#i have it all under control don’t look behind the curtain

[science-hoes]

You Are In Love

Jack Abbot x Reader

Warnings: canon-typical medical descriptions, a dad joke, VERY FLUFFY

Description: Jack needs the reader to help him with a VIP patient, but she soon learns about his chosen family.

——

Jack Abbot was the reason you wanted to go into emergency medicine. Watching him under pressure was like watching an Olympian in their medal-winning sport. He handled every case with control and diligence, and that lured you into the specialty even more. It only took one medical school rotation with him to know that you wanted to play the game.

So now, in your third month of your internship, you spent nearly every moment with Jack Abbot on the night shift. You rarely had a different attending. The scheduling gods seemed to be in your favor. Of course, you had gotten to know everyone else on staff. You had made friends with the other residents and attendings. Dana had become your favorite charge nurse. Even the social workers were happy to see you walk through the doors.

You arrived an hour early for your night shift, hoping to practice some more suturing in the skills lab before shift change. Just as you were about to escape the doctors lounge and head to the lab, a voice called out behind you.

“Hey, kid, I could use your help.”

You turned to see Jack pulling a pair of gloves off and tossing them in the trash. “Oh, hi.” You replied as you walked toward him. “What are you doing here this early?”

Jack raised an eyebrow, that smug asshole smile on his face. “I could ask you the same.”

You shrugged. “I was gonna go to the skills lab and suture. But not if you need me.”

He nodded and pressed a hand on your back as he lead you to one of the Central rooms. “We have a VIP.” He explained.

He swung the curtain open to reveal a little girl with long, dark hair and big brown eyes. You’d seen those eyes before…

“Uncle Jack!” The five year old exclaimed at the sight of your attending.

It was like magic, the way Jack’s usual stoic demeanor turned into one that would rival a Disney hero. “Hey, princess!” He returned her enthusiasm, a wide grin on his face. He dropped to his knees in front of the child and grabbed her tiny hands in his. “What are you doing here, huh?” He took a quick glance at the mother, who was holding a small blue bundle in her arms.

“I’m hurt.” The child replied, albeit vaguely.

The young woman let out a strained sigh. “We were at the park, and Eliza jumped out of the swing when she saw some older kids do it. Landed on her arm.” She explained.

Jack nodded, giving a don’t-blame-yourself look to her. Then his eyes flicked back to Eliza. “Can I see your arm, please?” He asked, a voice so gentle that it had to have been someone else’s. A moment of hesitation from the child. Then a head-tilt from the silver-haired man. “Uncle Jack is gonna make it all better.” He promised.

That seemed to convince her because she slowly, feebly presented her swollen arm. Jack delicately held the arm in his hands and examined it.

“Bump her up to next in line on X-ray. We’ll get her some IV morphine to help her relax. Could need realignment and screws.” He said to you.

Just as you were about to walk out of the room, you bumped into someone rushing into the room. A mumbled apology was the only thing you heard before a shrill “Daddy!”

You turned to see Michael Robinavitch kneeling to the ground in front of the little girl. “Hey, sweetheart!” He greeted.

Oooh. VIP. This was Robby’s family. The patient was Robby’s daughter. You left while the family reunited to order the X-Ray. When you turned to enter the room again, Dana was leading Robby’s wife, who held a tiny baby, to the cafeteria.

“X-Ray order is in. Next in line.” You announced to the attendings.

Jack gave you a thumbs up. He was sorting out the materials needed for IV morphine. He pulled the butterfly needle out of the packaging, and like clockwork, Eliza began to cry. Robby knelt to meet his daughter’s eyes, the ones that were a perfect mirror of his. “Sweetheart, look at me. Look at me.” He whispered. “We have to get you the medicine so your arm will stop hurting, okay? Just a quick poke.”

Eliza shook her head, more tears streaming down her face. “Daddy, please, don’t do it.” She begged. “Don’t hurt me.”

And if you’d never seen a man’s heart break in real time, the look on Robby’s face would be ingrained in your memory forever. His body seemed to go limp at his daughter’s words, unable to insert the needle if he tried. Jack quickly intervened, kneeling next to Robby. “Daddy isn’t gonna hurt you.” He assured the child. “He’s gonna hold you while Uncle Jack gives you the medicine. Does that sound okay?”

Eliza still continued to cry. You remember being her age and having a paralyzing fear of needles. So, you stepped forward to distract from the two pathetic men on the ground. “Hey, baby. I’m gonna show you how it works, okay?” You said.

You grabbed the blue elastic tie from the tray and wrapped it around your forearm. “First, Uncle Jack is gonna wrap this around your arm. It’s gonna give you a big hug for a few minutes!”

You picked up the alcohol swab package and opened it. “Then, he is just going to give your hand a little bath to get it all clean. Like this.” You said, swiping the wipe across the back of your hand. “See? All clean!”

You tossed the wipe and grabbed the J-tip, pressing it on the cleaned part of your hand. “Then, he’s going to give you a stamp that makes your hand tingle. What’s your favorite soda?” You continued.

Eliza followed your every move with an intense curiosity. “Sprite.” She sniffled.

You smiled. “When Uncle Jack gives you the stamp, it’s going to sound like you’re opening a Sprite can. It’s just air.” You explained.

Eliza nodded, rubbing chubby fingers across her wet eyes. You reached for the butterfly needle after placing the J-tip back on the tray. “Last, he’s going to let this little butterfly give you a kiss where the stamp was.” You finished, inserting the needle into one of your own veins. “See? It doesn’t hurt!” You lied through your teeth. It always hurt more to get an IV on the back of your hand, but that was Eliza’s best bet.

You yanked the blue tie off your arm, then removed the butterfly needle. “Think you can let Uncle Jack try now?” You asked.

Eliza didn’t answer, but she didn’t protest either. You smiled, motivated mostly by pride, and looked to your senior attendings. Both men stared back at you. Robby with a look of relief, mostly because you got his daughter to calm down. But Jack…you couldn’t read the look on his face. He broke your gaze to pat Robby on the back, standing up with him.

“Alright, princess, let’s get you that medicine.” He said, grabbing a fresh butterfly needle.

Robby sat on the bed, crossing his legs, and pulled Eliza carefully into his lap. He cradled the little girl in his arms, using his free hand to smooth her dark hair as she whimpered. “Shh…Daddy’s got you.” He soothed.

Eliza melted into her father’s embrace, blinking slowly when he brushed stray tears from her reddened cheeks. Jack tenderly grabbed her uninjured arm and wrapped the blue tie around her forearm still loose. “Alright, Eliza. You’re about to feel that big hug, okay?” He explained, then pulled the blue tie snug.

A small sound of discomfort escaped the child, but she remained docile in her father’s arms. Jack traced the tiny veins on the back of her hand and found his target. When he turned around to reach for an alcohol swab, you already had it ready for him with an outstretched hand. For a brief moment, Jack was caught off guard, but he took the swab from your palm, fingers brushing against the sensitive skin for a beat longer than normal.

“Now, let’s give your hand that cold bath.” He said.

Jack rubbed the wipe across his tiny workspace, and Eliza let out the smallest, softest giggle. Robby smiled, probably for the first time since he stepped foot into the room. “That tickle? Yeah?” He teased. Eliza nodded, just a little bit.

“You ready for that Sprite can sound?” Jack asked, once again reaching, and you already met him halfway with the J-tip.

“Yeah.” Eliza whispered, her face half nuzzled into Robby’s chest, but still enough to keep an eye on Jack’s movements.

Jack placed the J-tip over the vein he wanted, and just like you said, it sounded like a can of Sprite opening, minus the sugary fizz that followed. Eliza jerked her hand pack at the odd sensation of carbon dioxide shooting across her skin. Robby reached his finger under her palm for her to grasp, and she did, just like she always had since she was born.

“See? That wasn’t so bad.” He said softly.

Jack rubbed the spot on the back of her hand. “Once it starts working, we’re gonna let that butterfly land on it, okay?” He explained.

“And it will give me a kiss?” Eliza asked, looking to you, her source of information.

Jack and Robby both chuckled, and the latter pressed a kiss to her hair. “Yeah, just like that.” He replied.

Eliza giggled, but in her joy, she shifted and moved her broken arm. The laughs quickly turned to screams of pain again, and Jack winced.

“Oh, you gotta be still, princess. We’re almost ready for the medicine.” He said. Then, he leaned in, like he was trying to keep his voice from Robby’s earshot. “You know, if you keep being a brave girl, once you’re all healed up, you can come to my house and go swimming.” His voice was playfully sly.

The cries reduced, just a little. “I can?” She blubbered.

Jack nodded. “Sure. As long as your mommy and daddy say it’s okay.” He replied, glancing up at Robby, hoping he didn’t just make a promise outside of his power.

Robby smiled and nodded. “Of course. You need to show Uncle Jack how you can swim without floaties now.” He said.

Jack’s eyes blew comically wide. “Without floaties? Only big girls can swim without floaties.”

Eliza nodded, her bottom lip still quivering, but a glint of pride was in her eyes. The same one you’d seen in Robby’s eyes many times. “Can Abby come, too?” She asked.

Jack nodded, a smile playing at his lips. “Absolutely. We’ll have a pool party.” He reached back for the butterfly needle, and once again, the brush of your fingers against his. He kept it out of Eliza’s view, continuing to hold her hand. “Your daddy and I will grill some hamburgers and hot dogs. You can teach Abby how to swim. We’ll invite Nana, too.”

Eliza didn’t even flinch when Jack inserted the butterfly needle. You carefully concealed your morphine syringe and connected it to the line. But just as you could see her entire body relax in Robby’s arms from the push of meds, she looked to you with those big brown eyes. “Are you gonna come to the pool party?” She asked.

You froze, unsure of how to answer. Does an invitation from a five-year-old have enough warrant to show up at your boss’ house? Jack placed a hand on your back, lower than he probably meant to. “Yes, she’ll be there, too.” He confirmed for you.

You snapped your head to his direction. Those hazel eyes bore into you, and you couldn’t find the words to respond. In that silence, he winked at you, a smug smile on his face.

“Uncle Jack, she’s pretty.” The little voice broke your small moment.

Your eyes widened, heat crawling up your neck. Robby let out an involuntary sound, a mixture of a laugh and a choke. But Jack never looked away from you. In fact, he doubled down with, “I know.”

Before you could melt away in a puddle of embarrassment and giddiness, the curtain swung open, revealing Dana and Robby’s wife, still cradling a tiny bundle.

“Nana!” Eliza sluggishly squealed.

Dana leaned over and gently tickled Eliza’s shoulders. “There’s my girl!” She exclaimed.

You tilted your head, confused by the connection. “Nana?” You questioned.

Robby chuckled. “Eliza couldn’t say ‘Dana’ when she was little, so she kept calling her Nana.” He explained.

Dana gave you a stern but playful look. “Keep in mind that I am not old enough to be a real Nana.” She stated.

Jack raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “I know plenty of people your age who are grandmothers.” He said.

Dana pointed a finger at him and jabbed his chest. “How would you like to lose another foot?” She threatened.

Your jaw dropped at the comment. That wasn’t allowed, right? Surely, that crossed some kind of line. But Jack just chuckled and swiped her hand away.

“I’d love to. I’ll be one step closer to becoming a robot.” He replied. “Literally.”

Robby’s wife groaned at the unfortunate pun. “Please, stop. I already have to listen to Robby and his dad jokes.” She begged.

Robby grinned proudly. “Yeah, leave it to the professionals.” He teased, but his eyes moved to the bundle his wife was holding. “How’s my little man doing?” He asked.

She smiled and moved to sit on the bed next to Robby and Eliza. “He’s been a sleepy boy all day. Better than testing out his lungs though.” She leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder as she spoke. “How’s my big girl?”

Eliza grinned sheepishly when her mom reached to gently pinch her rosy cheeks. “Uncle Jack said we can have a pool party at his house.” She stated, beginning to slur her words in sleepiness. “He said Nana can come. And he said Abby can come.”

Dana chuckled. “Still calling him Abby, huh?” She asked.

Robby smiled, shifting so that Eliza could rest horizontally as she began to doze off. “We’re working on it.” He answered. “Somewhere she learned that nickname. Can’t imagine from who.” He joked.

Jack huffed and moved to where Robby’s wife sat, offering his pinky to the baby boy’s tiny hand, activating his palmar grasp reflex. “Have they been desecrating our name, buddy?” He asked, a lilt in his voice. “Us Abbots are fighters. We don’t take shit from anybody.”

Dana’s swat at Jack’s shoulder for cursing in front of Eliza and his following defense of “She’s asleep!” didn’t distract you from your new piece of information.

“He’s an Abbot?” You questioned, a feeling of warmth in your chest.

Robby’s wife smiled. “Michael Abbot Robinavitch. We stuck with Michael for about a week, but…” She trailed off, looking to her husband.

Robby’s shoulders hunched a bit. “She calls me Michael when I’m in trouble. I got a little scared every time she said his name.” He admitted, but his smile remained. “So we settled on Abbot.”

Jack carefully cradled Abbot as Robby’s wife passed him over. His tanned biceps that strained against the sleeves of his scrub top made the baby look incredibly small. He slowly walked over to you, his right foot stepping heavier as usual, his eyes focused on the baby. A deep smile graced his lips. And just on the edges framing the smile were huge dimples. You wanted to save that image forever. You brushed a finger against the baby’s tiny hand, smiling when he moved in response.

Meanwhile, Robby was elbowed by his wife, who exchanged an excited but knowing glance with Dana at the sight of you and Jack sharing that unintentionally tender moment. All he did was nod in response, eyebrows raised in a silent confirmation.

“Why Abbot? Is Jack that important?” You teased.

Dana threw her hands up in exasperation. “Thank you!” She said. “That’s what I said. I’m still waiting for a little Dana.”

“Working on it.” Robby said with a wink, quickly receiving an elbow in the ribs from his wife.

“Michael!” His wife hissed.

Robby cowered slightly at his birth name. Jack nodded his head towards them. “See? That’s why this is Abbot.” He said.

You giggled and gently ran a hand over the baby’s soft hair near his forehead, afraid to venture too far back towards the fontanelle. “Well, Abbot is very cute.” You complimented.

A simultaneous “Thank you” filled the room. One genuine, from Robby’s wife. The other facetious, from Jack. Laughter filled the room, and you felt oddly a part of a family. Their family.

Perlah entered the room with a pediatric wheelchair. “X-ray is ready for Eliza.” She said, smiling at the sight before her.

Robby stood carefully, holding his daughter snug against his chest. “I’ll go with her. We can walk.” He said and followed Perlah out of the room.

As if it were a snap back to reality, Jack walked back over to Robby’s wife and carefully transferred Abbot back to her arms. “I’m gonna go check on that DUI kid in Central Four.” He said before looking over to you. “Go ahead and get the cast materials ready. She’s gonna want pink.”

Jack left the room, holding onto the ends of his stethoscope as he walked. You found yourself frozen for a moment, processing everything that had happened in the last thirty minutes or so. Someone cleared their throat, and you snapped your head in that direction, embarrassment coursing through your veins.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” You said, moving to the drawers of the room quickly to grab the liner and plaster.

Robby’s wife looked to Dana with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. Dana nodded, intercepting her question in the air.

“So, what do you think of Abbot?” She asked.

You smiled, bringing the supplies back to the tray near the bed. “He looks just like Robby.” You answered.

Dana rolled her eyes. “No, not Dana Jr.” She deadpanned, then nodded her head toward the Pitt. “The Lieutenant Colonel.”

Your hands froze where they were, sorting out the supplies. Slowly you looked up, and you were met with both women staring intently at you. “Oh, Doctor Abbot…” You corrected yourself. “He’s nice.”

“Do you think he’s cute?” Robby’s wife immediately responded.

Dana gave her a look of way-to-blow-our-cover. You let out a nervous laugh. “I mean, yeah. But he’s way older than me. And we work together.” You answered, using your answers to ground yourself as to why your crush was a dead end.

Robby’s wife shrugged. “So? Robby is almost 20 years older than me. And we work together.” She countered.

You tilted your head. “Wait, you work here? In emergency?” You asked.

She smiled and nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been on maternity leave.” She explained.

“Ohhhh.” You drew out, finally connecting the dots.

Dana smiled. “See? So what are your other excuses?” She pried.

You laughed slightly and shrugged. “I guess I don’t know if he’s interested.” You replied.

The two women shared another glance, debating on revealing any other information. “But you are?” Robby’s wife asked.

You smiled slightly, looking down at your hands. “Who wouldn’t be?”

The conversation ended there when Robby reentered the room with a slightly awake Eliza. “Distal radius fracture. No surgery.” He announced.

His wife let out a sigh of relief and smiled when her husband sat next to her again, still cradling the little girl. “That means we can all go home tonight.” She said, pressing her forehead to Robby’s shoulder.

—

After you followed Jack’s careful instruction while shaping the cast on Eliza’s arm, the little girl begged everyone to sign it. By the time she left with her family, there was a “Mommy”, “Daddy”, “Nana”, and your name with a smiley face on the hot pink wrapping. And as soon as you finished writing your name, Jack had snatched the sharpie from your hand, scrawling “Uncle Jack” right next to your signature.

As you watched the Robinavitches leave the Pitt, you found yourself smiling. You wanted that. The devoted parents, the precious children, the caring friends who became family.

You knew Jack was approaching by the uneven foot pattern, but you didn’t turn around. “You think I’m pretty?” You asked.

He stood by your side, brushing his thick shoulder against your frame, looking down at you with a trace of a smile. “I’d be a fool to think otherwise.” He answered honestly.

You looked up to meet his gaze. Those bourbon eyes were intoxicating, but you fought to maintain eye contact. “You’re really great with kids.” You complimented. “Eliza loves you.”

His smile deepened to a sincere one you weren’t used to seeing. “Thank you.”

The stare off continued. “Do you want kids?” You blurted out, and you nearly clamped your hand over your mouth at the word vomit.

Jack tilted his head, smile unfaltering. “If I find the right person to have them with.” He replied, leaning down closer to you just slightly. “Before I turn to dust.”

You laughed and nudged him with your shoulder. He laughed with you and crossed his arms, the muscles rippling across his skin. You didn’t notice when he leaned down, his lips dangerously close to your ear.

“What you did in there with Eliza. Walking her through the process. Got her to stop crying. Good job.” He whispered lowly.

The hair on your neck stood at attention at the praise, and you could feel his hot breath on your skin. You tried to brush off the feeling. “Thanks, Doctor Abbot.” You replied.

His face twitched when you called him by his last name, like he forgot you were his intern and not his. “Jack.” He corrected you.

You looked up to him again, taking in another drink of his eyes. There was vulnerability this time. “Jack.” You repeated in a whisper. “I didn’t know you had dimples.”

It was Jack’s turn to get flustered. “What do you mean?” He asked, and you could see the red creeping up his freckled neck.

You gently poked at his cheeks where the divots had appeared earlier. “You have dimples when you smile. It’s really cute.” You teased.

You could see the muscles in his face actively working to hold back a smile. He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t smile.” He answered as seriously as he could.

You wrapped your hands around his bicep and rested your head on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret.”

And the smile Jack held back flooded onto his face. Dimples and all. He placed a hand over yours and pressed a gentle kiss to your hair. Nobody said another word. You didn’t have to. You could hear it in the silence.

——

A/N: this is probably gonna get a Part 2 featuring the pool party because I can’t help myself. Also this can technically be a Robby x Reader fic because I intentionally didn’t give his wife a name so you can have the best of both worlds here 💙

[carnalcrows]

BACKSTAGE

pairing: gyeongsu x top male reader

content warnings: 18+, public sex, reader is a bouncer, timeskip (the smut starts abruptly), mentions of a threesome, rawdogging, full nelson.

word count: 0.9k

The bass rattled through the air like a second heartbeat, the whole venue thrumming with life as fans screamed Thanos’ name. Purple-tinted lights painted the crowd in neon waves, reflecting off the sweat-slicked bodies pressed together, lost in the music. The scent of smoke, cheap beer, and overpriced cologne swirled through the electric atmosphere.

You stood near the entrance, arms crossed, watching for any trouble. Being one of Thanos’ bodyguards meant you had a front-row seat to the chaos, ensuring no overzealous fan slipped through. Which was exactly why you narrowed your eyes when you caught sight of a young man lingering near the entrance, looking far too suspicious.

He was trying too hard to blend in, shifting on his feet, eyes darting left and right. A hoodie covered most of his face, but you could still see the anticipation in his features. It wasn’t long before he noticed you watching and stiffened.

“You don’t have a ticket, do you?” you asked, stepping closer. The music pulsed around you, drowning out most of the outside world, but your voice cut through it effortlessly.

The guy—no, the boy—he barely looked twenty—flashed you a sheepish smile, pushing his hood back slightly. His dark hair was a little damp from the humid air, sticking to his forehead.

“I just wanted to see Thanos perform,” he admitted, voice nearly lost in the pounding bass. “I—I’m a huge fan. I didn’t have the money for a ticket, but I had to try.”

Desperation clung to him like a second skin, his eyes wide, pleading. “I’ll do anything. Just—please, let me in.”

That caught your attention.

You raised a brow, tilting your head slightly. “Anything?”

The moment the word left your mouth, his breath hitched. His lips parted slightly, realisation sinking in as his cheeks darkened under the dim glow of the neon lights.

You didn’t give him a chance to second-guess. Instead, you grabbed his wrist, firm but not rough, and led him past the crowd, past security, straight through the side entrance. He stumbled slightly, keeping up as best he could, but he didn’t resist. If anything, there was something eager in the way he followed.

—

Backstage was quieter, but not by much. The vibrations of the concert still hummed through the walls, the occasional roar of the crowd seeping through the thick curtains. The hallway was dimly lit, casting flickering shadows along the walls as you led him into one of the more secluded corners of the venue.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, he barely had time to take a breath before you had him pressed against it.

“You really will do anything, huh?”

His breath was uneven, fingers twitching against the cool surface of the door. “Y-Yeah.”

That was all the permission you needed.

Your lips crashed against his, and he barely had time to gasp before you took everything from him—breath, thought, control. His hands grasped at your shoulders, trying to find something to hold onto as you devoured him whole.

The heat between you built fast, his body arching into yours with each stolen breath. You deepened the kiss, tilting his chin up, making sure he had no choice but to let you take the lead. His breaths came out in shaky gasps between kisses, his body already trembling as you pushed him further against the door.

His lips were already swollen when you pulled back slightly, just enough to let your breath fan over his skin. His eyes fluttered open, glassy with need, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words– moaning loudly instead when your hand flicked his nipple through the fabric of his shirt.

Your hands roamed down his waist, gripping his hips firmly, pressing him fully against you, before sliding them down to pull his pants off with a firm tug. He gasped against your lips, hands sliding up your arms before curling into your hair, pulling slightly as he tried to keep up with your pace.

—

Sloppy, wet sounds filled the small space, the concert noise outside nothing but a distant memory. His head was spinning, his knees weak, and you loved every second of it. Every time you pulled out of his hole just enough to let him relax, he pulled you right back in, milking you for what you were worth.

“You okay there, baby?” you teased, lips brushing against his jaw as he panted softly.

He nodded, barely able to form words. “Y-Yeah… just—fuck—”

Before he could finish, you took his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging lightly, making his breath hitch. His entire body shuddered, and you swallowed his next moan, your hands gripping his waist tighter as he clenched around your throbbing cock.

He was completely at your mercy, letting you kiss him dizzy, hands clinging onto you for dear life. His lips were slick, breath coming out in uneven, needy gasps as you finally pulled back, admiring the wrecked look on his face.

But before either of you could say a word, a new voice cut through the air.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

You both turned sharply, only to find Thanos standing in the doorway, his infamous purple hair still damp from the sweat of the performance, his microphone hanging loosely in his hand. His grin was nothing short of entertained, but there was something else in his expression. Something… intrigued.

“You’re a bold one,” he mused, stepping closer. His eyes flicked to Gyeong-su’s ass, then back to you, a smirk creeping onto his lips. “Mind if I join?”

The guy in your arms swallowed hard, eyes darting between the two of you, his breath still unsteady.

You smirked, fingers trailing down Gyeong-su’s spine as you whispered, “That’s up to him.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[elvisbdoll]

“Money, Power and Glory”

You met him under the heat of red lights and camera flashes, somewhere between rehearsal and reinvention. Elvis Presley—resurrected in black leather and swagger, too aware of the image he’d sculpted for himself, yet still searching for something real underneath the rhinestones and resurrection.

And you? You were never supposed to be there.

Just a studio assistant. Another shadow behind the scenes, handing off microphones and collecting cables. But he noticed you. The way your eyes followed him, not with awe, but with quiet defiance. You didn’t care about the legend. You wanted the man. The raw, pulsing ache behind his smile.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said that first night, leaning too close, voice thick with honey and bourbon. “You always look at people like that? Like you know how they’ll end up?”

You didn’t flinch. “Only the ones who want too much.”

He smirked. “Then you’re lookin’ at the right man.”

————

The affair began with secrets—locked doors, whispered promises, your name barely spoken outside the hush of hotel rooms. He’d bring you gifts like apologies—gold bracelets, fur-lined jackets, bills folded into the pages of books you never asked for. You told him you didn’t need anything. He said that was why he wanted to give you everything.

But you knew the truth.

He wanted to own you like a kingdom.

“Elvis,” you’d whisper into his throat, curled in satin sheets and Southern heat, “why me?”

He’d grip your waist like it was the last honest thing he could hold. “Because you don’t want the crown, baby. That’s how I know you deserve it.”

But even then, you felt the weight coming. The slow tilt of his world, where love meant possession and desire always tasted like control.

————

You watched him onstage—sweat shining on his brow, voice burning with desperation. Every girl in the audience screamed for salvation. He sang for sin. And when he looked your way, it wasn’t tenderness in his eyes. It was hunger. Like you were the last thing he hadn’t conquered yet.

“I want money, power, and glory,” he’d hum sometimes, pressing his lips to your shoulder in the dark. “And I’ll take it from you if I have to.”

You kissed him harder when he said that. Maybe part of you wanted to be taken. To feel what it meant to be desired by a man who could have anyone—but kept coming back to you.

————

Still, the world outside never softened. They whispered your name like scandal. Told you to run before he ruined you. But you didn’t run.

You wanted the fire.

You wanted the chaos.

You wanted to see how far he’d go to make you stay.

And Elvis—he fed off that. He loved you like a battlefield, every kiss another power play, every fight a song he hadn’t written yet.

———-

So when he said, “Come with me to Vegas, I’ll make you my queen,” you smiled, lips painted the color of blood and secrets.

“You can’t buy me, Presley.”

He tilted his head, gaze dark and dangerous. “No, but I can make you worship me.”

And maybe he did.

But only because you let him.

Vegas made him bigger.

Brighter.

Louder.

But it made you sharper.

In the gold-drenched halls of the International Hotel, he was the sun. And everyone else, including you, was expected to orbit. The women, the sycophants, the men in suits. They bowed, smiled, clapped, and devoured him with their eyes like a god wrapped in rhinestones.

But you? You sat in the back, legs crossed, silk dress hugging every inch of your body like you belonged on that throne beside him. Watching. Calculating. Remembering the way he once begged for your silence, your touch, your fire.

And now? He expected you to disappear behind the curtain of his spotlight.

But baby, you weren’t built for the shadows.

————

“You’ve changed,” he muttered one night, drunk on applause and champagne. “You used to be softer. Now all I see is glass.”

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “Maybe I got tired of bleeding for a man who doesn’t know how to hold something without crushing it.”

He grabbed your wrist. Not hard, not soft. A warning. “I made you.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear like a curse:

“No. You bought me. But you can’t afford me anymore.”

————-

It started slow. You stopped waiting backstage. Stopped answering calls after midnight. When he sent gifts, you returned them. When he summoned you, you made him wait.

You wore red. You laughed louder. You danced with strangers in front of him, hips swaying like sin under chandeliers. You knew how it made him feel—that mixture of lust and rage, that fear that maybe this time, you wouldn’t crawl back into his bed.

And when he finally snapped—cornered you in a velvet hallway with that feral look in his eyes—you didn’t flinch.

“You think I won’t leave?” you whispered, voice low like smoke. “You think you’re still the man I wanted?”

He grabbed your chin, forced you to look at him. “You loved me.”

You laughed. “I loved the idea of you. But I’ve met the real thing now, and baby… he’s small.”

————

Elvis tried to cage you in diamonds, dress you in power like it was something he could loan out. But you were done playing muse.

You were done being the thing he flaunted to feel alive.

Now you were the one with the eyes watching.

You were the one they whispered about.

And he? He became just another man addicted to the memory of a woman he could never quite control.

——-

Some nights, you still hear his voice.

Begging.

Pleading.

Cursing.

Loving.

But you don’t answer.

Because power doesn’t beg.

And you finally know what it tastes like.

Tags 🏷️: @jhoneybees @i-r-i-n-a-a @gyratingpresley @kxnnxy @iloveelvisss @buglass @rjmartin11 @atleastpleasetelephone

[fluffypotatey]

something something it’s still, technically, Wednesday for me so have a wip snippet

Yet was his fury truly a direction at the handmaid? Could he say, without a doubt, that this anger and resentment he felt in his core was the fault of a single person? Or rather was it because he had to watch his own mother remake the shroud by force and have it ripped from her hands before she could dare to destroy it again. He had to watch them surround her and scrutinize her. He watched the minute trembling and breathing while she finished it before she quickly left with the last of the dignity she had left.  Stop making a fuss, little wolf, Antinous had taunted him, a smug grin painted his features as he leered down at the prince. We are merely keeping your mother accountable. The bastard mocked him more by tying the shroud round his throat, encouraging more jeers and taunting from the rest of them

[valberryventi]

the morning after

summary: you want zayne to stay in bed with you for longer.

warnings: idk they're down bad for each other so it's implied sexytime. rated t if you squint

“Your eyes have specks of gold in them.”

“Oh, really?”

The sunlight streams through the curtains of Zayne’s room, falling softly on your entangled forms. Zayne runs his fingers through your hair slowly, deliberately, surely. His touch is gentle. You look up at him, fighting sleep in your mirth-filled eyes.

“Mhm.” You sigh, words falling out of your mouth before you could stop them. “Can’t tell if it’s gold and green… green and hazel, maybe jade…” You cup your lover’s cheek before pressing your thumb over his eyelids, and his breath hitches. “Just looks nice.”

He takes your wrist, presses his lips on your palm, and whispers, “How could you tell?”

Roses bloom on your cheeks. Flustered by the innocent gesture, you snuggle closer to his chest to cover your face. “Maybe I like your eyes, Zayne.”

You breathe in his scent. His cologne—cedarwood notes and a hint of leather, you think—hangs thick in the air. Your head spins, the scent reminding you of his discarded black button down, your lips on his neck, his hands holding down yours on the sheets…

Your heart thumps in your chest. You gulp, worried he’d notice your increased heartbeat through your skin.

Zayne chuckles, running his hand down your side and tracing circles on your hip. “Well, I like your eyes, too.”

You let out a breath, snaking your arm around his waist. You didn’t want to face him, not because your face felt hot, but because your control might slip from your fingers and never let him get out of the bed.

Not that you mind, really.

“Don’t hide from me.” You can almost hear him pout, his hand trailing up to your arm and purple-adorned neck before tucking your hair behind your ear. Your ear heats up from his fleeting touch. He then shifts his position to dip his head down to meet his lips with your forehead. “Will you show yourself to me?”

You shake your head, pressing yourself into him further. It isn’t that you haven’t shared moments like these before, no. You’ve slept together, multiple times, and yet you couldn’t resist feeling weak at the knees.

Last night wasn’t at all special. You ended work without any scratches on you. Zayne finished his shift too, and was able to pick you up afterwards. You had dinner together. You cuddled on the couch after your night routines. Two kisses turned into more, before making your way into the bedroom.

Normal, domestic, and yet he made you quiver.

“I don’t want to, I’m shy.” You mumble, lips dangerously near his collarbone. You feel his heart skip a beat. He’s remembering how you’ve made sure to place love bites right where you’re nuzzled.

“You’re shy?” He asks calmly, grazing his finger along your cheekbone and softly touching your lower lip. You stiffen, feeling your senses heighten at his icy—yet fiery—touch. “How could you be shy now? You weren’t shy at all when you moaned my name last night–”

“Hey!” You pout, smacking his back and looking up at him. He smiles down at you with eyes so lovestruck, you forget any semblance of a comeback on your tongue.

Finally showing your face to him again, he places another kiss on your forehead. “There you are, my aurora.”

You feel your face tingle as he peppers kisses on you. “Zayne,” you giggle, flailing your arms a bit, “that tickles.”

He continues through it, your laughter filling the room. He rolls you both over as he presses you against the bed with more of his love. You squeal when his lips finally meet yours in a soft kiss, his arms caging you under him.

After a while, you gasp for breath when his tongue darts out to graze your bottom lip. “Wait, Zayne…”

He pauses as he takes a breath too, jade green eyes scanning your face. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, no.” You shake your head, averting your gaze. You don’t realize you’ve been tracing the scars on his back. "I don't think you could ever hurt me."

The clock on your bedside reads 6:00AM—you should be out of bed already. You almost shrink when you ask the inevitable: “It's just... aren’t you going to work?” 

You almost wanted to plead, but with his nature of work and yours, you couldn’t be glued together all the time. It’s just been a while since you shared an intimate moment like this with him, and if you could freeze time, you would.

“Work?” He runs his thumb over your cheek, “I am working. I have a patient to take care of at home.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m not in pain.”

“You have hickeys, which are bruises, on your neck. You also said you can’t feel your legs when we washed up last night.”

“Whose fault is that, then?”

“Apologies.” He looks away, embarrassed. “Let me take care of you.”

You chuckle, cupping his cheek. He looks back at you with those gold-speckled eyes of his, and he immediately nuzzles his face into your palm. “I love you,” you sigh.

Like a blizzard of emotions slowing into falling snow, Zayne brings you into a mind-melting kiss. His hands linger here and there as both your hearts beat in unison. There is no sign of stopping now, not when he whispers "I love you," back into your skin.

Normal.

Perhaps mornings like these constitute what normal should look like. No one watching your movements, no responsibilities. Just you and your lover spending time together without a care in the world—and it’s all that you could ask for.

🪐: hope you enjoyed! i finally got to finish this after whatever the fuck happened in my final semester. jesus

[hadesrise]

## one true love !!

summary──── ben feels true love with you, his enemy, and finds himself able to break from the toxic masculinity he surrounded himself with.

pairings──── soldier boy / benjamin x anti-hero!male reader

warnings──── nsfw content, porn with too much feelings, fluff, slight angst, foul language, probably (very definitely) ooc soldier boy, top!reader, sub!bottom!ben, gentle love, praise kink, hair pulling, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, overstimulation, vibrator, pet names ( love, baby, pup, etc. ), short oral ( r. receiving ), love-making, mating press, missionary, riding, aftercare, light D/S dynamics, pillow talk, a lot of vulnerability, ben proposes to reader unexpectedly, enemies in forbidden love, internalised homophobia, morally grey!reader, possessiveness, homophobic slurs, canon typical misogyny, reader’s anti-hero name is lucifer, reader has magical powers

author’s note──── i might’ve made him too soft and vulnerable, so forewarning that he doesn’t show much of his asshole side in this fic. the ooc warning already says much, i guess?

MINORS DNI !!

Peaceful jazz music and well dressed crowd fills the grand hall decorated in gold curtains, men and women from different wealthy families flaunting around their riches with drinks in hand. Adorned in nothing but expensive attires that feeds off of the poor were most guests that have been invited to celebrate another success of Vought-American with a superhero movie that starred its own team, Payback, while the heroes themselves remained in their pretty little costumes for the publicity and fame.

Cameras, photographers, and journalists lurked in the corner section of the hall, where they’ve been assigned to fulfil their destiny of capturing significant moments that are interesting enough to be written on headlines or shown on television.

Nights like this were when Soldier Boy wanted to beat the shit out of Vought employees for their incapability in making celebrations entertaining. The lack of excitement and chaos infuse Ben with excessive boredom that just gives him the urge to shoot himself in the head, all of its professionalism becoming nothing but a burden and straight up pain in the ass. He’s been hardly enjoying the night, having to put up with Crimson Countess attached to his hip at all times to keep appearances, which he admits is worse than fucking a loose cunt. It didn’t make him feel better that Stan fucking Edgar was watching, making sure things are under control.

The jazz music suddenly stops short with a loud screeching sound that has everyone covering their ears in pain, startled murmurs filling the air as all eyes turned to the stage where a famous band stood, confusion also plastered across their faces. One of them repeatedly presses down on the piano’s key, frowning when it does nothing as if it lost its function all of a sudden. Sensing the panic slowly rise among guests, Stan opens his mouth to speak, only for his words to die in his throat when the lights begin to flicker.

“You know, I’m quite displeased to not have received an invitation.” Deep, resonant, husky voice littered with confidence and cockiness erupt out of nowhere as the flickering lights return to normal, an utterly familiar figure making themselves known.

Gasps, of either excitement or fear, falls from everyone’s lips to your powerful presence that almost immediately caused a shift in atmosphere. Soldier Boy’s breath hitched, feeling his throat dry as he cleared his throat and swallowed.

You don’t miss the quick look of surprise and panic flashing across Stan’s face before they were hidden behind his casual mask of greedy businessman, making the corner of your lips twitch up.

“You’re simply not welcome here, Lucifer.” The man uttered with barely contained irritation despite his best efforts to remain calm, spitting your antihero name — given by, not Vought, but the public themselves — in distaste.

Amusement emerge on your expression, completely unbothered by the antagonistic perspective Stan sees you with.

There’s an underlying overconfidence and arrogance to the way you hold yourself, a man who clearly knows how influential and threatening your own existence is and isn’t even apologetic for it. It wasn’t just for a show — you knew you mattered, knew exactly your worth, and didn’t hide behind the fake persona of a beloved public figure that pretends they’re enjoying a single bit of what they’re doing. Your ego and pride seemingly rivals that of Soldier Boy’s yet yours come more naturally, like you were born with it without the need to develop them in amidst of your life to trick yourself into feeling more relevant. You held charisma, a charm that seems to pull people closer to you despite the dangerous, deceitful, fucking jackass attitude you had that’s supposed to be driving them away. It makes Ben want to either punch your face or suck your cock like a fag whore.

“Fair enough,” You shrugged. “But I certainly make parties more fun. You could learn a couple or two from me.”

Stan’s eye twitches in annoyance at your arrogance; it’s much worse that he can’t use anything to stomp on it because your ego wasn’t fragile like the others. While most men, supe or not, wrap their self-importance in toxic masculinity in order to feel superior than they actually are, you were fully comfortable with yourself. Your emotional capacity was extremely high that developed you to become invincible against criticism or rejection. He can attempt to hurt your feelings, manipulate you, use your own ego against you all he wants — none of it will force you to surrender or submit no matter what because you, quite simply, loved yourself too much to be under power hungry maniacs.

When Stan can’t seem to muster a snarky remark, you smirk and invite yourself in, walking further into the grand hall as you snap your fingers, the white bright lights turning into colourful disco lights with your magic.

You stared at the band members on stage, eyes glowing red, and forcefully overtake their minds to play an upbeat party worth music instead of the boring jazz they did. It’s not that you dislike jazz music, it’s peculiar and beautiful on its own, you’re just not really fond of formal parties where everyone’s required to be in their good behaviours, barely having the time of their life if not to shove their riches down less wealthy people’s throat, which you don’t particularly find amusing or fun at all.

It seems to excite the guests, some of them even beginning to bop their heads to the catchy rhythm, moving their previously still bodies along with the beats. Energy surges through them, life revealing itself within their eyes that was filled with misery before you barged in.

“Let go of the fucking formality, ladies and gentlemen.” You grinned wide with your arms spread open to your sides. “It’s time for a true fun party!”

Ben was in awe when all cheered at your declaration, how quick you were able to turn this entire place into your own playground despite the hosts — authorities — being present, how much of a natural you were at gaining people’s faith and attention without doing more than show up and be yourself.

It should be making him envious; he’s doing all these heroism, model, actor bullshit and hiding behind a perfect macho-man façade to be loved and paid attention to for fuck’s sake, and yet it’s so easy for you to bend people at your own will just by being yourself. He should be pissed as he always did when others get the spotlight more than him, but Ben couldn’t find it in himself to.

How the fuck is he going to be pissed when you look so disgustingly hot doing all of it?

“He’s fucking doing it again,” Countess seethes through gritted teeth, glaring at you. Her little tug on his arm snaps him out of daze as he shifts his gaze to her. “Taking all the attention away from you. With the rate he’s going, I wouldn’t be surprised if he interrupts everything you’re in.”

Ben had to pretend to irritably clench his jaw, and smiled with sarcasm. “As if I’d let him. Fucking asshole needs to be put in his place.”

He knew you heard him when the corner of your lips pulled up in a smirk, one of your brows raising to shoot him a challenging look. It sends a thrill down Ben’s spine as he scowled, giving you a death glare that everyone sees for it is; rage, hatred, despise.

“Pleasure to see you here, Soldier Boy. Crimson Countess.” You greet in a feigned enthusiasm, swiftly taking a cocktail from the waiter that just passed, and approach them in all your glory.

“Fuck you,” Soldier Boy quickly snarled as Countess spits, “Get the fuck away from us.”

Amusement instantly cross your face, nearly making both of them want to punch you. “So much for greeting lovebirds in clown costumes,” You dejectedly say with a hand over your chest for dramatic effect, in contrast to the mocking way in which you spoke. “C’mon, I just made this boring, useless party worth your precious little time. At least now you can stop being a pussy hiding behind an awfully constructed television personality.”

That strikes a nerve in Soldier Boy as his face hardened and a cold look appeared, stepping forward warningly, “I’d choose my next fucking words wisely if I were you.” Countess tugs his arm in a nervous manner while scanning their surroundings, taking notice of people watching your interaction.

You meet his glare with a calm yet daring look and leaned closer, “I wouldn’t. I know I can beat you.” Your eyes glowed in red once again as you grinned confidently.

Ben’s hand twitched, but before he could make a move, a woman approached you from behind and tugged on your elbow, interrupting the little rivalry you had going on. “I’m sorry, do you mind if we dance and have fun for a bit?” She shyly but bravely asked you, not even sparing Soldier Boy a glance.

An unimpressed look flashes in your eyes that only Ben took notice of, the subtle annoyance to the woman for cutting into your rather hostile conversation. You, however, plastered on an emotionless smile within a split second, not giving anyone the chance to see through you. “I’ll lead the way,” You barely looked at him before walking off with her to the centre of the hall where bodies swayed to the beat.

It takes everything in Ben not to square up and make a mess of this party when you started dancing with her, your body dangerously close to hers as she stares at you with a look that made him want to strangle her slim neck. As if you’re a divine sculpture created by Gods, like you’re the entire universe, most precious being to ever exist in this planet, like she knew everything about you when she, in fact, absolutely did not. But he does.

And Ben knows he’ll be screaming your name, holding you impossibly close to him, digging his nails onto your back as you grind into him — everything she wished you’ll do to her — when all of this shit show is over.

At the end of the day, no slut or pussy fucker would come home to you but him; you’ve chosen him despite the countless amount of people throwing themselves pathetically at you, and Ben will make sure he’ll forever be the only one who does.

Lewd squelching, sucking sounds fill the dimly lit bedroom of your home as the stench of sex and arousal surround the air, more prominent due to your and Ben’s enhanced senses. You sat comfortably against the headboard of your shared bed with Ben in between your legs as he sucks and slurps your cock, taking it as far as he can in his mouth and gagging. Tiny muffled moans or groans escape him occasionally, hips grinding against the mattress to stimulate his own aching dick while the vibrator you bought for him nestled deep inside his prepped hole.

“You love my fuckin’ cock so much, don’t you?” You chuckled hoarsely, almost degrading, and Ben shudders. “It’s alright, love. m’not goin’ anywhere.” Your fingers tread through his hair, gently scraping your nails against his scalp, making him groan as his hips stutter.

Maintaining eye contact with you, Ben inhales a deep breath through his nose before taking your cock further down his throat, tears gathering in his eyes when he nearly gagged. A genuine smile adorns your face when he looks at you expectantly, the most beautiful green eyes you’d ever seen holding desperation and self-doubt. Pleading expression that he shows only to you.

“You want me to praise you, pup? Call you good boy?” He whines in response — God, that fucking sound you know he’d rather die than let anyone else hear. Ben doesn’t have any idea how much it affects you, the fact that you’re the only one whom he allows a vulnerable side of him show.

Realising he has to earn what he yearns for, Ben gently wraps his hand around the base of your cock where it didn’t fit and starts to bob his head. You moaned softly, throwing your head back; the sight being such a blessing to Ben’s eyes that makes his own cock throb and needy. He swirls his tongue on the underside of your shaft, his free hand gripping your thigh for support.

“Doin’ so good, love. You’ve gotten better at this,” You cooed, petting his hair and gently thrusting up into his throat. Ben closed his eyes, a blissful look appearing on his face as he relaxed and allowed you to move instead.

The trust and faith Ben has in you makes something explode within your chest, heart swelling in love and adoration at your troubled yet adorable partner.

Building a healthy and trustful relationship with him was more difficult than anything you’ve ever done before, considering the absolute bigotry his father forcefully fed into him and all the unresolved issues he had with himself. Despite the tough and harsh exterior he constantly put on, you had seen right through him when you first met — those broken spirit that yearned to be loved or needed by people hiding behind his douche, Soldier Boy persona, a man that his imbecile of a father always wanted him to be. It amused you as much as it squeezed your chest; one of the first strongest superhero being a fucking attention starved bastard was undeniably funny, but pitiful. It’s also why you fell in love with him.

You’ve accepted that Ben was always going to have a deep rooted homophobia in him, that there won’t be a day where you’ll be seen in the public with him holding hands like star-fucking-crossed lovers, that he’ll always be too much of a pussy to be fully himself — but you never expected him to be so open, comfortable, with you like this to the extent of willingly trusting you with a needy and desperate version of himself.

Benjamin is laying his heart out bare for you to take, and you didn’t know whether you wanted to make love to him or fuck his brains out. You decided with the former.

Confusion settles on Ben’s expression when you gently pushed his shoulders to make him pull away, a sudden worry if he’s done something wrong, but all thoughts flies out the window after you passionately smashed your lips against his and guided him on your lap. Ben gasps when you pulled the vibrator out of his hole and replaced it with your thick fingers, hooking his arms on the back of your neck.

“So good, love. Lookin’ all pretty for me.” He moans at your praise, the compliment making his heart flutter rather than boost his ego.

“s’for you…” They come out in whisper from his lips, littered with slight reluctance around the edge, but you hear it loud and clear. “All for you. I— fuck… just for you,” He grinds on your fingers, crying out when you curled them just right to stimulate his prostate.

You almost feel dizzy for his words that he’s never uttered before.

The utmost pride he upholds made it difficult for Ben to completely submit to you, often being a disobedient brat that needs to be put in his place or a quiet, reserved man that’s embarrassed to be loved by another man which causes him to be tense for the first half of this activity — so seeing him like this, hesitantly yet openly letting you in to his comfort zone, spilling the thoughts he’s always been fearful of admitting, holding you tight to him as if you’d slip from his grasp if he let you go, was pleasantly surprising. Your heart flutters, butterflies filling your stomach as the urge to protect and gently take him apart piece by piece runs like electricity through your veins, fuelling your desire for Ben.

You thrust your digits with gentle pace, Ben’s hips moving on its own to chase the pleasure. “That’s right, baby. All f’me, yeah? My pretty darling?”

The gentleness of your whispered voice and your eyes staring at him with pure love sends shivers down his spine; Ben holds your face and nods, pulling you in for a kiss. You can feel his suppressed fear through his desperate lips, the doubts that lingers in his mind that you might see him differently for being so vulnerable like this, and you quickly silence his thoughts by slipping your tongue inside his mouth.

Ben mewled when you add another digit in him, now having three fingers penetrating his hole, as he breaks the kiss to breathe for air. There’s a hazy look in his tearful eyes when he meets your gaze, “Take care of me, please.”

You groan at the plea, immediately pulling your fingers out to instead align your cock with his entrance. Ben must’ve been waiting for so long because he doesn’t hesitate to sink down on it almost in an instant, a loud collective moan escaping the two of you. Your hands gripped his hips while he rested both hands on your shoulders, and fuck he felt so fucking good. The way his warm, tight velvety walls deliciously clamp around you as if swallowing your cock whole, the way his divinely beautiful body perfectly fit against yours like he was made for you.

“fuck… you’re so fuckin’ perfect,” You praised, kissing up his throat as he threw his head back in pleasure. “Completely mine, so is Soldier Boy. Everythin’ about you, Ben. It’s all mine.”

Ben nods vigorously, gripping the back of your neck and starting to ride you at a perfect pace, tiny sounds escaping his mouth. Slipping his fingers through your hair, he gently tugged on them just enough that had you groaning, and laid his forehead to rest against yours. “Y-yours- ah… Yours as… as much as you’re fucking mine,” He grunts out, possessiveness hanging onto his every word that shot excitement through your body. “No one gets to f-fucking have you… oh fuck—!” He cuts himself off with a strangled moan when you snapped your hips up.

“Yeah? Not even that slut that danced with me on the dance floor?” You teased, smirking.

His bright green eyes seem to darken as he sinks even further down on your cock, forcefully stretching himself out, hissing at the delicious pain. You moaned, wrapping an arm around him to pull him to your chest. “Fuck, especially her.” Ben almost growls, one hand coming up to wrap around your throat, feeling you throb and seemingly get bigger inside him due to it. “You… belong to me, o-only me.”

You hum, moaning softly when he squeezed your jugular just right. “Always, my love.”

Relief washes over his entire body as he begins to roll his hips and move again, leaning down to suck and kiss on your exposed collarbone. “Oh fuck… It’s— a-agh…! Tell me- tell me, please…” He whined desperately.

Ben needed to hear you say it, have the promises of you completely belonging to him nailed into his brain so he’ll never feel insecure or doubtful again. He’ll never admit it, but you always know every little thing that goes on inside his head, those haunting words of his father that seems to have a tight grip over him. You’re the only one that could see right through his soul; someone exactly opposite from his father, someone who fearlessly challenges the normality or ancient traditions, someone who actually have their shit together that enabled you to be mature, wise, unapologetically yourself.

You were extraordinary in every way possible, and Ben knew his inner vulnerable — not quite the man his father wanted him to be — self was safe with you. Always secured. Never judged nor ridiculed, instead embraced perfectly by your strong and warm arms that shields him away from the mental, emotional harm.

He knew you would catch him when he falls. You would keep him and his treasured thoughts safe. You weren’t afraid to love him loudly, wholeheartedly, and Ben allows himself to be brave just this once without thinking about his fears.

Trailing one of your hands up his nape, you pull him back to a searing kiss, pouring all the desire and love into it. Ben melted, his hand on your throat loosening as you gently twist your bodies around to lay him down on the bed without pulling out. He whimpers and chases you when you detached your lips from his, which nearly made your heart explode.

“I belong to you, my love.” You whispered, kissing down his neck and chest, thrusting your cock sensually slow inside him. Nothing quite like the animalistic sex you two usually have due to your powers, but it was more right than ever. “My heart, my body, my soul, my spirit. All for you, belong with you.”

Ben feels as if his heart would hammer right out of his ribcage from how rapid it was beating.

Your soothing yet powerful presence all over the place, hovering over him and embracing every bit of the damaged part of himself that he refused to acknowledge. There’s resistance gnawing on his skin, the unhealthy urge to push you away and guard himself again with a thick wall despite being the one who willingly showed vulnerability, but Ben uses all of his ability to shove it down. He wanted to listen to your overwhelmingly romantic and gentle words that he’s been taught men should never utter, he wanted to be held with so much care like he was your most prized possession, he wanted to be actually loved. For once, he wanted to allow himself to not be drowned in the toxicity his father had force-fed him with.

It doesn’t take you a second to notice him relaxing even further underneath your body, practically leaning onto your existence as the pretty noises escaping his mouth seems to gradually get louder, like he stopped holding himself back.

An awe surrounds your expression, genuinely taken aback by him letting everything go, and a soft sigh of pleasure falls from your lips. “That’s it, baby. You make the most prettiest sound. Don’t hold back,” Cooing gently, you adjust your hips and rolled into him, brushing his prostate at a perfect angle.

Ben keened, arching his back. “Fuuuck… oh, please. Deeper.”

You obliged, keeping the same slow and sensual pace but pushing further inside. “You’re made for me, aren’t you? Just as I’m made for you,” You sharply snap your hips once to emphasise, and he cries out. “We’re one, my love. No one can have me, I come home to you and only to you no matter what.”

His breath hitched, the pleasure and your words sending explosions of euphoria into his brain, nodding mindlessly at your promises. “Y-yes, fuck… I’m- I’m yours, too— ah, hng…” Tears spill from his beautiful green eyes as he spread his legs more wide, one hand grabbing your wrist that was propped beside his head to stabilise your body, almost clinging onto you while the other scratched against the mattress. “F-fucking Christ, always- always yours.”

“I know,” You softly acknowledged. “Always mine, no matter how much some part of you can’t accept it. I can see right through you, love. I understand everything about you.”

“I- oh yes! There, fuck!” Ben sobs when you start picking up your pace, hips bucking against you. “Y-you do… God, you a-always fucking do.”

That causes a grin to spread across your lips before you leaned down to devour him again.

Truth be told, Ben was afraid of how much you saw everything he’s been trying to hide all his life. It takes a bit of his soul every-time he learns to be indifferent, more sick and twisted. The innocence in him had died out long ago, but the desperation of a child never vanquished — the pathetic, ruined and heavily deprived of any love someone that he always forced himself to forget or get rid of, was seen entirely by you without much effort. He didn’t need to say anything, you always understood all the hidden insecurity, longing, pain, and fear nested deep in his mind. You also understood why he was the way he was, why he does what he does, who he had to become.

To be loved is to be seen and understood, he guesses.

A love he’s never thought he’ll ever experience from anyone, let alone his supposed enemy. You gave it to him, though. All so willingly, happily, like he was meant for it, like he was always meant for you.

Strangled, loud moan was forced out of him when your hand wrapped around his achingly hard dick, making him feel dizzy from all the overwhelming desire and pleasure. Every bit of love that emits from your touch sends a frying electricity through his veins, fulfilling his inner thirst that was supposed to be unquenchable.

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck—!” Ben wails, arching his back and digging his nails on your forearm as your thumb rubbed his sensitive slit and smeared precum all over. “C-close… oh, Christ! Cummin’, cummin’, please—”

“It’s alright, Ben. I got you,” You purred, slamming your hips down on him. “Let go, cum for me.”

As if that’s all the permission he needed, Ben instantly tumbles over the edge with a loud breathy whine as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, sticky loads shooting out from his cock to his stomach. Body spasming and head thrown back, letting his mind-blowing orgasm wave right off of him, still clinging onto you. You gritted your teeth when his hole tightened impossibly around you, feeling yourself throb and ache to release.

Ben — in spite of his cloudy, mushed state of mind as well as hazy and cock-drunk look in his eyes — suddenly wraps both strong legs around your hips to keep you in place, which forces you forward to bury yourself deeper inside him, eliciting a growl of curses from you.

His mouth splits into a dumb, shit-eating grin. “Inside, baby. Fill me up… give me all you got. I need you.” He moves his hips and squeezes down like a fucking expert prostitute, and it’s enough to have you let out a guttural groan as you spilled inside his tight hole.

Ben released a shattered breath, moaning delightfully at your warm cum that taints his insides, his hand that was gripping your forearm moving down to caress his belly where he could feel you finishing.

It makes your breath hitch; the action sparking a deep hidden desire and possessiveness within you that you’ve had shackled for so long in order to not be too greedy.

But Ben, oh your precious Benjamin, pressed down on his perfect belly and whined so brokenly that tugged the strings of your heart, as if he wanted something so unreachable. He attempts to bury his face on the pillow in what you recognised as shame and you quickly hold his face to keep him from hiding from you, subtle concern glimmering in your gentle eyes.

“What’s bothering your mind, love?” You whispered with such carefulness, afraid speaking too loud would break the bubble of sensitivity that surrounded the two of you as you pressed a light kiss on his temple. “You can tell me, Benji. It’s not embarrassing nor shameful.”

Ben’s heart swells at the way you cage him in your protective arms and words, the back of his eyes stinging from the tears that threatened to come out. He doesn’t deserve you; he never did, but you’re so good to him and he doesn’t think he can live without you. No, he knows he can’t live without you.

What would he do without your captivating eyes looking at him with so much passion no one ever gave him before, your gentle voice uttering such carefully crafted words that embraces rather than cut through him, your big and muscular yet warmly protective arms holding him like he was a treasure to behold, your soul healing and rebuilding every damaged bit of his spirit like it was your purpose? What would he do without you?

And fuck, everything would be so much easier if he wasn’t a fucking man. If he wasn’t such a pussy who’s afraid of risking everything.

You gently roll your hips against his, slow and steady, as if to comfort his nerves and overthinking thoughts with a soft pleasure.

Letting out a quiet, breathy sigh, Ben holds your face close and internally fights back against the restraints that wanted to keep him from opening his soul up to you. “We’d be… We’d be so much happier if I wasn’t a fucking man,” His whispered voice breaks at the end.

His heart ached and so did yours, a realisation dwelling on you of how serious Ben actually was with your relationship. It comes off as an unexpected admittance. While you knew he did love you like you love him, you didn’t think it was to this extent of imagining the countless possibilities if either of you was a woman instead, much less he’d think of himself to be the woman. It was odd and so unlike him — true love brings out something within people, you suppose.

Tears glimmered in his green eyes that’s filled by storm of emotions.

Ben hated this, hated you for making him such a crybaby and a pussy, but he’s so in love with you it fucking hurts. He doesn’t know what triggered him to be an annoying, pathetic, insecure loser the moment you held him. God, he’s Soldier Boy for fuck’s sake!

Then, you look at him with so much tenderness like he hung the moon and was the only thing that grounds you down to earth, and Ben realises it’s this.

“You’re such a fucking fool,” You affectionately cursed with a tone barely above whisper before pressing a lingering kiss on his lips. “I wouldn’t have spared you a glance if you weren’t. Women never captivated me, love. Only you.”

Wrapping his arms around your back and burying his face on the crook of your neck, Ben inhales your scent as you gently rock your bodies together. “Love me more,” He almost demands, voice low and trembling.

You smiled, “Of course, Benji.”

Pressing a sweet kiss on his head, you grab the back of his thighs and push them to his muscular chest, Ben’s flexibility despite his well defined physique making it easier for you to fold him. In a swift motion, you slam down on him, beginning to pound away the loud thoughts that made home in his mind. Angelic, high pitched sounds escape Ben’s mouth with each rough thrusts, bordering on pornographic. The blissful look across his face enhance his already ethereal features, and you can’t help but stare intently at him.

“You look so beautiful like this, love. Taking me in so well, letting me cherish you.” You praised, earning a needy whimper from the love of your life. “My Benjamin… my brave soldier.”

At the unexpected pet name, Ben’s body jolts and a choked sob erupted from his throat, suddenly pushed over the edge as he cums undone on his stomach. “F-fuck!”

“G-god, baby…” You groaned, shuddering in pleasure at the way his gummy walls spasms around your girth. “Drivin’ me insane, y’know that? Cummin’ with just my words alone? Shit, wanna fuck you hard and love you at the same time.”

Digging his nails on your back, Ben attached his lips on your collarbone with an intent to leave several possessive marks, making you jut your hips forward. “D-do it, fuck me.” He mumbled breathlessly.

That’s the only permission you needed to let go of your own self-control and just rut into him like an animal, thrusting your cock with more vigour and roughness that forced the headboard to repeatedly bang against the wall. Feeling the way your shaft practically drill into and rearrange his guts that brought immeasurable ecstasy, Ben finds himself finally unable to make out a coherent thought as drools drip down his chin. The two orgasms you milked out of him already left him sensitive enough, his thighs quivering under your grasps.

Lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and wet squelches filled the room, accompanied by feral noises of both of your moans and grunts.

It’s nearly incomprehensible how you’re able to quickly switch between loving him and treating him like a slut next, a perfect balance to Ben’s constant yearning for admiration or appreciation and his tendency to always be an inconsolable brat that needs to be put back in his place.

He feels so complete and whole, so loved. And so so fucking dumb for your cock. He could stay like this forever without heavy expectations weighing over his head all the time, just taking you whole and letting you ruin his body, looking all pretty and beautiful for you. Yeah, he can do that. Being pretty and sexy has always been a talent of his, after all. He can even learn to cook for you like a fucking perfect, pretty housewife, maybe you’ll stuff him full of your cum again while at it and tell him to keep them in. Fuck, he can do that too. He wants to do that.

“Oh fuck, Ben…” An almost pornographic, low growl rumbles from your chest when he squeezed down on you, his warm walls fluttering against your girth from the imagination. The coil in your stomach tightens as you twitched inside him, too close to your high.

“I- ah—! Please, pleaseplease—!” He babbles, one hand shifting to press your ass and push you in deeper, syllables slightly slurred from how cockdrunk he was.

Understanding his wordless signal, you increase your pace with an angle that drives your instincts wild, a chill running through your spine from the overwhelming pleasure. Seeing Ben completely fall apart and surrender underneath you gives your ego an infinite boost, the powerful man such a sobbing, wrecked, pretty little mess just because of your cock. Drunk in every little euphoria and precious love you feed him. Oh, how fucking adorable and gorgeous he was.

Before long, Ben feels you throb inside him and pulls you in with what little willpower he had left, clumsily slipping his tongue in your mouth, overwhelming you with different sensations of his body against yours. It’s enough to have you harshly ram your hips down in one swift motion and empty yourself inside him, a loud wail of your name leaving Ben’s lips as he finishes as well. You feel his body tremble violently due to overstimulation, breath stuttering.

“You look so fucked out,” You laugh breathlessly, hips softly grinding to ride out your climax. “Still fuckin’ hot when you’re all dumb n’ mindless.”

Petting his disheveled hair, a soft contented hum leaves Ben as he closed his eyes and nuzzled to your touch. The entire erotic sight of his hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat, tears staining his cheeks, hazy look across his eyes, and swollen lips sends amusement and satisfaction through your veins — you definitely fucked whatever self-loathing thoughts he’s had out of his head.

Having completely spilled inside him, you moved to pull out only for Ben to groan in protest. “Stay the fuck in,” He grumbled, panting to catch his breath.

“I need to clean us up, love.” You gently say, but kept yourself sheathed inside him as your lips attach to his neck. “Wanna take care of you properly.”

Ben quietly sighs in content, “You already do.” Before he tilts his head to capture you in a passionate kiss. You slowly pull out of him in amidst of the moment, holding his face and reciprocating with equal passion.

He breathes low and heavy when you start to wipe him up with a wet towel you magically conjured up, running it across his body gently as your other hand massaged his sore hip with such tenderness. Your eyes taking in every part of his physique feels much more innocent now compared to before, deep appreciation and subtle awe flashing across your irises the more you stare, which causes his cheeks to tint slightly. You find it adorable how shy or embarrassed he gets whenever you look at him like he’s something born out of the stars in contrast to the overinflated cockiness he displays when others compliment him; it just proves he feels different, more special with you.

You shoot him a gentle smile that makes his brain shut down and his heart jump.

Christ on a cross, just what did you fucking reduce him into?

“Will you marry me?” The words had left his mouth before he could even process.

You froze, eyes wide as you snapped your gaze to him at the same time his own widened in shock. Fuck, did he just say what he thinks he did? After you fucked him ‘til he couldn’t even speak properly? God, his legs feel wobbly after all that delicious pounding of your dick in his tight little—

His distracting thoughts were interrupted by your hands cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look at you. There’s a bit of doubt lingered across your expression, worried that you mistakenly heard him, and Ben’s gaze softened. “Will you marry me?” He repeats quietly this time with genuine emotion, wiping away your worry.

Excitement and happiness seem to explode within you as you beam; “Yes! Fuck, yes, I’ll marry you.” However, your smile slowly deflates and a foreign look of insecurity replaces the joy surrounding you. “Are you… are you sure? You’re not pushing yourself?”

Confusion spreads across his face, “Why would you think I am?”

“It’s just not that easy to break away from all the homophobia, love.” You softly remind him. “You’re still having a hard time accepting it, could barely even call yourself the right term. You’re afraid, and that’s fine. We can continue on like this. You don’t have to marry me because you feel obligated to.”

Ben frowns, his hand pulling you down to the mattress at his side as he props up on his elbow and stares at you incredulously. “You think I wanna fucking marry you just ‘cause I’m guilty about hiding this? Did it ever occur to you that I actually fuckin’ love you?”

You smile to yourself; what a long way it took for him to just be able to admit that. At least he’s letting himself know he can be vulnerable with you now, compared to when he was convinced you’ll despise his inner self — a big fucking pussy, he says — and completely shut himself off in the beginning.

“Hey,” He grabs your chin to make you pay attention. “I know I still don’t do enough to show you, but I do. I really fucking do, baby.”

You look into his captivating green eyes for a second before releasing a deep breath, “I know. Trust me, you don’t have to do enough to show it, I can already tell. And I love you too.”

Ben nods and kisses your lips, lying down beside you. Your hand instinctually attaches to his waist, caressing his soft skin and shooting warmth throughout his body.

He can’t help but stare at your features, the way you look different now from how you looked at the party you crashed earlier. A certain amount of coldness, hostility and displeasure usually lurked your expression in a daily manner — hidden behind the undeniable charisma and obnoxious arrogance — directed at others that told exactly what their worth to you was; nothing. Ben hasn’t seen a day you were even remotely pleased by someone in the long years of knowing you, the people who attempted to get in your good graces often ended up screwing everything up instead and irritating you enough to kill them off.

But with him, you wouldn’t even spare him a cold glance. Your gaze twinkling with a pleasant spark, always warm, always comforting, always proud. God forbid you look at him with hatred like you’re supposed to. So affectionate for a man who’s been named after the Devil by the idiotic public that only sees what you let them see.

It is then had Ben realised; to him, true love is you.

True love is when you embrace a part of him that he deems undesirable, mend his broken soul, and melt the ice of deep rooted trauma surrounding his heart — it is when Soldier Boy doesn’t drive you away from seeing Benjamin, an ordinary boy from South Philadelphia who desperately wanted to make his father proud. You see them as one, as equally significant parts of him.

Good fucking Lord, he was a gigantic imbecile if he didn’t want to marry you, even if the idea still makes him feel quite… odd. Fuck’s sake, he really needs to learn how to deal with this homophobia bullshit, doesn’t he?

Ben licks his lips anxiously, reluctance plastered on his face. “I… I actually got the rings,” He hesitantly admitted.

Your eyes widened. “You did?”

“I- Jesus Christ, of course I did! I know I don’t fucking do shit like that, okay?” He snapped before quietly muttering, “Just wanted you to believe me when I propose.”

“I do,” You don’t miss to give him comfort, grabbing his hand. Ben’s nerves soothes at your touch. “I just thought we still have a long way to go and you need more time to figure yourself out.”

He shakes his head, “Gotta claim you before some fucker decides you’re free for them.”

“Yeah?” You smirked, raising one eyebrow. “Could’ve gone with a collar, y’know. It would get your point straight across. Plus, it’s more visible.” Tapping your neck to emphasise, which made Ben swallow.

Yeah, you’ll look good with a collar in his colour. You can even wear both. That’ll definitely get his point across to anyone that even looks at you. Maybe next time, he decides.

A mischievous smirk spreads across his lips, “That’ll fucking work best. Think I could put a leash on you too?” He teased, letting out a chuckle and sliding his hand up to your neck and hold you there.

“Mhm, fuck yes,” You almost purred from how pleased you were at the idea.

Ben laughs, lightly squeezing your neck in affection before turning around to rummage through the cabinet on the side of your bed, pulling out a velvet box that’s in the shade of his green. You could tell he was enthusiastic and overwhelmed with emotions from the way his hands slightly trembled, though you made no mention of it to avoid bursting his adorable bubble.

His grin was as bright as the sun on a sunny day when the ring perfectly fits around your finger, already snuggling comfortably on your skin and bringing a weight of new purpose in life. You slip the other ring on his as well, feeling the entanglement of your destiny with one another, the red strings of fate on both of your pinky fingers thickening. It’s a sacred oath that ties you to each other forever.

Warmth spreads around your chest at the fact it’s his first time giving you a gift and it’s something so unexpectedly intimate. A silver engagement ring with a ruby in his shade of green and his name engraved on the inner side; practically a part of his soul, settling itself home around your finger. You shift your gaze to the one he wears — the same silver ring but with a dark red ruby instead, your signature colour, and you assume also have your name engraved on the inner side as well.

A big, significant step for a man who’s constantly afraid of what others think about him, and you couldn’t be more prouder.

Lying back down on the bed together, Ben turns his back on you and scoots closer to your chest, making you smile when he grabbed your wrist to pull your arm over his torso. He always loved being hugged by you from behind despite the fact he’ll never admit it out loud; as much as it sounds pathetic and unmanly, he doesn’t argue with himself of how it gives him safety and protection from the harsh judgmental world. Being in your arms always dissipated the cruel words of his father carved in his mind.

You gently pulled him closer to your body and pressed a kiss on his shoulder blade. “Don’t have to rush about coming out, love. It’ll take more than a simple courage to be open about something considered taboo by our society. You’re still dealing with personal issues, we’ll focus on that for now.”

Ben’s heart warms at your consideration, unable to resist the urge to stick to you like a glue as he leans back on your chest. “How the fuck did you do it? This feels like a pain in the fucking ass,” He muttered disdainfully, though there was a hint of willingness in his tone, like he’s willing to make an effort just for you.

You shrugged, “m’not exactly shaped by my childhood trauma, Benji, and I didn’t like my parents that much. Never really gave a fuck about somethin’ that has no benefit to my life whatsoever.”

“Entitled asshole,” He laughs.

“So are you,” You teased, making you both erupt in loud laughter.

I could get used to this, Ben thinks as genuine happiness glows bright in his heart, your love anchoring him and providing a solid land for him to stand on. Dealing with his own problems doesn’t sound so bad when you’re there for him every step of the way. With your protective arms around his body, both Soldier Boy and Benjamin knew their heart will always be safe with you.

For once, Ben believes he can finally learn to create a family of his own.

Until disaster struck and life suddenly decides to not be fair on someone as fucked up as him — ripping his world apart into shreds in the form of coward, betraying bastards known as his fucking teammates.

© all rights reserved to hadesrise ──── stealing, plagiarising, or using my works for monetary gain is strictly prohibited. ask permission before reposting or translating.

[jubshead]

𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐤

Paring: Mentor!Lilia Calderu x Reader

Summary: With volatile and unpredictable magic you never know what can happen.

A/N: Still grasping how to write Lilia, so I hope it’s in character!

This isn’t beta read and english isn’t my mother language, so bear with me.

I hope you guys like it, let me know!!

Warning: Accidental magic, magic cock, blow jobs, vaginal sex, creampie, large dick.

Word count: 3.7k

Date: Nov 09, 2024

Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome!

Masterlist | Taglist

Tag list: @yourbasicqueerie @mgruiz @yippie-kai-gay @confuseuniverse @aggieharkness @thesharkwhalewhoohooooo @walkethisway @honkhonktheslutshere @ratsnestinmyhair @audreylise @kenzie-floops @pattiluponespopcornmaker @moonlightprincess696 @trindad2k @etherynn @astrxinze

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The kettle makes a hissing sound, the boiling herbs fill the room with a sweet scent and the morning sun shines into the stove. The gray haired witch hums a tune under her breath and walks around the room, collecting more ingredients for the tea. She feels freshness in the air, an inkling that something good is about to happen. 

Sundays are always calm, she closes up the shop for the day and entertains her apprentice. You’ve been working under Lilia’s guidance for a month, being the only witch in your family meant that no one could teach you. You were lucky enough to stumble upon her one day when browsing on your computer. 

You aren’t a divination witch, you still don’t know what your deal is, but your magic is volatile and unpredictable. Lilia teaches you with the best of her abilities, and that is more than you could ask for, you look up to her and dream of reaching her level of wisdom. 

As you enter the shop, you hear her moving around in the back. Walking into the room, you halt when the tarot reader stops in her tracks. Her entire body freezes and she lets out an unrestrained moan in the middle of the kitchen. 

Pursing your lips, you wait for her ‘episode’ to end.

“Hi.” You let out timidly, standing by the bead curtain. 

She turns around, wide eyed and arms raised in the air. 

“Are you alright?” You ask, concerned. 

She waves you off with a flick of her hands, facing the stove once again. Her visions always seem to sour her mood and leave you anxious, more times than not, she doesn’t know what they mean.

Passing the strap of your bag over your head, you place it on the squared table before heading to the counter. Resting your hip against it, you observe Lilia grab the kettle with a towel clad hand. 

“Do you want some tea, doll?” She pours it in two mugs before waiting for an answer, you nod either way. 

She passes you the ceramic cup and you rapidly grab into the handle when it burns you. The aroma hits your nose and you groan. Lilia always makes the best beverages and this time you smell a blend of lavender, lemongrass, and a few other herbs you couldn’t quite identify. The taste is as divine as the scent. 

“How have you been this week?” She leans next to you. 

“I’ve been fine.” You tell her uncertainty and amends. “There have been a few accidents…nothing I couldn’t handle, though.” 

She hums into the mug as she takes a sip. 

“And those ‘accidents’ were?” She probes.

Swallowing the liquid, you hide your face behind the cup.

“Okay. Let's start then. The sooner you can control your magic the better.” She walks past you, her robe fluttering behind her. 

Leaving the empty cup in the sink, you follow her to the middle of the room. 

“Did you practice what I told you?” She asks patiently. 

“Hum…” You hesitate. “I did.”

“And?” All her weight shifts to one leg as she places a hand on her waist.

“Well, it worked!” You exclaim, trying to lay her off. She raises her eyebrows, waiting for you to continue. “To a certain extent…”

“Okay.” She takes a breath in and straightens her spine, arms at her side. “Show me.” 

Transfiguration. 

You’ve moved beyond learning how to change the corporeal form of an object, and have now evolved to modifying the physical appearance of yourself and others. What she’s teaching is pretty basic, but for someone who didn’t know she was a witch for most of her life, it’s hard to grasp, especially with a temperamental magic like yours.

Closing your eyes and concentrating, you feel goosebumps rise up on your skin as your magic flows through you. When your powers are under control, they feel like a waterfall being released, spreading over your body and consuming you. Outbursts were a very different story.

Opening your eyes, you see your mentor gently smiling at you. 

“Good, that’s good.” She praises, and you break into a huge grin. 

Receiving her approval is something that always warms your insides. 

Grabbing your hairs ends, you observe the change in color. It wasn’t anything spectacular, but it was enough for you to see your improvement. You turn the purple strands back to their natural color. 

“Great. My turn.” She says encouragingly. 

Pressing your tongue against your lips, you grimace at her.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

“You have to learn.” She tells you firmly before adding. “As a witch, you must know how to defend yourself.”

You blink at her. 

“Relax, baby. Anything you throw at me I can reverse.” 

Your brain short circuits at the pet name.

That was probably your downfall. Lilia always tells you true witchcraft takes time and concentration, especially for beginners. 

Her expectant face makes you close your eyes, and let the magic flow through you again, but this time it's different. Your head thinks of nothing else besides Lilia’s voice and how she called you, you can’t focus on your intention and you feel the spell going wrong before it’s completely finished. In an attempt to join your jumbled thoughts and the power running over your skin, you imagine Lilia with longer fingers. 

It doesn't seem to work because in a few seconds you hear a screech.

“Divine Mother.” 

Peaking through one eye, you first glance at her face, her reaction making you expect a major change in her appearance. She looks the same, her hair still tied up, her nose doesn’t look bigger like some sort of wicked witch and her eyes remain the same color, the only thing you notice is her shock. 

Her arms are raised breast level and that’s the next thing you look at. Expecting sausage like fingers, you’re surprised when you’re met with her usual handful of rings. 

“What?” You frown. 

Your gaze drifts over her figure and that’s when you notice the bulge in her skirt. 

Squinting, you almost crouch down to get a closer look. The thing is huge, cylindrical and pressing forward, clearly constricted by something. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up with what’s in front of you and you stare long enough for Lilia to clear her throat. You glance up and it dawns on you. Oh, god. 

“What were you thinking about when you did the spell?” You gape like a fish out of water.

Was she honestly continuing the lesson as if this wasn’t happening?

“Well, I wasn’t…I wasn’t thinking about that.” You gesticulate widely, a blush rising in your cheeks. 

She pinches the bridge of her nose and sways. The movement makes her skirt brush against the hard on and you gulp when your vision is automatically drawn to it.

“Concentrate.” She tells you firmly and you meet her eyes, pursing your lips.

“Why are you losing? That’s a simple transfiguration spell, you can undo it. You just told me that!” 

“No, it isn’t.” She speaks calmly, noticing she’s making you anxious. “This is a magical penis, a much more advanced incantation. You shouldn’t be able to do this at this stage.”

“Okay…?”

“There’s no way I can make this go away.” She speaks to you like someone does to a child. 

“What?” You ask, agitated. 

“Advanced magic, harder to undo.” She tells you simply. “There’s only two ways to get rid of it. The caster has to be the one to take it away.”

“Well, let's do it. It’s not that difficult, right? I’ve already put it there.” You respond with renewed energy, waving at her crotch.

This is not going to be a bigger problem than it should. 

“No, it’s not easy. You did this by accident.” Your sight strays to it again and it looks like it’s staring right back at you. “You need to focus this time, so you can do it consciously.” 

You hum absently before closing your eyes. The problem is: the image of that monster is buried in your brain. You focus on it, but the only thing that crosses your mind is its size, what it would be like to have it throbbing in your hands, pounding into you...

“Stop, stop, stop.” Lilia huffs in front of you, turning around and sitting on the armchair.

“What, what is it?” You follow her and stand by her side, she rests her forehead on her propped hand, eyes closed.

“You made it bigger.” She tells you pointedly. 

The penis really does seem magic, it hypnotizes you and you can’t take your eyes off it. Whenever you notice Lilia isn’t looking, you glance down, partially seeing the bulge covered by her dress and robe. 

Wetting your lips, you ask. “Well, what is the other way?” 

“Huh?” She’s clearly lost in thoughts. 

Moving to perch in front of her, you focus on her face. 

“You said there are two ways to get rid of it. We tried the first one, what is the second?” 

She presses her lips and you wait. 

“It needs…release.”

“Oh.” You slowly back away towards the door. “I’ll leave and you can…y’know?” You finish by making a lewd motion. 

She narrows her eyes, you stop dead in your treks. A small breeze fills the room as you linger, sensing there’s something more.

“It needs to be sheathed.” She pauses. “Climax inside something.”

You take a deep breath before asking. “Is there…Is there someone who can help you?” 

God, you didn’t know anything about her personal life. Meeting every sunday meant you’ve only seen each other about four times, and there couldn’t be a worse situation to ask her that. 

“No.” She tells you and, by the way she answers, you refrain from making any more questions. 

The morning sun shines over the room, in the distance you hear cars passing by on the street and the silence hangs as you stare at each other. 

You are embarrassed to admit, but it doesn’t take long for you to reach a decision. As much as you try to fool yourself by claiming that you wanted to help because you were the one who put her in this situation, you know it’s bullshit. Lilia has you on her hands, you’ve been attracted to her from the start and there weren't enough words to describe what she does to you. 

Watching as she looks up, praying to her goddess, you move. She brings her head down to follow you with her eyes as you kneel in front of her. 

“What are you doing?” She asks you seriously. 

“I’m helping you.” You respond, lightly placing your hands on her calves. 

Her palm rests on your cheek and you lean into it. 

“You don’t have to do this.” 

“I want to do it. It's my fault you’re like this.” Seeing the hesitation in her face, you grab her wrist. “Please, let me.” 

She stares you down and gives you a tight smile. 

“I- Are you sure?” 

You nod more excitedly than you should, the eagerness accidently showing on your face. 

She doesn’t say anything else, so you take it as a ‘yes’. Her body is leaning forward, her elbows resting on the arms of the reclining chair and you feel how tense she is. The bulge is right in your face and with trembling hands you roll up her skirt. 

The gasp that leaves you is involuntary. Butchin her dress at the waist, you take a moment to look at it. It’s mostly constricted by her underwear, but you can clearly see how big it is. You take a deep breath before pulling her panties down.

You stare open mouthed. The length is as white as her skin, the head is a light pink and a few gray hairs dust her balls. It weirdly matches her and stands proudly in front of you. The hard on seems painful. 

A monster indeed.

“This looks uncomfortable.” You mumble, unable to take your eyes off it. 

“It is.” A constrained chuckle follows the statement. 

Biting your lips, you wonder how to approach this. You’ve never been a blowjob type of girl, when you used to date men you always avoided as much as you could, and even when you did it, it wasn’t enjoyable. This feels different, though. Your underwear is already wet just by thinking about it. 

Your mentor clears her throat and you peer up at her. 

“You don’t have to do this.” Her hand runs through your hair. 

“Lilia, relax.” You tell her forcefully and grab her thighs. 

One of your hands circles it and her hips buckle, palms fly back to the armchair and nails bite into the fabric as you slowly start to move. By the way it looks, it won’t take long for her to come and a feeling of disappointment dawns on you. It makes sense for a magical penis to be ready for action, but you wish you could take your time with it.

Running your thumb from the base all the way to the head, you collect the pre-cum in there before pushing it back and making the same path with your tongue. Lilia groans and you feel her tension melting a notch. You replace your fingers with your mouth, licking the bead before swallowing it whole. 

It doesn’t take a genius to notice that this thing isn’t going down your throat without choking you, so you focus on what you can do. Taking as much as you can, you make up for the rest with an unclosed fist, using just the right amount of pressure so as to not hurt her. 

Sucking tentatively, you hear a moan and look up. Lilia’s eyes are close, mouth open as her chest rises rhythmically with her anticipated breath. Her fingers are white from the grip, and you realize she’s holding herself back from grabbing your head and forcing you down. 

You groan over the cock and bob around it, your palm going to her balls and massaging them. Eyes fixated, you watch her every reaction as she stiffens under you. 

You feel your arousal beneath your own skirt, it clings to your core and you refrain from using your free hand to touch yourself, compensating by placing your heel under you and matching the movement of your hips with the one of your head. 

Taking a moment to breathe, you feel hands sweeping through your bangs. Glancing up, your eyes meet your mentor’s and you blush when she grabs your hair like a ponytail, taking it out of your face. 

“You’re doing great, doll.” Her voice is husky, you squirm against your feet. 

God, this is not helping. 

You swallow at the praise and focus on your job. Still looking into her eyes, you descend and take it as much as it goes, swirling your tongue around it and bouncing as fast as you can. She tugs your hair harder and you whine against her skin, the vibration making her tear her eyes away as she throws her head back, letting out unrestrained moans as slurping sounds leave your mouth. 

Grinding your hips against your heel, you feel yourself getting wetter by the second and curse for having to take care of it alone. Her groin starts to move in its own accord, she doesn’t even seem to notice as her crotch drives up and harder into your mouth, you swallow and swallow against her, focusing on your breath and controlling the rhythm. She isn’t forcing your head, just holding it and that’s fine, it’s hot that she doesn’t want to hurt you.

Drool starts to drip down your chin and you moan louder against her, feeling the erratic movement against your clit picking up speed alongside your head. You close your eyes and take in both sensations. After all, it isn’t everyday that you get to suck your mentor’s dick. 

You force your head back and inhale deeply, the faster the movement, the harder it is to breathe. Your hand continues the work and the other one joins in, circling her head and pressing it. 

Pushing her cock closer to her skirt, you go down to her balls, sucking one into your mouth and sooner than you expected, her whole body tightens. She lets out a loud moan and her nails sink into your scalp, you quickly try to catch her climax in your mouth before it’s too late. 

An inch away, you feel a sticky consistency gushing onto your face, landing inside your mouth all the way up to your forehead. 

You grimace and lick your lips, tasting the saltiness of her cum. 

Passing your finger over your eyelids, you sculpt most of the liquid and open them when you hear a ‘thud’ above you. Lilia banging her head against the armchair. 

“Goddammit.” Her chest rises and falls with her erratic breath, there’s a red hue on her cheeks. 

“Sorry.” You mumble.

“It’s not your fault. I should have warned you.” She looks down and shock flashes across her face. 

You must be quite an image with cum stuck in your hair and dripping down your face. She stares at you for a long time and you squirm, taking your heel out from under you before anything else happens. 

“We can try something else.” You whisper. 

“No, love. You’ve already helped more than you should. I don't want to force you a second time.” She runs her thumb over your cheek, vaguely attempting to tidy you up. 

“You didn’t force me, and I’ve told you before that I don’t mind.” Emphasizing your statement, you grab her wrist and bring her finger to your mouth, sucking, licking and moaning around it. 

Her pupils blow hide and she turns serious, following your movement as you stand up in front of her, lifting your short skirt and straddling her lap. 

She stares at you, eyes slightly wide and lips parted. The erection stands between you, a magic cock apparently only goes down once it services its purpose. Your wet underwear touches her thighs and a beat passes before you gather enough courage to lean forward. 

Grabbing her neck, you give her time to pull away. Surprising you, she grabs your wrists and pulls you forward, crashing your mouths together. Moaning, you let her tongue guide the rhythm, she makes slow movements, exploring your mouth like she wants to taste as much as she can. The kiss is languid and teasing, she takes her sweet time and you begin to rub your soaked core against her legs.

Separating, you watch as she licks her lips, looking at you like she wants to eat you alive. You brush your underwear against her cock and she groans, grabbing your waist. You’re so painfully turned on that you don’t even wait for her to say anything before you reach down and push your panties aside. 

Rubbing against the hard cock, you try coating it with as much of your wetness as you can. It’s been a while since you had anything this big inside you, if ever. It looks a lot bigger than the ones you’ve seen, your hand hadn’t closed around it before. 

It’s going to be a stretch. 

You take a deep breath before raising up on your knees, you brush the head against your entrance and Lilia’s grip hardens. Sinking down on the tip, you pause, licking your lips before continuing. You take it half way in before stopping. This shit wasn’t only wide, its length was something you had never seen before.

Noticing your struggle, the gray haired witch leans forward, attacking your neck and sliding your shirt straps down. Her hands run from your waist to your breast, her fingers pinch your nipples and you moan, feeling wetness stick to your thigh before your core swallows more of her skin. 

Slowly sitting, you feel your center stretching before your ass finally meets her balls. You halt, adjusting to the sting. Lilia’s work on your tits helps. Your spine is slightly curved as she grips your ribs and her mouth bites and sucks your chest. You feel hickeys forming in your neck and you can bet she did it on purpose, you’d have to walk around with those purple marks for about a week. 

She runs her tongue over your nipple while her hand massages your other breast. You begin to slowly grind your hips in circles motion, a vibration reverberating through your chest as she moans. 

Accepting the pain as pleasure, you lift yourself once and then lower. Your mentor stops her work and bites into your neck, hands gripping your waist tightly as she helps you with your movement. 

You’re so desperate that you can’t even tease her, after trying once, you continue, picking up speed with Lilia’s assistance. You’re both so aroused you can feel your orgasm building up rapidly. Throwing your head back, you moan without restrain, mirroring your mentor’s groans against your neck. Her arm circles your hip and she slams into you, meeting you halfway. 

Her cock is so big, you can feel it beating against your cervix and hitting all the right places as it fills you up. Her free hand goes down and finds your clit easily, rubbing in circular motions. You let out a cry and your movements become erratic, determinedly chasing your release as your walls grip her. 

She’s clearly holding back and when your movements become sloppy as your body goes rigid, she lets go. You both come together, ragged breaths mingling and sweat clinging to your foreheads. 

You feel her cum filling you up, the hot liquid doesn’t seem to stop and you kiss her once more as she spurts inside you. This time the kiss is faster, harder as you pull her hair and whine against her when she grabs your ass and accidentally rubs your clit against her skin. 

The cum starts to run down your thighs and wet the fabrics between you, her cock still throbs inside and you feel her balls shrinking in size. There’s an absurd amount of fluid and you groan against the kiss, the cum making you excited once again. 

Pulling back, you focus on the feeling of her cock decreasing inside you as it disappears, you instantly miss the feeling of fullness. 

Kissing her for a third time, you calmly run your tongue against hers as you replay all this morning's events. Thanking your magic for the mishap, your eyes widen when you remember something important. You pull back.

Licking your suddenly dry lips, you frown at her and whisper. 

“Should we have used a condom?” 

Her mouth drops open. 

[paranoiddreams]

Hi, I don’t know if you’re accepting requests, but you could write something about JK where his girlfriend is accompanying them on tour and he keeps sneaking away without the managers and boys coming to sleep with her or take her to his bunk bed on the tour bus or to his hotel room... smuttt pls

OH MAMI✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

✧ idol!Jungkook x gn!reader

✧ WC!! - 1.42k

✧ Warnings!! - unprotected sex, jk is kinda mean!!!, he hitting it from the back😜, voyeurism(?), they almost get caught, or do they…, explicit language, idky but there’s smth going on with Yoongi, degradation, use of ‘slut’ once,

✧ A/n!! - I really hope you enjoy this, I hope it’s what you wanted! I love this request, and had so much fun writing it😻 The title is the song I thought fit this vibe ig, so if you want to check it out it’s by Chase Atlantic. Hope you all enjoy!! <3

“J-Jungkook, they’re right outside!”

Your sweet, caring, often naive, boyfriend Jungkook currently has you bent over the small, flimsy table in the tour bus he and the rest of the band are traveling the world in. 

When he invited you to come with him on tour, you immediately said yes, because all of the times he was gone in the past felt like whole life times; It’s no secret you and Jungkook are inseparable. So, this year being a more laid back one, management decided it was okay for you to come this time. Although that decision in hindsight might not have been the best one to make. 

Jimin and Taehyung can’t count the amount of times he thought he was talking to Jungkook walking behind him, only to turn around and see him glued to his phone, texting you about where to meet in the next few minutes. Namjoon swears he’s going to damage his voice from how much he’s been scolding the youngest for disappearing suddenly and coming back 20 minutes later with flushed cheeks and ruffled hair. Most of all, the whole band, including the staff, are annoyed by the obvious trips you and Jungkook take to the nearest utility closet at any hotel room before every concert. 

But they’re not the only one’s slightly annoyed. You’ve told your insatiable boyfriend many times that he needs to control himself, but of course, he’s as stubborn as a dog. But then again, even if you’re vehemently opposed to his ‘adventurous’ rendezvous, you still always end up in this position. 

Currently, you’re bent over the flimsy table of the tour bus, and Jungkook ramming his cock into you from behind while everyone is out stretching their legs; something you can’t help but be hyperaware of. 

“J-Jungkook, they’re right outside!”

Your sweet, caring, often naive, boyfriend Jungkook is no where to be seen. When you look over your shoulder, you see his face contorted in blinding euphoria, his brows furrowed as he lets out low grunts of pleasure. He seems to not notice everyone right outside of the curtain-covered window he’s fucking you in front of, and if he does, he doesn’t pay any mind at all. You can barely hear a few voices underneath the sound of Jungkook’s cock slamming into you, making every little sound you or Jungkook let out seem 10x louder.

“W-We need to be quiet!” You stammer out in a hushed tone. 

Although your mind is only occupied with trying not to get caught, your body is completely under the control of Jungkook’s rough thrusts. You’re clenching around him, dripping down your thighs  and his cock to the carpeted floor of the tour bus while his fingers dig into the pliant skin of your hips. 

“Yeah?” He growls condescendingly. “Better be quiet then, huh?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, your heart hammering in your ears as his growled words send shivers down your spine. You slam your palms down onto the table you’re bent over, your fingers turning white as you hold on for dear life from the pleasure ripping through your body. 

“J-Jungkook! Please, you’re g-going too fast!” You manage to cry out through breathless pants. But your boyfriend only laughs in return, his warm breath hitting your shoulder. 

He lifts his hands from your hips, his pelvis pressing against your ass as he slides himself all the way into you, staying there as he reaches around to grab both of your wrists. He holds them behind your back with one hand, using the other to cover your mouth. His chin rests on your shoulder as he turns his head to whisper in your ear, his lips brushing against your skin. 

“I told you to be quiet,” he says in a low chiding tone, “do you want the others to walk in on us? To know how much of a fucking slut you are when they leave?”

A guttural, almost animalistic mewl leaves your lips, muffled by his palm, as he speaks into your ear. You feel him continue his brutal pace, slow but hard as he rams into your sore entrance. The thought of his words, to your surprise, send a rush of arousing embarrassment through your body, your thighs clenching together as you’re barely able to hold yourself up anymore. 

Noticing this, Jungkook pulls out of you suddenly with a low hiss, uncovering your mouth and releasing your hands to grab your waist and flip you around. You barely even have time to gasp out his name before he’s lifting you up onto the table, pushing your thighs apart roughly. 

“N-No! Don’t—!“ you start to protest, but cut yourself off with a strangled moan when he slams his leaking cock back inside of you, his hands hooked under your thighs to push them apart further. 

“Look at you, making such a mess,” he whispers, looking into your eyes with an almost unrecognizable lust. Your eyes flicker down, catching a glimpse of his glistening cock pushing in and out of you, your combined fluid dripping onto the table beneath you. Your face flushes with heat, and you feel your second—maybe third?—orgasm starting to wash over you. 

“Oh, fuck yes, baby,” he pants out, his dominant tone turning more desperate as he chases his own oncoming high, “god, you’re so tight when you cum around my cock…”

Your thighs shake as he holds them open, his thrusts becoming more sloppy and untimed as you pulsate and gush around him. As your euphoric high clouds your mind, and your judgment, you wrap your legs around his waist, holding him deep inside of you. Then you feel his warm cum spill into you. 

“Fuck, y/n,” he whines when he looks down at you with heavy-lidded eyes. His hips rock softly into you a few more times as you suck him in and milk him completely. When he’s done, he goes slightly limp as he catches his breath, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. 

“You let me cum inside…” he whispers after a few moments, still a little delirious from his climax. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, realizing what you did as the fog of lust clears in your mind, “I did…but only so we won’t have too much to clean up.”

Jungkook laughs adorably, as if he weren’t covered in your cum, his softening dick still buried deep inside of you. “Oh really? You made quite the mess too—“

Both you and Jungkook stop suddenly when the door to the tour bus jiggles, your eyes going wide. 

In a moment of panic, Jungkook pulls himself out of you, tugging his jeans back on from around his ankles as you hop down to the ground to find your shorts. By the time you do find them under the table, the door opens, and Yoongi walks in. 

“Yah—where’s y/n/n?” He asks in his usual grumpy tone, holding a bag of snacks from the gas station in his hands. 

Jungkook flinches, determined to keep his eyes on Yoongi’s and not under the table where you’re trying to shimmy on your shorts as quietly as possible. 

“Oh! Uh, she’s—uhm, she’s in the bathroom,” he stammers out, practically jumping to stand in front of the table, leaning against it to hide the obvious mess while he keeps his eyes on Yoongi. 

After buttoning your shorts you freeze under the table, looking between Jungkook’s legs at Yoongi in front of him, the tour bus deadly silent. 

“Okay,” he finally says after a few moments, “well when she comes back tell her I got those chips she likes.”

Jungkook nods with a painfully forced smile, holding a thumbs up for emphasis as he watches Yoongi walk towards the back of the tour bus. “Yup! I will!” He says, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Once Yoongi is out of sight, Jungkook lets out a sigh of relief and squats down to look at you under the table. 

“Are you okay?!” He asks with those big doe eyes you can never seem to stay mad at. 

“Yeah, but now these shorts are ruined,” you grumble as you crawl out from under the table, cringing at the feeling of your and Jungkook’s combined cum sticking to your thighs. 

Once you stand, Jungkook lets out an incredulous giggle, wrapping his arms around your shoulders to pull you against his chest. You stand there for a moment, basking in his warmth, until you both jump at the sound of Yoongi calling out from the back of the bus:

“Make sure to clean up the mess you both left!”

Seems like you’ll both need to work on your sneaking-around skills more.

Thank you to the lovely @kloserpeenguintiljk for requesting! I hope you enjoyed <3

[sixeyesonathiel]

a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH06 – scientific breakthrough : gojo satoru actually cares. terrifying.

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

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chapter summary : step six in ditching the world's most persistent nerd: do not let him see you unravel. do not let him wrap his jacket around your shoulders. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, ask him why he cares.

a/n : if you've ever thought 'being seen and understood is my worst nightmare,' congratulations, this chapter was made for you. warning: daddy issues, trust issues, emotional repression, and an overwhelming amount of unhealthy coping mechanism. please prepare for a descent into emotional instability, an aggressive refusal to acknowledge feelings, and the psychological horror of realizing that someone actually cares and perceives you. if you cry, just know i cried first. enjoy the suffering.

tuesday morning arrives with a weight that refuses to leave, pressing against your skin like a phantom touch. the air in your bedroom is thick, unmoving, the blackout curtains shielding you from the sharpness of daylight, but the world outside doesn’t wait for you to wake up. your phone vibrates relentlessly on the silk sheets beside you, each buzz stacking over the last—shoko and the others, no doubt demanding the details of your spectacularly underwhelming night.

you don’t need to read their messages to know what’s waiting for you—the sharp demands, the thinly veiled disbelief, the inevitable outrage the moment they find out. after everything, after all the effort, after every calculated move designed to have gojo satoru unraveling in your hands, he had remained untouchable. he hadn’t faltered, hadn’t stumbled, hadn’t even tried to resist—because there was nothing to resist. it hadn’t been a struggle for him.

your fingers hover over the keyboard before you scoff, throwing the device aside, silk rustling beneath it as you stare at the ceiling. what the hell is there to even say? no matter how you replay the night, the outcome remains the same: he had been amused, entertained, not once slipping from the effortless control that made your blood boil. there had been no hesitation in his gaze, no faltering in his movements, just that insufferable confidence, that detached curiosity, as if you were an interesting puzzle rather than a woman he should be losing himself to. it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, sharp and lingering, an unfamiliar frustration curling up your throat. you’ve never had to work for this before.

the thought alone is enough to send another wave of irritation through you, hot and unrelenting. it claws at your skin, prickles at the edges of your composure, demanding release, but before you can bury yourself beneath the covers and pretend the morning doesn’t exist, your phone rings. the sound is unmistakable—soft, elegant, demanding attention in a way that sends a slow dread curling through your stomach. your father. you stare at the name flashing on the screen, willing yourself to ignore it, but the moment stretches too long, the hesitation already an answer in itself. so you school your voice into something light, something detached, and press accept.

“morning.”

“good morning, angel.” his voice is smooth, warm, rich with indulgence, every syllable dipped in something sweet enough to rot. the way he says sweetheart makes your skin prickle, saccharine and too much, like a candy coating over something rancid. he is never this affectionate without reason. “did you sleep well?”

your grip on the phone tightens, knuckles paling beneath the pressure. why is he being like this? your mind flickers through possibilities, but none of them settle right. instead, you exhale, tilting your head back against the pillows, eyes tracing the crystal lines of the chandelier above you. “i guess.”

there’s a pause—long enough for you to hear the faint scratch of his pen against paper, the quiet clink of a glass being set down. then, almost absently, he says, “yesterday, you spent fifty million yen in one store.”

you don’t blink. “and?”

his laughter is easy, effortless, like you’re a child caught sneaking sweets before dinner. “fifty million yen—in a luxury mall.” he exhales, bemused. “my dear, you could have spent billions somewhere more exclusive. i didn't gift you a private jet for nothing.”

of course.

the implication settles like lead in your stomach. he doesn’t care that you spent. he cares where.

you almost laugh. almost. but it isn’t funny—it never is. because of course, it isn’t about the number, not about excess, not about waste. you were raised to believe that money was meant to be spent, that the act of spending was as natural as breathing. but there was a right way to do it, a way that upheld status, that reinforced power. the idea that you’d throw only fifty million yen at some glorified shopping center rather than invest in something truly worthy of your name is what bothers him. not the price tag, but the principle.

your fingers curl into the sheets, twisting them between tense knuckles. “it was an impulse buy.” you say, forcing lightness into your tone, feigning nonchalance.

“hmm.” another pause, long and measured, and you can already hear the faint smile curling at the edges of his words. “impulse is good. instinct is good. but you deserve the best, angel. never forget that.”

never forget that.

your jaw tightens, something sharp coiling beneath your ribs. you want to say something defiant, something that cuts, but there’s no point. he won’t listen, won’t argue—he never argues. he only corrects, like you’re a child who needs gentle redirection, a daughter whose worst flaw is an occasional lapse in judgment, a little girl playing pretend in a world run by men like him.

and then, just as you’re about to change the subject, he does it for you.

“by the way.” his tone is casual, smooth as a well-aged whiskey, but you know better. “i heard you’ve been spending time with gojo satoru.”

your breath catches before you can stop it, fingers twitching against the silk sheets.

you knew this was coming. you knew the second you stepped into satoru’s car last night that there would be eyes, that there would be whispers, that nothing you did would ever escape your father’s notice. it doesn’t matter how careful you are, how many shadows you slip through—his reach is longer, his influence deeper. he has always seen everything, and worse, he has always been waiting. waiting for you to slip, waiting for an opportunity, waiting for something he can use.

you school your expression, steady your voice, make sure nothing betrays the way your pulse thrums just a little too fast. “and?”

there’s a pause, deliberate, weighted just enough to remind you who controls the conversation. then, smoothly, indulgently, he says, “if you need help with anything—if there’s something you want—just let your daddy take care of it, hmm?”

your stomach twists so hard it nearly makes you sick.

you hate this part the most. the way he drapes affection over his words like a velvet sheath, disguising the edge beneath. the way he dotes on you, voice honeyed and rich, a father adoring his perfect daughter—his only daughter, his greatest investment. the way he makes you feel small, makes you feel precious, makes you feel like something to be protected rather than a woman who could destroy men if she wanted to. and the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that there is still a tiny, pathetic part of you that wants it.

that still craves it.

that remembers being seven years old, running to him in the halls of some grand, foreign estate, giggling, calling him daddy with all the love in the world before you were old enough to understand what he really was.

but you are old enough now. and you know exactly what he’s offering.

it has nothing to do with you. it never has. it’s not about protecting you, not about caring for you, not about making sure you’re safe, or happy, or even content. it’s about control. about power. about winning. he doesn’t just want you to have satoru—he wants you to own him.

because the gojo name is the only one that could ever stand next to yours without being eclipsed.

your grip on the phone is white-knuckled, nails digging into your palm. “i can handle it.” you say, and you hate how defensive it sounds, how it betrays you.

his chuckle is low, indulgent, a sound that makes something cold crawl down your spine. like you’re adorable. like you’re a child. like you don’t already know the game he’s playing. “of course you can.”

he won’t push. he never does. he’ll let the thought linger, let it fester, let you think it was your idea when you eventually cave. he has built empires on the backs of men who thought they were free. and maybe, if he were anyone else, you would admire it.

but he’s not. and you don’t.

he doesn’t scold you for partying. doesn’t call to ask if you’re safe, if you’re okay, if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you miss him. he doesn’t care that you spend your nights in the arms of men you don’t love, drinking yourself into a numb haze just to get through the week. the only thing that ever warrants a call is money. or business. or power.

you swallow the bitterness rising in your throat. “is that all?”

“that’s all, angel.” his voice is warm, pleased, dripping with effortless affection. like he loves you. like he’s proud. like he didn’t just remind you exactly what you are to him. “have a good day.”

the line clicks dead before you can answer.

for a long time, you just stare at your phone. the screen has long gone dark, but the weight of his words lingers, curling around your ribs like a vice, pressing down until your breath feels thin, shallow, insufficient. your pulse thrums in your ears, steady but too loud, drowning out everything else, leaving you with nothing but the sharp, bitter taste of control disguised as affection.

you already know how this plays out. shoko will take one look at you and see everything, utahime will start running her mouth before you even sit down, mei mei will hum like she’s already placing bets on your next move. you won’t let them see it. won’t let them see the way your chest feels tight, the way your thoughts are tangled, ugly, impossible to smooth out.

so you do what you always do. you overcompensate.

you drag yourself out of bed, tossing your phone aside, silk sheets shifting as you push to your feet. the room is dim, the air heavy with the scent of perfume lingering from the night before, a reminder of everything that should have gone differently. your bare feet press against the cold marble as you move, slow, deliberate, toward the walk-in closet that holds everything—every identity you’ve ever crafted, every version of yourself the world has demanded. rows of couture line the space, silk and lace and luxury draped on gold hangers, waiting. your fingers trail over the delicate fabrics, smooth and cool beneath your touch, before they stop on exactly what you’re looking for. before you even pull it from the hanger, you know how it will feel against your skin.

delicate lace, dangerously sheer, thin straps that barely cling to your shoulders. the kind of dress that invites attention, that commands it, that turns eyes whether you want them to or not. it’s impractical, inappropriate, something designed for dimly lit lounges and whispered promises, not for morning. but you don’t think about that. don’t think about the way the fabric shifts when you move, how it will ride up too easily, how it was made to be touched. you don’t consider the risks, don’t let the thought settle long enough to matter. you just want to feel different. anything but what you felt on that phone call.

your father’s voice is still there, thick with honeyed condescension, wrapping around your thoughts like a silk ribbon, too tight, too smooth. his words echo, threading beneath your skin, settling in places you can’t reach. never forget that. the indulgence in his tone, the amusement, the way he speaks to you like you’re a little girl playing dress-up in a world too big for you to ever truly hold. your fingers tighten around the fabric, the lace crumpling between your knuckles as you yank it from the hanger, careless. the dress is fragile, expensive, a masterpiece of design, but right now, it’s nothing more than a response. an instinct.

not a conscious rebellion—just something to drown out the sound of him in your head.

you slip it over your frame, the fabric whispering against bare skin, cool and weightless. thin lace straps sit precariously on your shoulders, barely there, teasing the line between elegance and something sharper, something that asks for trouble. the bodice dips lower than it should, the hemline threatens to ride up with every movement, but you don’t adjust it. don’t fidget, don’t fix, don’t care. you just let it be.

your fingers brush over the lace as you step in front of the mirror, taking in the reflection that meets you. bare skin, intricate patterns, sharp lines where softness should be. you don’t smile, don’t smirk, don’t pose. just look. at the way the fabric clings, at the way the dress was made to frame a body that is untouchable, untamed. at the girl who looks back at you, poised, effortless, unreadable.

not a child. certainly not an angel either.

you run a hand through your hair, exhaling slowly, releasing the tension in your jaw, in your shoulders, in the places his voice tried to settle.

you won’t see satoru today. won’t deal with any of it today.

you just need to get through the morning.

the moment your heels touch the pristine pavement outside the campus, the air shifts. conversations slow, falter, rearrange themselves around your presence like a ripple in still water. admiration thickens in the atmosphere, inevitable, predictable, a force of nature as certain as the pull of gravity. heads turn, necks crane, eyes drag over you in ways both deliberate and stolen, some lingering too long, some snapping away the second you meet their gaze. it’s an attention you know, an attention you’ve earned, an attention that normally fills something hollow inside you. but today, it barely registers. today, it’s just another weight pressing down on a mind already heavy with the residue of the morning.

they look. they always look. it’s the curse of beauty, the burden of being something designed to be admired, something that demands to be consumed whether you want it or not.

you can feel their eyes. the hushed murmurs, the split-second hesitations, the too-loud silence of those who don’t know whether they should stare or look away.

too short. too sheer. too much.

someone nearly walks into a pillar. another audibly gulps. one poor soul stares too long and gets smacked upside the head by his friend.

it’s nothing new. it should amuse you—the way people react like they’ve never seen a woman before, the way admiration tilts so easily into something flustered, something desperate, something stupid. you should bask in it, revel in the power that comes with turning heads without trying. but today, it barely scrapes against your consciousness. today, your mind is still tangled in the remnants of your father’s voice, in the slow-dripping venom of his words, in the way he made your entire existence feel like a carefully managed portfolio.

you don’t want to think today.

which is unfortunate, because the second you step past the gates, you are immediately ambushed.

“are you dead? kidnapped? in a coma? because those are the only acceptable reasons for why you didn’t text back—”

utahime’s voice slices through the air, sharp and unrelenting, demanding an answer before you’ve even fully stepped past the gates. her heels click against the pavement in rapid succession, a clear warning that she isn’t letting this go, not until you give her something. shoko is right behind her, exhaling a slow drag from her cigarette, eyes already half-lidded with unimpressed resignation, as if she’s counting down the seconds before this turns into a full-blown interrogation. mei mei lingers just a step to the side, not rushing to join but watching, a sleek predator in a silk blouse, gaze flashing with quiet amusement. she isn’t here to demand answers—she’s here to enjoy them. the longer you hesitate, the more valuable the entertainment becomes.

you barely get a breath in before utahime grabs your arm, manicured nails digging in, eyes widening as she takes you in like she’s seeing you for the first time. her gasp is so dramatic it practically echoes, drawing glances from the students loitering nearby. “oh my god.”

shoko exhales, letting the smoke curl lazily past her lips before finally giving you a once-over, her judgment slow, deliberate. “...you’re actually insane.”

mei mei hums, tilting her head slightly as she appraises your dress with something dangerously close to approval. “hmm. it’s a good look. though i think you’re about five seconds away from an old professor spontaneously combusting.”

utahime, still reeling, vibrates with barely-contained energy, her grip tightening around your wrist. “did you get laid?”

you jerk back, nearly stumbling in your heels. “excuse me?”

“that’s the only explanation,” she insists, gesturing wildly at your attire, nearly smacking shoko in the process. “i mean, this? this? this is an ‘i had amazing sex’ dress.”

shoko coughs out a laugh, nearly losing her cigarette, while mei mei arches a brow, intrigued.

you pinch the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly through clenched teeth. “utahime—”

“so did you?”

shoko, ever the voice of reason, lifts a single brow, leveling you with a look that’s far too knowing for your liking. “this is about gojo, isn’t it?”

the air tightens, sharpens, a barely-there pause before—

utahime gasps. loudly.

“you didn’t reply because you were with him?!”

you groan, dragging a hand down your face, barely restraining the urge to physically shove her away. “no. i ignored you because i was sleeping.”

utahime narrows her eyes, leaning in slightly, searching your face for cracks. “suspicious.”

normally, you’d play along, feed into their assumptions, twist the conversation until it worked in your favor, thrive off the attention even as it disgusted you. but today, you just can’t. today, your patience is as thin as the lace on your dress, unraveling thread by thread, fraying at the seams. today, you just want the world to shut up.

“so,” shoko drawls, voice smooth, deliberate, entirely too knowing, “how’d the date go?”

silence.

a long silence.

mei mei smirks, slow and sharp, like she’s already decided this is the most entertaining part of her morning. utahime’s eyes widen, flicking between you and the others like she’s bracing for impact. shoko just stares, waiting, cigarette hanging between two fingers, the ember glowing faintly as if it, too, is holding its breath.

and then—utahime screeches.

“don’t tell me it didn’t work?!?”

you shove past them, making a beeline for the main building, your heels clicking against the pavement with enough force to warn them off. “i’m not talking about this here.”

“so it didn’t work!!”

you ignore her. absolutely not. you are not about to have this conversation in broad daylight, not when half the school is already staring at you like you’ve descended from a different plane of existence. their gazes cling like fabric caught on thorns, admiration and curiosity weaving together into something you should enjoy, something you usually enjoy. but today, it’s just another weight pressing down, another reminder of the eyes you’ll never escape.

unfortunately, your three best friends have never been known for their subtlety.

shoko matches your pace with infuriating ease, hands shoved into her pockets, exhaling smoke as she casually side-eyes you. “he didn’t react at all, did he?”

“not even a little bit?” utahime presses, still vibrating with residual disbelief.

you don’t grind your teeth. don’t scoff, don’t roll your eyes. you just… sigh. a slow, measured thing, precise in its weight, deliberate in its effortlessness.

“no,” you say simply, voice light, untouched, like last night wasn’t a complete failure. like it doesn’t bother you at all. “he wasn’t flustered. wasn’t thrown off. just amused.”

silence. a beat too long.

shoko’s cigarette pauses midair, a thin wisp of smoke curling toward the sky. mei mei’s fingers still mid-adjustment of her bracelet, the silver catching the light. utahime—predictably—is the first to react.

“okay, that’s not normal,” she says flatly, scanning your face like she expects to see a crack forming in your composure.

“definitely not normal,” shoko agrees, brow twitching upward, cigarette lowering just slightly.

mei mei hums, a thoughtful sound, gaze sharp beneath the weight of amusement. her nails tap idly against the gold clasp of her bag, rhythmic, unhurried, like she’s already dissecting you piece by piece. “and you’re… fine with that?” she doesn’t say interesting, but it lingers between the words, stretching the silence thin. she’s studying you, the way a predator studies a wounded animal—not out of pity, but curiosity, waiting to see if you’ll limp.

you shrug, careless, effortless, the picture of someone with nothing to prove. “why wouldn’t i be?”

the air shifts, subtle but undeniable, a quiet current of unease threading between you. your nonchalance is wrong, off, just enough to make them hesitate. they expected frustration, irritation, something dramatic—a sharp scoff, an exasperated eye roll, a low, venomous rant about how no one ignores you, least of all gojo satoru. but instead, you are calm. unbothered. untouchable.

except, they know you too well. they know the difference between control and detachment.

shoko exhales, flicking ash onto the pavement, watching you through the thin veil of smoke curling between you. “you’re taking this too well.” her voice is even, measured, but there’s something else beneath it—something wary, something bordering on concern.

“i am?” you tilt your head slightly, amusement threading through your tone, light and dismissive.

utahime folds her arms, gaze narrowing, the skeptical weight of her stare pressing down on you. “yes. you are. which is why i don’t believe you.”

your smile is easy, smooth, the kind that gleams like polished glass—pristine, impenetrable, impossible to crack. “then don’t.”

you turn without waiting for a response, stepping through the entrance, letting the doors swing shut behind you. the warmth of the building presses against your skin, heavy and familiar, but it doesn’t chase away the cold curling in your chest. their voices follow, softer now, hushed under the weight of what isn’t being said.

you’re fine.

really.

you step into the classroom, the cool air of the lecture hall settling against your skin like an unwelcome touch, sharp and grounding. the fluorescent lights cast a clinical glow over the rows of seats, the faint hum of the projector filling the silence as students murmur, shuffle, settle. you move through it with ease, slipping into your usual seat with the practiced grace of someone who has done this a thousand times before. nothing is out of place, nothing is unfamiliar, nothing is wrong. you are here, in your seat, in your body, in control.

you are not thinking about him.

but he is impossible to ignore.

he’s seated one row above you, posture as effortless as ever, one arm draped over the back of his chair like he owns the space around him. today, his glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, wire-rimmed and deceptively delicate, a sharp contrast to the well-fitted knit jacket layered over his crisp button-up. the fabric is expensive, subtly rich, draping over him in a way that suggests wealth without ever having to announce it. everything about him is composed, curated, intentional—right down to the way he doesn’t even look in your direction.

you don’t look at him either. not directly.

the lecture begins, numbers and strategies flickering across the screen, the professor’s voice a steady drone that fills the space without quite reaching you. you keep your eyes on your notes, let the pen move in smooth, precise strokes, let the rhythm of ink against paper give you something to anchor yourself to. satoru doesn’t move. doesn’t turn. doesn’t acknowledge you in any way.

the class drones on. you take notes. you listen. you exist.

you are fine.

and then, the lecture ends.

you push out of your seat immediately, movements smooth, efficient, calculated to leave. you don’t need to linger. don’t need to hesitate. the room is still filled with students filtering out, conversations overlapping, laughter cutting through the air in bursts of sound. you navigate through them with ease, heels clicking against the polished floor, your focus singular—get out, move forward, keep going.

and then—a grip on your wrist. the touch is firm, insistent, enough to halt you before you even see who it is. your stomach twists. you already know.

when you turn, it’s exactly who you expected—son of a major media company, charming in a way that feels practiced, manufactured, honed like a well-worn script. his smile is easy, his confidence effortless, the kind of man who has never been told no in a way that mattered. he’s been circling you for weeks, persistent in ways that should be flattering but aren’t, his interest another thing that clings like cigarette smoke—lingering, unpleasant, impossible to scrub off.

any other day you would've entertain his bullshit but not today—your patience is nonexistent.

you tug your wrist back, sharp and immediate, fingers curling into a fist to stop yourself from doing more. “not in the mood.”

he laughs, casual, dismissive, the sound curling around your spine like something rotting. “come on, don’t be like that.”

your eyes narrow, voice cold, cutting. “don’t touch me.”

he ignores you, reaching out again—too fast, too careless. his fingers brush against your arm, the movement not forceful, not aggressive, but clumsy, entitled, as if he is allowed. as if he is owed. you move to pull away, sharp and immediate, but it’s already too late. his hand catches, just barely, on the delicate lace of your dress—

and suddenly, the air shifts.

the sound is soft, almost insignificant, a quiet snap of thread, a whisper of fabric giving way. but the effect is immediate, mortifying. the thin strap of your dress slips off your shoulder, dragging the delicate fabric dangerously low—not enough to bare everything, but enough to make heads turn, enough to freeze the air around you, enough to make your breath catch in horror. gasps ripple through the lecture hall, sharp inhales, the rustling of movement as heads turn, attention crashing down on you in waves, heavy and suffocating. whispers start, too fast to track, words you don’t hear but know, voices curling through the air like the inevitable hum of scandal.

your breath catches, muscles locking—before anything else can happen, before you can even react, there is a presence.

him.

a shadow at your side, movement swift, seamless, a barrier forming between you and the world before you can so much as blink. fabric sweeps over your shoulders in one fluid motion, warm from body heat, enveloping you completely, drowning you in the scent of clean linen, something faintly sweet, something him. the shift in the atmosphere is instant, electric, the weight of his presence settling into the space like a hand closing around the throat of the moment.

gojo satoru.

he doesn’t just step in—he claims the space, effortlessly shifting the power dynamic, erasing everything else.

and for the first time in a long time since your group project with him started, satoru doesn’t look amused.

his voice, when it comes, is sharp, smoothed to a perfect edge, all the usual lightness carved away into something colder. “you should know better.”

it isn’t a suggestion.

it isn’t a threat.

it’s a simple, cutting truth, his tone even, satoru's words deceptively light, but carrying something weightier, something that lands with a finality that is felt. he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t acknowledge the way your body has gone rigid beneath the weight of his jacket, doesn’t give you even a second of respite before the next blow lands. “especially considering how much your father’s company relies on mine.”

the words sink deep, as intended.

the shift in the room is palpable, the media heir’s confidence cracking, realization dawning too late. satoru doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to—his name alone is enough, the weight of his position, his power, the gojo name rendering any resistance futile before it even forms.

your heartbeat is uneven, erratic, skin prickling under the lingering warmth of his jacket, the weight of it heavy against your shoulders, suffocating in ways it shouldn’t be. the scent of him clings to the fabric, clean linen and something faintly sweet, something distinctly his, something you refuse to acknowledge. it’s too much—too close, too consuming, too much like protection, like care, like something you never asked for. the last thing you want is to owe him for this, to let him think for even a second that you needed him. the humiliation coils in your gut, sharp and sickly, burning through your veins until you can’t stand it anymore.

you shove the fabric off immediately, movements sharp, rejecting it as fast as it was given, letting it fall from your shoulders like it burns. “i don’t need your help.” the words snap through the space between you, forceful, deliberate, a clear line drawn. you refuse to be saved. refuse to be something fragile, something handled, something pitiful. you don’t owe him for stepping in, and you won’t let him think you do.

satoru doesn’t blink, doesn’t budge, doesn’t react. “you really should stop punishing yourself.” satoru's voice is quiet, almost conversational, but it lands like a stone in your chest, rippling outward, impossible to ignore.

you glare, something clawing up your throat, something raw, something humiliating. “why do you even care?” the question lands like a challenge, sharp and biting, daring him to dismiss it, to laugh, to reduce it to nothing more than circumstance. because that would be easier, wouldn’t it? easier if this was just him being annoying, just another one of his games, another instance of gojo satoru moving because he can, not because he wants to.

because you don’t want him to want to. you don’t want him to care. but he doesn’t answer. and that’s the worst part.

because you need one. you need to know why. why does he keep stealing your food just to make you eat something healthier? why did he actually look close to mad? why does he care?

or—much better yet—for your own peace of mind, a denial.

for him to deadpan, to roll his eyes, to shrug it off. for him to tell you it’s just another one of his efficiency bullshit excuses, that you shouldn’t mistake it for anything else. that he just doesn’t want you to become a liability in your group project.

but he doesn’t say that, either.

his jaw simply tenses.

you glare, something clawing up your throat, something raw, something humiliating. “why do you even care?” the question lands like a challenge, sharp and biting, daring him to dismiss it, to laugh, to reduce it to nothing more than circumstance. because that would be easier, wouldn’t it? easier if this was just him being annoying, just another one of his games, another instance of gojo satoru moving because he can, not because he wants to.

but he doesn’t say that.

his jaw tenses.

a flicker of something passes behind his glasses, quick and unreadable, buried beneath layers of detachment before you can grasp onto it. his expression remains impassive, unreadable, but something lingers, something you can’t quite place. he has an answer—this know–it–all should have an answer—but he doesn’t say it. doesn’t give you anything.

he doesn’t know, doesn’t understand why he stepped in so quickly, why his chest still feels tight, why the sight of you so exposed, so vulnerable, made his blood run hot. he doesn’t understand the flicker of heat that had surged through his veins, the sharp, immediate need to erase the moment before it could settle. he doesn’t know why he acted on instinct, why his body moved before his mind even registered it, why he still hasn’t looked away.

and it infuriates you.

you scoff, stepping back, your voice curling at the edges, something bitter and sharp cutting through. “forget it.” the words leave your lips like an exhale, dismissive, as if the conversation is over, as if it never mattered. but your hands are still curled into fists, nails biting into your palms, and his glasses still catch the light when he tilts his head, watching you too closely.

but the moment you turn to leave, his hand catches yours—not rough, not forceful, but firm. the warmth of his palm seeps into your skin, steady and unyielding, sending a sharp pulse of something worse than humiliation curling down your spine. you expect him to play it off, to let that insufferable smirk creep onto his face, to ruin the moment with some lazy, self-assured remark.

but when you meet his gaze—his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose, low enough that you can see over the frames, straight into his eyes.

blue. too blue. too much.

they're not clouded with amusement, not softened with that insufferable glint of teasing. no, they're sharp, bright in a way that makes something inside you bristle—like he's looking through you instead of at you, like he's searching for something beneath your skin, something you're not sure even exists. his expression is unreadable, but the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch ever so slightly against yours, betrays something else. something that shouldn't be there.

before you can rip yourself from his grasp, he moves.

it’s effortless, infuriatingly so, the way he lifts the fabric, the way his hands find yours, guiding them through the sleeves, pulling the jacket over your shoulders in one smooth, practiced motion. the dim light catches on his lenses as he tilts his head, just slightly, shadows flickering across the sharp line of his cheekbone. his eyes remain steady, locked onto you even as he adjusts the fabric, even as he lingers for just a second too long before letting go.

his gaze doesn’t waver. doesn’t flicker with amusement. only scrutiny. doesn’t give you the easy out you need.

it should feel like an afterthought, like he’s barely paying attention, like this isn’t something significant, but it is. the sheer difference in size between you makes it impossible not to notice—the way the hem falls well past your dress, the way the sleeves engulf your hands, the way his warmth still lingers, wrapping around you like something inescapable.

his touch is fleeting, brief, barely there—but it lingers. and worse, so do his eyes. everything about him lingers.

you should pull his stupid jacket off. should throw it in his face.

you should pull it off. should throw it in his face.

but you can’t.

because the ugly, clawing feeling inside you is worse than anything you were prepared for. the overwhelming wrongness of being seen, the raw humiliation of standing in the center of a moment you never wanted to happen, the sickening weight of why does he care? pressing down on your chest like a vice. the warmth of the jacket should be comforting, should be protective, but it only makes your skin burn, only reminds you of how exposed you were, how easily he stepped in, how quickly he moved to fix it. the feeling is unbearable, twisting through you like a blade, and the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that this warmth, this action, his hands steadying the fabric around you, makes you feel safe.

and you hate that. you hate him for making you feel that.

the words rip from your throat before you can stop them, sharp and bitter and cruel, cutting through the tension like glass shattering against marble. “you’re so fucking annoying, gojo.”

his hands still for a fraction of a second.

the silence is deafening.

you don’t look at him. you can’t. if you do, you might see something in his expression that you don’t have the strength to acknowledge. so you rip yourself away, storming off, the oversized jacket swallowing you whole as you put as much distance between you as possible. it’s suffocating, drowning you in the scent of him, in the reminder of what just happened, in the unbearable reality that no matter how far you walk, he’s still there.

his fingers linger in the empty air for a second longer before he lets them curl into his palm.

the further you walk, the heavier it feels.

the weight of it—of him—lingers on your shoulders, an unwelcome presence wrapped around you like a second skin. his warmth still clings to the fabric, seeping into your own body heat, settling into you, like something permanent, something that refuses to be shaken off. every step away from the classroom should be enough to erase it, to strip yourself of whatever the hell just happened, to distance yourself from the moment that left you raw and exposed. but it isn’t. it follows you, clings to your skin, presses against your ribs like a hand refusing to let go.

your fingers twitch, clenching into the material, curling into the oversized sleeves that drown your hands. the scent of his cologne—clean linen, something faintly sweet, something him—curls around you like smoke, invisible and inescapable, creeping into your senses no matter how much you try to ignore it. the fabric is soft, expensive, carrying the residual heat of his body, and the knowledge that it smells like him, feels like him, makes something unpleasant coil at the base of your spine. you should take it off. should rip it from your shoulders, should throw it into the nearest trash can, should leave it behind.

but you don’t.

not because you want to keep it. not because you’re grateful. but because you can’t stop thinking about how this is what it feels like to be cared for.

even if it was just for a second.

even if it was just him.

the thought makes your stomach twist, nausea creeping into your ribs, pressing against your lungs, making your breath come too fast, too shallow. your hands grip the fabric tighter, nails biting into the sleeves, the pressure grounding and unbearable all at once. this morning—this entire day—has been a mess of feelings you refuse to name, thoughts tangling together into something suffocating. first, your father. his voice, smooth and honeyed, telling you that you deserve the best while making you feel like nothing more than a business investment.

then him.

stepping in without hesitation, without amusement, without the usual, insufferable smirk that makes your blood boil. there was no teasing, no lazy drawl of your name, no game for him to win—just action, swift and certain, as if he had never considered doing anything else. he moved without thought, without calculation, without the weight of expectation that comes with every single person in your life. like it wasn’t about proving anything. like it wasn’t about power. like it was just—natural.

it makes you want to scream.

because that isn’t how this works. people don’t do things without expecting something in return. every kindness has a cost. every touch carries intent. every moment of protection, of care, of concern is a currency, exchanged for something greater down the line. that is how it has always been—how you were raised to understand it, how you have lived through it.

not your father. never your father. his affection is measured, conditional, something draped over you like silk until the moment it tightens into a leash. not the men who orbit you, their admiration always tainted with hunger, drawn to status, to influence, to power they will never be worthy of but still reach for. not the socialites who call themselves your friends when it suits them, when your presence elevates theirs, when being seen with you is enough to tip the scales in their favor.

so why the hell did gojo satoru—of all people—look at you like that?

why did he help?

why did he care?

your throat tightens, a sharp breath cutting through the mess of emotions clogging your chest. you can’t be here. can’t sit in this damn school, in this damn jacket, with the weight of everything pressing down on you like a vice. the walls feel too tight, the air too heavy, the fabric against your skin an unbearable reminder of something you refuse to name. you need out.

you don’t think about it.

don’t text anyone. don’t call for a car. don’t plan where you’re going, don’t consider what it means to slip away like this, don’t stop to care. you just move, heels clicking against the floor as you weave through the hallways, ignoring the eyes that follow, ignoring the way your hands are still curled into the fabric of his jacket. you keep walking—out the doors, out the gates, out.

the streets of tokyo are busy as always, a blur of high-end cars and polished shoes, businessmen murmuring over calls as they slip past, their conversations blending into the distant hum of the city. the world moves around you, fast and endless, people existing in their own self-contained universes, unaware of the hurricane twisting inside your ribs. you barely register any of it.

when you reach the curb, you don’t hesitate. you lift a hand.

a taxi slows in front of you almost immediately, the driver’s eyes flicking to you in the mirror as you slide into the backseat, as the scent of cigarette smoke and worn leather curls into your senses.

“where to?”

you exhale, a sharp breath, tilting your head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur past—too fast and too slow all at once. your lips barely part as you murmur, “fujimori lounge.”

the driver raises a brow—because who the hell goes drinking at 9:30 a.m.? precisely a student in tokyo’s most prestigious academy, drowning in an oversized jacket that doesn’t belong to her. but you don’t acknowledge it. just tap your nails against your thigh, eyes distant, thoughts even further.

when the car pulls to a stop, you don’t wait. don’t even look at the meter. just toss a thick stack of bills into the front seat, stepping out like the transaction doesn’t register, like money means nothing—because it doesn’t.

the bar is empty. of course it is.

the air is cool, still untouched by the scent of spilled drinks and bodies pressed too close together, the dim lights casting long shadows over polished marble and expensive leather. no music plays at this hour. no laughter, no hum of conversation. just silence.

perfect.

you make your way to your usual seat, slipping into the plush barstool with the kind of ease that only comes from habit. you’ve done this before. you’ve done this a thousand times before.

the bartender—one of the few staff working this early—gives you a once-over, sharp eyes flicking from your bare legs to the jacket swallowing your frame, but he doesn’t say a word. just reaches for the top-shelf bottles, already knowing better than to ask what you want.

the first glass is poured. you down it without hesitation.

the warmth spreads through your veins, dulling the edges of everything you don’t want to think about, smoothing out the sharp edges of your father’s voice, of the way gojo looked at you, of the unbearable weight of something you don’t understand pressing against your ribs.

the second glass follows.

then the third.

by the fourth, you don’t feel anything at all.

satoru notices immediately.

your seat is empty in every class you should be in, the space where you should be a glaring absence that gnaws at the edges of his thoughts. he finds himself glancing toward the door every time it opens, expecting you to waltz in late with an excuse dripping in charm, a haughty smirk tugging at the corner of your lips like you’re doing the world a favor just by existing. but you don’t. the day stretches on, lecture after lecture, and you remain a no-show. with every hour that passes, something twitches beneath his skin, something that refuses to settle.

his messages go unanswered. his calls ring into oblivion. you haven’t responded to anything about your supposed meeting after school for your project—not even a half-hearted promise to maybe show up, only to flake at the last second. nothing. not a single snide remark, not a single excuse. just silence.

and satoru doesn’t care. he doesn’t.

he tells himself that. repeats it like a mantra, like a fact carved into stone, like if he says it enough, it will become the truth. but his jaw tics when another message goes unread, when another call goes straight to voicemail, when the space where you should be remains empty.

it’s only when he’s making his way through the parking lot, hand already tugging open the door of his car, that he hears it.

“she messaged me earlier.”

shoko’s voice—calm, level, just loud enough to carry in the open air. he wouldn’t have paid it any mind, wouldn’t have listened, if not for what follows.

“she’s at fujimori. don't wanna be bothered she said.”

a pause. then utahime, her voice sharper, laced with disbelief. “alone?”

his stomach twists.

it’s ridiculous, really. this is your scene, your world, the life you slip into without hesitation. he’s dragged you out of luxury bars before, half-exasperated, half-annoyed, when you’ve flaked on your project meetings to waste the evening draped over some rich heir’s arm, drink in hand, laughter spilling from your lips like it means nothing. you are never alone. you surround yourself with people who adore you, worship you, want you, because that is how you keep control.

but something about this—about you being there alone, in the middle of the day—it doesn’t sit right.

because you never drink alone.

he gets in the car and drives.

the city blurs past, neon lights bleeding into one another, an endless stretch of color and motion that barely registers. his hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles white against smooth leather, jaw locked as his thoughts loop over themselves, tangled and restless. the expression on your face when you asked him why do you even care?—it won’t leave him. it lingers, sharp and insistent, digging into his ribs like something that demands an answer. and the worst part? he doesn’t know.

the air inside fujimori is warm, perfumed with aged liquor and polished wood, thick with the scent of exclusivity. low, ambient lighting casts shadows against plush velvet booths, a setting designed for discretion, for indulgence, for things meant to be forgotten by morning. voices murmur over the clink of expensive glassware, laughter lilting through the air in practiced, polite intervals. it’s a place for people with power, for men who make decisions that shape the world over drinks that cost more than most salaries.

he finds you easily.

you’re still wearing his jacket. and somehow, somehow, that feels like a relief.

legs crossed, posture languid, head tilted in that way that makes people lean in, drawn by the promise of something fleeting, something they’ll never get to keep. but you’re too relaxed, too detached, laughing at nothing, the haze of alcohol making your gaze unfocused, your movements a little too loose. satoru has seen you like this before—watched you toy with admirers, with suitors, with men who think they are clever enough to hold your attention. but this—this feels wrong.

and then he sees them.

older. sharp smiles. expensive watches gleaming under dim lighting. their laughter is just a little too indulgent, their attention just a little too fixed. and satoru knows them—not personally, but enough. they’ve shaken his father’s hand. sat in the same rooms, exchanged pleasantries at corporate events, discussed numbers and deals over glasses of whiskey worth more than some people’s entire lives. their wives always at their sides, poised, perfect.

they do not look married now.

his jaw locks.

he steps forward, weaving through the lounge with effortless ease, the shift in his presence enough to make bystanders instinctively move. his stride is unhurried, controlled, but there’s something unmistakable in the way he moves—an inevitability, a force that cannot be ignored. the ambient hum of conversation continues, but there’s a subtle ripple in the air, a quiet awareness settling over those who sense that something is about to happen. his eyes are on you, the way your head tilts back, the curve of your mouth as you laugh at something meaningless, the way the men around you lean in, hungry for whatever attention you decide to bestow. he doesn’t hesitate when he reaches you, fingers already reaching for your wrist, already ready to pull you out of there—a hand blocks him.

one of the men steps into his path, movements slow, measured, deliberately casual. posture relaxed, but gaze sharp, the kind of gaze that belongs to men who are used to owning every room they walk into. “this is a private booth,” he says, tone mild, the words carrying the weight of entitlement, of money, of power that has never been questioned.

they don’t recognize him.

they see the glasses, the slightly loosened tie, the academic air about him, and they make their assumptions. he is young. dressed well, but not ostentatious. someone from a good family, maybe, someone privileged, but ultimately unimportant. someone who doesn’t belong in their world.

but he recognizes them.

and when they finally put the pieces together, it’s going to be hilarious.

satoru exhales through his nose, slow, measured, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips—lazy, effortless, mocking. “yeah?” he hums, voice light, almost amused. “you sure you wanna play that game?”

the men hesitate.

because there’s something in the way he says it, something in the ease of his stance, in the weight of his presence, in the way he doesn’t look at them so much as he waits for them to understand. and then—one of them finally really looks at him.

their face drains of color.

because suddenly, the glasses, the academic demeanor—none of it matters anymore. suddenly, they’re not looking at a student—they’re looking at gojo satoru. heir to the same conglomerate these men answer to. the son of the man who can make or break their careers with a single conversation, a single change in investment, a single disapproving glance.

the atmosphere shifts.

“we— we didn’t realize—”

“you didn’t,” satoru cuts in smoothly, voice slipping into something sharper, something that lands just beneath the skin. “but you do now.”

none of them stop him this time.

his fingers wrap around your wrist—firm, steady, but not rough—as he pulls you up, out of that suffocating booth, out of that moment before it can cement itself into something worse. you stumble, caught off guard, the weight of your body pressing into his side for just a fraction of a second—and then you laugh.

soft, breathy, almost delighted.

your laughter spills into the space between you, curling at the edges like smoke, laced with something light, something dangerous. your head tilts up, gaze locking onto his with a look that is far too unguarded, far too open, like the alcohol has burned away whatever walls you usually keep so carefully in place. “ohhh,” you purr, voice syrupy sweet, the kind of sweetness that rots, the kind meant to draw people in just before they realize they’ve fallen too deep. “you came all this way for me?”

your voice is a slow drag of something intoxicating, the promise of something just out of reach, but your gaze—your gaze is challenging. you aren’t grateful, aren’t flustered, aren’t even the slightest bit embarrassed that he found you like this. you aren’t the kind of girl who needs saving, who lets herself be rescued, and you want him to prove it. you want him to falter, to hesitate, to take a single misstep in whatever this is.

like you’re daring him to say it.

he doesn’t.

his fingers tighten around your wrist—not enough to hurt, not enough to demand, but enough to make it clear that he isn’t entertaining whatever game you’re trying to play. instead, he just starts walking, dragging you toward the exit, not sparing a glance back, not indulging the way you sway into him with every step. he ignores the way your heels scuff against the floor, the way your body tips unsteadily, forcing you closer to him than you should be. he ignores the heat of you pressed against his side, the weight of your breath so close to his skin, the way his pulse betrays him, thrumming just a little too fast, just a little too loud.

but you don’t fight him.

not until you step outside.

the cold air outside bites against your skin, sharp and unforgiving, but the warmth of his jacket still clings to you, drowning you in a scent you hate. it’s clean, crisp—him. something expensive, something effortless, something that lingers no matter how much distance you put between you. the streetlights cast a soft glow over you both, stretching your shadows long against the pavement, turning the night into something slow, something tense. his grip is still firm around your wrist, his expression unreadable, his presence unwavering.

then—you move. not to fight him. not to shove him away. but to prove a point.

you step closer, pressing into him, the movement slow, deliberate, calculated. your fingers trail over his chest with an ease that feels almost lazy, like you belong there, like this is just another game you’ve played a thousand times before. beneath your touch, you can feel the faint pull of muscle, the subtle warmth of him even through layers of expensive fabric, the steady rhythm of his breath as he watches you. because he is watching.

he always does.

"you dragged me out here," you breathe, voice low, teasing, inviting. your fingers curl into the crisp collar of his shirt, tugging just enough to make the space between you even smaller. his breath is warm against the cold, the scent of him thick in your lungs, the weight of his attention pressing against your skin like something tangible. your lips part, just barely, a soft exhale slipping between them before you murmur, “so tell me, satoru—”

your lashes flutter, head tilting, nails scraping lightly against the fabric beneath your hands, a slow, teasing drag that makes the space between you feel smaller. your voice is low, velvet-soft, curling through the cold night air like something dangerous, something meant to ruin.

"isn’t this what you wanted?"

he freezes. not because he’s flustered. not because he’s caught off guard. but because of you.

because of the way you’re looking at him—your gaze laced with something honeyed, something sharp, something that dares him to take. because of the way your lips part, the faintest inhale dragging against them, the way your fingers curl just a little tighter into his collar, like you know exactly what you’re doing, like you know exactly what you are.

he stares at you through the thin lenses of his reading glasses, a slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze, drinking you in like he has all the time in the world. your face is flushed from the alcohol, skin warmed beneath the dim glow of the streetlights, and he lets himself look—really look.

your lips, soft and glossed, teasing the line between smug and inviting. your throat, delicate, the slow rise and fall of your breath betraying how hard you’re trying to keep yourself still.

your fingers, still curled in his collar, tension coiling in the space between your knuckles like you don’t realize you’re gripping him so tightly.

and your eyes.

your eyes are still the same.

he had thought they were pretty once. years ago.

when you had stood before him with that small, decorated box of chocolates, your hands had been just the slightest bit unsteady, fingers gripping the edges like you were afraid he might not take it. your cheeks had been warm, lips parting with the kind of anticipation that only a child can carry—pure, unguarded, hopeful. there had been no ulterior motives, no calculations, no layers of intent buried beneath honeyed words. just you, standing in front of him, offering something small but meaningful, something that was supposed to matter.

he had crushed that softness with logic. you shouldn’t eat too much chocolate. it’s bad for your teeth. the words had left his mouth so easily, dismissive, practical—because he had been young, because he hadn’t understood. because he hadn’t known that sometimes, words mattered less than meaning, that rejection wasn’t always about what was being refused but about who was offering it.

but he understands now.

except right now, what you are offering him isn’t something soft. this isn’t something innocent. you aren’t offering him chocolates anymore.

you’re no longer offering him something sweet.

even so your eyes are still as pretty as he remembers.

he doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring into them, how deeply he’s drinking you in, until he sees it. beneath the teasing, beneath the deliberate tilt of your head and the press of your fingers against his collar—there it is. the flicker of quiet desperation curled behind the seduction, the way your body is pressed against him not to invite but to test, the way your lips part not to tempt but to prove a point.

the way you want to make him just another man.

the way you need him to be nothing more than that.

highschool memories come rushing in, your name was always whispered through the halls. not just for the things you did, but for the things you got away with. you were the girl who walked through the world untouchable, draped in the kind of indulgence that made others jealous, that made them watch. dress code violations that should have warranted a suspension. skipped classes that should have landed you on academic probation. detentions that stacked like a house of cards, waiting for the inevitable collapse. but the school never sent notes home. never called. because there was no point.

because no one would answer.

he had watched you sit in detention, week after week. always by the window, chin resting on your palm, eyes fixed on something far away, somewhere else. the tip of your finger would trace shapes into the condensation, movements idle, aimless, as if you were reaching for something just beyond your grasp. the teachers muttered about your wasted potential, voices dipped low like they thought you wouldn’t hear, like they thought you cared. but you never flinched. never reacted. just sat there, quiet and unbothered, like the world outside that window was the only thing worth your time.

he never said anything.

not when your skirts got shorter, your nights got longer, your reputation turned into something sharp-edged and impossible to hold. not when the boys whispered about you with voices dipped in reverence and speculation, when the girls watched you with a mix of admiration and disdain. not when you stopped trying—not in class, not in conversation, not in caring about the things that once might have mattered. you had been a hurricane once, bright and full of want, but slowly, you had quieted. or maybe you had just hardened.

and he had watched. stood on the sidelines. did nothing.

perhaps it’s bystander guilt—that sick, gnawing feeling that he should have said something, done something, been something other than a silent observer while you carved yourself into something unrecognizable. maybe it’s guilt for all the moments he let pass, for the times he saw you staring out the window in detention, your breath fogging up the glass as you traced invisible shapes into the condensation. maybe it’s guilt for hearing the whispers about you and never correcting them, for watching as your name became synonymous with something untouchable, something ruined, something easy to want but impossible to hold.

but something completely illogical tells him it’s more than that.

it’s care.

not the logical kind, the kind dictated by necessity or responsibility. not the required kind, the kind that comes from duty or expectation. not the kind that is owed.

it is simply care.

and that terrifies him.

because if it’s care, then it means this—you, standing in front of him, pressing into his space, testing him, daring him to be just like everyone else—matters. it means you aren’t just another girl he’s known in passing, another classmate, another name in the endless list of people orbiting around his world. it means this isn’t just some passing moment, something insignificant, something he can brush aside and forget by morning. because he’s never done this before. never stood at the center of something so fragile, something so deliberately constructed, something that feels like a trap but is really just a test.

and that terrifies him.

because satoru knows you.

not just the version of you that leans in too close, that lets people get drunk off the warmth of your skin, the tilt of your head, the way you offer yourself without ever giving anything at all. he knows the version of you that sat by the window in detention, tracing patterns into the glass, eyes distant, already somewhere else. the version of you that used to try, that used to push and pull and want things in a way that wasn’t so calculated. the version of you that once held out a box of chocolates with both hands, cheeks warm, voice quiet, waiting for something that never came.

so when your fingers curl into his collar, when your breath ghosts against his skin, when your lips part in something that is neither an invitation nor a plea, he sees it.

anyone else—any other man—would take this moment for what it appears to be.

but satoru sees you.

sees the game, the performance, the careful layers of seduction that don’t ask for something but demand it. sees the way you are begging him—without words, without even realizing—to be just like everyone else.

so you can understand him. so you can predict him. so you can tuck him neatly into the same category as all the men who only ever wanted one thing from you. so you don’t have to question why he is different.

his hands settle on your wrists—gentle, but firm. his touch is steady, grounding, the heat of his palms seeping into your skin like something meant to anchor rather than restrain. for a moment, he just holds you there, letting the weight of the moment settle between you, letting the tension coil and tighten like a drawn bow. then, with an exhale, he pulls you away.

“no.”

your eyes flicker, just for a second. something wavers. your breath hitches, barely audible, but he hears it. and then, just as quickly, the mask falls back into place. you scoff, rolling your eyes, stepping back like none of this mattered, like his rejection is nothing more than an inconvenience.

“coward.” you taunt, sharp and biting.

but your hands are shaking.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t give you anything to grab onto. just watches you, lets the silence stretch between you, thick and suffocating, filled with all the things neither of you are willing to acknowledge. the streetlights flicker overhead, the cold wind curling between you both, but neither of you move. finally, he exhales, slow and measured.

“let’s go.”

you grumble, reluctant but compliant, moving toward the car with the kind of begrudging acceptance that comes when there is no other choice. he opens the door for you, guiding you inside without a word, the warmth of his hand barely brushing against you before he pulls away. you slump into the seat, arms crossed, head tilted toward the window, refusing to look at him.

he gets in the driver’s seat, shifts into gear, and pulls onto the road.

the city hums around you both, neon lights casting fractured reflections against the windshield, the steady rhythm of tires against pavement filling the silence. you don’t speak. don’t glance at him, don’t move, don’t acknowledge his presence. just lean your head against the glass, watching the world blur past, streetlights streaking across your features like ghosts of something unspoken.

he doesn’t speak either.

he grips the wheel a little too tightly as he drives, the tension settling into his knuckles, into the curve of his jaw, into the spaces between his thoughts where your voice still lingers. why do you even care?

the question had landed sharp between you, a challenge thrown like a blade, demanding something from him that neither of you had the words for. he should have laughed. should have dismissed it as easily as he does everything else, let the moment roll off his shoulders with that same lazy ease he wears like armor. that would have been easier, wouldn’t it? if this was just him being annoying, just another game, another instance of gojo satoru moving because he can, not because he wants to.

the city lights streak across the windshield, casting fractured reflections against the glass, flashing against your skin where you rest, half-conscious, against the window. you’re quiet now, so different from the sharp-tongued, fire-eyed girl who had glared at him hours ago, demanding an answer he hadn’t been able to give. but he’s had time to think. time to feel the weight of the silence, to sift through the mess of thoughts that refuse to settle.

“i have an answer now.”

your breath stirs, shallow, delayed, like his words are pulling you from somewhere far away. your body barely shifts, movements sluggish with exhaustion, with alcohol, with something that leaves you unguarded in a way you never allow. "what are you talking about?" your voice is quiet, blurred at the edges, stripped of its usual sharpness.

his fingers tighten around the wheel.

he cares because he does.

not because of logic, or obligation, or the neat, efficient reasoning he applies to everything else. not because it’s convenient. not because he’s supposed to. there is no clean-cut explanation, no calculated rationale, no easy justification. just care. the kind that isn’t required, isn’t expected, isn’t supposed to exist.

he has the answer now.

but you’re too drunk to even remember the question you threw at him this morning, eyes burning, voice laced with something sharp and aching. too lost in the haze of exhaustion, the weight of alcohol pressing against your bones, your usual armor stripped away piece by piece. the version of you sitting beside him now—quiet, unguarded, fragile in a way you’d hate—wouldn’t even care to hear it. so what’s the point? what’s the point of saying something you won’t remember, something you’d only deny in the morning, something that shouldn’t matter but somehow does?

he exhales, a slow, measured breath, fingers drumming idly against the leather steering wheel before finally leaning back, gaze shifting toward the dim glow of the dashboard. his glasses slide just slightly down the bridge of his nose, and he absently pushes them up, jaw tight, expression unreadable in the faint flicker of streetlights outside. for a moment, he just looks at you—the way your head tilts against the glass, the way your lashes flutter faintly, the way your lips are slightly parted as if you might say something but never do. his chest feels tight. too tight. like the weight of this realization, of you, is settling into a space he never made room for.

“nevermind.”

his voice is quiet, barely audible over the hum of the engine, but it carries. settles into the silence between you, lingers in the air as if waiting for a response.

and then, barely above a whisper—“idiot.”

it’s grumbled, half-asleep, but he still hears it, still watches the way your lips barely move as you bury yourself deeper into the seat, breath evening out.

he gasps, the sound exaggerated, scandalized, an instinctive reaction that’s far more him than the heavy, suffocating thoughts he’d been drowning in moments ago. “my iq is higher than yours!”

you don’t respond.

just shift slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at your lips, before sleep finally pulls you under. he scoffs, shaking his head, but there’s something softer in the way he settles into his seat, something almost fond in the way his grip eases around the wheel.

because despite everything—despite the frustration, despite the push and pull, despite the fact that he knows you’ll wake up tomorrow and pretend none of this ever happened—he still cares.

and he still doesn’t know what to do with that.

tag list : @s4ikooo1 @gojoswaterbottle @blubearxy @akeisryna @theclassbookworm @diorzs @nscuit @lolightrealm @rintarawr

comment to be added on the tag list! xx

[marvelousels]

GO AWAY!

authors note — okay so uhm in this exact scene i wanted to JUMP caitlyn even though shes my fav wifey but no one can hurt my baby vi

pairings — vi x fem!reader

call out my name — the weeknd playing!

The undercity was eerily quiet as you navigated its winding paths, the dim, flickering lights casting long shadows on the crumbling walls. You had no particular destination, just letting your feet guide you, the oppressive weight of the place a strange comfort. Then, as you passed an old vent manhole, you froze.

Soft, muffled crying echoed up from the depths below. It wasn’t the usual distant wails or drunken murmurs you’d grown accustomed to down here—it was raw, close, and unmistakably human. Concern flared in your chest. A child, maybe? Someone injured? Without hesitation, you gripped the rusted ladder and began your descent.

The metallic rungs were slick with grime, and the air grew heavier as you climbed down, the faint sound of sobs growing louder with each step. When you reached the bottom, your eyes adjusted to the dim glow of a faintly flickering bulb. That’s when you saw her.

She was slumped against the wall, her head bowed low, shoulders trembling as she cradled her side. A woman in an enforcer uniform, but it was far from pristine—scuffed, torn, and stained with what you hoped wasn’t blood. Her face was partially obscured by a curtain of pink hair, but the distinct tattoo on her cheek, spelling out "Vi," was unmistakable.

Behind her, a pair of massive gauntlets lay discarded on the floor, their usually imposing presence diminished in the stark vulnerability of the scene. She looked up when she heard your boots scrape against the ground, her bloodshot eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, the weight of her grief hanging thick in the air between you.

“Go away,” she said, her voice rough and cracked. She hastily wiped at her tear-streaked face, trying—and failing—to pull her tough persona back into place. “I don’t want your sympathy.”

Her words were sharp, but the tremor in her tone betrayed her. You hesitated, taking in the way she clutched her side and the exhaustion etched into every line of her face. This wasn’t just physical pain; she was unraveling, and she didn’t want anyone to see it.

“I’m not here to pity you,” you said softly, keeping your voice steady but gentle. “But you’re hurt. Let me help.”

“I don’t need help,” Vi snapped, though her voice faltered. She averted her gaze, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Just leave me alone. I don’t need anyone.”

You took a cautious step closer, your movements slow and deliberate. “That’s a load of crap,” you said, your tone firm but not unkind. “You’re bleeding, crying, and sitting in a vent in the middle of the Undercity. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘I’ve got it all under control.’”

Her eyes flicked back to you, narrowed and defensive, but she didn’t lash out. Instead, she sagged back against the wall, letting out a shaky breath. “I didn’t ask you to come down here,” she muttered, the fight in her voice dimming.

“You didn’t have to.” You crouched a few feet away, giving her space but showing you weren’t going anywhere. “I heard you crying. I thought it was a kid who fell down here. Imagine my surprise when I found you.”

That earned the faintest twitch of her lips, a ghost of a reaction that disappeared as quickly as it came.

“It’s not like you can fix it,” she said after a long silence, her voice quieter now. “What’s done is done.”

“Maybe I can’t,” you admitted, tilting your head slightly. “But that doesn’t mean you have to go through it alone.”

Her breath hitched at that, and she glanced away again, as if looking at you was too much to bear. You could see the walls she was trying to keep up cracking, the weight of whatever she was carrying threatening to crush her.

“Caitlyn hit me,” she said abruptly, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. Her voice was thick with emotion. “She… she kissed me, and then she hit me. The one person I thought… the one person I still had…” Her voice broke, and she clenched her jaw, furious at herself for letting it out.

You didn’t rush to respond, letting the moment sit. Sometimes, people didn’t need answers—they just needed to be heard.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly. It wasn’t much, but it was honest.

Vi let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah, well. Sorry doesn’t fix a damn thing, does it?”

“No, but it’s a start,” you said, your gaze steady. “And so is this. Talking. Letting someone in, even if it’s just for a little while.”

She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes flicking between you and the gauntlets behind her. Finally, she exhaled deeply, her shoulders slumping as if the fight had finally left her.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?” she muttered, her voice tinged with reluctant gratitude.

“Maybe,” you said with a small smile. “But I think you could use a little stubbornness in your corner right now.”

Vi didn’t argue. Instead, she leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. It wasn’t a victory, not really, but it was enough. For now, she let you stay, and that was a start.

[superprincesspea]

Say My Name

Sharako Lohar invites Tyland Lannister to share a night of passion with her many wives.

Warning: NSFW, 18+, Smut, Orgy

Word Count: 1,972

Masterlist

~~~

“How many wives do you have?”   

The moment Tyland asked the question, he regretted it, and the answer seemed of little importance, because even one woman, warm and willing, was more than enough. More than he could wish for, and it had been a while, too long in fact, since he’d last shared a night with anything other than his hand.  

“Why don’t I show you?” Lohar said, slapping her thigh before jumping onto her feet, and once more, he found himself marvelling at this strange pirate Admiral. He’d never seen anything like her, and if he was honest, he'd never hope to again. The world could only stand to harbour one Sharako Lohar, and perhaps one was one too many.  

“Come,” she insisted, hauling him up under his arm.  

“Right now ?” he confirmed, and the look in her eye was positively feral.  

He should have just gone to bed, should have never asked that dammed question. But curiosity had gotten the better of him, or perhaps he was giving too much credit to his mind, when it had been his cock which had done the talking.  

She laughed, as though his question was absurd, and perhaps it was absurd to a person with more than one wife.  

Then she began to lead the way, and Tyland followed, to a place where the revelry of drinking and sea shanties were dimmed but not forgotten. To where a heavy curtain pulled back, revealing a room draped with plush fabrics in every colour and pattern imaginable, rugs and cushions lit tering the floor, and women, so many women.  

He counted at least twelve. Some sleeping, some talking, some... he swallowed hard, doing other things.  

“These are your wives?” he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking, as he gestured across the room, trepidation inching into his veins with far more strength than desire.  

“ Some of them,” Lohar grinned, treading carefully as she made her way into the swell of bodies, so not to step on the silky-smooth limbs sprawled across the floor.  

“What say you, Tylo ?” she asked, hand on her hip, goblet of wine raised in the air.  

“ Tyland, ” he reminded her, and not for the first time since their meeting.  

“Well? Which wife would you like to plough first?”  

He coughed, choking on the gasp of shock which tried to escape his lips. He hadn’t thought her offer an entirely serious one, she didn’t seem to take anything too seriously. But the way her wives were all looking at him, was anything but a joke.  

They could eat him alive. Nay, they would eat him alive.  

He tugged a steadying hand at the front of his tunic, straightening his spine, as though his stance or masculinity held any authority in this room, and it didn’t. It certainly didn’t.  

Hands grasped his hands, two women pulling him into the middle of the room while the curtain closed behind him. Then he was on the floor, more hands pulling at his buttons, unbuckling his belt, stroking through his hair, a kiss on his cheek, a caress across his thigh.  

He didn’t know where to look, what to feel, or what to do except, take it , and all of it under the watchful eye of Lohar, who paced a circle around the scene, drinking intently from the goblet clutched in her hand.  

He was naked in no time at all, and he was hard, of course he was hard, these women were beautiful and all so different, a true feast for the eyes and the hands, and... quite frankly, his cock.  

“ Fuck ,” he gritted out, he rarely swore and never in front of a lady, but there were no other words, no other feeling. Just fuck .  

Hands touched him everywhere, their light caresses breezing across his skin, then one of the wives leaned in to kiss him, her eyes so dark they were almost black, before he was tasting the sweet wine on her skillful tongue as she took control of his mouth.  

He needed to touch her, to tangle his fingers with the tight coils of hair falling across his cheek, but his hands were held back, and so were his feet, not that he wanted to fight it, what man would fight this?  

The woman was still kissing him, his bottom lip trapped between her teeth in a nibble which boarded on the right side of painful, when he felt one of those wandering hands brush across his cock.  

It twitched, alert , and he drew in a tight breath, wanting to see who it was that touched him there , but his body was not his own, and his vision was shielded by breasts, and hair, and hands, and kisses.  

A second wife took turns with the first to kiss him until he could barely breathe, then a third took him into her mouth, carefully , just the tip, her tongue flat and teasing, and so slow, so painfully slow.  

He tried to rut his hips up, to feel more of her, but Lohar was standing over him, her bare foot pressed onto his chest, holding him down, making him wait, and wait, until his cock was finally sheathed in the hot embrace of a stranger's mouth.  

Then she freed him, and he didn’t want to move at all, just feel, tongue and pressure, up and down. Soft hands still exploring, he couldn’t last much longer, not like this. He felt the pressure building and tried to think of anything to stop it from bubbling over.  

Mud pits, Aegon, Vhagar, Caraxes... oh fuck.  

He was half drunk on pleasure, when he noticed Lohar settle on the ground, laying on her stomach so she could watch the way his face contorted, his muscles tightening, holding on, desperately holding on.  

“You like this?” she asked, that bright white smile reappearing, almost laughing.  

“ Yes ,” his voice was strained, everything was strained, and strange, and so fucking marvellous.  

And Lohar seemed pleased by this, her attention flicking to a place behind him, where he could only imagine another wife was waiting. “Sit on his face,” she said.  

“What?” he gasped, barely able to hold a conscious thought, before she knelt either side of his head and lowered herself just close enough for him to taste her.  

“Eat up Tyler , take your fill, there’s plenty of pussy for all of us,” Lohar laughed, and she was sitting up now, with a wife on her knee, her fingers reaching between the woman’s legs, rubbing, spreading, pushing inside.  

“It's Tyland,” he said again, but his voice was weak, and who fucking cared what his name was, when there was a womans pussy glistening right in front of him.  

He arched his neck, so he could get closer, his tongue soft and slick as it explored between her legs with one slow lick. He didn’t even know what she looked like, but she tasted good, sweet and wanting, his tongue finding her swollen bud and swirling pressure across it in time with the soft sway of her hips.  

Then his hands broke free from restraint, or perhaps he was released, so his fingers could press tightly into the wonderful curve of her arse. He needed her closer, needed his tongue to sink into her, to feel her. She cried out, her body shaking, on the very edge of bliss, and he intended to send her spiralling.  

He replaced his tongue with two fingers, pumping them in and out of her, while he lapped again at that swollen bud, faster and faster, until her next cry was one of release.  

He watched her afterwards, coming down from the high, her hands clutched to her breasts, so beguiling and so unlike any woman he’d seen in the Red Keep.  

But the sound of her pleasure, had only made him more desperate for his own. He thrust his hips up, craving touch, craving his own release, only to realise there were no more tongues torturing the length of his cock, and perhaps that had been a good thing.  

“You want more, Typot?” Lohar said, and he didn’t need to answer, when one wife moved, another was upon him.  

Not on his face, but on his thighs, her hand wrapping tightly around his desperate cock, pumping it, teasing it.  

He was about to beg for more, when she held him straight and true, and sank her body down onto his, the tight embrace of her pussy grasping him from root to tip until his toes were curling.  

“ Seven save me ,” he hissed, thinking he should slow the pace she began to set upon him, but finding it too compelling to resist.  

This room of pirate wives was a realm of pleasure he had never imagined, and if he died tomorrow, it would be with a worn-out cock and a smile on his face.  

He closed his eyes, giving himself to these women. To more touches, hands and tongues, and the unrelenting thrust of pleasure, which worked up and down his cock, winding the need for release tighter and tighter.  

He was so close now. He needed to come, and he couldn't wait any longer, so he began to match her thrusts with his own. Grinding up into her, despite the hands still trying to hold him down. Then she stopped, and his eyes sprang open, to see Lohar, resting a steadying hand on her wife's shoulder.  

“I want to see how you really fuck her,” she said, before tugging the wife up, and guiding her onto all fours.  

His cock felt cold, and more needy than ever before, so he didn’t need telling twice. He could hardly move fast enough, feeling no shame at all, in the way the women watched as he lined himself up at her entrance and pushed back inside.  

His head fell back, relief, sweet relief, then he began to move, slowly at first, his hands tracing the wonderful shape of her figure, before finding a home on her hips, so he could hold her steady while he took her with more intensity.  

Again, he could feel the mounting pressure, his balls tightening, then Lohar was on him, kneeling behind him, her hips pushing into his, controlling his thrusts, as though it was her cock which fucked this woman, and he was just a tool. To be used, to be milked dry, and he’d be damned if he didn’t love every moment.  

“Make her come,” Lohar demanded, her tongue sliding across the shell of his ear, and who was he to disobey an order from the Admiral?  

He reached between the wife's legs, finding the spot which would tear her apart, while Lohar kept control of his body, guiding him harder, slamming him into her wife.  

He wasn’t sure how much more stimulation he could take, holding onto his release was becoming impossible, and then he felt her, this stranger, her pussy flooding with warmth before it pulsed with an orgasm and claimed the last shred of his resolve.  

“Say my name,” he all but roared, his hips jerky, despite the press of Lohar’s control.  

“Tyland Lannister,” she whispered in his ear, like a secret, like a promise, as he finally unleashed his pleasure and filled this woman with the hot ropes of his seed.  

“Good,” Lohar commended him, slapping his arse, “now let us start on the rest.”  

Delirious, Tyland struggled to catch his breath, before he opened his eyes to look at the other wives, who were all waiting, like a pack of rabid cats, for their turn.  

Swiping his hand across his face, he hoped he didn’t look as worn out as he felt. This might take all night, but if it was for King and country, he supposed he could muster the energy to fuck the whole damn fleet.  

~~~

Thank you for reading! I just couldn't stop thinking about these two and needed to write something for them. I hope you enjoyed it <3

[amillionideas]

Bill and Charlie

I think it’s so intriguing when you pull back the curtain on Bill and Charlie. On the surface, they’re framed as the “cool,” successful older brothers: Bill with his suave curse-breaking career and ponytail, and Charlie with his rugged dragon-wrangling life in Romania. But beneath that image? There’s definitely a deeper, more complex story. Why did they both leave home so quickly, and why did neither seem eager to come back and carry the burden of their large, struggling family?

The Pressure of Being the Oldest

As the eldest, Bill and Charlie would’ve grown up carrying a huge weight of responsibility. The Weasleys are a working-class family with seven children and not a lot of mone: Arthur’s humble Ministry salary barely stretches far enough. Bill, as the firstborn, would have felt the pressure to succeed in a very tangible way: to set the tone for his siblings, to be the “responsible one,” to help his parents. And yet he leaves for Egypt as soon as he finishes school, rather than staying to support them. That feels… telling.

Charlie, similarly, runs off to chase an inherently dangerous, not particularly glamorous job working with dragons. For both of them, there’s a kind of escape embedded in their career choices. It’s not that they don’t love their family, it’s that they needed to get away from the emotional intensity and the demands of being a Weasley. Maybe it was suffocating to be the “golden children” in a family already bursting at the seams.

Why Did They Leave?

• The Weight of Expectations

Imagine growing up in a home where money is always tight, where your parents are constantly stressed, and where the unspoken expectation is that you’ll do your part to ease that burden. Bill and Charlie are both exceptionally talented (Bill was Head Boy, Charlie was a Quidditch star) yet instead of staying close and contributing directly to the household, they leave. That suggests they may have felt smothered by the expectation to put the family first.

There’s a quiet rebellion in that choice: to prioritize their own lives over family duty. Maybe Bill didn’t want to be the surrogate third parent. Maybe Charlie couldn’t handle the pressure of being the role model. Their absence says, I can’t stay and be what you need me to be.

• The Weasley Family Intensity

The Weasleys are warm and loving, but they’re also loud, opinionated, and emotionally overwhelming. Molly’s love can be suffocating, and Arthur’s laid-back, idealistic nature leaves a lot of practical worries on the shoulders of the older kids. Bill and Charlie, by virtue of their independence, may have craved a quieter, freer existence. Their careers, isolated, adventurous, and away from home, could reflect a desire for space from that constant emotional pressure.

• Survivor’s Guilt (in a Family Sense)?

It’s possible that both Bill and Charlie carry a kind of guilt for leaving their younger siblings behind. They got out, they pursued their passions, but they also know that means the weight of “holding things together” fell to Percy. Bill, especially, seems aware of this when he reenters the family dynamic during Half-Blood Prince. His relationship with Percy is probably one of recognition, he knows what it’s like to be the one expected to succeed, and maybe he understands why Percy snapped.

• Molly’s Intensity as a Mother

Molly Weasley is a wonderful mother, but she’s also a smothering one. She worries, she controls, and she has a vision of what her children’s lives should look like. Bill and Charlie’s choices defy her ideals (Bill’s long hair and earring are a quiet act of rebellion against the tidy image she wants for him). Charlie’s outright rejection of a more stable Ministry job feels like a rejection of her overprotectiveness. Maybe they left because staying meant losing their sense of self under the weight of her love.

The Emotional Cost of Leaving

For all their independence, there’s a cost to that distance. Bill and Charlie are noticeably absent from key family struggles, especially Percy’s estrangement. Why didn’t they intervene? Why didn’t they pull him back from the edge when they, of all people, would understand what it’s like to clash with their parents?

And in general, I feel like any reader can notice Charlie’s absence in the aftermath of a lot of dramatic moments. He’s there sometims, yes, but he isn’t a central emotional anchor. It makes you wonder, does he feel guilty for not being around more? Does Bill, with his new responsibilities as a husband to Fleur and his work at Gringotts, feel the weight of leaving too much unsaid?

The Relationship with Percy – A Missed Opportunity

I love to think about how much richer Percy’s arc becomes when you view it through the lens of Bill and Charlie’s departure. All three brothers share a similar drive, ambition, independence, a desire to carve their own path, but while Bill and Charlie did so in socially acceptable ways (curse-breaking and dragons are cool), Percy’s Ministry career was treated with ridicule. What does that say to a kid who already feels like an outsider? What message does it send when the brothers who “did it right” are celebrated, but he is mocked for his choices?

I can imagine a version of this story where Percy’s break from the family isn’t just about the Ministry, it’s about being angry at Bill and Charlie for leaving him behind to carry the weight. Maybe there’s resentment there: You got to leave, and no one called you selfish. Why am I the bad guy for wanting something better?

Why This Complexity Matters

Again (more on my post about the Weasleys), the Weasley family feels so real because they aren’t perfect. Their love is fierce but complicated. Bill and Charlie are adored, but their absence leaves scars, on Percy, on Ron, and even on Fred and George, who are forced to grow up in the shadow of their cool older brothers without the same freedom to escape.

By exploring their reasons for leaving, the emotional weight of their distance, and the gaps they leave behind, you transform them from "cool big brothers" into something deeper: men who love their family, but who also had to choose themselves to survive.

And the best part? This adds so much more emotional punch to the moments when they do come back. Bill helping to protect the Burrow and standing by Fleur against his mother’s disapproval. Charlie arriving for the Battle of Hogwarts. Their return is meaningful because of the distance, because it shows that love, even when it’s messy, always finds a way home

[noforkingclue]

Okay. So stinking with Jack Russell (and I'm not sure if this was asked already) but could you do some romantic fluff with Jack in his werewolf form?

Of course! Always up for writing something fluffy involving everyone's favourite werewolf. Sorry this took so long to publish but I hope you like the fic :)

Title: Surprises

Jack had always warned you about his werewolf form. Whenever it was a full moon he always made sure to be as far away from you as possible. He said that it was his worst nightmare to accidentally hurt you while he was transformed. Jack couldn’t control the wolf.

However, this night was different.

A heavy object fell against your chest. You woke up and tried to sit up but the object wouldn’t let you. A soft growl made you freeze as something nuzzled against you. You were now fully awake and glanced down as far as you could. However, all you could see was a large hairy head. It nuzzled against your chest and you glanced out of the window. You could faintly see the full moon peeking through the gap in the curtains.

“Jack?” you said at last

A low rumble was your response and strong arms curled around you. You raised a hand and a warning growl came from him but you lowered it on top of his head. Jack relaxed under your hand and you scratched behind his ears. He let out a low rumble and if he was a cat and not a wolf, you would’ve sworn he was purring. Instead Jack raised his head and looked down at you.

You could see why Jack didn’t want you around during the full moon. His wolf form was truly terrifying. You swallowed thickly as Jack lowered his head and cocked it to the side as he studied you intently. You were too afraid even to breath. However, and much to your surprise, Jack licked a long strip up your neck and cheek. You cringed at the feeling and Jack rested his head heavily against your chest again.

It was strange. Jack had always told you such horrific stories of his wolf form. He had told you that it was a warning of what he truly was. From his tone and the look in his eyes that he was being deadly serious. You had never seen Jack so serious so you understood why he always went away for the full moon. Now, well, now you had a new theory to investigate.

*

You groaned softly as you stirred awake. Jack was still on top of you but he was now back in his human form. You smiled down at him and gently ran your fingers through his hair. He shifted in his sleep and smiled softly. He snuggled closer to you and you wrapped your arms around him. Jack froze for a moment before he sat bolt upright and jumped away. He pulled the duvet with him, covering himself up as he scooted away and fell onto the floor. For a second neither of you spoke until he said,

“It was a full moon yesterday.”

“Yes,” you said, “I’m aware.”

“I… I…,” he ran a hand over his face, “I didn’t hurt you.”

“No,” you said as you rolled over onto your side so you could look down at him, “I thought you were rather sweet actually.”

“Sweet,” Jack raised his eyebrows in amusement, “I’ve never heard of a werewolf being described as sweet before.”

You reached over and ruffled his hair. Jack moved out of the way but had a playful smile on his face.

“So,” you said, “why didn’t you attack me.”

“Well,” Jack said as he propped himself up on his elbows, “when transformed werewolves can be unpredictable. Some have even attacked members of their own pack, even when they know their scent. The only people wolves don’t attack are-”

He cut himself off and suddenly looked awkward.

“Yes?” you prompted gently

“It’s a bit of a delicate subject.”

“It’s ok. I can handle it.”

“The only people that werewolves don’t attack while transformed,” he took a deep breath, “are their mates.”

Oh.

[longlostaccount]

“ 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 , 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 ”

✦ synopsis : it’s your birthday , and how will your boyfriend celebrate it ?

✦ warnings : fluff , crack , fem!reader , fem!reader x character , pet names , got lazy writing

✦ characters : Suguru Geto , Satoru Gojo , Ryomen Sukuna

✦ credits idea : @biscu1ts - Satoru + Sukuna

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𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎

you just woke up, the curtains already open while the birds were chirping as usual. you looked outside, it was as pretty as always. the wind running around while the sun is hidden behind the clouds. suddenly, you hear the bedroom door open.

you get surprised and looked at how was there. it was your boyfriend, Suguru. he had a plate with breakfast on it. “Suguru?” you say, surprised he even had that plate in his hand.

is he just trying to give you breakfast in the bed today morning? is he going to another early mission and he’s just trying to gift you with something before he goes? you don’t know. you completely forgot what today was.

“dear, don’t you remember what today is?” he asks, having a slight teasing tone in his voice while he sits beside of you, the plate in his lap. you looked at him, confused. you think about it. nothing comes to mind.

“aww, seems like you don’t remember, birthday girl.” he coos in your ear with a complete teasing tone in it. you then remember, today was your birthday. “oh!” you say, finally knowing what he was talking about and why he had the plate in his lap.

“cmon, eat.” he says brining one of the food into your mouth, his thumb on your lip while the rest under your chin, forcing you to eat. you didn’t complain though. after all, you were 𝘩𝘪𝘴 birthday girl.

after you ate, he picks you up and goes to the bathroom, brushing your teeth for you. “your so cute when you’re under my control, dear.” he teases. after he finish brushing your teeth for you, he brings you onto the couch as you sit in his lap.

“don’t worry about any missions, I took everything off for you.” he commented, braiding your hair.

suddenly, you feel a vibration in his pant, his phone was ringing. Suguru ignores it, and picks it up when he finally finish braiding your hair. it was his best friend, Satoru.

“what?” he asks, putting the phone to his ear while you rest your head against his chest. it was as warm as always.

“I don’t want to talk to you, I wanna talk to her!” he says, but only Suguru could hear. “fine… just don’t try to hit on her.” Suguru warns, as he hands the phone to you. “it’s Satoru.” he whispers to you.

you nod your head against his chest, as you put the phone to your ear you instantly hear, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Y/N!” Satoru screams into the phone, while you hear confetti dance in the air.

“happy birthday!” Haibara says in the background, while Nanami and Shoko just calmly said “happy birthday,” to you.

you smile calmly, as Suguru whispers in your ear, “happy birthday, dear.”

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𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

you wake up in bed, instantly trying to find your boyfriend in the bed. he was nowhere, not in the bedroom at the slightest. you hug your knees, thinking he left for a mission. but he didn’t leave a note beside the bed as usually.

then, you feel someone’s arm wrap around your waist. “surprise, lovely!” he says loudly and energetic, kissing you neck. you slightly squeal from the surprise hug. you then realized he was under the bed.

“how long were you under there….?” you say, looking behind you to see him continuing to kiss your neck, leaving trails. “not too long. only for about a minute before you woke up.” he said, ruffling your hair teasingly. “now, cmon, birthday darling,” he says as he gets up, you in his arms.

“let’s get ready,” he said. “ready for what?” you asked, looking up at him while he brings you into the bathroom. “I’m gonna spoil you.” he replies, “why wouldn’t I?” he asked teasingly, as he brushes his teeth while you brush yours.

after you two finish brushing your teeth, he sits you on the bed and gives you a sundress that matches your eye color, with a white shirt under. “I bought this for you yesterday.” he commented.

you suddenly notices something with the white shirt.

is that 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘵?

he leaves the room, waiting for you to change while he was already dressed up. he was dressed up when he hugged you, so he probably got ready some minutes before he went under the bed to surprise you.

you finish changing, walking out of the bedroom running up to Satoru. when he hears your feet clicking on the floor he looks behind to see you. “you’re as beautiful as ever.” he complimented you, grabbing your wrist gently, sitting you on the couch and he puts on you shoe.

once he finish putting on your shoe, he carries you to the car, you being his passenger princess as always.

you two were at the mall now, him choosing clothes for you. “you want this one?” he asks. you nod, but say “you don’t have to-” he shuts you up by putting his hand on your mouth, saying, “I’ll get this for you.”

he then finds matching jewelry for you to, one with your initials and one for his. “that’s cute, but-” he cuts you off before you finished your sentence. “we’re getting this for you, hun.”

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𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

you wake up, feeling like someone or something was watching you. you look up at your boyfriend, Sukuna, watching you sleep. he slightly becomes flustered when he gets caught looking at you, instantly looking to the side when your and his gaze meet each other.

“fuck…” he mutters under his breath, feeling your head rest on his shoulder, looking up at him with teasing expression. “is someone being a full on softie today?” you ask, knowing today was your birthday.

“no.” he replied back sternly, but you knew he was trying to act all cold and tough with a blush still on his cheeks. “lies.” you teased, as he grabs your wrist and pulls onto his lap. he sighed softly, slowly starting to braid your hair.

he never does this. maybe he’s being soft because todays your birthday?

“… happy birthday,” he says randomly. you look up at him, surprised he even said that to you. you remember him saying that it’s stupid for mortals to celebrate their birthday since it counts up to your death, but he still said it.

he finishes braiding your hair, then making your stomach meet his shoulder, you looking behind him. he then walks outside to the porch, sitting you down on the swing that was attached to the tree, just and 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 for you to use.

not even Uramue can use. well, that’s what Sukuna says, but you let her use it. after all, you and her were besties at this point, you being her first ever human friend. Sukuna comes back with flowers in his hand, put the flowers in your braided hair.

“you are being a softie!” you teased. “shut up, it’s just a weird feeling.” he said, trying to deny it, but you knew better. you knew he wanted to treat you like how a human boyfriend would for one day out of the whole year.

“hmph….” he grunts, knowing you knew better. “I just want to treat you like how the other mortals would treat their…. girlfriend.” he confesses. you get surprised at him calling you his girlfriend. you were his girlfriend, but he just never admitted it.

“now, don’t get surprised.. love.” he says softly, finally calling you a pet name. he’s called you many pet names before, but he rarely ever does so.

he then walks in front of you, going onto his two knees, the so called “monster” finally resting on your lap. his arms then wrap around your legs, slowly falling asleep. you giggle softly at him acting all soft for once, playing with his hair to make him fall asleep.

he wasn’t a monster to your eyes, he was just a big softy.

[telvess]

RoR: How they seek attention (Hades, Jack, Leonidas)🔞

I don't know how title it. I don't know why I wrote this in such form.

Hades

He’d give you smut to read. No kidding. He just leaves it at the dressing table for you. He then continues his daily routine, effectively pretending nothing happened.

At the end of the day, when you take a bait and read in his presence, Hades watches you from his safe spot (where he drinks wine or plays chess with his parrot). He is looking for any sign that you'd reached the right moment in the plot.

Once you give yourself away, he drops what he is currently doing and quietly joins you on the couch. He puts his arm around you and slowly massages your waist. At this point you already know what’s going on and he knows you know.

— What are you reading, my queen? — he asked with a smile, indifferently. — The interesting part — you replied. You didn’t want to give him a smile yet so you continued to stare at the book, even if content stopped interesting you. — Hmm… would you dare read this out loud? — his lips next to your ear made you shiver. What a sly husband you had. — As his hand slowly moved towards the inside of her thighs, his lips closed hers in a steamy kiss that took her breath away. His tongue made its way inside and explore a new place in wild, intense dance-e… — you stopped. Hades began leaving small kisses on your temple. His finger was caressing your jaw when other hand started to undoing your dress. You felt little buzz on your back from this barely perceptible touch. As the straps of your dress slipped down, a cool breeze on exposed skin made you blush. You hoped you could hide behind curtain of hair but Hades - as if he reading your thoughts - immediately tucked your hair behind your ear. — What’s next? — he asked calmly. He leaned down to give your naked neck kisses. You took a deep breath and looked at the book with trembling hand. You couldn’t remember where you finished reading, nor did you care what was happening there anymore, so you started reading a random paragraph. — Warmth risen under her belly, between legs, where his hand was heading… — Hades gave you a hickey which made you moan — She felt something was growing there and demanded to be satisfied… — you stopped and looked at him — Are you proud of yourself? — you asked but he didn’t give you any answer; his lips didn’t leave your neck. — You should be… — you whispered. You melted under the touch of his lips. The book fell off the couch, but neither of you cared about that poor written work anymore. — You know that you could just ask — you said, forcing him to look at you. Hades smiled. — Yes, but what a waste that would be. You should read to me more, my queen.

Jack

Jack probably doesn’t have high sex drive or he is very good at ignoring it. Of course everyone has their limits and Jack isn’t exception from this rule. If you don’t initiate any intimacy events for a longer time, at some point Jack’s will would crumble.

He has no idea how to suggest those kind of activities, he considers it inappropriate for a gentleman. Which probably leads to sudden loss of control.

You were sitting next to Jack in the arbour, enjoying good tea and cookies together. All your attention was focused on the book Jack had chosen for you. You weren’t very familiar with Shakespeare’s work but didn’t mind changing that. It required a lot of dedication from you because you had a trouble understanding some parts. Therefore, the process took much longer. You heard the sound of a spoon falling, but you didn’t take your mind off the book. Jack pushed away his chair, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw his head disappear under the table. You read long monologue, repeated it for better understanding but something was wrong. You frowned as you realized that Jack had frozen in a bent position. You took a better look at his face and followed his gaze, which led to your legs. Oh…, you thought. Usually you preferred to wear pants but today you chose a dress. It ended right below the knee and now that you were sitting cross-legged, Jack probably had a very good view of your legs covered with fishnet stockings. — Jack… — you said softly. Jack flinched; he came back to reality… wherever he was, and sat up straight. In your opinion, too rigidly. Your gaze fell to the floor again. — Spoon… — you mumbled and leaned down to pick it up. Apparently Jack hadn't quite recovered from his reverie because he did exactly the same thing and you two bumped heads. — Ouch! — My apologies, dearest — Jack said immediately. — No, it’s my fault… Your eyes met and suddenly Jack’s lips were on yours. You moaned with surprise, but deepened the kiss. You slowly straightened up without interrupting. Jack hands came around you, his fingers tightened on a dress as his tongue slipped between yours lips. Some sensation was born between your legs. You didn’t know when or how, but suddenly you felt his hand on your tight, his touch was leaving burning trace on your naked skin. All you could’ve thought about was his button shirt and how you wanted to rip it off. Before that could happen, you two separated, gasping for air. You looked away, feeling all the intense heat on your face. — This was not gentlemanly behaviour — you heard. You licked your lips. — Will I become less of a lady in your eyes if I say I liked it? Jack’s eyes brightened. — Not at all — was his answer. — Then let’s continue — you said with a smile.

Leonidas

Straight to the point. Why waste precious time for talking?

Sometimes though for some reason he likes to let things piss you off. He likes when you’re angry, it turns him on.

Leonidas was supposed to supervise your javelin throw training but instead he was reading another dull book. You threw javelin after javelin and none of them stuck in the ground. Frustration was slowly building in your chest as you hadn’t made progress in the last half hour. — Ugh! — Keep throwing, hon — you rolled your eyes. — Are you sure I am doing it right? — you asked through gritted teeth. — Yup — was his reply however from the tone of his voice you could tell that he was more concerned about his stupid book than your training. You took breathe in and out. He did it on purpose, didn’t he? Fine, two can play this game! You grabbed another javelin and tried again. Then repeat, then again, again and again. Calm and methodical. Until, out of the corner of your eye, you saw how impatiently Leonidas began to turn the pages. Until you felt his irritated gaze on your back and you almost gave yourself away. How easy it was to turn tables around. — Hon, wanna have some fun? — he asked finally, after abour fifteen minutes of silence and many javelins later. — You mean like boxing? — you asked innocently. Leonidas glanced at you over his book, which could basically shut anyone up. — I could do that with my men. I meant fun. You froze with javelin above your head. — Well technically you can do that with your men too — you sent the javelin flying, but the result was the same: it rolled along the ground. Pathetic. You flinched at the sudden creaking sound. — Look what a smartass we have here — Leonidas quickly moved towards you. You watched silently as he picked up two javelins from the ground, took the proper stance, and threw one of them. A javelin stuck in the ground like a strange flag many meters away. — I told you, put some strength into it! — Leonidas shouted at you as he placed a new javelin in your hand. He helped you take a correct stance, you felt his irritation but decided not to tease him yet — Eh, these weak arms of yours… Something has snapped inside you. You broke free from his grip. — We will see how you gonna cry under these weak arms of mine later, you jackass! — you yelled. The anger you felt earlier escalated to much greater size now. Leonidas smirked at your much smaller figure. His shirt tightened dangerously on his wide, muscled chest as if it were about to tear. — Oh, is the princess mad? — he mocked. — Piss off! You turned your back on him, otherwise you could have killed him on the spot. However, before you could leave, you felt a grip on your hand and a moment later you were pulled towards Leonidas. He picked you up and kissed without hesitation. You gasped with resentment at that audacity and began punching his chest. You felt him trying not to smile. The tight grip of Leonidas's arms around you didn't weaken for some time. — Now that’s the kind of fun I was looking for — he said once you had stopped. The kiss took your breath away but pride still demanded justice. You just looked at his smug face and tried to overcome your body's stupid excitement. — Let's take this elsewhere — he said. — Don’t you dare… NO! — you screamed as he threw you over his shoulder. — Screw you!

[the-fiction-witch]

Little Bird

Media House Of The Dragon

Character Daemon Targaryen

Couple Daemon X Reader

Rating Suggestive

Daemon counted in his head slowly without any of the words passing his lips, ‘1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4... 5... 6…’ and so on he thought until finally he arrived at ten. He opened his eyes and began his search, he started inside the chamber checking under the bed, behind the curtains, and inside the cupboard but found nothing. He continued checking the various places within the red keep but he was slowly beginning to become more frustrated as he searched. The prince grew impatient, yet he still found it funny how he was being bested. Daemon was amused and annoyed simultaneously. He was searching the red keep, wandering around the area, he even went through certain parts more than once. He was beginning to grow even more excited and impatient in his search,

“Come on out little bird,” he cooed but no answer came, “Come on this is starting to not be funny.” He said as he continued to call out never getting an answer his tone becoming less playful the longer it went on. “Little bird?” He called

He continued on his way before he reached the red keeps courtyard full of flowers bathed in the moonlight, "I know you're not in my chambers, I have searched every room. Perhaps you are amongst the flowers? Could my little bird have turned into a bird and flown away?"

Suddenly a small giggle came from the tall weirwood tree,

Daemon looked behind himself immediately and glanced at the weirwood tree, his eyes began to scan the base of the tree He chuckled softly at her game and gave a playful shake of his skull. “Little bird? I should have known you’d be up in tree. Come on down dear. Don’t make me climb up there.” he warns playfully as he goes to the bottom of the tree looking up to see his betrothal.

Y/n sits up in the tree’s branches in her long red dress, her Y/C/H hair in sweet braids, with a wide smile across her lips, “Do I win?” she asked kicking her legs playfully,

“Yes. You win. Come on down and claim your price,” he told her, “Come get your rewards,”

She giggled and climbed down the tree to his waiting arms as his hands grabbed her waist and she set her hands on his shoulders so he could lift her down and he gave her a sweet kiss, he kissed her deeply for a while still holding her in his arms her feet off the floor so she had no escape.

“I think that’s your best prize yet my pretty little bird,”

“No, still second.”

“You’re telling me there have been rewards better and more pleasing then this? Go on enlighten me?”

“Getting to be your future bride. Is still number one.”

“You are too sweet, I admit… I am looking forward to having my little bird all to myself,” He smirked, “Come on, lets get you back to bed.” He said as he carried her though the red keep and back to his chamber where he dropped her on the covers. She laid on her back giggling among the sheets,

“Hi,”

“Hello my little bird,” Daemon smiled softly down at her as he sat down next to her on the bed. The dark prince placed a hand on her right thigh and gave a gentle squeeze. His eyes remained locked with hers as he spoke. "I shall not let you go, not this time... Not after our game of hide and seek." Daemon brought his other hand to her other thigh and began rubbing them up and down her legs. "You have made me work to even have this small moment with you, dear little bird. I think that means I shall enjoy myself with you that much more. So please, let me have my fun?"

"...no."

"And why not my sweet bird? Is there nothing I could do to persuade you?"

"no. Not until or wedding"

"What? So I cannot have you now? How unfortunate for me." Daemon said with a smirk as he was still rubbing her thighs.

"it is. But you shall just have to control yourself my lord. Nothing will happen until our wedding night"

"Control myself? Do you think you can keep such a big man as me under control for that long, dear little bird?" The prince's voice was filled with a playful edge as he spoke.

"well it's the rules. Won't I've nice for you? To wait. To deflower your virgin little bird on your wedding night?"

Daemon laughed softly at her words. He was amused but his voice began to grow more sultry as he was talking about the wedding night.

"Such a tempting offer, dear little bird. To have you then and there. But I must agree, you are quite enticing, I would hate to take away from the moment of your wedding. So I shall hold off from taking you now, to make the moment of our wedding more special."

"thank you, but I'm sure you will not need to wait long" she cooed giving his lips a sweet kiss "did you want me to go? Sleep elsewhere tonight? So I am not .. tempting to you?"

Daemon laughed softly as he kissed her back, he did not stop for a few moments. The prince's voice was full of amusement as he spoke. "Why would I sleep elsewhere when I have a bed big enough for two? Do you think that I would send you away from me? Not when you are this beautiful and this enticing I would never want the bird to roam too far. You are indeed tempting but I cannot afford to take the bird so early. No, no, my sweet bird shall remain close to me, forever more."

she nodded and kissed him once more before she left the bed and moved behind a screen to change for bed Daemon watched her as she moved behind the screen to change, his eyes wandering over her shadows as she changed biting his lip trying to quel his dark desires, she emerged in a little silk nightgown and blushed the perfect picture of innocence "how do I look?"

"I think someone wishes to be taken by the bad prince. You look as if you are inviting trouble into your bed."

"trouble?"

Daemon gave a little smirk, and his eyes remained locked with hers. She was teasing him again and the playful bird was driving him crazy. "Yes, trouble. Or do you wish to deny what it is that I see before me?"

"I don't know what your talking about Daemon. Tis meerly a nightgown for bed." She smiled Innocently as she moves closer the white silk nightgown Caressed her perfectly gliding over her figure like a second skin even her nipples poked the silk slightly her hair allowed to flow down her back,

Daemon's eyes began to glance at her nipples, the prince was having great difficulty in his attempts at stopping himself. He wasn't sure of how long he would last. He would do his best to be a gentleman, but she kept on becoming more... Tempting. "You truly know how to be a tease my sweet little bird... Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"yes Daemon?"

Daemon took a deep breath in before speaking. "I know... I know there cannot be anything that happens between us before the wedding. However may I make just... One request?"

"well what's the request?" Her head tilted to the side

Daemon's voice was hushed as he spoke his request to her. "May I take a peek at what I can not have until our wedding?"

"a peek?"

"A peek, just a glimpse of what lays beneath that nightgown of yours. Is that too much to ask... My sweet bird?"

"...one look. No more"

"I accept the terms, my little bird. A glance will do, it is all I need. Come here little bird."

she moved to the edge of the bed within his reach his hands don't waste time tugging the nightgown up for a peek at her, he revealed her utterly seeing her large breasts bare nipples hard to the cold air, her beautiful body, her thick thighs, wide hips, and her perfect mount and pussy, She blushed at him seeing her and after he looked he all over she tugged her nightgown from his hands and pushed it down to conceal herself again and she climbed into the bed, 

Daemon did not speak as he looked at her, his eyes tracing every inch of her once more. The prince was filled with a new found respect for his little bird, if she could reveal herself in such a way, if she was not scared of such intimacy... The prince had never looked at any woman with such devotion, such lust, as he was currently looking at her.

"Tell me, have you truly taken no one else before me? Were you telling the truth about being a maiden?"

"my Maidenhead has never been touched" she smiled, "May I ask something?"

"Go ahead my sweet bird, you may ask me anything."

"did you like the sight of me? Your peek?'

"Would you like me to be blunt with my answer? There is nothing that I could say in response to that question that would truly express how much I liked what I saw."

"you may be as blunt as needed"

"To be blunt, the sight of you was absolutely wonderful, I enjoyed every single second of it. You are a rare woman, truly, a woman that I would fight all the kingdoms in order to have. I have never seen anyone so beautiful, my little bird, and I don't think I ever will. That is merely the truth of it." Daemon spoke truthfully the prince's voice filled with admiration as he talked about her. The prince was not lying in anyway, if anything, he was underselling how much he enjoyed it.

"may I ask? Which... Part of me fascinated you the most?"

"I would have to say you are the most perfect thing I have ever seen. Every part of you fascinates me. If I were to choose a favourite, I would probably say your cunt has my attention the most."

"Really? Why?"

"Humm the thought that soon I shall have it as my own. I shall be able to touch it, kiss it, burry myself in it. That it will grow my children and pleasure me endlessly. I can't help but he fascinated by it my little bird." He smirked "I have a rather large appetite my little bird, but I shall hold back in order to satisfy you. You are indeed a very tempting bird, I will keep my promise, I shall have as much of your body as you want me to after the wedding. May I ask for another favor?"

"yes Daemon?"

"My sweet little bird, may I ask you to please come closer to me, may I ask you to please come and sit in my lap. I feel that my lap may become your home rather soon."

"I have a better idea,"

"Would you care to share this idea of yours then my little bird?"

She smiled and pulled him to lay flat on the bed she happily laid down setting her head on his chest her hand on his stomach, "I would love to sit in your lap Daemon but it's late and we're all ready for bed. I worry I will fall asleep but this is acceptable isn't it? A nice cuddle till we fall asleep?"

"If this is the bird's idea of a better idea, I think I like your ideas better than mine. It is more than acceptable, I believe I would love to feel your body against me every single night. Shall I say something that you might not want to hear though dear little bird?"

she nodded, 

"I was going to say that I have found myself wanting to push the boundaries more and more as the night has gone on. While I am more than overjoyed at the thought of being so close to you, there is something I find myself wanting more and more as time passes."

"And what's that?"

"I want her to be mine, my little bird. I have been craving to possess you, body and soul every since I first laid eyes on you. Now I am more than ever."

"well soon I will be your wife and you may take my Maidenhead then. And then I will be yours body, soul. All ways"

"I know. it is just getting harder to wait my little bird." he muttered, "May I ask you one last question dear little bird?"

"mhm?"

"I know you will be my wife soon, and you have made me so happy. I could stay awake with you all night but... If I did that, would it be possible for you to grant the prince one single wish? One wish for his bird?" He cooed, "Do you think maybe I might be able to move the hand my bird has on my stomach now?  but I had to ask because... I can not resist my own desire any longer." he pleaded, "Please grant me this, my sweet little bird." 

"Move it?"

"Please, my little bird, I am not asking for anything that I won't get in the end. But, I am desperate to have this one thing from you. If I speak it, will you grant me my wish? I will ask for nothing more from you again if you grant me this."

She giggled and moved her hand down to draw small shapes with her fingertips on the bottom of his stomach, but he took her hand and moved it further down, 

"Please dear little bird, I want you to touch me... to caress my... my..." he gasped pushing her hand lower and lower "Please... My little bird. Take your hand and... You know where I want your touch now. Touch me my princess... "

"Are you sure-"

"Please... No more talking... Touch me my little bird..."

"Yes my prince," she cooed.