brow, "it's practically all over campus, man. apparently, you had several dates with lovely, young ladies lined up tonight. and i tried to defend your fragile honour, said it was too ambitious even for you. but..."

this revelation hits gojo like a punchline that he wasn't in on, and then it clicks for him. oh, he had started that rumour a few days ago. in the bookstore, to you. his brain replays the scene like a cruel, little highlight reel: the way your expression had wavered minutely, just for a moment, when he had straight up lied and claimed that he had a few dates.

truth be told, gojo had only said it to make you jealous, to see if he could ruffle you and play your game even better.

but now the joke was so clearly on him.

because gojo satoru had no dates. and you? you were here with someone who wasn't him.

suguru's following his gaze across the room, and gojo doesn't even bother to hide his petulant interest. he can see you standing near the back walls, laughing at something that naoya zenin, mayor of all things putrid, had said. naoya, with his stupid green roots and louis vuitton jacket, standing just a little bit too close to you for gojo's liking.

but before he can stew in it any linger, suguru's reaching out and pinching his ear. hard.

"ow! fuck was that for?" gojo's yelping, jerking away from his clearly evil, traitrous best friend.

"that," suguru says evenly, "was for looking like a lovesick idiot. pull yourself together, man."

"i'm not lovesick," gojo weakly protests, rubbing his bruised, throbbing ear and moving further away from suguru geto.

"you're not exactly screaming cool and collected," suguru dryly comments, "sulking like a sore loser while your crush laughs at another guy's jokes."

gojo feels his face heat up, just a little bit, because he knows that suguru's hitting close to home, "i don't sulk and do all that whiny shit. second of all, it's not my fault she went with zenin of all people. it's up to her if she wants to be stuck with someone who talks about his family's real estate portfolio as foreplay."

suguru snorts, and it's clear that he's not playing the role of sympathetic best man for life, "you know what's more obnoxious? watching you fuck around like this. you need to figure out how to ask her properly."

"i did all that!" gojo shoots back, throwing his arms up so his drink dances over the edge of the cup, "she said no. each time. you know what they call a guy who can't take a hint? she thinks i'm a loser!"

"and are you?"

gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"

"a loser."

"is it easier for me if i just say yes?" gojo half-heartedly gripes, "is that what you want me to say?"

"or," suguru says calmly, "you're a guy who hasn't proven he's worth saying yes to."

gojo groans, tipping his head back so he can block out the vision of his irritatingly wise best friend, "you sound like my grandmother."

"that's not even an insult. your grandmother is on some metal shit," suguru counters, unbothered, "and you sound like a twelve-year old. you can't flirt and sleaze your way through this. if you want her to take you seriously, i don't know how else to say this, you have to stop being...you."

"excuse me?"

"no. stop, don't make that face," suguru scowls, "you know what i mean. stop being a stupid flirt, and be a genuinely better person. otherwise, you're just spinning and burning out your wheels."

"did you pick up a self help book?"

suguru elbows him, sneering, "i'm trying to help you. if you don't want my help, i'm telling her you have an std."

"maybe you should just do that. end my misery," gojo downs the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of cheap beer doing nothing to ease the olympics in his alimentary canal. what's worse is that suguru is right, the bastard always is.

suguru claps him on the shoulder, "relax, satoru. you've got charm in spades. just use it...wisely."

"yeah, yeah. thanks, man," gojo mutters, brushing him off as suguru wanders away, probably to mediate some dumb argument between that big oaf, toji fushiguro and the even bigger oaf, ryomen sukuna. honestly, why were they even invited?

but gojo stays where he is, eyes flicking back to you. away from the distracting curve of your thighs in that skirt, and rather on how interested you look in naoya's stupid, animated gestures. and you look so at ease, but there's something hot and sharp twisting inside his gut.

suguru's soft, measured voice echoes in his head, "prove yourself as a person first."

oh, yeah. gojo could do that. he would absolutely do that. for you, he'd do just about anything, short of donating his vital organs (but he would definitely be considering it). but how hard could it be to be better? more mature? more grounded?

gojo satoru can handle all that. all he had to do was be a dignified, charming man. you know, someone who puts his best foot forward into the world. someone that you might actually consider taking seriously. someone calm and respectful.

if you were happy with naoya zenin, then who was he to interfere? who was he to ruin that for you? even if the guy looked like wile e. coyote when he smiled. even if naoya zenin was the most smug bastard to walk the earth.

gojo scowled at nothing in particular. but the point was that it wasn't his place to meddle. not if it meant risking your happiness. all he could do was be the best version of himself. polite, kind and above reproach. a good and respectful friend.

ACT VI. a shot of love, on the rocks.

"please, i want you so fuckin' bad."

gojo satoru is on his knees. at a party, in the middle of the living room. for you.

you feel like your mind isn't able to process all this fast enough, like your brain is on some pause. the music is still thumping in your head, but not as fast as your poor cardiac muscles as you're rendered frozen from pathetic, piercing blue eyes blinking up at you.

"please," gojo satoru repeats, and his voice vaguely warbles out like he's kinda lost his marbles and —

let's rewind.

five minutes ago, you had been standing with naoya zenin. and despite your initial reservations, you had been entertained. he's sorta witty, and definitely loaded with snarky remarks that cut through the noise of the party. it's hard not to laugh at his biting commentary, although half the time he's skewering people for fun, and the other half? just out of pure spite.

his golden eyes gleam with that edge, the kind of sharpness that makes you think of a hyena circling around its next meal. naoya is definitely full of himself, but it doesn't help that he's also ridiculously good-looking. and he knows how stunning he is, but its bothering him that you're not showering him in enough compliments for it.

still, he's here with you. he's your date. and you're doing your best to remind yourself of that. naoya is the only option you have at the moment, and he's definitely offering you more attention than anyone else tonight.

from across the room, utahime gives you an exaggerated, pained thumbs-up — while shoko shrugs in her usual blithe manner, but she gestures for you to smile more. you plaster on a wider grin, a little too obvious but naoya doesn't seem to notice.

"you know, if you're getting bored of all this, we could always find another room," naoya's low hiss slices right through the bass-thrum of the pulsing room, "do a little more than just talk."

for a moment, it's easy to imagine slipping away with him. but the sharpness in his killer-smile makes something in you bristle, like he's already envisioned you saying 'oh yes, naoya! please take me to bed!' and you shake your head, and give him an amused look.

"maybe later," you say lightly, "not now."

naoya zenin doesn't seem quite offended, but his smile grows wider as he stands up straight again, from where he had curved his tall frame into you, "i'm a patient man. fine by me, 'm gonna get some more drinks."

and you watch as his golden head of hair disappears into the crowd, leaving you all alone while the music blares around you, like a suffocating fog. you rub your temples, wondering if you should just go after naoya and tell him to go to town, something for the night's enjoyment. but before you can go any further, you hear a shout cut through the noise.

"hey!"

you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.

but also not quite the gojo that you're used to. the one that you grew up with, and held hands with in kindergarten, one who smiled easy and laughed too loud. it seems he's ditched the oversized hoodies and varsity jackets tonight, opting for a black tee that fits him a little too well and dark cargo pants that only highlight...

you're getting distracted. but it's hard to remain focused, when he's walking towards with you. seemingly determined, as his white hair falls forward over thunderstorm-eyes. for a moment, you're not sure if you’re hearing him over the pounding music, or if it's just your own pulse making everything seem louder.

"i hate that you're here with naoya," gojo says suddenly, and his voice is low and serious, something that you've never really heard from him before.

your brow furrows, "what?"

"i lied about the dates," he continues, as words just jumble out his candy-pink mouth, "i don't have a bunch of dates. fuck, i don't even have one date. i only want to date you."

you blink, and then you blink once more, because again what?

the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you think you might have misheard the man. his blue eyes are wide and earnest, and they're staring right at you.

and before you know, he's on his knees. muscular thighs bending so his knees hit the cool tiles with a heavy thud, hands splayed out for you.

"please," he implores, "you gotta understand. i need you to feel what i feel, because it's not even a passin' thought, i swear. it's not even a stupid crush. this is like —" and he's gesturing wildly with one hand, still kneeling like a knight about to beg for his lady's favour, "this is destiny."

"gojo," you manage, "are you on drugs?"

the white-haired man, bless his sassy heart, rolls his eyes, "no. i'm on beer and vodka. will you please let me finish?"

"yes, but what are you doing?" you hiss, exasperated and sibilant, as more eyes turn to the most ravishing man on campus, who's absolutely off his rocker. and there are phones being pulled out, god help you.

"what am i doing?" gojo smiles, and it's unnervingly wide, "i'm like laying it out all here for you. my love. because that's what you are, to me. like you're everything. and i swear everyone knows this already. should i call you my sun, my moon, my entire universe? it's like time stops when i see you, a-and trust me, i do physics. i know time shit," and he must have caught at how your mouth is flapping open because he suddenly wags a finger, "no! i'm not done. i haven't even told you how the world fades, and all that's left is you glowing. like a star that i can't reach."

he's placing a hand on his broad chest, digging into the tight top clinging to his pectorals, like he's being dramatically wounded, "i have to reach you. i have to be with you."

you're not sure what parts you've processed, or what part of this slow train-wreck has settled in your head, "are you, like, actually begging right now?"

gojo's eyes flash with the intensity of a thousand suns (well, fuck — gojo's awful poeticism is rubbing off on you already). you can hear the low snickers of two men that had been beating the living daylights out of each other half an hour ago, those fuckwits that go by toji and sukuna. you can hear sukuna's deep mutters about how no-one ever would like toji enough to do this for him. and yep, you can hear them scuffle again.

"yes!" gojo booms, and more than a few heads have turned now. you wonder if naoya zenin is watching in the background, and realising that this isn't a battle he wants to pick, "i will kneel for you. like i'd do this shit for eternity, even if my knees hurt so bad right now. but as long as you give me a chance to prove my worth. and my devotion, d-don't forget that! deep as the ocean, endless and vast. and the stars align...oh, how they align for us."

"ah, satoru," you cut in, and you realise that you're now smiling. embarrassment and mild humiliation be damned, there's a quirk tugging at your lips, "you can get up now. this is a bit dramatic."

gojo blinks, not missing a beat, "i'm dramatic because i'm in love, okay? and —" he swivels his head to the crowd, grumbling, "shut up, sukuna! i heard that, i'll beat your wonky ass. you don' know shit about love."

he's turning back to you, all sticky and soothing sugar once more, "where was i? eh, my confession. well, it's all for you. and it's me, givin' you every part of me. beggin' you to see that you're the only one who can break the walls around my heart."

you think that you've completed a full speed-run on every stage of grief that there is to experience, and if the small plink! coming from someone's phone is any indication, gojo's monologue has already made it's way onto someone's private story. and so naturally, everyone will have seen it by tomorrow.

"can you get off your knees? you look ridiculous."

gojo's grin falters for a split second before he straights up, all with a hefty groan as he runs a hand through snowy strands, "ridiculous? i'm being vulnerable as hell, and you think i look stupid?"

"a little," you admit, but you're reaching a hand out to push a strand of thick hair out of his eyes. and it's maddening at how gojo seems to tremble mildly under your touch, at the brush of your fingers against his temple, "kneeling at a frat party is crazy work."

gojo sinks his teeth into a plush lower lip, "that was me trying to show how much i care, and all that sweet shit. you make me lose all my cool, and this isn't even a joke."

"you never had cool, and now you've lost your dignity too," but you're blushing, and it's a giddy feeling at how he's now close enough that you can feel his body heat.

gojo satoru's eyes twinkle, "maybe. but i'd do all that again if it won you over."

"with your future oscar nomination?"

the man shrugs, broad muscles rippling, "he who be a fool for love is far better than he who doth never dare to try at all."

"fair point," you murmur, feeling dizzy in that familiar scent of lemon candies and mint, like the world is swirling around in a heady haze, "do you wanna kiss me to seal the deal?"

"yes please. i think i'm gonna pass out and — mmph!"

you've pulled yourself up, and thrown your arms around his warm neck, drawing gojo into you. crashing your lips into his before either of you can say anything else. it's an urgent, reckless kiss. like a dam has burst and all the pent-up emotions that you've been carrying have finally exploded.

gojo's lips are soft, but demanding, taking more and more air from you. they fit against you with an ease that feels almost too natural. and his broad arms come around your waist with a force that leaves the air punched out of you. he's holding you tightly, as though he's afraid that you'll just disappear if he doesn't keep you close enough.

you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the muscles in his arms that flex as he pulls you in, deepening the kiss. all while his mouth moves against yours with a slow and deliberate intensity, as his tongue parts your lips. all so messy.

when gojo finally pulls away, the last brush of his lips catches your quiet whimper. just as his breath goes ragged, and you're left standing there, dazed, with your forehead resting against his. you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, that electricity that's crackling and buzzing through your veins as you giggle.

gojo, however, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. he tugs your wrist with a sharp, swift motion. but his grip is firm, not harsh as you pulls you away from the living room, "c'mon. let's get outta here."

shoko's eyes are wide, her jaw practically locked in disbelief, "what the hell just happened?"

utahime's lips curl, "someone took gojo's brain out and replaced it with a clone. ah! geto, what did you do?"

suguru has been standing near the kitchen counter, absolutely floored, and he's shaking his head so hard that he feels a headache forming, "hand on my heart, ladies. i told him not to pull any stunts. swear on destiny's child that i didn't tell him to do all that."

ACT VII. i bet we'd have really good bed chem!

gojo satoru has absolutely lost his mind. but you wish that he had lost it a bit earlier, because you're practically pawing at his top now. critically working to make quick work of the tight fabric, letting your fingers run over hard planes of muscles and lower.

right until you're reaching a trail of soft white hairs that disappear into the band of his pants.

"seems like you're just as desparate as me, hah," gojo snickers, and his broad hand is trailing further up your thighs, letting your skirt bunch and crinkle under his ministrations. thick fingers brush over dewy cotton, and you moan.

"s-satoru!"

"you don't even know how long i've w-wanted this," and his hand clenches at the fabric, gripping it so tightly that you fear it may just be on the verge of tearing, but you can only buck your hips into him further.

no longer even mindful of how you must be already dripping onto the palm of his hand, "and i thought you knew. i r-really thought you knew how much i wanted you."

his middle finger is gliding through your damp and searing slit, with clinging strands latching onto his skin as you muffle a whine into his chasing, teasing lips.

it's sending deep, low curls of arousal in thick waves, settling low in your groin and you don't even care what room of the house you're now in, someone's bedroom with a dark, stylish bedspread and vinyls up on the walls.

the force of his large hands drives you down onto the bed, pressing your back onto the soft mattress.

and gojo looks so pleased, at how you're splayed and sprawled out underneath his torso, his hands tugging at your now bare thighs to spread your legs even further. pulling them far enough so they come to rest on either side of his face.

"fuck, she's so pretty. even better than i imagined," and gojo's voice is husky and low, almost strained, "and believe me. imagined her plenty." the sound of drenched cotton being torn rips through the air, slippery and resistant from your arousal.

it's even stubborn as the fabric refuses to budge, until it gives way under the force of gojo's tug, soft and tearing. leaving your pussy open to the cool, cold air. bare for gojo's eyes to rest upon and widen.

his lips brush against your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, one that makes your entrance clench and wink.

but gojo is nothing if not teasing, and he feels light-headed. pressing featherlight kisses to the crevice of your thigh, and then closer to your aching mound. but even he cannot hold off for much longer, and he's pressing a flat, lazy print of his tongue against your cunt.

that first munch sends a burst of tangy sweetness dancing across gojo's tongue, and he thinks he might just bust a load right then and there. the heat of your clenching cunt is almost overwhelming, but hey.

gojo's never been a quitter, and he doesn't care if he creams his pants at this very moment, he needs to hear that sweet whimper of his name from your lips again.

his lips part, blowing a quick breath on your aching clit, right as his fingers begin to press and meld into your syrupy folds. it's got you practically jumping further into him, so wet strands are clinging to the very tip of his nose. and gojo knows that this is heaven. that he's unlocked true paradise.

"satoru, c-can't you...?"

he's too busy running his tongue over your clit, drawing small circles with the very tip of the hot muscle, "can't i what, pretty? don' want me eating you out?"

and you are so adorable, pushing your head up to scowl down at him with furrowed brows, but the flush in your cheeks paints you the most beautiful shade of cherry red. and gojo vows to spend the rest of his life ensuring that this shade never leaves your cheeks.

"can't you get to the eating part? thought that you were gonna — f-fuck! hnngh, 'toru!"

he's pulling your thighs tighter around his head, and he doesn't give a fuck if this is how he goes. suffocated in this tantalising heat, with your fingers lacing themselves into woven patterns in his white hair.

he's lowering his tongue once more into your throbbing pussy, making sure that his pleased vibrations send pleasurable rumbles right through your core.

grinning and slurring his tongue further into you, right as you buck desparate hips over and over. dragging yourself against his chin, so he's sure that the lower half of his face must be glistening with your sweetness.

gojo absolutely thinks he can get used to being like this, at having you angle and force his head further into your cunt. letting you angle and toy at him and use him for your pleasure. he snaps his teeth around glossy strands of arousal, once and then twice, before delving back in.

making sure that his spare hand finds your clit to draw quick flicks and shapes over it, pushing a finger right up against the throbbing hood.

"satoru, ah, satoru! 'toru!" it's all you can even manage right now, just chants and groans of his names, as he's practically sunken your hips into the mattress, while he's on his knees for the second time this night.

"hey, none of that, yeah?" and gojo's gently tugging at your arm. trying to get you to stop muffling your whimpers and cries, because he just needs to hear your adorable sounds. and he needs to hear your bird-like cries when you come undone.

what a joy it is for gojo. to be able to dive between your legs and run his tongue between your folds. he's losing his mind at how your body trembles under his touch, and how he makes the mistake of peering up at you. your lips are parted, open and glossy. and your brows are furrowed, as lashes flutter against your cheek. you have to cum, gojo satoru needs you to cum right now.

and so, he exerts all his effort ten fold into having you finish. it's so sloppy, and so messy. gojo lets his own eyes dip shut, letting himself feel your glossy, glistening cunt pulse around his tongue. and let there be no doubt that gojo satoru is a munch, for he's eating you out in such an ardent manner, and it basically sends you barrelling towards a heart-stopping orgasm, where tears spring to the corners of your eyes.

you needn't have even tried to warn him of your impending climax, for gojo knows in the way that your legs quiver and get sloppier over his face. stars fall over your vision as you heave and toss your head back, muscles rippling as "satoru, satoru!" falls from your lips, long and drawn out as the rest of the world goes dark around you.

you gasp, struggling to inhale as the syrupy air is stolen from your lungs, all while gojo runs his tongue through your folds, head spinning with the dizzying rush of sensation. it's as if you've been swept away, hurtling towards space, weightless and disorientated.

only to crash back into reality as gojo seemingly hasn't stopped letting himself taste all of you, with not a drop of arousal wasted. your back is further pressed into the soft mattress beneath you, and the surge of overstimulated numbness follows, all pleasurable pins and needles and ferocious need.

"look at that, 'm already addicted," gojo coos, almost to himself, scooping a finger through the translucent gloss that leaks from your cunt. bringing it up to his mouth to wrap his tongue around, "think you can handle giving me another one?"

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. your gaze lingering on gojo's face, the soft moonlight that casts an ethereal glow on his features. his chin still faintly gleams, coated in your mirror-sheen and his lips are a plump, rosy red. you part your lips, propping yourself onto your elbows, but before you can form the words, the door slams open with a force that makes your ears rattle.

"i've looked in every fuckin' room in this house, and i swear to everything holy, satoru. if you chose my bedroom, i'm gonna —"

geto suguru's voice cuts off mid-rant, his words dissolving into a strangled, pained gasp as he takes in the sight before him. gojo, kneeling between your legs, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. just like the cat who got the cream. you let out a squeak, hastily tugging your skirt over you, but it's hard to look innocent when gojo is still unabashedly pawing at your thighs.

geto pales, his jaw going slack, and he looks like he's about to collapse, "god help me. satoru, i'll kill you tomorrow," and then he shoots you both a nasty look, "and you're both paying for new sheets."

"so you and gojo are...dating now?" choso pries, with a tone that is entirely too casual but his eyes are keen. your twin is nursing a cup of coffee while he absolutely demolishes a plate of fried eggs. he had been quiet so far, but it's clear that curiosity gave out and now he's peering at you like a big owl.

you try, or do your very best not to smile too hard. to not look giddy and ridiculously pleased, "yeah, i guess we are," you admit, keeping your voice as level as possible.

choso blinks once, before setting his fork down and shaking his head, "i knew it. it was only a matter of time," he mutters, and without further ado, he resumes shovelling eggs into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

before you can respond, sukuna appears in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his tattooed arms crossed and his expression dripping with disdainful amusement, "oh, i was there," he drawls, sharp fangs flashing in a wicked grin, "that loser pulled the dumbest, most dramatic stunt of all time. got on his knees and everything."

choso freezes mid-chew, raising a thick brow as he glances at the older man with mild interest, "wish i'd seen that," he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.

to your utter astonishment, sukuna nods gravely, his face taking on an uncharacteristically serious look, "yeah. i've got a video if you wanna watch."

your jaw drops as you glance between them, "this is officially the first time that i've ever seen you two agree on anything," setting your mug down with a thud, "if i had known that dating gojo would bring about world peace, i would have done it ages ago and —"

yuuji bounds into the kitchen like an overeager puppy, his blush-pink hair still a mess from interrupted sleep. but he's clapping his hands together like he's just won the lottery, "finally! look at that! everyone's getting along for once."

sukuna doesn't even bother to hide his irritation, shooting yuuji a withering glare. but it's hard to take him seriously when his own pink hair rivals yuuji's in sheer disarray, "don't push it," sukuna warns darkly, grabbing a glass of orange juice and downing it in one morose gulp. he slams the empty, cold glass on the counter before stalking off towards the door, "i'm seriously gonna move out at this rate."

"promise?" choso quips, without missing a bit, "wish you'd stop getting our hopes up and actually do it."

yuuji is undeterred, and he elbows you with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, "you have to invite gojo over all the time now. i like him a lot. he's like super cool."

"of course," you grin, sliding a plate towards him as he eagerly digs in.

and your younger brother beams like the sun itself. right as a mocking, high-pitched voice floats from the other room, "and then we're all gonna be lovesick, and skip around town while holding hands!" right before falling back into sukuna's usual gruff tone that echoes through the kitchen, "god, you're all so insufferable."

your phone buzzes on the table, and you glance down. gojo's contact photo lights up the screen. it's a snapshot from a year or two ago, taken the summer that you both graduated high school. he's standing at the edge of the beach, with the sun dipping low enough behind to catch his white hair. turning it into a halo of glowing light. it's a photo that you never had the heart to change.

satoru 🪐

good morning princess!! my one and only!!!! my sugar plum (too much? i can tone it down but you just can't put a lid on love) hope you dreamed of me 🙂‍↔️ so what are you doing today because i've got abt eight possible things we can cover today starting with [read more.]

"ugh, gross."

sukuna's disdainful drawl cuts through behind you, as an icy finger prods at your phone, trying to scroll up and snoop through your messages. you freeze and slam your phone down on the table. whirling around to come face to face with the world's most judgemental gargoyle sneers at you, "i think i'm gonna throw up."

"get a life, holy fuck."

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urfriendlywriter · 1 year ago

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How to write smut ?

(@urfriendlywriter | req by @rbsstuff @yourlocalmerchgirl anyone under the appropriate age, please proceed with caution :') hope this helps guys! )

writing smut depends on each person's writing style but i think there's something so gut-wrenchingly beautiful about smut when it's not very graphic and vivid. like., would this turn on a reader more?

"he kissed her, pulling her body closer to him."

or this?

"His lips felt so familiar it hurt her heart. His breathing had become more strained; his muscles tensed. She let herself sink into his embrace as his hands flattened against her spine. He drew her closer."

(Before proceeding further, these are all "in my opinion" what I think would make it better. Apply parts of the advice you like and neglect the aspects you do not agree with it. Once again I'm not saying you have to follow a certain type of style to write smut! Creative freedom exists for a reason!)

One may like either the top or the bottom one better, but it totally depends on your writing to make it work. Neither is bad, but the second example is more flattering, talking literally. (Here is me an year after writing this post, i think, either is amazing, depending on the context. the type of book you're writing, your writing style and preferences!)

express one's sensory feelings, and the readers will automatically know what's happening.

writing, "her walls clenched against him, her breath hitching with his every thrust" is better than writing, "she was about to cum".

(edit: once again, hi, it's me. Either is amazing depending on ur writing style. Everything at the end is about taste.)

here are some vocabulary you can introduce in your writing:

whimpered, whispered, breathed lightly, stuttered, groaned, grunted, yearned, whined, ached, clenched, coaxed, cried out, heaved, hissed

shivering, shuddering, curling up against one's body, squirming, squirting, touching, teasing, taunting, guiding, kneeling, begging, pining, pinching, grinding,

swallowing, panting, sucking in a sharp breath, thrusting, moving gently, gripped, biting, quivering,

nibbling, tugging, pressing, licking, flicking, sucking, panting, gritting, exhaling in short breaths,

wet kisses, brushing soft kisses across their body (yk where), licking, sucking, teasing, tracing, tickling, bucking hips, forcing one on their knees

holding hips, guiding the one on top, moving aimlessly, mindlessly, sounds they make turn insanely beautiful, sinful to listen to

some adverbs to use: desperately, hurriedly, knowingly, teasingly, tauntingly, aimlessly, shamelessly, breathlessly, passionately, delicately, hungrily

he sighed with pleasure

her skin flushed

he shuddered when her body moved against his

he planted kisses along her jawline

her lips turned red, messy, kissed and flushed.

his hands were on his hair, pulling him.

light touches traveled down his back

words were coiled at his throat, coming out as broken sobs, wanting more

he arched his back, his breath quivering

her legs parted, sinking into the other's body, encircling around their waist.

+ mention the position, how they're being moved around---are they face down, kneeling, or standing, or on top or on bottom--it's really helpful to give a clear picture.

+ use lustful talk, slow seduction, teasing touches, erratic breathing, give the readers all while also giving them nothing. make them yearn but DO NOT PROLONG IT.

sources to refer to for more:

gesture that gets me on my knees !!

(more to comeee, check out my hot or kisses prompts on my master list!)

26K notes · View notes

pinkthick · 28 days ago

Text

Humiliating, isn’t it?

Pairing: The Salesman x Fem!Reader

Summary: “You could pay all your debts with this,” he said, his voice soft, almost enticing. His gaze shifted to you, sharp and calculating. “But it’s not free.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “What do you mean?”

A/N: This is probably wayyy out of his character, but I haven’t watched season 2 yet (I don’t have Netflix 😭) and just saw an edit with him on tiktok and suddenly my obsession with him came back from 2021. So there are no spoilers!!!

Warnings: blowjob (m receiving), cum swallowing

If you’re not 18 DNI BECAUSE I WILL HAUNT YOUR DREAMS🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️

The metro station was cold, the flickering overhead lights casting dim shadows on the walls. Your steps echoed faintly as you trudged forward, your head bowed to avoid the stares of passersby. You could feel their judgment, their pity, their disgust. You didn’t blame them—you looked like hell. Blood crusted your upper lip, the remnants of a nosebleed from earlier when some thug decided to teach you a lesson about unpaid debts. Your cheek stung, swelling just beginning to bloom.

You winced as you adjusted the strap of your worn-out bag. Your ribs ached, a dull, persistent throb that reminded you how low you’d sunk. Debt was a beast that refused to loosen its grip. It clung to you, suffocated you, and drove you into situations you’d never imagined.

As you shuffled down the platform, you barely registered the man who bumped into you until you staggered back, your body colliding with the wall. “Sorry—I didn’t watch where I was going,” he said, his tone oddly pleasant.

You blinked up at him, taking in his immaculate gray suit and perfectly combed hair. His smile was disarming, polite but sharp, like the edge of a blade.

“It’s quite alright,” you muttered, instinctively brushing yourself off despite already looking like a wreck. The man didn’t move on, though. Instead, he studied you, his gaze lingering on the dried blood and the faint bruise forming beneath your eye.

“Rough day?” he asked, a trace of amusement in his voice.

You gave a humorless laugh. “Something like that.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, offering it to you. You hesitated before taking it, dabbing at your nose. The fabric was smooth, expensive, and it felt wrong to smear your blood on something so pristine.

“I have a game,” the man said suddenly, his voice lowering as if he were sharing a secret. “Would you like to play?”

The fuck?

You frowned. “A game?”

He nodded, his smile widening. “It’s simple. You could win money—enough to change your life.”

Your skepticism must have been obvious because he chuckled, a soft, almost paternal sound. “It’s harmless, I assure you. You look like someone who could use a bit of good fortune.”

You thought of your debts, the people breathing down your neck, the empty fridge in your apartment. Against your better judgment, you found yourself asking, “What’s the game?”

He gestured to a nearby bench, and you followed him, still wary. From his briefcase, he pulled out a folded board and a stack of rectangular tiles, explaining the rules of ddakji. It sounded simple enough: flip the opponent’s tile using your own. He placed a stack of cash on the bench beside him, its presence tantalizing.

You played your first round and lost. The second and third rounds went the same way. You were terrible at this game.

When you finally admitted you had no money to bet, his expression didn’t change. “Usually, I slap people when they lose,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “But…” He gestured to your bruised face. “It seems someone’s already beaten me to it.”

The absurdity of the statement caught you off guard, and you let out a startled laugh. “That’s generous of you.”

He smirked. “I do have a heart.”

With no stakes involved, you continued playing. You lost repeatedly, the man’s skill far outstripping your own. He never seemed frustrated, though. If anything, he looked amused by your determination. Eventually, your bruises began to throb, and exhaustion seeped into your bones. You tossed the tile onto the bench, letting out a defeated sigh.

“I give up,” you said, slumping back. “I’m not winning this.”

He tilted his head, considering you. “Pity. You were just starting to improve.”

“Sure,” you muttered, wiping your hands on your jeans. “So, what now?”

He placed the briefcase on the bench between you, opening it to reveal neat stacks of bills. Your breath caught in your throat. It was more money than you’d ever seen in your life, more than enough to pay off your debts and start over.

“You could pay all your debts with this,” he said, his voice soft, almost enticing. His gaze shifted to you, sharp and calculating. “But it’s not free.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “What do you mean?”

He closed the briefcase with a decisive snap, leaning in slightly. “I’ll give this to you if you… do something for me.”

Your stomach churned at the way his eyes lingered on you, his meaning crystal clear. Heat flooded your face, a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “What kind of something?” you asked, though you already knew.

His smile didn’t waver. “Let’s not pretend we’re strangers to desperation. You’ve been beaten down by the world, haven’t you? Cast aside, forgotten. This,” he gestured to the briefcase, “could be your ticket out.”

Your fists clenched, your nails digging into your palms. “You think I’m going to sell myself for money?”

He shrugged, unbothered by your indignation. “You’ve already sold your time, your dignity, your safety—haven’t you? What’s the difference?”

The words stung because they weren’t entirely untrue. Still, you shook your head, your pride warring with your desperation. “I’m not doing that.”

He leaned back, crossing his legs with an air of nonchalance. “Your choice, of course. But think about it. How long before your debtors come back? Before the beatings get worse? How long can you keep scraping by?”

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. You stared at the briefcase, the money practically taunting you. Your mind raced, weighing the humiliation against the potential freedom.

“I… I can’t,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

He studied you for a long moment, his smile fading slightly. Then, to your surprise, he stood, gathering the game pieces and tucking them back into his briefcase. “Well,” he said, straightening his tie, “it was worth a shot.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how easily he let it go. “That’s it?”

He chuckled, the sound low and almost fond. “I’m not a monster. I made an offer; you declined. Simple as that.”

As he turned to leave, something in you stirred—a mix of relief and regret. “Wait,” you called out, your voice trembling.

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Yes?”

You hesitated, the weight of your situation crushing down on you. “Why me?” you asked, desperate to understand why this stranger had singled you out.

His smile returned, enigmatic and unsettling. “Because you’re interesting. And because I see potential in you.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small card and placing it on the bench. “If you ever change your mind, give me a call.”

Before you could respond, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the card. You stared at it, the black lettering stark against the white background.

For a long time, you sat there, the sound of the metro fading into the background. The man’s words echoed in your mind, intertwining with your fear, your pride, and your unrelenting desperation.

And the card remained in your pocket.

—

You stared at the card for what felt like hours that night. The weight of its potential pressed heavily on your chest. In a world where every door seemed to slam in your face, this was the first one to open—albeit under circumstances you couldn’t fully comprehend.

The next day, after another call from a creditor threatening you with more violence, you finally gave in. Your pride was already battered, and your options had all but evaporated. With shaking hands, you picked up your phone and dialed the number on the card.

A smooth, professional voice answered. “Hello?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “I… I got this card from someone at the metro. I’d like to… take them up on their offer.”

There was a pause, then the faint sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. “Ah, yes. We’ve been expecting your call. An address will be sent to your phone shortly. Be there within the hour.”

The line went dead before you could say anything else. Moments later, a text arrived, and you stared at the address. It wasn’t anywhere familiar to you, but the name of the street was in one of the wealthiest areas of the city. Hesitation gripped you again, but the bruises on your face and the weight of your debts pushed you forward.

The cab dropped you off at the gates of a sprawling villa. The sheer size of it was intimidating—tall wrought iron gates, a long driveway lined with meticulously trimmed hedges, and a house that looked more like a palace than a home. You adjusted your jacket, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you looked.

Before you could press the buzzer, the gates swung open as if you were expected. You walked up the driveway, each step feeling heavier than the last. When you reached the front door, it opened before you could knock.

A tall man stood there, dressed in a sleek black suit. His expression was blank, professional but cold. “Welcome,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. The foyer was just as luxurious as the exterior—marble floors, chandeliers, and artwork that probably cost more than your entire life’s earnings.

“Next time, a car will pick you up,” the man said, his tone brisk.

“Next time?” you echoed, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Before he could respond, the familiar voice of the salesman cut through the air. “Sorry, he’s—doesn’t matter. Just come on in.” He appeared at the top of a sweeping staircase, his ever-present smile intact. He looked even more polished than before, his posture relaxed.

You hesitated but eventually followed the man into what appeared to be a sitting room. The furniture was sleek and modern, the walls lined with bookshelves and abstract paintings. He gestured for you to sit, but you remained standing, your nerves making it impossible to relax.

“Drink?” he offered, motioning to a decanter of amber liquid on a nearby table.

“No, thank you,” you said quickly, your voice tight.

He tilted his head, his smile softening. “Suit yourself. I see your bruise is healing nicely.”

You instinctively touched your cheek, still tender from the beating. “Can we just… get to the point? What do you want me to do?”

The salesman’s smile widened slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Straight to business. I like that.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze uncomfortably intense. “What I want is very simple. And, let me assure you, the reward will far outweigh the discomfort.”

You shifted uneasily, his words setting off alarm bells in your mind.

His smile took on a sharper edge. “I want you to use that mouth of yours for something other than talking.”

The room seemed to tilt, your stomach dropping like a stone. You stared at him, your mind racing to comprehend what he’d just said. “You’re kidding,” you said, your voice trembling.

“I never kid about business,” he replied smoothly. “You’ve seen the briefcase. You know what’s at stake.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. “You want me to—”

“To prove how much you want to change your life,” he interrupted, his tone calm but firm. “To show me that you’re willing to do whatever it takes.”

You took a step back, your legs bumping into the edge of a chair. “This… this is humiliating.”

“Is it?” he asked, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’ve already been beaten and left with nothing. What’s one more compromise?”

His words were like needles, each one poking at the fragile walls of your pride. He stood, closing the distance between you. “I’m offering you freedom,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “All you have to do is take it.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as sandpaper. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to leave, to walk out of this villa and never look back. But the image of that briefcase, the promise of a life free from fear and debt, rooted you in place.

“I…” Your voice cracked, the weight of the moment crushing you.

The salesman tilted his head, his smile softening ever so slightly. “Think of it this way,” he said. “This is the last time you’ll ever have to beg, to endure, to scrape by. After this, the world opens up to you.”

He stepped back, giving you space but keeping his piercing gaze locked on you. “But it’s your choice,” he added. “It always has been.”

“I—okay,” you murmured, barely audible.

His smile widened, not in mockery but in something resembling satisfaction. “Atta girl.”

The words hung in the air, and you immediately dropped to your knees, ready to get this over with. But his hand shot out, stopping you mid-motion. His touch was firm but not forceful, his fingers curling gently around your forearm.

“Not so fast,” he said, his tone light, almost teasing. “Let’s get you a bit comfortable first.”

You looked up at him, confusion etched across your face. “Comfortable?” you echoed.

He patted his lap, a small gesture that carried so much weight. “Don’t you want to loosen up a bit?”

“I—” The protest was on the tip of your tongue, but you stopped yourself. He tilted his head, his sharp gaze pinning you in place.

“Come on,” he coaxed, his voice soft but insistent.

After a long moment of hesitation, you stood and awkwardly settled onto his lap. The action felt unnatural, foreign. You perched on his thighs stiffly, your hands clenched in your lap, your body tense like a coiled spring.

He didn’t seem bothered by your discomfort. Instead, he rested his hands lightly on your waist, his touch careful and deliberate. His thumbs began to trace small, lazy patterns into the fabric of your shirt, the motion strangely soothing despite the situation.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady. The words were meant to reassure, but they only made your pulse race faster.

You nodded, unable to bring yourself to speak. The air between you was thick with tension, the kind that made your skin prickle. You tried to focus on the patterns he was drawing, on the steady rhythm of his breathing, anything to distract yourself from the heat radiating off his body—or the unmistakable hardness pressing against you.

You froze, your entire body going rigid. He noticed, of course, but he didn’t comment. Instead, his hands stayed where they were, his thumbs continuing their soothing motions.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. His breath ghosted over your temple, warm and inviting. “Just breathe.”

Easier said than done. You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. He shifted slightly, and your hands instinctively reached out, grasping his shoulders for balance. The movement brought you closer to him, your faces mere inches apart.

His eyes searched yours, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he leaned in, giving you every opportunity to pull away. When you didn’t, his lips brushed against yours, tentative and soft.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. The kiss was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he were testing the waters. His hands stayed on your waist, their grip light, giving you space to move away if you wanted to.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you sat there, motionless, letting him lead. When he realized you weren’t responding, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “Relax,” he murmured, his tone patient.

Tentatively, you leaned forward, your lips meeting his. The kiss was awkward at first, your movements hesitant and unsure. But he didn’t rush you. He let you take the lead, his hands remaining steady on your waist.

As you grew more comfortable, the kiss deepened, your initial hesitation fading away. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit jacket, grounding yourself as you tilted your head, pressing closer.

That’s when he took over.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you flush against him as he angled his head, deepening the kiss. The shift was subtle but deliberate, his lips moving against yours with a confidence that left you breathless. His tongue brushed against your bottom lip, a gentle request rather than a demand, and you parted your lips without thinking.

The kiss turned hungry, his movements more assertive but never forceful. His hands roamed cautiously, never straying too far, their warmth seeping through your clothes. Your senses were overwhelmed—the taste of him, the scent of his cologne, the steady strength of his hands.

You didn’t know when it happened, but your tension melted away, replaced by a strange sense of surrender. It wasn’t defeat—it was something else, something you couldn’t quite name. Your hands slid up his chest, your fingers brushing against the collar of his shirt as you leaned into him.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were breathless, your chest rising and falling rapidly. His forehead rested against yours, his hands still on your waist, anchoring you in place.

“See?” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Not so bad.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you simply nodded. The reality of what just happened began to sink in, but before panic could take hold, he shifted again, his hands steadying you as he leaned back slightly.

“Take your time,” he said, his tone soft. “We’re not in a rush.”

You weren’t sure if it was the weight of his gaze, the steady way he held you, or the way his fingers brushed against you as if he knew exactly where your boundaries were but was waiting for you to decide whether they mattered.

He reached up slowly, his movements deliberate, and his hand brushed against your face before moving to your hair. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as he pulled the tie from your hair. Your hair tumbled loose over your shoulders, and he twirled the hair tie around his fingers, his smile never faltering.

“You’ve sucked dick before, right?” he asked, his voice smooth, casual.

Your heart stopped, then resumed at a faster pace. You blinked, your cheeks flushing hot. “I—of course I did!” you replied defensively, the words tumbling out before you could think them through.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “Of course you did,” he murmured, his voice dropping as his gaze lingered on your face. “How could someone resist a pretty face like yours?”

The compliment sent an unexpected jolt through you, but you weren’t given time to process it. He gently took your hands in his, his touch light but firm, and began guiding them behind your back. You stiffened instinctively, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Relax,” he said, his tone calm and soothing, as though he were coaxing you out of a tense state. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You hesitated but allowed him to move your arms behind you, his grip steady and unthreatening. The hair tie you hadn’t noticed still in his hand came into view as he looped it around your wrists. The act was careful, the tie snug enough to hold your hands together but not tight enough to hurt.

“There,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against your skin as he adjusted the knot. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold your hair for you.”

You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. He reached up, threading his fingers through your hair with the same slow, deliberate care he’d shown with your hands. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated how your body seemed to respond to him against your will.

“See?” he said, his voice low and steady. “No reason to be nervous.”

Nervous was an understatement. Your mind raced, trying to keep up with the situation. Everything about him was a contradiction—his words soft but commanding, his actions careful yet deliberate. It left you off balance, unsure of where you stood or what would happen next.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Down on your knees.”

You blinked, hesitating for a moment as the weight of his words sank in. Your body froze, torn between instinct and the promise of what you came here for. You must have looked as dumbfounded as you felt because his lips curved into that same infuriatingly knowing smile.

But then you remembered the briefcase—you couldn’t afford to hesitate, not now. Steeling yourself, you swallowed hard and did as he said, sinking onto the plush carpet beneath you.

He watched you with a calm, calculating expression, his fingers still lightly twirling the tie binding your wrists. When your knees touched the floor, he adjusted his posture, leaning forward slightly.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the words slipping from his lips in a tone that felt both patronizing and oddly reassuring. His hand left you entirely, moving to undo his belt. The sound of the buckle snapping open echoed faintly in the room, and you bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to remain still.

He slid the belt free and dropped it to the side, his gaze never leaving yours. His movements were slow as he unbuttoned his pants and let them pool around his ankles. Then came the boxers, and as he stepped out of them, his confidence radiated like a tangible force.

He looked down at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Think you can handle it?” he asked, his voice dripping with challenge.

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes despite the heat rising in your cheeks. “I’ve had bigger,” you shot back.

That earned a low chuckle from him, the sound rich and amused. He crouched slightly, bringing his face closer to yours as his hand reached out, cupping your jaw firmly but gently. His thumb brushed along your chin as he tilted your face upward. “Open up,” he said, his tone soft but leaving no room for argument.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, your thoughts warring with one another. But then your resolve hardened.

You obeyed, parting your lips just enough to feel vulnerable.

The corners of his mouth quirked upward again, and his hand slid to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with practiced ease. “I’ll let you take the lead,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, “at least for now.”

His other hand rested lightly on your shoulder as he guided you closer, his movements careful.

With a deep breath, you adjusted, leaning in more and licking the tip. He groaned softly, the sound low and guttural. His other hand trailed from your shoulder to your neck, his thumb brushing against your pulse point in a way that sent a shiver through you. His cock was heavy on your tongue, and your mind blurred as he thrust himself further and further into your mouth—and you appreciated the slowness with which he did it—until he was fully inside. The rhythm was slow at first. Small bobbing of your head that was just enough to pull soft groans of from his lips.

You pulled back slightly and swirled your tongue around the tip, pleasantly surprising him enough to earn yourself a sharp tug at your hair and a guttural moan that sent a shiver down your spine and a sudden awareness of the need between your legs.

“My… it’s like you were made for this…” he tugged gently on your hair again, signaling for you to pause, you pulled back slightly, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. His thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch light but grounding.

“Good girl,” he said again, his voice softer now, almost approving. He leaned down slightly, his hand cupping your face as he tilted your chin upward. “Messy, though…” he muttered, wiping a bit of drool escaping your open mouth. His hand moved from your chin to your hair again, smoothing the strands back as he studied your face with that same intense gaze.

“Let’s see how far you can go,” he murmured, his tone calm but laced with challenge.

And he fucking shoved you down on his cock.

You froze for a second, overwhelmed by the situation, but his voice cut through the haze.

“Don’t stop now,” he said, his tone still calm but laced with something sharper, something that made your heart race. “You want the money, don’t you?”

Your jaw tightened involuntarily, and he noticed. His smirk deepened as he adjusted his grip in your hair, guiding you with more force than before. It wasn’t painful, but it was clear he wasn’t asking for permission anymore. He was almost guiding your head at this point, fucking into your warm mouth with soft grunts as the hand with a grip on your hair directed you towards him in perfect timing. Your jaw was starting to ache and you could barely notice it with your thoughts suddenly one-track-minded. You were alternating torturously between sucking and lapping at his dick. He pulled out, and then fucked back in roughly, and oh, he knew this would be good—but not this good.

His hand in your hair tightened, and the calm, collected demeanor he had shown earlier began to crack ever so slightly. His breaths were heavier, his eyes darker, and the faint quirk of his lips had transformed into something far less controlled.

His need was pressing against the edges of his control. Your breath hitched as you tried to keep up, the pace leaving you off balance.

You pulled back instinctively, your body reacting to the overwhelming sensation, but his grip on your hair tightened, keeping you in place. “No,” he murmured, his voice low but firm. “Not yet. Breathe through your nose. Come on—work for it.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine, equal parts thrilling and intimidating. You tried to steady your breathing, inhaling deeply through your nose as he’d instructed. Your jaw relaxed as best as it could, though every muscle in your body felt tense.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice breaking slightly at the edges, the first real crack in his composure. His free hand braced against the back of the couch he was sitting on, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it tightly.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, trying to focus despite your racing pulse. His eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, the intensity in them made your breath catch. He was watching you so closely, as if every movement, every reaction, was feeding something deep within him.

“God,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, his head tilting back slightly as his grip in your hair eased momentarily. “You have no idea how good you look like this. Believe me—you could’ve gotten out of your debts a long time ago.” The sounds are indescribable, dirty and wet and so fucking hot as he continues to thrust into your mouth.

“Your throat,” he chokes out. He splays one hand over your throat and starts to fuck up into you at a different angle. “I can fucking see myself in you, fuck—“ There was a rawness to his movements now, a lack of the careful control that had defined him earlier. “Just a little more” he murmured, his voice roughened by something you couldn’t quite place. You could hear his breathing quicken, could feel the faint tremor in his grip as he pulled you closer still. His dominance over the situation was undeniable, but there was a vulnerability in the way his body reacted, a need that felt almost desperate.

When you hesitated again, instinctively pulling back just a fraction to catch your breath, his hand tightened slightly in your hair, holding you in place. “No,” he said sharply “stay fucking still.”

You wanted to punch his face. But you did your best to keep up—still thinking about the money—your breath hitching as he guided you, his need evident in the way he moved.

His groans grew louder, more frequent, and his grip in your hair tightened again as he edged closer to the brink. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tensed and his movements became more erratic. He was losing control, and the realization sent a strange thrill through you.

His orgasm washed over him and his body went still for a moment, his grip in your hair almost bruising as he held you in place. The sound he made was low and guttural, a noise that seemed to reverberate through the room. You froze as he held you there, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Your throat burned, your body tensing as you fought the instinct to pull away as his fucking cum filled your mouth. He didn’t let you, his hand in your hair keeping you firmly in place as he muttered something under his breath—words you couldn’t quite make out over the pounding in your ears.

When he finally released you, it was abrupt, his hand loosening in your hair as he leaned back, his chest heaving. You gasped for air, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts as you tried to steady yourself and then started to cough. Your body felt heavy, your limbs trembling as you sat back on your heels, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He met your gaze, his expression softening as he took in your disheveled appearance. “You did well,” he said, his voice low and rough. His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. “Better than I expected.” And then he took the hair tie off your hands.

You didn’t respond, still trying to catch your breath as you processed what had just happened. The room felt stifling, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you as you struggled to compose yourself. You just managed to smear his cum on your face.

His smirk returned, though it was softer now. “I knew you had it in you,” he said, his hand trailing down to cup your chin again. His thumb brushed against your jaw, and his smile widened slightly. “But you’ve got to learn to pace yourself.”

You glared at him faintly, though the effect was ruined by the flush in your cheeks and the way your body still trembled. “Maybe you should pace yourself,” you shot back, your voice hoarse.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Fair enough,” he said, his hand falling away from your face as he leaned back, his posture relaxing for the first time since you’d arrived. He looked down at you for a moment longer before reaching for his discarded boxers, slipping them back on with a casual grace.

“Go clean yourself up,” he said, gesturing toward a door off to the side. “The bathroom’s through there.”

You hesitated for a moment, your body still tense, before nodding and pushing yourself to your feet. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you, and you had to grip the edge of a nearby chair to keep your balance. He watched you with an amused expression, his smirk widening as you stumbled toward the bathroom.

When you closed the door behind you, you leaned against it for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. Your reflection in the mirror caught your eye, and you winced at the sight of your flushed cheeks and disheveled hair. You looked like a mess, and you weren’t sure how you felt about that.

As you splashed water on your face, trying to steady your nerves, you were almost on the verge of crying. It’s disgusting—it’s disgusting that you’re wiping his cum off your face and out of your mouth.

When you finally stepped back into the room, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression unreadable as he watched you. The briefcase was sitting on the nightstand beside him, and he gestured toward it with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Your reward,” he said simply, his smirk returning. “You’ve earned it.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering between him and the briefcase. “That’s it?” you asked, your voice still hoarse.

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Unless you’re looking for another round,” he said, his tone teasing.

You rolled your eyes, stepping forward to grab the briefcase. The weight of it felt solid in your hands, a tangible reminder of why you’d agreed to this in the first place. “I’ll pass,” you muttered, turning toward the door.

As you reached for the handle, his voice stopped you. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

You glanced back at him, your heart pounding in your chest as you met his gaze. His smirk was still in place, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something darker. You didn’t respond, pulling the door open and stepping out into the hallway.

The air outside felt cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of the room you’d just left. You took a deep breath, the weight of the briefcase grounding you as you made your way down the hall and out of the villa.

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