#i just want to get through the day without even one errant thought about how I'm somehow letting people down by not posting anything

[reading-comp-posting]

Hi, sorry for the minor breakdown but this has been brewing for a while, even before my first little break, but I've really been thinking about it since earlier this morning. I have (at the moment) a bit over 15,000 followers. That's far too many.

In the interest of trying to pretend that I don't have an inordinate amount of people following me, I'm going to be closing the askbox for a bit, maybe forever. Nobody's sent me anon hate or anything, but even positive messages scare me now. Each one is a reminder that there are 15,000 people looking at the things I post. Even making normal posts (not to mention meta ones like this) has gotten to the point of being genuinely nerve-wracking.

So the askbox is off, and I probably won't even be checking notifications frequently and/or at all. I will attempt to convince myself that nobody is seeing my blog or anything I post on it.

As for the fundraiser posts that have been sent previously, I will post those in time. Because the askbox will be closed, no more can come through, however. This is because I am, as established earlier, a coward.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Crewel-sensei…do you wear that fur coat even in hot weather? How do you not die of heatstroke…

We were robbed (ROBBED, I say) of spring/summer and winter variants of the NRC uniforms :((

If he doesn’t scare you, no evil thing will.

The classroom was sweltering, having been steadily heated by the sunshine that fed in through open windows. (Crowley had bemoaned the costs of air conditioning, then insisted that the school “conserve energy”.) An errant spring breeze was the only hope one had for relief.

Today, there was no such luck.

Crewel had shucked his fur coat off, using his chair like a coat rack to suspend it. He looked less intimidating without the extra bulk—just a handsome older man in a suit, grading tests at his desk.

He snorted, fanning himself with a few papers. “Then I would be a fool with a death wish.”

Crewel had rolled up his sleeves, revealing a rare glimpse of his forearms, sticky with sweat. His tie had been loosened and now draped like a lazy snake around his neck. His dress shirt, unbuttoned—one or two, nothing too scandalous for a school.

He reminded you of a defeated dog, damp and deflated by the oppressive heat.

“The laboratories are even worse off,” Crewel groused, wrestling with his collar. He flapped it aggressively, trying to get some cool air circulating to his skin. “With the cauldrons boiling all day! You pups cannot pay attention to the lesson.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad,” you agreed sympathetically.

Us students are only in there for an hour, tops. Crewel-sensei is stuck there for most of the day to instruct each section…

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you offered. “Like, get you a glass of cold water or something?”

He gave a bitter laugh. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you’ll find that I can handle myself.

Crewel glanced at the clock. He shuffled his papers together and rose, grasping his fur coat off of his chair.

“I have a meeting scheduled with the headmaster to discuss the implementation of uniforms more fitting for the season—and this nonsense about ‘saving money on the air conditioning’… I will sort him out. It would benefit students and staff alike to invest in these measures.”

“Good luck trying to get Crowley to do anything. I’ve tried, and it usually doesn’t go well.”

“Hmph, we’ll see about that.” Crewel’s smile was brimming with challenge. “I have my ways of getting what I want… and the headmaster is, or course, a man who would not dare to work against the interests of those under his care.”

Sounds like an argument is about to break out in the teacher’s lounge. Crowley is stubborn, but Crewel-sensei is the type to fight fiercely for what he believes in.

For students and staff alike, he had said.

The thought soothed you as you watched him depart. His sweat-soaked back half obscured by a cloak of fur—it was the cape worn by an unsung hero.

[pin-k-ink]

COVET ⋆✦⋆ grimmjow jaegerjaquez ft. nnoitra gilga

synopsis ➸ grimmjow’s been secretly in love with you for ages. when you show up upset after a rough night with your new boyfriend, he’s ready to prove that not all affection has to hurt

tags ➸ friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, dub-con (from nnoitra… kinda), degradation (also from nnoitra), he is mean, dirty talk, asphyxiation, cheating(?), choking, mentions of bruises, body worship, pet names, nipple play, teasing, unprotected sex, praise kink, begging

wc ➸ 6.4k

Grimmjow tried his best to keep his expression neutral as you twisted this way and that in front of the vanity mirror, fussing with your hair. But it was getting harder by the second to mask the muscle twitching in his jaw or the way his fingers dug restlessly into the mattress beneath him.

You looked goddamn incredible as always - face flushed with excitement, those big eyes shining, glossy lips parted slightly as you scrutinized your reflection. The sight of you so dolled up and radiating pure joy over some asshole coming to sweep you off your feet again made Grimmjow's chest constrict painfully.

He hated it. Hated watching you put so much effort into chasing after these douchebags who couldn't possibly appreciate you properly. Not like he—

No. Grimmjow cut that dangerous line of thought off before it could fester into something uglier. You were his best friend, his whole world, and he refused to become that cliché "nice guy" who secretly resented you over unrequited feelings. Better to suffer in silence than risk poisoning what you had with bitter jealousy.

Still...the thought of Nnoitra's wandering hands all over you, his smug grin as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear, made Grimmjow's stomach churn acidically. That prick didn't deserve to even look at someone as radiant and full of life as you, let alone take you out and try to charm his way past your clothes later.

"You about ready yet?" he found himself rumbling, partly to distract from his darkening thoughts. "Or did you wanna powerbomb your hair with a few more hours of fussing before your date rolls around?"

You shot him an exasperated look over one shoulder, rolling those big expressive eyes in his direction. "I want to look nice, okay? Is that a crime now in the kingdom of Grimm?"

He snorted at that, trying for an indifferent shrug and missing by a mile as you continued fidgeting with your appearance. Goddammit, you were so fucking beautiful when you got like this - all adorably insecure and earnest in your desires without realizing how breathtaking you looked already.

How many times had Grimmjow stood frozen on that same damn mattress over the years, watching as you attempted painstaking ritual after ritual in pursuit of some unattainable standard of perfection? Each time you'd twist and fuss, utterly oblivious to how every tiny adjustment made his mouth go dry and insides twist with the effort of staying silent.

Of course, you had no idea just how devastating your presence and effortless allure was to him these days. No clue that your best friend had been fighting an increasingly losing battle to keep things platonic despite the fact that you made his heart race and palms sweat like some lovestruck idiot.

"Hope this douche at least remembers to open doors and pull out chairs for you tonight," Grimmjow heard himself muttering, unable to help firing off another sardonic aside in hopes of grounding himself. "God forbid you have to waste breath reminding him how to be a basic respectful dipshit after so many dates."

You paused in the middle of smoothing an errant strand of silky hair, brow creasing in that adorable little wrinkle he loved so much. For a brief, dizzying moment Grimmjow wondered if you'd somehow developed telepathy and sussed out the bitter envy churning through his gut.

Then your bemused voice cut through the stifling tension knotting his shoulders as you replied:

"Someone sounds awfully salty for a guy who swore up and down he wasn't gonna give me any grief over Nnoitra."

Grimmjow winced inwardly at the piercing insight, tamping down the instinctive urge to look properly chastened. Sure, he'd promised to stay out of your dating choices this time around - go so far as supporting you even - but how the hell could he when you kept bringing home these undeserving pricks one after another?!

A bitter chuckle nearly escaped his chest at the thought. Like he had any room to judge your romantic entanglements when he was the biggest philandering asshole of all. Always leaving a trail of broken hearts and bruised egos in his wake wherever he went because none of those casual flings could ever truly satisfy the deep, gnawing ache in his core.

At the end of every sweaty, tangled night spent chasing fleeting pleasures, Grimmjow inevitably found his lust-hazed vision seeking out some glimmer of your essence reflected in whichever warm body writhed and gasped beneath his ravenous attentions. Maybe it was the way their hair splayed across the pillows in thick waves, so reminiscent of when you lounged about lazily on weekends snuggled up watching dumb movies. Or perhaps the smattering of freckles dotting their shoulder blades reminded him of the sun-kissed constellations spanning your back and shoulders from summers spent outside together.

No matter how petty or delusional it felt each time he found himself pathetically projecting pieces of you onto another nameless conquest, Grimmjow couldn't seem to stop himself from instinctively searching for those fleeting echoes. Because in those hoarded fragments, as superficial and masochistic as they may have been, he could almost pretend his restless, traitorous heart was finally sated for once.

Almost convince himself that the plush curves and silken skin bared so wantonly beneath him belonged to the one woman who simultaneously gave his life meaning while robbing him of all peace entirely.

Once or twice he'd even slipped so deeply into those maddening delusions that your name had spilled from his lips in a shuddering groan against heated flesh. Only to be jolted brutally back to harsh reality by the stricken revulsion twisting their expressions - punctuated by the harsh sting of an open palm leaving his cheek smarting in shameful reprisal.

So yeah...maybe Grimmjow had zero ground for casting aspersions on your romantic choices when he'd sunken to such utterly pathetic lows in his own debased pursuit of any scrap or temporary solace available. All because doing the right thing and simply letting you go to find happiness felt more agonizing than sacrificing what little soul and dignity he had left clutching at pale imitations.

Before he could wrangle the impulse into some sardonic retort designed to deflect, your thoughtful gaze shifted back to drinking in his sprawled form with that same unconscious appreciation. Grimmjow instinctively straightened under the intensity of your stare, electricity prickling down his nape and shoulders at the weight behind those warm, guileless eyes...

Then you beamed at him - just a soft, radiant smile that lit up your whole face - and Grimmjow felt his heart stutter in his chest all over again like it did every damn time you looked at him like that. Like he was the only person in the world who mattered in that suspended breath.

"You know you'll always be my best friend, right Grimm?" you said simply, voice brimming with sincere affection that robbed him of air entirely.

He blinked dumbly, mesmerized by the ethereal glow of pure sunshine radiating from your expression as you regarded him with that same open, vulnerable adoration he'd never quite grown accustomed to after all these years. Grimmjow felt himself leaning towards your orbit helplessly despite his best intentions, like a man dying of thirst finally stumbling upon an oasis after ages adrift.

"No matter who comes and goes, you're the one constant I can count on," you continued softly, ducking your chin a little with a tiny self-conscious tuck of hair behind your ear. "My truest partner in everything, y'know?"

Grimmjow's throat bobbed convulsively as he fought to swallow past the lump swelling there. God, how did you always manage to disarm him so completely with just a few hushed syllables and those big, earnest eyes of yours? He opened his mouth, desperate to return the sentiment somehow though any actual words failed him utterly in the wake of your sincerity bowling him over once more.

Then your smile widened into that brilliant, achingly familiar grin he'd somehow fallen deeper in love with every year you two spent practically glued at the hip. You rose from the vanity in one graceful, effortless movement and drifted over to plop down on the mattress beside him - movements radiating that wholesome, utterly pure aura of joy he cherished like a sacred flame amidst the world's cruelties.

Before Grimmjow could properly recalibrate his restraints, you leaned over to loop one slender arm around his shoulders and press the gentlest kiss against his cheek in a sweet, platonic embrace. His entire body went rigid, every muscle taut as his jaw clenched to stifle the growl threatening to rumble free as the ghost of your warm breath and plush lips seared themselves into his senses.

"Love you to the moon and back, you big grump," you whispered against the heated line of his jaw, completely oblivious to the smoldering inferno blazing behind his hooded stare now. "Even when you're being a stubborn jerk about me dating again."

The urge to turn and capture those honeyed words straight from your glistening mouth in a soulfire of a kiss nearly overpowered Grimmjow's faculties entirely. He could already envision the rapturous slide of claiming your velvet lips and sipping down those blissful sighs escaping around each searing caress.

Only the sudden, jarring chime of your phone vibrating across the nightstand jolted him back from that delirious precipice at last. You pulled away with a start, glancing towards the caller ID in clear dismay at the intrusion.

Then your expression shifted, lips curving into a bright, anticipatory grin as you registered who the incoming call was from. "Oh! That must be Nnoitra letting me know he's here!"

You bounced up from the mattress with a renewed burst of youthful energy, all but vibrating with poorly contained excitement. Grimmjow watched through his lashes as you hurried back over to the vanity, straightening your outfit and running deft fingers through your hair one final time.

"Don't wait up, okay?" you tossed over your shoulder with a wink that twisted the blade in his heart effortlessly. "Could be a late one depending how charming Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome is feeling tonight!"

A hollow chuckle punched past Grimmjow's defenses before he could bite it back. "When isn't that jackass on his A-game trying to sweep you off your feet?" he rasped out with far more bitterness than he'd intended.

You simply giggled at his sarcasm, utterly missing the jagged undercurrent fueling it as you whirled back towards him with that megawatt smile of yours.

"You know me, sucker for a pretty face and silver tongue, Grimm," you sighed dramatically, hands fluttering up to cradle your radiant features. "Just pray one day I learn some taste to go with this weak willpower!"

With that final teasing remark, you strode over and pressed another sweet, painfully chaste peck against his cheek that nearly unmade Grimmjow entirely.

"Love you, grump!" you murmured, breath fanning over his already flushed skin in deliciously intimate waves. "Don't wait up, but do lock up behind me if I'm not back before morning? You're the best, bye!"

Before he could unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, you bounded from the bedroom and out through the front hall in a whirlwind of perfumed vibrancy. Grimmjow remained upright on your bed, back rigid and fists clenched against his thighs so hard the knuckles strained white as bleached bone. The thunderous cadence of blood roared in his ears until finally...the front door clicked shut behind your whirlwind exit.

Then, and only then, did Grimmjow allow his forehead to sag forward into his upturned palms with a groan torn from the deepest hollows of his soul.

"Fuck..." he rasped out around the bitter ashes of loss coating his tongue once more. "Love you too...so goddamn much it hurts just to keep breathing without you here..."

He stayed that way for several suspended eternities until the furious pounding of his pulse ebbed enough for higher cognitive functions to trickle back hazily. But even as Grimmjow finally slumped backwards onto the rumpled bedding you'd occupied so recently, consuming your lingering warmth and scent like a dying man's oxygen, he knew the desolate ache hollowing out his core would persist until your inevitable return once more.

Just like it always did whenever you drifted from his side to chase empty dreams with these superficial pricks unworthy of so much as basking in your radiant light. But Grimmjow would stay, would continue craving and pining after you in aching silence rather than risk shattering your bond entirely.

Better to watch you pursue wholehearted fulfillment despite the endless, gnawing torment scoring fresh wounds into his battered soul with each breathless farewell. At least this way...he could still bask in your light and cherish the scraps of intimacy you allowed him rather than lose you completely to the howling void.

So he waited...and endured...and loved you with every faltering fragment of his shattered being until the next rapturous reunion finally granted him fleeting solace in your orbit once more.

The ride back to Nnoitra's place passed in a heated blur of wandering hands and heated make-out sessions whenever they hit a red light. You thrilled at the shiver of delicious anticipation lacing through your veins as his calloused palms roamed over your exposed thighs and up under your skirt teasingly.

A giddy thrill raced through your veins as Nnoitra's car pulled up to his place - a sleek, luxurious apartment building that practically oozed opulence. You'd had such an incredible night together filled with romantic candlelight, sumptuous food, and that dark undercurrent of heated tension you lived for.

Things were still relatively new between you both, having only progressed to intense bouts of heavy petting and dry-humping in the backseat of Nnoitra's car after dates so far. But tonight, after weeks of building tension, you sensed a shift in his usual aggressive yet restrained approach to pursuing you physically.

All the subtle hints radiated off him in smoldering waves from the moment he opened your door and pulled you flush against his powerful frame. The ravenous way his mouth never left your skin for longer than a few scorching inhales. How those large, rough fingers dug into the supple flesh of your hips and ass with undisguised possessiveness.

"Fuck you look so goddamn gorgeous tonight, babydoll," Nnoitra growled against the fevered hollow of your throat between molten kisses. "Been drivin' me crazy thinkin' about strippin' you outta that little number all evening..."

You shivered at his words, the blatant masculine lust saturating them sending heat zinging through your core deliciously. As he guided you backwards into his apartment with that same single-minded focus, you couldn't quite stifle the giddy thrill of anticipation mounting higher still.

This was it - the moment you'd been breathlessly awaiting ever since your first flirtatious exchange with Nnoitra and the undeniable spark of chemistry igniting between you. The night everything finally reached its crescendo and you both surrendered to the ravenous passion simmering for weeks on end. You were practically vibrating with pent-up need and arousal by the time the backs of your thighs hit the mattress and sent you toppling backwards into the rumpled bedding.

Nnoitra loomed above you like a conquering force of nature given human form - eyes glittering with unveiled hunger and those full lips curled in a predatory smirk you couldn't tear your stare away from despite your thundering pulse.

"Ready for the main event, princess?" he rumbled out in a tone dripping with dark promise that made your thighs clench involuntarily.

"God yes..." you breathed out in a throaty rasp, hands already tugging at the collar of his fitted shirt impatiently. "You have no idea how bad I've wanted—"

But the rest of your breathy declaration trailed off in a choked gasp as Nnoitra abruptly seized both your wrists in a bruising grip and pinned them over your head in one forceful sweeping motion. You struggled on instinct for one heart-pounding second before registering the white-hot heat of pure, undisguised possession blazing in his heavy-lidded stare.

"Not tonight you don't," he hissed out in a tone laced with something that set off warning bells in your hind-brain instantly. "Tonight that greedy fucking mouth and the rest of your hot little body are mine to do with as I please..."

You frowned, opening your mouth to protest the hostile phrasing dancing along your instinctive aversion, only for Nnoitra to silence you roughly with a bruising crush of his demanding lips. His free hand wasted no time delving between your trembling forms, shoving past your flimsy panties and underwear to grip your sex in a vicious squeeze that punched the breath from your lungs in a strangled keen.

"That's right, slut," he growled against your parted, gasping mouth as rough fingertips parted your folds with uncompromising insistence. "Make all the sweet little noises you want while I get that worthless pussy nice and sloppy for what's coming..."

The cruel, dehumanizing words landed like a physical blow, igniting a fresh blaze of panicked adrenaline that made you thrash against his restraining bulk in a desperate bid for space. But Nnoitra only chuckled darkly in evident relish, baring down with his full, unyielding weight in wordless reprimand while his calloused knuckles continued their ruthless ministrations between your thighs...

You barely registered the salt tracks of tears streaming down your face as you slowly extricated your quivering form out from beneath Nnoitra's dead weight on the mattress. You slid free of the tangled sheets and quickly pried open the drawer beside the bed to yank on the first clothes you could find despite your raw, aching skin howling in protest.

Hot tears stung your eyes as you allowed Nnoitra's parting sneers and contemptuous dismissal to rattle around your numb psyche. Stupid slut...pathetic cocktease with no follow-through...wasted his goddamn time like every other desperate whore...

Your entire body thrummed with secondhand humiliation and regret. How could you have been so blind, so utterly naive to think this vulgar, domineering man might harbor even the slightest consideration or care for your boundaries?

No...you knew better, deep down. Perhaps not the full, ugly extent of Nnoitra's penchant for degradation and savagery, but enough to sense the ugliness lurking beneath his veneers all the same. All this time you'd simply chosen willful blindness in hopes some idealized version of him might take root if only you persisted hard enough.

Only once you were fully redressed and upright again - legs trembling violently yet somehow still holding your weight - did you chance a furtive look back over your shoulder at the sprawled silhouette of your boyfriend.

He was utterly unconscious in the aftermath of his merciless savagery, the slow rise and fall of his chest barely perceptible in the dim light creeping through the blinds. You couldn't discern if the wet trails bisecting his sculpted features had been your tears or his own sweat dripping down, nor did you particularly care at this point. All that remained was the hollow ache throbbing through every inch of your ravaged body and psyche pulsing in a dull cadence.

"Shouldn't have pushed me so hard, you cheap-ass cumslut," Nnoitra's mumbled slur reached you from the darkness, chilling you anew. "Now look...totally fucking blew my load and wasted it because your needy ass couldn't relax and take your medicine like a good girl..."

Any further cruel taunts dissolved into thick, whistling snores as he succumbed to the heavy pull of slumber anew. You simply stood there amid the settling ashes of your last remaining illusions and shattered boundaries, struggling to cling to the final fraying threads holding you together at all.

Then Grimmjow's face swam into focus behind your eyelids - that rakish grin and those penetratingly sincere azure irises that shimmered with so much fierce loyalty and adoration whenever he beheld you. It was like a lighthouse piercing through the fog of your unraveling despair and guiding you back towards salvation at last.

Without further hesitation, you turned on your heel and fled from the blood-tinged battlefield of Nnoitra's apartment with the few remaining dignity-preserving scraps you had energy to salvage. Away from the desolate, mocking silence now suffocating the eerie stillness in your wake.

Grimmjow barely registered the muted drone of the TV flickering before him, gaze glazed and thoughts adrift as he idly channel surfed. Some old movie rerun flickered across the screen but he couldn't muster enough focus to follow the plot if his life depended on it. His mind was too preoccupied wondering just what fresh hell you might be enduring at that very moment with Nnoitra...

The sudden jarring trill of the doorbell made him jolt upright, frown creasing his features as he glanced towards the entryway in confusion. Grimmjow definitely wasn't expecting company this late. Unless...

His pulse kicked up a traitor's cadence as he rose and padded towards the front door, something like grim anticipation weighing in his gut. Sure enough, one sweeping glance through the peephole revealed your familiar silhouette hunched on the front steps in the dim glow of the porch light.

Steeling himself for whatever emotional turbulence awaited, Grimmjow undid the locks and tugged the door open carefully. The sight that greeted him stole what little breath remained, bitter resignation curdling through his veins like acid.

"Hey Grimm..." you rasped out in a voice utterly devoid of your usual sunshine and warmth.

Then you lifted your bowed head just enough to reveal the fresh bruising purpling along your throat, the swollen split in your lower lip, and more incriminating evidence scattered across your ravaged features...and something inside Grimmjow simply cracked irreparably.

"[Y/N]..." he croaked out numbly, body moving on horrified instinct to surge forward and gather your trembling form against his chest in a crushing embrace. "What did that son of a bitch do to you..."

At his impassioned whisper, the dam finally broke and you dissolved into wretched, hiccuping sobs against his heaving chest. Grimmjow could only clutch you tighter, teeth grinding in sheer impotent fury as the warm trails of your anguish streaked over his skin in scorching brands far worse than any physical wound.

That worthless pile of shit Nnoitra had HURT you - harmed you in ways that made Grimmjow's most merciless nightmares seem trite by comparison. His eyes squeezed shut as you continued keening into the hollow of his throat wordlessly, entire frame practically vibrating with the force of your raw devastation laid finally bare.

Grimmjow had witnessed you mourn other breakups over the years, yes. But never in such undiluted, soul-searing fashion as this. It was as if the very essence of your brilliant spark - that endless fount of effortless joy and resilience he'd cherished for so long - had finally been scoured out through unimaginable torment until only the bitter, haunted ashes remained in its wake.

A snarl began building in his chest, low and guttural until it threatened to burst free in an incandescent blaze. Every simmering thread of restraint Grimmjow had worn like shackles holding back the urges to simply seize and ravage you as he so desperately craved came apart like smoke dissolving on the wind. The need to find Nnoitra and utterly annihilate him down to his very core suddenly blazed with the intensity of a dying star finally going supernova in one apocalyptic conflagration.

But just as Grimmjow began turning towards hunting his prey down no matter the consequences, your quavering rasp reached his ears and paralyzed him in his tracks.

"Don't..." you whispered in a broken cadence against his thundering pulse, hands feebly clutching his shirt with the last vapors of strength. "Please Grimm...I just want to be done...to stop hurting for a while and just...rest here with you..."

And just like that, all the smoldering bloodlust and wrath simply evaporated, leaving Grimmjow feeling utterly deflated as he turned back to gather you closer. You wound enfeebled arms around his midsection, clinging to his hulking frame with unconcealed desperation as he simply swayed in place, murmuring wordless reassurance against your disheveled hair.

How many times had he wished to declare his love in that heated silence, to reveal the aching depths of devotion roiling in his chest for years? Too many to ever recount as the seconds stretched into eternities under the leaden weight of your private anguish exsanguinating against him...

But somehow, in that suspended purgatory, Grimmjow also felt the stirrings of hope threatening to bloom impossibly through the bitter soil of his longstanding resignation. As if your hollowed vulnerability offered an oasis out of the howling void you'd both been trapped in since the beginning...

He pulled back just enough for your bleary, bloodshot eyes to find his, one hand tenderly cupping the curve of your jaw where the first telltale bruise blossomed. Grimmjow studied your ravaged features with something approaching reverence despite the wounds etched there.

To think your radiance had finally broken and started to cool towards ashen despondence...the reality sliced deeper than any physical torment. Yet also revealed an untold strength residing in those battered depths that threatened to rob Grimmjow of his composure entirely in a different way. He thumbed over your split lower lip with trembling care, utterly transfixed by every hitched breath shuddering through your lungs.

Unable to resist the swirling undertow any longer, Grimmjow surged forward and captured your parted lips in a searing, infinitely tender glide. The contact was barely there at first - a mere whisper of reverence and restrained longing scorching his senses. But then you whimpered softly against his mouth, and like a drowning man gulping life-giving air, Grimmjow deepened the kiss with a rumbling groan.

You both seemed frozen for one suspended eternity, bodies locked in a molten clinch as his tongue traced the plush seam of your lips in unspoken entreaty. When you finally parted them with a shuddering sigh, Grimmjow felt something primal and ravenous unfurl in his gut with blinding intensity.

He cradled the nape of your neck with infinite care, angling your faces impossibly closer as his tongue delved past your lips to explore every slick, velvet crevice with aching leisure. Each sweep of his velvet muscle elicited the most blissful, broken little sounds punching free from your core that stoked the banked embers in Grimmjow's own into an insatiable blaze.

"Sweet girl..." he murmured against your swollen mouth between heated, indulgent kisses. "Let me take care of you properly this time..."

You keened softly in response, hands scrabbling up the firm musculature of his back and shoulders as if seeking purchase against the tidal wave of sensation threatening to bowl you both under entirely. Grimmjow could only growl in dark approval, trailing open-mouthed worship down the slender column of your throat while gathering you against his powerful frame.

With a leonine heave, he surged to his feet and carried you through the living room without breaking his sensual cadence. Your thighs parted instinctively to bracket his hips like a lifeline, shaky gasps ghosting over his fevered skin with each lush undulation of your tangled forms.

"That's it..." Grimmjow husked out in a rumbling purr laced with sinful promise. "Stay right here with me, let me show you how good it feels to be handled right..."

By the time he lowered you reverently onto the rumpled sheets and covered your pliant body with his own, the weight of unrequited yearning and hunger etched in every etched ridge and hollow had reached a fever pitch. Yet despite the unmistakable claiming energy thrumming through each vein and sinew, Grimmjow retained an unhurried, almost meditative pace as he worked to rid you of your clothes.

Hands roamed and mapped every lush curve and quivering hollow, thumbs skating over feverish skin with aching tenderness even as he blazed a path of devouring kisses along the slopes of your breasts. You arched into him helplessly, lost to the sublime rapture of touch and being so thoroughly adored by someone who saw your radiant essence unveiled before anything else.

Your legs fell open wider as Grimmjow settled firmly between your splayed thighs, the firm swell of his cock straining his boxers against your molten core. Your hips canted upwards to grind against the welcome friction, hands scrabbling up and down the flexing contours of his muscled torso with unrestrained wantonness.

"God, so fucking perfect for me, babygirl," Grimmjow groaned against the valley between your breasts, one hand delving lower to cup your soaked sex and thumb your swollen clit. "Never gonna let anyone mistreat you or take this precious pussy for granted again, sweetheart..."

Then his face dipped lower still, and all coherent thought fled your mind as his full, pouty lips closed over one aching nipple and began suckling in earnest. You whimpered and squirmed beneath him, the wet heat of his mouth and teasing scrape of his teeth driving you wild.

Grimmjow merely growled around the pert, glistening bud and switched to its neglected twin, alternating between long, slow laps and gentle nips. His calloused fingers continued their torturous dance around your dripping slit, sliding over your folds and circling your swollen clit in unhurried, dizzying spirals.

The air grew thick with your combined panting breaths and the sinful, slick sounds of his relentless ministrations. All the while, the insistent throb of his rigid shaft grinding against you in steady rhythm built the pressure of unbridled need higher and higher still until you were sure you'd be swallowed by the rising tide entirely.

"Please...Grimmjow, please I can't take it anymore!" you sobbed, hands fisting in his tousled cerulean locks and yanking. "I need you inside me, want you to fuck me and make it better, please..."

At your breathless, broken entreaty, Grimmjow's head reared up from your flushed chest with an almost feral snarl. The blistering heat radiating from his piercing cerulean gaze was enough to scald you to the bone, igniting the molten embers simmering through your veins anew.

"Fuck, I want to, baby…so goddamn much," he bit out, teeth gritted as he loomed over you with one forearm braced on the headboard. "But you've had enough rough treatment for a lifetime. Gonna be real sweet and thorough when I make you mine at last, gorgeous."

He dipped his head low and sealed his mouth over yours in another soul-searing kiss, tongues tangling and breath mingling. You felt the blunt, silky head of his cock nudging your drenched folds aside and gliding through your folds to graze your sensitive bundle of nerves. Then the fat, velvety tip began prodding at your entrance, and you were certain the delicious pressure might very well undo you before you'd even felt him sink fully inside you.

"Gonna take it real slow, babygirl, so just breathe for me, yeah?" he husked against your parted lips.

Grimmjow punctuated his gravelly command with a shallow roll of his hips, the thick, bulbous crown stretching your tender walls with agonizing tenderness. Your inner muscles clenched instinctively, the initial burn of intrusion giving way to the delicious fullness that promised so much more to come.

"Yes, fuck yes Grimmjow, keep going, don't stop..."

The raw, pleading notes of your voice only served to spur him on, and he buried his face in the crook of your shoulder with a hoarse curse. The powerful flex and coil of his sinewy form above you as he sank deeper inside you inch by aching inch was an utter thing of beauty.

Every twitch and clench of your walls drew out a different sound from his lips - a ragged gasp or breathy groan, or something more akin to a guttural snarl. The overwhelming intensity was unlike anything you'd ever experienced, and yet felt like the culmination of all the shared yearning and desire built up for so long.

When the rigid girth finally bottomed out, your legs hooked instinctively around his waist and you let out a keening cry, overwhelmed by the delicious pressure throbbing within. Grimmjow merely let out a shudder exhale, lips brushing your sweat-slicked brow and jaw.

"Fuck, you feel like pure heaven around my cock, princess," he groaned, teeth grazing the shell of your ear as his hips began a slow, deep thrust. "So goddamn good, never wanna leave this sweet pussy now that I've had a taste..."

His words sent a fresh thrill zipping down your spine, and your back arched up to meet the sinuous roll of his body in a languid counterpoint. Your fingers carded through the coarse azure strands tumbling around his handsome features, the sheer intensity of his adoring gaze searing into your soul and sending shivers through your writhing frame.

Grimmjow pressed impassioned kisses along the line of your jaw and collarbone, all the while murmuring soft words of praise and endearment. His tempo was a measured, unhurried glide that kept building the pressure within you to an excruciating fever pitch.

The heady friction of his velvet length massaging your inner walls in the most sinful way soon had you babbling incoherently. His name fell from your lips in broken, reverent litany as if invoking a sacred prayer - the only truth that mattered in that moment.

"H-Harder, Grimm...please..." you gasped, the coil in your belly drawing tighter and tighter with each exquisite slide.

"Uh-uh, babygirl, not this time," he rumbled back, one hand skimming over the smooth plane of your torso to cradle the crest of your hip with unflinching tenderness. "Wanna show you how good it feels when someone loves you like they're meant to..."

With those gravelly words, Grimmjow's pace slowed further still until each thrust was a languid, almost agonizing pull out followed by a torturous press in. His lips closed over yours in a drugging kiss, tongues gliding in unhurried, sinful caresses that only stoked the inferno of your mutual desire into an inextinguishable conflagration.

You keened helplessly, utterly at his mercy in the best possible way. With his strong, broad body braced above you and his unyielding cock filling you completely, the rest of the world fell away to insignificance. It was as if you'd finally found the home and shelter you'd sought so desperately in that shared, silent space - in the warmth of his arms and the searing heat of his touch.

Grimmjow broke the kiss suddenly, a deep shudder coursing through his powerful frame as he buried his face in the hollow of your throat with a ragged, drawn-out groan. You could feel the telltale flutter of his swollen member against your tender inner walls and knew his own release was near.

"Fuck, I-I'm close, sweet girl..."

His strained voice seemed to drag you out of the haze of ecstasy you'd been swept away on, and the sight of him above you nearly undid you completely.

His cerulean locks tumbled around his fevered expression in disheveled tendrils, eyes blazing with pure adoration and devotion and the strain of unyielding restraint holding back his climax. His arms quivered on either side of you, muscles rippling and bunching as he fought to maintain his torturous pace and draw out the bliss for just a little longer.

You wound your legs tighter around his lean waist, angling your hips up and letting out a high, breathless gasp as he sank impossibly deeper inside you. Grimmjow cursed darkly, teeth grazing the column of your throat and hands fisting the sheets until his knuckles blanched.

"I-I love you, [Y/N]...fuck, I love you so much," he groaned, voice cracking at the end and betraying the depth of his emotion. "Please say it back, let me hear it at least once, please..."

Your heart stuttered at his impassioned, whispered plea. The raw, naked longing etched on his features threatened to overwhelm you entirely. But in the end, there was no doubt left in your mind about what you needed to do, and no fear at the idea of exposing the tender, fragile parts of yourself in turn.

"I love you too, Grimmjow," you whispered back, hands reaching up to tenderly cup his cheeks and bring his feverish, desperate gaze back to yours. "You're the only one I've ever loved like this, and the only one I want, I promise."

And just like that, the leonine man above you seemed to collapse with a shuddering exhale, burying his face in the valley between your breasts as his powerful body went taut as a bowstring. A few more deep, hard thrusts and the pressure within you snapped, sending you both hurtling over the edge into blissful oblivion.

Your back arched off the mattress, eyes squeezing shut and mouth falling open on a choked sob as the first waves of pleasure crashed through your frame. Grimmjow's answering snarl and ragged exhale signaled his own release, the molten heat of his essence flooding your core and filling every inch of your quivering channel with his seed.

He continued rocking into you as you both rode out the last echoes of release, hips twitching and muscles shuddering with the aftershocks. Your legs fell bonelessly to the bed, thighs quivering and chest heaving as he rolled off you at last, his spent cock slipping free from your quivering sex with a lewd squelch.

He gathered you against him, one powerful arm looping around your waist to pull you flush against his firm, sinewy torso. The other stroked and smoothed over the sweat-slicked strands of hair clinging to your temples and forehead, fingers trailing tenderly over your features and pressing a reverent kiss to your parted lips.

"[Y/N]...my precious girl, don't know how I'll ever let you go," Grimmjow mumbled against your temple, nuzzling his cheek against the crown of your head. "You deserve so much better than what I have to offer, but I'm still not letting you leave. Never."

A fresh swell of emotion threatened to break loose, but this time, it was not borne of heartache or despair. You turned your face up to his, pressing a chaste kiss to his sculpted jaw and reveling in the possessive squeeze of his arms around you.

"Then I'm not going anywhere, Grimmjow."

He let out a satisfied rumble and nosed along the slope of your throat and jaw, pressing lazy kisses wherever he could reach. The soothing motion lulled you into a pleasant, boneless haze, the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad chest lulling you deeper into the depths of slumber.

The last thing you heard before slipping away was the soft, reverent whisper breathed against the crown of your head.

"Love you, [Y/N]...more than I ever thought was possible."

[herrinarte]

Returning To The Roots

A Tamlin x Lucien Fanfic

A hint of lavender wafted through the first subtle spring breeze Lucien had felt against his skin in years. He’d missed this, the clean air, the honey coloured sunshine, the smell of fresh life bursting from the ground in the form of flower buds and fresh fruit.

Velaris was the city of stars, and yet, the stars couldn’t detract from all that darkness. Never had it made him feel like this, like he was home.

Admittedly, home looked a lot more empty than he remembered. Lucien walked through the castle gardens without passing a single soul. Weeds had invaded and settled their roots everywhere, and all the other plants had gone wild in his absence, growing in angry tangles and clawing at the stone walls like caged animals.

Dread crept in as Lucien clutched his frantic heart. Tamlin had always maintained his garden meticulously, whether it meant hiring more help or getting down in the dirt on his knees wielding a spade. He’d never let it get like this. Never. Lucien couldn’t even begin to count how many days he had sat and watched Tamlin toil in the mud with a glass of something bubbly in his hands, mocking the high lord for doing servant’s work. At least he claimed it was for the sake of mockery. Truthfully, he enjoyed watching him. If he closed his eyes he could see Tamlin crouched, his soft mouth upturned ever so slightly as he pruned a rose bush. His nectar blonde hair falling from his forehead into the path of his eyes. His thorn pricked fingers would brush back the strands, a wave of want would flush away Lucien’s every other thought. The urge to kiss his work worn hands was unmatched. Back then he would force his drink back, hide his warming cheeks with an errant move of his hand. He’d never meant to feel this way about anyone other than his lost love Jesminda, and yet… the feeling lingered. Even now, as he raced up the stairs to Tamlin’s chambers, after everything he still wanted to hold those calloused fingers in his own. For his lips to brush away the bruises, for his teeth to pluck the thorns out.

“Tamlin!” He called out, the door denting the wall as he flung it open. “Tamlin, are you here?”

The room was like a jungle. Vines slithered up the walls and danced around the bedposts. All the furniture looked like a bear had used it as a chew toy, bitten down and clawed at. The curtains were torn, the windows cast a stream of sunlight onto a lump of blankets on the bed. No, not a lump of blankets. Tamlin.

Lucien approached him with caution. For a while he could have sworn he forgot to breathe, then the blankets shivered. Plucking up the courage, he pulled back the blankets. He could have wept at the sight.

Tamlin’s beautiful hair cascaded down his back and chest, it had become overgrown and knotted. His eyes were darkly lined, the bags so prominent it looked like he had been punched. His usually plush mouth was cracked and dry, his nails bitten down to the quick. Lucien would have thought him a dead male if it weren’t for the subtle rise of his chest.

“Tamlin?” Lucien chanced a touch, though could only bring himself to grasp at a ribbon of Tamlin’s hair, left unwashed for weeks, he would guess.

His eyes flickered open. Just the flutter of his eyelashes was enough to make Lucien’s pulse race.

Tamlin grumbled and rolled over, curling into a ball. “Another dream,” he mumbled to himself. “Why can’t empty sleep find me.”

Lucien could only chuckle at that. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sunk in so much he thought he might fall straight through, he’d make Tamlin buy a new one. “I’m glad you see my face in your dreams, but I assure you this is not one.”

“Liar,” Tamlin snarled weakly, the beast had left him, he sounded more like a puppy playing at being a wolf. “Lucien is happy and far, far away from here. As he should.”

“I don’t know what to say to convince you, but take my word.” Lucien grabbed Tamlin’s shoulders and made him roll over so they were face to face. Tamlin’s eyes widened in disbelief, making Lucien grin. He’d missed that face. “I’m as real as they get.”

His smile dropped when Tamlin’s hand found his cheek. His shaking fingers stroking the river lines of Lucien’s scared skin.

“You came back.” His every word was taught with disbelief. Lucien felt his heart ache. Was it really so unbelievable that he’d return? Surely, despite it all, Tamlin must have known that Lucien could never truly close the door on their friendship. Tamlin could act as beastly as he liked but Lucien would always leave a crack in the door.

“Of course I did.” Lucien coiled a strand of Tamlin’s hair around his finger and tugged. Tamlin didn’t even flinch. “Someone has to tame this mane of yours. A beast, indeed. You know you can cut it yourself without my help.”

“I didn’t see any reason to maintain my appearance. I’m sure you noticed how empty it is here.” He let the silence hang as if to prove his point. Nothing filled it but a distant bird song. It had always been peaceful here, but never silent like this. “Besides, even if I still had people to impress, I’d struggle to find the will power to even brush my hair. Laugh if you want, but I see no reason to do anything these days. Just moving to get food is a thing to be dreaded.”

Lucien did not laugh. There wasn’t anything funny about his friend’s sorry state. He noted Tamlin’s usually toned arms had become willowy, his skin even paler than snow. He’d be surprised if Tamlin had even eaten in days, let alone been outside his chambers. Guilt loomed over Lucien’s shoulders. How could he let his High Lord succumb to the monster that was depression?

“Sit up.” Lucien commanded, steeling himself for the challenge. It could take years to get Tamlin back to some kind of normalcy, but he’d do it. He’d do whatever it took to see Tamlin in the garden again.

Tamlin looked lazily at him. It took Lucien sternly crossing his arms for him to ruefully sit up, the sheets draped over his lap so he wasn’t completely exposed.

Lucien walked to Tamlin’s chest of drawers and rifled around for scissors and a comb. When he found them he returned to Tamlin’s bedside to attack the bush.

“So when did you last wash it?” Lucien asked, as he began gingerly trying to comb through a tangle that looked suspiciously like a bird’s nest. “Be honest.”

Tamlin’s head bobbed as Lucien tugged through his hair. No matter how gentle Lucien tried to be, it must hurt, and yet Tamlin didn’t once complain. “I…” he scrunched his face, before letting out a heavy hearted sigh. “I can’t remember. Maybe two weeks ago, maybe… it could be longer. The days all look so similar I can’t tell the difference anymore. Time is hard to grasp right now.”

Lucien grumbled at the knotted hair. “I’m going to have to cut it. Shoulder length, I think. Then we’ll wash it. I can braid it too if you like?” Tamlin used to like it when he did that, Lucien hoped he still did because he had always loved doing it.

When Tamlin didn’t reply, Lucien added cautiously, “Do you think you can wash it yourself?”

Tamlin shrugged, an uncertain look on his face. “I suppose. I’ll pour a bath in a bit.”

Lucien began chopping away at Tamlin’s hair. It was a shame for all of it to go to waste, if Tamlin had taken care of it he’d look quite majestic with such a long mane of golden hair. Lucien shook away the thought. Now wasn’t the time for fantasy. “I think I’ll sort that bath out. Not that I think you’re incompetent, but I have a feeling that if I leave things to you this hair of yours will still be smelling next week.”

He stepped back to admire his work. Tamlin rubbed his shoulder, the weight of his hair missing.

“How does it look?” Tamlin asked shyly.

“I thought you didn’t care how you looked?” Lucien said, busying himself with tidying up all the hair on the floor. The task helped to stop him from staring. Even like this, his gaze was still drawn to Tamlin. He wanted to smooth out the worried lines of his forehead, he wanted to take care of him, as silly as that sounded.

“I’ve got someone to impress now.” His voice was no more than a whisper. “That is, if you’re going to stay? I’d understand if you don’t want to, you have people to go back to in the Night Court.”

“No, I don’t.” Lucien didn’t explain further. He smiled, uncertainly, “I’ll got sort out that bath for you.”

. . .

The bathroom air was thick with steam when Tamlin finally wandered in like a ghost.

“Your bath awaits you my lord.” Lucien chuckled playfully as he bowed beside the tub.

Tamlin walked closer and waded his hand through the water, catching some tickled pink petals.

“A bit much, don’t you think?” The smallest of smiles crept onto his lips. The small action was enough to make Lucien’s skin prickle with goosebumps.

“A bit much?” Lucien scoffed. “You are a High Lord, a little flourish should be added to every mundane task.”

Tamlin raised a dubious brow but settled into the tub nonetheless. “I don’t feel like much of a High Lord.”

“You will when I’m done with you.” Lucien assured, his eager fingers plunging into Tamlin’s wet hair to massage in scented oils. “You will.”

Tamlin eased back into Lucien’s touch, his eyes falling sleepily shut. “Elain will surely miss you if you are to stay.”

Lucien had to stop himself from flinching at the name of his supposed mate. “She’ll be fine. We don’t speak much anyway. We just don’t— I think the Cauldron was wrong, if that’s possible.”

Tamlin thoughtful bit his lip. “Perhaps. Don’t ask me about romance and fate. There was a time that I thought Feyre might be my—“ his words came out thickly. “Obviously I was wrong.”

Lucien remembered the way Tamlin had looked at Feyre back then. How his bottle green eyes lit up every time she entered the room with a grim face. How he’d told Tamlin how pleased he was that she seemed like a promising contender to break the curse. How he’d lied. Lied because a small part of him wished Tamlin might have at least tried to break the curse with him, even if it was a useless endeavour. He knew he didn’t meet the criteria. But how could he have confessed this to his friend when he had never seemed so happy? He had no choice but to let the jealousy fester, to be as civil as he could muster, for Tamlin. “I thought so too. We were both wrong.”

Tamlin chuckled bitterly to himself as he watched the pink petals in the water stick the his bare chest. “I bet I looked like a proper fool, didn’t I? I still do.”

“You were a sorry sap in love. No one would ever mock you for that, not even me.” Lucien had finished washing Tamlin’s hair, while it was still wet he combed through any remaining stubborn tangles.

Tamlin was quiet for a moment. “What’s it like?” He said finally, “To have a mate, that is.”

Lucien hesitate, comb in hand. “Ah, well, um, I suppose it’s kind of nice, but not what I expected really.”

“How so?”

“I feel a pull, in a way, but when I actually am near her… I don’t know. It feels like a bond forged rather than a bond grown from carefully planted roots. I thought it would feel more natural.”

“Do you think it is because you still miss Jesminda?”

“No, it’s not about her. I’ll always love her but I know I’m ready to move on, I just can’t help but feel like Elain isn’t the one. I don’t think she wants me either. She’s made that quite clear.”

The water rippled as Tamlin turned to lean on the edge of the tub, he squinted at Lucien. “I won’t pretend to know Elain well, but she seems to have a good pair of eyes and a level head. How could she deny you? She must be in love already, I can’t believe anyone could be around you for all that time and feel nothing.”

Lucien cleared his throat to distract from his cheeks heating. “Yes, well, I suppose even I can’t be everyone’s type. Though that may be hard to believe.”

“It is.” Tamlin agreed. “She’ll come around though. She’s your mate. You are destined to love her, and you will, because you are kind and loyal, and then I will be alone, again, because I am destined to.” Lucien frowned and went to speak but Tamlin cut in first. “—and no, this isn’t me being negative. I’ve accepted my lot in life. I’m happy for you. The Cauldron knows you deserve a good life after everything you’ve been through. I look forward to seeing you succeed. Selfishly I’m glad I get to have you here with me though, for now at least.” Tamlin ran his hand over his jaw, a thin layer of prickly stubble was growing in. “I admit, I’ve missed your company greatly.”

“Even my jibes and mockery?” Lucien couldn’t deny his heart was finally beginning to feel settled. Slowly, Tamlin was brightening up, not in any obvious ways but his eyes looked more lively and his lips seemed less prone to frown.

“Especially that.” Tamlin rose from the bath and stepped out. He did an exaggerated stretch like a tired dog, before shaking like one, spraying water everywhere.

“Ew, ew, ew!” Lucien scrambled for a towel to wipe down his sodden face. “Bad dog, terrible dog. By the Cauldron, must you do that every time?”

Tamlin laughed, really laughed. He doubled over and wiped at his watering eyes. How could Feyre give up this? The thought flickered into Lucien’s mind without meaning to, making his throat feel course and dry.

“That,” Tamlin smirked. “I’ve very much missed that.”

Lucien handed him a towel, chuckling too. “I have not.” He lied and they both knew it. “Right, let me dry your hair and then I’ll braid it.”

Tamlin took the towel and wrapped it around his waist. “Fine. Just don’t put any ribbons in it.”

Lucien was definitely going to put ribbons in it.

~

Thank you for reading :)

I haven’t written fan fiction for years so apologies if I’m a bit rusty. Critique is welcome! I’ll probably be writing a continuation of this sometime soon because Tamlin deserves some love and who better to do it than Lucien? I know this ship isn’t for everyone but please be respectful in the comments.

All notes and reblogs are greatly appreciated. If you want to know when the next chapter is out I’m happy to tag you next time <3

[wire-mutt]

Miguel's Secret (Chapter 2)

(On AO3) (Chapter 1)

Summary: Reader has a bit of a problem, and goes to Miguel in hopes that he can solve it.

Notes: Miguel/Loli!reader. cw for extreme underage

18+ only, explicit, not sfw, etc.

The following days are hard.

You can't force the memory of the event from your mind for longer than a few minutes, always a little queasy on butterflies as you think about Miguel kissing and touching you. The ache between your legs is a constant, whether you're at home or on patrol or at school. Your grades are slipping, just a little, because how can you focus on numbers when Miguel's hands were around you, rubbing his genitals against yours? - and it terrifies you, the thought of your teachers being disappointed in you, the thought of Miguel finding out and thinking you're stupid because you can't get a simple math equation right.

You get no reprieve even in your dreams, when you do manage to sleep instead of just tossing and turning - it's always Miguel, always his mouth caressing you in various places, and every time you feel like you're finally hitting that peak you wake up, and oftentimes you cry in sheer frustration.

Frustrated. That's a good way to describe your mood lately. You're snapping left and right, falling into tantrums over the smallest things, and you're too far gone to even feel embarrassed.

As much as you don't want Miguel to see you in your current state, this problem started with him, so maybe he can fix it, too.

So you enter his workspace at headquarters, feeling small. Just the sight of him, his back turned to you as he stands among his monitors, has that ache flaring up, heat suffusing your cheeks. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to compose yourself, but soon it becomes obvious that the feeling isn't going to recede any time soon. So you take a deep breath, and press on.

"Hi," you announce yourself as you step closer, and it comes out so weak and shaky your cheeks flush.

"What do you want?" he barks out without looking, and usually it doesn't phase you when he's surly like that but right now you feel extra sensitive.

You pause, because you have no idea what you want.

Well, that's not entirely true. You know you want his mouth between your legs again, but you can't possibly ask that of him. After a long moment of fidgeting, you just hug his leg with one arm, pressing yourself into his side. He's warm, and it feels right after all you've been imagining lately.

He doesn't pull away, and doesn't ask what's wrong.

Eventually, you mumble, gaze fixed on the floor, "How often do your genitals need to be expressed?"

He goes rigid. You feel him twist slightly, not pulling away but glancing behind him to confirm you're alone.

"What kind of question is that?"

You're a little confused at his chiding tone.

"...I want to help again, next time," you explain, leaning your head against his hip. "So I need to know how often it builds up..."

He watches you silently for a moment, and you feel warm under his gaze, still too embarrassed to look up.

"That's... not necessary. At all," he says, careful. "That was a one time thing. Need-based."

"I want to," you repeat, weakly, before growing frustrated at how you can't seem to get across your meaning. "Every time."

"I mean it," he says sternly. "It's not gonna happen again."

"Please!" You snap your mouth shut immediately after, brows furrowing. It's the closest you've gotten to a tantrum today, and you hate how it feels, an errant pang shooting through your heart as it dawns on you that you messed up somehow.

You glance up at Miguel, who's looking down at you with a slight frown. Tears sting your eyes, the embarrassment of your pleading crashing down on you, and this time Miguel turns towards you, bending down so he can look you in the eye, cupping your face with his gloved hand.

"You... don't understand."

He looks frustrated, too - not at you, but he's gritting his teeth, the muscle in his jaw tense. He's hesitating, looking away as he gathers his words.

"Doing that... changed you. Made you develop in ways you weren't supposed to." He pauses, then continues. "That's why I don't want you helping. You can't learn that stuff yet."

"I'm not--" you blink back tears, so flustered and irritated you can't string together a complete sentence, your thoughts just a jumble of hazy desires. "I'm not-- not STUPID, Miguel!"

That makes his expression cloud over. "I didn't say you were."

"I just-- I want-- please!" You sob, angry and upset you're being so embarrassing, like a stupid baby not knowing what she's talking about. "I want to-- to--"

"Calm down." It's an order, one you won't and can't follow. He's never told you what to do in that tone before, no matter what you did.

"You're not being fair! You're--" He's just like all the other grownups, deciding what's best without listening to your opinion.

"You have no idea what you're asking for." Miguel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I said no. Go home."

He rises up, beginning to turn away from you. Your lip quivers, and words start tumbling out of your mouth before you can think about them.

"You hurt me!"

The look of startlement that goes through him almost makes you regret it, but you can't take it back now. You glare at the floor, continuing, "Since then, I've been... leaking, down there, all over my clothes. It's not blood, or pus, but... it won't go away. You broke something."

The confession leaves you breathless, your whole body going warm. You don't even know what point you're trying to make; maybe you just want him to feel bad for denying you.

"Oh." His tone is one of realization, something dawning on him. The tension drains out of him, replaced with this wry amusement. "You're 'leaking', are you?"

You blush furiously, mortified at how he can laugh at you when this is making you so miserable. You hate that you don't understand any of this, that he won't just teach you. You're old enough to know how adult life works, why can't Miguel understand that?

He looks away, deliberating over something in his mind, before regarding you again. Your stomach clenches, something in his eyes reminding you of that night.

"...Maybe I should take a look, then. Since this is my fault."

You're a little-- confused inside, then. You weren't angling for a checkup, exactly, but... what he's offering, he'll be close to all those parts that feel good, and that's a step in the right direction.

He turns off the projection from the desk. "LYLA."

You hear the main entrance to the room slide shut and lock. It's just like last time, just the two of you.

"Take off your suit," he instructs, leaning back against the desk and giving you his full attention.

You flush a little, still getting used to the whole notion of exposing yourself so blatantly to anyone, let alone Miguel. But you obey, unzipping your suit and letting it pool at your feet. Goosebumps break out over your naked form, only partly due to the cool air.

"On the desk." He gestures, urging you to lay yourself flat on the surface. There's too much nervous energy buzzing beneath your skin to allow you to relax, and you feel your body tensing as you do, nerves leaving your brain overwrought and your senses overly-focused.

You try to steady your breathing, squirming where you lay as his gaze roves over your body. "All of you."

You freeze, holding his gaze for a moment before slowly complying, an embarrassing noise slipping out of you as you spread your legs and expose that... area. Miguel moves to stand between your legs, gripping your thighs, and you gasp at the touch, hips bucking from memory alone.

He's not the least bit phased by your reaction, eyes trained intently on that area, his serious expression doing little to stymie the embarrassment flooding you. His hands slide down, his thumbs spreading open your folds, and you try not to think about how incredibly hot your cheeks are burning, chest going tight as your body aches and begs. You want something in that space, you realize, even though you're already broken. You imagine his thumbs slipping easily inside.

Miguel hums thoughtfully, though it sounds oddly fake.

"What have you been thinking about?" he asks lowly, rubbing little circles into your outer lips. You want him to move just an inch higher, so painfully close to that little nub that gives you the most pleasure.

You're so distracted that you barely register how odd of a question it is. A non sequitur.

"You."

There's a pleased rumble in the back of his throat. He leans closer, and you're so desperate for it that your breath comes out a quiet little whine.

"Specifically?"

"...Your hands. Your-- Your thing, that-- when you were inside," you find yourself babbling, desperate to appease him and get something, anything, inside. "Your tongue."

"You want it again?" He keeps massaging those tight circles with the pads of his thumbs, trailing from your taint up to the area above your nub. You swear he's deliberately avoiding it.

"Yes," you whine. "Please."

"How bad?"

"Really bad," you're quick to answer, heart thudding in your chest, and he leans in and nips at your inner thigh, just above your knee.

"Say it. Tell me what you want."

He's moving that unbearable inch, stroking the center of your lips, just below your nub.

"I want-- your mouth, on my privates." It feels like such a bizarre request.

"What do you want my mouth to do?" He moves his thumb the slightest bit upwards.

Your thighs shake.

"I want it to suck, on my... spot."

"Your clit."

"Clit..." you repeat, testing the word out in your mouth.

"Say the whole thing." His thumb skims the underside of your little nub, so dangerously close, and your mouth opens but your lungs won't move to bring you air.

But Miguel's been so good to you, taught you so many things, put up with you -- and right now he's so close, touching you everywhere except where you need it, and you're desperate to prove to him how big a girl you are now. You just want to be what he needs, you want to be important, to be relied on, the thought of letting him down makes you woozy.

"Miguel..." you complain, eyes squeezing shut. "I-I want you to suck on my clit. Please."

He sighs like a growl.

"Good girl."

And then he's taking you by the arms, pulling you up into a sitting position, decidedly not doing what you had been begging for. You blink up at him.

"Good news: I didn't 'break' anything. You're perfectly fine," he explains coolly, but a pleased tilt in his brow. He pats your head. "...Sometimes, little girls need to be... 'expressed', too."

You glance down. You are swollen there, like he had been, and you are dripping - it tracks, you think. You need expressing, like he did. Maybe he even transferred it to you, somehow.

You look back up at him. "You won't help me?"

He raises a brow. "Do you think you've earned it?"

You frown. You're getting the sense that he's feeling - mischevious? - and that doesn't stop your gut from churning.

"Yes," you start, but catch yourself. "I mean-- I tried really hard on my mission, the other day, and..."

"No," he interrupts. "You have to do something for me. Earn it."

His suit disappears, and you're left with an eyeful of his genitals, swollen like last time.

"It's what you wanted anyways, right? Me first, then you."

You gulp. You do. He's still holding you up, and you know the correct answer, but--

"What do I do?"

His fingers grip your face gently, angling you to look him in the eye.

"You have all the tools you need," he assures you, thumbs sweeping over your cheeks. "Be smart, use your imagination. Don't be afraid."

"I... Okay," you agree. "I'll try."

A little smirk graces his lips before he leans down to kiss you. A kiss should start, you think.

You press back into the kiss, making up for your inexperience with a wanton ardor. His hands glide down your sides, touch feather-light, a stark contrast to his harsh kisses. He grips your lower back to ground you, but the way you arch your spine invites his hands to settle on your behind.

He briefly massages it before pressing you toward him, guiding you off the desk and towards his part. Your hand, more clever than your tongue, begins to run across his abdomen, quickly finding his member standing at attention. You've found an excellent hold, just along his base. Your touch is light, exploratory, but Miguel makes no complaints. Your fingers don't quite touch as you grip around him, sliding and pulling up and down. You hear him sigh, a subtle sound of contentment. It's a sound to admire - a sound to inspire.

You wrap both your hands around his length. It's a handful; then some. Above you, he sighs again, but you're entranced by the bobbing flesh, moving your hands from the base to the tip, appreciating each veiny rise and fall.

"Tighter," he orders, voice like gravel. But despite his tone, his touches are still gentle, careful against your own sensitive flesh. Your pleasure means so much to him.

You squeeze, digging your fingers in the taut skin of his member, hearing a huff from Miguel. That sound fills you with pride; you're helping. The idea sends a pulse of heat straight to your core, mixing in with the steady pangs for release, begging for your attention, but you'll listen to him first. It's the least you can do; he's being oh so patient with your inexperience.

Miguel jerks his hips, and your hold nearly breaks. No, you think, and press yourself closer to him, squeezing with renewed vigor. You hear the quietest of groans from him, and have to peek. Miguel's eyes are closed, furrowed brows concentrating on that feeling. He's allowing you to aid him, which seems right. A symbiotic cycle, one in which you give to him and he graces you with his pleasures. This is the best possible outcome.

You tug, and relish that resulting drag, and the heat in the air. Miguel pulls a hand from your figure, and curls it over one of your hands, guiding the pace to align with his desires. He pushes in, you pull down; his hips ride the motion. And you learn this rhythm quickly, increasing the pace incrementally, feeling your own core grow slick. Seeing him loosen to you, hearing those quiet signs of his pleasure, has you burning inside, but you will suppress it until you find your opportunity.

"Put it in your mouth," he pants, tightening his hold on your arm. It's something that seems simple enough, and you almost obey, before the sheer density of his part registers. It's absolutely thrumming, thick and strong. And your mouth does not match. Yet, Miguel wants it. If your part has so many ways to please, his must too.

"A-- All of it?"

"As much as you can fit," Miguel answers, and that alone leaves you unsure. How much of your mouth will he fit? Even if the biggest part of him is fairly narrow, it's a wide rod, and your mouth is petite. Do your other parts swell to match the need? His does.

Warily, you kneel down, facing that very pulsing, needy part. His eager member is at your eye level, and you can't resist dragging a thumb along his length, imagining the heat that comes with that kind of agitated condition. Without any prompting, you open your mouth and slide the very tip along your tongue. What your hand feels, your mouth confirms. It's scorching, and, above all, powerful. To know that he wants it, no, needs it from you, and you're the only one allowed to give it to him - it's hard to comprehend. It'll be hard to process. For now, you've got to give it your best. Your mouth presses a little more onto that tapered rod, trying to fit more into your tiny orifice, but your jaw strains after that small addition. Is he imagining you sucking down all of that flesh? You wouldn't even know where to start! Not unless you tear your jawbone, you think.

There's a huff, Miguel sounding amused, and you glance up. He's staring down at you expectantly.

"Like I said," he's smiling but his eyes are still set hard, an unspoken warning. "As much as you can manage."

This isn't working. You're going to have to accommodate it. You press further into that roiling mass, sliding your saliva alongside his member, keeping your teeth tucked away. The tip teases your gag reflex, but you're not even at the halfway mark. Just as you're about to pull away, a hand clutches the back of your head, holding you there. You freeze as that presence becomes overbearing. You're not good enough. Your eyes dart upwards, caught between apology and pleading.

"This isn't all you can do," he asserts, bordering on stern. And so you try; you dig the claws of your hands into his thighs and bear down further onto his cock. Your mouth is stuffed to capacity, any more and something may shift and break. You still only have a modest half swallowed. Tears prick your eyes as his tip slides down your throat. Your throat strangles its intruder, resisting every slide and heave and bump. Even your palms sweat, ready to throw up at a moment's notice. That dark, satisfied look on his face sets you on edge, your throat trembling with dry heaves and groans as his hips rock against you. His cock slides deeper in each stroke.

"Hold it."

You grimace at the demand. With whatever strength you have, you swallow in vain against your seizing flesh, which works to take in that meaty mass with spasms and gasps. He pushes your head down and slides down your throat until your nose is buried in the hair between his legs. Your eyes grow watery and wet, gazing up at him - his grip is a steady anchor against you as you gulp against him. A trickle of spit leaks out your stuffed mouth, connecting the both of you in an oddly intimate way. You're taking in everything he needs, and more, you think, your chest hot and your throat aching, and a surge of-- pure, basal adoration - pushes you even further. You want him to be happy, proud. You think he's making you into something better than you were, and you're grateful for that. You shudder against him, hoping he can read what you can't say.

He stares back down at you - smiling, but not grinning. But that look in his eyes, at this angle, is ravenous, the jaded edges of his glare raking over your skin and licking you raw. At that moment, you think you understand - a dangerous, addictive understanding. Like you are the axis of the world, one that Miguel can either crush beneath his boot or lift into eternity. You're not fully sure what you want him to pick, at this point; both carry their own terrifying repercussions. Either would be beautiful to live through.

He sighs, a long exhale as he pets the top of your head, staring with eyes piercing and sharp, like his vision can burrow through every secret and regret and find just what he wants; and at the same time, seeing nothing but him, all of him.

"Good girl," he purrs, a deep rumble in his throat that trembles through your body.

Tears blur your vision until you can't see him anymore, and your lungs are aching and you think you're going to explode or swallow him or be forced to fit more or--

Finally, he eases up his grip, sliding free from your throat. You gasp wildly for air, saliva dripping from your chin, your throat and chest heaving for breath. Every swallow has you shuddering, your esophagus throbbing and swollen.

"Again."

You whimper, still catching your breath, because you're not sure you'll be able to actually take his part again, and thinking about it hurts. He raises a brow.

"Gonna back out? You're not a quitter, are you?"

You want to please him - so bad. But a traitorous part of your brain is weary, telling you your body won't take it, and to think more calmly about this. The risk of damage to your throat, your jaw, is-- a little high. It'd be stupid not to communicate this.

"No, it's-- I'm--"

You point to your jaw with a trembling hand, uncertain how to communicate the problem beyond showing it, and Miguel cups your chin, tracing a finger along the underside of your jawline.

"Use your words," he says, giving you an expectant look.

"My... my jaw. Hurts. To stuff it."

"So?"

The question surprises you - are you not allowed to hurt, if Miguel enjoys it? You know it's in his power to protect you, to make the hurt go away, but he still expects you to take it.

At your stunned silence, Miguel continues.

"You're asking me to treat you like an adult. Prove that you can keep up." He shrugs.

You frown. "But-- I..."

Is your discomfort so frivolous that Miguel will not grant even the tiniest bit of relief? Your stomach goes queasy. Perhaps it is frivolous, and he'll mock you for being weak-willed.

"Open your mouth."

You obey, mouth aching, and Miguel regards you with cold-hearted eyes, measuring the parameters of your inability. He closes in and you swallow your protests. You remind yourself that Miguel isn't cruel. He just doesn't tolerate mistakes.

Those long, large fingers of his slip around your lower jaw, coaxing your mouth wider. Then he's slipping in again. You have just a second to squeak before his member is at the back of your throat, snarling your gag reflex and making you tremble. Still he leans in until your nose is crushed against his abdomen and your neck strains.

His appendage twitches in your throat, flexing and pulsing as his hips begin to pump against you with reckless abandon, any sense of measured movements lost. He holds the back of your head to ensure each forceful push of his member. You are reduced to a hole with arms, your fingers digging into his sides as he plunders. It hurts - most parts of you do, as you clench and contract with every mindless, brutal thrust, any oxygen ripped away from you when he presses you firmly against his body, replacing your air with him. The lack of air makes your chest feel tight, your heartbeat throbbing against your strained nerves. It should feel scary, like you're at your breaking point; but knowing that Miguel is enjoying you, even as you struggle, takes the edge off. You're just grateful he's getting something out of your pained form.

Just as you think you won't be able to hold on any longer, just as your vision dampens with sparkles and strange shapes, he lets you rip free. You sputter and cough so hard you almost vomit, a wet, unseemly noise. Tears and snot dribble down your red, puffy face. A trail of spit connects Miguel's cock to your open mouth.

Miguel's fingers stroke through your hair, his heated words like a comforting blanket, "Oh, you're so good. Such a good little girl for me."

The praise, the sweet and honest praise, almost overrides all the pain and nausea. Maybe not quite, but they both dull. You lean into his caress, your ragged breathing slowly returning to normal. Even when your throat is so sore you can hardly make a sound, you feel warm. Wanted. Valued. Important. All those nice things you can't easily describe. You want to hear more. Need more.

He strokes your lips with the tenderness he would touch a garden rose.

"Go again?"

How badly he wants this, you can see by the eager gleam of his eyes, the hitch of his breath. You're just nodding before he even finishes asking. He could have said 'jump' and you would have said 'how high.' You thought to use your hands to massage any ache away before you-know-what, but his hunger for you has no patience. He's already tipping your chin up, feeding himself down your sore and clenching gullet with all the tender care of a wrecking ball. He groans and his hips jerk as you choke down inch after sinful inch. It's violent, how he ravages, pinning your delicate jaw in a stronghold grip so you can barely even seize against it.

It still hurts. But you suffer so prettily, squeezing down around him and milking at the invasion until he's growling to the beat of his pistoning hips. He may as well be climbing into your stomach. His length burns on the back of your tongue and stretches your esophagus to its limits, and you dig in deeper, kneading at his hips for balance.

Your head is spinning with the need for oxygen, but he doesn't stop. Your lungs are begging and your eyes are watering and yet he just forces your head down onto him again and again, until the fogginess returns and your eyes prickle with tears.

He wants more, you can tell, his hold growing tighter as your senses swim. Just let him in, farther than he should go, so he can have his fill.

It's only when your strength fails and your nails can only scrape weakly against his arms that he pulls out again. Your entire body sways with his movement, wobbling dangerously on your legs before your limbs give out, and you sink down, too dazed to feel the impending impact with the cold, hard floor.

Except you never quite make it to the ground, a thick arm stopping your fall with ease. Miguel pulls you against his chest as he kneels down next to you, petting the top of your head with the gentle care that he so rarely shows. It's amazing, how he can treat you so roughly, then with so much sweetness, just to flip right back again.

"Look at you."

There's something raw and warm in his tone, his eyes soft when you peek up at him. Your stomach dips, his words a balm against the nerves in your throat and chest. You can't reply, all you can do is press into his touch and suck in air, and feel safer than you should. You want to reply, you want to tell him you can keep going, but all that comes out is a pitiful croak.

"Shh," he quiets you, voice low and hushed. "No shame in knowing when to quit. You did good."

You frantically shake your head, gasping out a very audible "no." You need to be good. Better than good. Perfect. Above perfect. His, you think, you want to be his, as silly as that sounds. As long as he needs you.

"You're overexerting yourself," Miguel scolds you, gently, a thumb stroking across your cheek.

You lean into his touch, hoping he'll reward your dedication. Can't he see you're determined to please him? Willingly giving, sacrificing everything. Isn't he tempted at all? There's no way he can be so noble. Some part of him must be okay with using you for his own ends. That's what this is supposed to be.

"I can--" comes out an empty rasp, and it hurts to speak, but you gulp and try again. "I can do it."

"Are you even listening to me?"

You're not. Fresh tears are welling up in your eyes. Is he not happy, that you're so desperate to satisfy him? Something like panic or grief mixes in your sluggish brain, and you blink up at him, chest throbbing, the only noise being your deep, ragged breaths.

"Let me! Please, let me try, please, let me--" your words come out a mangled whisper, sounding petulant. And he rolls his eyes at you.

"Alright, little masochist. Fine. But we're trying something else this time."

He grips your sides, hoisting you into his lap as he sits on the desk, making you straddle him, the metal digging into your knees. His erection slides along your belly as he settles you. Still a bit dazed from your own emotions, you can only stare as he lays back across the surface, and guides you higher, using your hips, so you're now sitting above his cock.

"You know what to do," he says simply, laying his hands over his abdomen and leaning back, making a show of how little he's going to do to help.

You're a little nervous at this point, both from the nerves in your throat and the sheer magnitude of taking his entire member into you, after seeing what you could barely manage thus far. He's clearly testing you, daring you to go to new extremes. You want to impress him. Prove your mettle.

But you don't know what to do. Are you supposed to grind on it, or use your hands, or...?

"Do you want it inside?" you ask in a hoarse whisper.

He just raises a brow at you.

You swallow, wincing as it agitates your throat. Maybe it's not about what you do, but how well you do it, anyways. Inside seems to make sense, it's more challenging than the other two, and... it seems correct. You have a hole right where he has a protrusion. Like a lock and key. You had no idea humans were built to fit together like this.

You raise your hips, taking a hold of his appendage with a hand to help position it, pressing down onto his tip. He feels just as wide as always. You spread your folds with your other hand in hopes of making the fit easier, then descend.

Like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. It's as painful as the first time.

The sting has you gritting your teeth, but you force the intruder further, sliding down and down and down. Bit by bit, you feel the appendage pop into your channel, the flesh inside just as hot, the pain just as fierce. You get just past the end of his head, but can't seem to clamp down any lower. Every muscle strains, wanting to move further, but they fail you, and you can only meekly shudder over his member.

So you inch up, wincing, then push down a second time, forcing your muscles to stretch just a little bit further. That bit of progress breaks the dam, the rest of the protrusion sinking into you with a deep, sharp snap, any remaining space inside you suddenly packed with Miguel.

It takes your breath away and leaves you trembling, like you've been suctioned of oxygen, squeezing down around that great intrusion, and it hurts hurts hurts.

"Easy," comes his soothing command, hands stroking over your sides. It's a mercy you're thankful for. You don't even know if you could move an inch, at the moment, but he keeps you going. You're shaking uncontrollably around him, full to the brim with tremors. "Just breathe."

He's patient with you as he lets you sit there, with your hips tucked down close and your walls stretched around him, drawing in deep, trembling breaths. His hands move up, the pads of his thumbs massaging your nipples in little circles. You're oddly relieved for something to distract you from the pain, welcoming any touch to help you relax around him. It feels unexpectedly good, and soon you're arching into those fingers, clenching around him in an entirely new way. Your hips rock on reflex, and the movement pulls and hurts a little but it also has him pressing up into something good.

"Just breathe," he repeats, with a wry, amused air, pinching your nipples between thumbs and forefingers. You let out a low cry, bucking and sliding down his member just an inch more.

He's so wide. You can feel the sting, feel the burning tautness. You think, dizzily, that he could tear you, if you're not careful. But he'll take care of you, he'll keep you whole.

Then he rocks his hips and the motion punches a gasp out of your throat, his thing shifting inside you. The friction shoots a wave of heat through you, and you don't even know if you like it, the sensation like fire even if you can see no burning. But you want more, you think, your body craving the same intensity of feeling, and he guides you up and down, little pushes and pulls, urging you up and down and up and down that painful stretch. A squeak rips out of you whenever he plunges in, your heat searing, limbs trembling as you try to find a rhythm.

One of his hands let go of your chest, grasping around your hip, guiding your ascent and descent with strong, hard movements. Those little sparks of pleasure burst within you, chasing away the remnants of your doubt and fear. It's just you, and Miguel, and his pleasure, which translates to your own. The pain doesn't fade, exactly, but you can withstand it; you just have to focus on reaching those twinges of pleasure that pop like stars. And you can get used to this, you will, you will force yourself to get used to this.

"Good girl." Because those words, that delight - it's all the motivation you need. "Keep going."

The strokes hurt. You can't lie, it still stings. Like rubbing salt water on a burn. But it's bearable, once your vision gets fuzzy and the cries mix with pleasure, and all you can hear is Miguel's constant, reassuring voice. His heavy breathing has you bouncing up and down, trying to please him and being rewarded by more moans. His head tips back, eyes shut and mouth falling open in a silent moan, and it's the most relaxed and blissed out that you've ever seen him that you can't tear your eyes away. It makes your chest swell, lungs full of pride, just knowing that you're able to sate him.

Your hips stutter and jerk suddenly, your thighs tensing as an unexpected rush of ecstasy arcs through you. Your pelvis seizes up, and your grip on his sides must be near-crushing; he doesn't budge, and there's probably bruises. Miguel chuckles and grabs hold of your waist to jerk you back into your rhythm, using your hips as a glorified handlebar.

"You're not finished," comes Miguel's scolding remark. He bucks his hips up into you every time he pulls you down against him, driving himself into your deepest point, so hard it could almost tear you to pieces, but each thrust ends in another starburst in your vision, and you sob helplessly.

Your gut clenches each time he bottoms out in you. You're practically drooling at this point, unable to articulate much beyond groans, whimpers, half-sentences. You're so impaled, your mind is clogged with the haze of arousal, and all you know is his flesh drilling you raw and open.

Your pulse is thumping and your sex feverish with strain, but he just keeps hammering into you, slamming into the parts where you're most tender and flushed. Tears roll down your face from the overwhelming feeling. All you want is for it to never stop, to just be Miguel's like this, forever. You can feel him all throughout your hips, and it hurts a lot, but there's something addictive about his claiming presence inside you. Miguel uses you relentlessly, uncaring to your pained cries and gasps.

You're pretty sure you can feel your organs rearrange themselves. You don't dare complain. Miguel is finally treating you like an adult, you think, and you're going to endure whatever he gives you. Even if it really hurts, you think you can keep up, you just have to hang on. You'll be good for him. You'll be perfect.

"M-Miguel--" you wheeze out. Your throat still aches, each thrust forcing air from your lungs. Your hands grip his torso tightly, and Miguel's grip keeps you moving.

"That's it, honey," he grunts out. Your head is swimming, each motion causing your vision to blur and twist, the tears in your eyes distorting Miguel's image.

You've been doing everything you can to please him, just barely managing to stay conscious through the pounding. Miguel's fingers dig into the supple flesh of your sides, his hips jerking up into you each time you sink down on him, and you cry out sharply, so loud you're sure all of HQ can hear you. You're so overwhelmed with Miguel. Each strike makes you quiver, a fresh sob escaping your lips, the pace brutal and fast, no sign of relenting.

But it does, suddenly. He grips your hips hard and holds you down as he stills, the tip of his member kissing the end of your canal. You feel the pulsing of him inside you, throbbing with a distinct warmth.

He's finishing, you realize, reaching that-- that feeling and releasing it all inside you. You're not sure if you should be grossed out, because you're supposed to avoid getting dirty, but-- it doesn't feel dirty. It feels right, like you've accomplished something big. Maybe it's not gross. Maybe it's okay to like it.

You clench weakly around him, soaking up as much of Miguel as possible. A long sigh passes Miguel's lips, a rare, content sound. Miguel pets your sides, a soothing gesture as his grip loosens, his breathing slowing. You wish you could freeze this moment and stay here forever. Miguel is happy and sated and that's all that matters. You did that. You helped him.

"You're staring," Miguel mumbles, cracking an eye open.

"Sorry." You look away. You'd been so focused on him that you hadn't realized. But you didn't know how to not stare, because there's no way to not be enthralled.

Miguel smirks, one corner of his lips lifting. "Can't help yourself, hm?"

You shake your head. He's still lodged in you, but not so painfully as before, and you don't dare complain about any lingering pangs or twinges. Your throat still feels a little puffy, but Miguel is touching you so kindly that you could almost ignore the pain. His thumb strokes over your cheek, and you press into it, wishing he would hold you like this for a while. Just for a little while.

"Adorable," Miguel comments, in that flat tone. But you'll take it, still staring at his face with an embarrassing amount of worship. "You really can't get enough, can you?"

How could anyone not want Miguel? He's brilliant, and strong, and powerful, and he knows you so well, and he takes care of you, and keeps taking care of you, even when you're bad. Even when you're selfish and wrong, Miguel always puts you back where you belong.

With a sigh, he heaves himself upright. You squeak a little as he shifts inside you, still so full. Miguel uses the hand on your cheek to guide you into a kiss, a warm press of his lips on yours that steals your breath and melts you down. He cradles you closer to him, the other hand petting down your spine until his hand cups the small of your back, holding you in his lap. Your legs slide around his waist, and his member slides a little deeper, your mouth opening in a gasp against his. Miguel chuckles quietly, the rumbling sound reverberating in your chest, a deep, satisfied purr.

"Oh, honey." Miguel's thumb rubs a circle on your skin. "What am I going to do with you?"

Miguel is asking? You would take anything and everything. It doesn't matter how rough Miguel treats you; he acknowledges you and cares for you, and that's all you could ask for. You can take any punishment or reprimand. If Miguel needs to be satisfied, you will satisfy him.

You blink, wide-eyed, and Miguel gives you a wry look.

"It's rhetorical. Don't give me that look."

Your mouth parts open, the questions ready to spill forth; Miguel shakes his head, and you stop.

"Don't ruin it." Miguel pinches your hip, a tiny twinge of pain that has you clamping down around him. Miguel huffs a short laugh. "And ease up on the vice grip."

You force yourself to relax, lifting up your hips so that he slides free, your insides slick and sore, and you breathe out a sigh of relief. Miguel sighs with you, and eases his hold around you, laying back and relaxing as he watches you. You're not quite sure where to go, since you're not wearing clothes, or if you should climb off him now. You hover awkwardly above him, your knees still on either side of his waist and his cock under you, and Miguel raises a brow at you.

"Come here," Miguel says, and pats his chest. That... doesn't help you much, other than knowing you should lean forward, but then where...? Miguel huffs out another exasperated laugh, shaking his head as his hands slide around your thighs, pulling you forward.

"You forgot."

Forgot what? You're a little distracted as he urges you on, hands snaking between your legs and cupping your behind. It's only when your pelvis is hovering over his face and his fingers are curling over your hips that you remember - your request. How you asked Miguel to-- do that.

You're not sure you even need it anymore; pleasing Miguel was so very satisfying on its own. But Miguel's gaze is a commanding stare, and he's pulling you down to his face before you can say otherwise.

Your muscles tighten as his nose nudges your thighs, lips pressing between your folds. You're not sure what Miguel sees or smells or tastes - does he like it? There's no time to question that when his tongue presses flat against you, stroking a line between your entrance and the apex of your flesh, a sensation so foreign and odd that it makes you jolt.

He licks, over and over, a thorough drag of his tongue along your slit, lapping up the mixture of his fluid and yours. You wince - you're tender there, especially after the harsh treatment he's given you, and while it feels nice, you're not sure you want such focus. Miguel isn't giving you much choice, tongue lapping at your sore entrance until you're shivering and trying to pull away. Miguel tightens his grip on your hips, a warning squeeze that keeps you from fleeing.

"M-Miguel--" The complaint sounds strangled and weak, your voice still not quite recovered.

His response is another lick, pushing his tongue flat against you, the motion making your body tense up and throb. Miguel's grip eases slightly, tongue trailing over to your clit, a lighter touch that has your toes curling and a whimper slipping free. It feels weird now, not painful but a thousand times more intense, and it makes your legs tense. Miguel presses his lips against that spot, suckling at the swollen bundle of nerves. Your head is reeling as sparks shoot up your spine. You're not even sure it's pleasant, the sensations just too sharp to ignore. Your hips try to twist away, Miguel's tongue hot and wet and insistent, and that pressure is building up again, coiled up deep and threatening to burst.

"M-Mig--" comes out a garbled squeak, cut off as the rest of your sentence is choked out by a moan. Your body is too hot and tense and sensitive that Miguel's tongue could undo you completely.

Miguel lets out a quiet moan that vibrates right against you, and his hands pull you down firmer against his face, tongue lapping vigorously. Your fingers dig into his hair, gripping for dear life as you're dragged closer and closer to the edge. Your hips try to jerk but Miguel has you firmly in place, tongue swiping across your clit over and over with firm, fast motions that send your vision blurring and sparking. Your breathing is a rapid, uneven pant, limbs trembling and body quivering from Miguel's attentions.

It feels too good, overwhelming in the intensity, that all you can do is sit there and sob and let him unravel you. Miguel laps at you eagerly, sucking on that tiny spot so hard that it's all you can feel, and that knot inside you is tight, too tight--

Your whole body shudders, a cry forcing its way from your throat as that feeling washes over you again. Miguel's tongue is relentless, dragging you through your climax with quick strokes, making you squeal and shake and cling to him. It's too much, your vision turning fuzzy around the edges, Miguel's grip the only thing keeping you upright. The aftershocks course through your nerves, body spasming over Miguel.

When that feeling starts to fade, so does Miguel's attention, and your body can finally relax, your limbs heavy and chest heaving. Miguel releases his iron grip on your hips, gently urging you off him. You swing your leg over, and then collapse against the desk beside him, body unwilling to move an inch further. Your muscles are still quivering, heart pounding, and your mind still hasn't quite caught up. You think that was more exhausting than fighting any villain. Maybe even more painful.

Miguel sits up, wipes at his mouth, and glances over at you with a raised brow.

"Feel better?"

Your crotch feels so weird, tingly and wet and painful all at once. Your throat still hurts, burning with every breath you draw in, and you think Miguel might have bruised your hips. You nod anyways, breathing out a "Yeah," because at least that incessant ache that's kept you up for days is finally gone.

Miguel's eyes roll, clearly unimpressed. But he sighs, and then reaches over to stroke your side, a touch that has you melting. Miguel isn't affectionate, per se, but every gesture is meaningful, and you can't help but enjoy them. His fingers slide under your side, tugging you towards him. Miguel pulls you into his lap, hands petting your sides.

"You've been misbehaving. I've had to deal with a LOT of your antics today," Miguel lectures you, one hand drifting to your lower back, his thumb tracing a circle over your spine. It takes all your focus not to shudder under his touch.

You swallow, wondering if you've somehow disappointed him - is the throbbing of your body Miguel's retribution, because you messed up? Miguel always knows better. It's not your place to question him, he's just that wise. You don't quite know how to respond, so you stay silent, leaning heavily against him, head on his shoulder.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Miguel prompts you, fingers curling against your back.

Is he looking for an apology? Your mind feels slow, your thoughts fuzzy. "M'sorry," is the only coherent word you can articulate, voice a low rasp.

"Next time you have a problem, don't cry and beg and throw a fit, like a spoiled brat. Just tell me what's wrong," Miguel says, fingers trailing down your back in an almost soothing touch. "Do you understand?"

You mumble out a small "Yes," your eyelids heavy and mind weary. "I'm sorry, Miguel."

Miguel lets out an irritated puff of air, and his arms wrap around you, his tone shifting into something soft, almost gentle.

"It's okay."

He rests his cheek against the top of your head.

"You did a very good job," he murmurs quietly, like it's a secret.

Those words make you soar, chest filling with joy and pride. Miguel thinks you've been good. That's all you want. To please him. You'd do anything for those soft-spoken praises. Your eyes slide shut, melting into Miguel's warm embrace.

"Does that mean..." you start hesitantly, "...I can help again, next time?"

Miguel makes a noise in the back of his throat, and his hold on you tightens a fraction. You think you feel that thing twitch against your thigh.

"Yeah," he rasps. "I'll let you help."

"Every time?" you try hopefully.

You feel a shiver run through him.

"Every time."

[spamgyu]

Ces! "What are you Dune 2 me Ces?" "Cara's groupies, because Carat, get it? Yes! I do! And I love love love your puns😍 They made me cackle so hard my co workers were alarmed 😂😂😂😂

Also, Justin Moon is just making me go 🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠

Fair warning. The following may come across a bit OOC, but you know what, still gonna let it rot my brain. It's been one of those kinda sweet and angsty kinda days, so this is just a bit of bittersweet brainrot.

Presenting Justin Moon for your Brainrot pile!

*

It's the end of the semester and you've stretched your stay as long as you could. You even applied, got and finished an internship after your semester just to stretch out your time with Justin. It's been fun working in the same building as him. You sometimes get to see him during lunch at the cafeteria (though you don't get to eat with him, unfortunately. He sits with his colleagues, you sit with yours, it's alright, you win some you lose some)

But the best part is the time after work, you get to hangout with him (occasionally) without the added deadline of assignments and projects and tests and all the other things that stress you out during the semester.

It's been like living in your own world, an alternative reality almost. Dreamlike. It's like time flows twice as slow, allowing you to enjoy Justin's presence twice as much. And you would give almost anything for it to continue.

But all good things come to an end and as you are saying goodbye to all the new people you met in your internship, you wonder if Justin felt the dreamlike quality of your evenings. You feel a bit nostalgic for the time you've spent together.

You're heading home tonight. You've missed your parents quite a bit, you're looking forward to it. Justin has already offered to drop you to the airport. You start a bit early, wanting to prolong the dwindling time you have left with him. And when you reach the airport you end up sitting in the parking lot talking to each other till you lose track of time. But it's time for you to head inside. So Justin grabs your suitcase and your backpack and accompanies you as far as he can. And when he hands you your luggage, it's like he wants to say something. But he's also holding himself back. Like he's second guessing himself. And then he shakes his head as if to push away errant thoughts and says, “Have a safe flight Y/N!”, and pushes you forward. You don't have too much time to spare once you enter the airport terminal. So you get through the security check right when there's a final boarding call for your flight. You need to rush!

Finally you are in your seat and you text Justin to let him know that you have boarded the flight. But you can't hold back from asking him what he was gonna say when he wished you safe travels.

He's still second guessing himself. But he decides to not listen to the doubts in his head for once and texts:

“Y/N, this month after our exams got over has been the most magical time I've spent in my life. Seeing you at lunch, coming back to my apartment and knowing that I could hang out with for the rest of the evening, talking about what we love to our hearts content, with no care about approaching deadline has been kinda heartbreaking NGL. But it was the most beautiful heartbreak I've experienced. I saw how peaceful you look when we're just walking around with no aim in mind, not needing to hurry, because we got nowhere to be. I saw how happy you are about the small flowers blooming unexpectedly by the sidewalk. I also saw how proud you are when you accomplish something at work. And my heat swelled every time you wanted to share that accomplishment with me. I saw you trust me enough to share your worries and fears. Made me feel very special that I could support you that way. I am glad I could be there for you. It would be so easy to fall in love with you. I saw what it would have been like to be yours. And I wanted the time to stop so that I could have you with me forever. But I can't be selfish like that. I can't keep you frozen. You're filled with so much life, it would be a crime. But how I wish I could go back to those moments and live them with you forever”

You are shell shocked. You need to talk to your best friend about this. So you screenshot it immediately.

But the doubts in Justin's head won't let go of him. Those are quite intense words and he doesn't want to scre you off or lose you.

He deletes the text a few seconds later.

He doesn't know that you've read it.

Instead he texts “Don't worry about it Y/N. I'm just tired from work. And I'm a bit meh about still having a week until my internship ends. Have a good time with your family! I'll try not to miss you too much until next semester! Cya next semester!”

And now, you're left with the original screenshot, a journey of a couple of hours, filled with nothing but the sound of jet engines, a heart overflowing with so many emotions that you can't keep track of them all, and a head full of racing thoughts that are louder than the engines of the plane taking you home.

*

-🐭

UM OKAY HELLO THE JUSTIN WEN BRAIN ROT IS EVERYONE SEEING THIS IM THROWING UP

HELLO??

HELLO???

GUYS

GUYS???

stop justin wen being so scared and letting you be the one that got away hello??? helooo???

HELLO SOMEONE PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE

HELOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[obscureenthusiast]

Me again. I might wanna know about Whole Wide World as well :)

OF COURSE YOU CAN KNOW ABOUT IT

Okay, so "Whole Wide World" (title from a Mountain Goats song of the same name) is my big post-canon Sparty fic project that will (fingers crossed) actually get finished someday... especially because I have a LOT of thoughts about what it means for both of them to live when not at war, and how to build a life when traumatized, grief-stricken, and filled with survivor's guilt!

Unfortunately, I decided I needed to write the Agron POV fic first just to get to where both him and Nasir are, like... EMOTIONALLY at in their arcs by the end of the show... and so the post-canon fic has been just sitting around and every now and then I look at it and go "ooooooh" and add a few more notes or something :P

Originally, the plan for this fic was Nasir POV, but I may change that and do swapping POVs between Agron and Nasir, because I'd love to get some exploration into the things they don't SAY to each other. BUT, for now, on to some of my Nasir snippets from early on (as in, they're still in the mountains)!

“Enough!” Nasir said, grabbing Agron’s shoulder because he’d seen the same look in his lover’s eyes as when he was set upon throwing the first punch. “Break words of fucking sense, both of you.” Agron scoffed, “This stupid shit wants to turn back to the south.” “We only seek to fucking live!” the man replied, standing taller against Agron’s barbed words. “A small number of us can slip past Roman soldiers easily enough.” Nasir recognized the man, now, if only vaguely. He was a Celt, one of the shepherds they had picked up along the way. He had been an accomplished fighter, held back from the final battle by injury to his sword arm which was even now held in a sling across his chest. “I swore to Spartacus upon dying breath that I would see every slave to freedom,” Agron said, “not see clutch of them returned to their fucking deaths!” “Spartacus talked of the freedom to choose our fates!” the man returned. “I would see myself and others of like mind to our own path!” Nasir tightened his grip on Agron’s shoulder slightly, drawing his attention with a glance. “I fear we cannot stop the man,” he said, keeping his voice low and firm, “without betraying ideals of our cause.” Agron’s jaw tightened and he lowered his own voice to whisper, “So we are to let them choose death?” The words were in parallel to conversation Nasir had broken with Spartacus, in the days after Agron had left him to join Crixus’s army, and Nasir’s brows drew together, a tinge of bitterness invading his voice as he muttered. “All men choose their fates,” he locked eyes with Agron, “a thing you are well aware of.”

Haha, yeah I'm sure that bitterness isn't going to come up later as like a hurdle in their post-war relationship!! I'm sure it'll be okay!! Annnnnnnd

Agron was kneeling on the floor, low curses rolling from his lips in grumbled undertones as he tried to pick up the scattered pieces of a shattered water jug. He looked up as Nasir entered, his gaze dark with sharp irritation. “Do not fucking speak,” he snapped. Nasir moved closer, kneeling beside Agron and helping with the task silently, his hands moving quickly and gently to remove the broken pieces. Agron shifted, sitting back on his heels and tossing down the few shards of clay he’d managed to collect, his hands instead clenching as much as they could as bitterness overtook his features. “It fucking slipped from useless hands,” Agron muttered. Nasir shook his head. “It does not matter.” Agron hissed out a breath through his teeth and aimed a kick at a couple of the errant pieces on the floor, nearly catching Nasir’s fingers with the action. Nasir jerked back and looked at Agron sharply, but Agron was staring down at his own hands, seemingly unaware of Nasir’s presence. Silence stretched between them and Nasir moved cautiously closer, setting aside the broken pieces of pottery carefully so that he could reach out. “Agron,” Nasir whispered, running soft fingertips across Agron’s cheek, trying to draw his gaze. For a moment Agron remained stolid and indifferent to the touch and Nasir feared he would be pushed away, but then Agron closed his eyes tightly, brows drawing together in a pained expression as he pressed to Nasir’s hand. “Exhaustion and grief are heavy burden,” Nasir said softly. Agron shook his head and drew in an unsteady breath, lips quivering. When he spoke, his voice was low and hoarse, “I cannot bear weight of it,” he said, “when all has been fucking taken from me.”

lol Agron seems uhhhh... like he's handling this whole situation super duper well. I'm sure Nasir constantly having to placate him when they're both incredibly emotional won't wear him down or anything. I'm sure the fact that Agron keeps snapping at every little thing isn't due to immense physical pain, and I'm sure that nobody is gonna yell at anybody before the week is out >:3 Absolutely!

ANYWAY thank you so much for asking, bless you kindly <3

[ppersonna]

swipe right - jjk | m

“ i wanna ruin our friendship. we should be lovers instead. i don't know how to say this, cause you're really my dearest friend “ - jenny, studio killers

♡ summary-  after a horrible breakup, you sign back up for tinder and ironically match with your best friend, jungkook. a date for fun is harmless, right?

♡ genre- best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, jk is a minecraft streamer, brother namjoon, brother-in-law jimin, namjoon is kind of a himbo stay at home dad ngl, ex-boyfriend seokjin (mentioned but doesnt show up)

♡ word count- 9k

♡ warnings- mentions of a bad breakup (smh seokjin wtf??), penetrative sex, unprotected sex (u know the business folx), oral sex (m receiving), teasing, SO MUCH BODY WORSHIP, jk is a simp, slight dirty talk, lots of just talking during sex yall it happens, creampie, cum play, praise praise body worship praise, did i mention body worship, tit-fucking, cum eating, i think thats all.

♡ a/n - helloooo and thank you for your wait for this fic! i’m so happy its done and i loved writing it! it’s a little bit different feel for my usual style of writing (smut-wise) so please tell me your thoughts! i didn’t use dom/sub themes OR a daddy kink LMAOOOO praise me please. i hope you enjoy!! pls feel free to comment, chat, message, carrier pigeon, email, mail, WHATEVER U WANT, me. i love u babies. thank you to @kimtaehyunq​ for the sexy banner. and for @xjoonchildx @ladyartemesia​ @untaemedqueen​ for the writing support and idea generation. i would be nothing without my council. and thank you to my beta editors @hobi-gif and @ughseoks​ and @hongism​ for the perusal and help in writing this!

Jungkook is the person you call when your world falls apart.

He answers, voice raspy from the late hour, and the second he asks you what’s wrong, the downpour of torrential tears you’ve been holding back finally escapes and you’re sobbing through the phone that you just lost the love of your life—that he left and with little effort on his part, and a lot on yours.

Jungkook listens to you—his heart aching deep in his chest at hearing the utter heartbreak that’s clear in your voice. You’ve never been hurt like this, and he’s desperate to hold you, to make it go away. He wants to drive over to Seokjin’s house and throw a left hook into his stupid, handsome face for making you feel you weren’t worth it.

Because if there’s anything in the world that Jungkook knows, it’s that you’re worth it. You’re worth everything. Add up all the money and all the gold in the entire world, and it still doesn’t meet a fraction of what you’re worth to him.

“Where are you?” He asks as he cradles the phone against one arm and pulls on his jeans.  

You sniffle. “Jungkook, it’s 3 am.”

“So? I was up playing Minecraft,” He lies. “Where are you?”

You can’t help but laugh the tiniest bit, a sliver of warmth wrapping itself around your raw and exposed heart. Like a balm to a flesh wound. It doesn’t heal it, not yet.

“I’m at our park.”

Jungkook smiles as he grips the phone back in his hand. The park. The place you and Jungkook spent your childhood playing make-believe games, and formative teenage years loitering around smoking clove cigarettes to look cool.

“Give me five minutes, okay?”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. 

“Okay.”

Jungkook arrives with two minutes to spare. His beat up Nissan that he insists is “vintage” and “priceless” idles next to you.

He can see you through the darkened glass of your car—your mascara is running down your face, tears streaked through your flawlessly applied makeup.

You still look so beautiful.

And it angers Jungkook that all that time you spent looking good for Seokjin meant nothing to him.

He motions for you to come over, pats the passenger seat next to him and smiles as he watches you open the door and slide into the security of his familiar car.

“You cleaned your car,” you murmur as you notice a severe lack of McDonald’s trash.

He sniffs haughtily. 

“The trash added character.”

Jungkook doesn’t give you a chance to respond. Instead, he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and pulling you as close to him as he can get you. The instant his arms wrap around your body, the floodgates open again and your once-quieted tears turn back into full-fledged sobs.

“I loved him,” you gasp through the pain in your throat.

He rubs your back, pats your hair gently, soothing you the way he has for years now. Through every breakup, through every family fight with your older brother Namjoon, through all the mean girls in high school. Jungkook is the north star—always consistent, always guiding you back to safety.

“I know, babe,” he sighs. “You deserve someone who’s going to treat you right, who’s not just going to give up when things get hard.”

You choke back a cry against his Patagonia hoodie and bury your face further into the crook of his neck. He smells like Old Spice and the shampoo he uses, along with the smell of laundry soap you buy for him—he uses dish soap when he runs out and nearly broke his washing machine last time.

“I thought he was the one. I’m so stupid.”

Jungkook swallows hard. Tonight is about comforting you, not about feeling sorry for himself that you’re his best friend and not his girlfriend. He can’t help but think of what kind of life he would give you. He knows it’s one that wouldn’t end with you crying in a parking lot at 3 AM.

“You’re not stupid, you just loved him. And there’s nothing stupid about loving someone, even if it doesn’t work out,” he sighs as he cradles your head against him. It feels right having you there, pressed up against him and seeking comfort from the solace of his arms.

“Let’s go get a milkshake, yeah?” He asks as you pull your head up and look at him with sad, glassy eyes.

“Yeah,” you nod after a moment of staring.

Jungkook’s eyes sparkle with love, with hope. It makes the desperate, alone feeling inside you—disappear. Jungkook presses a soft kiss to your forehead and then starts the shaky ignition of his car, that takes three cranks of the key before it turns over.

He sends you a look, a laugh evident on your face.

“Don’t even start,” he warns. “The engine is fine.”

“Whatever you say,” you snort as you wipe an errant tear from your face.  

“It’s a certified classic car! I could get millions for this baby!”

As the weeks pass, the pain of losing Seokjin becomes further and further from your mind. You can get through the day without crying anytime you see something that reminds you of him and even start flirting with others without feeling like you’re cheating.

You just still haven’t reached the point where dating someone else even feels possible. You’re terrified of allowing someone close to you, letting them into a place where you’re inviting them to possibly hurt you. You’re not sure your heart is ready for it. 

“I think you’re just scared,” your older brother Namjoon states as he warms up a bottle of milk in boiling water. 

He cradles his new baby in one arm while the other works at the bottle of milk. 

“I’m not scared,” you huff. “I just don’t think it’s the right time.” 

Namjoon sighs and hands the gurgling newborn baby off to you and readies the bottle for you to feed your new niece, Jisoo. 

“Look, Seokjin sucks, okay? I know you two were together for some time, but in the end, he wasn’t the right one for you. There’s someone out there who is the right one for you. You know how many shit frogs I had to kiss before I got my prince?” 

You make a face as you feed Jisoo, who happily sucks and gazes at the lights above. 

“You call Jimin a prince?” 

Namjoon sighs dreamily as he watches the baby and thinks of his husband. 

“The dreamiest prince,” he breathes, eyes closed in bliss. “But back to your problems. I think you should get back out there. Go on some dates, meet some people. No one is telling you to fall in love and get married tomorrow. Just go have some fun.” 

You allow Namjoon’s words to mull through your mind. What could be the harm in joining a few dating sites, perhaps spending some time at the gym or grocery store flirting with someone cute?

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll think about it.” 

“Good. I can’t be the only one giving our parents grand-babies. Soo needs a cousin.” 

You smile down at the tiny bundle in your arms and imagine a future where you have a baby of your own. 

“Okay, I’m not trying to get knocked up, Joon.” 

“Whatever,” he sighs. “Help me choose a wall color for me and Jimin’s new master bathroom.” 

Tinder’s changed since the last time you used it, years ago. It’s gone from any semblance of dating to strictly an app used to get laid. 

It’s discouraging swiping through all the obvious fuckboys. Sure, a quick and easy lay sounds great, but you’re also trying to go out and enjoy real, traditional dates, and it seems none of these guys want to step foot outside of a bedroom. 

The swiping left becomes almost monotonous. You’re sitting on your couch, watching some documentary about serial killers, when a startling profile pops up on your Tinder feed. 

The picture that pops up is... Jungkook. You can’t stop the bubble of laughter that leaps from your chest. His profile is so authentically Jungkook that you’re swiping right before you even know it. 

Your brain doesn’t even comprehend what a match with Jungkook means, really. You’re still laughing as you click on the bubble to message him and send him as many laugh emojis as you can. 

“Hey guys, what’s up, Kookie here with another Let’s Play Minecraft video for ya. Be sure to like and subscribe if you enjoy this kind of content.”

Jungkook’s headset is firmly wrapped around his head, mic next to his mouth and hands at the ready on his mouse and keyboard. He’s set and in the zone. 

The game is well into play when the familiar chime of his phone goes off. It’s a Tinder notification—he can tell by the sound. He can’t help but roll his eyes, wondering what sort of boring conversation he’s meant to have with a girl who will probably ghost him, anyway. 

He lazily lifts his phone and glances at the notification, before dropping it back to the desk. 

His hand freezes on his mouse as he finally comprehends what he just read. 

He just matched with YOU. 

His best friend. 

His secret, lifelong crush. 

He sputters something into the microphone and stops recording his game, wildly grasping for the phone and unlocking it. 

YN: 😂😂😂😂 is your bio a Minecraft pickup line?!

He pauses, attempts to collect his thoughts, before desperately typing on his screen. 

JUNGKOOK: Why? 😉😏 did it work?

You spend the rest of your night jokingly flirting with Jungkook, sending GIFs and emojis in between the silly lines you’re using on each other. 

Right before you’re about to head to sleep, Jungkook sends one last message. 

JUNGKOOK: What if we went on a date lolol. Haha jk. Unless?? 👀👀👀

Your thumbs hover over the keys to your phone. 

A date with Jungkook? Even though you matched with him, you’ve never thought of a date with your childhood best friend. 

YN: alright, it’s only fair since we matched 😝 show me how you treat these tinder ladies

“I have a date with Jungkook tonight,” you tell your brother, Namjoon, over the phone. 

Over the crying of your newborn niece, you hear Namjoon splutter in confusion. 

“You what!?” He nearly screams. “Jeon Jungkook? Like... the annoying kid you’ve been friends with since fourth grade?”

You huff. 

“He’s not annoying! He’s my best friend. We ironically matched on Tinder and… Well, why the fuck not? Nothing serious is going to happen. We’ll go out and have a story to tell about how incompatible we are.”

Namjoon doesn’t reply. Instead, you hear him speak to his husband. 

“She’s going on a date with Jungkook,” he says over the muffle of his hand on the receiver.

There’s a shuffle, and the dulcet voice of your brother-in-law, Jimin, comes over the line. 

“Girl,” he starts. “What the fuck?”

You chuckle as you move about your closet, trying to decide what’s appropriate to wear on a date with your best friend. 

“It’s nothing!” 

“Mm-hmm,” Jimin tuts. “You know the boy is in love with you.” 

“Okay, Chim, you’ve been spending too much time cooped up with my brother. It’s affecting your grip on reality.”

“Sure, honey. I just tell it like it is. Don’t break his heart.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I won’t break his heart because there’s nothing there, Jimin.”

“I’ll be expecting your call later.”

“Yes, dad. Love you guys.”

“We love you too, sweetheart. But really, don’t break that poor boy’s heart.”

You open your mouth to retort yet another reassurance that there’s nothing to break, but the line goes dead.

“Fucking Jimin,” you mutter as you throw your phone to the bed.

You can’t allow yourself to think that Jungkook might have feelings for you. It’s totally out of the questions. He’s your best friend. The guy who shoves Cheetos up his nose to make you laugh and falls asleep during every movie night with his face in the popcorn bowl. He’s just Jungkook. This date is just a funny way to hang out.

So, why do you care so much about what you wear?

You’re still standing in front of your closet, attempting to find something respectable to wear. It doesn’t matter that the last time Jungkook saw you; it was with mascara streaming down your face and a hoodie from Namjoon’s college swimming days and ripped leggings. Jungkook has seen you in nearly everything you wear, so your indecisiveness gives you pause.

Do you want Jungkook to be attracted to you? Do you want to do your best to look as presentable as you would for a normal date?

The thudding of your heart tells you that maybe you’re more interested in this being a date than you’re allowing yourself to believe.

You shake all thoughts off. 

No, you won’t allow yourself to overthink a night that should just be fun.

You settle for a fitted and simple summer dress, tights and heels. Simple, easy, respectable but also showing enough cleavage and sculpt of your ass to ensure you look more dressed up than not.

Perfect.

With one last look in the mirror, you’re ready.

JUNGKOOK: I’m outside!

ME: See you soon!

Jungkook taps his foot anxiously as he sits on the bench outside your apartment. His tight black jeans feel like a second skin on his legs, and the black button-down shirt he’s tucked in makes him rethink his choice of outfit.

Is he too casual?

He’s never really worn something like this around you. This is what Jungkook wears when he wants to seduce. This is what every girl he’s desperately wished was you got to see. The girls who swooned over his messy hair, the way his jeans display his toned thighs, the peek of skin at his throat.

Maybe it’s too much.

Maybe he’s afraid he’ll scare you away.

Maybe he’s afraid you won’t like it.

He’s given no chance to ruminate anymore because you’re exiting the building and walking straight towards him.

He doesn’t think he remembers how to breathe.

It’s as if you walk towards him in slow motion. Angels chorus around him and the setting sun sparkles on your face like a spotlight. There’s nothing in the world anymore, nothing but you.

You’re the most beautiful human he’s ever seen in his life.

“Hi,” you smile as you approach him.

He continues to stare, eyes traveling over the soft curves of your cheeks and jaw, trailing down to the way your dress clings just right to each dip of your body. His throat goes dry.

You are without a doubt the girl of his dreams. 

“Jungkook?”

It pushes him out of his reverie, eyes widening as he realizes he’s been staring at you for maybe a few minutes too long to play off as normal.

“Hey!” He coughs, attempting to right himself.

“You okay?” You ask, eyebrow lifted in concern.

“Yeah! Yup! Totally! I’m okay—a-okay, absolutely great.” He internally slaps himself.

“You clean up nice,” you smile as your eyes elevate up and down the lean form of his body.

“Oh?” He asks, taken aback. 

In his daze, he never even realized what you’re thinking about him, rather only how intensely he was thinking about you.

“This must be the Jungkook that all the girls in college couldn’t stop begging me to hook them up with.”

His cheeks flame with sudden embarrassment, hand moving to the back of his neck to rub it awkwardly. 

“Ha, yeah,” he swallows. “You look r-really nice too. I don’t think I’ve seen you in a dress since your brother’s wedding.”

The smile that he’s rewarded with nearly knocks him on his ass. “Thanks! It’s fun to dress up cute again. Jin hated this dress.”

A stab of pain eeks its way into Jungkook’s heart. Seokjin. God, how he hates that man.

“Well, uh, you can wear whatever you want with me!” He assures. 

You loop your arm around Jungkook’s, saddling up to his side as you look at him expectantly.

“Well, are we going?”

Jungkook can’t help but smile at the sparkle in your eye, the way you peer up at him with those soft, cherry lips. He wants to capture them with his own, kiss you until you don’t remember Seokjin’s name ever again.

But he resists.

“Let’s go!”

You never thought you’d admit it to yourself. You never even thought it could happen. 

But the date is everything you’ve ever wanted, and more. 

Jungkook is still Jungkook, still just as silly and easy to talk to as he always is. 

But he’s also charming. Flirtatious, even. He holds doors open for you; he rests his hand on the small of your back as he guides you towards your table at dinner. He feeds you bites of his dessert and lets his eyes linger on the way your lips look wrapped around his fork. 

Jungkook treats you the way you’ve always wanted to be treated. Like someone he wants to cherish for the rest of your combined lives. Someone he wants to take care of, build a future with, enjoy life with.

And as much as it thrills you, it absolutely frightens you. 

It’s when you’re walking down the small river trail together that Jungkook slips his hand into yours and laces your fingers together. The once-steady beat of your heart becomes erratic. He continues chatting—as if holding your hand was a subconscious act for him. He’s knee deep in a story of his Minecraft server when you stop walking, causing him to pause. 

“What’s up?” He asks curiously. 

Your eyes glitter with anticipation, with fear, as you stare at the gorgeous man before you. He looks like a full course meal in his tight jeans and he makes you feel like a princess. You can suddenly see doing life by his side—no longer his platonic best friend, but as his lover and lifelong partner. 

You say nothing. Instead, you simply close the space between you two by grabbing the buttons of his shirt and tugging his lips onto yours. 

“Wha—oh, mmmmmm.”

Jungkook is still for a second as he battles the surprise, but jumps into action and cups your face with his hands, deepening the kiss by pushing his tongue past your lips and swirling it around your own. 

Your bodies press close together. He can feel your breasts against his chest and he desperately wants to rip the dress off your body and worship you like he’s always wanted to. 

As soon as the kiss started, it’s over. You’re pulling away with eyes wide with fear.

“I’m sorry, I—I need to go,” you stammer awkwardly.

Jungkook’s heart drops to his stomach.

“What? We were going to get ice cream?”

You can feel tears building in the corners of your eyes. You’re so confused, so unsure of what you’re feeling. You want to stay and kiss Jungkook until you’re clawing at the clothing on his body, pressing kisses to the firm column of his neck. You want to run far away, too scared to admit it to him you’re sure you could love him for the rest of his life.

You can’t lose that friendship. You can’t risk everything you love about Jungkook. He’ll only hurt you the way every boyfriend ever has.

“I don’t really feel well,” you swallow hard as you lie. Jungkook always knows when you’re lying.

His body stiffens.

“Okay, let me walk you home.”

You shake your head, already moving away from the man.

“It’s fine. We’re nearby. I’ll just run or something.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you’ve already turned face and started running the direction away from him.

Jungkook watches, misty-eyed, as the girl of his dreams runs further and further away from him.

You’re sobbing as you finally reach home, out of breath and confused. The phone call to Namjoon is quick.

“Yo,” he says cooly as he answers the phone. His tone changes when he hears your whimpering sobs on the other end.

“Joonie,” you whisper. “I fucked up.”

“Oh god,” Namjoon quickly shuffles and calls his husband over, before putting the phone on speaker.

“What’s happened, baby?” Jimin’s sweet voice asks.

“I—I kissed him,” you sob, holding yourself close in the comfort of the elevator. 

Namjoon and Jimin look at each other with knowing looks.

“We’re on our way over.”

Jimin knows the first order of business is to stop the crying. He places sleeping baby Jisoo in your arms, which quiets your whimpers enough as you cling to the tiny baby. He knows your weakness is sleeping babies.

Namjoon looks on anxiously, hates seeing his little sister upset and with no way to make it better.

Jimin’s been asked to take the lead on this, because he knows his husband's response is to cry as well—he gets emotional anytime he sees her cry. Namjoon agreed, knowing Jimin was better suited for the conversation.

“Tell us what happened,” Jimin asks quietly. You’re rocking the baby gently, sobs turned to sniffles. “Did something go wrong on the date?”

Your eyes peer up at your brother-in-law’s, a wounded look that makes Jimin feel sad. Namjoon clenches beside him, and Jimin lays a hand on his lap to soothe the protective brother.

“No,” you whisper. “That’s the thing. It was an amazing date.”

Jimin watches you curiously, but remains silent to let you continue.

“We had dinner, and we played arcade games and we walked around. And he was so… fuck, he was perfect. It was like dating the guy of my dreams.”

Jimin nods knowingly.

“And it surprised you how much you liked him.”

“Yeah,” you sniffle. “At the end, he was holding my hand and just talking about normal, stupid Jungkook shit, but this time it felt like more. Like, I felt in my heart that I wanted to be the one he always talked to about it. I wanted to be the one he came home to at night.”

Jimin pats your cheek lovingly, the care for his sister-in-law clear in his gaze. 

“You don’t just like him, honey. I think you might even love him.”  

You pull baby Jisoo tighter into your grasp and nod, pathetic tears slipping down your face. 

“I just left him. Like, I ran away from him like an asshole.”

Namjoon grunts and takes a spot next to Jimin. “If he loves you, which I’m sure he does, he’ll still be waiting for you.”

Jimin nods and rests a hand on his husband's back. “But you better have one hell of an apology.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer your phone calls. He doesn’t respond to your texts, snapchats or Instagram DM’s. He doesn’t even look at the TikToks you sent him! It’s becoming infuriating to get in touch with him.

You take matters into your own hands and storm to his apartment after work, the rising tension in your shoulders and stomach full of rocks an indicator of your anxiety about the future of this relationship.

Jungkook opens the door wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweats. All the carefully crafted words exit your mind at light 

speed and you’re left gasping, wide-eyed at the chiseled body of your best friend.

“Can I help you?” He asks, tone flat.

Ouch.

You push past him into the apartment you know so well. “Yeah, you could start by answering your phone.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes and closes the door, then heads back towards the large gaming setup in the living room.

“My apologies for not responding to the girl who literally ran away from me on a date.”

Your cheeks heat uncomfortably as you stand in the center of his living room, arms crossed over your chest. 

“Jungkook, listen. I’m—”

“Please,” he shakes his head as he sits down at the impressive gaming chair. “Save the apologies. I get it.”

“You don’t get it!” You say, exasperated. “You don’t get any of it! That’s why I’m here.”

Jungkook narrows a look at you then stands from his chair. Slowly, he makes his way towards you and stands inches from your face. The proximity of his bare, toned chest to your body makes your throat dry.

“No, you don’t get it.” His voice is threateningly quiet, completely different from his usual chipper tone. 

“Jungkook, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” He quirks his head sarcastically, and you’re struck by the sharp lines of his jaw. “Sorry for running away from the date? Sorry for going on a date? Sorry for making me feel like I had a fucking chance when you kissed me?”

You swallow hard and open your mouth to reply, but he cuts you off.

“I’m sorry too. For giving myself way too much hope that this could ever be something. I’m sorry for myself for thinking you’d at least respect me enough to reject me politely.”

“You always had a chance!” You can feel tears building in your eyes and Jungkook feels his heart pound in his chest like a drum.

He scoffs, a harsh and mirthless laugh. “Clearly not.”

“I just—,” you start. “I never saw you like that before and suddenly you became everything I’ve ever dreamed of. It was like getting hit by a train, Kook! Suddenly my best friend turned into the man of my dreams.”

He shakes his head, stepping back away from you.

“I really find it hard to believe you,” he whispers. “I can’t let myself hope.”

“Jungkook, please,” you beg as tears start slipping down your face. “Please believe me.”

“Just leave,” he sighs. “I hate making you cry.”

You want so badly to wrap yourself in his arms, cry into his chest like you always do when you’re hurt. But you stand still, frozen in your shame and embarrassment of hurting your best friend so badly.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, before you spin around as quickly as you can and leave Jungkook’s apartment in a flurry.

He watches as the door slams behind you, eyes full of sadness and regret. As much as he wants to believe you, have faith in every word you said, he can’t allow himself to get his hopes up again.

He can’t watch you run away from him again.

“Welcome back to Kookie’s Wild Weekly Walkthrough!” Jungkook cheers as enthusiastically as he can through his microphone. “The weekly segment where I react to your Minecraft worlds!”

Jungkook needed to dive back into streaming to take his mind off of you. He hasn’t left his apartment in days, only subsisting on takeout and coffee. At least he was making more money and his subscribers didn’t seem to mind the up-tick in content.

“Tonight I’ll be walking through a creation sent by,” he squints at the username. “‘Kookiesgal95’ Aww that’s cute.”  

He readies the content and starts his camera as he watches the YouTube link. His subscribers love his reaction videos—it’s a highly requested segment.

The video starts off easily, a generic Minecraft world that looks like a park.

“Hi Kook.”

The voice that reverberates through his headphones makes him pause the video quickly, wide-eyed with recognition.

It’s you. He’d know that voice from a million others. 

Shit. He’s going to have to edit so much of this clip. He’s staring at the screen as if he’s just seen a ghost.

Unsteadily, he clicks play again and watches as you lead him through your Minecraft creation.

“I wanted to recreate something for someone very special in my life.”

Jungkook doesn’t even bother to react to this anymore. This entire video is going to be worthless—there’s nothing he can say.

The video pans around the Minecraft setup and he can see what looks like handmade swings and merry go rounds.

“It took me a really long time to do this and an embarrassing amount of help from some twelve-year-olds on the internet.”

He laughs and is stunned by the wet tears rolling down his cheeks. He hadn’t realized he was crying.

“I re-created a park that is really special to my best friend and I.”

He feels his chest tighten and relax. The park. 

“This is the spot where he held me when my dog died when I was nine. I still miss that dog.”

The view is on a spot next to a blocky oak tree. Jungkook remembers that day, remembers your heartbroken sobs as he whispered words of comfort to you. He misses that dog, too. 

“This is where he and my brother got in a fight when we were eleven, because my brother called me a stupid-head. My best friend has always been protective of me, even from my own big brother.”

He can still remember pushing Namjoon around after hearing him call you names. He pushed Namjoon over and threatened to use his “big muscles” if he did it again.

The camera pans to an enormous structure, rather sloppily made, of a slide and monkey bars.

“This is where we first shared a joint in high school. I coughed a lung up and he ran down the street to a gas station at ten pm to get me a bottle of water even though I told him I was okay,”

The memory of the bewildered 7-11 employee plays through his mind. The man watched as a very stoned, very out of breath, Jungkook paid for a bottle of water in coins.

The video continues playing, moves towards what appears to be a parking lot made of cobblestone blocks.

“This is where he held me when my world fell apart.”

The break-up. The way you cried and cried and cried in his arms and he held you as if you were the only thing left on Earth. 

“This is where he reminded me I’m worthy of love, that I’m not broken. This is where he held me like I was delicate, but treated me like I was unbreakable.”

His tears don’t stop. Jungkook feels his heart thundering in his chest like a summer storm. 

He can hear your sniffles through the recording of the video—you were crying too. It pans around to the swing set.

“And this is where I’ll tell him everything, tonight. Where I’ll tell him how deeply I love him and how I want to make him the happiest guy in the world. In all of Minecraft and beyond. I hope he comes.”

Jungkook doesn’t even bother turning his camera off.

Instead, he’s running to change out of his three-day-old clothes and bolt out the door.

The creaky, rusty metal of the swing set is deafeningly loud in the silence of your park.

It’s dark, just a few street lights around to illuminate the perimeter, but it’s otherwise only lit by the moon.

It’s getting cold. You shiver in your hoodie and kick at the dirt under your swing. 

Maybe he didn’t see the video. Maybe he wasn’t going to show.

Maybe it was too late.

You spent hours working on the Minecraft world, staying up at all hours of the night to build and craft a poor re-creation of this park. The twelve-year-olds on Reddit had been invaluable and Namjoon definitely made fun of you for your creative assistants. But it had all been worth it. 

“Fuck,” you speak out loud to no one, as you try to warm your hands in the pockets of your sweater. “It’s cold.”

“You should have brought a jacket.”

The sudden voice from behind startles you. You hop off the swing and whip around to face  down the intruder.

Jungkook.

He looks so good. He’s wearing a thick coat and tight jeans. Your eyes take a delicious journey from head to toe.

He can’t help but preen at your blatant appreciation. He enjoys knowing you’re attracted to him, at least physically.

“You came.”

He nods and takes a nervous step towards you. He’s still far away, more than an arm's-reach away. You’re desperate to bring him closer, to pull him tight against your body and wrap yourself around him. You never want to be without his gentle touch again.

“I felt pretty compelled to come after you made all this in Minecraft for me.” He cracks a wry smile, a boy-ish grin that makes your heart flutter.

“It took me twenty-five hours and some teenagers to help.”

He laughs, a beautiful sound that warms you. “I’m sure they were ecstatic to help.”

You chew at the inside of your cheek, nervous at what he thinks about your in-game confession.

“Did you mean it?” He asks. He steps closer—one more step.

“Every word.”

His eyes are searching yours for the truth, desperately diving into the depths for validity.

“Why did you run away?” Another step.

You swallow hard, heavy tears brimming in your eyes.

“You went from being the silly best friend to being the person I could spend the rest of my life with. It all hit me. It’s always been you.”

One more step and now he’s just within your reach. If you stuck your hand out, your fingers would graze the soft puff of his coat, the delicate skin of his neck. 

“I’ve always felt that way about you. I never thought you’d feel the same.”

You smile softly, timidly. “It just took me a little while longer to realize it.”

All at once, Jungkook closes the gap and holds you gently by your cheeks. His thumbs wipe at the moisture under your eyes. 

“I promise to never make you cry again,” he whispers reverently. 

“And I promise to never run away from you again.” 

Jungkook smiles at that, cradling your face like you’re the most expensive and precious jewel. 

“Can I kiss you again?” He asks, somewhat unsure of himself. 

“I would like it if you would.”

As Jungkook presses his cold, plush lips to your own, you make a promise to yourself to never go a day without kissing him again. 

“I can’t believe you’re in my bedroom,” Jungkook murmurs as he kisses at your face. After the park, Jungkook loaded you into his priceless Nissan and scurried home. You could hardly keep your hands off him as he drove you back to his place—reaching and caressing the spots on his body you’re dying to become familiar with. 

“I’ve been in your bedroom before,” you remind him as he tugs up the hoodie you’re wearing. 

“God, don’t be so semantic when I’m trying to fuck you,” he says before throwing the hoodie to a corner of the room. “You know what I mean.”

Jungkook kisses you again, all lips and teeth and tongue. He kisses you like you’re the last breath of air, and he’s greedy for every bit. He grips your hips, not too tight, and brings your body against his. You can feel him grow in hardness in his too tight, and it feels like bliss. 

Teasingly, you grind your hips against his, making him shudder with desire.

“I want you,” he whines as he nibbles at your lip. 

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

He opens his eyes to level a look at you, pulling his mouth away from yours. 

“You’re such a little smartass.”

His hands become feverish on your jeans, tugging apart the button and flicking down the fly. He pushes them down quickly, and you kick them off carelessly. 

He can’t stop looking at you in your bra and panties, standing at the foot of his bed. 

“Holy shit, okay, this is happening, right? Like, this is real?” 

You smirk, pleased with Jungkook’s obvious excitement. 

“Let me prove it’s not just a dream.” 

Softly, you spin Jungkook around and push him down to sit on his bed. He complies easily, eyes wide and excited. 

“If this is a dream, would you be able to feel this?” You ask as you unbuckle  his belt and open his jeans. He doesn’t reply, simply watches you as you tug his jeans down to his thighs. 

His cock strains hard against his tight boxers, and you run a teasing finger over the obvious bulge. 

“Oh fuck,” he breathes. 

“Feels pretty real, huh?”

“Y-yeah.” 

Your delicate hands gently tug at the waistband of his boxers and easily work them down enough to free the length of his cock. It springs out easily and your eyes widen at the impressive size. You assumed he would be at least average, but you’re looking at something definitely more. 

“Oh wow,” you whisper. “You’re fucking huge.” 

Jungkook grins. “All for you, baby.” The cockiness is palpable. 

One solid grip around him wipes the presumptuous smile off his face, replaced with a gasping, shuddering moan. 

“How about this? Not a dream?”

He struggles to find his voice, instead he’s gulping for air like a fish out of water. 

“That’s what I thought,” you whisper before settling into a position on your knees. “I’ll admit, I’ve dreamt about this too. I always felt so ashamed for dreaming about sucking my best friend's cock.”

You press soft kisses to the head of his length, teasing the sensitive areas at the tip before kissing up and down the length. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

His evident desire for you encourages you, and your tongue swipes at the crown of his tip and swirls around it gently. 

“Oh my god.” His eyes shutter closed and you trace the veins in his dick with your tongue. 

“This h-has to be a dreeeaaaaam,” he whines as you make an exceptionally long stripe with the flat of your tongue. 

You pull off for a moment, humming. He springs his eyes open and watches as you reach behind your back and unsnap your bra. Your breasts escape with a bounce and his eyes widen, nearly bulging out of their sockets. 

“What the fuck,” he whines. “You have the most amazing tits.”

He reaches out to grasp them and you slap them away playfully. 

“Not yet,” you smirk. “Still trying to convince you you’re not asleep.” 

He sucks in his breath and puts his hands back to the bed to steady himself, eyes never leaving yours (except to stare at the luscious curves of your body). 

Grasping your breasts in both hands, you smash them together lightly in an elaborate show of what Jungkook wants most. You lean over his body and place the throbbing thickness of his cock in between your tits, allowing him to feel just how soft and warm they are. 

“Shit!” He yelps, grabbing his sheets in a tight fist. “Are you really tit-fucking me right now?!”

Slowly, you lift your body up and down, allowing his cock to feel each stroke of your breasts. You nod at his question and continue to pump up and down. 

“Still dreaming?” 

He whines and shakes his head, already feeling so close to the edge. His cock is slick from your teasing licks and the pressure of your tits surrounding him had his mind spinning with desire. 

“Ahhh, I’m so fucking close,” he warns.

You continue, speeding up the friction and pressure of your strokes. 

“I want you to cum on me, Kook,” you whisper encouragingly. “Cum on my tits, please?”

Jungkook feels like he’s a wire about to snap, and your thick, sultry voice and incredibly perfect breasts are the snips that breaks him apart. 

“Oh, shit,” he grunts. “Gonna paint your titties white, baby.”

His moans echo around the walls of his bedroom, small gasps of pleasure and your name escaping his perfectly plump pout. 

His hot load splatters on your chest, and you stroke him through each pulse of his cock. You’re slippery with his seed now, and when you pull away from his spent length, you make a show of rubbing in his cum over your chest.

“Okay, definitely not dreaming,” he says in a daze as he watches you lift a wet finger to your mouth, popping it in to clean it off. “Who knew you were so fucking kinky?” 

His confidence grows as he catches his breath. He can’t believe he’s sitting on his bed with you on your knees, breasts covered in his load. You’re suckling the cum off your finger like it’s his cock, and he’s desperate for more.

“There are lots of things you don’t know about me,” you shrug. 

Swiftly, he grabs you gently by your bicep and pulls you close, sucking at your lips until you’re both standing. 

“I plan to find out everything.” 

Suddenly, you’re switching positions and Jungkook is pushing you down into the bed. You lay flat in the center, body relaxed and eager for your best friend.

“What are you doing?” You ask. He’s still standing at the end of the bed, watching you get comfortable. Once he’s satisfied that you’re lying exactly how you want, he settles himself by your feet.

“Worshipping you,” he says as he lifts an ankle and presses gentle kisses to your calf. “Showing you how much I adore you.” More kisses, soft and sweet. “Showing you how I plan on treating you for the rest of your life.” 

He takes his time, lavishing your legs with his mouth. He kisses and sucks at any spot, sexual or not. He mouths at the roundness of your knees, your firm hamstrings. He presses his love into the skin of your thighs, mouthing his praises with each kiss. 

He reaches the dip of your hips and he gently kisses your exposed skin as he tugs your cotton panties off you. 

“I have loved every inch of you since before I can remember,” he praises as his lips skim over the mound of your cunt. “And I don’t plan on stopping soon.” 

Your body feels like it’s on fire, as if Jungkook lights a match at every spot his lips press against. Your eyes close, and you allow Jungkook to continue his pious worship of your body. 

He teases around your folds, kissing your labia ever so gently—making you gasp. He doesn’t linger long, only kisses you enough to stir the licking flames of heat in your belly.  

He kisses at your stomach, gently nibbling and laving at the softness there. You try to hide from him, try to hide your insecurities of your body in his thorough exploration, but he moves your hands. 

“I know you don’t like this part of your body,” he murmurs. His voice is so soft, so pure and sincere. “But I do. I love everything about you.” 

His tongue swirls around your belly button, making you gasp at the ticklish sensation. 

“You’re so pretty. So perfect.” 

He continues upwards, lips now trailing to your full breasts. He takes his time there, licking and kissing and flicking at your nipples with his tongue. It feels exhilarating—Jungkook’s mouth feels like everything you want it to feel like. His tongue is warm, and he bites with just enough pressure to make your back arch off the bed into his embrace.

His hands explore, taking stock of every millimeter of skin he can find. He wants to memorize every freckle, every bump, every scar and line. Your body is his paradise, and all he can think of is you, you, you.

One hand travels down your body as he moves his lips up your neck. It snakes down your stomach and deftly slides over your soaked core. You whine as you feel his fingers part your folds and dip into the wetness.

“So wet,” he says out loud, verbalizing every tantalizing detail of your body. “So perfect.”

His lips are finally at your own and you kiss him passionately, tongue swirling around his as he slides his two fingers past your clit and into your drenched hole. You gasp against his mouth, eyes widening as he slowly scissors his fingers into you and pumps slowly. It’s almost teasing, the way he fucks his fingers in you. Slow, firm movements with his powerful hands.

“Jungkook!” You gasp. He doesn’t reply, instead he bites at your lip and tugs, then trails his hot mouth back down to your nipples. He can’t get enough of your breasts and the slightly salty taste of him still lingering.

“You feel so good,” he says as he speeds his fingers up minutely. “So tight and wet for me.”

Your hips writhe in need. He’s giving you what you need, but not enough. You need more, more. You want to feel him, all of him, spearing you open.

“Please, Kook,” you groan. “I need you.”

He laughs softly against your nipple and sucks extra hard, letting it pop out of his mouth audibly.

“And I need you, my love.”

“Fuck me, please.” You’re desperate, thighs quaking from the slow teasing. “I want you to fuck me, Jungkook.”

Chills shudder down Jungkook’s spine and he’s powerless to say no, not when you demand it so well.

“With pleasure,” he agrees. He pulls his fingers from within you and copies your move, sliding them into his mouth to suck your essence off. 

He’s never looked sexier. His eyes are dark chocolate pools of burning intensity, and you feel your breath become shaky as you watch him clean his fingers with precision.

After he’s deemed his fingers sufficiently clean, he settles himself between your legs. Easily, he lifts your hips and shoves a pillow underneath, elevating you to a more comfortable position. He grabs your legs and tosses each over his shoulders so they’re higher in the air. 

“I’m going to fuck you so good, baby,” he promises as he rubs the tip of his cock on your soppy slit. “Condom?”

You shake your head, appreciative of his question but desperate to feel him completely.

“Birth control. Regularly tested. Haven’t had sex in a while,” you blurt out. “You good?”

He nods in agreement. “Same. Well, except the birth control. But, I’d take it if they made it for men.”

“Jungkook!” You whine. Your best friend is so easily sidetracked. “Please, can you fuck me?”

He grins. “Tsk, someone is impatient.”

A low moan is rumbling in your chest as he continues to rub his thick cock at your entrance.

“I swear to god, you’re the biggest tease.”

“Oh, I’m definitely the biggest.”

Before you can react, he’s pushing past your entrance and sliding deep in your walls. Your position makes his cock feel deep, and he bottoms out and stills there, eyes closed in bliss.

“Holy shit,” he gasps. “This is absolutely the best pussy I’ve ever felt.”

You wiggle your hips as you get used to the sensation of the delicious stretch.

“Please don’t tell me how many pussies you’ve felt when you’re balls deep inside of me.”

Jungkook turns his head and kisses at your legs resting on his shoulders, lavishing them with his praise once more as he keeps his cock buried inside your tight heat.

“Yours is the only one that matters. The only pussy I’ll ever be in for the rest of my life.”

“That’s a good answer,” you smile. “Now, fuck me, lover boy.”

Jungkook winks and grips your hips with his hands. He swiftly pulls out, enamored with the way his cock is already covered in your creamy essence, then eagerly pushes back in. He sets a pace and soon the sound of skin clapping on skin echoes around the room.

“Oh god!” You’re moaning loudly, unabashedly. You’re thankful that Jungkook’s old roommate, Yoongi, moved out to live with his boyfriend Hoseok months ago. He’d definitely complain about the noise for months. “Fuck, Jungkook, you feel so good.”

Jungkook fucks into you with ferocity, speed and power gradually rising as he feels his core tighten with the coming anticipation of release.

“Mmm, you look so fucking sexy like this,” he murmurs. “Getting fucked by your best friend’s fat cock.”

He moves a hand from your hip, trails it up your body to squeeze at your breast, before he’s cupping your face once again. His hips snap against yours and he loves the way your mouth utters little squeaks and gasps with each deep thrust into you.

“God, my beautiful girl,” he groans. “Can’t wait to cum in this pussy, shit, you got me so fucking close.”

You open your mouth desperately and Jungkook easily slips his thumb in. You latch on quickly and suck, tongue swirling around the tip like you’re sucking another cock. It nearly sends him over the edge and the speed of his hips matches his desperate need for more.

“Fucking hell,” he bites back. He can feel his belly tighten, driven further and further to the edge by the constricting wetness of your cunt. 

He pulls his thumb out and moves it down to where his cock spears into you, allowing your spit to swirl with his thumb around your clit. Your core tightens around him at the added stimulation and your back arches up in ecstasy.

“I’m so c-close, Kook,” you plead, as if begging for mercy. “Please, I want to cum so bad.”

The speed of his thumb increases, and he watches as your face twists in pleasure and desperation. 

“Cum on my cock, baby, let me see you fall apart. Show me what I’ve dreamt of for so long.”

A high and wanton cry ripples out of your body as he savagely increases his speed, both his cock and thumb working overtime to drive you towards your end. The butterflies that erupt in your lower stomach make your moans louder, higher. You’re so close, closer than ever. It’s building to an incredible crescendo.

He can tell you’re close—he sees it on your face as your back arches and your fists grip his sheets.

“You look like a fucking angel, baby,” he whines as he soaks in the vision of you writhing underneath him. “I bet you cum like an angel, too. Let me see it, let me see.”

With just a few more swirls of his thumb and his deep, hard strokes, you’re soaring over the edge into a pool of nothingness. Your cunt pulsates wildly around his length, milking and stroking it with your tight walls. You throw your head back, moaning out his name at the top of his lungs, letting his neighbors know just who fucks you so well.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, hips stuttering as he fucks into your juicy hole. “That was so fucking sexy.”

You grip his forearms, holding onto him tight and encourage him to go harder. “Cum inside me, Kookie, please. I’m all yours, make me yours.”

His heart feels like it might burst in his chest. He’s always wanted you to say it to him, to hand over your love to him like he does so easily to you. It’s all so much, so overwhelming, and the feeling of your hot cunt still fluttering around him sends him reeling into his own completion. 

He spills into you, warm seed coating your walls and pooling inside your womb. He fucks himself through each throb of his cock until he’s sure he’s drained every ounce of himself into you.

Your legs slip off his shoulders easily, and he gently pulls himself out of you. He falls beside you, panting with exertion, and wraps an arm around you.

After a few silent moments of catching your breath, Jungkook pulls you in close to him until he can koala-cling to you, arms and legs both wrapped around your body.

“Mine,” he whispers as he kisses your head. “All mine.”

You return the favor, clinging to your best friend—boyfriend—like he’s your only lifeline.

“All yours.”

“So, you’re telling me, you got together because of Minecraft?” Jimin asks, pointing a fork in your direction. It’s been months now since your grand virtual declaration of love for Jungkook. Months of bliss and romance, laughter and companionship. 

You were right all along. Jungkook is everything you’ve wanted in a man and more.

You’re sitting at your brother’s expensive dinner table, enjoying a meal with his family with your boyfriend at your side.

“Yeah, Jimin, I guess that’s what I’m saying,” you retort as you roll your eyes. “Minecraft and Tinder.”

Baby Jisoo is awake and in your brother’s arms, but she’s whining and wiggling to leave him.

“What’s wrong, Soo?” Namjoon asks with a pout on his lips. “Why don’t you want daddy anymore?”

Jimin snorts at his husband and you hold out your arms for your baby niece. “Come here, baby, I know you want auntie.”

Namjoon dutifully hands over his daughter, sulking that he’s been picked over for his sister. 

You cradle the baby in your arms, expecting her to calm once she’s there, but she continues to fuss. She’s thrusting her arms out and nearly crying, reaching towards Jungkook who’s busy chowing down on Jimin’s homemade ramen.

“I think she wants you, Kook,” you murmur. He looks at you, then to the baby, then back to you, before he wipes his hands and face clean with a napkin.

“Oh, okay,” he whispers, slowly taking the baby from your arms with your help. “Hello, ma’am.”

Namjoon and Jimin laugh. “She’s a baby, Jungkook, not an elderly woman,” your brother teases.

Jungkook doesn’t listen. He’s too busy cooing at the baby in his arms and playing with her tiny hands. Namjoon turns his attention away and looks at you.

“Guess I won’t be the only provider of grandchildren for much longer.”

You playfully glare at him and turn away to watch your boyfriend. Watching Jungkook interact with your niece makes your heart swell, your soul sing. He’d be a perfect father.

“I swear, if he teaches her how to play Minecraft, he’s banned from the household,” Jimin grumbles. “This is a No-Nerd-Zone.”

Jungkook cradles the child and rocks back and forth, singing her a soft, made-up song, before he looks over at you.

“Hey, I want one of these,” he smiles. “Can we have one?”

You lay a hand on your stomach, a soft bump not quite visible yet. It’s only been one test, the lines faintly indicating ‘positive’ on the stick. You wanted to make sure, get confirmation before you spill the beans.

“Sure, Kookie.”

He grins and leans over to kiss you, before turning his attention back to the baby. “Okay, Jisoo, now let me tell you all about the Endermen.”

Jimin groans. “Oh my god, do not give Minecraft facts to my infant!”

tag list - @giadalin @nohayarcoirissintormenta @pjmislovely @xhazmania @marcoazam2 @eggbutnotyolk @feel-the-sunset @unicornbabylover @aretha170 @jeonmisha @hordanhearsawhooo 

© ppersonna - 2021 - do not repost on any site, or translate without express permission from author.

[thesafecafe]

Was It Worth it? Q.K.

Request: here

TW: Cheating, angst, Johnny is a homewrecker in this, angry husband, unfaithful spouse y/n (how dare she), black fem reader, she/her pronouns, Husband! Kun x reader x Jonny, 18+, minors dni, gif not mine, enjoy!                            

Disclaimer: This isn’t meant to represent the members of NCT/WayV or their behaviors in any way, nor do I believe they would do any of this/act in this way, this is merely fiction for entertainment purposes. 

“Is she...cheating?”

There was no way. Kun wouldn’t allow himself to believe the thoughts that passes through his mind. It was a passing thought, but it sounded so ridiculous. There’s no way what just popped in his head was true. You were loyal to him and he was loyal to you.  Kun had always been by your side, through thick and thin. It was in his nature to be as loving and as caring towards the woman he loved. He was always down for you, and the things you wanted to do. He was always right by your side, in everything. You loved each other, and made things work despite busy schedules and different career paths. You were the love of his life. You were the best thing he had. Sure, you had your differences sometimes, but you would never betray him like that. A ripped pair of underwear was certainly just a coincidence. You probably just ripped them by accident. That was the only reasonable explanation.

So why was he shaking as he thought about the possibility of it being the truth? A weight settled in his stomach, and he shook the thoughts away from his head. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that only started to spike as the days went on. Your lack of interest and ever present attitude were the first signs. You’d never been truly annoyed or cross with him before. He couldn’t even properly look at you without it starting an argument these day. You started staying out later, coming home at 4 in the morning. It was like you were a completely different person. He couldn’t shake the notion that his errant thought might be the truth, so, on one of the more peaceful days in your house, he decided to bring it up.

You were sitting at the table, eating dinner, your hired help having served the first course. Kun was wealthy enough to have hired help, not wanting you to lift a finger after coming home from work. Now, as his head butler, Johnny, was pouring more water into your cup, Kun spoke up. “Darling, do you remember that lingerie set I bought you for our fifth anniversary?” He kept his gaze on his plate. In the corner of his eye, he could see Johnny’s arm shake. That was odd. “Yes. I remember it. Why? I hope you’re not asking me to wear it after dinner, in front of the staff no less.” Your scathing remark made your husband’s blood boil, but he kept calm. He needed to find out if his suspicions were correct.

“I would never. But I was asking because I was wondering why I found them ripped in half in our bedroom. You haven’t gained much, if any, weight, and we haven’t done anything in so long, so I was wondering if you knew what happened to them.” He watched as your eyes widened in surprise, your grasp on your glass of water tightening. “I’m- I’m sure the maid, probably- maybe it was the dog-” Kun raised his eyebrows. You didn’t have a dog, and you realized that you’d made a mistake. But instead of correcting it, your anger got the best of you. “What the fuck were you looking under the bed for anyway?! And quit asking me these ridiculous questions.” Before Kun could react, Johnny stepped forward clearing his throat. “Our new maid was responsible for the laundry that day sir. She panicked, and threw them under your bed.” Kun’s eye twitched, irritation flooding his senses.

He hadn’t mentioned what day it was when he found the underwear, nor where the underwear had been. You had his staff members lying to him now? Kun was livid. But he couldn’t directly ask if you were cheating; he’d never get a straight answer. He had to be smart about it, because this could get ugly very quickly. He sighed, feigning disinterest on the topic. “Forget I brought it up. I’ll be gone this weekend on a business trip. We’re going to Milan again.” He cut into his steak, waiting to hear your answer. You loved Milan, he’d taken you on a vacation there once, and you would always beg him to go back. “Well, bring me a souvenir. And have a safe flight. I’m going to bed.” You excused yourself from the table, your unfinished dinner Kun’s only guest as he gritted his teeth. Tomorrow would truly be a day of reckoning.

Early in the morning, Kun made a show of packing his bags, and taking his passport along with him. He called his regular chauffeur, Taeyong, to pick him up from the house, lulling you into a false sense of security. As soon as the car was out of sight though, Kun instructed Taeyong to pull over next to the high hedges in your neighbors yard. “Mr. Qian? Won’t you be late for your flight?” Taeyong questioned, a puzzled look on his face as he slowed the car to a stop. “There is no flight Taeyong. I just need to sit here and watch my house for a while. I’ll pay you double for your time, don’t worry.” Taeyong raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t say another word as Kun pulled out the pair of binoculars from seemingly thin air. 

They only had to wait for about 45 minutes before spotting a red sports car pulling up to the driveway of Kun’s home. A man emerged, shirtless under his jacket, with a box in his hand. Kun recognized the logo; it was a condom box. The man approached the small side gate, tapping it quickly. Someone- no, you! Opened the gate and let the man in! Kun saw red, not just because you were letting a man in, but because you were in nothing but a bathrobe. To get his butler no less! Kun was furious. Taeyong’s eyebrows shot up in understanding. “Sir, please don’t do anything rash, I can’t work for anyone else in this neighborhood.” Kun slipped his hand into his pocket, sliding the poor chauffeur an extra $500. “Don’t worry Taeyong, you’ll stay with me for as long as you’d like. I’m about to rid myself of two financial burdens.” 

Kun truly hoped that the dick was worth it, because he wasn’t going to have you interrupt his peace any longer. 

[haadeswrites]

Elysium

god this fic took forever i’m so sorry!! but hey, first fic on the new blog! <33 also y’all should really thank @iwaasfairy who listened to me complain about this fic for a solid month, she’s the reason it got finished

Cult leader Oikawa Tooru x female reader

tw: indoctrination, extremely dubious consent, blood, yandere themes, religious themes, minor character death, implied abuse & drug use, mild smut, nsfw

The island itself is breathtaking

Pristine beaches with gleaming white sand, vast swathes of lush, green rainforest and waterfalls that cascade into shimmering pools of crystal clear water. Untouched, undisturbed; a paradise. At least, that’s how Ryuji had described it. 

Paradise, but only in the sense that a gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods is paradise to a lost and hungry child. 

He hadn’t been wrong. Bare feet sink into soft, white sand as you climb from the boat - the warmth just toeing the line between pleasant and burning. Gentle waves ebb and flow behind you, and there’s a light breeze that kisses your skin, the taste of seasalt carrying in the wind. Home, it seems to sing.

A laugh sounds somewhere in the distance, yet the only other figure on the beach is a man walking steadily towards you. He smiles when he sees you’ve noticed him; friendly, non-threatening. It’s a far cry from the swarming welcoming committee you’d been dreading, and you wonder if that’s somehow intentional as well. 

As the boat pushes back out to sea he comes to a stop before you, “I’m Makki,” he says, pushing the fringe of his hair back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. Whatever he sees must meet approval, because his grin only widens, “Welcome to the Commune.”

Ryuji wasn’t wrong; the island is a beautiful, deadly thing.

—

You’d never heard of the Commune before the phone call. 

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. You’ll be the first to admit you’re hardly an expert, but from what you do know, groups like the Commune – cults – don’t spring up out of thin air and start broadcasting their mistreatment and systematic abuse. 

They’re not the kind of people that have sweet old ladies clutching their pearls and mothers shepherding their children away – at least, not in the beginning. Not entirely. They’re not out to recruit extremists to further their cause, they choose to prey on the vulnerable, the lost and the disillusioned. Those easily manipulated. You suspect that’s why when you google the Commune, all you find is a website for what essentially looks like a long term luxury wellness retreat.

‘The Commune is about healing and harmony, about returning to nature, supporting one another to forge a brighter, more holistic future together… a self-sufficient community living apart from technology and other evils of modern society.’ 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you scroll through. There’s a whisper of philosophical teachings woven throughout, a page dedicated to their founder, Oikawa Tooru – smiling handsomely in every single picture, because what would a burgeoning cult be without a charismatic leader – but there’s not enough.

So here you are, on an island hundreds of miles away from home living amongst strangers; because Ryuji wouldn’t have sounded so terrified if this was just some alternate, free-loving bunch of hippies.

And even with all that he’d told you, everything you thought you’d be prepared for, the Commune is like nothing you could’ve imagined. 

Makki introduces you to Asuka, a woman only a few years older than yourself, dark haired and stunningly beautiful, and winks as he tells her to take you under her wing. She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls you into a heartfelt hug – as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

“We’re so glad you’re here!” she beams.

You’d like to hate her. 

It feels like you're supposed to, sometimes; when she gets that dreamy look in her eyes and starts talking about Oikawa and the Commune and how lucky everyone here on the island is. Yet there’s something about her – the genuine warmth she emanates maybe, or the kindness in her eyes – that makes it difficult for you not to like her.

“You should come to the gathering tomorrow,” she hums idly one afternoon, maybe a week or so after your arrival. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down into the water, tangled fishing nets to be repaired strewn between you.

“I always go,” you reply.

She laughs, fixing you with a knowing look, “And sit right at the very back, all but running off the moment we finish?” 

And your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“It’s okay to take things slowly,” she says. “We understand that being a part of the Commune is a big change from the life you knew, and that not everybody is able to see what we see and embrace those changes.” 

Asuka sets down the knot she’s working through and reaches for your hand, a gentle smile on her face, “But you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re meant to be here, I can feel it. You just need to stop fighting against it; surrender yourself to us, to the island, and everything’ll make sense, I promise.”

It’s dangerous territory. One wrong word could set off alarm bells, yet you can’t help pressing just a little.

“Do you ever miss it, then? Life outside the Commune?” 

Your family. Friends. The life you left behind before you came here to be brainwashed like all of the others.

“Why would I?” she answers without missing a beat, and it’s hard to ignore the bitter flicker of disappointment you feel at her answer. “The island provides for us, we don’t have to spend our days selling off tiny pieces of ourselves just to make ends meet. It’s paradise here, and we have Oikawa to thank for that. Why would I ever want to go back?”

Silence falls between you as you struggle to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Yet Asuka isn’t even looking at you, instead staring out at the water with a strangely pensive expression. 

“Did you know I was married once?” The words seemingly out of the blue, you can only shake your head. For a moment, she doesn’t reply, watching as the waves rise and crash offshore. And then;

“I was young, eighteen or so, fresh out of high school and he was a small town cop.” Her eyes flicker to yours, and your heart clenches at the sadness and pain echoing there. “I thought he was a good man, once upon a time.”

A chord strikes deep, your chest tightening involuntarily at her words. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, and yet… 

No. You stop the errant thought in its tracks. Groups like the Commune prey on the vulnerable, you know this. People like Ryuji, like Asuka, like–

Her fingers squeeze around yours, pulling you back to the present. “Come to the gathering tomorrow. Listen to Oikawa, it’ll help.”

—

She doesn’t give you a choice in the matter – dragging you by the hand to sit right at the front of the gathered crowd that very night.

Oikawa’s handsomer up close; tall and dark haired with pretty eyes and long, sweeping lashes that frame delicate cheekbones, it’s not hard for you to see how a man like him has amassed such an impassioned following. 

Once he starts actually speaking, however, you realise that his good looks and charming smile are just the tip of the iceberg. Oikawa’s utterly captivating as he preaches about the cycle of life and death and the paradise that awaits his faithful. Passionate and engaging, he speaks like he truly believes every word of the lies he’s spreading. 

And Asuka, her friends, the others gathered, they eat up every word like it’s gospel truth, resounding cheers and thunderous applause deafening around you. In the midst of the rapturous din, Oikawa’s eyes flit to yours.

Slowly, he smiles – a dazzling grin that makes your stomach flip – and everything; Asuka, the noise, the others swarming around you, it all fades away.

For one electrifying heartbeat, you’re frozen in place. Just you and Oikawa, trapped in the pull of each other’s gaze.

—

You can’t forget the reason you came.

But it’s… difficult, in a way you struggle to understand. You only have one purpose for being here, one goal; find Ryuji and bring him home. 

And yet, some days it’s like there’s a fog in your mind, and you have to focus to remember why you’re here at all. You catch yourself laughing with Asuka and her friends, the days passing by in a blur of endless, easy distractions. 

It barely feels like work when you’re sitting under the shade of the trees, eating the fruits you’ve picked by hand – ripe and sweet, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted – diving off waterfalls into the crystalline water and meandering down the shore collecting seashells. Even when you are working, mending clothes or cooking with the others, it fills you with a sense of contentment you can’t quite explain. 

Like you’re a part of something bigger. Like you’re doing something that matters.

Ryuji becomes a distant thought. A whisper in the back of your head, a niggling in your gut, easily brushed aside and ignored until there’s a moment of quiet. In the dead of night, the balmy summer night’s breeze kissing your bare skin, you lie awake, lost in memories of the last time you’d seen him. 

Fists angrily pounding at your door, the yelling that gave way to sobs and the hoarse, desperate pleas that followed. Ryuji’s face; pupils blown wide and eyes rimmed in red, darting restlessly around as he held you too tight and begged–

Rolling over in bed, you gaze out your window at the star flecked sky, the shadows of the forest that lie at your doorstep, and wonder what it is that scares you more; that you’ve lost track of the days you’ve been here, and saving Ryuji is starting to feel like an afterthought, or that you could so easily forget all of it, find a place here in the Commune and be happy.

‘The island, it–it fucks with your head.’

Ryuji’d told you that, and you’d brushed it off as paranoia. You need to find him. Find him and get the hell outta dodge.

You can deal with the fallout later.

—

Kiyoshi. 

He’d mentioned the name a few times amidst his rambling – a friend of his on the island. You’re annoyed with yourself for not thinking of it sooner, however much like Ryuji himself, trying to focus and remember the name is like wading through thick mud.

Once you do, though, finding him amongst the hundred and fifty or so inhabitants is the easy part. 

There’s no strict division between genders within the Commune, however Kyoshi, despite his somewhat lean stature, is among the builders of the island and his path doesn’t often cross with yours. 

From Asuka you find out that he’s been a part of the Commune for years now, before even she joined, and that he mostly sticks to himself, though you’ve seen him chatting quietly to a few of the other men, a perpetually angry looking blonde in particular.

It’s the last part that piques her interest, “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” she asks, her face lighting up as a sudden thought occurs. “Do you want me to introduce you two? To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be your type, if you’re interested, though…”

Cheeks aflame, you’re quick to shut her down. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just… seen him around and we’ve never really spoken, I guess.”

A lame excuse, though mercifully she lets the subject drop without too much prodding.

Therein, of course, lies the problem. Walking up to Kyoshi and casually trying to drop Ryuji into the conversation without raising red flags is risky, but what other options do you have? You’ve already spent too much time on this island.

Although, maybe Asuka has the right idea. 

While you hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t interested in Kyoshi in that way, nobody else knew that. Who would really look twice at the shy newbie striking up a conversation with the quiet, easygoing man? He wasn’t unattractive per se, and from the brief interactions you’d seen of him, he seemed kind enough.

You have enough patience (barely) to wait for dusk the following night. There’s a celebration, something about the full moon and a blessing on the island and the Commune– you hadn’t really been paying attention when Oikawa had spoken about it. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. With the fire pits crackling, and the dancing and music and the sweet honey wine flowing freely, nobody will be paying too much attention to what you’ll be doing. Hopefully, the alcohol will also serve to lower Kiyoshi’s guard, and perhaps if you’re really, really lucky, loosen his tongue as well. 

Of course, you’re not banking on him telling you exactly where Ryu is or what happened to him– and that’s assuming he actually knows – but at this point you’ll take anything over the nothing you currently have. A tiny slip up, that’s all you’re asking for. 

As the sun descends beyond the horizon, you play your role well, laughing and chatting amongst friends, sipping carefully at the cup of wine in your hand as you wait for an opening. And perhaps it’s your nerves working against you, but you find that it’s not just Kiyoshi your attention is drawn to. 

Up on the shore, away from the rabble, Oikawa lounges back with a cup of the same honeyed wine you’re pretending to drink. For the most part he seems deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, his right hand, but every once in a while he glances up, letting his gaze roam over the crowd of his followers.

Every inch a king and his general.

And it would seem benevolent, if not for the strange smile he wears – the one that widens when his eyes catch yours.

Swallowing tightly, you force yourself not to dwell on it, to ignore the odd sensation curling in your gut and the way your skin prickles under his attention. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Pushing all thoughts of Oikawa aside, you subtly scan the beach once more, only to find that Kiyoshi’s moved, sitting now on a piece of old driftwood near the bonfire. Alone for the first time tonight. 

Your legs are moving before the thought even fully registers. 

“Do you mind if I sit?” you ask, gesturing to the empty space on the log beside him. 

Kiyoshi smiles, the laugh lines at corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks.”

Taking another sip of your wine, you will your shoulders to relax, your racing pulse to slow. This has to seem natural, and so you force yourself to hold your tongue, let your head loll back and breathe deep, soaking it all in. You can hear the others in the distance, the music and the dancing, the happy laughter and shouts that beckon – you want to go join them. Even your blood seems to hum, a call of something other pulsing through your veins.

But you pay it no mind. There are more important things to worry about tonight. 

Indeed, steel blue eyes have been appraising you curiously for a while now. “This is your first Lunar blessing, isn’t it?” Kiyoshi asks after a moment.

You nod, humming in agreement. Less than a month; you’ve been here less than a month. Is that a good thing?

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

A harmless enough question, and again you nod your head. “Yeah, it’s…” you pause, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “It’s paradise. I feel like I need to pinch myself just to make sure it’s real.”

He smiles gently. “But?” he probes.

Grimly, you wonder whether Kiyoshi’s usually this perceptive, or if you’re just a really terrible actor. In a way, you suppose it really doesn’t make a difference; you’ve come too far to turn back now – at least not without raising suspicion. 

So you lie with a truth, and pray that it works.

“I had a friend I was supposed to meet here,” you confess quietly, gazing not at him but the crackling flames of the bonfire, the burning embers carried off into the night. “He was the one who said I should come, but now I’m here and he’s not and every time I catch myself enjoying this–”

“You feel guilty,” he surmises, cutting you off. “Because he’s not here to enjoy it with you.”

Wordlessly, you nod – and maybe it isn’t so much of an act when your eyes begin to glisten, your smile wavering. 

Kiyoshi’s silent for a moment, and you take another sip of the honey wine to hide your nerves. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he says eventually. “Feel guilty, I mean. You belong here, with the Commune. You’re happy here. Paradise… isn’t for everybody.”

He doesn’t say it to be cruel, more like he’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it all the more unnerving. And it’s nothing you haven’t listened to Oikawa preach about time and time again. The Commune is for the devoted, the faithful – the lucky few – and you’ve never thought too hard about what he’d meant by that.

The Commune’s small, maybe a hundred and fifty or so people on the island. There’d been no initiation, no test of faith or trial period you’d had to pass when you arrived – at least, none that you’d been aware of. You simply stepped off the boat and they’d welcomed you with open arms. 

An uneasy sensation settles into your gut, goosebumps prickling at your skin despite the heat of the midsummer night. 

That… doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Absolute control’s too important in groups like this, they couldn’t just let anyone–

Kiyoshi speaks again, his calm voice pulling you from your thoughts. “What was his name?” 

You blink at him slowly – stupidly. “Sorry?”

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “What was his name?”

“Oh, um- Ryuji.”

Kiyoshi’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, but he merely shakes his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell, but like I said, not everyone who arrives stays with us for long.”

He looks you right in the eye as he says it.

You don’t understand the cold, foreboding that seeps through your veins, because he’s lying. He has to be. 

Ryuji was here. They were friends, Ryu’d told you that–

Why did you think this stupid plan would work anyway? That he’d tell you anything, much less the truth when this whole fucked up island is full of liars and those too indoctrinated to know the difference?

“You alright?” he asks when abruptly, you shoot to your feet beside him.

And it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to force an easy smile to your lips, raising your cup just a fraction, “Yeah, just gonna go get a refill. Thanks for the talk, Kiyoshi.”

Whether he notices that your wine’s barely touched or not, you don’t care – not as you turn on your heel without another word and head back up the beach. 

Your head is pounding, your body trembling – you don’t hear the call of your name until a hand reaches out and grasps at your wrist, spinning you around.

Asuka greets you with a wide grin, Makki and a tall, broad shouldered man you think is called Mattsun standing either side of her – the former’s arm slung casually over her shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “Come on, we’re gonna go swimming, it’s so pretty out there!”

You glance out towards the ocean. Moonlight bathes the inky blue water, light shimmering off the rippling tide; some of the others are already out there, splashing amongst the waves. 

“Clothing optional, of course,” Makki laughs, and Asuka tugs on your wrist once more. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

But you shake your head, slowly pulling your hand from her grip, “I’m not feeling great, I think I’m gonna head back.”

Asuka frowns, concern marring her pretty features. “Are you okay? Do you need us to call Mizo–”

“No,” you say, cutting her off. Healer Mizoguchi is the last person you need to see right now. “I just– I just need to go lie down for a bit. You guys go have fun – enjoy the blessing, I’ll be fine.”

Makki and Asuka share a fleeting look, but it’s Mattsun who interjects before either one of them can speak, “I’ll walk you back, then.”

Your stomach churns. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And the smart thing to do would be to accept his help; the walk from the beach to your villa isn’t far, and while you’re not as familiar with Mattsun as you are with Makki or Asuka, it’s not like he’s going to hurt you or anything, but–

“Really– you don’t need to, it’s fine,” you smile weakly, shuffling back as he reaches to offer you his arm. “Go swim, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Mattsun shrugs easily enough, falling back into line with the other two – yet there’s something in the way he grins and holds your gaze for a beat longer. A glimmer of amusement, as if there’s some joke you're not a part of. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

The heat that floods your cheeks clashes uncomfortably with the cloying heaviness in your stomach, but somehow you manage to stutter out one last goodbye before turning back to scamper off in the direction of your room.

–But not to lie down.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon’s bright. No need for a torch, not unless you decide to venture into the heart of the forest.

You’ve been a fool. Kiyoshi, Asuka, Makki, Mattsun; you can’t trust any of them to help you, even unwittingly. Ryuji’s here on the island – somewhere – and every second that slips away, every second that you allow yourself to forget puts him in further danger.

And so you cling to your discomfort, ground yourself in it. The prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the tightness in your chest as you slip past your villa, keeping low and quiet – they’re a reminder that there is something insidious here on the island, that you have to get out.

You and Ryuji.

He’s here. Away from the others, kept under lock and key as punishment, or maybe being forced to undergo whatever kind of glorified brainwashing they’ve got going on, but here. You need to be smart about this, because while you don’t intend to stop until you find him, tonight will be your best shot – while everyone’s distracted down on the beach. 

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you have a clear head. 

Creeping through the underbrush, you steer clear of the well trod pathways that lead towards habitation. You’ve been there, and to the docks, and the river. 

If they’re still keeping him here (and they are, you refuse to entertain the possibility that it could be otherwise) then it’s not somewhere out in the open. A bird cries out in the distance shattering the calm of the night, and you flinch – but it only serves as another reminder that your time tonight is limited; you cannot afford to delay. You wrack your brain, trying to dredge up memories of the last few weeks, surely you must have seen something–

“Lost?”

The single word, spoken in a deep, gruff voice has your blood running cold.

Slowly, you turn. 

Iwa stands behind you in the thicket, his face utterly impassive. Briefly, you contemplate whether it’s worth trying to bluff your way out of this, but Iwa’s eyes narrow, flashing in the dim light and you think better of it.

A sigh escapes you, your shoulders deflating. “Where is he– Ryuji?” you ask; a whisper rather than a demand.

Iwa’s expression gives nothing away. Did he know, or have you handed him the smoking gun of a crime that’d fallen through the cracks? Does it even matter anymore? You’re just–

You’re tired. 

Exhausted. In the space of a few moments all of that shining determination and resolve; it fled, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. This has to end, you can’t keep fighting against them forever. You can’t keep drowning in this guilt, feeling torn every second that you spend here on this stupid island. You just want to find Ryuji and go home.

… Right?

A tense beat passes as Iwa appraises you, and then; “Come with me.”

The hand he places on your shoulder doesn’t give you much choice. His grip isn’t what you’d describe as gentle, yet he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t trip or stumble as he marches you north. 

In the thick of the forest away from the beach, it’s eerily quiet. Every twig that snaps underfoot, every ragged breath you draw; it feels too loud. Out of place amongst the stillness of the midsummer night. 

And isn’t it ironic, that for the first time since you set foot in this paradise, you feel like you’re trespassing?

A bead of sweat trickles down from your temple and your mind unwittingly drifts back to Mattsun and Makki. Are they still swimming with Asuka? Probably, you reason. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since you left them on the beach, but surely no more than an hour.

And strangely, like water drawn from the depths of a well, an image comes to mind; the four of you standing in the waves, you perched atop Mattsun’s shoulders, screaming and giggling in delight as Asuka tries to knock you down again, two sets of eyes watching from the shore… 

You should have stayed on the beach.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You can ask,” he replies drily – humouring you, you suppose.

Your lips quirk upwards for the briefest of moments. “What happens on the Lunar blessing? Asuka, the others– no one told me what it was.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer you immediately, but you feel his fingers reflexively tighten on your shoulder. Likely it wasn’t the question he was expecting; surely there were others that you could have asked – but you don’t really want the answers to those.

If you’re being led like a lamb to proverbial slaughter, what good would it do you to know it? 

And yet as the seconds pass and no answer seems forthcoming from your captor, you resign yourself to the fact that your curiosity will remain unsated. You don’t even know what prompted you to ask in the first place; knowing Oikawa it’s probably some grand, meaningless spectacle. Pretty, hollow words spoken only to–

A heavy sigh draws you from your thoughts, and you falter in your step, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. Iwa’s quick to right you, urging you forward with a less than gentle nudge. “Walk straight,” he grunts, yet it lacks any true heat. Anticipation flutters through your veins, and he mutters a soft curse behind you. “Fine. It… it’s an exchange.” 

An exchange? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your eyebrows draw together, mouth opening to press the matter, but Iwa beats you to the punch.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now shut up.”

You have no response to that, so you do.

—

The two of you walk in silence for what feels like hours. Eventually, the terrain becomes steeper, the worn path you’re treading twisting and winding, and you realise you must be close to the mountains at the heart of the island. 

As your breath comes in heavy pants, your legs beginning to ache, you can’t help but be lost in the beauty of it all.

The flora’s different here, unlike any you’ve seen before. Flowers bursting from the bark of towering trees, blooms of vibrant hues; reds and purples and soft, baby pinks. Even the vines at your feet curl amongst pretty white buds that gleam invitingly under the moonlight. Your jaw falls open as you gaze around in wonderment. 

You forget why you’re walking, where it is that you’re heading. Iwa’s grip relaxes as a quiet gasp escapes you, and he doesn’t stop you when you stray from the path to take a closer look. You can’t resist reaching out to touch the silken petals, leaning in to smell their perfume. Soft and light and sweet, your eyes flutter shut, a smile creeping across your visage. 

It reminds you of home. Not your actual home – the rundown, tiny shoebox apartment you gave up before you came here – but something deeper.

Home, like the long summer days spent playing in your parents’ backyard. Home, like afternoons curled up by the window, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. 

Home, like the comfort of arms wrapped around you; two hearts beating in sync.

“C’mon,” Iwa interrupts after a minute or so, his voice a touch less gruff. “We’re almost there.”

Dazed, you find yourself nodding, allowing him to guide you back to the path. This time, he doesn’t grab you by the shoulder, seemingly content enough to walk by your side. 

True to his word, it’s only another few minutes before you see it; a wooden villa, four times the size of your own and far, far grander, set amongst a clearing of trees on the mountainside. Confused, your eyes flicker from the villa to Iwa and back again. Gossamer curtains billow lightly in the breeze, a warm, inviting glow spilling from the open windows. Surely this cannot be where he meant to lead you… and yet he merely stands at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, watching you expectantly. 

“You gonna make me carry you up there?” he asks, not unkindly.

Swallowing tightly, you shake your head. 

Another glance, and you catch a shadow lingering by the window. Your heart skips a beat, apprehension curling in your gut as you begin to walk, every step feels less steady than the last. You’re almost glad when Iwa takes you by the arm; if only so that you have something to focus on other than the growing tightness in your chest. The villa, with its pretty flowers and airy, elegant grandeur is far from the isolated cell you’d been afraid of, yet the uncertainty of what you’re walking into eats at you all the same.

Is this where they’ve been keeping Ryu, or has he brought you here for another reason?

Nothing, however, can prepare you for what you find inside. Warm light emanates from lanterns that bathe the room, and your eyes widen as you stare around you.

Strange, gold carvings inlaid with mother of pearl decorate the thick, woodens support beams, a pot of incense burns on a table overflowing with fresh fruit. There’s a jug of the same honeyed wine you’d drank earlier in the night and two cups set on an ornate stand nearby – just within arms reach of one of the chaise lounges.

Iwa affords you little time to gape, drawing you further in. Silken tapestries hang from the walls – you’re pulled along too quickly to truly take note, but the brief glimpses you get hint at a story; a divine being cast from his home, lost and wandering.

It tugs at something buried within you, and uncomfortable, you tear your eyes away.

The two of you reach a closed door at the end of the hall, and Iwa pulls you to a stop, knocking once.

“Come,” a familiar voice calls.

You stiffen, though perhaps you should have foreseen this outcome. Who else would Iwa bring you to but to him? Distantly, you register his grip relaxing, the sound of the door sweeping open and his voice at your ear.

“Go on.”

And it’s funny, you think, how two halves of yourself can be so at odds with each other. Because while your stomach twists itself into knots, goosebumps prickling at your skin, your legs stumble forward of their own accord.

Two steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a bedroom, that much you can deduce from the decor, but that’s not what captures your attention. Nor is it Oikawa, leaning against the bureau with a genial smile – at least not at first. 

No. In place of a back wall, there’s open space, not so much as a panel of glass obstructing the view before you. And what a view it is; from this height you can see the sprawling forest below, the coastline dotted with bonfires and the moonlit ocean shimmering beyond. Where the floorboards end, there are steps, you realise as you unwittingly inch closer, leading to a cascading spring – likely fed from the waterfall you can hear rushing nearby.

How easy it would be to brush aside your worries, you think, to shed your clothes, slip into the cool, calm water and lose yourself entirely. Even amongst all you’ve seen and experienced on the island so far, this is incomparable. 

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Oikawa murmurs, coming up behind you.

His voice startles you, yet when you turn, you find him not gazing out at the scenery but rather at you, that same strange, knowing smile curling at his lips.

“Some days, I admit, it’s hard to tear myself away,” he continues, unbothered by your stunned silence. “But even I can’t neglect my duties for too long.”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Confusion twists through you at the conversational tone, surely he hasn’t brought you here just to chat about the impressive views, yet there’s no hint of disapproval on his face, no indication that he’s anything less than pleased with you.

It’s unnerving to say the least, but you’ll play along with his game if that’s what Oikawa wants.

“Beautiful,” you say, though the words feel woefully inadequate even as you speak them.

He hums in agreement, something akin to pride flickers in his eyes at your assessment, “A labour of love, I suppose. But… everything you see here, everything I’ve built, it comes with a price. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry?” you stutter.

“Paradise,” he elaborates, his smile widening. “There’s no give without take. Those people down there,” he nods down at the beach, the tiny, ant-like figures still milling about, “the lost, the beaten, the abused – I gave them what they so desperately sought; a sanctuary. A life without struggle, without suffering.” He pauses for a moment, reaching forward to take your hand. You almost flinch, almost skitter across the room to put as much distance between you as you can, but you don’t–

His palm is warm as it envelops yours, a pleasant heat that seems to spread through your veins, easing your tense muscles. There’s nothing to fear from him, you’re safe with Oikawa.

“Aren’t you happy here?”

Yes.

“What about the price?” you ask instead, though it takes more concentration than it should to force the words out. 

Oikawa’s thumb sweeps along the back of your hand. “I never said it was your price to pay,” he soothes. 

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but another sharp knock at the door draws your attention before you can think too hard about it. You turn out of instinct, barely aware of the way his hand tightens fractionally around your own.  

A single finger at your jaw coaxes your attention back to him. “If you built a paradise, wouldn’t you give whatever necessary to ensure it flourished?”

Oikawa stares at you expectantly, deep brown eyes searching your face as he waits for an answer. Agreement would be the logical choice – the one he seems to want from you – but even as your lips part, the only sound that escapes is a breathless, confused noise. 

When you were a kid, maybe six or seven, your parents took you to the beach one day and you waded too far out into the water. The waves were bigger than you expected; all it took was one mistimed jump and you were dragged under.

It wasn’t for long, probably only seconds, and ultimately you were fine – but you remember those few seconds so vividly. The feeling of helplessly tumbling through the water, fighting to break the surface but not knowing which way was up. Your lungs crying out for oxygen, the disorientation and dizziness, the panic.

It feels like that now – like the floor’s dropped out from beneath you and you’re just hurtling through empty air, desperately trying to slow yourself down with nothing to grab onto.

None of this makes any sense. Your emotions are shot to pieces, too many parts of yourself being pulled in different directions and you’re not sure which ones you can trust anymore. How can you be? Oikawa’s still holding your hand, smiling at you, and you just want everything to stop for a second so you can right yourself and breathe–

The door opens.

Iwaizumi appears in your field of vision, dragging a bound, hooded figure behind him. And because this is all some big, cosmic joke, you get your wish. Both of them, actually. 

Time slows. 

Even with a burlap sack pulled over his head, you recognise the man Iwa shoves to the floor and sneers at. 

Hundreds of miles, weeks of uselessly traipsing around this fucking island, and finally– 

Finally, you’ve found Ryu.

There should be relief. Fear, considering his current state, yes, but Ryuji’s here and he’s alive and as the hood is ripped off his head Oikawa squeezes your hand and the only thing you feel is… anger.

Not a heated flash that surges through your blood. It’s slow and seething, insipid. You look at him, locked in place as empty, pleading eyes meet yours and all you can think is that all of this – everything – is his fault.

“Asuka told you why she came to me, didn’t she?” Oikawa asks.

Your brow furrows, why–why is he asking you that now, how did he even–

He slips closer behind you, letting your hand go in favour of your shoulder, his spare dragging lightly along the bare skin of your arm. “She was lost, in so much pain. The physical wounds, they heal after a while,” his voice is right in your ear, a low murmur that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

It isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“But the scars inside, well… sometimes those fester.”

Gagged and bound, kneeling at your feet, Ryu doesn’t even try to make a sound. 

He’s thinner than you remember. Face gaunt and bruised; there’s a half healed, mottled yellow one painted across the left side of his jaw, one eye purple and swollen. You glance at Iwa, standing stoically behind him, muscular arms folded across his chest. His work, you wonder, or others as well? You notice the tear tracks running down his face, catching the light of the lanterns, but it’s as if you’re seeing it all through a thick pane of glass. None of it reaches you, there’s nothing but that simmering, ugly feeling in your gut.

Oikawa hums, “I told you that Paradise wasn’t for everyone. It’s a haven, yes, but there are those who simply… don’t belong.”

His body’s so warm, pressed up against yours. Fingertips graze along your side, and this time you don’t bother biting back that tiny, breathless moan. Iwa briefly smirks at it, but there’s no embarrassment. Why should there be? Your eyes flit back to Ryu, bowed on the wooden floor.

Another memory resurfaces; A sharp crack and a ringing in your ears, Ryuji, eyes bloodshot and glazed, falling to his knees, clutching frantically at the leg of your pants as endless apologies spill from his lips. 

It wasn’t him. It was never him. 

“He hurt you,” Oikawa purrs. “He kept hurting you, I saw it.”

The words wash over you like waves breaking on the shore, but you find yourself nodding anyway. It was the truth, wasn’t it? A thousand tiny hurts, piled up on one another until you finally broke.

And you’d still come when he’d called.

Listened to him when he’d begged you not to hang up the phone.

“Iwa.” 

The brunet moves towards a grand chest of drawers pushed up against the western wall. An ornate dagger sits atop, strange and beautiful; the blade isn’t steel or any metal you’ve seen before, but some kind of black stone, the handle intricately carved ivory. You hadn’t even noticed it before, Oikawa’s room filled to the brim with odd trinkets and treasures, but now that you have, it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Iwa takes it and carries it over towards the two of you, holding it with the utmost care. 

“Obsidian,” Oikawa informs you as he accepts the blade from his friend, bringing it in front of you both to show it off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” And while you can’t see his face, you can hear the smile in his tone.

He isn’t wrong though. 

Ever so carefully you reach out, the soft pads of your fingertips running along the obsidian surface, surprisingly cool to the touch. The razor sharp edges – wavy and asymmetrical, leading to a tapered point – you’re careful to avoid, almost positive you’d draw blood with the slightest touch. 

“Take it,” he urges, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. 

Obediently, you turn your hand over, your fingers wrapping around the hilt when he presses it against your palm. And as long fingers curl around yours, you idly wonder how old the dagger is – there’s not so much as a scratch on it, yet there’s something about the weapon in your hand that feels ancient. It thrums under your combined touch.

Oikawa jerks his chin at Iwa, and with a short nod and one last, lingering glance cast your way, the latter exits once again. 

Leaving you and Oikawa alone with Ryuji.

“It’s almost time,” he remarks – though time for what, you’re not entirely sure. His lips press against your hair, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist, drawing you flush against him. “I know why you came to me, the lies that led you here.”

Both of you turn your attention back to Ryuji at that, the bound man now shaking with the force of his muffled sobs, snot dripping from his nose. That bitter resentment rears its ugly head again, soothed only by Oikawa’s pacifying hum, his thumb now rubbing slow circles at your side. “Shh, I’m not angry – none of that matters now. You’ve found a home here, no? You want to stay on the island with me.”

You swallow, nodding your head rapidly. The thought of having to leave now, of being forced out after everything you’ve seen and felt and experienced here, you– you can’t fathom it. You don’t want to. 

Ryuji’d wrought so much damage, but even before he’d swept through your life… had you ever been happy? Were you ever truly accepted – or loved, for that matter?

You can’t go back to that life. You won’t; he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the shore. The Commune is your home, this is where you belong. Here, with Oikawa.

“Good girl,” he croons, another kiss pressed to the crown of your head. You beam at the praise and Ryuji crumples a little further. “Death begets life, you understand now, don’t you?”

You glance at the obsidian dagger in your hand and then at Ryu, beaten and bruised, bowed in forced supplication before you, and nod.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Then do it.”

Leaning forward, you reach for Ryu, fingers lightly trailing down his ruined cheek, curling at his chin to coax his head upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain and regret etched over every inch of his face, but he doesn’t fight you. 

Baring his throat to your dagger, Ryuji’s pleas take the shape of your name.

Muffled, thanks to the gag, but unmistakable. And for one single moment, you falter. 

This… this is wrong; for all his faults, and god knows there were plenty, Ryu didn’t des–

A wave of calm washes over you, allaying your fears, your doubts. Your breath leaves you in a heavy gust, taking with it the tension in your shoulders, and Oikawa’s voice, smooth and honeyed, reaches your ears once more, “Nothing comes without a price, doesn’t he deserve to be the one to pay it?”

With your hand still tucked inside of his, your arm moves with a will of its own; slashing with inhuman grace.

The dagger cuts deep, Ryuji’s eyes snapping open in shock as a spray of warm blood hits you both. He chokes – a horrid, wet, gurgling sound – wide, pleading eyes frantically shifting between you and Oikawa. Every beat of his failing heart sends fresh blood spurting from the gaping wound. It drenches his front, splatters across your dress, your face, crimson pooling at the wooden floorboards at his knees. His mouth falls open and shut, trying and failing to form coherent sounds and you just stand there and watch, the dagger hanging limply at your side.

It doesn’t take long; seconds at the most. 

Ryuji’s slumps to the floor, his body finally growing still as the light fades from his eyes. There’s a beat of absolute silence, and then–

Oikawa shudders behind you, a strangled, drawn out moan leaving his lips. You try to turn, but his arms lock around you, every muscle tensing, his back arching. The dagger in your hand grows hot, burning the soft skin of your palm, but with his fingers still tightly entwined with yours you can only whimper and endure it.

With a hoarse, guttural roar, a pulse of pure energy surges through the room like a shockwave. Every cell in your body lights up, electrified, buzzing; a dizzying euphoria unlike any you’ve felt before coursing through your blood. 

Across the island, voices cry out in delight, a symphony of life. The trees tremble and shake, invigorated and renewed, fresh buds bursting from the forest floor, blooming under the light of the full moon.

The harvests flourish, even the river swells in response to the call.

Death begets life, just as he promised.

And with every inch of your body alight and singing with pleasure, you can barely think much less protest (and why would you want to?) as Oikawa roughly yanks you around, hungry lips crashing against your own as his fingers pull and tear at your bloodstained dress. He wastes no time with foreplay, and you suspect only begrudgingly takes a moment to hoist you up against him and carry you to his bed.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he hauls your hips to his, sheathing his cock inside of your warm, tight cunt with one savage thrust, but you don’t care.

Not as you cling to him, fingernails raking along his shoulders as he presses your thighs further apart so he can fuck you deeper. It’s hard and rough and brutal, yet you moan for him all the same, his name a prayer swallowed up by feverish, claiming kisses.

Tonight, bathed in blood and the soft glow of moonlight, you offer your god everything.

—

“Look, look!” 

A small hand tugs at your skirt, and you glance down to find a little girl with pretty, dark curls holding up a crown of woven flowers.

“Do you like it?” she asks. 

Carefully, you take it from her, bringing it closer to examine. She watches you intently as you study it, lifting it this way and that to appraise her work, humming thoughtfully for good measure. “I think it’s beautiful work,” you tell her after a long enough pause, and you can’t help but smile at the way she lights up, preening under your praise. “Why don’t you go show your mama? I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.”

The girl nods rapidly, thanking you before skipping off in the direction of her parents. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, the fires already being readied for the night ahead. You’re not unaware of the watchful gaze that carefully monitors your every move, and the moves of anyone who ventures too close by. Soon enough, you’ll return home to the heart of the island – anticipation fluttering in your belly at the thought of what awaits you – but for now, you let your feet sink further into the sand, closing your eyes as you bask in the lingering warmth of the setting sun.

At least until the sound of your name being called draws you back to the present. Yet it’s not Iwaizumi approaching, but rather Makki, two strangers trailing along behind him. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” he grins, throwing a casual arm over your shoulders. “This is Kaneo,” he gestures to the man, “and his wife Manaka. They arrived this morning, I’ve been showing ‘em round.”

You turn to the couple, smiling sweetly as you extend a hand, “Welcome to the Commune.”

[heliads]

That Time of Month

Based on this request: “Remus Lupin x fem reader in the marauders era where she has bad period pains and there’s a lot of fluff and kisses and being in bed and chocolate”

masterlist

Girls and boys aren’t allowed in each other’s dorms. That’s the rule, the one regulation in all of Hogwarts that even the Marauders haven’t been able to break. You try to walk up the stairs leading to the bunks of the opposite gender, and the steps slip and melt into a slide, blocking off all access. That’s why you usually never try to go up to the Gryffindor boys’ dorms, anyway, and why you’re surprised when the stairs allow you to break this rule today.

It’s a bright, sunny Saturday, and by all accounts you should be having an excellent time. The weather is beautiful, and outside, you can see James, Lily, Sirius, and Peter all running around through a nearby window. Their grins are bright, their spirits unquenchable- yet you’re still here, feeling more miserable than if you’d broken several bones.

You’re in need of comfort, that much is obvious. You always feel terrible this time of month, once a lively student whose penchant for potions and pranks rivals that of even the other Marauders, yet for the next scattering of days, you’ll feel absolutely awful. Thanks be to your reproductive system- today and tomorrow and possibly all days until the end of time will be hell. Fantastic.

Your original plan had been to go hide away in your dorm until you felt strong enough to drag yourself from your bed once more, but your feet stray by the parting of the two staircases. Your eyes follow the steps to where they disappear into a hall of the boys’ dorms. You hadn’t seen your boyfriend, Remus Lupin, amongst the throngs of students out on the grounds, which likely means that he’s being the responsible one of the group and actually getting his homework done. He’ll finish tonight, spend Sunday with your friends, and have all night to laugh at them while the others try their hardest to get through a week’s worth of assignments in the span of a few moonlit hours.

Remus has been a charm ever since you met him, two tiny first years on board the Hogwarts Express. His quiet smiles had been a source of refuge from the ever-swirling storm of loud voices and chatter of the older students around you, and you’d instinctively gone to him whenever you needed help with something. He, in turn, trusted you, and you were one of the first to learn about his haunted affliction of lycanthropy. 

So, today, when you’re muddling through the depths of blood-soaked misery, you can’t help but wish he was here with you. He’s not in the common room, either, likely wanting to retreat to his dorm so he can complete the usual score of essays without distraction. This means that you won’t be able to reach him, of course, but you can’t help but step towards the boys’ stairs anyways. You’re not sure why you think it will work, but you do anyway. There’s no one here, after all, no one to see your attempt fail.

Maybe that’s why the stairs finally yield, that no errant Gryffindors will learn of your successful voyage to the boys’ dorms, or maybe it can just sense the utter desolation emanating from your every thought and wants to cut its losses by letting you up anyway. Regardless, when you take first one step up the boys’ stairs and then another, you’re allowed to continue. It makes no sense, but you’re not about to start questioning it, so up you go.

You glance about the hall, peering in one room and then another in search of your boyfriend. At last, you see Remus tucked away on his bunk, surrounded by stacks of parchment and dried-up inkpots. You knock softly on the door, and after a moment, he looks up. It takes him a little while to register what your presence means, and then his brow furrows with confusion.

“Y/N? What are you doing here? How are you here- I thought the stairs wouldn’t let girls up.” 

You shrug. “So did I, but I guess it sensed my misery and let me up. Are you busy right now?” 

Remus takes one look at you, the way you’re leaning against the doorframe in an attempt to stave off pain, and grimaces in sympathy. “Not for you. Come in, love.”

He brushes the papers and quills off of the bed, holding out his arms to you. You fall into him gratefully. Even this first brief moment of contact is enough to make you smile. 

“I missed you, Remus.” 

He laughs quietly. “I saw you at breakfast this morning.” 

You pout. “That was hours ago. Too long.” 

Remus scoots over so you can lie down, your head in his lap. “Of course. I should have known better.”

You reach over to poke his leg in retribution. “You’re making fun of me. That’s mean.” 

Remus grins, one hand absentmindedly carding through your hair. “I would never. Not in your time of need.” 

You’re ready to make a no doubt cutting retort to this gesture of love, but you’re cut off by a particularly painful cramp, your words disappearing into a grimace. Remus frowns, then his eyes light up. “I can help with that.”

Careful not to disturb your precarious position, Remus grabs something from a drawer of his bedside table, handing the precious substance to you. 

You smile when you recognize the bright colors and crinkly wrapper. “You’d give your chocolate to me?” 

Remus breaks off a square as a tax, then nods. “I think you need it a little more than I do.”

You eat a square, chewing slowly as you think. “What does chocolate actually do to make us feel better? I know you said something about how it repels dementors, and it apparently does wonders for periods, but why?” 

Remus shrugs, fingers tapping random patterns on your shoulders and down your bicep. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a comfort food; it reminds us of better times.”

You ponder this for a second longer, then snort in laughter. “So this whole time, you’ve been talking up chocolate as a dementor repellant, and it’s literally just because you like it a lot?”

Remus pretends to be outraged. “I never said it was a dementor repellant! And it appears to be doing a lot for you, so maybe you should keep your little comments to yourself.” 

You grin up at him. “Never.” 

He returns your smile. “I kind of hoped not.”

Remus leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. “How are you feeling, love?” 

You groan. “Awful. Throwing myself from the tallest tower of the castle is a strong possibility.” 

Remus tilts his head to the side. “Which tower is the tallest? Have you measured?” 

You reach up to take his hand, and he starts rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “I was hoping you would know. Maybe this is a plea for help.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “Help in deciding which tower is the tallest or help in stopping you from throwing yourself off of the tower?” 

You snuggle a little closer to him. “Your choice.” 

Remus’ fingers tap against yours. “Well, if it was my choice, I would prefer that you save your tower leaps until a little later. I have plans, you know. Your death would be awfully hard to explain, and I need someone to sit with me at meals and poke me in the shins whenever someone says the words ‘werewolf’ or ‘moon’ within earshot of me.”

You cross your eyes at him. “That’s a very important task. You shouldn’t disparage it.” 

Remus does his best to assume an expression of innocence. “I would never dream of it. And, I don’t know who else I would be able to do this with-” 

He breaks off to kiss one cheek, then the other- “or this-” 

Now he kisses your forehead- “Or even this.” 

He kisses your lips last, and you can taste the fading remnants of sweet sugar on his mouth.

You nod slowly, trying to hide the giddy rush sweeping through you. “I suppose that makes sense.” 

Remus nods sagely. “I’ve spent considerable time thinking about it.” 

You smile faintly. As you watch, bright notes of sunlight paint patterns on the ceiling. 

“Thanks for spending time with me, Remus.” 

Your boyfriend smiles back at  you. “There’s no one else I’d rather be with, love. You know that.”

Your smile broadens. “I just like hearing you say it.” 

Remus busies his hands with playing with your hair once more. “I’ll say it a few more times, then, just to be sure.” 

You let your eyes flicker shut. You’re not sure when you stopped feeling the cramps or pain, but you’re glad it’s gone. All you can focus on is the soft sensation of Remus’ fingers carding through your hair, the warmth of the sunlight cascading through the half-open window, the occasional press of his lips to your skin. It is quiet, and good.

requested by my mutual of mutuals @underc0vercryptid​

harry potter tag list: @cameronsails​, @chaoticgirl04​, @aleksanderwh0r3​

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 39: Confess

"Are you asleep?" Draco whispered, brushing an errant curl back off his lover's face and waiting for a reply. He watched Harry's chest rise and fall slowly, evenly; traced his eyes over his face, lax with sleep; contemplated counting his long, dark eyelashes fanning across his cheeks.

"Thank you for waking me up with a cup of tea this morning before you left," Draco murmured softly, keeping his voice low the way he always did when he talked to Harry after he went to sleep. "It's probably my second favorite way to wake up," he added. "But anytime you're still here after the sun is coming through the window is a good day," he said.

Harry let out a huff-snore that Draco honestly shouldn't find as adorable as he did.

"It was a good day today, don't you think?" he asked. It wasn't always a good day and he talked about those too, since Harry wasn't consciously listening.

"I realized something today," Draco continued. "I was watching you tying Teddy's shoe at the playground and the thought popped right into my head, like it's always been there. I'm in love with you."

He wanted to laugh at himself, wondered if Harry would have if he'd been awake. Or perhaps Harry would have been gentle, would have told him that he just didn't feel the same. Draco was a fantastic fuck but not someone he could love, surely.

"And I know," he added, just in case Harry's subconscious was listening, the way it sometimes seemed to. "I know that you couldn't possibly love me back. That's not what I'm asking for, it's just..." he trailed off and let his fingers skim over Harry's bicep, "It's nice to be in love, even if it's just me."

"It's not just you," Harry murmured and Draco almost jumped out of his skin.

(Read more below the cut)

"Are you awake?" Draco asked, feeling nearly hysterical.

"Of course I am," Harry replied, peeking through one eye at him. "I always am, I thought that was the point?"

"The point of what?!" he asked incredulously.

"The way you confess things to me every night?" Potter asked, sounding more confused than Draco.

Draco stared uncomprehendingly at him. This couldn't be happening to him. "You're always awake?"

"Well, yeah," Harry said, brow furrowing. "Why did you think I stopped leaving my socks lying about your flat? Or started brushing my teeth before I kissed you in the morning? Or-"

"Yes, yes, I get the picture," Draco snapped.

"I'm confused," Harry said, reaching over to the nightstand and patting around for his glasses. "I thought the point of you talking to me late at night, while I pretended I was sleeping was so that you could say the things that were hard for you to say," he said as he shoved his glasses on his face.

"But you weren't supposed to be pretending to be asleep. You were actually supposed to be asleep. Merlin," he muttered thinking of all of the things he'd said to the other man. "I can't believe you didn't say something."

"About what?" Harry asked.

"How rude and demanding I am!" Draco said. "I never would have said all of those things if I'd known-"

"Precisely," Harry said. "I thought that was the point, it was hard for you to bring things up during the day but it was easier to say them at night. It's not like it's a big deal."

"It is a big deal!" Draco all but shouted. "And I just told you that I love you to your face! Circe," he groaned, "You might as well just leave now, Potter. I don't need your pity or-"

"Draco," Harry said, grasping his face in both of his hands, "Calm down." The other man took a slow deep breath and Draco found himself mirroring him without intending to. "Listen to me," Harry said, his voice very calm and unbearably gentle.

Draco closed his eyes, he couldn't watch Harry's face while he shattered his heart.

"You are not in this alone," Harry said. "Draco, I've been in love with you for months," he added, "I just didn't want to scare you away."

His eyes flew open "Scare me away?" he asked incredulously. "You were afraid of scaring me away."

"Well, yes," Harry said, as though it was completely reasonable. "I always fall fast and fall hard. I didn't want to tell you too soon and make everything weird."

"Harry," he said, still feeling a bit shell shocked, "You are the best..." he trailed off looking for the right word, "boyfriend, person," he shook his head, "everything. How could I possibly have thought-"

"Because you are so far out of my league!" Harry exclaimed. "You're gorgeous, and intelligent, and sexy, and-"

"Are you kidding me? Harry, you're literally the savior of the world! And-"

"Okay," Harry said, interrupting him. "Okay. No, this is good," he said. "Good. We're both a little damaged and have bad self perception but we're both in love with the other. This is good." He looked up at Draco, "Right?"

And all of the anxiety and hysteria that had been buzzing through Draco's blood stream evaporated at the earnest look on Harry's face. "Yeah," he said, pulling Harry's body closer to his, "Yeah, this is good."

Tentatively the other man leaned up and kissed him, lips soft and gentle on Draco's. "I do love you," Harry whispered into the corner of Draco's mouth.

"I love you, too," he replied. "But Potter, you need to tell me when you're fucking awake."

Harry huffed, "Only if you promise to start having conversations with me when I'm awake, then." His fingers trailed up Draco's spine, "I'm not going anywhere, you know. You won't scare me away by asking me to throw out my leftovers, or by telling me that you really don't like Greek food, or by requesting we avoid watching horror movies because they give you nightmares." He kissed Draco's forehead, "I'm not going anywhere," he repeated.

"In that case," Draco said, taking a deep breath, "Would you like to move in with me?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Harry replied with a radiant smile.

And maybe, just maybe, Draco slowly started learning to ask for what he wanted.

---------------

AHHH! OH MY GOODNESS! Please do yourself a favor and check out this beautiful art that @pato-roldnart made for this ficlet!! It's so beautiful, and tender, and transcendent. I don't have the words to describe it, it's just so beautiful! <3

Day 38: Dance | Day 40: Hesitant

[zet-sway]

Fanfic: Half a Mile High

Or, Shepard and Thane pass the time on their way to Liara's.

[Read on AO3] - Rated E for EXTREMELY FUCKIN SPICY

Pairing: Thane/FShep | Rating: 18+ | Words: ~4000

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

BEFORE WE BEGIN - Today is a little special, because exactly 10 years ago, I posted my first Mass Effect fanfic. If you want to get technical it was posted to FF.net first but that site is a crumbling ruin so I'm linking to AO3.

Even though I only wrote fic for about four of those ten years, I'm still sitting here like "what the fuck is my life." Never thought I'd be doing this still after so long. It's brought me a lot of happiness.

I'm still writing, and there's more to come for the foreseeable future c:

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“You said you spent two years here. What brought you to Illium, anyway?” Shepard asked casually.

Thane looked up from the taxi kiosk as their vehicle pinged and its doors sprung open.

“Business,” he said simply.

Shepard frowned, rolling a shoulder as she settled into the driver's seat. They were running a little bit late, but Liara’s apartment wasn’t far. Automatic controls took over after just a few inputs, and they were off. She leaned back into the leather seat and looked over at Thane.

“You spent two years on Illium just… killing people…?”

“An assassin does not spend all of his days killing, as you say. Much of the work I did on Illium was not unlike what Ms. T’Soni was doing when you arrived here looking for me. Gathering intel on a target is arguably the most important thing an assassin does.”

“Makes your job easier in the long run,” she agreed.

“I don't strike until I understand exactly how to engage. Think of it like entering a pool of water. Jumping right in will cause splashing and disruption. But slip into the current of its mother stream and you will be but a drop of rain on an ocean.”

The corner of her mouth quirked at the natural poetry of his candor. “Who taught you to talk like that?”

Thane chuckled.

“Another thing I spent my time doing - reading.”

Their taxi rounded the side of a tall residential tower, clad in reflective azure-tinted glass. The setting sun lit the facade in oranges and purples, gleaming in shifting tones as they passed by.

“We are actually not far from where I lived,” he said, letting his hand fall over hers.

“A city man, huh? How does an assassin keep a low profile in a place like this?”

Thane hummed. “There is only one way. Trust.”

Shepard eyed him through a few errant locks of hair.

“Trust in yourself, or trust in others?”

“Both.”

“So you lived with other people?”

“Occasionally. But I tried to keep my travels within a few hours' distance. More often than not, I returned… home.”

She twined her fingers with his, but did not linger on the uncertainty in his voice. The concept of ‘home’ was a difficult one for all of them by now.

“My network of contacts is as important to my survival as my training,” he continued. “Trust is for the man who forged my false identity, for the person who owned my loft apartment. Trust is for the contractor who built the structure without a thirteenth floor.”

Shepard cocked a brow. “Humans think 13 is an unlucky number.”

“Indeed, the only way to reach it was through the security elevator. I placed my trust in the building’s attendants, as well.” He smirked. “It was not a hard thing to buy.”

They surged ahead as the sun dipped below the neon horizon.

Nos Astra looked like it had been ripped straight from the pages of the science-fantasy novellas she’d read as a child. The warmth of Illium's brutal sun slanted across her face and she let herself relax. How long had it been since she’d just enjoyed the passage of travel without the weight of responsibility tugging at her bones?

They sat in peaceful silence until greeted by the untimely downside of civilian transport. A line of red taillights stretched out before them.

Gridlock. Shepard groaned.

“I better let them know we’re running late,” she sighed as she punched up her omni-tool and fired off a message to Liara. Hopefully whatever Feron was cooking tonight didn’t require their punctual arrival.

"There are worse places to be stuck in traffic, Siha."

Their hands reconnected on the center console as she sank further into her seat. She understood why Joker made such a fuss about his pilot’s chair. This was far more comfortable than the hard plastic benches in the Normandy's shuttle.

“What was your favorite thing about living here?” She asked Thane with closed eyes, resting her head as their taxi crawled forward.

“Anonymity, I think. This planet is host to many species. Locals are accustomed to such visitors.”

“I thought drell were rarely seen off Kahje. No one ever bothered you about that?"

Thane sounded amused. “I became used to being approached offworld long ago."

"Must get annoying."

"Many are aware of the hanar reputation for training my kind as assassins. Most people keep their distance. But we do tend to attract the more…" he made a thoughtful sound, choosing his words carefully. "Let's say, 'adventurous types.'"

Shepard cracked a smile. "Boy howdy, I bet you have some stories."

Thane's lips twinged upwards. "There was a gentleman on Palaven who simply would not let up. He approached me about moving narcotics. When that failed to garner my attention, he attempted a more sensual dialogue."

"I didn't know turians had a thing for drell."

"The year is 2185, Siha. Anyone is fair game," he deadpanned. "But he was attractive by turian standards, if a bit boistrous. Tall and generously proportioned with a wide cowl and long fringe - studded, as well. I remember he was wearing a leather ensemble that flashed the hide at his waist, tattooed in black and red."

"Where were you on Palaven that had you engaging with guys like that?"

"My target was a drug pusher known for cutting his product with hanar toxins. It was not an idyllic location."

"Does compact training prepare you for turian tweakers trying to get in your pants?" She teased.

"Moreso to resist than to detect," he chuckled. "Perhaps in my youth, I would have…" Thane waved a hand, dismissive of words he hadn't even said.

Shepard had his full attention at that.

"Oh come on, you can't just leave me hanging on a story like that. Now you're telling me you have a thing for turians?" She tugged his arm, her tone jovial as she continued, "I better warn Garrus."

Thane took her hand and met her gaze. "I've had remarkably few partners in my life, Siha. I would rather not be burdened with the memory of unsatisfying trysts. But I do have eyes."

Her face split into a grin.

"I'll take that as a compliment, then."

He kissed the back of her hand, pulling her toward him.

"As well you should," he said as he gently tucked her hair behind her ear. "I have never regretted sharing my body with you."

Shepard leaned over to touch her lips to his. The gesture was meant to be appreciative, but he drew her into his arms. She didn't resist. There wasn't much else to do, stuck in traffic as they were.

"Must be nice to remember the best human sex you've ever had with perfect clarity."

"The only human sex I've ever had," he corrected. His lips brushed the shell of her ear as he pulled her into his lap. "But I don't think I need to tell you how reality supersedes memory."

That deep rumble in his voice made her nerves light up in ripples down her back and thighs. She sighed as he kissed along her jaw, his lips firm and gentle.

"If your memories feel like reality, what makes the real thing better?" An involuntary sigh escaped her throat when his mouth found her pulse.

Thane seemed to pause at her question, but as his fingertips slipped just below the hem of her shirt, she was not content to wait for his calculated response.

Her mouth covered his parted lips, tongue slipping out to taste him, exotic and warm. Fingertips tightened on the small of her back and slid upward, his large palms framing her waist. The warmth of his hands radiated through her, contentment scattered in the wind to be replaced with the low roar of oncoming desire.

Shepard pulled back to give him a knowing look, blinking against the venom-induced halos blooming around every point of light that flashed past their vehicle. Beneath her, she felt the stirrings of his arousal and she twisted her hips to align herself with the blessed pressure between his legs.

"Something you wanted to say?"

"That." He said simply.

She arched a brow. "What?"

"Spontaneity. Surprises. An impatient kiss while I consider your question." Her eyes followed his tongue as it ran along his bottom lip as though he could still taste her. "That is why, given the choice, I prefer 'the real thing.'"

Her face softened. "You wanted me to do that."

Thane was without a hint of shame.

"I had hoped."

His hands slid up her body, palms rounding her curves until he arrived beneath her breasts. Fingers grazed briefly over her bra, nipples peaking and evident beneath the fabric. That ghost of sensation zipped through her body like a spark on a wire, igniting every cluster of nerves on its way down to the heat building between her legs. From the pressure of their gently rolling hips, she felt the slick of her own arousal and blushed. She was already soaking wet for him.

"More importantly," Thane continued, "I wanted to see how 'high' you'd volunteer to be when we finally arrive at Liara's." Thane quickly yanked down the zipper on the front of her compression bra, releasing her breasts into the confines of her shirt and molding them in his palms. "From your response, I'd wager dangerously so."

Her whole body heated at his words. As the sun slipped below the horizon, she pretended not to notice how the windows were beginning to fog up, exacerbating her already hazy vision. She focused on his face. Dark eyes, plush lips, the muted iridescence of his scales throwing each passing light around in a blooming spectacle of color. His hardness pressed insistently against her center and she rolled herself against his lap, eyes drifting closed as she groaned.

"You're a fucking criminal, Thane Krios."

"Is that right?" There was a glimmer in his eyes, the corner of his mouth turning up into a sly smile. "Are you placing me under arrest, Spectre?"

He withdrew his hands from beneath her shirt and she whined at the loss of him. "Yeah, actually, I think I am."

He laughed, a sound she felt through her entire body. He removed her sweatshirt, unzipped and tossed it behind her before returning his mouth to her neck and shoulders.

"And what, may I ask, are the charges?"

"Possession of-"

She gasped when his hands fisted in her t-shirt, pulling it over her head and settling it behind her neck until all that remained was a stiff tangle of the shirt and bra around her shoulders. He pulled back to admire his work - the inviting expanse of her body, the rise and fall of her naked chest, nipples tightening with sensitivity as the air washed over her bare skin.

"God-" she only had a moment to breathe before he was mouthing his way over her heartbeat, cursing under her breath when he kissed between her breasts. "-on my authority as a Council Spectre, you're under arrest for possession of - oh - a deadly weapon."

Thane withdrew then, meeting her gaze as he peeled his tunic off and flipped it casually into the backseat. His answering tone was thick with mischief.

"I'm unarmed, Commander. I'd have thought this would be obvious."

Blinking to clear the bright spots in her eyes, Shepard summoned her composure and laced her fingers behind his neck, focusing on the delicious view of his long stripes diving beneath the waistband of his pants.

"The weapon, Sere Krios, is your mouth."

"I see," He murmured, caressing her breast before closing his lips around one peaked, sensitive nipple. Shepard arched against him, eyes fluttering closed, begging him for more under hushed breaths. He made no attempt to stop her from tugging him against her chest.

"In that case, I should warn you. These hands..." His teeth grazed her flesh and she gasped, "Are legally recognized as lethal weapons by the Illuminated Primacy."

To emphasize his point, he closed his fingertips around her other nipple, drawing a sharp gasp from her throat.

In whatever corner of her mind that still had clarity, she realized his statement was likely not a fabrication.

"I may have to confiscate those hands, Sere."

Thane gazed up at her with an intensity that threatened to set her on fire.

"You may try," he murmured into her skin.

Watching him tease her like this made her ache with need. Her back bowed, offering her breasts to his generous affections.

At that moment, their taxi lurched, diving to a lower altitude and coming to a near stop again as they joined a new queue of cars exiting their current lane of traffic (the cab's VI chirped a cheerful 'We remind you that seatbelts must be worn at all times'). The momentum carried her forward and then suddenly back again, and Shepard swore, falling in an awkward sprawl against the dashboard.

For a moment all she saw was the dazzling lines of traffic zipping past in Illium's night sky. Passing cars tracked slants of light across her exposed chest as they finally broke free of the exit queue and took off down another sky corridor. She thanked gods she didn't quite believe in for the cab's tinted windows.

Thane wasted no time taking advantage of her thighs, parted as they were over his lap. Nimble fingers unfastened her belt and yanked her pants to her knees. Dizzy, she contorted just enough to get one leg free, content to be half-dressed as long as he had access - as long as he would keep touching her.

Their lane was moving almost swiftly now. Drunk on light and lust, she could only hang on as Thane's palms slid up her muscled thighs. He teased the edges of her panties, never quite close enough to the ache of desire between her legs. She reached for his hands but he clasped her wrists and guided them to her chest, humming in satisfaction as she cupped her own breasts.

"A spectacular view," he murmured.

Shepard swallowed. She could nearly feel the heat of his gaze crawling up the bared expanse of her body, the scent of sex filling the tiny cab. Outside, the skyline was whipping by.

"Siha," he sighed as he used one gentle thumb to swirl her cotton panties over her drenched, aching cunt. "I have to wonder why you wear these at all."

She was about to tell him it'd be pretty fucking obvious if he would just get on with it when she heard a quick snap and they were gone, torn and forgotten on the floor. Those last thoughts fled her mind as both of his hands went to work, eager fingers rippling along her slit before sliding easily into her wet heat.

She bit back a moan, not wanting to give him the satisfaction

"You're a damn savage."

Thane smiled. "I did warn you about my hands."

The position was uncomfortable but she didn't care, not with his fingers doing absolutely unholy things inside her. He pushed deep, massaging her walls in slow, firm strokes as one scaled thumb rolled over her clit.

She clenched her teeth, fighting the alluring surrender of his venom. "We don't have... a lot of time here."

"Tell me what you want, Shepard."

She pushed herself against his fingers but he did not relent, fingering her at his leisure.

"God fucking damn it Thane, you know what I want."

That earned her a rare and authentic laugh, but he didn't let up.

His fingers curled against her walls. The gesture was as much for him as it was for her - a demand and a promise.

"Say it."

Her head fell back with a groan as he stroked the deepest, most sensitive part of her cunt.

"Holy shit, just fuck me."

"Very well," he said with his usual dry candor. "...since you are so eager."

Thane withdrew his hand, bringing it to his mouth as he kept her still with a palm on her belly. His tongue gathered the arousal that coated his fingers and she writhed, desperate to feel him on her, inside her, pounding the truth of his desire into her body until she couldn't speak or move.

Finally - he unbuckled his pants.

The vibrant color of his rigid cock was a blurred smudge in her venom-hazed eyes. He gripped under her thighs to haul her closer, teasing her clit with the tip of his length.

Shepard braced her palms on the dashboard and eased herself down on his prick. No human had ever filled her quite like Thane did. Her pulse pounded in her cunt, heat blooming between her legs as he opened her body to pleasures only he could provide. Heady waves of sensation rippled under her skin when he bottomed out. Her eyes rolled back. She panted hard atop him.

"I may never tire of teasing you like this, Siha." Thane smirked, rocking his hips gently.

"Shut it, Krios."

Hands settled on her thighs, squeezing as he smiled. "I'm afraid you'll have to earn my silence."

Shepard groaned, pushed herself off the dash and nearly collapsed over him, her mouth seeking his, buying his silence with her tongue. High as she already was, his kiss envenomed her further, transporting her far above the clouds of common decency and restraint. She rolled her hips in his lap, moaning into his mouth as his tongue slid against hers.

Fucking him was overwheming in the best way. Between his delicious tongue and his thick ridged cock filling her to completion, Shepard damn near forgot about their more civil plans for the evening. Lights flashed behind her closed eyes, their bodies moving together in his arms as the skycar's momentum carried them across Illium's neon sky. His kiss was so potent she was sure they'd left the atmosphere entirely. She was alive with need, slipping into a humming world of color and sensation. Fingers of heat crawled up her spine, overpowering her with nothing but raw desire. The need to stake herself on him, to ride him and claim him so completely that he would forever be a part of her.

And to that end, he guided her, fucking her with single-minded purpose. Scaled fingers squeezed her hips, sliding down over her backside to lift and pace her, stroking himself with her body. She cried out with every deep thrust, arms looped around his neck, gasping into the moonroof as he overtook her. His mouth slid over her breasts and worked her nipples one by one, forked tongue and plush lips, seeking, suckling, his tingling saliva leaving icy trails across her skin as he gave as much as he took, and then some.

He was incredible. At the mercy of his mouth and split open on his cock, she surrendered. Pleasure screamed through her veins as she climaxed, suffocated in skin and scent and sound. Shepard howled in his arms, fire pulsing between her legs and flooding every hollow corner of her body. An orgasm that stole her rhythm, made her sated with fatigue until all she could do was hold on, adrift on the ocean of his rolling hips and rasping breaths.

She felt him swell inside her. He gasped, his voice raw as his cock pulsed with the promise of oncoming release before he spilled himself in the deepest part of her cunt. He felt like heaven. Captive in his arms, she no longer gave a damn where they were or from whence they came.

How long they remained entangled this way, she didn't know. The sky had long since faded into the electric colors of Nos Astra's night. Reality came back into blurred focus as the skycar slowed to a stop in front of Liara's building. Shepard hid her face in Thane's shoulder. A light rain was falling, little rivulets clinging to the fogged windows like some kind of otherworldly ocean reaching from above.

There was no question - she'd overindulged.

Thane soothed her with warm hands, easing himself from her body. Neither of them were in any hurry to move, but as their vehicle began to beep in irritation, they began to untangle their heavy limbs.

She cleaned herself up - or tried to. Her eager lover pushed past her hands, slipping his fingers inside her freshly fucked cunt, massaging his cum into her walls.

“You’re incorrigible,” she whispered. His hands drew a soft sigh from her, threatening to reignite her lust as he gently coated her folds in his tingling release.

“We are already late, Siha. Shall I have the taxi take us around the city one more time?”

Shepard bit back a moan as his fingers slid over her clit.

“Don’t make me pull the Spectre card again.”

He grinned against her lips. “Very well.”

Thane retrieved her torn panties from the back seat. Shepard accepted them with a sheepish smile before tossing them in the vehicle’s waste receptacle.

Finally dressed, they stood in the vestibule of Liara's apartment. Shepard attempted to neaten her hair while Thane stood unmoving, hands clasped behind his back. No doubt he was prepared to deliver some kind of smooth excuse to explain away her blown pupils and buzzed behavior. Liara was too smart for that, but with any luck she'd be too polite to acknowledge her lack of inhibition.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Thane wasted no time engaging Liara about the many archaeological relics adorning her apartment. It was sobering to think that she’d been through not one, but two impossible missions with Liara by her side. She sounded like the woman Shepard remembered - bright eyed and fascinated by intricacies that would not have drawn anyone else’s attention.

Shepard sank into one of the too-soft couches and stared up at the vaulted ceiling, watching the elegant pendant lamps sway with the waning venom in her mind. There was a loft bedroom up and to the right. As she rubbed her thighs together absently in attempt to soothe her scale-bitten skin, she wondered - if walls could talk, what stories would they tell about her friend and her unlikely lover?

“Food’s almost done,” Feron shouted from the kitchen. “Water and tea okay?”

Liara took a seat. “Yes, thank you.”

Feron rounded the apartment moments later, handing out glasses of ice water and setting a tea tray out on the table. He stood and paused, his brow crinkling as he considered Thane’s proximity to Shepard’s uncharacteristic slouch.

"You guys fucked, didn't you?"

Liara choked on her drink.

"You mean in general?" Shepard began, "Or on the way to-"

Thane covered her hand with his own and cleared his throat.

"Shepard shared a drink with an old acquaintance before departing Nos Astra," he calmly explained.

Feron raised a brow, nictating membranes sliding in silence over his vivid amber eyes.

"You're a bad liar, Krios," he muttered. "You think I don’t recognize an envenomed human when I see one?"

"The drink she ordered is a cocktail made with drell venom."

Shepard turned Thane's hand over in hers, inspecting his scales like they were the most interesting thing in the room.

"I like your freckles," she whispered - loudly.

Feron rolled his eyes. "Gods, you let her drink that?"

"To say I let her do it would imply that I have any say at all in what Shepard chooses to do."

Feron's eyes narrowed.

“Ha se’vah donn’um raav tor. (She’s had more than just a drink.)”

Thane sat quietly a moment, a smile reaching slowly across his features as he responded in a low, confident tone.

"Ha se’vah donn'um fara. (She’s had much more)."

Shepard was about to ask what he said when Liara abruptly cleared her throat and excused herself. Feron barked out a laugh as she passed.

“Ravash sered. (Dirty old man.)”

"One day you may learn that your sharp tongue is better suited to pleasing your lover, serét (young man).”

Feron extracted an ice cube from his glass and flicked it across the room at him. Thane dodged it neatly and smiled devilishly.

Shepard squeezed Thane’s arm. “What are you guys even talking about?”

“Our host wishes to be assured of your good health, Siha.”

Shepard grinned.

“Never been better.”

[darkorderaf]

oxytocin

So I don’t have like a canon for any of my fics but the OFC has sort of the same background for each one for the time being, Dark Order-aligned medic type character. They don’t all go together or anything like that and there's no real timeline. It just sort of worked out that way lol. Anyhow, ramble over, please enjoy and lmk what you think!!

Pairing: Kenny Omega x OFC

Rating: Big ol’ M.

Warnings/Content: Choking, unprotected sex (please be safe!!), hair pulling, spanking, multiple orgasms, jealousy, sort of hate sex. This...admittedly...took on a life of its own.

Word Count: 2028

(I don't own gif; credit to superkickparty!)

---

She didn’t know when cursory check-in glances had turned into check-out glances. Maybe it was after he gave her that side smirk, the one that had her stomach fluttery. He had never looked at her like that before and then one day, one hot night in Jacksonville, he did. It didn’t stop. The expanse of his hands across her lower back, the tease of a tight grip against her waist when she helped him away from the ring. That damn smirk and the slight narrowing of his eyes as he side-eyed her. She helped everyone out, she told herself. Hell, she had helped both him and Adam before...Well, before. She wouldn’t read into it.

Get your shit together, she had told herself. But he was Kenny fucking Omega. A top guy amongst top guys. Keeping her shit together was a Herculean effort.

His hand gripped the tender, red hot flesh of her ass. She panted out as she felt the weight of him press against the length of her naked back. Her arms shook with the difficulty of keeping herself upright. His mouth ghosted by her ear and his low, arrogant voice brushed against her skin.

“How many was that? Did you remember to count?”

He hummed as he took a moment to stop kneading the flesh of her ass. His fingers drifted down her wet slit to tease her clit. Against her own volition, her hips tried to press back into him. He chuckled and gave her cunt a light slap that nearly had her crumbling onto the bed. Her head fell forward and his hand grabbed at her hip to keep her still.

“T-Ten,” she gritted out. “I remembered. Kenny, please.”

“Ah-ah, baby, no. That’s not it.”

His teeth nipped at her ear. Teased against the line of her neck. She could have killed him. Or fucked him through the floor. There was no inbetween. She breathed out through her nose and when his hand slipped back between her trembling thighs, she tried again to seek out some release. With his grip as strong as it was, it was hard to move.

“Please, Mr. Omega,” she said and lifted her head enough to look at him over her shoulder. Her eyes burned and narrowed. “Please touch me. I counted like you wanted.”

He was just as affected as she was. Everytime she pressed her hips back, she could feel his erection against her ass. But the man had the patience, the stamina, of someone inhuman. She didn’t. What a match. His eyes flashed and he smirked at her. He shook his head and bit lightly at her shoulder. He trailed his tongue down her spine and she shivered when he blew against the line he left.

“Come on. Don’t you remember why you’re here?”

She nodded. His teeth bit into the meat of her ass and she tried to conceal her moan.

“It doesn’t mean anything, Ke--Mr. Omega,” she said with a shake of her head. “I helped them out. That’s all. I did my job.”

He tutted and feathered kisses up her back. His mouth was against her ear again as the hand around her hip relented and trailed up her chest. He squeezed a breast and groaned. Plucked hard at her nipple and twisted before he let go. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. His fingers gripped the purple medallion that fell between her breasts and she felt the chain tighten against the back of her neck.

“This. This stupid thing,” he said as he flexed his hips and grinded against her in a slow rhythm. “This I could handle. This doesn’t mean anything. But then you--Then I saw you with him.”

For a brief second, she heard it. He was worried. Her relationship with Kenny was, admittedly, a strange one. Kenny was paranoid. About himself, about the people around him, about so many things. Her laugh startled even herself. He growled and flipped her onto her back to look at her. The medallion bounced between her breasts and he leered at her, his errant curls in his eyes. Every muscle in his body was tight. Especially the one in his jaw. A brow rose.

“Is this funny to you?”

“It is,” she admitted as she held his eyes. His hand gripped the outside of her thigh as he frowned at her, his face taking on that look of annoyance that she so often saw in the ring lately. Slowly, she pushed herself up so she was almost face to face with him. Her chest pressed against his as she tilted her head back. “The man who has everything. Jealous of a cowboy and his friends.”

His tongue pressed hard against the inside of his bottom lip and he shook his head. One hand tangled in her loose hair and he dove in to kiss her. Tongue and teeth. Relentless. It was the most he had given her so far and when her tongue slipped into his mouth to take what he offered, he pulled away. When he spoke up again, his voice was a low hiss against her lips.

“Baby, if you’re his friend,” he stared as he trailed his fingers up her back and worked the clasp of her necklace. When he got it loose, he tossed it off the bed. His thumb rubbed circles into the side of her neck. The bulk of him kept her legs spread from where they had fallen open when he turned her over. He shoved her back onto the bed and gripped his length, worked it as he looked at her body on display. Pre-cum glistened in the room’s low light and she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. “Then why’d you come looking for me?”

The head of his cock slipped up her wet slit to press against her clit and she gasped. He wasn’t wrong. She shouldn’t have gone to see him after what he had done and continued to do to Adam. But she had. She had wanted to. Her body trembled with want and anger.

“If you’re that mad about it, Mr. Omega, why’d you let me in?”

Kenny huffed and stretched across her again. His large hand dragged roughly up her chest as he looked her in the eyes. His hand settled against her neck in an all-too-familiar fashion. Slowly, he started to press into her. His head slipped in and she moaned low. He could feel it in his hand. Her thighs tightened around his waist and she tried to pull him in further. He wouldn’t budge, even if she could feel how much he wanted to give in. He glanced down at where they connected and licked his lips. His eyes shot back up to look at her.

The need he found there coaxed a nasty smirk out of him and he pulled out of her with a pop. Slow enough to watch the disappointment flood her face. His fingers replaced his cock and he narrowed his eyes as she squeezed around him. They crooked up and brushed against the bundle of nerves that had her body tightening. His fingers played her expertly and his mouth pressed harsh against hers to swallow her breathy moans. The hand around her neck played with a slightly tighter grip. She tried to tell him to go faster but he wanted to destroy her slowly. With as worked up as she was from his roughness earlier, her first orgasm hit her hard. He bit her bottom lip before he pulled away, a thin light of spit connecting them before he tossed his hair back. Half-lidded eyes looked at her. She wasn’t the only one breathing hard. His large hand, covered in her juices, splayed out across her belly to keep her there. The head of his cock nudged against her.

“I guess we’re both just that desperate.”

He seated himself in her fully with one hard, heavy thrust. Her head fell back against the bed and his grip around her neck tightened. Kenny pressed a kiss to her temple and took a moment to ask her if this was okay. Funny how he could still be sweet when he was being insufferable. That thought didn’t last long in her head as slow, drawn out thrusts quickly picked up pace. The hand not around her neck gripped her hair at the base of her head and pulled. Her legs trembled around him. Lightheaded and climbing higher, she bucked against him with wild abandon. He drove into her just right and her second orgasm rippled around him tight enough to have him sputter out a heavy, startled breath. Not yet though.

Suddenly, he pulled out of her and released her neck. She whined at his absence as she breathed in and in a blink, his mouth and his fingers were on her. His tongue played against her clit with a fury as he slipped one, then two fingers back into her quaking slit. She was barely through her second one when he relentlessly started to coax a third one out of her. Her thighs tightened around his head as she came a third time with a ragged scream. Her body nearly seized. Her fingers pushed and pulled at his curls and she could hear him hum with satisfaction against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. His teeth bit down hard enough to leave a mark.

“Kenny!”

“That’s right, baby,” he huffed out as he grabbed her legs and pulled her towards him. He didn’t correct her. They were beyond that. “That’s goddamn right. Say my name.”

With her ankles by his head, she was nearly folded in half when he surged back inside her. At this angle, he fucked her slow. Ground against her clit as he fucked into that spot of hers that he found every time without fail. Looked her in the eyes as she panted his name and whined. The pace he kept was agony for the both of them. She tried to say something but he couldn’t quite hear her. He angled his ear toward her and smirked.

“What is it, baby? I can’t hear you.”

It took everything in her to speak and when she did, it sounded weaker than she wanted. He was fucking her senseless. Crowding her with everything that was him. He wouldn’t accept anything else.

“Is that it, Mr. Omega?”

Her teeth found his earlobe and he snapped his hips against her. She grinned at him and he flashed his teeth back. The room was drowned in a cacophony of slapping skin and low moans. Her hand snaked up across the broad expanse of his back and dragged her nails down his taut skin. Almost hard enough to draw blood. He jerked and lost the pace he had set.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Goddamn you.”

He pulled out and flipped her over so he could fold her across the edge of the mattress. His hand found her clit as he pounded back into her. Her walls clenched and fluttered around him. She bit into the sheets as her fourth orgasm reared its head and when she came, she screamed into the mattress. Kenny thrust into her three, four times before he stilled and spilled into her with a guttural groan. His hands flexed around her hips as he fought to get his breath back, his hips jerking against her as the final wave of his orgasm passed through him. She wiped at her mouth as she tried to get up but he had fucked her boneless. He slipped out of her with a quiet moan and she felt him climb onto the mattress beside her.

His cum seeped out of her as she rolled onto her back. She glanced over at him, with his dark curls and sharp jawline. The bow of his mouth was still covered in her slick. She used to think he was beautiful once. He reached out to her and she hesitated. His eyes slid over to look at her. He laughed and smirked, set his head back against the bed. She supposed she still did. In a terrible way.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Anything else, Mr. Barber?

Warnings: noncon sexual acts and rape, cheating, coercion, blow job, somniphilia, abuse of power, no edit.

This is dark!Andy Barber and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Andy Barber is fed up with his tardy assistant.

Based on these drabble requests: 

Andy Barber + somniphilia + “You’re late.” + Andy waking up the reader with sex. 

Andy Barber + losing a bet + “do it or I’ll make you.” + Reader bets on something she's confident about, and agrees (ig?) to go down on Andy if she loses. When she inevitably loses, she's reluctant… 

Andy Barber + “Do it or I’ll make you.” + abuse of power + Andy wants his cock sucked by his young assistant, but she's a little reluctant. 

Andy Barber + “Why are you crying?” + Somniphilia + Something where he forces himself on her and she doesn’t wake up until the end 

You knocked with your elbow before the voice came from the other side of the door, staunch and irritated. Fuck, you were late again. It wasn’t your fault, the cafe was crowded and your boss hated the vending machines river water. You let yourself in but Andy didn’t even look up as you entered.

You put the paper cup down as you greeted him, “Mr. Barber.”

“You’re late,” he kept his eyes on the folder in front of him.

“I got held up at--”

He took the cup and sniffed the brim. He scrunched his lips and sat up, his eyes meeting yours at last.

“Cream or milk?” he frowned.

“Milk, like always,” you wisped, your heart still beating from your frantic race to the office.

He took a sip and put it back heavily. He swallowed stiffly and cleared his throat.

“You sure?” he gave a fickle grimace, “tastes like cream.”

“I swear I ordered milk--”

“Just like you said yesterday you wouldn’t be late again.”

“I tried, I--”

“No more excuses,” he crossed his arms, “you’re late one more time and you owe me.”

“I’ll stay late tonight,” you offered.

“No, we’ll see,” he shifted in his chair, “if you can keep track of time, maybe we won’t have to.”

“I’m sorry--”

“You have work to catch up on,” he interrupted again and dropped his arms, he leaned back and grabbed a paper from the pile, “go on.”

You left and sighed as you closed the door behind you. You went to your desk, only a few feet from his office and took off your jacket. You really tried to be on time but Andy just didn’t seem to realise that his last minute texts for you to head down to the archives or to hit the coffee shop weren’t helping. That or he just didn’t care.

You booted your computer and fished around for a pen in your bag. Your leg jiggled as you thought about the next day, maybe if you left earlier you might avoid another slip-up.

☕

A week. A whole week and every day you were right on time. Andy couldn’t complain as you brought him his dark roast with milk and his documents in their acrid folders. It cost you some sleep and some early morning road rage, but he had nothing to gripe about as you met him with a smile.

It didn’t last. You hit a train at midtown and that threw your whole day off. Usually you missed it as the freight came at the same time every morning. The universe liked to see you fail.

Again you entered after a knock. Andy didn’t say anything as you set down his cup and you hesitated to leave as you waited for his reproach. Still nothing. You went to the door and his chaired squeaked.

“Before you leave tonight, we need to talk,” he snarled.

“Yes, Mr. Barber,” you pulled the door open.

“I need the Hanson files copied,” you heard him toss the envelope and you turned around.

“Will do,” you neared and took the manila casing.

“Collated and stapled,” he stared you down, “now go. I’m done wasting time.”

You retreated and flinched as the door clicked behind you. You pushed your head back and cringed. Fucking train.

☕

This time, Andy was late. It wasn’t unusual that his hearings ran long but you knew if you left, it would be worse. The elevator dinged and you watched the doors. He stepped out and bid a goodbye to whoever else was within. He didn’t even glance at you as he quieted and swept by your desk.

He snapped his fingers as he opened the door to his office and you stood. You felt like a dog, your tail between your legs as you followed.

“Close the door,” he said and you obeyed again.

He dropped his bag against his desk and sat. He rolled the chair back as he spread his legs wide and stretched his arms behind his head. He rubbed his eyes and his hands fell onto his thighs. He tilted his head and his jaw twitched as you faced him nervously.

“How many times do we have this conversation?”

“Please, there was a train--”

“Always something. The whole world is against you,” he scowled. “Well, I’m done with warnings. You were late and you owe me.”

“Mr. Barber--”

“Don’t worry, I’ve been thinking about it all day, how to settle this all,” his lips curved slightly, “we had a deal. You’re late, you pay.”

You were silent and slightly confused. You gulped and his fingers tapped on his pants. You winced as suddenly he gripped his belt buckle and unhooked it.

“Mr--”

“Get over here,” he said.

“Wha--”

“We’re done talking, so get over here and show me you want this job,” he sneered, “because it really doesn’t seem like you do.”

“No, I-- you can’t--”

“Do it or I’ll make you,” he shifted as he reached down his dress pants and pushed down his pale blue boxers.

“Mr.--”

“You make me real tired of repeating myself and if I have to again, this conversation and your time here is over,” his eyes bore into you and you wavered on your feet.

You took a careful step, waiting for him to stop you, waiting for him to tell you he was kidding. He didn’t and you took another and another until you were behind his desk. He turned his chair to face you and stroked himself above his open fly. Your lips parted as you couldn’t help but stare.

“I don’t have to tell you how to suck it, do I?” he taunted.

You inhaled and grabbed the desk as you got to your knees. He kept playing with himself as he wheeled closer. He angled his dick forward and tapped your lips as you bent over him. You let out your breath and opened your mouth. You wetted the tip with your tongue before you stretched your lips around it.

His hand fell from his dick and went to the back of your head. He urged you down and groaned as he felt the resistance at the back of your throat. You choked as he forced himself deeper and you breathed through your nose. His other hand went to your shoulder as he guided your motion, slowly at first.

The sloppy noise of your mouth filled the office and you gripped the top of his pants as you struggled to keep going. Your eyes watered and the droplets hovered along your lashes. He moved you fast and moaned as his fingertips swirled over your scalp.

“That’s it,” he said, “knew you must be good for something.”

You murmured around his dick and he hissed. Your throat constricted around him as you gagged and he shoved your head down over and over.

“Don’t make a mess now,” he purred.

He pulled you back and slammed you down all at once. He held you there and rolled his hips as he jerked and came down your throat. You let out a pathetic sputter and gasped as you gulped down his salty cum. Your throat milked his dick and he sighed as he eased out of your mouth.

You fell back and caught yourself on your hands. He rubbed his thighs and stared down at his wet cock, “whew, well, let’s hope you’re late again tomorrow.”

☕

You weren’t late again but that only seemed to make Andy’s temper worse. Even as you arrived before him, he seemed irked by your very existence. He got his coffee, his files, and anything else he could think to demand. You got your peace even if it wasn’t entirely that.

You were tired all the time. You made double sure to be at the office a full hour before your start and you even stayed late, just in case he wanted to punish you for leaving without his say so.

Several weeks passed but things didn’t get better, especially as each time you walked into his office, you felt him in your throat, heard his dark moans. 

That day was no different as you waited for him and his black jacket flapped against you as he brushed past you without so much as a good morning. You turned and followed him into his office and put his coffee down. He shook his head and sat.

He took a drink and grimaced. “Cold,” he muttered.

“Sorry, Mr. Barber, I--”

“Go,” he waved you off.

You swallowed your voice and went. You sat at your desk and heard a sudden splat and the hollow clatter of the coffee cup. Was he mad at you? About what? You were early everyday, you got him everything he asked for, you did your job, you lived at work… what more could he want?

☕

When his assistant wasn’t late the next day, Andy was smug. He’d taught her her place and gotten off in the process.

At first, he’d nearly slapped himself for the idea. He knew it was wrong but he was tired of her being late, tired of being unhappy about everything in his life. Laurie barely looked at him as she brought her work home, Jacob was too busy with his friends to need his dad, and this woman couldn’t even bring him his coffee on time.

It was a simple solution to two problems. It eased both his stress over his errant employee and the neglect of his marriage. It didn’t last, but she wasn’t late again. Even after a week, even after two, then three. His frustration returned and so did his need.

He couldn’t look at her. Everytime he did, he saw her on her knees, head bobbing over his lap, and heard those delightful noises. She made him want it again but he didn’t know how to get her again. It was easy to justify it with her missteps but when she behaved, it made him feel rotten.

That, however, did not keep him from getting hard whenever she called him Mr. Barber or her eye lingered on him a little too long.

He didn’t know what to do, so that day, he stayed late at the courthouse. He called the office and told her to go, otherwise she would wait for him. If anything, his lesson had been effective in teaching her the importance of punctuality.

But even as he drove home, he kept thinking of her. He stopped at the corner of his street as the streetlights turned on and stared down at the dark shape of Laurie’s car. He took out his phone and dialed.

“Andy,” Laurie answered.

“Hey, I’m sorry I’m late, things… I’m just all tied up. I’ll be a while,” he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel.

“Fine,” she answered curtly, “see you in the morning?”

“Uh huh,” he sat up, they both knew it was an empty promise.

He headed back to the office. He searched through the old filing cabinet and pulled out the resume; hers. He read the address at the top. He hoped she hadn’t moved since then. He keyed it into his phone and got out the doors right before the cleaners locked up.

He drove to her building and sat outside. He watched the front and as less people came, he knew he had to act. He reached behind his seat and grabbed the empty paper bag from his lunch. He puffed it up and took off his suit jacket. He went to his trunk and took out the hoodie he kept for emergencies.

He ran up the steps of the building as a woman unlocked the door. He waved to her and called out, “hey,” she turned back as the door buzzed and she opened it, “you don’t mind holding that? I’ve been waiting for an answer for twenty minutes and… he waved the bag, “it’s getting cold.

“Oh, whatever,” she let him grab the door and he smiled, enlivened by his own act.

“Thanks,” he followed and watched her disappear onto the elevators.

He repeated the number in his head, 310, 310, 310…

He took the stairs up to the third floor and left the bag against a railing. He stepped into the hall and counted the doors to hers. He listened through the wood, he could hear her television. He tried the handle but it didn’t budge.

He exhaled and reached into his pocket for his keys. He still had the pocket knife from the days when Jacob was in the scouts. He remembered the trick his dad had taught him, one of many he couldn’t forget. He unfolded the nail file and jammed it in the slot.

He wiggled and the door opened as the handle almost cracked in his grip. He peeked around and pushed inside. He expected her to gasp, maybe even to scream, but she didn’t even sit up.

The deadbolt was loose, broken from his intrusion. He put the chain in place instead and approached the back of the couch. Again he braced himself for her shock. She was asleep. The coffee table was littered with a styrofoam container, a wine glass, and a half empty bottle.

He stopped and stared down at her. He tucked away the knife and took off the hoodie. He paced, hoping she’d wake up and scare him out of what he was thinking off. He had come this far, hadn’t he? He couldn’t stop now. He wouldn’t.

He unbuttoned his shirt and as he got to the last, he paused. He should go home but what was there but a silent and sleepless night beside his wife. He folded the shirt over the chair and took off his leather shoes. He rolled off his socks and stood straight. He unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants down with his boxers.

He was hard and hurting. He went to the couch and sidled between it and the coffee table. He grabbed the wine bottle and swigged. For courage. His nerves were jittering as he looked down at her dark blue tee. It was longer and reached halfway down her thighs. He only ever saw her in her blouses and her skirts, a bit clueless but always put together.

He touched her leg lightly and cautiously bent it. She breathed loudly but didn’t rouse. He straightened her leg and reached under her shirt. He tugged the panties down and untangled them from her feet, watching her face with each move.

He moved her leg over the edge of the couch and got on his knees beside the other. He tickled along the hem of her shirt and bent over her, holding himself up on the arm as he stroked his dick. She was going to wake up.

He didn’t care, he needed to fuck her. He pushed against her and slid his dick back until he found her entrance. He watched himself as he thrust into her in a single motion. Her body jolted and she grumbled. He smelled the wine on her breath but she stayed asleep.

He rocked his hips and hummed at the sensation of her walls around him. He dipped into her over and over, a smooth rhythm as it got easier with each tilt of his hip. He focused on his dick gliding in and out of her as he grasped the collar of her tee in his hand.

He sped up as he felt the ecstasy bubbling inside of him. His flesh slapped against her loudly and her leg dangled against his thigh. He closed his eyes and pushed his head back as he let out a long groan. So close, so close, and all he could focus on was his climax, even as he heard her surprised voice and felt her hands bounce of his chest.

“Andy!” she cried out.

He crashed into her and she shoved against him. Her legs bent around him and she wriggled helplessly. She sobbed and he bucked one last time as he came. He spilled into her as her walls squeezed him.

“Call me Mr. Barber,” he purred as he held himself completely inside of her.

He opened his eyes as he heard her sob. He looked down and stroked her cheek. She turned her head away from him and smacked away his hand.

“Why are you crying?” he asked and pushed against her until she whimpered.

☕☕☕

Please reblog and leave some feedback if you enjoyed.

[yinses]

B R A N D E D

| he would make sure that everyone knew who you belonged to |

tattoo artist! sukuna ryomen

rating: t

a/n: this is going to be a three part series. it got too long because i couldn’t shut up. thank you to @teoran for beta reading !! 

you should have never informed yuuji that you were thinking about getting a tattoo, because of course his first response would be hey, sukuna owns a shop. why don’t you stop there. as if you didn’t already known that. your other friend, unfortunately had not known how to be subtle about it.

its when you go to hand off your card that they gasp audibly, drawing the attention of both yourself and the woman behind the counter.

“you’re not going to ask for a discount? i mean you know the owner, right?”

she jumps back quick enough to dodge the errant elbow you throw her way.

you knew you would regret telling her.

the woman is undeterred as she take your card, looking bored with the news. “so you know sukuna, huh?” the way she said it implied that it wasn’t the first time it had been made known to her.

you had known the man long enough to know where her thoughts were going with that assumption. sukuna wasn’t only popular for his art. a shudder rolled through your body at the idea of being categorized as one of his flings.

it wasn’t as though you were intentionally shaming the women. but it was sukuna. the same guy who locked you and his younger brother out on the patio whenever he was meant to keep an eye on you. and then blamed you for hiding from him when the responsible adults got home.

in hindsight, maybe you should have chosen another location. but now your card has been charged.

you scribbled your signature on the receipt, “uh yeah, awhile now. im not requesting him or anything.”

“his appointment book is full anyway. he doesn’t take walk ins.” its not said snidely, just matter of fact. as if she was seasoned with dealing with these kind of customers.

the man of topic strides in then, carrying a few bags of take-out that he drops carelessly onto the counter. he doesn’t m look unlike any other day, a loose white sleeveless shirt with a low hanging v-neck that just invited attention to his skin. the swirls of black ink made permanent by his hand only. though that was the advantage of this field and owning your own business on top of it.

sukuna was prepared to ignore the clientele planted at front desk, until he did a double take. those vermilion eyes took you in, morphing from speculation, to shock, a pinch of awe, then back to postulation.

“what are you doing here?”

a small frown mars you face. you didn’t actually consider that perhaps sukuna wouldn’t want you here. it was one thing to know the guy, but whether you wanted to accept it or not, you weren’t just another customer. so you unsurely respond with, “getting a tattoo?”

the snort he gives isn't one of annoyance. in fact its almost comforting to see the minuscule curl of his lips until they start to part, “yeah, missing something aren’t you?”

you realize with a frown that he’s referring to his brother.

“i have other friends.”

that slow smile wides as he gives your friend a brief look of appreciation. suddenly all those years of witnessing him cart his flings around rise to the forefront of your mind.  really nothing rarely changed. “ i can see that.”

his gaze cuts back to you, “what are you getting? your boyfriends name?”

you cant tell if he’s teasing, fishing or a combination of them both.

he turns to lean over the counter, arms flexing at the action and pinches the fresh design still hot from the printer. you resist the urge to shuffle in place as he inspects the image with more interest than there were lines. it was hardly all that complex, just as you intended.

sukuna finally voices his opinion, to no surprise of your own. “yeah? kind of small isn’t it?”

“its my first sukuna,” you drawl.

you realize too late that the wording isnt best around him.

“no kidding.”

he tugs a styrofoam box free from the plastic bag before gesturing to you with a tilt of his head.

“alright, lets knock it out.”

you look to the woman expecting her to complain about his pending appointments but she only returns it with a pointed look. when it came down to it, what the boss wanted goes.

right then.

turning, you address your friend who seemed more invested in watching sukuna’s departure. “are you coming?”

her gaze snaps to you and she doesn’t even bother to pretend. she shrugs, “you may not be squeamish about needles but i am.” her hand waves vaguely towards the lounge area near the coffee station and stack of assorted snacks. “i’ll come running if you scream though,” she teases as you turn down the hall.

sukuna’s voice carries from the right in guidance where you find him setting his food off to the side. the room is neat. though you don’t know what you were expecting given the health expectations lining his work. then again, you’d spent the better part of the decade watching him cart week old pizza boxes out of his room so it was hardly a baseless assumption.

aside from the desk of tools and variety of inks the only other defining feature was the wall at the back. there was no rhyme or direction to the madness. the once white wall was littered with varying penmanships and messages. almost like an autograph book. some derogatory, others genuinely thankful for his work - you think you see a few numbers too.

the cushion of the seat protests under his weight as he rolls to the center of the room. he has the stencil of your chosen art held up in expectation.

“where is this pretty little thing going?”

“oh my rib- here on the right.” you think nothing of bringing up the hem of your shirt to expose the skin just under the curve of your breast.

he almost looks impressed, though there is some doubt. he wheels closer and gives no warning as his hand palpates the area. “over the bone? that’s daring for your first tattoo, princess.”

the name was nothing new, an accompaniment to yuuji’s ‘brat’.

part of you actually grateful that its sukuna. the entire shop had good reviews but it was best known for his talent. besides, the charge was already sitting on your card.

“i can handle it.”

he’s still squinting at your side, fingers tickling at your skin.

“yeah?” he answers absently. nimble digits you didn't think had any taste for delicacy carefully peel the plastic from the stencil. he doesn’t second guess himself in the slightest before pressing it to your skin.

when he pulls away, the chair follows him as he collects a hand mirror from his desk to reflect the design back to you.

“double sure?” he’s still rallying your resolve, but there is a hint of warning to his voice as professionalism seeps in.

with a firm nod you seal the deal,” yeah.”

“aright, pin up your shirt out of the way. tuck it into your bra if you want.”

you were expecting this already, given the location you’d decided on. with sukuna that action comes effortlessly without thought. it was no different than the times he’d seen you in your bathing suit, your brain reasoned. at least you still had your pants this time.

sukuna rests back into a lean against his small desk. absently you note that his eyes haven't left you once since you’d entered the room.

“eager little thing aren't you?”

but its sukuna.

you shrug.“ i guess. kind of been saving up for this one.”

the noise he makes is non-committal as he nods to the angled chair.

without your shirt there was no barrier between yourself and the leather. you expected the cold chill but the lack of stickiness kind of surprised you. once again you were reminded of the indisputable list of reviews at your fingertips.

sukuna goes about collecting the materials to disinfect your skin, angling the bottle and cotton over the trash can to catch the excess drops. satisfied with the saturation, he slides back.

you try to absorb the brief shock you feel when he applies the alcohol to your skin. it was hardly a substitute for actual bracing to come but it was good practice. when you look up, you catch his gaze again.

he’d been more observant in these last few minutes than you could ever recall sukuna caring before. maybe it was the job. though the thought of him excelling at customer service has you fighting a snort.

“cold,” you supply and he gives another grunt.

he chucks the cotton ball into the trash with all the efficiency of a man who has made a sport out of it and probably keeps score.

deciding on a solid color eliminated the need for him to break away to change shades, eliminating any surplus time keeping you in this chair.

a gloved hand braces your side, pinching the skin, while the other holding the gun rests against your sternum. when the motor starts you take a careful breath in. sukuna’s eyes raise at the sound.

“not nervous?”

you blink, expecting him to just get to it.

“uh, not really? i’ve never really been afraid of needles.”

he pauses. just when you part your lips to ask what wrong the buzzing starts.

its impossible not to tense at the first bite of the needle. but you fight the urge to jerk. it stings. the vibration of the motor is uncomfortable against your ribcage but it's not unbearable. you certainly wouldn't cry.

sukuna seems to notice it as well.

“not going to lie thought you’d be more of a cry baby? weren't you the one sobbing after you stubbed your toe.”

you latch onto the idle chatter even if it's a jibe.

“i was eleven and i sprained that toe.”

he gives you a quick glance. “sure, princess. completely called for the waterworks.”

you snort. “yeah well it made me stronger. im barely affected today.”

your words are followed by a shift of his hand as it turns to follow a line, the movement pressing firmly against the underside of your breast. you're too attentive to the needle pinching at your skin to take notice.

but sukuna does, eyes narrowing without your awareness.

“yeah, i can see that.”

rather than closing your eyes to block out the pain, you find a more comforting distraction in tracing the lines of his tattoos with your gaze. you can hardly make out the first tattoo he’d gotten at the age of seventeen after forging his parents signature. 

the abstract design had now branched out, interlocking with new styles to map out the formation of a sleeve. it was almost like his own branded language. a dialect of bold shapes and bands. you’d never thought to actually ask what his tattoos meant. nor did you expect an honest answer.  

sukuna works rather quickly and efficiently while your mind wandered. even if he hadn’t squeezed you in during his lunch break this felt like the usual pace for him. he looked so in the zone as he followed the pre-made lines to perfection.

you weren’t the model customer, still having your brief moments of weakness but he rolled with the interruptions better than you expected. sukuna was brash growing up and didn’t tolerate nonsensical people. you’d had your fair share of opportunities to be chewed out by him.

and earned a reasonable amount of them, though your returning attitude said otherwise.

but this sukuna was softer, if you could put it like that. he knew the right time to give you breaks but didn’t let your nerves settle too much. when he wasn’t adding a layer to permanency to your skin, an errant finger would smooth over the swelling flesh.

more than once you heard him throw out a quiet good girl. that you knew was meant to be encouraging but it came with additional implications that tickled your skin.

he tells you that you should be grateful that the artwork doesn’t need any shading. that it was never a good fit for beginners.

your chest expands the furthest it had in the last half hour when he finally rolls back.

“alright, princess, go ahead and take a look.”

you take the offered mirror again and angle it to take in the fresh piece. the reflection you get back is- amazing. you’d been so concentrated?? on micromanaging the pain that you failed to take in the little details he’d added along with the original design.

as if reading your thoughts, he snorts. “it's not my art if i don't leave my mark. you can tell me it looks good you know.”

if you didn't know any better, you’d say he was authentic in his attempt to bait your approval.

and you had no reason not to provide.

your legs are a little shaky but you manage to balance yourself before brining the eldest itadori into a hug. sukuna goes stiff for a moment before returning the embrace and doesn’t resist when you press your face into his shoulder. there’s an awkward pat before they release each other from the hold.

sukuna .. before he’s shrugging you off.

“god, what a noob. at least let me cover it up. you’re going to irritate the skin.”

when he turns back to rummage through his desk you note the hint of a flush creeping up his nape. you know better than to mention it, instead just smiling at his back.

there is a scowl on his face as he applies the cotton square to your skin and tapes it in place.

“please do not itch this shit. i don’t care if you feel like your skin is going to fall off.”

he presses a small tube of antibiotic into your hand.

“and apply this daily. you don't need it drying out. “

you’re grateful for the little slip of printed instructions that follow. you were able to remember the sensible directions but it couldn't hurt to have additional guidance when you started to question the progress.

“oh and no sex.”

that was definitely not on the list.

sukuna raises a brow in all seriousness. “what? if you get your blood pumping too much.”

you call him on his bullshit,” this small? hardly. “

he raises his hands in mock surrender. “alright, try it yourself if you want. i charge for touch ups though.”

the two of you size each other up. just like old times.

with a sigh you relent, “fine, no sex.”

“good, see me in two weeks.”

his words stop you short. it wasn’t as if you needed anything added and he wasn’t a physician checking on your progress. if anything, you would only revisit your artist if there was a problem.

“what for?”

the dawning grin would follow you for the next fourteen days.

“to make sure you didn’t have sex.”