#four nothing oh the flavour

[cuddlytogas]

entering my bitch era (trying to get more into twitter fandom and finding my tl flooded with people talking about A Certain Popular AU Fic that is, frankly, mostly just fine, and being overwhelmed with some of the pettiest little jealous rages you ever did see)

[ohtobeleah]

I think one of the main reasons why the Worst!Logan loves you so much, without putting too much thought into the question, is simply because you ease the burden of being alive. You don’t ‘give him a reason to live.’ He found that on his own when Wade showed up and snatched his old, drunken ass out of his world and planted him here. But you ease the burden. You ease the pain of being alive on days when everything seems so…distressing. But when you plant something, it often grows roots. And that’s exactly what Logan wanted to do with you. 

“Hope, at its very core, can be the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torment of man,” That one. That was the ‘Hook, Line and Sinker’ moment where Logan knew you had him wrapped around your finger like some perverted puppy. “You aren’t just any man, Logan,” He could vividly picture you sitting on his lap while his back pressed heavily into your headboard. “You’re Wade’s boyfriend.” 

“Oh aren’t you just hilarious,” Logan could remember replying to you as you leaned in to place a gentle kiss against his lips. He loved those moments. The quiet ones. Where nothing else in the world mattered except for the time he got to spend in your undivided attention. “Keep that attitude up, I dare you.” 

“You don’t have to threaten me with a good time.” It was the dynamic the two of you had. The banter-filled friendship that crossed the line into friends with immaculate benefits. And under the glow of your bedside lamps, the ones that sent an orange hume across the floor-length curtains and cottage cream walls, Logan knew that the small amount of time you had been in his life…had been the time most lived. 

“You surround yourself day in and day out with a degenerate crew of antagonists, Logan, of fucking course you’re gonna pick up a few traits after a while!” It wasn’t uncommon to see Logan perched up at the bar while you made coffees for the steady trickle of customers who stopped by for their caffeine fix. After all, it was your cafe. “It doesn’t sound like my issue that you called Althea, Blind Al.” 

“It’s not her fucking name, is it?” Logan’s heated. He kinda hates himself a little for it. Mainly because he recognised straight away who he sounded like. Wade fucking Wilson. Secondly, he had enough respect for the old, aging and decaying to know nicknames like that could put senior citizens into early graves. Well, earlier. “You know what, that’s it, I’m not fucking hanging around that guy anymore.” 

Deep down, Logan knew he didn’t mean it. Wade was a genuinely good person. He saw a lot of parallels of himself in the guy. And if it weren’t for Wade… Logan wouldn’t be sitting here right now. Bickering back and forth with the love of his overextended life. You just made him feel like a guy. Just some dumb guy. Simple. Whenever Logan was with you, he wasn’t The Wolverine. He was just James Howlett. 

“Okay one,” You stopped steaming the milk you had in just been working with so you could reply. You turned with a shit-talking snarl ready to go. “You sound like someone who’s beefing with their childhood bestie,” The frown on Logan’s face warned you not to continue, but you weren’t in the mood to pity someone over four times your age. “Two, you fucking live with the guy man?” You pointed out the incredibly obvious logistics of Logan’s dilemma. “What? you gonna sleep on the street?” It was a genuine question you had. “Please, you’re made of metal dumbass, you’ll catch some sort of genetically fucked mutation of pneumonia and die at the young age of two hundred and twenty-something.” 

“You know exactly who you sound like right now?” Logan countered as he sipped his coffee. The same coffee order you made him every damn day. Black, no cream, sugar or milk. No flavoured syrup or sweeteners in sight. Just black. 

“If you point out the fact I sound like my longest-standing friend, I’ll take great pleasure in knowing you can’t die alone, because you can’t seem to die at all!!” 

“Go fuck yourself!” Logan needed this. He needed you to match his energy. You saw him coming from a mile away when he’d come barrelling into the cafe with a glare of despair and in need of some reprieve. 

“Fuck me yourself, asshole.” It wasn’t exactly what Logan had been expecting you to say, but he did take you up on that offer…The second he knew you were off work and at home later that same evening. 

“Logan–” Your needy little whines were a symphony of desire and love. “Logan–yes, baby you feel so good.” The way Logan made you feel, the way he touched you in all the right ways, made you feel drunk on his ecstasy. 

“Ohhhh just like that huh?” Logan wouldn’t dare change a single thing about what he was doing right now. He had you right where he wanted you. He loved you in his position. The one where he had your arms pinned behind your beck. The one where your chest presses right against his. The one where all he has to do is buck his hips up into yours while his heels dig into your mattress. It’s the one where he can whisper the most degrading things into your ear and knows you’re drooling for it. He knows that much because he can feel it dripping down his other shoulder while you mumble incoherent love songs. 

“I could smell you, you know,” Logan growls particularly low as he keeps his pace going. “When you were giving me that fucking attitude in the cafe today,” You know he’s talking, but the way his perfectly enhanced cock is kissing the tip of your cervix with every thrust it keeping your mind from focusing on anything else but chasing that all important high of yours. “Got nothing to say now, have you?” 

“I–” You tried to tell Logan what you want, you know he already knows when the words won’t come out and you can’t keep your eyes from rolling. “Wanna–” 

“Oh please,” Logan nearly begs while he keeps thrusting up into you. He can feel the mixture of his previous load and your arousal mixing at the base of his shaft. “Give me something pretty to look at gorgeous.” 

Logan thought you were the most gorgeous woman to ever grace his life. Inside and out you were truly one of the most kind-hearted, lovely, compassionate people he’d ever known. But right now, in this very moment, all Logan wanted to do was see your gorgeous face when you came around his slicked-up shaft. All he wanted to feel was you clenched him like a vice grip made just for him. 

“Fuckk–Logan!” At your cries, Logan was quick to grab your face with one of his hands. He wanted to look you in the eyes. Wanted to feel every part of your soul connect with his when you came for him. 

“I’m right here,” He cooed, still bucking into you with force and pace. “I’ve got you, come on me, baby.” 

“Ohhhhh–” The way you dragged your nails down his sides made Logan hiss with pure sexual gratification. Your velvet walls paused around his shaft as he kept up the pace, fucking deeper into you. As deep as he could get just to feel you. “Yessss–” 

“I’m the luckiest guy alive,” Logan rolled his eyes with pure unadulterated lust as you came down from your high. He lets go of your face only to crash his lips against yours in a feverish kiss. “Fucking perfect for me.” He gives you a minute to recover. Logan slowly rocks his hips so that he’s never completely still, always admiring your beauty while yours naked on top of him the way you are. 

“Okay big guy,” You sigh, sitting up to straddle Logan. “Your turn.” 

“Gready thing, one not enough for you?” Logan could still feel how full you were from his last load. He couldn’t contain himself, you just had that effect on him. 

“Well, since you’re either sleeping here or on the street tonight, I figured you didn’t have any plans,” You teased as you rocked your hips the way you knew drove Logan wild. His fingers dug into your hips and for a second he released some pressure. Worried that he might leave a few bruises. Or worse…But when you placed your hands on top of his? Logan knew you were alright. “Gonna finish what you started? Or do you need a second to catch your breath?” 

“Oh I’m gonna ruin you–” Logan smiled as he jumped into action. Capturing your lips with his as he flipped the two of you around. Suddenly you found yourself on your back, pressed into the mattress. “You know how I feel about you, right?” It was a gentle moment laced between the lust and the desire. But when Logan caught your eye, so beautiful and kind, he wanted to make sure that you knew this wasn’t just sex to him. 

This was…You were… Everything he ever wanted. 

“I know,” You nodded, making sure to pull him closer. As close as you could get in missionary. “I’ve got you,” Was all you said back before your lips were taken hostage yet again. “I–” You were about to say it but stopped yourself. The L would be just something that wasn’t said that much. 

You knew it was because Logan was afraid to. He was scared if he said he loved you then he’d wake up from this dream. Back in the pub, he wasn’t welcome in. Back in his reality, where the version of you didn’t know him as the best worst version of himself. 

“You mean everything to me.” You settled with as Logan buried himself inside you. Not knowing that in nine months from now, your greatest love of all would carry your love for Logan in her name: 

Ilya: I.Love. You. Always

Ilya

[theemporium]

hi!! i have a potential blurb request - Oscar having that "oh my god i love her" moment with reader

ily and i hope you're doing well <33

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

It hit him at the most random, mundane moment—which was ironic, considering it completely turned his world around.

He was still fighting the lingering effects of jet lag when you invited him over to hang out. He knew Mark would have wanted him to be responsible, to sleep and not fuck up his sleep schedule any further. He was still getting used to how taxing the life of a Formula One driver was, and he underestimated how heavily travel and jet lag would play into that.

But it had been so long since he had seen you. And maybe it was guilt or maybe it was his own selfish desire, but he found himself throwing on a hoodie and sweatpants, grabbing his keys and heading to your place before the universe somehow stopped him. 

It was no different to the million other days you hung out together. Absolutely nothing different that he had come to expect in the last fifteen or so years you two had been friends. He showed up, knocked four times, waited for you to open the door and settled himself on his side of your coach whilst you did the same.

There was nothing special about the day, or the moment. But it still hit him like a freight train.

“Do you want popcorn? I got the salty flavour from that brand you like, the one that fits into your diet.” 

That was all you said. Twenty-one words that somehow managed to send the boy spiralling as he turned to gape at you, his body melted into the couch to the point he didn’t think he could get up if he tried. 

And there was you, sitting there as you smiled and waited for his response. You didn’t even look different, just lounging around in some shorts and a hoodie with his number on it. Your hair was a mess, you had even made a joke about it when he first came in. And the bags under your eyes told him your sleep schedule was probably as shit as his was right now, probably from staying up to watch the races. 

But, fuck, Oscar thought you looked so pretty. 

You had always looked pretty to him, but this was something else. This was a whole new level. This wasn’t just an appreciation of your looks, this was a full kick to the chest that screamed ‘oh shit, this isn’t platonic’. You just looked so cosy and comfortable and domestic, and Oscar could almost let himself imagine that this was a sight he got to see every day, that he got to wake up to, that he spent forever with. 

Because Oscar Piastri was in love with his best friend and he hadn’t even realised until now, until this very fucking moment. 

“Do you not want popcorn?” You asked, creases forming between your brows as you furrowed them together. He had the strongest urge to smooth the spot with his thumb.

“Uh no, yeah,” he cleared his throat and gave you a sleepy, slightly strained smile. “Popcorn sounds good.”

Your face brightened. “Good, I was gonna make it anyways.”

He watched as you stood from the couch, making your way towards your kitchen. He watched you walk away as his heart pounded in his chest, as he pressed the heel of his palm against his ribs like that would calm him down. He watched as you rambled on, oblivious to the existential crisis your best friend was experiencing. 

There was a voice in the back of his head telling him he should say something, that he should tell you how he feels. You two don’t lie to each other, or hold back on anything. He knew he should have told you. But that selfish desire returned and Oscar had the strongest urge to keep his mouth shut for one more night, to enjoy the rush of feelings overwhelming him until he had to tell you.

He couldn’t imagine a life without you, so he let himself have tonight just on the off chance his feelings were the start of the end of your friendship, just in case he lost you forever.

.

[ebullientheart]

the nice guy. spencer reid x reader

content — fluff. humour. fem!bau!reader. casual mention of sex. loosely based on season four episode nine. case talk. nondescript injury to reader.

you explain to spence the difference between a nice guy and a ‘nice guy’.

“i don’t understand this.”

morgan spun on his chair, “what’s that, wonder boy?”

the files he was flicking through were baffling him. each of the interview transcripts read the same sort of thing. ‘oh, he was a textbook ‘nice guy’ you know’, or something to that effect.

you were the one conducting that set of witness interviews, and the text before him showed no confusion on your part as you continued your original line of questioning. concluding this meant you understood, spencer ignored derek’s response and instead got up to find you. predictably, in garcia’s office, watching unreleased films, seeing as your paperwork was long completed.

“can i ask you something?” he interjected, causing penelope to throw popcorn at him as a consequence of her surprise.

“can you knock?” she quipped back, but he wasn’t really listening to her. spencer could become pretty single minded when he set his focus on something, especially if it was something he didn’t understand.

you excused yourself and followed him into the hall. the simple window on your right showed nothing but the clouded night sky, meaning only a few people lingered in the office now. spencer turned the light on by reaching past your head to the switch, while you tried to ignore the way your stomach felt upon having him lean over you.

clearing your throat, you addressed him, “what did ya need, spence?”

he showed you what he’d been preoccupied with, “what does this mean? we profiled our unsub as desperate, creepy, and we were right. why did they all describe him as a nice guy?”

you pondered for a moment on how best to explain it to him before you answered.

“they’re kind of being sarcastic. a textbook ‘nice guy’ is a guy who really pities himself, quotes ‘nice guys finish last’, that sort of thing. he thinks he’s so kind, and for that women owe him sex, so when they don’t meet that standard, he just believes women only like jerks. he sees himself as good, but he doesn’t comprehend why women would take offence to his sexual reward system for human decency.”

spencer frowned, “there are enough of them that women have a collective name for this?”

you nodded, “trademarked and everything.”

“really?”

“no, kidding.”

he smiled at you and you returned it, his curiosity fulfilled and his faith in humanity slightly lessened, as it was case by case.

a few days later, you were all jetting off to another police department, examining files and bouncing theories. spencer sat on your left, the only one close enough to hear the low rumble of your stomach. chuckling to himself, he produced a breakfast bar from his satchel and slid it over to you. the overjoyed expression on your face at food, and food in your favourite flavour, prompted him to remember your ‘nice guy’ conversation.

you offered him your thanks and he answered, “you’re welcome. no sex required.”

even though he was half kidding, half sincere, you gave him a whole laugh, easy and unabashed. the smile he donned was satisfied at initiating such glee from you.

as the investigation progressed, the danger became more and more apparent. the team knew someone was going to end up hurt, but it didn’t stop them from flinching as they saw you swinging your legs in the back of an ambulance, taking emergency blood supply. you rolled your eyes at their concern, “really, i’m fine guys. just a scratch.”

they weren’t so quick to dismiss your injury, but they didn’t hover. they had protocol to follow, local cops to brief, and press to alert. the only one who lingered was spencer, awkwardly sitting next to you at your invitation. he thought about wrapping an arm around your bare shoulder as a chill set in the air, but was too afraid to dislodge the tube. you bit the bullet of his worrying and leaned until he was prompted to support you.

“are you alright?” he knew it wasn’t the right thing to ask you, but he wasn’t sure what else to say in that moment, not when you were pressed against him so the warmth from your body bled through his vest to his own skin.

you gave a light shrug, but didn’t comment further, instead saying, “you’re nice, spencer. the real way.”

he hummed, “how’d you know?”

“nice guy trademark would’ve tried to kiss me by now. you’re just holding me.”

he knew what he was about to admit was a risk, but the question burned in his throat, “what if i wanted to? kiss you?”

you looked up at him and his heart skipped a beat. if he tried, he could count every one of your eyelashes, even though a few were clumped together by smudges of mascara that had congealed in your initial reaction to the wound. there was a brightness in your irises that sparked something in his chest. the hand you could move freely came up to his face, which had become flushed. you could feel the heat beneath your palm, but couldn’t make it out visually with his back to the ambulance light.

“i’d think you’re even nicer.”

he didn’t seem all that surprised, “can i?”

“please.”

[ericshoney]

Our girl ~ The Sturniolo triplets

Warnings: Some language, my first Sturniolo triplets oneshot

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a warm Thursday afternoon. You sat on the large white sofa, scrolling through your phone as your head rested on Matt's lap. Both of you sat in a comfortable silence. Nick was in his room, editing the up and coming video of the week and Chris was....you had no idea, but it was quiet, which worried you.

As if the man could read your thoughts though, Chris soon appeared in the room. He gave you a wide grin as his eyes met yours.

"Let's go out!" He exclaimed.

"What?" Matt called.

"Are you deaf, dumbass. I said let's go out." Chris repeated.

"Where?" You asked.

"I don't know, I'm bored though." He answered with a shrug.

"I'm not just fucking driving around the cit-" Matt was quickly cut of by Chris' shouting.

"We'll decide in the car! I'll get Nick!" He shouted, running up the stairs to Nick's room.

You giggled watching him run off, sitting up so you could grab your shoes. One thing you loved with being friends with the triplets was no dull moments.

"Fucking goof." Matt mumbled, making you giggle more.

"How about happy ice?" You suggested as he got up of the sofa.

"Sure. I know Nick will agree." He said.

You nodded as you slipped your shoes on, silently Matt tied your shoelaces for you, knowing you always struggled to get them right and have them untied before you even got to the car.

"What the fuck, Chris!" You both hear Nick shout, as Chris comes running down the stairs.

"What did you do?" Matt asked with a sigh.

"He fucking jumped on me as I just finished editing!" Nick shouted before Chris could respond.

You look up at Matt to see him sigh again, you held in your laughter as you rushed to the stairs to the garage.

"Oh well we're going to happy ice!" You exclaimed.

"Hell yeah!" Nick exclaimed, his anger suddenly gone.

As Chris was yapping on about all the different flavours, you quietly, but quickly, climbed into the front seat of the car. Matt climbed in the drivers seat and laughed seeing you next to him.

"He's gonna get mad." He said.

"No he won't, he loves me." You state.

"Your not wrong." He replied.

You smiled as you heard Nick and Chris' voices get closer. Nick climbed in the back of the car just as Chris stood next to your closed door.

"Hey! That's my seat!" He exclaimed.

"Hey! That's my seat!" You mimicked, making the other two laugh.

"Your no fun." He pouted, sliding in next to Nick.

"You want to swap?" You offered.

"Are you comfortable?" He asked.

"Yes." You answered.

"Then no, your comfort means more to me than the aux." He said with a smile.

You smiled wide as Matt began to drive. You had some music playing as the guys sang along, you gazed out the window, watching the world go by.

Soon you arrived at happy ice, Nick ordered for all of you, which you were always grateful for.

"Hey look at that puppy!" Matt exclaimed, looking out the window, as a lady with a cute puppy walked pass.

"Aww! It's so cute!" You squealed, making the triplets smile. The one of many things they loved about you was your sweet personality and seeing you smile.

"Here you go, sweetheart." Nick said gently, passing you the sweet treat.

"Thank you!" You exclaimed, taking a bite happily.

The four of you then left, eating as you walked down the street. The guys stop to let you catch up every time you see something shiny or cute. Something particular that caught your eyes was a small moose soft toy. It was so cute you thought.

"What caught your eyes?" Chris questioned as the three siblings trailed back to you.

"Just a moose soft toy, nothing special." You mumbled, your eyes not moving from the cute item.

The guys knew it wasn't nothing, as you didn't move on. They shared a look as Nick nodded. Matt and Chris quickly distracted you as Nick went into the store and bought the moose for you, when he came out, you had returned to the car, the three of you on your phones.

"I'm back~" Nick sang as he slid into his seat.

"Did you get it?" Chris blurted out, earning a slap from Nick.

"Get what?" You curiously asked.

"Here." Nick placed the bag in your lap, leaving you confused as you peaked into the bag. A cute gasp escaped your lips.

"Woah thank you!" You exclaimed, making the three smile at your happiness.

"Anything for our girl." Matt said.

You held the toy close as Matt drove home, the smile not leaving your face, happy with how your day with your friends went.

[wileys-russo]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGJKthRAT/

this but with Leah who hates it when you are more than two feet away from her because she needs you right by her side + reader who is always getting sidetracked while shopping and stops everywhere driving her insane

sidetracked II l.williamson

"-and then on wednesday we have to..." leah trailed off as she realised you were no longer walking by her. she quickly turned around, bumping into various shoppers with mumbled apologies as she finally spotted you.

"oi! babe please stop dawdling." your girlfriend sighed, gesturing for you to follow her. "but look lee! new flavours." you pointed to the packets of two minute ramen that had caught your attention, leah swallowing the sarcastic remark which so badly wanted to be spat from her mouth.

"that's nice love. but we really need to get this done, your mums coming over for dinner remember?" leah forced a smile as you again joined her, the blondes hands grabbing the shopping basket off the floor as you resumed walking.

"how could i forget? you invited her without consulting me!" you huffed as you gave your girlfriend a withering side eye. "you ask my mum over all the time without consulting me!" leah argued back, nudging you along with her elbow as she noticed you start to become sidetracked by something on the shelves.

"its always while you're at training leah that doesn't count." you scoffed, grabbing a few packets of pasta at her request. "no! put them in properly." the blonde warned as you lingered behind her intending to toss them in like basketballs once she'd given you some distance to shoot.

"baby you are seriously no fun to go shopping with." you grumbled dumping the pasta into the basket as the older girl pinched you for the comment. "shopping is an errand it's not supposed to be fun love." leah chastised tiredly, again grabbing the back of your top and tugging you back up as you squatted down to read something.

"when you're in love everything can be made fun! lots of couples enjoy doing errands like shopping together, stroppy." you poked her sides as the taller girl scowled at you which only widened your smile of amusement, knowing very well how much leah detested grabbing groceries.

"what time's the match again on sunday?" you asked, the blonde still not playing but back in full training so you both knew it was only a matter of time. "well kick off's at four but i'd like to get there by three at the latest so i can watch the girls-" leah again stopped mid answer noticing you were no longer beside her.

spinning around she spotted you hunched over with your eyebrows furrowed, reading the cooking instructions on a box of taco shells. "in for ten and out for ten leah, you are calm and you will stay calm." leah closed her eyes and mumbled herself an affirmation as she made her way back toward you, her frustration levels rapidly rising.

"can you believe these only take two minutes to cook? i guess they're like giant corn chips after all." you shrugged, eyes still scanning the box before leah wordlessly took it out of your hands and put it back on the shelf.

she held out her hand again without a word as you took it, linking your fingers as you filled the silence with your usual chatter, your girlfriend humming every now and then as she continued to grab what was on your list.

"can you go and get a dozen eggs please sweets?" leah sighed, nodding toward the other end of the fridges as you ducked off to grab them. leah meanwhile stocked up ham, moaning in annoyance as her favorite brand was out and she'd need to trial another.

"oh for fuck sakes where's she gone now?" leah glanced to where she'd sent you, noticing eggs but a distinct lack of you as she hurried off with a groan.

she checked aisle after aisle, but still nothing, and with each one her irritation grew more and more.

until finally she saw the back of your head and charged toward you. hearing footsteps come closer you glanced up, a smile curling onto your lips seeing the blonde hurrying over.

"lee baby look they have-" you started as your girlfriend reached you, taking the eggs out of your hand before placing the basket on the ground. "what are you..." you frowned as she messed around with her keys which hung off her jeans.

"there! now, you can no longer be side tracked or run away." the taller girl hooked the two of you together by your belt loops using the carabiner on her keys. "i wasn't running away! i don't need this." you huffed as she fixed you with a stern glare normally only reserved for her team mates when in captain mode.

"leah this is ridiculous." you whined, trying to unhook it as she smacked your hands away. "considering it has taken us over an hour to grab about twenty things babe, yes you do." leah huffed, grabbing the basket in one hand and grabbing your own with her other, tugging you along with her as you smiled awkwardly to those giving you strange looks.

"leah this is embarrassing." you hissed, again trying to unhook the two of you as she once more smacked at your hands. "oh but babe are you forgetting something?" leah smirked as the two of you finally reached the check out counter.

"when you're in love everything can be made fun, no?"

[fatesundress]

⭑ patience, please, and thank you. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom have always sought to best one another in school. it doesn’t help that upon graduating, you work for opposing shops.

tags. rivals to … rivals with benefits? lovers? there’s no real animosity just #flirting so i don’t know, SMUTT minors begone, fluff that may be ooc to some but Not Me, reader literally learns archaic latin for this man, poor boy x rich girl trope if you squint, pureblood reader (and mentions of pureblood marriage politics), explicitly f!reader this time sorry!, fem anatomy, fingering, piv, tldr tom riddle would be turned on by the culminated tension of an eight-year-long academic rivalry.

note. i was 5k words into something else (that is probably better) before this came to me and would not go away so. here it is. don't know where all the smut is coming from. head empty

word count. 6.4k

The bell to Borgin and Burkes knells low and hollow in your ear as you enter, and there he is. Prim waistcoat and perfect hair, tucking books away with a wave of his wand. Far too pretty a thing for a dusty place like this, you think, and you smile with your head held high, pretending to take in the inventory as if that's ever been your reason for coming here.

“You mightn't consider leaving at all," Tom says, regarding you briefly before returning to his books, “if you're going to return this often."

“Oh, Riddle, but then what would you do without my company? Talk to the bones?"

“A tempting offer when considering my alternative.”

He leans against the counter to watch you as you make your way down the aisle, fingers jolting as they brush the shelves of dark paraphernalia, preemptively casting a locking jinx on a particularly nasty skeletal hand that grabbed you once last year.

“Is there anything you're looking for?"

“Nothing in particular,” you hum as you peruse, “Curiosities of your friendly competitors.”

“Friendly,” he repeats, like he’s tasting a strange flavour.

You smile with just enough polished barb that you hope it bothers him. “Most cordial. And I am nothing if not the dutiful volunteer for the task." 

It is an objective truth that you are good at many things. Tom is good at all of them and perhaps one more: being pushed significantly and never showing symptoms of breaking. You'd like to be the one to change that.

“I presume you intend to leave with something?" There's a challenge in his voice, clear as day, as he stands straighter, but — not bothered. Not bothered, just intrigued. His hands fold behind his back and his chin comes up, daring you to say a single snarky thing that isn't true — that you're here to taunt him. Not to buy a thing, and not to enjoy his company.

It was such a boring day before this. If he only knew, he might have a tad more sympathy.

“Breathe, Riddle — if you can through all the dust in here — I've plenty of money to spare; there’s no need to fret about me leaving empty-handed." You select a book at random to prove your point, waltzing closer to hand Tom four sickles from your coin purse.

You're pleasantly surprised to see him actually smile, the corners of his mouth stretching with only the slightest degree of mirth. He reaches out and takes the coins, setting both upon the counter before turning up his nose at the book in your hands. “It must be an enthralling read to capture your attention."

You smooth the cover over with manicured hands and shrug at the indecipherable title. “Well, I’m remiss not to have a clue. I believe it's in Latin."

He runs his hand along the book, thumbing the pages with a raised brow. “It’s a history text. Ancient Roman institutes of magic.” His gaze returns to you. “Will that be all?”

You roll your eyes. He would know a dead language — it's such a remarkably Riddle thing to do — probably just for the sake of knowing it. 

“Yes, if that's satisfactory enough that I may be permitted to walk the premises without causing offence."

“Of course. Though I do expect a review of it soon," he adds, “to know whether my time hasn't been entirely wasted."

“A review?" You laugh. “And I suppose you ask that of all your customers? Mind the matter of it being in a language I don't know; it would take me a few months for a crude translation at best."

“Only my best customers," he says with a small shrug, as if that isn't a completely arbitrary standard he's just pulled out of nowhere. “In that case, you've the better part of a year to read it," he adds, and the smile on his face is less thin, less restrained, more cocky.

You raise a brow, scanning over the words on the first page as if hoping something will stick out. It's all gibberish. “I'm being timed now, am I? I don't recall accepting the task."

"Do you not?"

You scoff. "Of course I do."

“Or perhaps I could translate for you?" he suggests, “It's really no bother for me."

You should be offended — he's eternally eager to see you fail — but your stomach flips at the premise of a challenge you haven't felt since you were in school together, and most importantly, you never fail. “Give me a date, Riddle.”

“I think by Christmas would be fair. Does that give you enough time, or shall I set it a bit later?"

“Christmas," you agree, shaking his hand with all professionalism you can muster (this is, after all, a very professional exchange), turning away, and smiling to yourself as the shop bell tolls again.

It’s only weeks before Christmas when it occurs to you that this isn’t even for anything. There’s no prize should you win, no one else is aware of it, it’s a great waste of time when what began as a passable weekend hobby has now drowned you in English-Latin dictionaries and histories of Ancient Rome. The shop surpasses last year’s sales and you’re dozing off into your mother’s pastry dish during the family celebration. Even your father telling a rather pitiful tale of his Polyjuiced visit to Borgin and Burkes can’t keep your attention when he drones on about how easily he fooled Mr Borgin into remembering the details of some spat twenty years ago. Your brain is in a half-scattered language. It tugs you to what might be the most depressing December 25th of your life if you’re forced to give Tom the gift of your failure.

So you double-down. Your social life is nonexistent. You’re three quarters through the textbook and dreaming about duelling Tom under the Arch of Constantine, and he wins, and he wins, and he wins each time. It only propels you more. You’re downing Invigoration Draughts like a drunkard with a cradle of firewhisky. 

And you do it. 

You finish the damn book, you think you might have actually fucking learned Latin with how deep the words have rooted in your skull, and you win.

You win, in your prettiest dinner dress, snow clinging to your hair, wrapped in a brand new coat as the shop bell tolls and you step inside.

You’re grateful you don’t say as much (which you were planning on doing — planning on slamming the door shut behind you and carolling your bloody success) because it’s Mr Burke at the counter this Christmas evening, not Tom.

“...Miss?” He regards you with perplexity behind the counter.

You blink, recollecting yourself and stepping forward to shake his hand. “Mr Burke. My family wished to extend their best wishes for the new year.”

“Quite a gesture," comes a familiar voice from behind you as Tom steps out from the staircase, dressed in a dark suit and overcoat, like he’s just been out. He’s smiling. He looks disgustingly well.

You glance between the two men, and Burke bows curtly as if made aware of something he’d previously been warned of. “To yours as well, miss.” And then he’s off to assist the only other customer, an elderly woman in fur-lined green with so many glittering pins in her hair she resembles a Christmas tree.

“Riddle,” you say, facing him, unable to hide the triumphant grin that digs into your cheeks. You hand him the book, and atop it, your three pages of articulate, edited review.

“You made it. You read it," he acknowledges, though you doubt he’s surprised, and then nods to the stairs. “Come.”

You follow him up the narrow spiral into a short corridor, taking one look back at the old woman, now clasping a shrieking bauble you gladly turn away from. The door Tom opens is unlocked, presumably where he’d just come from, and — you feel a bit overwhelmed if you’re correct, but you have no idea what else it could be — presumably his flat.

When you enter, the door shuts behind you with an empty click of the latch. The room before you is rather sparse, a kitchenette in one corner, a cramped study in the other, with books upon books and scrolls stacked high on shelves along the dark walls. There's only the barest of seating, two armchairs beneath a dim desk lamp, a small table beside the fireplace, and… a bed, of all things, separated only by a thin divider and the courtesy of enough distance not to immediately draw the eye. You, of course, can't quite help it, gaze lingering on the tidy sheets and back to him.

It isn’t a thought you do well to dwell on. Too many directions for your imagination to roam.

“Well then," you say, hanging your coat at the door and trying not to display any overt anticipation as the parchment rustles in his hand, “Shall I just sit and await your evaluation?"

He raises a brow. “I was going to ask if you’d like tea. Do sit, though.”

Oh. Yes, right, you’re rushing things. Hospitality. Decorum. Consideration. You suppose Tom Riddle would extend those things for the sake of posterity if nothing else. “Something black, if you have any, please.”

The water comes to a boil quickly under the steady heat of his magic, and you’re sinking into a shockingly comfortable armchair taking in every shape and blemish of the room while you’re in it. You don’t have to guess that he doesn’t have many guests.

“Darjeeling,” Tom says as he offers you a steaming cup, “if that’s satisfactory.”

You resist a scowl at his mocking tone, placing the tea on a glass coaster and glancing purposefully at your work (your magnum opus, really) once more. “Perfectly.”

Tom notes your look with a smile, settling into the seat opposite yours. 

You take a sip of tea and lean back. “Do go on.”

“Eager,” he mutters, but begins.

He skims over the opening line before flipping the book open as if to be sure you haven’t made it all up, and then you think you probably could have made it all up if you wanted. Read one of the hundreds of magical histories of Rome that certainly existed — probably in your own shop, at that — and gathered much the same conclusion. But you did not. Tom must know you did not. 

The silence is thick as he reads, waned only by the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page. His brows furrow the way you always remember catching in school, like he's concentrating on a particularly hard puzzle, and you have to busy yourself with a nearly empty cup of tea to pretend not to notice the way his beauty is something almost delicate. Framed by firelight and the indigo gloss of the night shining in through the window, you imagine his hair mussed, his long eyelashes speckled with snow, his cheeks pink from the cold. You wonder about him in a nicer suit than this. You could buy him one, if you liked.

And then, at last, he looks up over the parchment, expression carefully measured. “I'm impressed.”

You put your cup down and you can’t help it. You're smiling. You're proud. His approval is like bottling the tail of a rainbow (which you’ve been told is possible), and it's a feeling that’s been absent from you for so long, it's never come from him — Merlin, you've always wanted it to come from him, haven’t you?

“You’re impressed?” you ask, as you love nothing more than to push. “Is that all?”

He loves nothing more than to keep his face impassive, but there’s a twitch there. Something you’re aware you can only spot because of how much attention you pay him. 

“I enjoyed your perspective on the Romans’ utilisation of firedrakes. It was well-thought.”

“Well-thought?”

“Quite good, yes.”

“Good," you say, grinning in the bulk of your triumph, “I suppose that means I win."

Win. You’re not winning anything but the implication that Tom is somehow losing. Still he does not break, and you think at seventeen he would have. At nearly twenty his smile just grows. “Have you ever done anything less?”

Is he pushing too? That could be fun.

“Oh, first year tribulations. Nothing since — you wouldn’t remember.”

“Hm, I do recall an unfortunate lesson with a matagot in Beasts, and that must have been, what—” He tilts his head as though to ponder it— “fourth year?”

You narrow your eyes. “Paid an ever-close watch on me, did you, Riddle?”

“As close as anyone else.”

“And by that you mean to say—?”

“Only that it’s a most fascinating custom, the matter of pureblood marriage. It was hard to avoid your name in a common room full of your particular politics.”

“Ah,” you hum, summoning the teapot from the kitchenette to pour another cup, “so my potential marital affairs are what drew your attention. And here I was thinking it was because I was the only person who could ever best you.”

He stops your tea mid-motion, and you still as he sends both the pot and the cup to the table beside you. “Can it not have begun as one and have become the other?”

“Well, your curiosity knows no end; I should be flattered by such multifaceted interest.”

“So you won’t mind my inquiring.”

“Whatever you wish, Riddle.”

“Upon the current status of your betrothal.”

You blink, and then laugh. “There is no betrothal. At present.”

“At present. Is it subject to change?”

“There’s always talk,” you offer, and it offers impressively little.

“Elaborate...”

“I don’t know that you’re in any position to be making demands,” you gibe, “considering I paid four sickles to prove you wrong and I haven’t anything to show for it but my pride.”

He smiles. “Not enough to sate your desire to make me grovel, it seems.”

“You? Grovel?” You gasp, fingers circling your knee idly. “What a fascinating concept… Wait now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

“Is that not what you came for?” he asks, and it’s odd to see him amused by the idea. You push and push and he just continues to take. “To prove me wrong? To puncture my pride?”

You shrug innocently, even though you’d just said as much. “I’m here to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

He laughs, a warm, quiet laugh — more of a breath than anything — but true if you can read him at all, and that’s a bit alarming. “Of course. Near nine months of exhaustive translation all to bid me a nice holiday. It sounds almost like grovelling, doesn’t it? Wait, now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

You bite back your smile. Damn him. He’s never been funny before. That’s a problematic development.

“Fine.” Your legs are already crossed and now you’re crossing your arms too, and you look very reserved compared to his relaxed stature. “A match would, of course, need to be of good title.”

“Of course,” Tom says, without even an attempt at masking his amusement.

“And he would need to be rich.”

“Naturally.”

“It would help to be from one of the Sacred Houses.”

“I should not expect anything less.”

“And I suppose age is a factor,” you go on. You push, and push, and push. Tom is impervious. He takes.

“What age would do well?”

“Near enough to my own. For health, of course.”

“For health,” he agrees delightedly.

What the hell are you talking about?

“It would be preferable that he be handsome.”

“And of his character?”

“Most agreeable.”

“Docile?”

“Hm, docile, yes.”

“It is a long list.”

“I’ve been told I’m a difficult woman to sate. Far too prideful, apparently.”

Your fingers are drawing figure-eights on your thigh now, and Tom’s eyes flash briefly to the motion. You stop as though caught, and you aren’t sure why.

“A defamatory accusation,” he says quietly.

You wonder if his voice has always had that tinge to it: the gravel underlining his polish like the crack of the fire, and — that must be why it’s so warm in here, too. It has been that way since you arrived, hasn’t it? Such polarising temperatures between your walk in the snow to this, you must have only just adjusted… an hour after arriving. It’s completely logical.

“So there are talks,” you repeat, if only because you’ve blanked on all else.

“Well,” he says, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes you feel transparent, “I wish you all the best. If it at all helps, you can now add a moderate understanding of Latin to your list of virtues.”

You drape an arm across your chair to match his easy posture. (And how is it he manages to look regal and informal at the same time?) “My list of virtues? Elaborate.”

He shakes his head with a small smile and you point an accusatory finger at him. “Ah, ah, Riddle — I won, remember? And I indulged your inquiring regardless.”

His eyes narrow. “You do want me to grovel.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I don’t believe that’s the purpose of the day.”

“And that matters to you?”

He leans forward, looking over you as if your supposed virtues will reveal themselves upon scrutiny. It’s a bit offensive, really. You’d hope he could find more than enough with one glance.

He settles, after a long moment where you feel almost bare, on, “Your pride is agonising.”

It’s — not exactly what you were hoping for. Not quite grovelling, by any definition, but then, what did you expect from him?

“Excuse me?”

“Your stockings are ripped at the calf.”

“Riddle—”

“Your lipstick may have stained my teacup. It is a shade I’m rather fond of, but I do not wish to see a trace of it left behind.”

“Quite good,” you say through gritted teeth.

“And I should not be agonised — incautious and unfettered at a sliver of skin or the gesture of your mouth —” You realise with horror that he’s speaking through something constrained too — “and yet I am.”

It’s — is that a confession? Have you broken him? Have you won again? Your stomach flips and it doesn’t feel at all like winning. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s lost. In fact, he’s watching you intently, and at your lack of response, the constraint forming a taut line on his lips seems to slip back into something deliberate. Curious.

You recover to the best of your ability. “It is a short list.”

“Shall I go on?” he asks, and it’s an answer, too: no, you have most definitely not broken him. He looks a bit like he’s found a neat pathway to breaking you instead.

“I’d hate to debase you further.”

He leans in, and he might be about to stand, and that might be an irreversible thing to do. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine you’ve painted the picture yet.”

Oh, you’ve painted the picture. You’ve painted a gallery.

“I find the image regrettable half-done. No point finishing it now.”

You do not.

“And besides,” you add, “I know my virtues.”

He smiles, and he’s half orange in the firelight and half blue in the night, green somewhere in the middle, and he should be condemned for being this beautiful. “Elaborate.”

You shouldn’t. “I’m intelligent.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“So I’ve seen,” he agrees, still leaning in.

“I’m good at my job.”

And then he stands.

It is an irreversible thing. Your heart lurches like it knows he’s going to do something that cannot be undone. Your heart lurches because it is a thing you’ve anticipated, quietly, on late nights in scrolls of Latin so you might be able to pretend to mistranslate them — you know, in your first tongue and any other, that you do not want it to be undone.

“Anything else?” he asks. You aren’t sure if you’re resentful of the proximity of his seat to yours or grateful for it, because it takes no time at all for him to be standing before you.

“I’m well-mannered,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean for it to. “Lettered in etiquette.”

“Etiquette," he repeats slowly, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, and you don't quite know how he manages an intonation like that, but there it is, dripping with so much contempt you’re surprised he doesn’t fall over.

It wouldn’t be terrible if he did. He’d land right on top of you and put this little game to rest.

Instead he reaches a hand to your cheek — your hair — and brushes it like it’s an absolutely standard thing to do. He pulls away just the same. As if his hand is familiar with the shape of your face because it’s been there before. You'd definitely remember if it had.

“Of course,” you breathe, “patience and pleases and thank yous.”

“In all your manners, you might provide an example.”

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult. “I’d say I’m displaying great patience right now.”

“Hm.” His hands find yours where they sit on either arm of your chair, and his figure is blocking all light now. It shines on his shoulders, casts him like an aura. “That’s one.”

You look at his lips, and don’t bother to look away. You incline forward as much as you can when you’re caged in like this, until his breath is on yours and you can smell his cologne.

“Please,” you say, and for the challenge in it you don’t feel too humbled.

He is most obliging.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and you did say you were patient — so you wait. The feather-light touch of them stills before it deepens, his hands pressing down on yours. Your open mouth. His tongue. You're kissing him, breathlessly and frantically and completely, and it is all you want.

Tom pulls back and you instinctively push forward. You will your eyes to open and he’s still right there — he hasn’t gone anywhere (what a deranged concern that is) — lips an inch from yours, and he’s smiling.

“That’s two.”

Oh. Oh, he’s an aberration in human variance. There’s something incredibly wrong with him.

There isn’t a way of turning gratitude into a challenge, you think. It doesn’t ask for anything. It appreciates. In this case it would more closely resemble worship. Thank you for your kiss, Riddle, I’d be nothing without it.

So you search to find a way around it that still gets you what you want.

“I’ll need a bit more than a lousy kiss if you want to see me grovel, Riddle." Your voice is a bit rough. You don’t know that your confidence lands the way it typically does.

But you came here to — what was it — puncture his pride? Push him until he breaks? You’ve already made it halfway, and you are, after all, very good at it.

And you suppose he wants to earn the third, because he scowls and then he’s kissing you again and this time his hands are on your face, and perhaps they are somehow familiar with the shape because they fit around you in some inexplicably whole way, like they were made for it. With your hands free, you’re carding your fingers through his hair, hoping for that vision of him you imagined earlier, with thick, messy waves and flushed cheeks.

Tom brings a hand to your waist and tugs you in, and you’re partly pulled from the chair by his insistence and overwhelmingly pushing to get out of it yourself, lips never leaving his as you stumble past the meagre divider to his bed.

The backs of your thighs hit the footboard and your knees buckle, gasping away from Tom’s mouth as you reach for the bedpost. His breath is heavy as his hand curves to the small of your back to keep you steady, your dress bunched in his fist, and there’s a heat in him pressed against you, like a match being held to kindling. And in the flash of fire when it finally strikes, everything in his eyes is clear, singularly focused, and he's pushing you to your back, splayed across his tidy sheets as he kisses you with bruising ferocity.

There's an urgency now to his movements that wasn't there before, and it's a stark contrast to his usual calculated demeanour, but that feels like winning. That feels like breaking Tom Riddle, whittling years of practised constraint to… this. That draws the third: makes you nice and grateful like he asked, because no part of you wants his careful fortitude here. You want to ruin him.

He appears to want the very same from you, which wrecks the whole thing.

Your legs move to wrap around him and he stops you, one hand pinning you by the hip and then down, past where you think he’ll go, as he finds the hem of your dress and lifts it from your calf to your knee. He draws circles over the thinly-clothed skin and you can do nothing but lie there, panting a little, staring at him with less patience than you’d proclaimed to have. And then his fingers move upwards, and they’re drawing figure-eights, and you understand that if this isn’t a taunt, nothing is. He copies your earlier motions. He does not kiss you. His fingers trail higher and higher and they’re soft like the shadows framing his face.

Finally he finds the waistband of your stockings and begins to tug them down your hips, stopping when he reaches that sliver of skin revealed by a tear in the fabric, taking your leg and hiking it up so he can look closely. He smiles, finger sliding down the tear in such a precise, meticulous fashion you can’t help but think he’s doing it on purpose. The moment does not linger when he pulls away, shuffling your stockings down the rest of the way so your legs are unclad before him, your heels already kicked off somewhere across the floor.

He watches your sharp exhale when he ducks down to kiss the skin of your thigh. A shiver runs through you at his softness, another when you see his face, see his eyes go dark with want of you.

His constraint is back, and it’s fucking detrimental. The only silver lining you can find in it, and you hope to be correct (haven’t you been so far?), is that maybe that means Tom Riddle can be broken in litany. Maybe he amends his ruination now but you can carve it out of him again later.

“Come here,” you say, your voice ragged.

Tom frowns, one hand pursuing a dangerous path up the inside of your thigh. “And here I was under the impression you wanted me to grovel.”

“Oh,” you huff, “is that what this is? Not some feeble attempt at winning after I —”

You grip his hair as his fingers curl under the lace of your underwear, as he smiles at the dampness there, the way your argument dissipates beneath his touch. “Winning?” he derides, breathy to match your tone in a way that feels cruel rather than considerate. You nod even as your breathing accelerates and he lifts the skirt of your dress to rest over your thighs, his eyes darting between your legs and your own heavy gaze as if he can't decide which is more intriguing. And then he slides a finger across your heat and you think he’s made his choice. "Is that what you think I want?"

You blink, feeling a bit lost. "What else is there?"

“Will you thank me after this?”

Right. That. You swallow, head falling back on his pillow. “Doubtful.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, some kind of consideration that can only be answered by the movement of his fingers against you, slow as they seek to learn you.

You arrest the moan that rises in your throat, teeth clenching together as Tom climbs over you once more, his body keeping you in place to watch the sustained details of your expression as one of his fingers dips inside you. You hiss, and his gaze burns into you, his mouth parted with a degree of awe and you think perhaps this is the picture he painted — you, under him, eyebrows pinched together as your hands scramble for purchase on his chest, fighting to remain intact.

But then his thumb brushes up against your clit and you let out a sound — half a moan, half a mewl. Tom doesn't give you a second to recover as his lips come down on yours again, hard, desperate, like he's trying to inhale you. And you let him, you take the little bit of ruin he surrenders in the great expanse of yours.

Even if you could quiet your noises you stand to think Tom would feel them, taste them, bite down on them like he does your lower lip, a second finger coiling into you. Your hand smacks at his wrist, clutching his arm with such intensity you can feel every sinew of his movement as he works away at you. Your legs are trembling, pressing around his waist an act of simultaneous resistance and desperation as you push upwards for friction and conquest.

You find both. Undeniable hunger — how he groans softly against your open mouth, how the imprint against your thigh is hard under his trousers, how he wants you.

His ministrations only intensify when your hand searches for the buckle of his belt, gripping your jaw like he needs to watch you fall apart before you can find parity in your desperation. It isn’t an impossible wish; your mind is hazy at the push and pull of his fingers, curving where his thumb draws ceaselessly on the other side, and you think, as much as you’re able right now, that he could succeed. But you force your eyes open to the space where your hand is wedged between your bodies, yanking hastily at his belt and sighing into his shoulder as it unfastens.

His trousers are unbuttoned, unzipped, and you’re arching into him with laboured pants even when your hand slips past them to find skin you've never travelled before.

Tom’s motions stagger when your fingers brush experimentally over his length, and you suddenly understand his ardent focus. You can’t help but stare at the way his jaw ticks, a hiss parting through gritted teeth, and the fact that you’re doing this to him is almost enough to push you over the edge. You grip him in one hand, and his fingers move again like some act of defiance, tightening his hold on your jaw. And then you’re pumping slowly, carefully, the only way you think to with the intention of pleasing him. Of weakening him.

He turns your head so you’re gasping into the pillow, neck exposed for him to press his mouth to. His teeth and tongue are on you and your hand slips from him for a moment as you shudder. Fuck him. This isn’t enough. You won't lose like this.

You tug at his waistcoat now, snapping open the buttons until the last few are clinging on by cheap threads. You’ll buy him that suit, you think. One that you can shrug off as fervently as you like without worrying about tearing the seams.

Your removal of his shirt is not aided by the swelling fire inside you, how the attention of his fingers has remained steady through your squirming and it feels like it’s culminating to something fatal. Your fingers grow shakier but don't stop their pursuit until every button is undone and you can soothe their trembling by pressing your palms against the warm expanse of his chest.

And then they’re back in his trousers, pushing them down his thighs as he continues to chip away at you. You bite back moans and blink through your dizziness.

Tom stops, and it might be more devastating than if he hadn’t. Your body is taut, a fine, thrumming wire spared a moment before snapping.

“More,” is all you say, tracing the shape of him through his briefs.

“More?” he asks. There’s a small mercy in the rasp within in his voice, the uncertainty despite himself. “I suppose that means I win.”

“Win?” 

His gall almost, almost pulls you back to reality. But he’s — he’s pulling his trousers further down and your body, like some separate entity to your mind, is flush against him when he’s finally free of all obstructions. 

“Mhm,” he hums, and almost-reality dwindles away into fucking nothing — disappears before your eyes when he brings his finger to his tongue and tastes you.

You tear him back to your mouth with a sound that so desperate your humility shouldn’t be able to take it but that's all gone now. His lips are wet and swollen and you’re adjusting yourself so his hips are lined with yours, and your head rolls back when he positions himself against your core and stays there.

“I win,” you breathe. “Everything else is just—”

He moves, hands on your waist as he presses ever-so-slightly inside you. You clutch wildly at his arms, your eyes wrenching shut.

“Look at me,” he says softly. His thumb caresses your cheek as if any act of his acts of tenderness are at all actually tender and not depraved requests for your resignation. 

You shake your head. “It’s ju-just—”

He sinks further, unhurried, and you feel like crying, your body clenching around him as the pressure deepens.

“Just what?” he asks, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“Just… um, just…”

“Hm?”

“I win... s’just… cheating…”

You feel him smiling against your neck, and then he detaches his lips to observe you, nodding with false sympathy. “You win.”

And he shifts himself forward so he’s pushed to the hilt. 

It’s a lie. It’s a lie as Tom holds you against him, carving kisses into your skin that burn, as you shudder a moan into the thick, hot air, as he begins to move rhythmically inside you, your fingers digging crescent moons into his spine and dragging.

You don't win.

If you are steel honed over years, it’s this moment that you melt, and you think if you were to be fused again it would be in a different shape.

And you mean that. You honestly feel liquified when he splits you slow like this, rolling his hips as you cling to him for strength like he isn’t the thing shattering you. 

You rock to meet him, you bury your nails in his back, you rest your moans with your teeth in his shoulder — whatever you can think to make this fair. Make true to your word. You are going to break, it's true, but you are going to break Tom Riddle too.

“Fingers,” you mutter, far too much of a demand for the way it almost stumbles into a sob, but Tom makes a strained sound in the back of his throat as if it gratifies him that you want it enough to ask.

“Thank me,” he answers on a harsh exhale.

You bite at his collar, shaking your head, but your legs are starting to shake and you wouldn’t ask if it was something you wanted — you mask it as an order because you need it. Because you imagine what he’s doing now combined with his thumb on your clit and it’s enough to make your abdomen clench just thinking about it.

Instead one of your hands forsakes the sweet curve of his muscles every time he thrusts into you so that it can snake between your own legs, and you mimic his earlier ministrations just long enough to drive a moan from your lips before Tom’s eyes dart from your lips, the rise and fall of your chest, to the hand missing from his back.

He grabs it with a scowl, pinning one wrist and then the other above your head.

“Stubborn,” he hisses, and he buries himself inside you like it's something personal, persistent in his strokes when his fingers finally rub over you how you wanted.

And you know you’ve done it when his head falls on your shoulder and you feel yourself tighten around him. His grip on your wrists is punishing. His mouth on your shoulder is stringent. He’s hard and full inside you and his fingers slide against you in delicate, torturous contrast. You know because it all stutters a bit when you pull him into a kiss, when you know you’re about to plummet into oblivion and he’s gripping you through it like you might steady him — like you aren’t the thing shattering him.

When you do, it’s something visceral. You think you might be spinning, or floating — screaming, maybe — spilling ill-mannered expletives in strings with his name because your hands are still trapped under his and your body can do nothing else. What you know, undoubtedly, is that you’re coming down from it for a long time, in a haze when you manage to breathe the words into his ear. “Thank you.”

Tom breaks. It’s the most beautiful you think he’s ever looked; eyebrows cinched and pink mouth parted, hair mussed like you wanted, neck tense as he stills inside you and you feel every part of him let go.

Your legs are too weak to cling to him through it, and you just pant under him, blinking languidly and in awe.

You stay like that for a long time.

He leans in when he finally pulls out of you, kissing you like one form of contact must be replaced with another. It's the same with his hands. He sinks into the space beside you and releases your wrists just to cup your face instead.

Yours come up instantly and shamelessly to his hair, craving nothing more than to curl your fingers through the dark mess of it. You trace the sharp shape of his cheeks, too, like his did to yours, like you need to memorize the lines of his expression and the heat of his skin before the world outside seeps in and it all goes cold.

But you pull away and you can't imagine it will.

There’s something in his eyes that feels new. Longing like he’s shed all pretence of acting like nine years of treading the lines of this rivalry has ever been anything but a pathetic display, like he knows you've shed it too. It makes you catch your breath to think this is what it feels like to be desired by Tom Riddle; that you desire him all the same; all this time.

“You know,” you say, and your voice sticks dry to your mouth, “I still win.”

He shakes his head. He smiles. You want terribly to kiss him again.

“I’ll just have to find something else to best you in, won’t I?”

You pretend like you’re considering it and not just staring at him. 

“I think by Christmas would be fair.”

[roseykat]

TITLE: Play Night

SUMMARY: Things between Jisung and Hyunjin are heating up, and leading towards their group trip to Jeju, Jisung needs to clear a few things up with Chan; about you and him and the current secret bet in place that he unintentionally started.

TAGS: smut, handjobs, orgasms, kissing, making out, hickies, soft/fluff/slice of life moments, swearing, slight confrontation (nothing toxic), use of alcohol (Hyunjin is slightly drunk but what takes place after is consensual), some Harry Potter spoilers/references (sorry if you haven't watched HP)?

WARNING: minors DNI with this post or my blog. I create NSFW SKZ related content and I know I won’t be able to regulate/monitor every potential interaction with those posts so please do not engage with me, my work, or page whatsoever.

MASTERLIST - PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

🏷️LIST: @chillichillicrabcrab23 @broken-glowsticks @ihatemen55 @boi-bi-ahaha @galamxy @weareapackofstrays @anglerfishiey @elizalabs3 @princejisung @fr34k4c1dr41n @stayconnecteed @imnotjjini0325 @twinklix @meilix @dawn-iscozy @valibals @oiikaro @im-sinking-in-mud @aalexyuuuhm @baby-yongbok @1dk-anym0r3 @wealwayskeepfighting @flowersun @huening-kawaii @newhope8 @leftkittenface @20minsat180degrees @itsthatbri 🩷

“Oh, now this - what about this one?” 

Hyunjin hears Jisung’s voice from the aisle beside him where all the cold drinks are located. He himself had been scanning vigorously among the shelves for his favourite brand of ramen, only to come up short. They had been to four convenience stores prior and not one had what he was looking for. It landed them a trip further away than they had expected, but neither of them complained about wandering around far from where they were supposed to be.

After he straightens up and peeks his head over the snacks to see what Jisung was talking about, he shakes his head solemnly. 

“No. No, that one's grape flavoured and it tastes like children’s medicine,” he says to him. 

Jisung looks down at the purple can in his possession, “that’s oddly specific - oh, then what about orange-“

“Same thing.”

Jisung huffs and gives up, placing the can back where he found it in a disgruntled fashion, “you’re an easy man to please you know, but the minute it comes to food you’re so picky.” 

Hyunjin strolls around to meet Jisung on the other side after filling his basket with snacks that had caught his eye and wanted to eat during their movie night, “drinks aren’t food.” 

“Then what’s soup? A drink or a food?” He fires back.

“Not this again,” Hyunjin rolls his eyes and closes the fridge for Jisung who follows behind closely. 

They’ve been debating about this for a while now which started off as a very contentious pillow talk topic that now crops up frequently. Of course, they wouldn’t be themselves if they didn’t have opposing opinions. Jisung, who thinks that soup is absolutely a drink, has been pushing that agenda ever since the night he tried to cook French onion soup to impress Hyunjin.

Only, it wasn’t that impressive, and was rather just a slurry of tasteless onion water and zero seasoning. In order to not upset his friend for trying his hardest, Hyunjin did his best to stomach the interesting creation and honestly hoped that he never tried again.

“It’s an important question!” Jisung begins to protest, ready with an army of rebuttals and arguments. 

“Soup is a liquid food. That doesn’t mean to say it’s a drink, because you can eat soup. Plus, some soups have chunks of food in it too.” 

“That’s just vegetable water or meat water.”

“Meat water,” Hyunjin repeats in a disgusted tone. “So you’re also saying that plain water is soup too?”

“Well, if you heat it up-“

“Okay,” Hyunjin interrupts as he dumps all their items onto the counter and takes out his wallet to pay. “Stop talking.”

“Make me,” he mouths and teases quietly so that the cashier couldn’t hear him. “If you stuff my mouth with something big then it might get me to stop talking.” 

Hyunjin rolls his eyes, again. 

Nearly every waking moment that he’s around Jisung, there’s always a guarantee that he’ll make Hyunjin’s eyes roll; whether it’s because of some weird shit that comes out of his mouth, or whether it’s giving him an orgasm. Whatever the reason, Hyunjin pretends to ignore him as he collects his goods, then heads out with his best friend at his side. 

The entire commute back to his apartment, Jisung kept talking. On and on, and on about an assortment of subjects that Hyunjin had no interest in. At least not now. Not when all he wanted to do was go home, not speak, and just laze around with Jisung like he has been for the past few weeks. That thought seems to trigger a very sobering realisation that dawns on him as they ride the train back to his place.

As Hyunjin looks at the side of Jisung’s face who’s been rambling on about his opinion on the best types of pasta, he realises that they’ve been hooking up for the past few weeks. They kiss, make out, do other things, but not once have they had sex. Yet. They haven’t even talked about it, and yet, a part of Hyunjin had to wonder; was there any point in even talking let alone thinking about it if whatever is going on between them, isn’t going to last? 

His eyebrows knit together. He doesn’t want to think about that. Hyunjin doesn’t know whatever feelings Jisung has right now, but the one thing he knows is that he likes the sense of comfort that hanging around him brings. What if he asks and disrupts what they have? What if he asks and ruins Jisung’s thoughts on him?

As those questions infiltrate his psyche, his head lowers and comes to rest on Jisung’s shoulder, eyelids closing softly, “wake me up when we get to our stop please.” 

Jisung’s big brown eyes turn into the size of plates, a little bit taken aback that Hyunjin, a person who isn’t that huge on public displays of affection, is resting on him right now. Not to mention the privileged feeling that inflates Jisung whenever a person rests their head on his shoulder, which is very rare. It’s like some physical way of saying that Hyunjin trusts him, or feels comfortable around him at the very least. 

He scans up and down the cart where no members of the public come into his view. Grateful for their absence, Jisung feels safe by reciprocating the same affections. So he places his hand on Hyunjin’s upper thigh, and he too rests his head against his friends’.

For the next five minutes, Jisung and Hyunjin would ride the train back to his place in peace. Neither of them spoke a word until they reached their stop. The pair of them hop up, Hyunjin stands and stretches his long limbs as he and his friend head inside the apartment complex. 

Once they return to his place, Hyunjin prepares all the snacks for them on his coffee table, while Jisung gets the movie ready that they - he - wanted to watch.

“Harry Potter? Again?” Hyunjin groans, taking the plastic wrap off of the kimbap to share and setting it down on the surface once they’ve both sunken down onto the couch. 

“What do you mean ‘again’?” Jisung shoots him a dirty look. He’s always been pretty serious about his Harry Potter, having watched the movies over a thousand times and read the books back to back. “This is the next part of the series, thank you.” 

Hyunjin sighs and makes himself comfortable. He then heads to his fridge to grab a couple of bottles of soju and some shot glasses. Back at the convenience store, he meant to buy something non alcoholic, had he not been so picky about the flavours Jisung presented to him he wouldn’t be deciding on whether he should have alcohol or not. In saying that, it was nice to have a drink.

He strolls back to the coffee table with their final items and places them all down.

"Oh, yum," Jisung gasps and reaches for the bottle, unscrews the cap and starts pouring the clear liquid into both shot glasses already.

Hyunjin stares at him as he downs the alcohol in one smooth go, "alright then..."

Jisung holds up the other shot glass for Hyunjin, "your turn."

He takes it in hand, careful not to spill it on the rug beneath him - then again, it's seen a lot more messier liquids on it than alcohol.

"Yuck," Hyunjin retches after swallowing half of the contents in the glass.

"Come on, you know you like it," Jisung nudges him. "You know the saying; if you can handle cum, you can handle alcohol."

Hyunjin nearly sprays out the rest of the alcohol from his mouth as a muddle of amusement, concern, and curiosity wakes him up more than the semi-burn of the drink does, "and who said that exactly?"

"Me," he answers. "Hence why I can take both so well."

Like some of the time, Jisung wasn't wrong and summed it up with another shot before he picked up the remote to play the movie. He settles back comfortably while Hyunjin takes another shot of the soju.

He makes it through the first twenty minutes of the film, then reaches the part where Harry Potter suddenly gets selected for the Triwizard Tournament. By that point, Hyunjin was sure the alcohol had fully trickled into his bloodstream when he wasn't able to tell the difference between Mad Eye Moody and Hagrid.

Frames started to blend together and yet, he thought it was still a good idea to continue drinking to see if that would help. However, most good idea turn to bad ones. The alcohol began to play absolutely no part in trying to help him make sense of the plot and made him focus on other things rather than the movie.

It was safe to say that he grew steadily bored when it came to watching it. At the same time, he didn't have the heart in him to express his opinion to the person beside him who was so wrapped up in the universe on screen. Jisung's eyes were completely glued to the digital motions before him whereas Hyunjin's eyes were glued to him.

Boredom strikes him bad when he feels the need to lean over and make his long body comfortable on Jisung. Hyunjin's upper torso stretches over his friend's lap who doesn't pay too much mind to it. Jisung even hangs his arms over Hyunjin's abdomen while he watches the film contently.

It's not the type of physical contact he wants right now.

"Jisungie," he mutters into the couch.

"Hmm?"

"Can we do something else?" Hyunjin pleads rather than asks.

He never gets a response. The lounge continues to be filled with dialogue - something along the lines of Ron Weasly now having a go at Harry for being inducted into the tournament and not telling him. Hyunjin's had enough of it and for whatever reason he feels like, he slides off of Jisung's lap. Half of his body slumps onto the ground while the other half remains somewhat on the couch.

"What are you doing?" he snorts, grabbing onto Hyunjin's hands and trying to hoist him back up.

He awkwardly anchors his legs around Jisung's body in an effort to help pull himself up as well but ends up knocking his head on the edge of the coffee table. With a delayed reaction, Hyunjin winces and then laughs as he tries to rub his own head even while Jisung is still trying to save him from falling off completely.

"Here just - just stop moving so I can help," he leans back and uses all his arm strength to move what is practically dead weight to him.

Hyunjin puts in zero effort to help and instead becomes a giggling mess the second he's actually able to get back into Jisung's lap. When he does, his long limp limbs wrap themselves around the man beneath him. He hides his face in the crook of his neck, the sudden whiff of Jisung's skin almost makes him dizzy, making his mood do a complete one eighty degree turn.

It creates immense difficulty in trying to swallow the urge to plant a kiss over the soft area, earning a very quiet yet distinct hum from Jisung. Hyunjin repeats the same action, longer this time and in different spots that his tongue can swipe over. The grip Hyunjin barely knew was there on his hips, twitched in place. As if Jisung's nails are trying to dig into Hyunjin's flesh had he not worn clothes.

"Hey," Jisung alerts him. “Can’t watch the movie if all you’re trying to do is get on my dick- ah…”

Hyunjin’s mouth shuts his right up from one sharp suck into his skin. His tongue flattens over the fresh red plum mark. The sight of it alone makes Hyunjin want to decorate them over every inch of Jisung’s body, similar to the style of how he would paint a canvas - which he does. Over as much skin as Jisung lets him when he moves his head to allow Hyunjin to cover more skin.

“Y-You’ll…you’ll get me hard,” he warns, now unable to concentrate on the film.

Hyunjin pulls away from his neck, giving him a rest from the myriad of hickies he’ll have to worry about later, and looks him down in the eye, “that’s sort of the point.”

Their mouths draw together like magnets, like they’ve been doing for weeks. Every day they find their lips on the others or some body party of theirs. Jisung gets to relish and dawn in the softness of Hyunjin’s lips, letting him slip past further to explore his mouth. His needs not only start to show through in his pants, but in his breathing and frantic pace of trying to feel Jisung that he almost can’t keep up with him.

So he decides that he needs to contain him a bit, bring him down a few notches to reminds him that he’s not in charge - at least for now.

With that, Jisung wraps his hand right around Hyunjin’s waist and manoeuvres him onto his back. The abrupt shift in control makes him act up almost instantly. Hyunjin is grabbing at Jisung’s shirt trying pull his body back down to his, but his muscles are weak and tired from drinking that it makes it too easy for Jisung to straddle his hips and pin his hands to the side of his head.

“Look what you’ve done to yourself,” he tells Hyunjin right in his ear while he rolls his ass down over the dick that's hardening underneath him. "Gonna be fucking begging when I'm through with you."

At that point, the pair had gone beyond the fact of not completing a full movie night. With the way that Jisung continues to pin Hyunjin back and exchange the manifold of hickies across the planes of his throat and neck. If anyone walked into the apartment, they would’ve thought vampires truly existed with the way Jisung’s mouth was latched onto his best friend’s skin.

“T-The movie,” Hyunjin stammers hopelessly with his words. “Jisung…the movie…”

Jisung lets out a sinister chuckle as he pushes himself back up to take off his shirt and tosses it somewhere around the lounge, "fuck the movie. You started this. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To rile me up and now you've gone all shy on me."

Hyunjin doesn't listen. His first instinct is to reach out and grab Jisung’s waist, to caress his hand freely for a few moments before gliding down and grasping the flesh over his hips. The slight sting in it makes him buck his hips forward and over Hyunjin’s clothed cock, making him groan lowly. He could cum easily like this - so easily and has done.

Every position they get into to practically dry hump each other, he always imagines that this is what it would be like if Jisung was riding his throbbing cock. To cum inside him and watch his face contorts the way that it does whenever Hyunjin makes him orgasm.

That thought sparks a wire in his brain, causing him to suddenly jerk his hips up and into Jisung. He smirks down at him, soaking up the state of the man beneath him. The hickies, red and wet kissable lips, dozy eyes that slowly blink up at him…

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Jisung mutters in exasperation like he's never seen Hyunjin's body before. “Just wanna f-”

Blaring on the coffee table next to all of the opened snacks was Jisung’s phone, he quickly bends over to the side to reach for it in urgency while still trying to straddle. Hyunjin twists his body carefully with Jisung still on top, picking the remote off the floor that had fallen after being pinned back. He pauses the movie for a moment to let Jisung answer his call. 

A small weight sinks in his stomach as he speaks in shock, “it’s Chan."

"M-Maybe you should answer it," Hyunjin tries his best to talk over the exponential rate of how much he is turned on right now.

“Hello?” He answers.

“Jisung! Do you not answer your texts? I sent about six just before!”

He pulls his phone away from his ear and checks his notifications. His friend was right, Jisung had in fact missed his messages. But not on purpose of course. If he hadn't been so busy provoking Hyunjin whose hands started sliding up Jisung’s thighs, dangerously close to his tented crotch, he would've seen the texts.

Hyunjin's fingertips delicately trace over where Jisung's cock begins to harden. His eyebrows furrow immediately as Chan continues speaking on the other end of the line about how he’s still surprised that Jisung didn’t answer him right away. 

“You’re always on your phone, I thought you might’ve been quick to respond,” says Chan.

“Oh, yeah not this time,” he responds truthfully, to some degree. “I’ve been watching Harry Potter all evening and-“

The words ready to leave Jisung's mouth die before they make it out as Hyunjin mischievously, and very clearly, starts to palm Jisung’s hard length over his pants. It didn’t take him that long to start leaking from his tip, creating a very visible dark patch over his shorts.

“…and-“

Hyunjin then reaches into the slot of the material, past his boxers and frees his cock. For a few moments, he takes away his hand just to admire how Jisung looks right now. The fact that he tried to finish what Hyunjin started, only to have the tables turned on him again. He flushes with embarrassment at the fact that without Hyunjin’s grasp around his length, his dick was able to stand tall on its own; so needy and desperate for touch. 

“And what?” Chan’s voice suddenly startles him out of his situation.

“And I just lost track of time, that’s all,” Jisung continues as calmly as he can.

“No worries. I haven’t watched Harry Potter in years. I think the last might’ve been Prisoner of Azkaban? No, Goblet of Fire? It was the one where…”

Chan’s voice drifts out of Jisung’s mind despite the fact that he’s right in his ear on the other line. His face contorts at the sudden pleasure he receives as Hyunjin takes hold of his neglected cock once more. His eyes dart sharply down to his own length and the large hand which begins to slowly tug. 

“…he gets chosen for the tournament when he really didn’t put his name into the cup…”

Jisung brings a shaky hand to his mouth, covering it immediately so as to mask and muffle something that could end up as a future regret. Hyunjin knows all too well what sort of sounds can come out of that mouth of his too, for it has reverberated around the walls of his apartment, stifled into his pillows, caught in the back of his throat which usually serves as a path for Hyunjin’s cum these days.

He’s heard it all before. 

For Jisung to keep a lid on all of those possibilities is a smart move, especially if they want to uphold the secrecy of their situation.  

“…and I’m pretty sure it’s the one where Cedric dies.” 

“Y-Yeah,” he responds shakily. “That’s the one we - I’m watching at the moment.”

“Maybe I should rewatch the first two,” Chan suggests to himself. “It’s the only series I can actually watch and understand without it being too complicated. I tried watching Lord of the Rings before but it’s too…”

Once more, Chan’s voice becomes a distant sound as Jisung tries to stop himself from bucking his hips into Hyunjin’s hand. But it’s not possible. He can’t just ignore the fact that he’s been horny since Hyunjin made him all hot and bothered, and now he’s built up to maximum capacity where his body craves release.  

“So what time suits you?” Chan asks randomly.

“Time for what?” Jisung responds back in confusion, his mind blending together like mush when Hyunjin has gotten into a steady pace.” 

“To hang out tomorrow!” 

“Oh, right! Ah - um, lunchtime? Twelve…” He suggests, his hips still rutting.

“Alright sounds good. I’ll see you there okay?” Chan asks.

“I’m cumming - I mean, I-I’ll come! I’ll be coming - going there,” Jisung stammers terribly with his words. “F-Fuck sorry, just…I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Chan laughs on the other end of the line, “see you then.” 

Jisung has never hung up faster, the phone toppling out of his possession as he rocks his hips into Hyunjin’s grasp. It also gave him the ability to rut his ass against Hyunjin’s hard length below him. Then within a split second, the lid that Jisung was trying so hard to contain over what his body needed to do, came off.

“Fuck, gonna cum, m’cumming!” He cries out. 

Hyunjin grins, and does not dare let up on his hand twisting and gliding on the length currently in his power, “I heard you the first time. How humiliating would that have been for you if Chan realised you were getting a handjob. Too bad he can't hear you whining so pathetically-“

Air hitches in Jisung’s throat, and for a few seconds too long Hyunjin looks into his eyes and sees tears welling up. A terrible, cold sinking feeling expands in his stomach, making him realise that he just said something awful to Jisung. 

“W-Wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t-

It was too late. Loud moans rupture violently through Jisung’s chest - ones that Hyunjin knows his neighbours are familiar with by now because by no means is Han Jisung quiet. He will let Hyunjin know how he’s making his body feel now explodes from immense pressure. 

His rutting against Hyunjin’s cock becomes staggered as a result of trying to chase his orgasm. Jisung clutches onto Hyunjin’s shirt, the fabric balling up tightly along with his fist. He can’t stop, he doesn’t want to stop, until eventually that buildup releases erratically in flows of white that spill over his tip and dribble down Hyunjin’s hand. Jisung had never cum that hard from a handjob before. 

He finishes gasping for air when he starts coming down, slowly rocking his ass over Hyunjin’s crotch to ease himself off the euphoria. Beneath him is a different story. 

Hyunjin was mortified for making him cry, so shocked that he was frozen and couldn’t take his hand off of Jisung’s dick. But that didn’t matter. Jisung had the intention of finishing what he started, to feel so good that all his problems melted away. 

Hyunjin sits up immediately, so close to Jisung’s face as he needs to check in with his friend, “are you okay? I’m so, so sorry, I don’t even know why I said that. It just...it just came out of my mouth.” 

He wipes his eyes after a couple of tears fell down his face in the process of dry riding Hyunjin. Part of what just happened makes him laugh breathily and nods, “yeah. I’m okay.”

“Jisung, I’m really, really sorry,” he quickly says and means it, trying to look him in the eye.

“No, oh my god don’t be sorry,” he assures him. “I’m fine, seriously.”   

“Then…then why are you crying?” Hyunjin asks the million dollar question, still acting out of horror. 

He gives a lazy shrug, “I dunno how to explain it properly, but I like that kind of talk. It just…yeah. I’m not too sure. I suppose I teared up because I haven't actually cum that hard before.” 

“I…didn’t know you were into…that,” Hyunjin doesn’t know how to reply to that type of statement, now that he just found out his friend likes being humiliated. Out of all things Jisung would be into, it had to be that.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know,” he replies, leaning over to the coffee table just a bit to pick up the box of tissues to clean Hyunjin’s hand. 

“W-What did Chan want?” He asks even though he doesn't want to stray away from the topic to make sure his friend is still okay.

Jisung slides off of his body and in between his legs rather awkwardly. From this stance, it’s easy to see the large tent in Hyunjin’s pants that he was grinding on as he made himself comfortable. He smooths the palm of his hand over Hyunjin's hard length and slowly back down. In doing so forces a couple of strained sighs out of his mouth. 

“Wants to hang out tomorrow,” he answers, reaching into Hyunjin’s shorts to feel his hard cock. The same cock that keeps him coming back, that makes him feel heated and irrational. 

In Jisung’s opinion, anyone would be lucky to have someone like his friend in front of him. Even though they haven’t had sex, he knows how Hyunjin fucks, having seen the way he made you cum weeks ago - it only makes Jisung wonder what it would be like to actually cum around Hyunjin’s cock. 

It’s what he wants, needs in fact whenever they’re together.

Hyunjin bites his lip and throws his head down onto the couch, “y-you going to?” 

“Course I am,” Jisung replies, thumbing over the dark pink tip that leaks clear glossy precum. “Need to ask him about Y/N and what the situation is there.” 

A dreadful ball of weight pummels Hyunjin from behind when he hears your name in the same sentence as ‘Chan’. Not to mention, as Jisung said, your ‘situation’ with him currently which Hyunjin doesn’t want to process. He likes being oblivious to the fact that Chan is sleeping with you. That he gets to fill you up, that he just gets to see you. Whether Jisung was telling the truth or not about you and him sleeping together, he acts as if you’re not to save himself from the reality of it. 

“D-Do you really need to?” Hyunjin asks hesitantly, fumbling terribly with his words as Jisung lowers his head down and licks one long stripe from the base of Hyunjin’s cock, right to his dark pink tip.

“Yes,” he confirms, but doesn’t truly tell him why for reasons far too similar to his friend here. 

After giving his answer, Jisung sinks his mouth onto Hyunjin’s cock, just half of it to tease him. Bobbing his head a couple of times causes Hyunjin’s to grab the side of the couch while the other flies to land on top of Jisung’s head. 

“What if…if he doesn’t say anything?” He questions breathlessly. 

Jisung pops back up, and leans over Hyunjin’s abdomen to ask him in his face, his question bears some perspective to the situation, “do you want me to blow you, or not?”

Hyunjin uses the hand that’s not ready to brace his body by the side of the couch and tucks a long lock of Jisung’s dark brown hair behind his ear, “yes.”  

“Then please shut your mouth and let me,” he demands. 

It wasn’t hard for Hyunjin’s eyelids to shut and squeeze together. Receiving a blowjob from Jisung always feels like he’s had his soul sucked out of him; he doesn’t know where he learned it, but isn’t complaining either because it put Hyunjin to sleep ten minutes after they cleaned themselves up. By the time he and Jisung crawled into bed together, he had forgotten having the conversation with Jisung about you and Chan. Yet, only to be reminded of it the following day when Jisung woke up at half past eleven in the morning. 

He was scheduled to meet Chan at one of his favourite lunch spots nearby and was in no mood to meet him. Being the morning person he is not, Jisung found himself struggling immensely to get out of bed and Hyunjin’s long arms that were encasing him. 

Although he didn’t feel like leaving, he thought it would be best to just go as it had been a while since he saw Chan last. More importantly, he needed to confront him about what’s going on. Mainly for his own piece of mind.

He remembers something in his stomach sinking when he read that text on your phone. Despite the intense shock he felt when he discovered that you and Chan were hooking up, he wasn’t able to diverge from his own feelings. Something which he struggles to get across and might depending on the outcome of the lunch with one of the people in question. 

Jisung steps out of the shower with a towel around his waist as he goes to sit on the end of the bed to open some of the drawers to his dresser. He pulls out a cream coloured jersey, some underwear, and a pair of sweatpants.

The fact that he needs to borrow so many articles of clothing is just another potent reminder that he should be packing and taking an overnight bag whenever he goes to hang out with Hyunjin. Nine times out of ten, Jisung will always say he’s only coming over for the afternoon then ends up staying for more than one day at a time.   

The sheets ruffle beneath Hyunjin’s body as he stirs himself awake. He sits up, bed head on full view and eyes barely open, “what are you doing?” 

“Borrowing some clothes,” Jisung answers trying to ignore how hot his morning voice sounds. “I’ll bring you back some food to compensate.” 

“You said that last time,” he grumbles sleepily. “I’m also down four of my favourite jerseys because of you.”

Jisung throws on the material over his top half before crawling his way on the mattress to Hyunjin. He kisses him unexpectedly yet expectedly on the lips.

“Just go back to sleep,” he whispers. “I’ll see you after.”

With his confirmation, Hyunjin’s top half flops back against the mattress before Jisung pulls the white duvet back over his body, tucking him in. He had no trouble falling back asleep when Jisung lightly brushes some strands of his hair out of his face. However, without the distraction of him touching Hyunjin, Jisung couldn’t help but feel nervous.

He already knew that you and Chan were sleeping together. That text long affirmed that. Yet for how long and what for remained to be a sickening twist of fearful questions lugging Jisung’s stomach down. He didn’t really want to hear the answers from Chan if he can even stomach that conversation. He didn’t want to hear ‘yes we’ve been fucking’ or the ‘yeah, it’s true’ answers. 

In saying that, Jisung has a trait of bottomless curiosity. That itch to find out for his own personal gain was going to make or break him. At that, he dons on the matching coloured sweats, grabs his phone and wallet, and then heads out of Hyunjin’s apartment. 

After a train ride away, it doesn’t take long for Jisung to arrive, and apparently not for Chan either, who was already seated, waiting for his friend. An assortment of dishes had already been brought to the table, making Jisung realise how hungry he was since breakfast was no longer. 

“How the fuck did you get here so fast, you live on the other side of the city,” Jisung exclaims to him from behind as he approaches.

“Hey. I couldn’t wait any longer because I was hungry,” Chan complains in a whiny tone. “Came here earlier to order, so I couldn’t wait.”

“Good, that makes things easier because I didn’t know what I was going to get anyway,” he replies and sits down in the booth opposite Chan. He hasn't changed much. Then again, it hasn't been too long since he's seen him last. “Been busy?”

He shakes his head, “you have no idea.” 

“Thought you might’ve been,” Jisung responds, eyeing him intently to see if he gives off even the subtlest signs of a lie. “Haven’t seen you in almost a month, what’ve you been up to?” 

Chan shrugs, “work and tutoring some of these students at the University.” 

Jisung gives a firm nod, believing him and understanding how tiresome that must be to help teach students. It’s not until he pauses and realises that Uni semesters haven’t started yet. Even summer semester students are on break. He could’ve called him out on his bullshit now to see what answers he would get, but for the sake of wanting to find out other information, he keeps that to himself. 

“Shit, sounds tough,” Jisung sympathises with him, or at least tries to if he was lying.

“How ‘bout you?” 

“Same old. Working - you’re still coming to Jeju right?” He asks on a different subject.

“Yeah, of course. I took leave for it,” Chan answers as a puzzled look then befalls on his face. For a moment, his eyes narrow at Jisung, or rather his chest, trying to decipher what’s wrong with the picture he’s currently seeing. 

“What?” He asks, trying to follow his gaze.  

“You and Hyunjin have the same jersey,” Chan points out, realising what the flaw was. 

“Oh, I know, that loser keeps copying everything I wear,” Jisung quickly plays it cool because unbeknownst to Chan, it is in fact Hyunjin’s jersey. 

“Why are you wearing a scarf by the way?” Jisung tries to direct the attention away from himself

He hadn’t noticed the black item wrapped warmly around Chan’s neck until he began to panic whilst digging up something else to switch topics. The heat Jisung feels like he’s already being dragged under was starting to make him feel uneasy.

“The same reason you’re wearing a jersey on a thirty degree day,” Chan fires back just as fast but more nonchalantly to just about make Jisung sweat. 

It forces him to wonder what on earth this reason is that his friend is talking about, and why he’s being so cryptic. 

His face twists into confusion, mildly surprised when he realises Chan is trying to clock him for something that he doesn’t even know about or what for. Then again, it’s Chan. When is he not this observant? 

“And what reason is that?” He responds with an accusatory tone. 

Chan doesn’t answer, not directly. He only lifts his chin up slightly and points to his own throat, confusing the hell out of Jisung as to what he means. When it’s clear that the message can’t cross his mind, Chan rolls his eyes, and reaches into his pockets to take out his phone. He pulls up the selfie camera mode and hands it to Jisung to look at. 

Apart from seeing his own reflection, he can see something else; a few splotches of dark, reddish marks littered all over his throat. At first he thought he had a rash, but wasn’t too sure what he was looking at. However, upon closer inspection, he moves the camera a bit closer to his throat and takes a photo on Chan’s phone to see it better. 

After his quick analysis, Jisung knew instantly what they were. More importantly, who it came from. Hickies, and from none other than the only person he’s been messing around with, Hyunjin. Jisung didn’t even bother covering them up.

He hastily hands Chan’s phone back after deleting the photo, “so what?”

“Suppose you forgot you had them, judging by your reaction,” Chan guessed correctly, completely stumping Jisung who’s nearly lifting his own body off his seat as he tries to come up with an argument. 

“Well…I suppose you didn’t know that I know you and Y/N are fucking which explains the scarf too but here we are!” He blurts out before he even has time to think about stopping the words from coming out of his mouth.

Chan’s hand stalls over the pot of stew while Jisung’s lips are pursed together. All the colour in his face has drained, almost making him feel lightheaded that he just said that out loud. In saying that, this is exactly the topic he wanted to discuss - you and Chan. He just wasn’t expecting the conversation to meander in such a way that nearly exposes himself and threw him way off the track of ever raising the subject. 

“And what makes you think that?” Chan resumes ladling some of the hot stew into his bowl of rice. 

Jisung knows that you can’t unring a bell so makes the split decision and decides to come clean, “I was using Y/N’s phone for something, and that’s where I saw a text message from you, hinting that you guys were sleeping together.”

“Ah,” Chan recalls immediately at the sudden confession. “From that little truth or dare game you, her and Hyunjin played?” 

Jisung’s jaw unhinges, staring across the table towards his friend who seems to be a search engine for the topic of ‘everything Jisung has done lately.’ Nearly every minute that passes, Chan slaps him with a new fact that his friend wasn’t expecting him to know. 

“You - but, how did- did Hyunjin-“

Chan’s already shaking his head before Jisung can muster a proper sentence, “Hyunjin never said a word. In fact he hasn’t been replying to my texts so I haven’t heard from him.”

“Then…then Y/N?” 

“Well it couldn’t have been you or anyone else that was there.” 

Jisung isn’t angry. He’s just shocked that he keeps getting one upped. Chan finding out that Jisung had a threesome with two of his best friends - one of them who he’s been fucking for some time now too - was far more of a juicy topic than just you and Chan seeing each other casually, which Jisung still doesn’t know the full details of. 

“Said she had never cum like that in her entire life,” Chan adds, burying Jisung another meter or so deeper into this hole of new scandalous information. 

His body freezes over. Suddenly, it’s not thirty degrees and everything feels cold. Jisung doesn’t ever really hear Chan talk about his sex life. Even when he was in a relationship with his ex, each of his friends tried to dissect as many details about it as they could. But they were never successful. That was a result of keeping things as private and low key as possible. 

Nevertheless, Chan’s crude and very straightforward words had knocked Jisung right off his feet. The fact that you had told him what must’ve been very clear details of that night at Hyunjin’s was a sign that it still lingered on your brain. Part of his ego secretly swells with joy because of it.

“Then I felt like I needed to outdo you guys after that,” he adds.

“What do you mean?” Jisung questions with a tone of an impending doom that looms over him. 

Chan smiles sweetly, memories stirring of that night in particular he had with you. It had to be one of the best times by far to him, “you know what I mean.”

Jisung’s skin stings with scorching hot jealousy; he knows exactly what Chan means. The fact of the matter is that he can’t believe he’s saying these types of things to him. Then again, there’s only one reason why Jisung would be so affected by it and he didn’t want to display that in front of Chan without figuring out what it means. But whatever it is that’s tugging at the organ beating hard and fast in his chest, makes him furious. 

“Alright then,” he replies unfazed as he possibly could, swallowing the tough pill before realising there was one other thing he wanted to mention. “Suppose you guys are still seeing each other.”

Chan looks Jisung right in his eyes as he slowly retracts the spoon out of his mouth, “maybe.” 

“So yes then.”

“What does it mean to you?” He tests him, almost sadistically.

“It means nothing to me,” Jisung answers rather bitterly and nastily, his entire aura switching up before he finds a new tether to lure the spotlight away from himself. “Just the fact that I told the others about you two, and they made a bet.”

Chan looks up, “a bet?”

“None of them believed me, so they made a bet to see whether you guys were or not even though I said so.” 

If he didn’t have food in his mouth, Chan would’ve laughed, instead a disgruntled chuckle came out along with a couple of specs of his rice, “course they wouldn’t! Why would they believe that the two polar opposite people would be screwing behind everyone’s back?”

“You're not mad?” Jisung checks to be sure.

He shakes his head, “course not, dunno if Y/N won’t be though. She said she likes keeping things pretty private-“

“Clearly not if she told you she had a threesome,” Jisung cuts him off at that point. 

“Well, there’s some exceptions to that,” Chan shrugs, finishing off his bowl of rice. “I don’t know if this means anything to you but, she wouldn’t shut up about sleeping with you and Hyunjin. She told me every single detail like for instance, when you and Hyunjin made out-“

The tongs fall out of Jisung’s tight grip and clatter onto the table. He brings his hands up to his eyes, covering his entire face to hide whatever embarrassing feelings that start to simmer on the surface. However, Chan didn’t seem to care and continued on with his points to prove. 

“-how she liked it when you went down on her, how you watched Hyunjin fuck her - I told you what I meant about the details, right? Anyway,” he says. “She was raving about it. And yet, when she and I started seeing each other casually, she said that she didn’t want me to tell anyone else. That I needed to take what we have to the grave.”

Jisung removes his hands away from his face and looks down at his own food, unsure if he can stomach any more of it with the way the conversation has been handled. The more he talks and thinks about you, the more he feels like he’s being filled up with this bad gloomy feeling. He has to wonder if Chan is just being plain cruel to him by dumping all of his thoughts and information onto him.

He has to wonder, would it have been better to stay oblivious rather than being teased with snippets of what you’ve been saying to Chan these past few weeks. Hearing about how much you enjoyed yourself with him and Hyunjin yet haven’t directly spoken to them since that night. 

“What are you saying?” Jisung questions, tired with the bullshit that’s starting to spike in their discussion. 

“The fact that she wants to keep our…activities a secret from people and rather them not find out about us, yet is the first to speak highly of what you, her and Hyunjin did, means something more than you think.” 

More than he thinks? Jisung can’t understand what that could’ve possibly meant. He sits there, bewildered and stumped. Unsure of what else to say.

“Right,” he responds. 

Chan watches him warily, trying to gauge his behaviour as he decides to change the topic, “so, what’s on the table for this bet?” 

Jisung quickly pries himself away from his messy mind and answers, “losers have to buy a days’ worth of food when we go to Jeju.”

Chan nods, impressed as he reaches for more meat on the grill and loads it into his bowl, “even less of a reason to be mad. Looks like I’ll be eating for free either way.” 

"Yeah, looks like it."

The span of Jisung's vocabulary seemed to fail him. That and the fact that he didn't really want to talk anymore. Yes, it was good to see one of his best friends, but the circumstances that developed throughout their lengthy conversation made him wish he stayed in bed with Hyunjin just the extra bit longer so he would have to cancel lunch.

He managed to finish off small bowls of food to not make himself appear out of character. One whiff of anything remotely aberrant on Jisung's behalf, and Chan would hold him hostage in the restaurant until he tells him what's wrong. Despite that, Chan noticed something off anyway.

He saw the way Jisung's face fell when he confirmed that he was sleeping with you. He saw how his shoulders drooped and then picked up when he mentioned that you told him about the night at Hyunjin's. He saw how defensive and sceptical Jisung became whenever he would just simply mention you.

He saw that Jisung was hiding something.

When both friends had finished enjoying their meals, they were greeted with a downpour of rain that would have them seeking refuge under the veranda of the restaurant once they were outside. Just before they bid farewell to each other, Chan quickly turns to Jisung and calls out.

“It’s okay if you like her,” he says out of nowhere. “Y/N and I are not what you might think we are and we made it clear to each other that we never will be. There’s nothing between her and I, just so you know.”

Jisung stares at him, not showing any emotions on his face even though deep down, his brain and insides are whirring with emotions he can't even fathom, “I don’t like her like that.” 

Chan laughs at him, unfazed with the sudden tension that seems to be slicing through them, “keep telling yourself that. See you next week.” 

Through the deluge of rain and shadows from the dark, dense clouds above, Chan runs off in the opposite direction to where he needs to head home. Jisung stands there defeated and shocked that Chan is onto his tail that he likes you. He knew that heading into meeting up with him meant that the truth was going to come out one way or the other. Suppose it was just not on his terms.

It stirs many thoughts as he throws his hood up and ducks out into the rain to head to the train station and back to the safety of Hyunjin.

When he returns, Jisung keys in the passcode to unlock the door to the apartment, and is smothered with a waft of a sweet decadent scent. Standing in the kitchen, Hyunjin was at the stove flipping over what looked to be pancakes which suddenly reminded Jisung-

“Fuck, oh my god. The food, I forgot to even order it,” Jisung groans when he closes the door behind him.

Hyunjin turns the element dial on low and spins around to lean on the counter, away from the stove tops, "it's okay. I felt like something sweet anyway."

Jisung sighs. It felt right to be back with Hyunjin once more even though he had only been out for a couple of hours. In saying that, his conversation with Chan was good but draining. It’s not that he doesn’t like him for telling him the truth, there’s absolutely no doubt about that. Chan is and will always be his friend.

There is no emotional connection between you and him and that’s all that matters to Jisung. However, it’s just the truth in itself that he has an issue with - you hooking up with Chan every now and then that is. It makes him feel uneasy and almost makes him feel like he’s doing something immoral by just sitting back and watching it happen.

The reality stings where he doesn’t like it so pushes himself from the edge of the bench and walks into Hyunjin’s body to retreat from his thoughts. Slightly taken aback but not oblivious to the strange display of emotions Jisung is presenting, Hyunjin sets the spatula down beside him and hugs his friend back. 

“You okay?” He questions, concern dripping all over his face.

Jisung nods his head on his chest, “yeah. Just socialising, now I’m tired.”

It wasn’t a lie, but not the truth either. Regardless, Hyunjin takes his word for it without thinking twice about it. He had completely forgotten why Jisung had gone to see Chan for in the first place.

“Wanna nap together?” 

“Didn’t you just wake up?” Jisung pulls one arm away from Hyunjin’s body while the other still rests there so that he can rub his eyes. 

"Well," Hyunjin looks away from him. "That's beside the point. Just...missed you is all too.”

"Cute," he grumbles, ignoring what the weight of those words truly means. "I should pack for next week though because knowing me, I'll leave everything until the last minute."

Hyunjin lets out a long sigh. He hasn't even thought about putting a suitcase together yet either, "true. I should probably start packing as well."

"Okay then let’s both get ready," Jisung looks up at him before leaning in to plant a soft kiss on Hyunjin's lips, slowly pulling away and says quietly; "see you in Jeju."

Hyunjin responds, look at him, “see you in Jeju.”

I strictly forbid and do not permit ANYONE or any user on any platform to copy, re-upload, translate, remake, or pass off any of my work here on Tumblr or to any other online platform whatsoever. Doing so will result in having your account suspended, deleted, taken down, and or permanently banned.

[dullgecko]

I think riz started drinking coffee because one of his parents was drinking it and he really wanted to try some, so they let him try it thinking it'd be a "I told you that you wouldn't like it" situation. Unfortunately it backfired and he got a taste for it

It was his dad that let him try some, Pok was always weak to the big pleading eyes and the droopy ears oh his tiny goblin son. Riz just thought coffee smelled so good and mom and dad were always drinking it so he wanted to try a bit.

Pok drank his coffee darker than sin, with zero sugar, so he thought 'no harm, the kid will probably hate it because its so bitter' but he was very wrong. Riz loved it. He never had a super huge sweet tooth but apparently bitter tastes were his jam.... concerning because bitter was supposed to be a warning for poison in most foods but at least they weren't living in the mountains where Riz shoving random berries in his mouth would be a problem.

It started to be part of their morning routine whenever Pok was home. He'd wake little Riz up for school, make himself a four-spoonfull instant coffee and riz a quarter teaspoon and they'd have it with their breakfast. Riz wanted to be JUST like his dad so he thought being allowed to drink coffee with him was the best thing ever (even if it was only just barely flavoured water).

Once Pok died Riz started increasing the strength of his morning coffees, mostly because he couldn't sleep right anymore. His dad died when he was sleeping and now some part of his brain has linked the two events. Nothing bad will happen as long as he's a good kid and he stays awake.

[prince-dork-the-companion]

Batfamily Presentation Night - Pizza - Cass

Masterlist

Cass: I'll go :)

Duke: Uh-oh.

Tim: Interested to see where this one goes.

Duke: Is this cheating? This feels like cheating.

Jason: When did you make this?

Cass: Before today. :)

Jason: I shouldn't be surprised.

Damian: That is a very useful visual.

Steph: I have nothing to say.

Duke: A good, hardworking employee.

Tim: We should get a cat and name it Cheese.

Damian: That is a horrible name for a cat.

Bruce: No.

Jason: Wh -

Duke: Are those turtles???

Bruce: Where did you get this image.

Cass: :)

Jason: B you have to explain.

Bruce: Cassandra.

Tim: So Bruce can have pet turtles, but when we do it's a problem? I see how it is.

Steph: Tim this is the perfect opportunity to go on your Jason Arc.

Jason: Your what?

Dick: Oh, I remember them! Those are the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles! They're vigilantes in New York. Super cool guys. Have a bit of an addiction to pizza, though.

Cass: And the sewers.

Dick: Yeah they live in sewers, it's kinda gross, but they're nice.

Jason: Please tell me this photo isn't in the New York sewers.

Tim: The rats, the rats... we're the rats...

Dick: Oh, that's a good one of me.

Bruce: Dick.

Dick: If you mention the rules about eating on patrol I will throw a fork at you.

Steph: Haven't we already discussed that, Bruce?

Dick: Y- WAIT!

Jason: [cackling]

Dick: So you HAVE been stealing my pizza??

[general laughter]

Steph: Why does that image look so sad...

Babs: Don't diss the deep dish.

Jason: Steph, you're not gonna say ANYTHING about the order it's in?

Steph: Nah it looks fine.

Duke: This is favouritism.

Steph: Sauce on top of cheese is a far cry from PINEAPPLE, DUKE.

Duke: It's good!!

Jason: It's not.

Jason: Wh-

Tim: Why are you so angry... What did that burger do to you...

Jason: CASS??

Cass: :)

Jason: I can't believe I have to move AGAIN.

Dick: You don't have to move every time we find your apartment.

Jason: It's called PRIVACY, DICK.

Duke: I'm unsure if I should be more concerned about what "Nemo" means or the Pinterest deck.

Jason: Pintrest deck?

Tim: [wheezes]

Dick: Nemo... does Jason eat goldfish crackers on his pizza??

Jason: GOLDFISH? Have you NEVER seen the movie finding Nemo?

Dick: I don't remember what kind of fish he is. Sorry for not having that information STORED AWAY in my brain.

Jason: It's a clownfish, Dick. Kind of like you.

Dick: I'm more of a Dory, I think.

Jason: No, you're those annoying ass seagulls.

Steph: Mine? Mine?

Cass: :)

Steph: EXCUSE ME?

Jason: Digiorno? You WILLINGLY eat DIGIORNO??

Steph: NOT ALL OF US HAVE THE TIME OR SKILL TO HARVEST AND PREPARE THEIR OWN PIZZAS, JASON

Jason: SO BUY SOME.

Dick: There's a really good pizza place on Poplar called Moe's. They give me free pizza.

Jason: Moe's is shit and you know it. I'd eat fucking Dominoes before I eat Moe's.

Dick: YOU TAKE THAT BACK!

Steph: Fight fight fight fight!

Duke: [wheezing]

Tim: Huh what?

Jason: I think I'm gonna be sick.

Dick: It could be worse.

Jason: I don't think it can get any worse than this. I can't believe we're related.

Babs: Y-

Dick: ANYWAYS.

Steph: Tim, you need help.

Duke: He's not the only one.

Steph: Duke, I take back everything I've said about your taste in pizza, this is a war crime.

Duke: This feels backhanded somehow.

Duke: Oh.

Jason: Hm.

Duke: I'll take it.

Steph: THREE STARS?? AND I ONLY GOT TWO???

Duke: L.

Steph: I'm going to unionize against Duke's union.

Bruce: Duke's what?

Jason: Pesto?

Cass: Hm?

Jason: Green pizza sauce. Was it pesto? Tastes like herbs, really notably the basil. It's alright. Not my favourite, but it's alright.

Cass: ...Yes. I think so.

Damian: Only four stars... what do I have to do to receive five stars?

Duke: Dude, are you trying to RIG the competition?

Dick: It's okay Dami, we tied!

Damian: I wish crush all of your pizza flavours.

Jason: There's the answer, kid.

Damian: Hn.

Duke: I smell bias.

Steph: No, no, she's got a point.

Duke: I feel enlightened. Good presentation, 7/10.

Jason: [muttering] So tired of fucking moving...

Dick: You don't have to move, little wing.

Jason: Fuck off.

Steph: I am going to hold off making my judgements but all of you know that Cass's presentation is the best.

Damian: I will go next, as mine is the objectively superior one.

TO BE CONTINUED?

[lucifer-is-a-bag-of-dicks]

part 3 of #FreeRei (temporary title) with a Rei POV! and I finally get to explore my favourite flavour of Rei Todoroki, completely fucking unhinged and absolutely determined to make it Endeavor's problem

(you can read from the beginning here)

She felt a little silly, practically vibrating with glee over a bit of basic shopping, but it had been so long, even just the feel and sound of the money jingling in her hands was almost nostalgic, like something from a long ago dream. It almost didn't feel real.

The woman behind the counter was tilted back on a tall stool, a braided tendril of dark brown hair streaked with grey lifted a can of coffee to her lips as she flipped through a gossip rag. There were was a photo of two heroes on the cover that Rei vaguely recognised, one with long white ears and one with red wings, she was pretty sure they were both in the top ten, but it was hard to keep up with current hero rankings when she wasn't allowed to watch the news. They were covered in obnoxious yellow text declaring something about a secret relationship, they just looked like friends having coffee together to her.

If only they knew of the scandal sitting right beneath everyone's noses, she wondered what kind of mockery the bright yellow text would make about her husband's misdeeds, had they not been covered up at every turn. Something outrageous and distasteful probably.

'No. 1 Hero or No Good Husband?'

'Flame Hero's Marriage up in Smoke!'

'Endeavor Beats Villains in the Streets and his Wife in the Sheets!'

Rei put her items on the counter and tried to hold back the giddy grin she could feel pulling at her lips, she failed to keep from bouncing on her toes. The woman put her magazine down and shifted her seat back onto all fours, she paused as tired eyes tracked Rei's constant motion.

"Someone's in a good mood this morning." she commented in a husky monotone, her hair grabbing the items to scan them. "What's got you so excited?"

"Oh you know," Rei laughed nervously. "It's just nice to be out of the house, I'm not normally allow- I don't get out much." she clamped her lips shut with an airy little chuckle.

Be careful be careful don't be suspicious don't get caught can't go back can't go back-

"Right," the woman said, gaze flitting over Rei as if looking for something, Rei tugged her sleeve down, making sure her hospital grade quirk cancelling cuff was well hidden beneath her hoodie, the woman's keen eyes tracked the motion before quickly glancing to the side. "He got something to do with that?" she asked, jerking her head toward the window where Touya was pacing back and forth on the phone.

"Oh, no! No no that's just my son, he's a good boy, he's nothing like his- he's just helping me with my shopping!" Rei could feel her legs trembling, she'd barely been out of the hospital for a few hours and she was already fucking everything up, shit she shouldn't have said he was her son shit shit shit.

Won'tgobackwon'tgobackwon'tgoback-

"Alright then," the woman's narrowed eyes shifted back down as she bagged the items, ringing up the total and counting the scattered change Rei's trembling hands dropped onto the counter.

"Sorry, but you're 100¥ short." The woman shrugged, frowning at the bag, a tendril of hair fidgeted with one of her earrings.

"Oh," Touya had scrounged through all of his pockets to gather that change, she was pretty sure it was the last of his money. "Um, you can take out the toothbrush then."

"So just the face masks and hair dye?" the woman asked in a carefully neutral tone, her braids curled over on themselves in the air behind her. "Going for a new look?"

"Haha, yeah I just figured it was time to do something different you know?" Rei tilted her head innocently, putting on her best unassuming polite smile, the one she'd learned could keep the new nurses from checking under her tongue after giving her sedatives at night.

The woman kept staring at the bag as she chewed at the inside of her cheek. Rei could feel sweat beading at her hairline, she glanced around at anything she could potentially use as a weapon should it come to that, she didn't particularly want to bludgeon this woman's head in but-

I won't go back I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I WON'T-

The woman sighed heavily and pushed the plastic bag toward Rei, the toothbrush still inside.

"I'll overlook the 100¥, if you answer a question for me," she said, eyes locking onto Rei's, her expression sank into something softer, concerned. "If someone comes in here later asking if I've seen a woman with white hair, should I keep my mouth shut?"

Rei's stomach did an odd little swoop, her heart was beating in her throat. "I would... I would be very very grateful if you did." she said in a small, trembling voice.

The woman nodded, her smile melancholy, a braided tendril picked up the bag and dropped it into Rei's hands before going lax against her back, the rest stopped their antsy fidgeting to follow suit. "Good luck girl, stay safe alright?"

Rei's hands and feet tingled as she walked out of the store, as soon as the cool early morning air hit her face she took in a deep and desperate lungful, her chest ached like she couldn't get enough in.

Touya seemed to have finished his phone call as he was simply lounging low on a public bench just outside. His head was tilted back as he stared up at a nearby streetlight, eyebrows furrowed, lost in thought, his pale, almost translucent eyelashes practically glowed under the yellow tinted light. Despite all of his scars his face still looked so... gentle, so unlike Natsuo who'd inherited Enji's squared jaw and broad shoulders, Touya was all soft edges and elegant curves.

He looks like me.

The thought lightened her chest and her breathing slowed back down to a regular pace. A different emotion climbed up her throat, something warm and pleasant, this was her son, all grown up. Even after everything Enji had done, after he tried to mould Touya into a monster like him, after he left her baby boy to burn alive alone on that mountaintop, he was here, right in front of her, alive.

And he looks like me.

Touya lifted his head, whatever thoughts were ghosting behind his eyes cleared as he stood up and offered her his arm, Rei took it, and they walked out into the early morning, the barest hint of light seeping into the dark sky.

You tried to take him from me but he isn't yours anymore, he's mine mine mine mine and I will rip you apart with my bare hands before I ever let you come between me and my son again Enji I swear it on my breath and my bones I will never let you have him you don't deserve him you don't deserve any of us.

The distant sounds of birds and traffic began to wake the sleeping streets, as the edge of sunlight peeked at them between buildings, Touya pulled one of the medical facemasks from the plastic bag hanging from Rei's wrist and handed it to her. He tugged her dark blue hoodie over her head before the light could catch on the bright white strands of her hair, she always loved seeing her children play at dawn and dusk, especially in the winter, the angled sunshine from the snow making their hair practically glow, they looked almost ethereal, otherworldly.

You were right to be afraid of letting me out, I spent years pretending I wasn't clawing at the walls, fooling the doctors, fooling my own children, but I couldn't fool you, you knew you broke me beyond repair, you knew I wasn't going to forget what I promised you the last time you dared look me in the eye.

Sometimes she would hope that some spirit of light would realise it had left its children down on earth where they didn't belong, she would hope that one day when they played out in the late afternoon they would chase those sunlit snowflakes up up up into the sky, far away from the house that had wrongfully trapped them within its walls, far away from her husband's burning cruelty and blistering neglect, she would hope that when the sun finally set and took its light away from her garden, it would take her children home with it. Some days, the bad days after the fire on Sekoto, she would forget that it was only a daydream, she would sit in the yard with Shouto held up to the sky, and with tears in her eyes she would beg those sunlit snowflakes to take her baby away somewhere safe, to take him to wherever they took Touya.

Mark my fucking words Enji Todoroki I will bathe myself in your blood I will carve your hollow heart from your chest and crush it in my fist as I watch the light die in your eyes and I'm going to laugh and laugh and laugh and LAUGH-

"What's so funny?" Touya smiled gently down at her, his eyes as blue as his father's but utterly void of the terrifying cold indifference that once haunted her daily waking life.

"Oh it's nothing," she assured him, hysterical giggles still fighting their way up her throat, her cheeks ached but she couldn't stop smiling. "I'm just so happy to have you back sweetheart."

Touya was quiet for a few moments, when he finally spoke his voice was thick with something close to melancholy.

"I... yeah... me too."

edit: continued on AO3!

[rikiws]

SWEET NOTHINGS (LITERALLY). ꩜

▸ non-idol!riki x gn!reader ┆ mutual (and very oblivious) pining [fluff]

꩜ When you find a pack of your favourite gummies on your desk and a sticky-note with a little heart on it, relentless teasing from your friends is probably about to be the end of you. But a certain someone seems to be making it much, much worse. .ᐟ feat. eunchae of lsrfm and danielle of nwjns!!!

. . . under the cut ⊹ (0.5k - words)

"These reminded me of you, I hope you like them Ps: I think you're really cute :) Love, ᰔ" A heart. They put a heart too. And you have no idea who it even is.

Standing at the corner of your desk, your eyes transfixed and re-reading the small blue post-it-note stuck to your table, and right beside was a small packet of your favourite gummies. The person even went through the trouble to get your favourite flavour: strawberry. You had a pack of those nearly every day, for sustenance, quick energy, moral support, it was pretty multipurpose. But the fact that this time it wasn't you who bought them, but someone else- a someone else that you specifically didn't even know, that was crazy.

Safe to say, you were so caught up in your own thoughts, you failed to notice your two friends frantically waving their hands right in your face.

"Earth to Y/N? You've been standing there for like 5- OHMYGOSHWHATISTHATDOYOUHAVEANADMIRER?!"

"Eunchae, you're lucky I could understand that." Danielle spoke up, and the two almost immediately started bickering. Thank god you didn't have to explain yourself anymore- nope. Nevermind. They went right back to staring at you, and they looked pretty expectant.

"Listen, I have no idea who it is-" "Ooo~ it's a mystery guy huh?" "It's not like that-" "Yes the hell it is?" You didn't bother to respond. Your friends were beyond help: giggling and pointing at you like 7th graders. You were just about ready to start fighting them 2-on-1 until you heard a voice that most definitely did not belong to any of the three of you. "What happened?"

You turned yourself around and Oh good god. It was Nishimura Riki. The giggles only grew louder behind you once your friends noticed too, and you could feel your cheeks grow warm all of a sudden. God was he cute, and he's in front of you right now, like talking to you, he even asked you a question! Wait- he asked you a question. "Well, er-" "Y/N over here got some sweets from her secret admirer~" "God, they even picked out Y/N's favourite flavour! It's 'kinda thoughtful" Your friends spoke over your stammering, going on-and-on about how cute the gesture was. How the admirer must be such a cute guy. In all honesty, you agreed too. It was really cute. Something you failed to notice however, was the sudden nervousness in Riki's demeanour. His hand bashfully went up to the back of his neck, and he blurted out, "Oh It's nothing, really. I just walked by the store and-" The four of you went quiet. Riki stopped, you could see the gears turn in his head until he realised what he just said. And you could most definitely hear the sirens blaring in his head when his eyes suddenly widened. "Oh no... I left my homework in...the...bathroom. I'll see you guys later! Bye Y/N!" Riki disappeared nearly as quickly as he appeared, and you swore your cheeks were on fire or something now. You stood there in silence, eyes now glued to the door the boy had just sprinted out of. Quietly, a voice, nearly a whisper sounded from behind you: Danielle's. "Oh wow..." You couldn't have said it any better.

A/N : please ignore how I added extra stuff, I literally pulled out this blurb in like 30 minutes and am way too indecisive to just leave it be (҂◡_◡)

꩜ want to read more? check out my masterlist

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)

Chapter 4, In Which You Attend A Very Special Event (Part 2)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

AO3

Chapter 4 (part 2)

TW: bad, very bad, horrible BDSM etiquette, spanking, what could be considered dub-con (protagonist is willing but immobilised), if you are sensitive to dub-con, DO NOT PROCEED, sleep paralysis. 

The waiter led you back to your seat from the restroom, disturbing Raphael's lively conversation in Turkish with someone at a nearby table; in their talk, they repeated the word "ASELSAN", as if calling upon some kind of a devil.

The moment you sat down, the waiter leaned in close and whispered as he set something right before you, "This dish may remind you of the things that scare you". 

No reminder was necessary. The thing that scared you was seated right across from you. 

You cautiously sampled the dish; not so much a bite but more of a gulp. It required a spoon, its formlessness demanded it. Oddly enough, it didn’t taste like cherries or sulphur; it tasted like nothing. Not even dust and ashes, just emptiness. No heaven or hell, no gods or devils, no grand design, no meaning or narrative. Monkey lives, and monkey dies; there's nothing more to it because there was never meant to be anything more. 

It tasted like nothing at all, and you did think that chef conveyed the feeling masterfully - an accomplishment that would likely warrant a four-figure bill, but fortunately, you weren't the one covering it.

"What does it taste like for you?" you asked. "The things that scare you?"

Raphael didn't appreciate the question; his response came after a long pause.

"A cacophony of flavours too complex to describe," he finally answered. "Too chaotic to make sense of."

He was afraid of chaos, of course, ever the control freak. You put the spoon away. Tonight, you were probably getting killed, possibly getting fucked, but one thing was for certain: you wouldn't leave here without feeling hungry.

"So where were we before you left?" Raphael continued nonchalantly, “Theatre of Cruelty isn't about sadism per se, it can be; but must not be. It's about a visceral determination to shatter false realities; to dismantle illusions."

You weren't much of a theatre kid, but in that moment Artaud's philosophy resonated with you in ways it never had before.

“Oh, I get him”, you whispered. “I would love to shatter some illusions as well.”

"I had no doubt that you would understand," Raphael replied, his voice laced with genuine affection. "You possess an artistic flair and a vivid imagination."

“I do”, you nodded. “So vivid I can hear the rustle”.

“The rustle of what?”

“You know what,” you mumbled. His wings. You could feel them fluttering, you could almost outline their shape (could you?) through your blindfold.

Raphael sat across from you with his wings fully extended. Meanwhile, his tail was still misbehaving under the table, prickling against your skin, tickling you, poking against you, goading and provoking you and succeeding at that.  

You couldn't keep going on like this anymore.

That’s it. That’s it, you were personally coming for his bloody tail, wings and horns, you were catching him red-handed, literally so. 

“May I try your dish?”, you said in your sweetest, most seductive voice. 

"Indulge yourself," he said. "What's mine could easily become yours."

Uh-huh.

Pushing yourself up from the chair, you curled your fingers around the table edge to anchor yourself as you navigated the short distance towards where Raphael should have been sitting. 

You stopped just before his seat. Inhaled, exhaled, pausing momentarily before taking the plunge - landing unceremoniously onto his lap. He let out a surprised gasp, a satisfyingly human response to your bold move.

“We could have asked the waiters to switch the plates”, he laughed into your ear, his warm breath tickling you.

“Would you have preferred that?”

He was hard already, almost painfully so (you’d hope painfully so for all the trouble he had put you through), body heat searing even through the thick fabric of his slacks, his bulge pressed against your arse. You couldn't help but imagine it pressing into you, and for a moment, you forgot about what you were supposed to be doing in his lap in the first place. 

"No, I indeed would have not," he confessed, repeating for emphasis: "I would have not."

You made a point of shifting and wriggling all over him until you heard his breath hitch in his throat, and that left you very much satisfied with your newfound power.

Your hand found his and he used it to guide the fork into your mouth.

“How do you like the taste of my fear?”, Raphael asked.

His left hand slightly tugged at your cross. The thing must be annoying him tremendously.

The dish tasted like all the leftovers in the fridge thrown in the pot to make a soup, chaotic, yes, but not disgusting. You weren't going to say that, however. You said, grinning ear to ear, your turn to provoke him now:

“It’s delicious”.

His wings fluttered at your words. You scooted away from his groin as you tried the dish, which he did not seem all too pleased with. He grabbed your hips, the sharp edges of his talons palpable through the fabric of your dress, and pulled you back right onto him 

The layers of fabric that separated the two of you made it difficult to gauge his exact size, but you just knew: he was generously endowed. That was one fact you never questioned. 

Anything else may be up for debate, but not this.

You couldn't help but wonder: what did he look like? You were so curious to see a real-life cambion. Is it like bad CGI or is it like ultra-realistic nightmare fuel?

Your hand slowly found its way to where his wings should have been, and sure enough, they were there.

"Do you know how I feel about the line between reality and fantasy?" Raphael purred in your ear.

His wings quivered under your touch, the raw grain of the leather pulsing under your fingertips as you traced the outline back to his shoulder. You always wondered what they would feel like. Like a rough skinned hide.

They were real. Warm, coarse and real, and he allowed you to touch them. His anatomy doesn't even make sense. How can his back support the weight of his wings? His muscle mass wouldn't be enough. How could he possibly fly?

"There is none. There never was," Raphael continued. "Fantasy bleeds into reality, reality bleeds into fantasy, it's a loop, a circle, an ouroboros. The gap between what we dream of and what we shall do given the opportunity - which we are almost never given -  is non-existent".

He was right about one thing: fantasy bled into your reality; bled all over it.

"I have fantasies that I wouldn't act out in real life," you protested, but not very fervently.

"What might they be?" he asked.

You, for example, you thought and realised that your statement was proving the very opposite of what you wanted it to prove. 

“Oh, many”, you said. “Like… Well, if I could try them out in real life, I would like some…”

You stopped in your words, thinking about your own personal conditions, your limits, your moral compass, and you'd never felt more lost about what those were. 

You struggled to articulate anything coherent. Probably too much wine.

"What would you like, pray tell?" Raphael asked again. "A safety net? Soft and padded escape routes should the monster get too terrifying, too lifelike? Such a scaredy little mouse”.

He was grinding against you at this point: if you ever had any doubt that Raphael wanted you as much as you wanted him, it was gone. 

The 'monster' was becoming frighteningly real and frighteningly hard against you. The things Raphael was saying were undoubtedly all wrong, and you knew you should contradict him, but you could not find the words.

“Says the control freak”, you said. “The ultimate control freak”.

You paused for a moment, wondering if he was familiar with the term "control freak." But then you remembered that he owned two iPhones and drives a car, so he probably was.

"Do not presume to know what I am," Raphael replied icily.

“Oh no, I know exactly who you are,” you protested.

"Is that truly the case, or is it simply a product of your oh-so-vivid imagination?" 

There was such casual, dismissive, cold arrogance in his voice it blinded you even with a blindfold on. How dare he speak to you in such a superior tone with his cock straining against his slacks?

No, you were not fucking imagining things.

Your fingers wrapped around the upper horn, feeling its rough texture and curved shape under your touch. It was massive, making your small palm feel even smaller. You held onto it tightly and gave it a slight squeeze.

He pretended not to notice.

“Caught you by the horn, Raphael,”, you whispered to where his ear should be, and pulled your blindfold down. “Now try to fucking deny that!”.

But there was nothing for him to deny; he didn't have horns at all. Or wings. Or tail, for that matter.

Instead, you were holding onto the curve of his chair, just above his head. The wood was rough and rugged beneath your grip. 

As with all the traps, it was only apparent that it was one after it had already been triggered

Should have checked for the lower horn.

Should have. 

“Oh”, Raphael said in his perfectly human form, still blindfolded, flashing you the most crocodilian smile you’ve ever seen. "Caught you by the hand, you little rule-breaker”.

All the blindfolded people looked exactly your way, as if sirened by his voice, as if tadpoled, possessed by a common will. The murmurs grew louder as the lights flickered back on.

You tried to pull away from him in sheer panic, but Raphael's grip on your wrist tightened before you could fall off his lap.

“You were warned about the rules and yet you chose to break them”, Raphael chided and pulled down his own blindfold. “Tsk-tsk-tsk."

“You made me”, you said. “You provoked me into it”.

"The devil made you do it?" Raphael kept on smiling. "Trick as old as the world itself; believe me, it never worked".

He had a look of pure joy on his face, exactly the same wicked face (you used to think that face was funny, but not anymore) when he declared his victories in the ending, only now he wasn't on your laptop screen, he was inches away from your face.

Then you remembered every debtor in the House of Hope, slowly, one by one, and their punishments. The archivist with the ruptured spine. Ruptured a thousand times. “Because you know how Raphael likes to play”.

At that moment, you wished for a Chinese Great Wall between reality and fantasy. This was real life, real pain, real consequences, your real body, and you only had one. 

Your blood ran several degrees hotter now, sweat poured down your arms.

“Please”, you begged. "Don't kill me. Don't… flay me."

(the very word ‘flay’ seemed so medieval and absurd spoken out loud)

Raphael’s smile widened at your pleas. He squeezed you lightly, in very genuine delight, like a child squeezes his new favourite toy. “Any other requests?”

"Don't break my spine," you whispered, trying to recite the Lord's Prayer in your mind, but from the second line on, your thoughts got all mixed up. 

"Duly noted," he said, swallowing his drink in one gulp and watching you cling to your cross. "I thought you weren't religious. Found your faith now, have you?"

"Will it help?" you asked with a faint hope.

"Well," Raphael tilted his head and grew serious as if he was giving it some actual thought. "Your God is not known for being very helpful. But who knows? Perhaps he will make an exception for you, since you so kindly wore his symbol today."

He shook his head at the last sentence. 

It won't help, you realised and let go of the cross. 

"Put your blindfold back on," Raphael ordered, and you complied immediately. "Ah, such extraordinary speed and obedience! That's a good girl indeed. Ha, Anya, the expression on your face is delightful. You really do enjoy it when I call you that, don't you?"

"I do," you admitted, because you did, and because you desperately wanted to appease him. 

Raphael gave you a kiss on the lips - just a small one, a brushing one, a quick one. You felt his tail flick against your thigh in anticipation. Then he helped you from his lap - his touch surprisingly gentle - to your feet. 

"I will handle this personally," he said to someone in the crowd - presumably the dwarf. "I brought her, she is my responsibility."

"As you wish, R," he replied. "Your kingdom, your rules".

Raphael pushed you towards the stage. He lifted you up onto it with extraordinary ease, as if you were merely a small cat in his arms, when your legs seemed to forget how to climb stairs or move at all.

You didn't resist him; it didn't even occur to you to do so. The security guards weren't there for you, they were there for him, so no help would come from them either. They did not budge, that’s for sure.

No one here would do anything to help you. Let's hope it would be just a public fuck, just a public fuck, just a public fuck, let's pray for a public fuck (no, don't pray to God for that)...

How many people were there? Fifty? With the waiters, sixty? Some of them might know your mother. Colleagues. Neighbours. 

You tripped over something soft, just above your knees. A footrest? A loveseat? What was it? Your fingers traced its surface, trying to decipher its identity by touch alone.

"It's perfectly shaped for you to bend over," Raphael offered you some help. "Something you definitely should bend over."

Slowly, reluctantly, your body obeyed. You sank to your knees and leaned forward, your stomach pressed against the plush fabric, your hands reaching out for stability. You found it on the chair legs - their smooth surface slightly worn from years of use. 

Raphael lifted your dress carefully, taking care not to damage it. Then he slowly pulled your panties down until they rested around your knees (thank God they were so new and pretty). Then he planted a tender kiss on your right buttock, almost chaste in his touch, which was both the hottest and most embarrassing thing you had ever had experienced.

Then he parted your legs slightly. Now he would see that...

He would see that...

"You were really looking forward to your punishment, weren't you? Such a naughty little mouse," he chided. "Was that the very reason you broke my rules?”

A naughty little mouse. In spite of yourself, a smile spread across your face. He finally recognised his true self, and even better, he recognised you. 

You spread your legs a little further. Raphael was standing right behind you, your aching pussy fully exposed to him. 

And everybody else, of course. But you couldn’t see them, hear them, or care less about them. 

Snap.

A sharp sting on your bare bottom that made you gasp in surprise. It wasn't a hand... nor was it a crop... It moved swiftly yet precisely - long and flexible with a pointed end - just what the thing you'd been trying to grab all night had come back for revenge.

You’ve never been whipped, or spanked before. Your exes hadn't been into this sort of play and forcing them into something they were clearly uncomfortable with ruined the whole idea.

You rubbed the spot where the sting still lingered, warmth spreading from it, and for that you got one on the back of your hand.

And another on your calves, another on the bottom of your thighs, another one, this time higher.

And then another.

Each time his tail struck you, you flinched and recoiled in the chair. The initial sharp sting soon gave way to a warm sensation, then heat, and finally a searing burn that slowly engulfed your entire body. 

"Were you looking forward to your punishment, little mouse?" Raphael asked again, his voice a low, soft rumble; like a storm approaching. “Don’t make me ask thrice”. 

Your skin throbbed, burned, but you could tolerate this pain. There was something else beside it. You clutched onto the wooden legs, your hands trembling as you focused on this other feeling. 

Another lash seared across your backside, harder than those before… With this one you realised what you never had a chance to know for sure; that sure; you had been missing out, and terribly so.

You realised that you liked the pain he caused you. No, no; you loved it. Not just the pain; the forbidden, the taboo, the dirty, being bent over dirty in front of a bunch of strangers. So you could not hold back your answer. 

"Yes," you admitted breathlessly, shaking, and after another strike from his whip-like tail, you confirmed it with fervour. "YES! YES!"

A small part of you hated yourself for saying it, but a much larger part agreed wholeheartedly. 

The voices in the darkness laughed.

"Ah, so did I, little mouse," Raphael's words were soft, almost reverent. "I've been looking forward to this, terribly, terribly so." 

His voice became more and more disembodied; it seemed to come from everywhere now. The more he spoke, the more disorientated you became. You felt what he said rather than heard it. 

The tail took another wide swing, now slashing across your thighs, leaving rising welts on the skin. You screamed at the burn, less restrained now, and then you screamed like you didn't give a fuck, because you didn't. 

Your eyes glistened, overflowing with unrestrained tears, your blindfold damp; hot trails down your cheeks, the taste of them salty on your lips. Your body was running hot, hotter, hotter, your clit throbbing to the rhythm of this burning.

You were lost in a red-dark haze; the pain had become a background noise, but you couldn't ignore it. And you didn't want to ignore it, intoxicating and addictive and releasing as it was.

Each sting of the whip sent waves of pleasure through your cunt, causing it to clench and release, leaving a trail of wetness on your thighs. Not an orgasm, or maybe it was; you were no longer sure of anything.

"Elle s'est jouie juste en recevant une fessée?" someone to your left snickered. "Putain Raul, où est-ce que tu trouves ces salopes? Pourquoi je trouve jamais des salopes comme…"

"Ta gueule!" Raphael snapped back, and that someone promptly shut up. “Don’t you dare call her that ever again if you want to live”.

Somebody gasped. 

"Touch me... please..." you whimpered, taking advantage of the pause. "Do anything to me... anything!"

Raphael laughed. 

Your mother would be very proud of you now, a nasty little thought crossed your mind and you shoved it away with utter contempt, just like all the other thoughts that screamed at you that what was happening was obscene and obscenely wrong.

"I will, oh, I will," he said. “All in due time. Allow me to help you," he reached out and grabbed your waist, pulling you to your feet. "The most exciting part of dinner is about to commence."

Raphael reached down to your knees. His fingers brushed the delicate lace of your panties, and in a teasingly slow motion he began to pull them up.

It was the opposite of what you had imagined to be the exciting part.

"What part?" you asked, making another pained, pitiful sob, fully determined to pity him into fucking you.

His hands moved from your waist to straighten your dress, tucking it neatly into place before smoothing down any wrinkles. Your knees were red, and aching from the hardwood floor. You could not see anything, but you were sure your arse was a tapestry of criss-cross red marks.

"Why, dessert, of course," he breathed out with anticipation. "We're about to be served dessert! Let's cross our fingers for chocolate mousse; I've got quite the craving."

You waited, hoping it was a sexual metaphor, though you did not want to think any further about what exactly that metaphor was supposed to stand for.

As he led you back to the table, hand around your waist to guide you, you realised it wasn't. You weren't going to get fucked, at least not right away, which was a far more bitter disappointment than finding out he didn't have horns. 

Raphael was referring to the actual dessert, which he was very much looking forward to. He put you back in your chair as your arse screamed in pain and your pussy screamed in overwhelming need. 

Then he sat down opposite you. The cloth rustled; his blindfold was back on.

And then he continued.

"Pray tell, where was I? Ah yes, the most scandalous fact of all is that there existed but a single - can you imagine, a single! - production in the entirety of the 20th century inspired by Arnaud," Raphael said as the dessert plates descended onto the table. "It bore the title of The Persecution and Assasination of Jean-Paul Marat..."

He said it in one sentence, one bloody sentence, one run-on sentence, without pausing to breathe. 

"...as performed by the inmates of the asylum of Charenton under the direction of the Marquis de Sade..."

The only saving grace in this situation was that the dessert smelled absolutely delicious.

“…staged by Peter Weiß in post-war Germany, early sixties, I believe…”

You nodded and picked up your spoon. Sweet and tangy and oh-so-delicious creamy cherries - you couldn't help but moan in pure bliss, actually moan, and swallow it down with the rest of your pride, sanity and common sense.

What was there left to be embarrassed about?

“…shortly known as “Marat / Sade”. Oh, my dear, you are quite enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

"I am in fucking heaven," you exclaimed with a laugh. 

Raphael cleared his throat at your use of profanity.

You devoured the dessert with gusto, each spoonful better than the last, until there was nothing left but an empty plate and the lingering taste of cherry mousse on your lips.

If it was socially acceptable at a restaurant like that, you would have asked for seconds (not that anything you did here had been appropriate).

“Remove your blindfolds”, the dwarf commanded, and you ripped yours from your face as soon as you heard the verb remove.

As your eyes adjusted to the light, they landed on what was left of your plate. 

Nothing. You had eaten it all, licked it clean.

But on Raphael’s plate, who was sitting right across from you in his human form, about to light another cigarette (oh, now that you saw it, it was actually a cigar), on Raphael's plate... there was still something.

Your stomach cramped and hurt at the sight. 

Cherry red and sticky and slimy and full of texture and mass and shape and... 

And very much like...Very much like......brain tissue...

Which was... 

It was...

You mean ....

***

"What happened?" you asked, your voice groggy.

Your head was nestled in Raphael's lap, his fingers gently stroking through your hair, the soft hum of the car's engine lulling you back to sleep.

"Ah, piccola," Raphael exhaled with an amused sigh, "you decided to take a little nap after the cherry pudding”. 

You were sprawled on the plush leather back of a car, not the one you came in; some other limousine, whatever it was.

"It wasn't the cherry pudding." Your gaze flicked to the front of the vehicle where the driver sat, a dark shadow against the dashboard lights. "I saw something...like brains..."

"My bad, if I knew you were such an impressionable sort, I would have taken you elsewhere," Raphael said. His hand continued to gently stroke your head. "The dish presentation was a bit on the extravagant side, I agree, but trust me, no one was serving us prion diseases."

Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. You were too dazzled to argue anyway.

Raphael was back in his Raul persona. The change was slight, but it was there, in the timbre of his voice, in the movements - more businesslike, more impatient, more "my time is more valuable than yours", with a very slight Italian inflection at the end of sentences.

"I hope you still enjoyed our evening together as much as I did."

"Unforgettable," you said as you rubbed your aching bottom.

"Interesting choice of word," he muttered, gazing out the window with a humanly troubled expression. "I wouldn’t say that, but it was delightful, and hopefully one of many to come."

You felt too sleepy to ask to make any sense of what he was saying - was he saying the evening was delightful, but forgettable? Huh?

Nevermind. Lost in translation, probably.

"Where are we headed?" you asked instead, snuggling closer to him and closing your eyes.

"I'm taking you home," he answered. "That's what I promised you."

***

Less than an hour later, you were standing at the door of your apartment, which you had said goodbye to not so long ago, but which you now wished you did not have to see again so soon. 

You leaned against it and looked at Raphael. 

He looked thoughtful, his eyes a dark, glistening honey, the white shirt a little less tightly pressed now, but still tugging at his tanned skin, a thin gold chain around his neck.

In the half-light of the corridor, he looked particularly imaginary. The look suited him. 

What a handsome man, you marvelled. And yet fictional enough that you wanted him to kiss you, despite, well... despite who he was. 

What more could you lose? Your old life was gone the moment he called you a naughty little mouse from the screen.

"I brought you home safely," Raphael said. "I recall I promised to kiss you good night as well”.

You opened your mouth and were about to take a step towards him, but he was faster. He pinned you against the door of the flat. His stubble burned your face and his lips and mouth and skin tasted of tobacco and cherries and expensive leather. Hot and wet and smokey.

You kissed him as voraciously as you had ever kissed anyone before, real or imagined. Your fingers were tugging at his hair, tugging so hard it had to hurt. The skin on the back of his neck was so soft, so unlike him. His tongue was deep in your mouth, ready to plunge straight down your throat and choke you. 

If that's what he wanted, why the hell not?

The only thing you really wanted from him was for him to be as obsessed with you as you were with him. The rest, all the rest, you could live with, learn to live with. The things he might or might not have done, the debtors, the crimes, they weren't real enough anyway, at least not yet. 

That kiss was. You moaned against his mouth, his tongue pushing into your mouth until all you tasted was him, all you breathed was air from his lungs, all you felt was what he felt and what he wanted. 

Then, Raphael pulled away from you, and you wanted to slap him for it, and for a second you seriously believed you would. 

He took a step back, looking both annoyed and defeated and confused, adjusting the gold watch on his wrist. 

"There are certain rules I cannot ignore," he said. "I trust you understand."

There was no rule against fucking on the first date, NO SUCH FUCKING RULE, you wanted to scream at him, and if there was, it had been abolished and overruled long ago, and you didn't understand shit - but instead all that escaped your lips was an almost inaudible "Yes".

"Good," he coldly replied, before bidding you good night and letting the darkness of the staircase swallow him whole.

***

"back home all good," you texted your mum, and within three seconds you got a 'God bless' back, and then a whirlwind of other messages you didn't read.

Your laptop was still wide open, glowing brightly in the darkness of the room. Missed messages, pop-ups, a couple of flashing notifications in the bottom right-hand corner. 

You slammed it down.

Then you took off your clothes and jewellery, your cross, earrings and rings, everything, because everything itched and scratched and yearned and frustrated. Your skin felt like it was on fire, slick with sweat and saliva from his kisses. 

You lay down on your bed and buried your face in the pillow to escape the oppressive heat. It was April, wasn't it? 

Feels like the middle of August.

Exhaustion washed over you, wave after wave, but you didn't want to give in, because you had to think about what had happened, but you couldn't because your brain was melting. So you drifted off to sleep. And as you drifted, just as you were about to drift, a sensation that hadn't bothered you for years crept all over your body.

You recognised it very well. It was unmistakable; once you know it, you know it forever.

The sleep paralysis. 

Your muscles loosened, and your body relaxed as your heart raced in your chest. You took short, sharp breaths. Then a sense of inevitable doom flooded over you.

Your body betrayed you, stuck between dreaming and being awake, betrayed you and left you paralysed and at the mercy of him who you knew was standing in this room right next to your bed. 

Even without smelling the stench of sulphur, you would have sensed his presence like an animal senses a predator.

"I almost forgot, my darling mouse, my apologies," Raphael said. "I did not see to it that you had the sweetest dreams”.

A clawed hand landed beside the pillow your face was plastered to. You stared at it; viscerally real, five long, sharp black talons. Huge. Right beside your pillow and within arm's reach of the bed stand where you had discarded your jewellery (and your cross).

Then you felt his mass settle on you, pressing your prone body into the mattress; heavy, hard, burning hot, and very masculine in its arousal. So hot that you imagined little clouds of smoke rising from him into the air.

"Do not be afraid," Raphael said as he planted hot kisses along the nape of your neck and across your back. "As I have promised, you need not fear me, not me, never me."

You could feel him pushing your knees apart. He rose up and positioned himself behind you, easing between your legs, his shaft rubbing against your slick folds. 

His tail wrapped all around your right leg, as if to protect and hold you close.

You would buck your hips against him, you would moan if you could, to show him how much you wanted him, wanted this, but you couldn't move or make a sound. 

"Just look at you, my needy and desperate little human, my, my, mine" Raphael said with pure admiration, his talons stroking your still aching backside, his forked tongue licking you as if you were the most delicious of all treats. "What an exquisite sight you are. Tell me, does it feel good to finally lie beneath me?”

If you could tell a thing, you would tell him that good was not the right word; divine was the word, blasphemous as it was. 

You felt his thighs press inward, heavy and sure and inescapable.

"You will understand everything in time, I promise," Raphael whispered in your ear. "There are rules we must play by for now. I have not made them, or things would be very different between us.”

Yes, yes, whatever you say, I'll play by your rules, fuck-me-just-fuck-me, you thought, and he granted your wish; you felt the head of his cock push you apart and push into you, and you felt as if this, not any moment before, was the end of all the life you had lived before. 

Every moment felt like a century. It took a millennium for his cock to slide all the way into your pussy, and even though it was too big to fit comfortably, it fit just perfectly.

"Aren't you lovely?" Raphael cooed, his body pressing you into the mattress. "Aren't you so sweet to me? So accommodating, so soft, so deliciously pliant."

He went gentle at first, slow and methodical strokes, not abrupt or hard as you'd feared (or hoped), and you would have screamed if your throat wasn't dead, screamed in bliss, but instead you lay perfectly still under his massive weight, perfectly happy to be suffocated this way, a burden you were always meant to bear.

So many times you've had to fake excitement, moans, orgasms, and the one time you really didn't have to fake anything, you couldn't do anything, all you could do was lie there and enjoy the sensation of being taken. 

It felt so good to be so naked and so helpless. You hoped he liked being inside you as much as you liked having him inside you, because you'd gladly spend every evening of your life lying beneath him.

You listened to his breath, how it quickened with each plunge of his cock, his low grunts, the beads of sweat trickling down your skin, his or yours, you were not sure. 

He thrust in and out of you and you wanted to rub your clit so badly. You never came just from a cock without rubbing your clit. Some women just can't, you read it, not wired that way, not built that way. 

“Do not doubt yourself. I know better what you're capable of; you would be surprised. I will show you."

He picked up the pace now, his hips rolling against your backside, testing the limits of how hard you could take it; the limit being as hard as he wanted to give it to you. 

You were so eager for this orgasm, so sure it would be mind-shattering (what was there left to shatter?), so sure it would be the way it was always supposed to be, the way it was promised to you in all those stories and movies, but it never was quite that. 

Each thrust brought that promise closer. He hovered over you on one elbow; the claws of his other hand tickled your side, from the edge of your thigh to the outline of your breast. 

"You've already done so much for me, my little mouse, and you've done so well. Opened the door to this wonderful, powerful world," Raphael said, but his words suddenly lost all meaning except for the fact that it was his voice and he was moving on top of you. "I owe you a thanks and I do promise to repay you in kind."

Then it came, it came, his cock bringing it to you, drilling it into you, thrusting it into you, pushing it into you, giving it to you, that foamy heaviness building to an explosion of pure distilled pleasure. 

There you were, in its eye, feeling the violent trembling of your legs, drenched in a pool of sweat forming beneath you, your drool on the pillow, orgasm twisting your insides into a knot. 

In that moment, right there, everything clicked into place and you finally got it.

Why everything revolved around sex, or its promise, or its danger. Why people wanted to ban it, shut it down forever, exorcise it, control it, and how terribly right they were (and how terribly wrong).

Why it's all about that.

The veil that hung over the world was pushed inwards, and you started seeing things that were not there, yes, but also the things you could not see before.

You were falling into a very dark, very black and very long abyss, euphoric, life-altering - and life-threatening - and you hoped that this fall would never end, but it did end, it ended in blackness, in nothingness, except for the last words:

"But know this, my little mouse

your work for me

is not yet 

done”.

[littleredwing89]

PRINCE OF GOTHAM - PART 2

PRINCE OF GOTHAM - PART 2

CEO!Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings – Language. NSFW Smut. Brief Derogatory & Misogynistic language about women.

A/N: Please remember this is a revised version of “The Intern” but swapped out Roman for Jason. Hope you all enjoy the next chapter! :) xoxo

The smoke curled thick around the four men situated around the poker table in Roy’s rich mahogany furnished games room. Jason rolled the crystal glass against the green felt, the rattle of the ice cubes echoing in his mind. He hadn’t been able to think straight all night. You’d plagued his thoughts since the gala, the scent of your perfume still invading his senses.

Oswald flicked his cigarette into the ashtray at the side of him, eyebrow curved upwards as he frowned at Jason, “That's the worst hand you've played tonight”.

Harvey laughed before taking a sip of his whiskey, savouring the woody flavour, “Hey Todd, try betting the ownership of The Iceberg. See if your luck'll change”.

The pair of them waited for a sarcastic or biting remark but Jason stared at his cards, still rolling his glass, paying no real attention to either of them.

“I think we lost 'im”, Oswald cackled.

Roy leaned back in his chair, putting out his cigar, “I think we have”. He grinned knowingly towards Jason.

“Do you think if I take his wallet he'll notice?”, Harvey flipped over his cards, smirking with glee at Oswald’s crestfallen face.

Shuffling the cards again, Roy dealt out the cards swiftly, “Hmmm, likely not but considering he's cleaned out, I doubt you'll actually be able to get anything”.

Jason was aware of the conversation around him but he couldn’t bring himself to join in. Not when his mind was conjuring images of you, spread out on his bed sheets with your hands bound above your head with his tie. He cursed under his breath, feeling the front of his trousers becoming uncomfortable.

Harvey watched as Jason’s cigarette burnt at the side of him, resting in the ashtray forgotten about, smoke billowing wildly, “I bet you anything it's that tight pussy from last week that's got him so worked up”.

“Oh, I remember, that hussy in the red dress?”, Oswald threw his used cards towards Roy waiting for the next hand.

“Yeah! That’s the one. Can't blame him, she's got a sweet ass. Ain't that right, Harper?”, Harvey downed the rest of his whiskey, pouring himself another large helping.

Jason glared towards Roy, silently murdering him with his gaze. He didn’t want to think of any other man touching you, let alone one of his closest friends.

Roy ignored Jason and shrugged casually, “I have no clue what you're talking about. She simply works in my department”, with a devilish glint, he turned towards Jason, “I bet you’d know about it though, wouldn't you Todd?”.

Scoffing loudly, Jason rolled his eyes, “I told you, nothing happened that night”. The lie slipped off his tongue easily although he wasn’t sure Roy believed him. He’d known him long enough to spot the tell-tale signs.

“So that sweet piece of ass is fair game?”, Oswald perked up, his interest piqued.

Jason gripped the edge of the poker table, controlling the twitch trying to spread across his face. His lips wanted to snarl at Oswald and tell him to stay the fuck away. But he had no right. It was just a quick fuck. That was what you both agreed. He swallowed the bubbling jealousy about to answer but Roy barked out laugh.

“You’d have more chance fucking a penguin”.

Harvey spat out his drink, almost choking. Oswald growled something under his breath, flipping Roy the finger.

“I don’t have time to get attached to a tight little pussy only worth a few fucks”. 

As the words left his mouth, the distaste left behind was rotten. It didn’t feel right talking about you that way. The conflict churned his stomach and it was something Jason wasn’t entirely used to.

Roy attempted to slide two cards across to Jason but he shook his head grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the centre of the table, “And on that note boys, I’m going before you take my last $100”.

“Do you have to take the bottle?”, Harvey grumbled.

Jason ignored him, slinging his jacket over his shoulder, digging out his phone from his front trouser pocket. No new messages. He’d been hoping you’d have made the first contact. Possibly trying to coax him into another encounter. Not that he needed much convincing with you.

When he looked up from his mobile, he saw Roy smirking at him with a knowing look. It made Jason uneasy. How did Roy know what he was planning? Or was it just that obvious he was still hooked on you?

“Need me to sort a lift to your apartment, Todd?”.

It was only after years of knowing the asshole, he heard the teasing tone in his voice. Oh he fucking knew alright. He saw right through him.

“Nah, I’ll be fine, I fancy a bit of fresh air”.

Roy chuckled under his breath, “Sure”.

———

You huffed, staring down at your dress. Wade, the foul mouthed head of security, otherwise known as your date, had cancelled on you at the last minute, telling you he had a family emergency. You weren’t entirely sure if you believed it or not. Something didn’t feel right. You stepped out of your heels and dropped them next to the full length mirror, throwing the emerald dress back into the closet. Your eyes lingered over your appearance. You’d made a real effort for him tonight. A tiny lace thong with a matching bra, paired with a pair of black stockings.

Just typical. Now you remembered why you didn’t like dating. You grabbed your silk robe from the end of the bed, wrapping it around you as you wandered into the living room. Take-out and a terrible movie it was. You ordered your favourite pizza via the app on your phone. That way you didn’t have to talk to anyone and mask the sadness from your voice. Perfect.

Lounging back on the sofa you wrapped your fingers around the TV remote, flicking through to find a trashy film or maybe you’d finally finish watching that guilty pleasure TV show you’d fallen in love with. The loud knock on the door startled you. The pizza couldn’t be here already, surely? You pushed up off the sofa and headed through to the front door, opening it without second thought to your attire.

Fuck. Your eyes widened at the sight in front of you. Jason. His charcoal shirt untucked and a little dishevelled, matte black tie hanging loose around his neck and his dark suit jacket slung over his shoulder. Fuck. The smell of whiskey and spice spiralled around you.

You slammed the door shut, pressing your back against it. Your heart hammered wildly against your chest. What the fuck was Jason Todd doing outside your door? You’d been under the impression last week was just a one off. Nothing more than sex. Extremely hot, mind blowing sex. But just sex, none the less.

There was another rap against the door, rattling it gently and you opened it slowly. His forearm was resting against the door frame, his tall stature towering you as he looked down. You stared up into his blue eyes. They were hooded and a little smirk curved his lips upwards, “Who did you think I was?”.

“The pizza guy”.

He laughed and inched his head down lower, eyes scanning over the delicate silk wrapping your body, “Do you always greet delivery people in your just murdered my husband robe?”.

His gaze made your body heat up, shivers travelling down your spine. You shrugged casually, giving him a flirty smile, “Only when I want my food free”. His scowl made you chuckle internally.

You opened the door a little wider and stepped back slightly, “Come in, before someone else sees me like this”. 

Jason made his way into your apartment quickly, brushing past you. You noticed the half empty bottle of whiskey in his hand and rolled your eyes, wondering what or where he’d been before coming to you. He looked around your home with interest, gaze running over your photos by the bookshelf. The whiskey was discarded on the coffee table, his suit jacket tossed over your armchair messily.

“Make yourself at home”, you grumbled under your breath, picking up his jacket and hanging it neatly over the back of one of your dining chairs. You dropped down onto the sofa, sighing happily as the cushions welcomed you.

He laughed before joining you, his arm stretching along the back, fingers brushing along the back of your neck, “Why are you wearing this on a lonely Friday night?”, his eyes raked your figure, noticing the sheer black stockings covering your long legs.

“Maybe I was waiting for you”, your eyes sparkled mischievously as you folded one leg over the other, allowing him a glance at the lace topping of your stocking before letting the silk robe fall down, covering it up.

Jason choked, caught off guard by your forward statement. He swallowed, looking over your face, “Seriously?”.

You laughed, not quite believing you’d managed to reel Jason in that easily. You guessed the whiskey wasn’t helping his brain function. Shaking your head, you grinned, “No, my date cancelled on me unfortunately”.

He frowned, feeling a wave of jealousy twinge in the pit of stomach. You were going to wear that for a date? What were you going to put on, over it? Or was your date just going to come round to your apartment and…he stopped himself, not wanting to picture that.

Jason’s fingers gripped the back of the sofa slightly wondering if you’d wear that for a date with him. He pictured ripping it off piece by piece as you begged him to give you more. He licked over his bottom lip before muttering, “A date?”.

“Yes, a date, I don't suppose that's against company policy?”, you raised an eyebrow looking directly at him. His face was stern, sharp jaw locked tight.

He shook his head and rubbed a hand over his cheek, scratching over his dark stubble, “So, what were you planning to do instead?”.

Running a hand through your hair, you leaned back against the sofa, “Eat take out and watch a film”, you waited for a reaction but he just stared silently, “You’re welcome to watch it with me if you want? But I can’t promise the film will be Oscar worthy though”.

You had to admit this was uncharted territory. You didn’t know what the protocol was. The CEO of the company you worked for, had turned up at your door uninvited and slightly tipsy. The same CEO who you’d slept with last week and hadn’t been able to take your mind off. The same CEO who’d given you the impression it was just a ‘one off’.

“Please tell me this isn’t Titanic…”, he muttered whilst kicking his shoes off under your coffee table.

You smiled, “Nope…it’s a mafia film”.

“Oh, they’re my favourite”, he grinned happily.

It wasn’t that far from the truth. It was about a mafia boss. But, the point of the story was far from mafia dealings. You smirked to yourself and folded your legs under you, settling as you pressed play on the movie; 365 Days.

———

You flicked your gaze across to Jason, hiding the little smile on your face. You watched his features set into a tense frown, eyes not moving from the screen. His entire body was rigid. You had fully intended to turn it off after the first 30 minutes but you’d enjoyed teasing him far too much.

“I thought you said this was a mafia film?”, he ground out.

“It is”, you replied innocently pointing to the dark haired Italian man on the screen, “He’s the mafia boss”.

Jason finally turned to you, his eyes blown black. He swiped his tongue over his bottom lip and edged closer to you on the sofa, “This is practically pornography”, his voice was thick with lust. Every scene playing on the screen, he pictured in his own mind with you.

“You’re exaggerating! Just sit back and enjoy this cinematic masterpiece”, you waved your hand to him, brushing him off before turning back to the screen, ignoring him.

“I think”, he growled low, “You put this on to tease me”.

When you looked at him again, he was practically on top of you, caging you down onto the sofa. The scent of his cologne engulfed you making you feel dizzy. His arms were resting either side of your head, making sure you couldn’t escape. You gasped and pressed your palm on his chest, feeling his heart pounding.

“You’ve been sat there, all the way through this film, in your sexy-come fuck me-stockings…tormenting me”, he wedged himself between your thighs, spreading them wide before leaning down, his lips brushed against your ear lobe, “Well princess, I think it’s your turn now”.

You swallowed thickly, feeling your entire body reacting to him, craving to be closer. He smirked, letting his hands run up your thighs, the lace topping of your stockings felt perfect against his skin.

“Jason…”, you felt the sparks shooting across you, lighting every nerve on fire.

He tugged at the tie on the front of your dressing gown, pulling it open revealing the expanse of your naked flesh. The high rise thong framed your hips perfectly making Jason wet his lips. He couldn’t drink you in quick enough.

“This all needs to go”, he growled and helped you out of the robe, throwing it to the side carelessly. His fingers snapped the waistband of your thong making you whine his name again. When his fingers dipped under the lace, you expected him to slip the material off you but he didn’t. A loud tearing sound made your eyes flash open, Jason had ripped your panties off you, dropping the ruined fabric onto the floor.

Your face knitted with anger. You went to scold him - those were expensive.

“What the-”.

“I’ll buy you some more princess”, he ground his hips into yours, rubbing his bulge into your core. A frustrated sigh left his throat before he crashed his lips against yours with a fiery passion quelling any of your earlier complaints.

You threaded your fingers through his dark hair, tugging on it and earnt a deep groan from him, which you swallowed readily. The sound shot down to your core, desire slick between your folds. Jason’s hand wound around your back, unclipping your bra before throwing it over your sofa. You purred softly, letting your tongue dance with his as you continued to kiss, desperation peaking between you both.

You arched your back pressing your body into his. The expensive cotton felt perfect against your heated skin. There was something incredibly erotic having him fully clothed, covering your bare petite frame beneath him. The tip of his tie tickled over your sensitive flesh.

He smirked, his ego inflating at the way you reacted to his touches. His rough fingertips grazed down the valley between your breasts and over your toned stomach. You whined when they dipped into the indent of your navel.

“Jason…please”, you begged, circling your hips to entice him. 

He continued lower until he stroked a finger through your silken core. Your wetness coated it. He hummed appreciatively, adding a second finger. You threw your head back against the arm rest, moaning unabashedly. The euphoria buzzed through your veins but you needed more.

Jason flicked over your clit, “You’re so wet for me sweetheart and I’ve barely touched you”. He grinned before continuing with his sweet torture. Your hand gripped his forearm trying to guide him where you wanted him but he resisted with a devilish smile.

The knocking at the door made you both jump. You looked up at Jason through your thick, dark lashes. Your lips were swollen from his bruising kisses.

“Who the fuck is that?”, he grunted.

“Pizza”, you sighed, disappointed at the interruption.

Jason dipped back down, his lips marking your neck eagerly, enjoying the way you mewled and shivered. The knocking sounded through the apartment again making him nip your collar bone roughly. Fingers dipping into your tight core.

“They-”, you panted and dragged your nails through his hair as he continued to thrust into you, “They won’t go away”.

“Fuck!”, Jason tore himself away from your body, growling deeply as he stormed towards the door. The front of his trousers were painfully constricted due to the throbbing of his cock. He threw the door open, glaring at the young teenage boy with the pizza box in his hand. The boy squeaked when he saw Jason, withering under his irritated stare.

“P-pizza f-for Y/N?”, he stuttered and went bright red seeing the pile of tattered lace on the living room floor. Your silk gown strewn over the glass coffee table lazily, bra hanging off the lamp behind your couch. He caught a glimpse of your bare legs before squeaking when Jason huffed loudly. The delivery boy struggled to meet Jason’s gaze, instead choosing to stare at the button at the top of his own shirt. The heat flamed his cheeks at realising exactly what he had interrupted.

“Take this and fuck off”, Jason snapped, throwing a wad of folded notes at him before slamming the door. He ran his fingers through his messy hair, heading back towards you on the sofa.

You had to bite back a smile at Jason’s attitude. He dropped back onto the couch, looking down at your naked body. He groaned, hands palming your tits greedily. His thumbs brushed over your nipples as he leaned down, kissing your throat. You writhed under his touches, burning for more.

“Y-You do know that you just gave him an $80 tip right?”.

“Pocket money”.

Losing his patience, Jason forced your legs apart and unzipped his pants, shoving them down quickly. His cock sprung free, slapping against the bottom of his shirt. Your eyes traced the length of it, mouth going dry at the delicious thoughts. You couldn’t wait to feel the sting of it as it stretched you, dragging against your walls as he fucked you.

He smirked watching the way you eyed him greedily. The look on your face was enough to boost his ego nicely. Using one of his hands to pin your wrists above your head, he guided the head of his cock between your damp folds, teasing your clit with it. You shivered under him and rocked your hips.

“Jason please!”, you whined, sucking your plump lower lip between your teeth.

His fingers dug into your wrist as he sunk his full cock into you, bottoming out. Your head flew back as the burning stretch of his cock sent pulses of pleasure up your spine. He groaned deeply and pressed his face into your neck, continuing his quest to mark you up as his own. His hips started to drive into you wildly.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck!”, you cried out repeatedly, trying to tug your hands free. You wanted his shirt off. You wanted to trace every muscle on his back and scratch your nails down it. You wanted to hold onto his hair and yank it as he fucked you just the way you needed it.

“No one’s gonna fuck you like this princess”, he rasped in your ear, “Never”.

His words careened in your mind as the euphoria coiled deep in the pit of your stomach. The drag of his cock against your tight wet walls was pushing you higher. He was right. No one had ever fucked you like Jason. Which scared and electrified you at the same time. You moaned his name loudly, forgetting the neighbours, as he changed his angle, hitting you even deeper than before. Your vision became blurry with desire.

“Look at the way your body responds to me”, he gloated, looking down at your breasts, the way they bounced with every thrust of his cock. A damp sheen covered your body as you felt the familiar flush running over your skin.

“You can’t get enough of my cock, can you?”.

You so badly wanted to snap at him but your body betrayed you, desperate to climax. You hooked your legs around his strong waist, pulling him closer to your body. The fabric of his shirt was rough against your overly sensitive skin.

“Oh god!”, your eyes rolled back into your skull as you felt the orgasmic tidal wave start to crash. Your blood ran cold when he stopped. His thrusts became languid, keeping your climax at bay.

“You going to let me fuck your tight little pussy whenever I want?”, his lips curled upwards, smugness radiating off him.

“W-what? Jason- please - I’m so close”, you begged, rolling your hips against his, eager for more friction than he was giving, “Don’t fucking stop”.

“I asked you a question”, he grunted and thrust into you sharply once, before returning to his slow, maddening pace, “Are you going to keep letting me fuck you, princess?”.

You whined when he thrust into you then huffed in frustration when he wouldn’t continue, “Yes!”.

“Yes what?”.

You glowered up at him, cheeks hot with desire, “Yes I’ll keep fucking you”.

“Only me?”.

He was starting to piss you off. You could feel your orgasm ebbing away with each lazy thrust into your sopping pussy. You growled, ripping your wrists free from his grip, locking your hands around his neck.

Yanking him down to your mouth, your lips ran over his, your hot breath mingling with his, “Yes! I’ll only fuck you! Now if you don’t make me fucking cum I’ll kick you out and do it myself!”.

Your words made his eyes darken and he resumed his brutal pace, driving deep into your core. One hand gripped onto your hips and the other held onto the arm of the sofa, helping him thrust into you harder.

Your moans were depraved as he fucked you into the soft plush of the cushions, ripping your orgasm from you possessively. Your nails scratched down his back, under his shirt, enjoying the way his face winced between pain and pleasure. 

The white hot burst of flames exploded behind your eyes as you came, sobbing his name into his shoulder. His thrusts became sloppy and uneven as he neared his own end. Cock pulsing inside you.

Jason groaned huskily as your pussy strangled his cock, tipping him into his own powerful orgasm. He shot rope after rope of hot cum into your core, fingers bitterly biting into the flesh on your hip. You’d definitely have bruises tomorrow. You weren’t even sure if you’d be walking straight tomorrow after the way he’d pounded into you.

His body rested into yours slightly as he caught his breath, his arm propped on the back of the arm rest taking the brunt of his weight.

You stroked your hand up and down his back, regaining your own breath and sanity. Your legs were still locked around his waist, heart beating erratically. 

His lips brushed your cheek delicately and he pushed himself up to look down at you. Your hair was dishevelled, lips swollen from his bruising kisses. You looked delicious. He could easily delve back in for another round but he’d at least allow you to rest first. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Moving off you eventually, he reached out to the coffee table to grab your robe, allowing you to wrap it around yourself as he zipped his pants back up.

“I just want to clarify-”, he started but you cut him off immediately. 

“Please don’t kill the afterglow Todd”, you chuckled and ran your fingers through your messy hair, “I know what you meant. It’s fine. Just sex is all that I want too”.

He went to speak again but you placed your finger over his plump lips, “Yes, only with you”.

Jason licked the pad of your finger, grinning at you, “Perfect”.

You shivered and stood up, not bothering to tie your robe. It fluttered open allowing him to glance over your naked body, “You’re welcome to stay, the night is still young after all”. You winked and sashayed through to your bedroom. You heard him shuffling before catching you up, arms immediately coiling around you from behind.

———

Wrapped up in the sheets of your bed after the second round, you turned to face Jason, stroking your fingertips along the grooves of his muscles, “Where did you put the pizza?”, you pressed a kiss to his chest and murmured, “I’m starving”.

Jason blinked before looking a little sheepish, “Well- I- errr…”.

You watched him before realising exactly what had happened. You groaned and pressed your face into his solid mass, “You paid him and didn’t even get the pizza?!”.

“In my defence I was a little preoccupied”, he winked smugly and tightened his arm around your waist, tugging you on top of him. He enjoyed the way your tiny frame instantly sank into him, not that he’d admit it.

“You owe me new pants AND a pizza”, you huffed and poked his chest playfully, “I honestly can’t believe you”.

He shrugged, “We could just order another one, it’s not like I can’t afford it”.

Whilst his answer sounded arrogant, you knew it wasn’t intended that way. You rolled your eyes and inched your face closer to his, your breath fanning over his lips, “But can you control yourself until it gets here?”.

“That's a tall order princess”, he closed the gap instantly, nipping your bottom lip before rolling you over, trapping you underneath his bulk. You laughed into the kiss snaking your arms around his neck.

--------

[lewkwoodnco]

Hello! I would like to request Lockwood x Fem!Reader best friends to lovers based on gold rush <3

Gold Rush - Lockwood x Reader

A/N: I’ve always looked at gold rush as an enemies to lovers song so this was rlly interesting!!! Will update wc once I wake up 😴😴 (2.8k!)

It was the morning after one of the most tiring cases Lockwood & Co. had had in a while. Beyond the sheer size of the mansion, there seemed to be a new kind of Type Two waiting for them in every room. It was the type of case that left you too tired to complain at the end, but for whom the frustration carried over to the next morning.

“I’m charging them double at least. It’s one thing to bend the truth - they used it as a skipping rope!”

The four of them were in the kitchen, having breakfast. When she had come down, there was only George sipping his tea in the one lit corner of the kitchen. Lockwood was usually the first one up, so his absence was testament to his exhaustion. She had sighed, not realising that she had buttered some toast for him until she was done. George looked suspiciously invested in the newspaper. “And- oh, you’re too sweet, Y/N.”

Lockwood had found the plate of toast, which she had hoped would disappear. He shifted behind her, making some tea, absent-mindedly grazing her head with his fingers as he walked past. Her grip on the cereal box tightened, and she raised it, reading the ingredients with newfound interest. She swallowed, feeling her cheeks burn behind the cereal box, hoping no one would notice. Lockwood certainly didn’t, because he had moved on to that night’s Fittes gala, but Lucy’s gaze lingered on her a bit too long for her to be fully in the clear.

When she felt that she had calmed down enough, she lowered the cereal box, her eye instantly drawn to Lockwood’s limp yet perfectly neat hair, each strand naturally settled in place. Even when most relaxed, there was something artificially manufactured in every wave in his hair, every crease of his face, but in a way that didn’t aggravate but enticed: ambrosia incarnate.

George made some intimation about heading tor the Archives to finish up the research on their next job, and purpose rushed back into Lockwood, broken out of his early-morning sluggishness. Lucy left for more rapier practice as well, but George hung back before leaving. He stared at her, which was normal George behaviour, yet a part of her felt compelled to justify her earlier preoccupation with the cereal box. It was so redundant - it wasn’t like he could read her thoughts (though sometimes she would suddenly remember how smart he truly was and how piercing his gaze could be, at which she would decide to try to not take any chances; it was only a matter of time), and even if he could, there was nothing noteworthy. Just…perfectly normal thoughts about her perfectly normal boss.

“Did you know…that Froot Loops don’t actually have different flavours?”

“Do you know that you’re eating pure sugar?”

“…you’re no fun.”

————————————————————————

Every year, they were always invited to the same gala hosted by the same Fittes agency, yet the preceding afternoon was almost always as stressful as any ghost-hunting job. Scarves hung on every surface by Lucy, who never wore any of them, shirts thrown down the stairwell as Lockwood dramatically proclaimed that none of his shirts would do, and George yelling at everyone to quit making so much noise until Lucy grew sentient enough to wrestle him into something semi-formal.

This year was no different. The four of them flitted from room to room like moths, contributing to more than one clumsy collision. Now, she wandered out of the attic into the hallway forlornly, clutching two different shoes. She liked fancy galas as much as the next person, but sometimes it felt overwhelming to get ready for them. “I’m not sure if I should come.”

“No!” That was Lockwood, rifling through a box of multi coloured cloths, somehow still pristine even when half-dressed. “You have to come. Lucy and George are too morally upright to gossip. I’ll be bored to tears without you.” Her heart stupidly fluttered, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself as she watched him drape a bow tie around his neck. But of course, Lockwood wasn’t Lockwood if he didn’t have his signature ability to put his foot in his mouth.

“Besides, all of Fittes will be there, all of Rotwell will be there. We all need to go.”

“Of course.” Her harsh tone made Lockwood pause his flurry of activity, looking as though he wanted to fix what he had said. But he hesitated too long and now Lucy was barreling down the corridor, trying to find her boots, and the two of them awkwardly shifted away. She hadn’t meant to sound so bitter. What did she even have to be bitter about?

Before either of them could give it any more thought, they heard a dramatic gasp from George’s room, where they found Lucy blackmailing him into coming by holding one of his dusty old books hostage. George looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. But the blackmail worked, not that George let Lucy off the hook for the rest of the night, grumbling and bemoaning the (temporary) loss of his beloved friend. Other than that, they reached without much fuss, and Lockwood was quick to get to business.

“How about we do some networking?”

“What, with other agencies?”

“Connections couldn’t hurt.”

George shared a knowing glance with Lucy, but it was so brief that it was quickly forgotten, especially in light of his comment. “That’s just as well. I spy a couple Fittes agents who wouldn’t seem to mind, er, connecting with Lockwood.”

Lockwood frowned, but she didn’t pay attention long enough to see his full reaction. George had nodded towards this cluster (really, only three of them) of Fittes agents who seemed to have a particularly high propensity for giggling. They huddled even closer together when the four of them looked over, and they began furiously whispering into each other ears, eyes still intent on Lockwood. She hadn’t been much different when she had first joined the agency, and it certainly was amusing how oblivious he was to how ridiculously attractive he was, only showing a hint of awareness whenever he turned on the charm for particularly difficult clients. So polished, so shiny, so cool above the hot struggles of the ordinary folk he surrounded himself with, breezing through life. She would have resented him if he weren’t so darling.

Every time he wandered a bit too close to her, she braced herself for his touch. Because that was definitely what she was doing: bracing herself. Not like she wanted him to touch her or anything. And she definitely wasn’t repeatedly dying a slow and painful death as she replayed his brush at breakfast. And of course, Lockwood was too engrossed in his conversation with some stuffy bigwig to notice anything. He was gesturing around them with the air of someone far richer than he already was.

“We operate differently at Lockwood and Co. Glamour and glitz has its place, but personally we might have gone for something more…elegant. More…tasteful, perhaps.”

She snorted into her champagne a little more aggressively that she had intended. For someone so beautiful, Lockwood could be so full of shit sometimes. She smiled apologetically, and Lockwood helped fix things with that smooth laugh of his, but the disconcerted look in his eye told her he wasn’t going to forget about that anytime soon. Eventually, the bigwig needed to talk to another bigwig, so they excused themselves and turned to hunt for their next prey.

“What was that?”

“Oh, please, like I’m just supposed to stand and watch you and lie that blatantly. You’d sell your soul to have a gala as big as this tied to your name. You were so convincing, it’s almost impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“I said ‘almost.’”

He swooped down to the shell of her ear. “Good enough for me.” She frantically stamped out the butterflies in her stomach. Stupid Lockwood and his stupid warm breath tickling her ear and his stupid devastatingly appealing indifference towards morality. She pulled away from his magnetic field, thoughts tangled in her irritation.

“Y/N,” she stopped fuming long enough to realise Lockwood had dragged her to a quieter part of the party, but his words still bounced off her numb mind inconsequentially. “Are you alright? Was it-“ he grimaced uncomfortably. “Was it what I said back home? Because I didn’t-“

She was vaguely aware of her reaching out and holding his hand, trying to find the right words. The warmth of his hand anchored her even as she was drowning in it. It was dangerous, having him so close with a mind so willing to delve into nonsense. She could see herself tiptoeing out of his room, on wooden floors she only knew of through creaks far too late at night, her sweater dangling on the doorknob-

All of a sudden, he was gold under her touch. Gleaming and perfect, perfectly solid and assured as the riches that entrenched on him now consumed him: the perfect sculpture. And yet his eyes still hummed with the unmistakeable fervour of life, of spirit, of the adventure he so recklessly indulged himself in. She was slowing her breath, he was pulling her under, and she was dizzy with it, dizzy with him. It wasn’t normal, but they were never normal. Lockwood would beckon, and she would succumb, and each time common sense caught up to her just a little bit later than the last time, leaving her dangerously close to diving into the whirlpool that was Lockwood, inhibitions forgotten.

But then the music swelled, and laughter grated on her ears, and she remembered where she was. She let go of his hand almost spitefully, and walked away, ignoring his attempts to get her to stop. It was all so unnecessary and so saddening.

They left soon after, the can uncharacteristically quiet as two out of the four members tried to beat their hearts into submission. As they hung up their coats near the front door, Lockwood paused, and she was sure he was going to say something, but then the moment passed again and she was left climbing the stairs frustrated and wholly dissatisfied.

She kept the door to the attic a crack open, watching as much as she could of Lockwood drifting to the library, not looking away until she heard the soft click of the door. She closed her eyes, burning every memory and image of him into her retinas. Flashes of Lockwood danced like bright spots as she undressed: the bow tie left desolate around his neck, the champagne that blended in with his skin under the golden lights, the unscrupulous charisma that radiated off his too-bright smile…it was unhealthy how drugged she felt on the high that was Lockwood. But tonight had been too real, too visceral: she couldn’t bear dreaming about him for another second.

It was only twenty-four hours ago that she had been wandering near the coast with him while looking for the Source. The air was dizzy with salt and Lockwood’s eyes danced a bit too merrily for either of them to feel too burdened by the hunt for the Source. It was just as well that Lucy and George had found it, because she and Lockwood were utterly useless, getting drunk of each other’s laughter, stumbling in the shifting sand and gravel. She wondered if he thought about that night the way she did, if his breath caught too as he was swept up in the memory of the innocence they shared, blazing as they brazenly ambled foolishly for no one’s eyes but the moon’s and the seas’ who witnessed a love as pure as theirs for the first and last time.

————————————————————————

She woke up feeling painfully brittle from the previous night. She slept restlessly, too preoccupied to wade through her thoughts with much precision, until she finally heard enough movement downstairs. Lockwood was surprisingly already fully dressed, staring a hole into the wall with the case file of their next job in front of him. But his ironed clothes were jarring rather than refreshing, especially when contrasted against the bruises under his eyes and his translucent skin. Good. He was too disarming when he was well-rested anyway. All her resentment towards him dissolved at the sight of a stack of meticulously buttered toast and cup of tea: an Anthony Lockwood peace offering if she ever saw one. It made her want to cry, but it wasn’t the time for it, so she settled for a gnawing in her stomach.

From the boys’ stilted conversation, she gathered that Lockwood had already been to the site that morning and there was clearly something about it that their clients weren’t telling them. From the look she shared with George as they started discussing their clients’ possible secrets, it was clear that he too was slightly troubled. It wasn’t like Lockwood to go out for walks alone, especially before dawn. She nearly upset the milk jug when her heart swooped as she thought about Lockwood staying up alone, slowly bleeding into the shadows of the house that threatened to inhale him. It made her feel funny.

“Hm?” Lockwood turned, tuning back in only at the tail end of the conversation. She hated how adorable his half-confused expression was and how it made her forget how to breathe. She scoffed, leaving her toast but begrudgingly taking her tea with her, mumbling something about Anna Karenina. She was properly put off her breakfast. As if lingering in the edges of her mind wasn’t enough, he just had to disrupt her appetite too.

“Hey.” He had found her hiding away on the floor of the library between some bookshelves. Not that she was actively avoiding him.

“Hey.” Sleep deprivation wasn’t a good look on anyone, but Lockwood still managed to pull it off. Still, he looked miles more unkempt like this than in a regular, cotton shirt.

He uselessly gestured towards the plate, looking less than the perfect cool he typically maintained. “I brought your toast.”

“I’m fine with my tea, thanks.” She fixed her eyes back onto her book, painfully aware of him watching her. He sighed and sat down in front of her.

“I know you felt it too, last night. I don’t know why you’re mad at me when you’re the one going around lying through your teeth.” She snapped her book close. Enough was enough.

“Because we’ll never be anything more. You’re this…this craze, this bug that’s infected everyone that’s slowly sucking the life out of me, you…you hedonistic disease. You’ll hold my hand and brush your fingers against my head but you’ll never kiss me. And why would you?” She nudged her tea further behind; she couldn’t tolerate even glancing at it. It reminded her of the waves that teased their soles, brimming with awe, a memory that was steadily sinking into the grey of her unpleasantly cold tea. “You have so much more, so much better to choose from. Everybody wants you.”

“Who cares about everyone else?”

“I care! Normal people care! How can you expect me to just stand here, knowing that I will never be good enough for someone like you?”

He looked so genuinely lost that she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means. Someone as iridescent, and perfect as you.” She spat out that word with disgust. If she weren’t so upset, he would have made some stupid quip about her finding him perfect, but that was a bone to pick for another time. He reached out, holding her hand to his chest.

“Y/N…no one could be more perfect than you.”

She snatched her hand back. Now he was just mocking her. “Don’t! Don’t say that when it isn’t true.”

“But it is!”

“Anthony Lockwood, you are made of fibs, half-truths and tall tales. You bend the truth! You bend, and you bend and you bend until you snap me right in half.”

She was crying by this point. God, could she be more embarrassing? Lockwood shuffled towards her, wrapping an arm around her and speaking into her hair. The exact same spot his fingers had brushed and ignited this chain sequence of events.

“You’re right. I’m a vagabond. A no-good…charlatan. But,” he adjusted his head to look into her eyes, and now all she saw were faint tendrils of gold dust sprinkling in his irises. “I’m your charlatan. Don’t you think?”

And with eyes like those, how could she say no?

[moutainrusing]

thematics

In literally every ride at the Hogwarts Theme Park, Remus fell asleep. Even in the fastest roller coasters, the tallest drop towers, the soaking water rides… nothing. He peacefully kept his eyes closed, and Sirius kept having to shake him whenever they had to get out. He, James, Peter: all screaming their lungs out. But Remus? His lungs had never been more at rest.

It was infuriating. Sirius was pissed because how could he be more scared than Remus, and was Remus really not enjoying the trip? Was it so boring for him that he was falling asleep at every opportunity?

He decided to make things more interesting. Instead of obsessively following the map as James and Peter were doing, he plucked it from their hands, chucked it in the nearest bin, grabbed their wrists, and sprinted in whatever direction available, giving James enough time to grab the dazed Remus, who was utterly out of it. They hurtled down cobbled paths, laughing hysterically as the four of them barged into pissed off strangers, but really? They should expect reckless teens causing trouble. It was a theme park, after all.

He paused at an ice cream stall, where he threw more than enough money needed at the workers, before dragging them into the cart, and making the most obnoxious flavour combinations known to human.

“Oi!” The workers yelled, while Sirius took over, scooping a glob of mango onto a cone which was already piled high with mint chocolate and pistachio. Exotic. James stared at him incredulously, apologised to the workers, before digging right in. And Peter kept apologising to the workers, while Remus blinked dopily.

“Here,” Sirius shoved the ice cream into his face, and Remus took it with a frown.

“I don’t—”

And Sirius proceeded to shove it right onto Remus’s goody-good face. Which in turn made Remus go from goody-good to trouble-making when he scooped up a massive glob of vanilla ice cream and smeared it over Sirius’s hair.

“Aw, man, wish my hair had taste buds,” Sirius whined, winking at Remus. He then made a normal-sized ice cream (chocolate, Remus’s favourite), and rapidly manoeuvred them to the Gryffindor drop tower. Only the bravest souls dared to go on, because it was dangerous, fast, and incredibly tall.

“Sit down boys!” Sirius commanded.

“This’ll make me sick,” Peter grumbled, sitting down anyway.

James laughed. “You didn’t even eat any ice cream!”

“Trying to reduce my chances,” Peter sighed. “But all that running…”

“Mate, you loved it, and you’re gonna love this,” Sirius declared, pulling Remus to sit and passing him the cone. “Dare you to eat this while on the ride.”

Remus raised a brow, took the cone, and took Sirius up on the dare. And he ate like he was on perfectly level ground. “MATE, WHAT THE FUCK?!” He yelled, while the ride did funny things to his stomach.

Remus merely smirked, saying, “I find rides rather relaxing. It’s always easier to eat or sleep on them.”

James screamed, “AHHH GO REMUS OH MY GOD MY BELLY HELP!”

Peter simply kept screaming, giving Remus a shaky thumbs up before clinging to Sirius for dear life. Sirius gritted his teeth and tried to understand how this ride could possibly be comforting.

“Want a bite?” Remus waved the cone in his face.

Sirius glared, defiantly taking a bite of the cone and crunching it loudly in Remus’s ear.

“Alright, next ride!” He announced, jumping off his seat as soon as they hit the ground.

“‘M gonna puke…” Peter mumbled.

“Nah, you’re not,” James grinned, lifting Peter up and placing him on Sirius’s shoulders. He smirked, “Where d’you wanna run next, Sirius?”

Sirius glared, hiking Peter up his back, and continuing his run. Admittedly, it was less fast. In fact, Remus and James merely strode beside him, hand-in-hand because Remus had somehow reached a record-breaking level of calm from the record-breaking levels of speed that was the Gryffindor drop tower, in a meditative state of mind, completely directionless and oblivious, requiring James to pull him along.

“Oh, this is nice,” Peter sighed. “Thanks, James.”

“Oi, I’m the one carrying you.”

“…Thanks, Sirius.”

“That wasn’t very sincere.”

“You’re the one trying to kill us!”

Sirius grumbled. “Remus could never be killed.”

James laughed, “Oh, so you’re trying to kill Remus? I think you’ll die first, mate.”

Sirius glared, dumping Peter onto James and pointing at the Ravenclaw roller coaster. “We’re getting on.”

“Oh God,” Peter grimaced, mumbling words of encouragement to himself as they got into the lift, which sent them to the highest point of the mountain, where the roller coaster’s journey would begin.

James joined in with the encouragement, loudly and mockingly, “YES, PETE! YOU CAN DO IT! MAMA WILL BE PROUD! REMEMBER, IT’S OKAY IF YOU PISS YOURSELF!”

Peter glared at him. “The mountain is literally as high as the highest height ravens and eagles and all sorts of stupid clever birds live! And the ride goes all over the place! I’m gonna die!”

Sirius snorted, “Stupid clever birds.”

“Yes.” Peter said decisively.

“For that, I think you need to get on,” Sirius gestured to the seats.

“Alright, I’m holding Remus’s hand,” Peter grabbed Remus and pulled him in next to him.

Sirius frowned, and James cackled. “Aw, jealous, are we?”

“No, I just really want to get to Remus.”

James grinned. “I have an idea.” They slid into the seats behind, but as soon as the ride began, instead of purely yelling, James began scream-singing, “OHHH I WISH IT COULD BE CHRISTMAS—”

“JAMES, IT’S NOT—” Sirius began.

“EVERY DAY!” James screamed into Sirius’s ear.

Sirius rolled his eyes, and joined in at full volume. “WHEN THE KIDS START SINGING AND THE BAND BEGINS TO PLAYYYY!”

“REMUS, JOIN THE FUCK IN!” James leaned forward, yelling into Remus’s ear.

Remus rolled his eyes, before muttering in a deadpan, “I wish it could be Christmas every day.” Apparently, this calmed Peter down, and they proceeded to both enjoy the ride serenely. Sirius was gobsmacked. So now Remus’s composure was contagious?!

Although James decided that screeching Christmas songs was the best way to go about surviving a roller coaster, so he carried on scream-singing, forcing Sirius to sing too. Sirius says forcing. But he wasn’t really forced.

This time, when the ride finished, he grabbed Remus’s hand, and raced to the Gringotts vaults. This ride was bound to break Remus. It involved a cart lurching and jouncing and zigzagging abruptly through a maze of endlessly twisting passages, dark and gloomy and musty. And decidedly not affecting Remus in the slightest.

Sirius felt himself go green in the face, and in an attempt to stop Remus falling asleep, he pointed a finger at the stalactites and stalagmites growing from the ceiling and floor around them. “Urgh… wha’s the differ…ugh?”

Remus mused thoughtfully, “Stalactites grow from the ceiling, and stalagmites from the ground. I find an easy way to remember this is that the ‘g’ in stalagmite stands for ground, and as stalactite doesn’t have a ‘g’, it doesn’t grow from the ground.”

Peter, who was somehow managing to hold onto his tranquillity, nodded agreeably, while James cut off his screaming to look at Remus attentively. “That’s actually clever,” he noted.

“WHAT?!” Sirius yelled. So now James had also caught Remus’s composure?

“Um,” he mumbled, stumbling off the cart once it stopped. “Next ride…”

James looked at him in amusement. “Need a break?”

“No!” Sirius denied vehemently. “Onwards!” He cried, marching toward the Shrieking Shack, the haunted house. Maybe he could scare Remus.

Although as soon as the ride began, they all burst out laughing. Since when were giant spiders with too-big eyes scary?! They were embarrassments, that’s what they were. Furry and awkward, with too many gangly limbs. And since when were clowns with too-long tongues, and ugly, lumpy trolls, and adorable old werewolves scary?! Even when the ride finished, none of them could stop laughing.

“That was awesome,” Remus said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. And Sirius grinned, because part of his mission was to at least make Remus enjoy the rides.

He decided to find another supposedly ‘scary’ ride: how about the Slytherin dungeons? They clambered into a cart, which sent them hurtling speedily through a glowing green tunnel, the spooky sound of ghosts filling their ears. Sirius mockingly imitated the wails, which sent them into fits of laughter.

“I am the ghoOoOOohhhhst of SalazaRrrrRRr,” he drawled.

“I am the fOoooOOuUnderRRrr of this ride,” James added.

“And now I haAAauuUUnt it,” Peter continued.

“FOoOOOReVeRRr!” Remus finished, looking at them all like they were entirely composed of idiocy.

Sirius was so lost in grinning stupidly at Remus that he didn’t realise they’d entered the Giant Squid passage. The green glow faded into a darker, mossy green, as the slimy, rubber tentacles of the squid swept across their faces. Sirius screamed, and because they all laughed at him, he grabbed the dangling tentacles and flung them at his friends, who echoed his screams as they were doused in slime. He laughed triumphantly, and when Remus shot him the middle finger, he’d never felt more accomplished.

The ride ended as they were splashed with buckets of green-tinted water from the squid’s lake, washing away the tentacle slime and leaving them damp, but weirdly happy. He saluted Salazar as they walked away, trailing water in their wake. “Thank you, Salazar, founder of my soggy socks!”

They laughed, all running in the same direction, the Hufflepuff ferris wheel. Yes, it wasn’t fast, but it was warm, and would heat them up with the smoke machines attached to the wheel’s centre, which released sweet, candy-smelling wafts of steam at each open carriage.

However, the ferris wheel only consisted of two-seaters, which meant that for the duration of the ride, the inseparable, thick-as-thieves group of four would have to… split up. The thought was torturous. But then Sirius had an idea. He knew how to break Remus. And on the most easy-going ride as well.

He pulled Remus onto a carriage, while James and Peter took the next one, smirking and raising brows at him. Remus simply sat back contentedly, ready to close his eyes, but Sirius shook him, and began pointing at all the sights as they rose into the air.

“Look, the ice cream stall! Oh, those workers are still trying to fix our mess.” Sirius shook his head at them in disappointment.

Remus grinned, and Sirius’s stomach flipped, even though this ride was supposed to be the slowest. He pointed, “Gryffindor tower, where I ate the poisonous concoction you dumped on me.”

“Oi, I gave you your favourite!”

“Yeah,” Remus smiled, softer, and Sirius’s stomach flipped again, on the safest ride. “Thank you.”

They were reaching the top. “Look,” Sirius pointed at Remus’s face. “The prettiest face I’ve seen.”

Remus’s eyes widened. Sirius smirked and leaned forward. “I’m going to kiss you.” Remus didn’t move back. He almost didn’t move at all, except for the slight nod of his head. So at the highest point of the ferris wheel, Sirius closed the gap between their lips. It was just a short press, yet Remus looked like his heart had jumped out of his chest. In all honesty, so had Sirius’s.

He leaned back to catch his breath on the slowest ride of all time, and instead of sleeping, Remus was panicked, lively, on the verge of screaming. And Sirius whispered in Remus’s ear, “Scream with me?”

So on the slowest, safest, most relaxing ride in the world, Remus, who was normally relaxed on the fastest rides in the world, screamed his lungs out, and Sirius followed suit.

“AHHHHHHH!” All the way until the ride stopped.

“I think I just died,” Remus mumbled, collapsing into Sirius.

Although, like James said, it was impossible to break Remus without breaking first, and so Sirius was also dead. He brought his lips to Remus’s, and kissed him again. And they didn’t need to stop for air, because they were so, so dead. Although, eventually, they did have to stop, and Sirius assumed the kiss had revived each of them. Kisses did that.

“Alright, enough,” James said, clapping them on the back and pulling them apart.

Sirius frowned at him.

Peter grimaced. “We’ve been banned from the park.”

“For kissing?!” Sirius asked in outrage.

Remus rolled his eyes, and as they were forced to exit the gates, began listing every single rule they’d broken, “For running into other customers, for harassing workers, for eating on rides, for swearing in front of customers, for harassing customers…” He continued for at least ten minutes before Sirius decided to snog him into oblivion.