#its name is a click bait

[tesadict]

Stanford "Brain Guy" Pines vs common sense, go!!!

Though I must admit, it IS funnier to think your cat uses the covers of your books to swear due to not knowing swears in Morse code. Not that it may be a miserable little man instead of a nice smart kitty.

@dark-lord-of-awesomeness 's Cat Stan au has entered my mind and is refusing to leave it. You can say, it cat-burglared its way here. I was craving content, rereading the main story, until I realised I have the power of cartoonized cats on my side. Though it is unlikely that I will post a lot seeing as I'm currently drowning in study.

P. S. If you can't read my handwriting, check alt 😘

[prael]

Integrity

Newjeans Hanni x male reader smut

Happy Hanni Day!

Masterlist word count: 6,048 Kofi(donations/commissions)

It's a really long way to travel, and doubly so when you get fuck all from it. It's not like you were after anything ground-breaking—it's just a fashion show, after all.

It's about as close as you get to 'phoning it in' as a journalist. A few copy-and-paste interviews to accompany some snapshots of the season's latest designs. A couple hundred words, cut and run. Who wore what dress and who wore it the tightest. You could probably type most of it out on the plane without ever leaving your seat, and the public will still eat it up.

Somewhere over Austria, you mulled over that very fact.

Four days later, somewhere over Hungary, you're scrambling to do exactly that.

The whole thing is going fine. Fine, right up until it isn't. Maybe it's the sound of your fingers on the keys or the pocket of air that rocked the plane in that familiar gut-wrenching way, but her eyes are opening slowly. She's mouthing something, her fingers reaching around behind her, under the thin layer of blankets she is enveloped in.

"Are we there yet?" she murmurs, fishing her phone out of her blanket, sleepiness and all.

"Not even close," you say as flatly as you can, returning to a few words you'd been rolling over in your head for the better part of thirty minutes.

"What are you writing about?" She asks from down on her fully reclined seat that's moonlighting as a bed.

"You," you say with a small laugh, not looking away from your laptop.

"What about me?" Hanni's phone lights up, cutting through the darkness and finally making her face visible. The cabin is in full black-out since it's the middle of the night, and the dividers in first-class keep the two of you isolated.

"Your clothes, mostly. Generic fashion show stuff. Doesn't really matter. I put the names Gucci and Hanni Pham in an article and it sells itself. Instant clicks. S'like... two baits for one fish."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Probably is," you reply, knowing full well that there's little to be proud of in here. It's all surface level after all, since adding the things you know now might raise a few eyebrows. All the investigative journalism you've done over the past few days isn't exactly something you can write about. Though you can't deny it, an article about the beauty mark right below her waistline would probably send the masses into a frenzy.

You can hear her tapping on her screen a few more times, and with the silence in the first-class cabin at night, you find yourself focusing on those sounds more than your writing. Tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Sigh. Tap. Tap.

"What is it?"

"Can't sleep," comes her whispered reply as she pushes herself up with that strange grunt you often hear her make, propping her pillow against the bulkhead and stretching out.

"Drugs not working?"

She shakes her head. "Not doing much."

"If my typing is too loud I can stop—"

"No, you focus. I'll find something to keep myself distracted." She locks her phone again and disappears into the darkness again, her soft breathing almost inaudible. Minutes go by. You manage a full two paragraphs before hearing her moving in the darkness again.

"Hanni?"

"Shh."

The slow shifting goes on for another few seconds, and in the darkness, you can make out the movement of her blanket as she slides off the chair down to your feet. What hits you next is her fingers reaching into your waistband.

"Hann—"

"Quiet," she whispers back. You quickly pick up the laptop from resting on your lap before her attempts to undress you can send it crashing to the floor. You're quick to place it on her seat and close its cover, out of her reach just in time before she slides your pants down.

She doesn't say anything, just lets you lay there in silence as her fingers guide you into her mouth. It is almost unnerving how used to it you have become in such a short time—how easy it has become for you, a supposed professional, to mix business and pleasure to this degree.

Hanni goes on unperturbed, wetting you between plump lips that trail up and down your length.

There is nothing you can do at this point but give in and just throw your head back. You grow harder under her touch and her tongue and judging by the way she grows more aggressive with her movements, Hanni is starting to enjoy herself as well. You can't quite make out her face, but you already know the look she's wearing. Can practically see it in your mind's eye; the look of wide-eyed desire as she takes you further in, lips rounding out over teeth as she welcomes every inch you give her until her cheeks cave in from sucking.

It's fucking burned into your brain. You've seen it so much, among so many other filthy expressions, you aren't sure if you could ever forget it.

Your hand reaches down blindly in the darkness until it finds the back of her head. The mere fact that the both of you are sitting on this plane hundreds of miles above the ground is instantly forgotten, fading out from consciousness and sense as she holds on, massaging your balls with one hand.

You let yourself lay there like this, fingers tangled in her hair, cock buried in her mouth. The thought of pulling her up and reciprocating is never far from your mind, but her grip on your hips is certain. This is all her right now. She's in charge.

She does not lack the pace to prove it.

Her head bobs up and down in the dark, tongue guiding you further in with every motion, lips slipping further down along your shaft, saliva pooling at your base. Her humming is growing—you can't hear it, but you can feel it. It resonates all the way through you, down the aching hardness she keeps stroking with her tongue, and even further to fuel that tension building in your lower stomach.

"Holy fuck," you curse under your breath, voice catching in your throat, lost in the motion of the plane's droning vibrations and her eager motions.

She pops you from her mouth, stroking your cock with a twist of a wrist and something she is doing with her tongue at the tip. As your eyes begin to adjust, you can see that spit has mixed with precum, dribbling down and over the back of her knuckles. It's lewd and over the top and everything that Hanni Pham, an innocent idol, pretends not to be.

"What? You want me to stop?"

"Fuck no," you whisper back, heart pumping in your ears. The feeling of her strokes, suddenly more controlled and tense without the benefit of her mouth is as jarring as it is fleeting.

"Didn't think so." With that, she brings her head back down to take you in her mouth again, hot breaths hitting the spit-slick surface of your dick. It's dirty and clumsy, messy and wet, and each time she swallows you, your entire body shudders with pleasure, coiling every muscle and feeling it climb upward until your stomach goes tight and you find yourself pushing her down, further, faster, until she is sucking what little air she has.

You are wound tight. Agonising, torturous tension pulling ever outward from your centre with each motion she makes. Every twitch of her tongue—fuck, does she work her tongue—spurs some sort of response down to the very tips of your toes.

It's a complete relapse. Back to four days ago, in the back of the car, with nothing but a divider between you and the driver. Cumming inside Hanni's pretty mouth and feeling her swallow every bit, then going on like nothing happened.

-

There's usually not a lot of enthusiasm for an interview. You have spent the whole morning being shrugged off by star after star after star. To them, they're there to look pretty. To show face and represent their brands. Answers are pre-written garbage to be regurgitated over and over like everyone is sharing the same stupid fucking tongue.

Then there's little miss backless-top. Denim jeans and a shirt with frills that barely keeps her modesty. Big, brown eyes and a smile that fills her whole face. Add her vibrance and energy and she really gets your journalistic gears turning. There's something fresh about her. How when you approach her, she engages you in a conversation like you're an actual person and not just some cardboard cut-out of a journalist.

Hanni Pham knows her shit. It's part of the training. She handles media with all the grace of someone born to do it and the energy of someone who loves it. So not only does she give you answers there and then, but when you make the request to sit down with her later and get all you need to do a whole feature on her, she's quickly turning to the powers that be to make it happen.

She should have been a ten-minute addendum. An hourglass figure strutting and posing and laughing her pretty little ass off for cameras for the adoring public. Instead, Hanni fucking Pham, you've got her. For hours.

So you sit down in a quiet little room you managed to reserve with the company card, and she's right across from you, with two glasses of water and a notepad on a table in an otherwise empty room.

"Is this going to be recorded?" She asks first, though looks sceptical and unprepared.

"Normally, yes. But I would prefer us to be a little more comfortable. I'm going to take notes, that's all."

"I like that." She claps, like there's an imaginary audience watching, even if you're the only one there. "So, what are we covering?"

"Everything. To start," you shift a little closer to the table. "Think of this being more about you rather than what you're wearing."

She gives you a little bit of a quizzical look.

"I know. Fashion show. Just, work with me here. The Gucci brand gets the clicks, I want to introduce those clickers to the girl wearing the clothes."

Hanni nods, her eyes light up a little and you can't help but notice how she is really fucking adorable. Up close, she's even prettier. It throws you off for a second as you bring up the notepad. The blank pages stare up at you—mock you. Where do you even begin?

"We met briefly earlier, and you're standing alongside stars from many industries and the lead designer at Gucci."

"Yes," she smiles politely. "That was exciting. Kind of surreal, really."

"So what does it take to be who you are? A girl of Vietnamese blood, born in Melbourne, working in South Korea and travelling to Europe for fashion shows?"

"Uhm, like, honestly?" She shifts in her seat. "Really a lot of hard work. Endless and stressful and never-ending hard work. You know? From singing and dancing, to the language lessons and the dieting and working out. It needs hard work and, well, a lot of luck too."

"You make your own luck." You nod, before jotting down into your notepad.

She tilts her head in response. "I suppose so. That's very quotable if you want. I made my own luck by working hard."

"And yet you're still young, what, turning twenty?"

"Just." Hanni nods.

"Barely twenty and making waves. Do you still feel like you have so much more to give?"

"Oh fuck yeah," she quickly confirms. "Wait, don't write that down."

"Oh... fuck... yeah." You sound out the words as you pretend to write them in the notepad.

"Hey!" Hanni laughs, and it's beautiful. It fills the room and just makes her glow with warmth. "Cut me some slack."

"Alright. Alright. So is this what you envisioned? Being twenty and being here?"

"You mean in this room with you?"

You laugh too. The jokes come so naturally to her.

"I'm happy where I am, it really was always my dream."

"To be in this room with me?"

"Fuck you," she laughs. "But, in a way, yes. I wouldn't be here if I didn't achieve my dream, would I?"

"That's very true. Then what is next for you?"

"There's no end goal." Hanni tilts her head. You follow her hand as it passes through her hair. She's studying you just like you are studying her. "I don't think I'll ever sit back and say 'that's enough.' That's not who I am."

"Ambitious. The question now is what are you chasing?"

"Is that you asking or the article?"

"Both," you say with a wry smile.

"For the article: I want to tour the world, keep improving and working hard. Release more music."

You scribble down a few notes and then click the top of the pen. "And off the record?"

"To spend a little more time focusing on myself. Time is fleeting. I should try and enjoy it while it lasts."

"You're young, pretty and successful. You have plenty of opportunity to do just that."

"Is that flirting?" she jokes, cocking her brow with a seductive smile.

"I'm just stating facts. I'm married to the truth." You gesture to your notepad. "So let's get back on the record, shall we?"

-

One delayed layover later and you're back in the air, and after your brief break to let Hanni drain you into her throat, you managed to get back to finishing up the article, so for the final stretch, the two of you are lying together in one of the first-class beds, and the conversation kept going.

"How are you single?" she's asking, while you're spooning her.

"Mostly because of my job. Definitely the baggage and constant travelling. Takes a special woman to not hate this."

"Sounds like idol life. I know so many idols who try to date but you just never have the time to see each other. We tour constantly and are always on the road. A long day of practising and comeback planning and comeback filming and comeback rehearsing, and more hours of sleep and eating to prep for the next comeback, you're always too exhausted."

"Such a shame." You lower the blanket that's covering her bare chest. Her breasts fill your palm as you caress them, gently. "A pretty thing like you deserves so much better than empty hotel rooms."

"Flirt," she playfully chastises, pressing her ass to your crotch before sliding forward to give you some friction, grinning at you over her shoulder. "These past few days, all the sex, I'd be lying if I said I couldn't get used to this."

It's a sentiment so heavily shared, that even now you're thinking about how easy it would be to pin her onto her back and mount her. It isn't easy to shake the thought when her body is practically inviting you inside her.

You're asking instead, still exploring her naked form, "How do you overcome the needs?"

"Other ways..." Hanni replies through closed eyes, her cheeks blushing. "Toys. Helps and hurts. They're no real substitute."

You run your hand over her toned stomach, heading between her thighs and gently prying them open. And there she is. Right fucking there, wet and waiting for you. Your finger glides over her lips and runs the full length of her, and she strains to contain a gentle moan. The problem is, Hanni is really fucking loud, and the walls of this pod are paper thin.

"I want you again," she whispers, and it's a real fucking dilemma.

She guides your cock through the folds of her pussy and leans back her head as she takes it. Fuck, it feels so good being back inside her. Wet and tight and made to grip. A small whimper escapes her when you are in deep, which she tries to swallow.

"You gotta be quiet," you tell her, while all but refusing to move inside her.

"I can be quiet," she grinds against you, but you're not convinced, and with a firm grasp of her jaw, you pull her closer.

"Can you?" you speak under her ear. "Can the oh-so-talented Hanni Pham control herself?"

She lets out another trembling little sound of pleasure while pushing herself onto your shaft. "I think so. All I know is you need to—yeah, right there. Yes." She closes her eyes and tries to stifle that deep groan of enjoyment.

You hush her before it gets too loud with a hand over her mouth. Tentatively, you begin moving, an aching slow journey backward and forward. As tight as her cunt is around your dick, the movement becomes easy. Dragging more pleasure from both of you and as she rolls her hips again, grinding against the motion, the whimpering returns.

"Hanni," you scold gently, pushing further into her with each stroke. "Shhh."

She mouths an 'I can't' into your hand which elicits a laugh from you and turns a smirk into a smile. You're rutting against her ass, savouring the feeling of your hips hitting her soft flesh. Ample curves along with a narrow waist begging you to embrace her. A pretty little thing taking all your cock and urging you on. It's hard not to go harder. "Need you."

"Careful what you wish for," you whisper as she tries to lean back her head in bliss.

Her tongue brushes your knuckles, and the soft sweep feels like a warm, wet invitation to probe further. A few seconds of uncertainty follows, and then her mouth closes around the tips of your fingers and starts to suck. Sharing the same excitement that has gotten the better of you the past few days of endless debauchery.

You sink your fingers deeper. She sucks harder, her moans stifled behind her pursed lips. Anywhere but here and you would throw her face down on the mattress, fuck her into a state of bliss. Make her beg for you and claw the bedsheets. Such an innocent girl, a girl who should have stayed wrapped in silk and lace, but who demands you take her, just a moment longer, just a bit rougher, and how can you refuse a beauty like that?

Just as Hanni settles and relaxes, her body is dragged into tense peaks of delight. Tiny gasps leak from around your fingers as you thrust deeper. She chokes as she orgasms, digging her nails into the arm that is holding her close, her face going bright pink. Sweat on her temples, on her chest. An earthly aroma of wet skin and hot breaths. She swears and curses the pleasure as you pump your orgasm between her thighs.

You fill her. For a while, you are one, grinding together in mutual fulfilment, breathing heavily and lost in your actions. The mess you're making runs from her sweet cunt, down her thigh, onto the bed.

The rush leaves the both of you exhausted. Hanni does nothing to resist you pulling out and emptying the last few drops over her ass. It is all over as quick as it began. It comes with a strange realisation of how natural it all feels to cum inside Hanni Pham.

-

It's not often that someone you interview not only takes your card, but doesn't immediately throw it away, and actually uses the number on there. You're in the back of a cab when it rings. Today's show has just about finished and while you didn't quite manage to snag another interview like the one you did with Hanni, it has been a good day.

"Did you get enough to write about?" is the first question she asks when you answer.

"I got a few bits here and there. Some surface-level stuff from others, but you gave me the marquee piece. I'll fluff up what I have with the spec sheets released and I'm sure it'll be a nice little exclusive."

"That makes me sound important," she giggles.

"You're a fucking celebrity, of course you are important."

"No need to swear."

"Apologies." There's a momentary pause. You let it linger on the call and soon enough, Hanni's laugh fills the silence.

"I'm kidding. Keep up that energy,"

"So, why are you calling? Usually, when I get a call it's to recant some statement or explain a misquote. Did I make a mess of something?"

"Well, not yet. But I have some ideas."

"Ideas?" You repeat, brows raising.

"Where are you now?" she asks, and for a moment you wonder if you shouldn't be answering.

"Taxi. Headed back to the place I'm staying."

"Where are you staying?" It's a strange question for her to ask, you think. Or maybe, it's not strange at all, but timing and circumstance have you considering the way it sounds.

"A hotel."

"Look to your right," she says, making a confusing request, but you look. Of course, you do. Outside the window, in the next lane over, stuck in the very same traffic as you are, is a familiar face. She gives you the widest grin, pressing the phone to her ear.

"Are you following me?" you joke.

"Do you want me to?" There's something playful in her voice, an attempt at seduction that's not exactly subtle.

"Hanni, what are—"

"Just answer the question," she interrupts.

And that's it. There's no reason to evade the truth. Lying to yourself gets no one anywhere. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Good," she murmurs, "you know, I'm still wearing the same outfit as I was at the event. These jeans are getting really uncomfortable." She pulls the phone away from her ear for a second and you hear her call out, "Driver? See that taxi on our left? Follow it, please. And can I get some privacy back here?"

There are some distant sounds from the other side of the phone. An affirmation of orders. Then her voice is right back with you.

"As I was saying, these jeans are really uncomfortable."

"Fashion can hurt," you say flatly.

"You're supposed to tell me to take them off or something. You're not very good at this are you?"

"I didn't realise 'this' is what we were doing." You've developed a stupid fucking smile, even if it's going unseen.

"Hmm, it can be." There is a moment of quiet as if she's thinking. "Hold on a second," Hanni says. There are some vague sounds you can't make out before she comes back to the phone. "Got bored of waiting. Now, keep talking will you? I like the sound of your voice."

"Hanni, what—"

"Just keep talking. Tell me what you think of me." She can't see it, but the look of confusion must be shining bright on your face. At a loss, and under duress, you speak your mind.

"Well, you seem nice." It's a weak first effort. "Very funny, a little confident. You must know you're pretty. Young, but driven." The words you mumble are stilted, but telling the truth.

"Really. You think I'm pretty?"

"Yeah."

"Not sexy?"

"Hanni, you're fucking sexy."

"Thanks," her laugh is like bells, ringing through the car. "That's better. What did you think of my outfit?"

"Daring. Not often do I see an idol go completely backless. Risky."

"Sometimes a risk is worth taking."

"Seems so."

"Tell me more. Tell me what was the part you liked the most?" Her voice drops from that relaxed confidence to a pitch that has your head buzzing with possibility.

"Nice waist. Really looked good with the way those jeans hugged your hips."

There's a long, heavy breath from the other end of the line. Something rustling and then a deep gasp from Hanni.

"What's happening?"

"Nothing. Keep talking. Describe me to me." Her voice is fraught with need, a small tremble in each word.

"Okay." That was permission, or demand, whichever is. You swallow before continuing. "Backless was a good choice. Your bare skin looks great. I'm sure those pictures are going viral already. Betting they are all over the web, all over people's phones."

"Are we close to your hotel?" Hanni strains out the question as if it were hard to say, every syllable wrought in pain.

"Close."

"Good, are you excited?"

"To?"

"See more of my bare skin."

Fuck. The image floods your mind like a dam breaking. Suddenly, she's right there, unclothed and naked and spread open. Suddenly, she's right there, moaning in pleasure, your cock lodged deep inside her.

"Yes," you groan into the phone. It's a painful admission. "Really, Hanni. Really fucking excited."

"So tell me, what are you excited to see?"

"Your ass. Love the way you wore the jeans just a little too tight. Really framed it."

She whispers, "That's all? Anything else, anything special you wanted to see?"

"Your breasts. Like what the top does. Would like to pull it down and play with those breasts." This whole thing is obscene. You're shamelessly spilling your desire to a girl you just met and she's loving every second of it.

Another soft gasp is heard on the call. It's more than that, it's her panting, short snatches of breath as her little gasps become regular, heated and urgent. "And then what?"

"That's a surprise. We're here." The cab pulls up and her car pulls in behind you.

"Room number?"

"Oh-one-two-two," you say, handing over cash to pay the driver and stepping out. "See you there."

-

It's deep into the night now, and her back is pressed against the wall as you're kissing down her neck. For a young woman who looks ever so innocent, you're quickly learning the taste of her body could have the alcohol industry aflame. She's intoxicating and you're addicted. Lips sucking, teeth pressing lightly against tender flesh.

She told you to not wear a condom, not this time. She described your first load as a waste, a sinful injustice after all the things she had done to wring it from you. So now you're back inside her, thinking only of how you're going to decorate her this time, about the moment you can't hold back any longer and cum, uninhibited, spewing mess over her delicate, flawless little body.

So you're just fucking nailing Hanni against the wall, her leg pulled up and knee hooking around your elbow. Holding her there, pounding her cunt the best you possibly can. Her hands scratch deep lines into your back, and her fingernails leave dull aches along your spine. There's something primal in the way she's urging you to fuck her harder, stronger, faster. She wants all of you, just like you want all of her.

You lift her other leg and hold her there, folded against the drywall. The steady pounding begins to churn her insides, to break her fragile body to the rhythm. She's mewling a mixture of sounds in your ear. Begging. Incoherent sounds of need. Then you feel her cunt clenching and tightening, a sudden strength to the grip she has on your shaft.

Hanni screams your name, howling it at the ceiling and the walls while you drive her ever deeper through an orgasm that's torn apart her expression. Utter beauty, sheer excellence. Her quivering pleasure comes with warmth between the two of you. She cums so hard that she goes limp in your arms. Your legs really begin to strain as you pump her full of cock, and her lips find yours again.

Your kisses are savage, the gnashing of teeth and the crush of lips. She's asking for more. Demanding more.

So you throw her to the bed, turning her over and she instinctively drags herself to her knees. Her palms run to the edge of the bed, clawing the blankets as you climb behind her.

"Do you like my ass?" She breathes. Your grip finds the firm flesh with purpose.

"Love your ass," you mutter, taking a hold and angling her towards you.

"Then fuck me." Hanni arches deep, pushing her soft ass in the air and pressing her tits against the mattress. She backs right up to you, begging to be fucked, once more.

The penetration is perfect. Balls deep inside this horny little girl, grabbing a fistful of her hair and using it as leverage. It's hard, it's fast, it's a brutal rut. A sweaty, wet fuck driven by nothing but raw need. She's too wet, too accommodating, clapping herself against your pelvis, meeting your every thrust.

It's not the time to think. Simply let instinct take over. Leaning into it and fucking her.

More words spill from her mouth. More dirty, lewd praises that have your balls aching. It won't be long now. Every muscle, straining with effort, pulls taut. It's such a fucking trip. This once innocent-looking person sucking the life right from the core of your being, bending over for you to force a hand along her spine and bend her further.

"Cum on me," she whimpers again and again. Over and over. She's pleading with you. "Please, cum on me. On my back. Cover me."

There's no further thought, no plan, no point of focus. Everything narrows down to the slick friction around your shaft, and your stomach starting to become strained from the endless effort. To how her ass shakes as your fuck yourself to the edge and how she cranes her neck to watch you.

At the very last moment, you draw out of her and jerk yourself, quick and urgent motions of your wrist. Hanni's knees give way and she lies flat, looking back and watching you as you start to cover her.

The first spurts land high, just beneath her hair. They collect and pool before forming and dripping forward along her shoulder blades. The next spreads across her shoulders. A thin coating that has you shiver as it lands. It goes on and on until you're slathering her in thick lines and ropes.

Something about the sight is so fitting, so delectable, as she lays there and writhes with need, adoring the feeling of being bathed in your lust.

Her expression is an aphrodisiac as she cries out in ecstasy. Her tongue runs across her lips, and then she lets out a soft lass before crashing her face into the soft bedsheets with a moan. Your fist is still pumping rope after rope of cum across her until every muscle feels drained, and you manage to collapse beside her on the bed. You trace a finger across her smooth, plump ass as you catch your breath.

"This is the life," Hanni gasps. "If I could just have endless sex, the world would be a far happier place."

-

You could have been forgiven for thinking it would be a one-off. Just one night of wild sex together before going your separate ways and never speaking again. A nice memory of a beautiful girl to always sit fondly at the back of your mind.

But the very next night, you're in her hotel bathroom. Sharing a bath together, her back pressed flush to your front. You can't fucking resist running a hand between her thighs, working gently over her cunt to hear the wonderful noises she makes.

"Please," she whispers over and over, grinding against your touch.

Ordinarily, you might tease her, and have her beg a little more, but there's nothing more enthralling than the sounds and sights of Hanni's face when she cums. So instead, you're knuckle deep with two fingers and curling them into her cunt, hitting that magic spot just a little more, faster and faster.

On the brink of her second orgasm in ten minutes, Hanni draws a noisy, shuddering breath, the exhalation quickly becoming a sharp, high-pitched wail that fills the bathroom, her eyes glaze as she climaxes. "Fuck. I—that's—more." Her head falls backwards and rests on your shoulder, "yeah, more."

Hanni's petite frame writhes in orgasm. Back arched, panting breaths quickly turning to gasps for air. Eyes flutter and roll backwards before shutting entirely. Every muscle in her tight cunt grips your fingers as waves of pleasure pour from deep inside. She grinds on you, riding the sensation of your touch through the spasms until they finally slow.

"You're so fucking cute when you cum," you kiss her cheek.

It's the compliment that has her rising from the water, she stands in front of you, her wet ass and thighs dripping as she turns toward you. "Me? Cute?" She smirks, lowering herself onto your thighs, resting your cock against her pussy. "Am I really?"

"Cutest fucking thing."

She guides your cock to her wet pussy, sinking down and slowly filling herself, the both of you making a whimper at the sensation. She's in no rush, though. She prefers slow, she favours long, lingering motions where you're all the way inside her and stay there for just a few moments before climbing once more.

Her rhythm has you melting back against the bath. Long, even strokes have her ass lifting and sinking, and she rolls her hips so elegantly that it's natural to reach for her waist and run your hands along her curves.

"I hope you don't think I'm easy," Hanni whispers, her fingers grabbing the hair on the back of your head, locking her hot body against yours, keeping you close, wrapping around you. "But I'm twenty and sex-deprived, so deal with it."

"You're allowed to enjoy sex. Nothing wrong with that," you answer through closed eyes, focusing only on the heat, the skin, the feeling of your cock rubbing through her.

With a mischievous chuckle, she rests her weight on you. Chest to chest, nose against nose.

"Careful," she whispers, her voice fluttering in between soft sighs of excitement. "I could get used to having a man around. Someone willing to get me off, over and over again. You might be stuck with me. Wouldn't that be scandalous? A reporter who's secretly fucking a star like me?"

That alluring, seductive voice makes your body tense. Her kiss threatens to undo you right then and there. She's riding you harder now, bouncing her ass in your lap. Driving the pleasure, the friction, harder and deeper.

"I have a confession to make," you speak with heavy breaths, trying to restrain yourself. "I think I could get used to this. Every day. If I could."

"It's a deal then. How about we celebrate by letting you blow a load inside me? Would you like that?" She nibbles at your earlobe, giggling as she sucks it between her lips. "How good would it feel to feel your hot, thick cum slide all the way up inside me?"

"So fucking good."

"And maybe tomorrow I'll keep you inside me and let you fill me all over again, and maybe I'll do the same the day after." There's a devilish smile across her face as she continues, "I'll ride you again and again and again..."

She keeps repeating it, the word stamped into your head over and over and each time she says it, she drives her hips down into you. Hard. The water ripples. Her ass slaps the tops of your thighs. It's a relentless rhythm, an insistent grind, a desperate desire for more.

"You're filthy," you tell her as you take a firm grip on her ass, her flesh filling your grasp and the muscles rippling through her skin as she moves.

"Maybe. Maybe I am, and maybe you like it." She laughs. A sound as sweet as honey.

"You know I do."

"Then show me how much. Fill me. Let it go."

That's all you need, just her words and the way she fucks you. She's the one doing all the work, and it's all the reason you need to relax and let the bliss consume you.

Hanni is kissing you when it hits. She swallows your groans of release, sucking them into her lungs. Her hands press down into your shoulders, nails sinking deep into your skin.

She doesn't stop moving, not once. Keeps grinding. She maintains the pace until you can't take any more. Until there's nothing left. Only then does she ease her motion, settling onto your lap, keeping you deep in her.

"That was amazing," she sighs.

"Fucking was."

[milkbobatyun]

the emperor's mistakes

pairing: michael kaiser x reader

genre: angstober, events

summary: he let his anger get the better of him again and once more you were the one he directed his anger towards

word count: 968

C O N T E N T W A R N I N G : injury, implied abuse

a/n: for you @nfekwefdskldm cus you're such a big kaiser simp smh

at the kitchen counter, a pile of steaming dishes in front of you as you sat, staring listlessly into the flickering flame, waiting for michael to come back. in the midst of the banquet sat a singular blue rose in its crystal vase—a flower michael had gotten you last week, to apologise for another fight the two of you had.

the old grandfather clock ticked away, steady like a heartbeat. it was almost 10, way past the time that michael normally came home. your hand itched to call him on your phone, but the memory of last time made your breath hitch in your throat. his fury echoed in your ears: “stop being such a busybody.”

he had come home after with fire burning in his eyes, screaming at you, his words blending into a blur of rage and hurtfulness. as if the verbal assault wasn’t enough to satisfy his anger, he had raised his hand against you. to this day, your cheek bore the scar where his ring had cut deeply into the flesh.

the flame flickered, throwing shadows that danced and taunted you across the walls. you couldn’t go to bed early, he expected you to greet him at the door after all. each second passed with a mix of fear and baited breath.

you were about to doze off, the quiet ambience lulling you to sleep, when you heard the jangling of keys at the front door. 

sliding down the bar stool, you padded to the door, quietly greeting kaiser as he entered. but just one glance from him and your words died in your throat. his face was thunderous, frustration emulating from his visage. the look sent a shiver of fear down your spine, as you bowed your head and averted your eyes, shrinking into yourself to make yourself unnoticeable.

it was best if you didn’t anger him further tonight, yet no matter what you did, it seemed to tick him off even further.

he stalked past you wordlessly, slamming the door as he entered his study.

under your breath, you counted silently to 3 before you heard the tell-tale sign of kaiser’s anger. the muffled thuds of books falling to the floor, intertwined with the tingle of pens created a symphony of fury, conducted by the egoist himself.

sighing, you sat down on the large couch, hoping he would calm down soon. on the kitchen table, the food slowly grew cold.

10 minutes, 20 minutes, half an hour passed before the house was finally silent again.

you gave yourself some time before taking in a deep breath and calming your jittering nerves. your worries were rational, no one knew what this wild beast would do in his fits of rage.

tentatively, you knocked on his door. once, twice, thrice. you called out his name, still no answer. you reached out a shaking hand, turning the cold doorknob, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

the chaos of scattered papers and pens, discarded paper weights and overturned chairs were strewn about the room, the remainder of a hurricane. in the eye of the storm, kaiser sat, slumped in his chair, his hands buried in his hair, quietly muttering words of german in anger.

hearing the door open, kaiser’s head shot up, frustration an ugly mask on his face.

“get out!” he roared, slamming his fist on the table. “get out! get out! get out!”

you were too slow for his liking, so he grabbed a nearby book, throwing it in your direction.

time seemed to slow, as you watched the heavy, bound book fly towards your face. pain exploded in bright hot bursts where the corner ripped through your skin, blood flowing freely down your temple.

surprise was etched on your face, as you reached out a trembling hand to your head, fingers staining with your blood. still in a state of white shock, you closed the door with a gentle click.

the door locked away the wrath of kaiser’s anger, but it still echoed in the silence. the sting of the book had turned into a dull throbbing, a ghostly trail of rusted blood on your face.

stumbling into the bathroom, you caught a glimpse of yourself. how had the bright-eyed, cheerful you, turned into this life-less, pathetic ghost of a shell?

gently, you disinfected your wound, hissing at the singing pain that ran through you.

back in the living room, you lowered yourself onto the couch, exhaustion weighing you down. you were tired, you wanted to sleep. to rest. forever seemed like a long enough time.

you were tired of this relationship. you wanted to be free, but your tender heart and lovesick brain believed you could change him for the better. how naïve.

when kaiser had calmed down from his fury, he began picking up the objects strewn around the room.

as he bent to pick down the book lying in front of the door, his fingers came away sticky and coated in blood. your blood.

guilt twisted and gnawed at his insides. once again, he had caused you pain. he was so weak-minded, every time anger consumed him like a flame, you were always the one to bear the brunt of his fury. the bitter taste of defeat was on his tongue.

 every time, he promised that he would do better, rein in the anger, but his temper always won. he was weak to anger, quick to give up. that was not the way an emperor should act.

it was also not the way an emperor should treat his empress, he thought bitterly. once again, his fury had caused you to be hurt. how could he make it up to you this time?

for once, he suspected that no matter how grand, how sincere his apologies were, it may never be enough.

taglist (open): @leehanscorydora, @pastelmitzuki, @nfekwefdskldm

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobatyun 2024 / づ ♡

[wileys-russo]

tiny red hearts II a.putellas

tiny red hearts II a.putellas

amid the pandemic everyone picked up a hobbie in lockdown.

if it be knitting, dancing, pottery, reading, cooking, puzzles. you name it, someone had likely perfected it as an art form during those weeks and weeks locked away from society.

for you it was no different. you'd tried cooking, reading, jigsaws, colouring in, sudoku, even gardening but nothing really clicked.

until one day you were endlessly doom scrolling your various social medias as again, everyone was, when you stumbled across a nail art video. intrigued you'd watched it, then another, and another, and another, the worm hole you fell down was one that was long and steep and swift.

then before you knew it you had package after package arriving on your doorstep, much to your girlfriends confusion at your sudden online shopping habits. normally you were quite the stickler for the 'its a want not a need' type attitude, but with the packages snatched up and hidden away in your room the days melted into weeks as you worked tirelessly to perfect your new art.

and a week of hard work and countless hours spent watching youtube tutorial after youtube tutorial later holed up in the guest bathroom, you'd done it.

that wasn't to say your clear dedication to your new hobbie was one your girlfriend enjoyed, forever trying to bait you into doing something with her but you'd just brush her off, eyes glued to your phone screen which was propped up against a bottle of shampoo.

which is how you came to be sitting on the floor of your living room weeks and weeks later, bottles of polish sat in perfect colour coded order on the coffee table with all your little brushes and tools neatly lined up in front.

your bottom lip was firmly between your teeth, eyebrows furrowed deeply with concentration as your eyes squinted and your hand moved slowly and precisely.

your girlfriend of two years whom you shared your home with and whom you'd been locked in with for the horrendously active period of this ghastly pandemic lay stretched out on the sofa behind you, toned tanned arms crossed firmly across her chest.

her face was stoic and seemingly stern as ever, you'd forever nag her about the frown lines she was embedding into her beautifully smooth skin with the scowl she'd not even clock was on her face nearly all the time when she found herself deep in thought or lost in her own mind.

but she'd merely brush it off with a wave or a hum, nothing unusual when she was reviewing game footage and given she wasn't currently able to play her studying of games when she could had only increased.

you were off in your own little world and she was in hers, you coexisted but knew how not to be codependent, something which had surprisingly caused your relationship to stay just as strong if not more so during this lockdown together.

one of the key things that made your relationship healthy was the fact that despite how long you'd been seeing one another you still spent time apart, and despite not being able to leave the house much you still had different hobbies and interests to preoccupy your time.

you would go shopping or out for drinks with your school friends you'd known for years, as alexia would often go for dinner or hikes with some of her own childhood friends, well that was when she wasn't chasing after ball and getting grass stains all over her legs.

but that's not by any means to say you weren't positively and certainly head over heels infatuated with one another, and whenever you did spend time apart you were increasingly clingy that night once you were reunited, but when out you knew to respect one another's time and space and didn't feel the need to be texting one another the entiere time.

after all there was seldom you loved more than laying down with alexia of an evening, the two of you knew how to treasure quality time and found that so long as you were together you could be doing nothing at all and still perfectly content.

with her body warm and strong it pressed against yours as you'd lay down squished on the sofa, soft gentle kisses littered across your shoulders as your fingers intertwined and you'd take turns filling one another in on how your days were since you'd spent them apart.

back to present day sat on the floor you gave a small exhale of relief when you finally finished the intricate design you'd been working on, your frown of concentration switching quickly into a grin of delight as you slipped your hand into the UV nail lamp and waited for them to dry.

as you had been every now and then you leaned your head back to rest against the couch, knocking it back into alexias good knee and puckering your lips expectantly.

then with a smile and a small chuckle your girlfriend pulled herself up to sit with a quiet grunt, leaning down and rewarding you with a soft kiss before returning back to her previous position.

punching the pillow behind her head and wiggling slightly until she was comfortable, her foot poked at your shoulder every now and then as if to reassure her you were still there without needing to look.

since a young age you had been known to daydream.

it got you into a fair deal of trouble in school, forever having a teachers hand or a heavy textbook slammed down onto your desk with a loud bang to snap you back into reality, your peers giggling and cheeks flashed bright red as you'd smile sheepishly and do your best to focus on your lessons.

your girlfriend however had always found it adorable as much as amusing as you'd zone out from reality and go somewhere she never understood.

sometimes as you drifted away into your own head alexia would just watch you with lovesick puppy dog eyes, filled with nothing but pure adoration that was so sweet it could give someone a tooth ache, though always in the privacy and intimacy of just one another's company.

after all the big bad la reina couldn't be known to be so whipped for her girlfriend (everyone already knew she was).

case in point right now where you'd clearly drifted off somewhere as the footballers eyes glanced down toward you and her hardened features softened, corners of her mouth curled upward into a smile.

"hola, princesa." you snapped right out of it as her foot moved to poke at your cheek this time, dragging you back down to earth as you pushed it away and sent her a playful glare, pulling your other hand out and flicking off the lamp as both of them were now dry.

"look amor!" you leapt up eagerly and dropped down on the lounge next to your girlfriend, sat practically on top of her, wiggling your fingers proudly at the blonde who hummed.

"muy bien bebé." alexia complimented, leaning up and softly kissing your cheek before turning her attention back to the television where the match had resumed, as did the stoic expression on her face.

"alee." you started with a coy smile, grabbing her hand and interlacing your fingers with a gentle squeeze. "mm?" the midfielder hummed, eyes unmoving from the screen.

"can i paint your nails cari?" you asked hopefully, alexia only letting out a puff of air from her nose as she chuckled, shaking her head. "por favor you know i am good and they will look good!" you pleaded, squeezing her hand again and even kissing over her knuckles a few times.

"no mi amor, no nails." alexia shook her head as you huffed, moving to rest your chin on her shoulder, lazily kissing her jaw. "sí nails. sí, sí, sí, sí, sí-" you repeated over and over, peppering kisses across her face.

now as much as alexia could be at times be a fierce woman, driven and passionate and willing to do absolutely anything to achieve whatever she set her mind to, she had a fatal soft spot.

you.

alexia would do nearly everything that you asked of her, especially with a few choice sweet words in her ear and a charming smile you had the catalan wrapped around your little finger, and you reveled in it.

so of course it was with a deep sigh that alexia inevitably gave into your demand, wordlessly placing her free hand in your lap as you beamed and perked right up.

clapping happily you sat up properly and grabbed her chin in your hand, pecking her lips a few times and reveling in the slight pink blush which coated her cheeks.

"tan lindo." you cooed, pinching her cheeks as her eyes rolled but she made no move to argue which only caused your elated grin to grow.

you moved her hand and sat back down on the ground, staring carefully at the arsenal of colours at your disposal, taking a few moments to decide what you wanted before nodding happily and grabbing what you needed.

you settled back down on the lounge as again alexia moved her hand into your lap, eyes glued to the match as her eyebrows turned downward in frustration at a fumbled tackle and an easily preventable shot at the barcelona goal, a shake of her head and an annoyed grumble under her breath.

"you will get wrinkles corazón." you teased, smoothing out her eyebrow with your thumb as the tiniest of smiles flickered across her face just for a moment which wasn't missed by you.

"déjame en paz." the footballer muttered as you chuckled and kissed her palm sweetly, turning her hand back over and adjusting your position a little.

warning her to stay still you placed her right hand down on your knee and grabbed the first colour, tugging the coffee table closer so everything you needed was well within reach to avoid anything being knocked or falling.

much as alexia might bend over backwards to do as you asked you knew well enough if you spilled even a drop of polish on the carpet or the sofa you knew you'd be hearing about it for weeks.

as you set to work your girlfriends face remained blank, but her bright hazel eyes flickered down to you curiously every now and then, corner of her lip curling upward at the look of sheer concentration on your face and the way the tip of your tongue poked out of the side of your mouth.

finishing one hand you blew gently on the nails, unable to use the machine which was plugged in on the floor and just out of reach. though not in any rush you awaited her first hand to dry as you kept a cautious eye that she didn't move as your head dropped to her shoulder.

there was a comfortable silence between you, the only sound the occasional grunt of frustration from the taller girl whose side you were curled into, a shake of her head and something mumbled under her breath at every costly mistake.

her first hand drying you tapped her knee, gesturing for her to swing her legs into your lap so you could reach her other hand. shuffling her body she did as you asked, sliding down a little as her head thumped backward into the soft cushions behind.

you couldn't do anything to keep the smile off your face as you worked on your girlfriends nail design, incredibly happy with how it turned out as again you gently blew on her other hand, settling it back into her lap to dry same as the first one.

warning her once again about not moving you crawled up the lounge and wedged yourself into her, sitting half on top of her much to the older girls amusement as you pulled her other arm to drape across your shoulder allowing you to tuck yourself even tighter into her side.

checking a few moments later you were happy they were dry and sat up a little, shrugging off your girlfriends arm and eagerly taking her hands in yours.

"listo!" you announced happily as alexia's eyes moved from the tv to her hands which made yours seem tiny, your own gaze falling to admire both the size difference and the small 11 tattooed on the back of her palm.

"i did more of a pale pink because i know you do not like them too bright, but i did tiny red hearts on each nail for barça!" you explained with a beaming smile, alexia melting at the confession as she stole a glance toward you and softened even more seeing the clear and pure joy in your eyes.

"muy perfecto bebita." your girlfriend gave you a small smile not giving much away, one of her hands slipping around to cup the back of your neck and bringing you into a tender kiss.

"can i put them on my story? i think these are some of my favourites." you asked hopefully as alexia shrugged, eyes having returned back to the final few minutes of the match, seemingly unfazed.

grabbing your phone you positioned her hands on her knees, taking a few photos and editing your favourite before adding it onto your instagram and curling back up on top of your girlfriend who held you tightly, eyes flickering down to her nails with a small hidden smile every few minutes.

~

that next day at training was a very different story though as alexia couldn't wait to show off her nails to the rest of the team.

the morning was spent with the midfielder very proudly boasting how good you were and that you were completely self taught, ignoring all the teasing remarks thrown her way about how she'd gone soft.

when you'd come to collect her that afternoon having dropped her off and borrowed her car for the day as yours was being serviced you were overwhelmed as a small group of the girls suddenly swarmed you in the carpark.

"hey hey hey back up!" alexia warned protectively, moving in front of you with a mean stare as a few of the younger girls cowered and hurried off to their own cars as the rest rolled their eyes, knowing that really she was all bark and no bite.

"me next amiga! maybe little black hearts? or...letters!" mapi beamed, eyes flickering toward her girlfriend who caught onto what she was wanting and blushed as you laughed.

"get your own! este es mío." alexia huffed, wrapping herself around you as her chin hooked into your shoulder and she sent her best friend a glare.

"tomorrow? but you must cook me dinner as payment maría." you offered with a grin, mapi agreeing eagerly as you promised to also do ingrid's nails when you caught her frowning at you over her girlfriends head.

"sí, sí! before the next game chicas, promise." you laughed as pina, salma and cata swooped in next undeterred by the murderous glare given by your girlfriend, who refused to unwind her arms where they wrapped tightly around your torso holding your back flush to her front.

"we are going! relax capi, you will get wrinkles." cata smirked as alexia's eyes narrowed even further and the three sprinted off and away.

with a small laugh you craned your back back staring up at your girlfriend with a wide grin.

"see amor? i warned you about the frown wrinkles."

~

you expected alexia to allow the nails for a couple of days before she'd want to return back to normal with a clean set again, so you were surprised when anytime you'd offer to help her take it off she seemed to come up with every and any excuse not to.

by the end of day five with the rigorous gym program and workouts needed with alexia's recovery the polish was cracked and chipped, most of it worn off and faded, hearts now barely recognisable as just small red blobs.

it was that night alexia finally seemed eager for you to wipe them clean, again swinging her long bare legs into your lap and settling her hands on her knee for you to work on.

the removal process compared to the creation was next to nothing and before even five minutes had passed you were finished, tapping her legs to let you up to move your things back to the bathroom where they normally lived.

when you returned it was to an empty and dark living room, so changing route you followed the light at the end of the hallway where you finally found your girlfriend once more.

you held a hand over your mouth to stifle the loud boom of laughter you wished you could get out, the catalan having fallen deep asleep on top of the bed, one of your favorite dramas playing in the background where she'd clearly intended the two of you to lay in bed together and watch.

with a small sigh of amusement you flitted back around the house ensuring everything was locked before you returned, closing the bedroom door behind you with a gentle click.

the room now only illuminated by the dim glow of the tv you flicked off the downlight and you made you way around to her side of the bed and crouched down.

"amor. amor. alexia!" you called out softly, moving one arm to shake her lightly when there was no response, the blondes chocolate brown eyes fluttering open tiredly once you shook her a little harder.

"hola bebé, into bed?" you ran a hand through her mane of hair, moving a few loose strands off her forehead with a soft smile as the footballer sighed tiredly but sat up with a curt nod as you tugged down the covers allowing her to slip in properly.

already showered and changed you ducked off to the bathroom to brush your teeth before joining her, chuckling as once more she was seemingly dead to the world, mouth ever so slightly ajar as her blonde hair sprawled across the pillow.

though as the mattress dipped, never the heaviest of sleepers alexia awoke a little, turning around to her other side and shuffling down the bed as her face pressed into your neck and her long legs tangled with yours, feet rubbing against one another.

you felt an i love you mumbled against your skin as her arms wrapped tightly around your torso, latching her taller body firmly onto yours making you smile and tangle a hand in her hair, lips lingering against the warm skin of her forehead.

"te quiero más."

~

a few days later you'd removed your own nail design and sat down to try a new one, having spent a few hours scrolling through for inspiration before it struck and within minutes you'd grabbed what you needed and settled.

though before you could even glance to the bottles of polish a body dropped down next to you and suddenly strong hands were on your hips lifting you up.

"ale!" you laughed as she set you down on her lap, long legs stretched out straight as you wiggled a little to get comfortable. "my turn first please." the girl spoke in her adorably accented english, hands moving around you and placing themselves on your knees.

"oh your turn?" you asked both equally pleased and surprised, turning a little so you could look at her properly. "sí, mi novia so my turn." alexia grinned, pointing to you and then back at herself before moving her head to press a soft and tender kiss against your lips.

you smiled as you pulled away, a hand softly carressing her cheek as your thumb pulled at her bottom lip, pressing another tender kiss against them with a lovesick sigh.

"of course mi amor whatever you want. so, what colour?"

[kittenan]

The Art of Obedience

Pairing: 20 y/o curious college student!reader × 33 y/o famous anonymous kink author!Namjoon

Word Count: ~7k+

Warnings: Explicit smut, BDSM elements (tying up, spanking, fingering, blindfolding, rough sex, edging, orgasm denial, squirting), power dynamics, daddy issues, slow corruption, filthy dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, possessiveness, mild fluff, emotional vulnerability. All activities are consensual with safewords established.

The library is a labyrinth of secrets, its air thick with the musk of old books and unspoken desires. You’re on your tiptoes, stretching for a book you’ve only heard rumors about: The Art of Obedience by RM, hidden in the restricted section like a dirty little secret. Your fingers graze its worn leather spine, the title sending a shiver down your spine, when another hand—big, warm, and far too confident—brushes yours.

You gasp, startled, and the book crashes to the floor with a thud that echoes like a slap in the silent library. Your cheeks blaze as you stammer an apology, but a voice stops you—deep, velvety, laced with danger.

“Careful, sweetheart,” it purrs, amusement curling around the words like smoke.

You look up and fuck, you’re not ready. He’s towering, a wall of lean muscle in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that could snap you in half. Dark hair falls into sharper eyes, gold-framed glasses perched low, and his lips—god, his lips—curve into a smirk that screams trouble. He’s older, maybe mid-thirties, but the way he’s looking at you makes your thighs clench involuntarily.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” you start, voice barely a whisper.

He crouches, slow and deliberate, picking up the book. His fingers linger on the cover, thumb tracing the embossed RM. like it’s a lover’s skin. He placed this copy here himself, months ago, under his secret pen name—a test, a game to see who’d dare touch it. And now you, a wide-eyed college girl dripping with innocence, are reaching for his filthy words.

He straightens, eyes raking over you—slow, predatory, like he’s already fucking you in his head. “Interesting choice,” he murmurs, flipping the book open with a casual flick. The pages fall to a chapter on submission, and his smirk deepens. “What’s a sweet thing like you doing with a book like this? Researching for a boyfriend?”

Your throat tightens, heat pooling low in your belly. “N-no, I am single. I was… just curious.”

“Curious,” he repeats, stepping closer, close enough that you can smell him—clean soap, leather, and something dark, like bourbon and sin. “That’s a dangerous word, little girl. Curiosity gets you wet in places you don’t understand yet.”

You try to step back, but the bookshelf digs into your spine. Trapped. His gaze is a physical thing, heavy and hot, stripping you bare. He holds the book out, dangling it like bait. “Take it,” he says, voice low, commanding. “But if you do, you’re mine to teach. You ready to learn what this book really means?”

Your fingers tremble as you reach for it. His hand doesn’t budge, forcing you to lean into his space, your chest brushing his. Your breath hitches, and you catch the faintest twitch in his jaw, like he’s holding back from devouring you right here.

When your fingers close around the book, his brush yours again, deliberate and lingering. “Good girl,” he whispers, the words dripping with mockery and promise. “Lesson one: always listen when someone more experienced offers you help.”

“Lesson two: you don’t touch what’s mine without permission. And this—” he taps the book, “—is mine. Just like you’re about to be.”

You’re already fucked, and you haven’t even said yes out loud.

A week later, you’re in a private reading room at the back of the library, the door locked with a soft click that feels like a gunshot in your chest. Namjoon leans against the oak table, arms crossed, his presence filling the room like he owns it. The book sits between you, its leather cover gleaming under the dim light.

“Rules first,” he says, voice low and firm, like he’s already got you under his thumb. “You say ‘red’ to stop. ‘Yellow’ to slow down. Nothing means you’re good. Got it?”

You nod, mouth dry, pussy already throbbing. “Yes.”

His eyebrow arches, sharp and expectant. “Yes, sir,” you correct, voice shaking.

His lips twitch, a flicker of approval. “Good girl. Stand up.”

You do, legs wobbly, and he’s behind you in an instant, his heat pressing against your back. You feel the smooth silk of his tie slide over your wrists, cool and tight as he binds them behind you. The knot is firm, leaving you helpless, your arms pinned and your pulse hammering in your clit.

“Feel that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “That’s what it’s like to be mine. Completely at my mercy, but safe. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you whisper, cunt slick with need.

He steps in front of you, fingers grazing your jaw, tilting your chin up. His eyes are molten, searching, and his thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing just enough to make you part your mouth. “So fucking innocent,” he says, voice dark. “You’re trembling already, and I haven’t even touched you.”

You whimper, and he leans in, lips hovering over yours, so close you can taste the mint on his breath. “I’m gonna make you beg for it,” he whispers, “make that pretty little pussy drip just from my words.” His fingers slide down your neck, ghosting over your collarbone, then lower, circling your nipple through your shirt. It’s hard, aching, and he pinches it lightly, making you gasp.

“Not yet,” he says, stepping back, leaving you panting, tied up, and so fucking wet you’re soaking your panties. He picks up the book, casual as hell, like he didn’t just set your body on fire. “Read the first page. Out loud.”

“W-what?” you stammer, cheeks burning.

He smirks, settling into a chair, legs spread wide, bulge obvious in his slacks. “You heard me. Read. Let’s see how good you are at following orders.”

You stumble through the words, voice shaking as you read about surrender, about giving yourself over completely. Every sentence feels like a caress, his eyes locked on you, devouring every flush, every hitch in your breath. When you finish, he stands, slow and deliberate, and unties your wrists, his fingers lingering on the faint red marks.

“Go home,” he says, voice soft but commanding. “Touch yourself daily until we meet again. Think about me. But you don’t come. Not until I say so.” - He gives his card. "Call me in case you need help."

You leave, pussy throbbing, mind spinning, already desperate for more.

You’re five minutes late to the next meeting, and Namjoon’s waiting, eyes dark and dangerous, like a predator who’s been kept waiting too long.

“Late,” he says, voice a low growl. “You know what that means.”

“I’m sorry, I—” You said. "The Bus-"

“No excuses.” He’s in your space before you can blink, towering over you, his hand tipping your chin up so you can’t look away. “You need to learn what happens when you make me wait.”

Your stomach flips, arousal pooling between your thighs. “W-what happens, sir?”

He doesn’t answer, just points to the table. “Bend over. Now.”

You obey, heart pounding, bending over the polished wood, hands braced on the table. The anticipation is electric, your body humming as he steps behind you. His hands lift your skirt, slow and deliberate, exposing your thighs, then your ass, your panties clinging to your soaked cunt. The air is cool against your skin, and you shiver, feeling utterly exposed.

“Count,” he orders, voice like velvet and steel.

His hand comes down, a sharp smack on your ass, the sting blooming hot and sweet. “One,” you gasp, voice trembling.

Another spank, harder, the heat spreading through your core. “Two.”

By five, your skin is burning, and you’re dripping, the fabric of your panties sticking to your swollen folds. He pauses, fingers grazing the edge of your underwear, so close to where you’re aching but not touching. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust. “So fucking wet already, and I’ve barely started. You love this, don’t you?”

You whimper, too turned on to be ashamed. “Y-yes, sir.”

Another spank, and this time you moan, loud and needy, your clit throbbing. His hand lingers, fingers slipping under the fabric, brushing the slick heat of your pussy but not pushing inside. “Such a dirty little girl,” he says, teasing, his touch gone before you can beg for more. “You want it so bad, but you don’t get to have it yet.”

He pulls your skirt down, leaving you trembling, unsatisfied, your ass stinging and your cunt aching. “Same time next week,” he says, voice calm, like he didn’t just wreck you. “And don’t you dare touch yourself until then.”

You leave, a mess of need, your body screaming for release you’re not allowed to take.

You’re on time this week, heart racing as you step into the reading room. Namjoon’s waiting, a black silk blindfold dangling from his fingers, his eyes dark with intent. Your pussy clenches at the sight, already wet, already his.

“Trust me?” he asks, voice soft but heavy, like he’s asking for your soul.

“Yes, sir,” you breathe, and he ties the blindfold over your eyes, plunging you into darkness. Every sound is sharper—his footsteps, the rustle of his clothes, the hitch in his breath. He guides you to the table, lifting you so you’re perched on the edge, thighs spread.

“Spread your legs wider,” he commands, and you do, skirt riding up, panties exposed. His hands slide up your thighs, slow, torturous, until he’s peeling your underwear off, leaving you bare. The air hits your slick folds, and you bite your lip, aching for his touch.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and then his fingers are there, teasing your entrance, circling your clit with featherlight strokes. You moan, hips bucking, but he grips your thigh, holding you still. “Not yet. You beg for it first.”

“Please, sir,” you whimper, voice breaking. “Please touch me. I need your fingers inside me. I need to come.”

He chuckles, low and filthy. “That’s better.” One finger slides inside, slow and deep, stretching you, then another, curling against that spot that makes you see stars. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you’re shaking, so close it hurts.

“Look at this greedy little cunt,” he says, voice rough. “Sucking my fingers in like it’s starving. You’re so fucking tight, baby. Gonna feel so good when I finally fuck you.”

You’re whining now, desperate, the blindfold amplifying every sensation. His fingers pump faster, wet sounds filling the room, and you’re right there, teetering on the edge. “Please, sir,” you sob. “Please let me come. I can’t—I need it.”

“Come for me,” he growls, and you do, shattering, your pussy clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. His fingers don’t stop, curling harder, thumb pressing relentless circles, and something builds—intense, overwhelming. You cry out as your body convulses, a gush of wetness soaking his hand, the table, your thighs. You’re squirting, the release so powerful it leaves you trembling, oversensitive, a whimpering mess.

“Fuck,” Namjoon groans, voice raw with awe. “Look at that. You’re fucking perfect, baby, squirting all over me like a good little slut.”

He pulls his fingers out, and you hear him suck them clean, moaning like he’s savoring every drop. The blindfold comes off, and his eyes are wild, pupils blown, but there’s a flicker of something softer—something that scares him.

“You’re too fucking perfect,” he says, kissing your forehead, gentle and jarring after the filth. “Rest up. We’re far from done.”

The fourth meeting is different. Namjoon’s hungrier, rougher, like he’s been holding back too long. You’re on your knees, wrists tied with his tie, his hands fisted in your hair as he guides you closer to his cock, straining against his slacks. The book’s open on the table, and you spot something—a scribbled note in the cover: Kim Namjoon as well as RM. Both handwritten signatures side by side, RM's signature same as printed inside the book.

Your breath catches. “You’re… R.M.?”

He freezes, then laughs, dark and dangerous, tugging your hair to tilt your face up. “Caught me, baby. Now you know who’s been writing the shit that gets you so wet. And you’re still gonna let me ruin you.”

You’re too shocked, too turned on to argue. He kisses you, hard and possessive, teeth clashing, tongue claiming your mouth like he owns it. Clothes rip—your shirt’s buttons scatter, his belt clanks, your skirt’s yanked down. He lifts you onto the table, spreading your thighs wide, and pauses, just looking at your dripping cunt.

“Fuck, you’re a masterpiece,” he growls, and then he’s pushing inside, thick and long, stretching you so good it’s almost too much. You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, and he fucks you like he’s claiming you, each thrust deep and punishing.

“Mine,” he snarls, hands gripping your hips, leaving bruises. “This pussy’s mine. No one else gets to fuck you like this. Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp, clenching around him, already close. “Only yours, sir.”

He groans, slamming harder, the table creaking. “Gonna fill you up,” he says, voice raw. “Make you mine for good.” His thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast, and you come undone, screaming his name, your pussy milking his cock as he spills inside you, hot and thick.

You’re both panting, sweaty, tangled together. He brushes your hair back, eyes soft for the first time, like he’s scared of what’s between you. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says quietly. “About the book. It’s just… a side hobby. Don't need attention.”

“I won’t,” you whisper, and he kisses you, slow and deep, like he’s sealing a promise. His cock buried deep inside you, hot and unyielding.

Weeks later, you’re back in the library, the familiar scent of old books wrapping around you like a lover’s embrace. You’re seated at a secluded table, The Art of Obedience open in your lap, every filthy page now a map of your own desires. You’ve read it cover to cover, each chapter a spark that ignites memories of Namjoon’s hands, his voice, his cock. Your thighs press together under the table, your panties already damp just thinking about him.

Across from you, Namjoon’s writing in a leather-bound notebook, his glasses low on his nose, that same predatory focus in his eyes. He’s been working on something new, he said, a chapter written just for you. The thought alone has kept you on edge all day, your body humming with anticipation, your cunt aching for what he might have in store.

He glances up, catching you staring, and his lips curve into a smirk that’s pure sin. “Done daydreaming?” he asks, voice low, teasing. He slides the notebook across the table, the pages open to a freshly inked chapter. “Read it. Out loud. Let’s see how you handle it.”

Your breath catches, heat flooding your core. You take the notebook, fingers trembling slightly, and begin to read, your voice soft but steady, though every word feels like it’s unraveling you.

The chapter is titled “Lessons in Lust” It begins with a description of a woman—clearly you, though unnamed—kneeling before a man, her wrists bound with silk, her body bare except for a thin lace garter. The man’s voice is described as a low growl, commanding her to spread her thighs wider, to show him how much she wants him. The prose is vivid, explicit, detailing the way her arousal drips down her inner thighs, the way her clit pulses with every word he speaks.

“You’re so fucking desperate for me, aren’t you?” he says in the text, and you can almost hear Namjoon’s voice in your head, feel his breath against your ear. “Look at that pretty cunt, begging for my cock. But you don’t get it yet. Not until you’re crying for it.”

He teases her, his fingers tracing her folds, collecting her slick and spreading it over her clit, but never giving her enough. He edges her, bringing her to the brink again and again, until she’s sobbing, pleading, her body shaking with need. The scene shifts—he bends her over a table, her cheek pressed to the wood, and spanks her, each strike making her wetter, her moans louder. He whispers filthy promises, telling her she’s his, that no one else will ever make her feel this way. “You’re mine to break,” he says, “mine to fuck, mine to ruin. And you love it, don’t you? You love being my dirty little girl.”

Your voice falters as you read, your pussy throbbing, soaking through your panties and onto your skirt. You shift in your seat, trying to relieve the pressure, but it’s no use—every word is a pulse straight to your clit. Namjoon’s watching you, his gaze heavy, his hand resting on his thigh, fingers twitching like he’s holding back from touching you right here.

“Keep going,” he says, voice rough, his own arousal evident in the tightness of his jaw.

You swallow, continuing, your cheeks burning.

The man finally gives in, sliding his cock into her, slow at first, letting her feel every inch. He fucks her hard, relentless, the table shaking beneath them. He pulls her hair, forcing her to arch back, and whispers in her ear, “Come for me, baby. Show me how much you need this.” She does, her body convulsing, squirting around him, soaking his cock, the table, the floor. He doesn’t stop, fucking her through it, claiming her completely.

You finish the page, voice barely a whisper, your body trembling with want. Your cunt is so wet you can feel it dripping, your thighs slick under the table. Namjoon leans forward, his eyes dark, dangerous, and so fucking pleased.

“Liked that, didn’t you?” he murmurs, standing and rounding the table. He stops behind you, his hand sliding over your shoulder, fingers brushing the nape of your neck. “You’re soaked just from reading it. I can smell how much you want me.”

You whimper, head tilting back as his fingers trail lower, dipping under your collar to graze your skin. “Please, sir,” you whisper, already desperate.

He chuckles, low and filthy, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Oh, baby, we’re gonna make that chapter real. But not here. Tonight, in my bedroom. You’re gonna show me just how much you want to be my good girl.”

He pulls back, leaving you panting, and slides the notebook into your hand. “Finish your reading,” he says, smirking. “I want you thinking about me all day, dripping for me until I’m ready to fuck you senseless.”

You nod, too overwhelmed to speak, your body alive with need. As he walks away, you open the book again, knowing every page is a promise of what’s to come—and you’re already his, completely.

A/N: "This library’s closed, but I hope Namjoon’s lessons left you soaked and begging for more of my words. Tell me your dirty thoughts in the comments. Hey @namluvili hope you like it."

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @btsstraykidsateez . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @namluvili . @mytaegiheart . @@dear-mono . @lilyficrec

[mariacallous]

Amy Brown was not screaming. She was not crying. She was not throwing up.

But on Bluesky she said that she was doing all three, simultaneously. Brown’s husband visited a Walgreens while he was on a business trip in Ohio in February. He told her the prices were cheaper than in California, where they live.

The price disparity led her to post that she was screaming, crying, and throwing up. Several Bluesky users responded to tell her she was exaggerating, and that nobody could possibly care that much. They were right. She didn’t. She was referencing one of the internet’s common sayings, one used so often that it’s the name of a Spotify compilation.

What Brown experienced is familiar to any former Twitter/X user gathering their bearings on the young and decidedly more earnest social network Bluesky: a distinct humor-detection issue. Some users are unable to decipher jokes, or they are deliberately trying to miss the point to make a different one. Many Bluesky users migrated over from X, where the top DOGE who did Nazi-like salutes on television is live-tweeting the destruction of American infrastructure. That’s a different and much more serious problem. Still, the seeming obliviousness-slash-self-seriousness of many Bluesky users is grating when you’re not used to it.

“They're speaking a completely different language than me,” Brown says. “We're both speaking English, but I'm speaking internet.”

Brown, a former social media manager for Wendy’s, joined Bluesky in 2023. Her X account was banned after she impersonated Elon Musk for almost two hours on November 4, 2022.

The “incident,” as she calls it, happened shortly after X announced paid verification. Brown changed her profile picture to one of a balding entrepreneur and edited her display name to “Elon Musk (real).” She convincingly emulated his voice, posting musings like “my wife left me lol” and “my penis is NOT weird.”

She didn’t know whether she’d be banned for her behavior on X, but she was OK with the possibility. “It's like, Elon's already the main character on this platform every day, and now he owns it. Do I really want to be here anymore?” she says.

While you can still find plenty of this kind of humor on Bluesky, there are a surprising number of people genuinely confused by it. There are several factors to blame here.

First is the clash between former users of X and Facebook. Anyone who logged their time on the Everything App is familiar with the language of Twitter: posts steeped in irony, in-group references, platform-specific history. When they left X, they brought all that wisecracking, insidery drollery with them. They even brought their pig-shitting-on-its-own-testicles JPEGs.

Meanwhile, former power users of Facebook, Instagram, and Threads are accustomed to their own barometers of funny. While Twitter felt like an intentional way to primarily interact with mostly strangers, and a familiar face might cause the user a moment of horror, Facebook was the opposite—at least initially, before it became Click FarmVille for engagement bait and advertisements for oddly specific custom novelty tees.

Bluesky also got a big boost in users from mainstream television: MSNBC ran multiple segments about the social network, including bumps on Morning Joe, The Weekend, All In With Chris Hayes, and The Rachel Maddow Show. Regular MSNBC viewers who took the plunge might not be as familiar with the tenor and style of online conversation on the smart-ass social web.

The lack of humor detection is made worse by tech: algorithmically curated content, à la Bluesky’s Discover feed, surfaces random posts to random people. A Maddow referral on Bluesky might see an ex-Twitter user’s vivid description of what they’d do to the Hamburglar if they saw him in person and react with genuine horror and confusion. It’s also PEBKAC issue—problem exists between keyboard and chair. You cannot force a person to understand a joke. The only action more futile is to get mad about it.

If these disparate groups have anything in common, it’s disgust with gigantic tech companies led by unpalatable CEOs, paired with a yearning to post in the lingua franca of their previously beloved platforms. Everyone’s brains are broken in different ways. I empathize with those who don’t get the joke. But I empathize more with the people trying to make them.

To paraphrase an Axios story from last year, America is in the midst of a gullibility crisis. People can’t tell what’s AI, a manipulated screenshot, a joke, or a lie. Many of us have opened up our relationship with reality. And the political climate has exacerbated the issue, according to Josh Gondelman, a comedian who previously worked as a producer and writer on Desus & Mero and wrote for Last Week Tonight With John Oliver.

“Since Trump’s run for the presidency, there has been a rapidly accelerating not-getting-jokes on the internet,” Gondelman says.

By Gondelman’s recollection, Bluesky hit a point where it was populated enough with active users to be both fun and useful at some point within the past six months. “But that also means it hit the tipping point where it’s populated enough to be annoying,” he says, laughing.

Mattie Lubchansky, an Ignatz Award–winning cartoonist, author, and illustrator, describes herself as “a primarily joke-posting kind of person.” The humor-detection issue of Bluesky is part of a broader phenomenon she has observed, which she calls “riff collapse.”

The day after the 2025 Oscars, Lubchansky posted: “i haven't seen any of the oscar movies this year, nor have i seen any movie ever made. i'm afraid that the people trapped inside the screen will be angry at me for not helping them escape; and once they are out i will be punished. anyway, here's how the awards validated an opinion i already had.”

The replies that followed were earnest opinions and arguments about Oscar-nominated films. Some people asked for movie recommendations. Some unironically recommended she check out The Purple Rose of Cairo. Only a handful of people seem to have understood that she was joking. Lubchansky says she sees this type of “riff collapse” happen daily, and she thinks it’s because of the influx of new users from Meta and X.

But the frustrations around new social platforms isn’t new. Networks will continue to pop up, ideally, and longtime users will continue to be annoyed by newbies.

In the early-to-mid-1990s, people often first accessed the internet when they arrived at college. Around September of every year, a bunch of new users would log on to their university’s network and start poking around the forums and discussion groups.

“The internet old timers would be very frustrated, because the new people didn’t know the social norms,” says technologist, writer, and former WIRED contributor Anil Dash. “Exactly the phenomenon we’re seeing right now.” September, for the most online netizens, was a dreaded time of the year. AOL opened the floodgates, allowing anyone to access the internet at any time. AOL’s bloom coincided with the Telecommunications Act of 1996, which deregulated the telco industry and brought internet connectivity to homes and institutions across the US.

This period was called the Eternal September, with “wave after wave of newbies getting online,” Dash says.

The pattern has repeated itself with LiveJournal and even Twitter. Actor and investor Ashton Kutcher appeared on CNN in 2009 and challenged the network to see whose account could hit 1 million Twitter followers first. (Kutcher won.) The stunt led to a rush of users flooding the microblogging platform.

Lubchansky thinks this moment presents an opportunity for people to examine their reply etiquette.

“Read the whole post before you respond. Take a moment to respond. And if you're going to respond with a joke, and we're not friends already, go look and see if somebody's made it already,” Lubchansky says. “Because there's a really good chance they have.”

Meanwhile, Brown considers the block function on Bluesky to be a favor to its recipient.

“If someone comes into my comments and they just really, really don't understand, usually I just block them so we don't run into each other again,” she says. “No hard feelings.” It’s a different approach than the norm on X, where quote-tweets viciously insulting the original post are part of the platform’s noxious fabric.

“I'm not trying to repeat the part of Twitter where the internet makes me mad every day,�� Brown says.

Satirical site The Onion has the fifth largest Bluesky account, with over 1.2 million followers. Onion CEO Ben Collins doesn’t mind people replying to jokes in earnest. On the contrary, he says it’s “the funniest part of the internet.”

“It means more people are seeing your jokes,” he says. “If everyone is immediately breaking out into uproarious applause at your joke, your audience is too small.”

As someone who regularly used and posted on Twitter for years, I share the frustration when one of my jokey posts is misread or taken as fact. But it also strikes me as unfair to shame someone because they haven’t been slamming their head on the same wall of the internet that I have.

Not everyone crawled here from the radioactive sewer of X dot com. As we all get settled along with our new neighbors, it might be helpful to remember that. If not, at least Bluesky has very robust blocking features.

[mullermilkshake]

Stretching limits.

Part 1 <- -> Part 2

You’re being chased, will you make it out unscathed?

Kento Nanami x Fem! Reader DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT,Non con,Knife play,Possessive,Forced,Vaginal fingering,Drug use/ drugging,Forced orgasm,Squirting,Mouth gag,Threat of violence,Stalking,Kidnapping,Nipple play,Hair pulling

<<< For more Nanami content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

You never should have skipped gym class. 

If you hadn’t, you might have carried on into your adulthood and gotten fitter. Much fitter so you wouldn’t try and keep your gasping lungs quiet as you ran through the abandoned building you had found yourself in. 

You would be as quiet as a mouse if you had just gone to the stupid gym.

The concrete flooring was the biggest conductor, alerting anything of your movements like it was taking revenge. What a bastard.

Who you were running form was more complicated than just a one word answer, a name or even a reason. It was horrific and it couldn’t just be explained away. No, it was an experience only others could understand when they lived it themselves, which was few and far between. 

Climbing up the stairs, bare and musty, the plastic on the ground floor was ripped away, it crinkled deadly fast, but no one spoke. You stopped, not daring to move in fear he would see you if you did. 

Slowly, you slipped your shoes off, the dust and grime already sticking to the soles of your socks. You weren’t sure if you should have kept your shoes, but there was no time, he would head up the stairs eventually so you chose to hide them. 

How did he even find you in the first place? You’d moved, changed numbers, gotten the police involved. Everything you could have done, you did. But it didn’t stop him from tracking you down like a deer in open season.

The cross hairs were right between your eyes. 

You carried on up the stairs, minding yourself past wet patches and puddles to keep an invisible path leading to you, stepping over the loose cables and forgotten equipment you couldn’t afford to trip over.

You searched and rummaged through a tool box, too inviting to leave unattended, perhaps you would find a wrench or some other weighted tool you could sling at his head. 

You knew he could dodge an attack like that, but it never swayed you to think otherwise, just in case there was a contributing factor. Maybe the sun would reverse, and rise instead of its steady drop in the sky, blind him for a second and a flying wrench would knock him over so you could get away. 

A nail gun? No the cable wasn’t nearly long enough, the big industrial ones never ran off of gas, it used the generator placed precariously in the middle of the floor over some hazardous sheets of metal over a large hole to the ground below. 

Right where you thought he was. 

Where the hell could you put your shoes? 

You cursed as quietly as possible, you were starting to panic. You finally hid them under a screwed up dust sheet you found and took the next set of stairs, crouching just in case. You hadn’t heard anything since the plastic sheet, for a foolish moment you almost talked yourself into believing that it was just the wind, and you were hiding for no reason but that hope shattered like glass.

“Darling.” His voice echoed and sounded so close. “I know you’re in here, there’s no point in hiding. It’s getting dark and I want to go home.”

You backed up slowly, never taking your eyes off of the stairwell behind you. He was baiting you, if you spoke now, he’d appear right in front of you like a ghost, a demon ready to swallow you whole. 

Part of you wanted to tease him, you’d escaped once, you’d escape again. Unless he chained you, that wasn’t the most comforting thought. You were still struggling with your breathing, you covered your mouth and took one deep breath.

Then, you snuck up, trying to at least get a floor difference between you. Think. Always be prepared, your father had said since you were little. How could you be prepared, if there was nothing to prepare with? 

Going up another flight, here was your golden ticket. 

Rope and sheets, crudely hung up as though they were drying, tents and discarded trolleys littered around on the floor. Plenty of places to hide and plenty of opportunities to slip past him. 

There were plenty of chances to get caught too. Wet and moulded newspapers, spilt candle wax and old blackened metal spoons, all hazards. 

Getting low, you moved around the sheets, looking for anything, something to inflict pain, even if it was as small as a pin, anything could hurt him. All you found was a ballpoint pen, you almost spoke out loud. 

But it was like he heard you anyway. “So you’re up here then. I guess I still know you very well, but if you think you can slip by me, you still have plenty to know about me, Darling.”

He could have been mere metres away from you by now and you wouldn’t know any difference. He was much more silent than he had even been before, had he taken his shoes off too? 

You froze in place and listened, clutching the pen as your lifeline, waited for a sign, a sound to tip you off. You could maybe slip into the neighbouring tent, but the zip, it would scream your location. You scanned the floor and found a pebble that could work as a deterrent. 

Getting down lower there was a shadow, faint, barely there but it was moving, that’s where he was. You threw it away from you, away from the stairwell and that was when you heard his footsteps. 

So you made a break for it, silently so, but still with a rocket up your ass. Freedom so close, so tasty you could smell it like a warm inviting home.  

There he was, in front of you, his back turned, but he was right fucking there, you almost blew it by your gasps you caught in time.

“If you show yourself now” He boomed, nothing like you had ever heard before, like he panicked. “I’ll forgive what you did back at the house and we can start over, if you don’t, there will be severe consequences.” 

His wrapped knife was on his back, smiling at you, you begged the inanimate object to keep quiet and it did. He still hadn’t seen you, so you kept going. But it was foolish of you to turn your gaze, even if it was just for a second. 

“There you are.” He was so quick, wrapping his fist around your hair and holding you there. He’d never done that before. “I thought I told you to show yourself when I asked.” He said your name with so much vitriol.

“Ken- ouch!”

He ripped you by your hair. “I don’t recall giving you permission to speak. Though I do recall you leaving me tied to the bed and you walking out without an explanation. Care to elaborate on what you were thinking?”

You’d put tablets into his drink, tied him down for good measure, but you underestimated the amount he needed. 

“No explanation? I had one! You took me away from everything I knew and I told you over and over to let me go!” You pushed at him, swinging the ball point pen, hoping no matter how much you hurt, you hurt him too. 

He smacked it away. “Watch your manners!” It didn’t hurt him. He just pulled you again so that you could have sworn your hair was coming out in his hand.  

He let go, much to your relief, and took your arm. It didn’t hurt any less but you could manage it. He looked so angry, the shadows of his face were so sunken, like voids, black holes under his eyes that would swallow you up. He started dragging you down the stairs.

“Stop! I’m not going back!”

“Yes you are.”

Kento pushed you up against the wall on the stairwell and squeezed your shoulders in an act to scare you, it worked too. “You will go back. I don’t treat you unfairly do I? Do I beat you or force myself on you? No, I definitely do not, so don’t act like I do.”

“It’s not what you do though. It's about how you did it, all of it!” You tried to push him away, you really did.  

He never moved, pure muscle brick house. You were just lucky you got away the first time. If you went back with him, there was no way you were getting out another time, one big fat lie you told yourself. You were never escaping him again.

“You should have let me go! I have a new life now, a job, friends and you're fucking it all up again!”

Kento got close to you, towering over, he had the same cologne on he always wore, the undertones of fresh cotton lingered, along with the tickling of his breath. “I took you with me because you were the only thing that made me feel more than just a fucking worker ant. And I won’t let that go, do you understand me? I won't allow it.”

If someone had walked in on that moment, they would have assumed they'd walked into a sensual, steamy romance novel. The mist of your breaths in the ever growing darkness, heavy breathing, closeness, your noses almost touching. But it was more like hell. 

You barely spoke, “Just let me go.”

“I won’t do it.”

“I don’t want to be with you, I just want to live my life.” Those were famous last words.

“You can live your life with me. You won’t leave me. I’m not the villain here.” He growled your name. “I’m not like those other pigs, I take care of you, make you dinner, buy you clothes, provide all of these nice things, for what?”

“I didn’t ask for any of it!” 

He took your wrists in his hand and pinned them against the cold concrete, it scraped against you, uneven and unforgiving. “I can be like the others if that’s what you want- is it? Want me to be like the others?” He pulled his knife away from his back and pushed it slowly under your chin.

“What the fuck?!” 

“I don’t want to have to use this, so I need you to behave, can you do that?”

What? Was he just going to kill you if you didn’t do whatever he wanted? Had he fallen off that deep? You found yourself fighting for self preservation and nodded, but that didn’t stop your words.

You tried to calm your tone down to a respectable calmness. “I want you to leave me alone, Kento… Please, just go.”

His voice was a whisper. “Just once, Darling.” 

“What?” You hadn't properly heard him the first time, but your gut already did.

“Just once, then it’ll be alright.” 

He held your wrists there, keeping them tight as they were. His free hand pulled the knife back and slotted it back into its holster. “I’ll put it to your throat again if you try anything.”

 He wandered, touching you in places he never had before, caressing the side of your neck, down to your hip. It was incredibly suggestive and the penny finally dropped.

“No! Kento don’t, you're better than this, I don't want this.”

“You will.” He moved in, pressed his lips on yours, but you pulled away. “Once we've done this, you’ll see why you're so special, I’ll show you just how special you are.”

He cupped your breast, your t-shirt gathering around his fingertips, squeezing hurt, the chill in the building made your skin react. He kissed you again, but quickly moved to your neck, sucking and nipping like he was starved. Lifting your t-shirt, he pulled your bra down rough, exposing your breasts to the cold air. His grip never ceased, only clamped down more, your hands were going numb already. 

“You drive me crazy.” He took your nipple in his mouth, warming you up ever so slightly. “You don’t realise what kind of man you threaten to make me.” 

The tension changed on his lips, he was marking you, the side of your breast, the soft, sensitive skin there was close to going purple. 

“Kento, stop this now before it goes further. You’ll regret it, I know you will. Don’t be like the others.” Whoever these others were. 

He pulled away and admired your body, you couldn’t see the mark, but knew just as well it was there. “You’ve made me like this.” 

His hand moved down and slid across your stomach, going straight to your jeans, to your underwear. 

“Kento.” You said with more of a blunt tone. “Stop right this minute, you don’t know what you’re doing!” 

“My conscience has never been clearer.” 

Kento pulled his tie off in a fashion he always did, something he made look sensual though he never meant to. But you knew he knew all along by the look in his eyes, it came apart in his hands and he balled it up. 

“Open.” 

You went to shake your head in defiance, he couldn’t assume you would just agree, you remained still though, the thought of the clothed knife still lingered. He took your chin and forced your mouth open, shoving the fabric into your mouth, it instantly took the moisture away. 

The pop of your button came and the heated pads of his fingertips touched you where they had never before. 

“You lied to me.” He cooed your name. “You said you didn’t want this, but your body is telling a completely different story.”

You didn’t. It was your body's response to stimuli, nothing more, you knew it was a lie he kept telling himself to make this situation more consistent with his beliefs. He was going to regret this after his spurt of clarity. He barely touched and you flinched and he even made a noise so close to a laugh, it caught you off guard more than ever. Kento was always so serious.

“You’re starved, look at you. My bet is that you’ve never even squirted before, have you?” He rubbed you, playing with the slickness to improve his movements. 

You hadn’t, you didn’t know if you could, but it wasn’t something you tried. You tensed and pushed your thighs together, he wouldn’t find out, you wouldn’t let him. 

You moved your hips to the side, recalling every self defence video you ever watched, but it all went out the other ear. He shoved his knee between your legs, pinching the skin until he touched the wall. His fingers moved over slowly, slipping, squelching around you, like he knew clitoral stimulation was the way to make you come every time. 

“Do I need to get my knife out?”

Shit. You shook your head again.

“Good. Now relax.” Why did he sound so soothing? “If I curl my fingers like this,” You were wet enough, two fingers slid in, his long, slender fingers. “You’ll experience the best orgasm of your life.”

He still held you in place, so strong, never ceasing with the amount of raw strength,  just there like he was holding up a poster on the wall. The chill had ridden up under your shift, the faint, thin hairs on your back stood up straight, welcoming goosebumps to your predicament. 

His fingers pumped at a pace that was neither acceptable for a lover, nor a quick one night stand, it was neither here nor there like it had its own rhythm. Kento’s rhythm. You could feel every inch on him, turning, squelching, moving with purpose inside you. 

“Can you see now, how you make me feel? You’re sucking my fingers in because you’re so good. You’re so good for me.” 

You weren’t good for him, you didn’t even know him. You fought alongside that thought, even when you sensed an orgasm brewing in the pit of your stomach. Using your tongue, you were able to push the tie free from your lips, mouth scraping at the barrel to collect as much saliva it could. 

“K-Kento.” 

“Hmm?”

“Stop this, I don’t want to be here.” You almost sounded defeated. 

He thrusted his fingers and even added another, stretching you out, like he could take more aggression out on you without getting violent. 

“You’re here. Right now. And nothing will change. You’re coming back with me as soon as you come all over my hand.” 

“But I-“

“But nothing. Come for me now.”

The rush accelerated, you tried to dismiss it, ignore it, because if you couldn’t feel it, then it wasn’t there. But it was, and it was fast approaching. His lips around your nipple made it go quicker, ramping up the heat to new levels, deeper, much more solid.

What the fuck is this? 

There we go.” He went faster, really moving his fingers. “I’d like you to come, pretty fucking hard now.”

It was coming, you were coming. 

What was this? Did you piss yourself? As you came, liquid shot out of you, the pressure of the orgasm beat against you as you squirmed and writhed under his touch, threatening to send you to the floor when your knees buckled. 

Wetness gushed and dripped, soaking into your jeans, all up Kento’s arm. The post orgasm clarity hit you like a ton of bricks, what a fucking idiot you were, it had gotten much darker and you still had to find a way back home without Kento finding you. There was no way you were going with him. 

He didn’t let go. 

“You’re a good girl.” He placed a soft peck on your cheek, almost cheekily to the point it stunned you. “I knew you’d listen.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, you know that, right?”

He finally let go but kept your exit blocked “Did you think we were finished? Come on, let’s finish this at home, you’re filthy, look at your socks. I’ll run you a hot bath, okay?” 

“You aren’t listening to me!- get off!” The pain shot down your arm again as he took it again in his grasp. 

“We’re going home right now, and we’re finishing this. Don’t ever think of leaving again, who knows what’ll happen.”

And he just took you, kicking and screaming back to hell, like the devil he was. 

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[revehae]

!!!!

this but more cnc but also not cnc ??? but like what if experienced reader is so good at playing innocent and she plays into their fantasy of a naive stepsis on purpose. they so easily fall for it and “take advantage of her” fully believing that it’s real but it isn’t

am I making sense ?

the perfect victim type beat IM FEELING IT walk with me walk with me. this might suck because im sleepy but it’s either now or like 16 hours from now // tw dubcon(?), stepcest

stepbro!member who is always, always gooning. you can’t help but hear him beating his meat night after night, moaning and groaning, and the sound always makes you wetter than you care to admit. some nights you even dare touch yourself, always much quieter than he is though, and frustrated because it’s never enough to fulfill your fantasies.

until your laptop decides to take it’s last breath one day in the middle of a very hectic school week and you need something in its place until you can get it repaired. stepbro!member’s laptop is always available, somewhere in his bedroom, and you take it while he’s napping, not bothering to ask. you’re not surprised to open it and immediately be met with a porn browser. he probably had a nut so massive it put him to sleep. but you are curious as to what gets him off, and it does take you by surprise to see something about “Hardcore Non Con” in the browser.

in the comfort of your bedroom, you secretly watch the entire video, starting it over from where he left off. which is surprisingly far. he must’ve been edging the entire time. either way, you watch it for yourself, imagining him doing all the things that happen - cruel, disgusting things that you know you shouldn’t want but can’t help but picture him doing and saying. you get off way too fast, as always when he’s your muse. it’s not until you climax that you think of the unthinkable… how to bait him into fucking you. you would be whatever he wanted you to be if it meant you got what you wanted.

you manage to sneak his laptop back into his room before he woke up, but popping back a few hours later when he was wide awake. “i have a question,” you say, shutting his door behind yourself with your hands behind your back, pretending to be shy. “what’s noncon?”

he is surprised to hear these words come from your mouth, and immediately glances to his laptop that he hadn’t touched since… well, since before his nap. “why are you asking?” he questions, suspicious. you reply back quietly, “i may or may not have taken your laptop…” he is even more taken aback by this, and appears a little frantic. “you did what?” he exclaims. “you didn’t see the tab?” you knew that he would ask that, considering it was glaring you straight in the face upon opening his laptop, and readily lied, “no…? i didn’t click it, the screen opened on a youtube tab.” you continued seemingly obliviously, “is it a workout thing?”

stepbro!member snorts at this, amused by your innocence but immediately noticing the opportunity to take advantage of your ignorance. when he asks if you want him to demonstrate, you reply with a reluctant, “sure…?” trying to hide the way you tense with excitement at what’s to come.

he beckons you over. the shock on your face is only pretend when he presses you into his mattress, trapping you beneath his body weight. you try to move but he’s stronger than you, and being overpowered only serves to make your thighs press together with need. “stay fucking still,” he hisses in a tone darker than you’ve ever heard from him. you play your role too, reaching out to try and stop him when he yanks at your shorts, only for him to lock your arms behind your back. you call out his name, whining, “s-stop it, you can’t do that. we’re siblings.”

“i don’t give a shit. you wanted me to demonstrate, didn’t you?” he snaps, running his fingers over your folds. the sensation makes you gasp and your knees buck against his mattress. “you’re fucking wet. don’t act like you’re not begging for this. stupid slut.”

you shake your head, denying it, even though it’s true. your body tremors with excitement, but he mistakes it as fear and chuckles. “please,” you beg, “let me go. i’m sorry. i won’t take your laptop anymore!”

“no you’re not,” he says, freeing his cock from his pants. it never takes him long to get hard again. you start to salivate the second it presses against your folds. “but you will be, fucking bitch.”

[escapedaudios]

Popular YouTubers "reacting" to audio roleplay by trying to exaggerate how cringe they think it is fucking exhausts me man. Half the time they do Cinema Sins-style commentary but from this "what if I don't like beans" point of view of just refusing to suspend disbelief and roleplay as the listener character. The commentary is always them talking back at the audio like "uh, you're not my boyfriend, actually my boyfriend's name is Steven and he's in the living room right now" or just failing to accept the premise of the video they clicked on. Acting shocked when a character kisses them and going "UHHH WHY IS HE KISSING ME". It's because you clicked on a boyfriend ASMR video tagged [kissing], that's why. Don't be dense.

It feels like they want for it to be way more cringe than it actually is, so they put on this exaggerated display, or act shocked that an audio matches its premise. This shit would be like making a video called "Reacting to Horror Movies (try not to cringe)" and being like "UHHH WHY IS THE KNIFE GUY STABBING PEOPLE???? I'M SO UNCOMFORTABLE". Man shut up. Then there's YouTubers reacting to videos that are very obviously ironic, absurdist humor and refusing to get that it's a joke. No, "Boyfriend Gets Hit By a Car [Spicy]" isn't actually supposed to be spicy, it's a joke.

These reaction videos are, for many outside of the niche, their only window into audio roleplays. Anything that has a plot that takes more than two minutes to understand is left out because they don't have the patience to watch the whole thing and only want to "react" to thirty-second clips. Anything that doesn't look like it'll make for good cringe bait is left out because they decided ahead of time that they want to cringe to it.

The whole medium is already so unfairly stigmatized and poorly understood by most people. It's so agonizing seeing this be our community's main source of free publicity. I know I've taken a few shots at cheap fluff boyfriend/girlfriend ASMR before but like, it's friendly jabbing from someone very much adjacent to them. I still understand the value that comfort roleplays have to their audiences, even if their plots aren't as deep. The whole medium-wide dismissal that these YouTubers give for some cheap reaction content on a newer medium they don't understand is actually the worst.

I need to make a video essay or something to act as propaganda for audio roleplays because the publicity we get passively could not be worse I swear to God.

[muiitoloko]

Exposed: a dangerous game Part 2? Maybe with smut😏 Love your work!

Title: Academic Exposure

Summary: He saw her bare in print. But he won’t be satisfied until she’s on his desk, in his bed, and in photos no one else will ever touch.

Pairing: Eli Michaelson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: I sped things up a bit in this chapter, and I'm still focused on Eli's point of view, so the story is basically following him.

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

After his last class, Eli Michaelson didn’t linger. He dismissed a half-hearted attempt at office hours with a vague wave and a grunt, the kind that said, you’re not worth my time, without the courtesy of words. As the building emptied out and footsteps faded into silence, he shut his office door with a decisive click, drew the blinds halfway, and dropped into his chair with a sigh that sounded more like a growl.

His fingers moved with purpose, snapping open the clasps of his briefcase, digging past the clutter of papers and lecture notes until they closed around the only thing he’d been thinking about since sunrise—the magazine. The same glossy, vulgar thing he’d tossed onto his desk that morning like bait. Only this time, there was no audience, no pretense. Just him and you.

Eli opened it straight to the centerfold. The pages gave a soft shhhh as they unfolded, revealing your body in all its golden, high-contrast glory—smooth skin, parted lips, curves that seemed to glow under the studio lights. You were staring straight at him through the page, your expression equal parts innocence and seduction, as if you’d known he’d see this one day. As if you’d posed just for him.

He didn’t bother pretending it was about curiosity anymore. His hand moved to his belt, unfastening it with a sharp tug. The zipper followed, slow and deliberate. His cock was already half-hard, eager, demanding. He spat into his hand, muttered a low curse, and wrapped his fingers around himself with a low, rough sigh.

“Goddamn you,” Eli rasped, his baritone voice ragged as he stroked himself, slow at first, then harder, faster, chasing something filthy and sweet. “You little liar.”

That slap still burned on his cheek—faint now, but the memory was sharp. You’d looked so righteous, so offended, like you weren’t the one who’d stripped down for a lens and offered your cunt to every man in America with a subscription. Like you hadn’t already surrendered yourself to the pages now slick beneath his palm.

He groaned through his teeth, jerking himself harder.

How long had you been doing this? How many issues had he missed? How many times had your bare body graced these pages without him knowing—without him seeing? He pictured you in silk, in lace, in leather. Imagined the way you must’ve arched for the camera, moaned for it. His hand tightened.

Then, just as he felt himself tip closer to the edge, his mind snagged on something. A memory.

A year ago, maybe longer—Eli had gone into Barkley’s old room, the one that still reeked faintly of cheap deodorant and resentment. He’d been searching for an old watch or maybe a book—he couldn’t remember what—but he did remember the way the mattress had creaked when he sat down, the way the corner of it lifted to reveal a stack of old magazines. He’d sneered at the sight of them, muttering something about adolescent idiocy, and left them untouched. Playboy, if he remembered right. A few issues, some dog-eared, others still sealed.

His hand stilled.

Had you been in those, too?

The thought struck him like a blow. Eli’s breath hitched as he zipped himself up abruptly, nearly fumbling with the button of his trousers in his haste. He stuffed the magazine back into his briefcase, slamming it shut with a loud snap before grabbing his coat. The office felt suddenly too small, too hot. He needed air. He needed answers.

He marched through the halls of the department building with a pace that dared interruption. Someone called his name—Richards, the limp-spined anthropology professor—but Eli dismissed him with a curt wave, not even sparing a glance. He had no time for pointless chatter.

Outside, the sky was turning orange and purple, the campus bathed in the golden hush of early evening. Students milled about on the steps, chatting, smoking, laughing. Two girls waved at him from the sidewalk—fresh-faced, giggling. He walked past them.

Then he stopped.

Because Eli Michaelson never turned down a chance to charm a woman. He turned back, his expression shifting as he approached—shoulders straightening, voice softening just enough to feign interest.

“Ladies,” he said, his baritone smooth and easy now, a stark contrast to the growl it had been minutes ago. “Remind me—have you taken my Intro to Organic Chemistry yet?”

One of the girls smiled, bashful. “No, but I’ve heard it’s hard.”

Eli’s smirk deepened. “Only if you’re not paying attention.” His hazel eyes gleamed, the hook of his nose casting a sharp shadow in the fading light. “I’m always happy to provide… private instruction.”

Their laughter followed him as he turned back to his car, sliding into the driver’s seat with one hand already tightening around the wheel.

Home. Now.

He had magazines to find. And maybe, if the universe had any sense of humor, more of you to uncover.

An hour after driving home like a lunatic—cursing traffic, tearing through side streets, nearly clipping a recycling bin—Dr. Michaelson finally burst into his own house with all the poise of a hurricane. He didn’t even bother hanging up his coat. Just stormed down the hall and took the stairs two at a time, his mind whirring, his pulse beating an erratic rhythm against the sharp line of his jaw.

He flung open Barkley’s door.

God, the room still stank of synthetic deodorant and self-loathing. The posters were gone but the furniture was the same. Eli ignored the mess, ignored the cracked desk lamp, the crumpled hoodie on the floor, and went straight to the bed.

He yanked up the mattress like a man possessed.

There they were. Magazines. Stacks of them. Some neatly arranged in battered cardboard sleeves, others just loose, dog-eared and well-worn. Playboy, Penthouse, Maxim—a veritable buffet of adolescent loneliness, smuggled in like contraband and hidden like contrition. Eli let out a rough bark of laughter, half in disbelief, half in triumph.

“You little shit,” he muttered, grinning as he shoved a stack aside and pulled out the next one. “You couldn’t pass chemistry, but at least you had good taste.”

He collapsed onto the bed face down, sinking into Barkley’s old mattress like it was a throne, his fingers already flipping open the top issue. And there—oh yes, there—you were again. Different shoot, different setting. This time, lace stockings. Heels. A silky ribbon tied at your throat like a present.

Eli groaned low in his throat, his hazel eyes narrowing, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Jesus Christ.”

This wasn’t about Barkley anymore. Wasn’t about the cheating or the stolen money or the ungrateful little bastard fleeing to Europe with Eli’s ex-wife and half of his assets. No—those petty grievances could wait. Because you were here. Again. And again.

Thank God Barkley had subscribed to damn near every issue from last year. Eli found copies all the way back to January and only up to August—he rifled through them fast, greedy, practically feverish. Each month offered two, maybe three photos. May had only two, one of which was a close-up, teasing, almost innocent if not for the gleam in your eye. June, however, had been generous—three full-body shots, one with a whip coiled loosely around your thigh.

He laughed—really laughed this time. It was a sharp, joyless sound muffled into the pillow as he rolled onto his back, belt already halfway undone.

“Only two fucking pictures in May?” he muttered, thumbing through it again, checking as though another might magically appear. “Bullshit editorial priorities.”

But it didn’t matter.

Because even two pictures were enough.

You were hotter in print. Something about the lighting, the contrast of shadows across your skin, the grain of the paper beneath his fingers—it all hit differently. Harder. More intimate. You were posed like a fantasy he didn’t know he had, like the most exquisite little secret, waiting to be unfolded month by month.

He lay there surrounded by the issues, like a scholar buried in primary sources, and started to laugh again. Slow. Dark. It rumbled low in his chest, soft and curling like smoke.

“You really played me, didn’t you,” he murmured to the ceiling, dragging the tip of his finger down your printed spine. “All those lectures. All those fucking sweaters.”

He unfastened his trousers with a sharp flick of his wrist, that familiar metallic click of his belt echoing in the room. His hand moved to his cock, already half-hard and eager, and he let out a quiet sigh as he gripped himself. The pages crinkled under his palm as he brought the centerfold closer, spreading it open wide—you, on your knees, lips parted, eyes heavy with suggestion.

“Let’s see if you look this sweet with my come on your face,” he muttered, his baritone low and thick now, dragging each word like silk over gravel. “Something tells me you’d wear it beautifully.”

He pumped slow, deliberate, his breath growing heavier, the heat in his belly low and steady. Every flick of your tongue in the pictures, every soft curve, every subtle arch—it all fed into that sick delight humming through him like an addiction. And Eli—intelligent, decorated, insufferable Eli—was utterly, shamelessly hooked.

By the time he came, biting down a grunt and spilling hot into his palm, your name wasn’t on his lips—but your image was burned into the inside of his eyelids. Your smile. Your thighs. That little bow around your neck.

Eli didn’t even reach for a tissue. He just lay there, sweaty, panting, surrounded by glossy proof that his quietest student had a secret far dirtier than any chemical reaction he’d ever charted on a whiteboard.

And he hadn’t even scratched the surface yet.

“God, what else are you hiding?” he whispered, baritone thick with twisted awe.

He was going to find out. One issue at a time.

The next day, Eli was a man unraveling by degrees. His morning lecture was a blur. He barely registered the students’ blank stares or the half-hearted responses to his questions. At one point he snapped at a girl for mispronouncing “enthalpy,” and when she flinched, eyes wide with shock, he realized too late that she wasn’t even the one who spoke. He didn’t apologize. He never did. But his jaw remained locked, his fingers twitching as he flipped through the day’s materials with growing impatience.

It wasn’t about chemistry anymore. It wasn’t about the university, or the research grant, or the half-assed graduate student who’d forgotten to clean the beaker racks again.

It was about you.

Your image had haunted him all night—spread across his bed, your photos fanned out like a shrine to sin, your eyes watching him even as he came over and over into his own hand, breathless and furious. And it wasn’t enough. God, it wasn’t nearly enough.

He had to have you. That was the conclusion he came to somewhere between 4:17 and 4:29 a.m., after smoking his third cigarette in bed and staring at the ceiling like it had answers. He wouldn’t get rid of this obsession until he fucked you. Not a quick fantasy, not some polite grope behind a locked office door—no. He needed to ruin you. Break you open. Mark you from the inside out.

And now it was the last class of the day. Your class. He stood at the front of the lecture hall, his heart pounding harder than it had in years, his hands clasped behind his back to stop them from fidgeting. The room was filling slowly; the usual chatter, the same tired faces. But then—

You.

You walked in, quiet as ever, and Eli nearly lost his composure. You were dressed even more modestly than usual—your sweater thick, your slacks loose, your hair pulled back in a tight bun that exposed nothing but bare skin and stubborn tension. You didn’t look at him. Didn’t glance up, didn’t flick your gaze toward the front row like you always did before you took your seat.

Because you didn't take your usual seat. You walked past the front row, past the second row.

Past all the curious glances, and sat in the very back. Eli’s nostrils flared. A few students actually turned to look, puzzled. Even a pair of boys near the middle exchanged whispers, casting quick glances in your direction like they didn’t recognize you either.

Eli’s eyes didn’t leave you. Not once. He began the lecture, but his voice was strained, his baritone a little tighter than usual, just enough to draw wary glances. He pushed through the thermodynamic review with an edge that made the entire room uneasy. Chalk snapped in his hand. He tossed the broken piece aside with a hissed, “Amateurs,” then continued with red knuckles and gritted teeth.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. You just sat there, back rigid, pencil poised, taking notes like you were somewhere far, far away.

Eli burned. He wanted to drag you to the front of the room by your wrist, slam your notebook shut, and demand an explanation. He wanted to bend you over the lab table, make you look him in the eye and say what the fuck this was. Punishment? Guilt? Shame? Were you trying to disappear?

No. He wouldn’t allow it. Not after what he’d seen. Not after the way you’d looked on those pages—confident, radiant, knowing exactly what you were doing. You weren’t shy. You weren’t innocent. You were hiding. Again.

And Eli Michaelson did not tolerate this.

When the bell rang, slicing through the taut air of the lecture hall like a blade, you were already moving—stuffing your notebook into your bag, reaching for your pen, your water bottle, anything to speed your escape. You didn’t look at him. Not once. You kept your head down, movements sharp and purposeful, like if you just moved fast enough, you could outrun whatever this was.

But Eli didn’t let you. “[Your Name],” he said, his voice cutting through the shuffle of chairs and murmurs like a low, deliberate strike. “My office. Ten minutes.”

You froze, just for a second. Then you looked at him.

And he looked right back. His hazel eyes narrowed, mouth twisted in a challenge, one eyebrow arched high above the hooked line of his nose. It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t even a command. It was a dare.

You hesitated—barely—but Eli saw it. The twitch in your jaw, the brief flicker of something defiant behind your glasses. He smiled.

“Ten minutes,” he repeated, this time with a smirk. “Don’t be late.”

Then he turned, shoved his papers into his leather portfolio with all the care of someone sealing a verdict, and strode out of the room without another word.

The office was dim when he entered. He didn’t bother with the overhead light. The amber glow from the desk lamp was enough—warm and predatory, casting long shadows across the floor. He set his papers down, removed his coat with a slow, theatrical roll of his shoulders, and sat in his chair like a man preparing for a performance, and then he waited.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

One minute.

Two.

Three.

By minute five, he was drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, legs crossed, baritone humming low in his throat in the rhythm of a man who’d already won.

Minute seven.

The knock came—soft, uncertain.

Eli smiled to himself. He didn’t speak at first. Just let the door open, watched you step in with your head held a little too high and your bag strap clutched a little too tight.

You closed the door behind you.

His eyes dragged over you slowly—glasses, sweater. A perfect picture of virtue. The same lie he’d seen in glossy print, stripped down and undone.

“Sit,” Eli said.

You sat.

He let the silence stretch, delicious and loaded, before speaking. “I want to talk,” he said calmly, lacing his fingers together on the desk. “About the photos. In Playboy.”

You said it again, the same calm, even words you'd used the day before. “It’s none of your business. What I do outside this university doesn’t matter.”

Eli leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, that insufferable smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “None of my business,” he repeated, savoring the words. “Hmm.”

You watched him carefully. You’d seen that look before—right before he eviscerated some poor undergrad in front of the entire lecture hall. But this wasn’t about thermodynamics.

“See,” Eli drawled, his voice low and syrupy, “as much as I admire your confidence… I’m afraid you’re mistaken. You’re in my department. My course. Under my supervision. I can remove you from the program if I decide you’re no longer a good fit.”

Your heart kicked in your chest. “You can’t—” You leaned forward suddenly, hands gripping the edge of his desk. “You can’t remove me from the program because I sell my body image for money. That’s not how this works. That’s not illegal.”

“No,” Eli said smoothly, lifting a brow. “But do you know what is grounds for disciplinary action?” He cocked his head, gaze sharp and glinting. “Assaulting a professor.”

You went still.

He smiled wider, slow and cruel. “You struck me. In my classroom.”

“I—” Your voice died in your throat. “I slapped you because you were disgusting—”

“Oh, I agree,” he interrupted, rising slowly from his chair. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it happened. And I still feel it.” He reached up, brushing the side of his cheek with long fingers, dragging them down with deliberate slowness. “Right here. It’s quite tender, you know.”

You stared at him, mouth parting, incredulous. “You’re lying.”

He smiled, stepping around the desk. “Of course I am.” His eyes glittered, full of wicked humor. “But who’s going to question me? I’m the esteemed Dr. Michaelson, after all. You’re a little student with a pornographic past and a bad temper. What do you think the dean will say?”

You were silent now—angry, shocked, but cornered. Your fists clenched, your jaw locked.

Eli stopped in front of you, his body close, his presence overwhelming. “So,” he said softly, the baritone curling like smoke, “the question is: what do you want?”

You swallowed hard. “What do you want?” you whispered.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, then let his fingers trail slowly down your throat. “Honesty?” he said. “I want to fuck you.”

You inhaled sharply.

“I want to bend you over this desk,” he continued, his voice darker now, rougher. “I want to hear you beg me not to stop. I want you moaning like you did in those photos—except this time, it’ll be for me.”

You hesitated—but your body didn’t. You were already aching, already breathless, already burning with the fire he’d stoked since that first look, since that first threat.

Your voice came out hoarse. “Then do it.”

Eli didn’t wait. His mouth crashed into yours, hot and bruising, his tongue pushing deep past your lips as his hands gripped your waist and hauled you up onto the desk like you weighed nothing. Your thighs parted instinctively, wrapping around him, pulling him closer. He kissed like he argued—ruthless, commanding, full of ego.

“You want to be ruined?” he growled against your mouth, fumbling with the buttons of your sweater. “You want to be fucked like the filthy little liar you are?”

You didn't answer.

He yanked your sweater open, not caring about the buttons that popped off and scattered across the floor. Your bra followed—torn down, pushed aside—until your breasts were bare and flushed, nipples tight and aching. He groaned, mouth descending on them, biting, licking, sucking until you cried out, your back arching.

His hands were already between your thighs, dragging down your slacks, your underwear, baring you completely. He stepped back just long enough to undo his own trousers, cock springing free—thick, heavy, leaking at the tip.

“Look at you,” he muttered, stroking himself. “Wet already.”

He grabbed your thighs, dragging you forward until your ass hit the edge of the desk, your legs spread wide for him. He didn’t tease. He didn’t warn.

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust. You gasped, head falling back, hands scrambling for purchase as his cock filled you—thick and deep and so fucking satisfying you almost sobbed.

“God, you’re tight,” he hissed, his hips driving forward again, and again. “How many men’ve seen you naked, hmm? Posed for them? Spread your thighs for a camera—but none of them touched you like this, did they?”

You didn’t respond with words—not right away. Instead, your hand shot out, fisting the front of his shirt, dragging him closer with a defiance that made Eli’s cock twitch harder inside you. Your eyes—dark, wild, glassy—flashed as you spat, “You fucking pervert. I bet you jerked off to every page. Sat there in your office with your dick in your hand, stroking it over my face, you sick—”

His hand snapped up to your throat. Not choking, not hurting, but holding. Firm. Commanding. Final.

“Not pervert,” Eli growled, his baritone voice curling against your jaw like smoke laced with venom. “For you, I’m Dr. Michaelson in class.” His grip tightened just enough to make your pulse flutter against his fingers. “And Professor when I’m fucking you.”

Then, in one swift, brutal motion, he reached up and plucked your glasses from your face. You barely had time to gasp before he tossed them aside—unceremonious, careless, like they didn’t matter. They skittered across the floor, forgotten.

“Won’t be needing those,” he muttered, his hazel eyes dark and gleaming, shadowed beneath the sharp bridge of his hooked nose. “Not for what I’m going to do to you.”

His thumb stroked the hollow of your throat once, gently—almost lovingly—before his hand slid down your chest, over your breast, pinching your nipple until you whimpered. He grinned.

“You really thought you had the upper hand, didn’t you?” he murmured, rolling his hips forward, grinding into you deeper, thicker, harder. “Flashing your cunt to the world and pretending to be innocent.”

Your back arched, the sharp edge of the desk biting into your spine as his cock dragged against your walls in a rhythm that was unforgiving, punishing.

“You wanted my attention?” Eli whispered against your ear, his breath hot. “Now you have all of it.”

He fucked you like a man possessed—like a man taking back what had been stolen, what had been offered in pictures and taken by strangers. His hands gripped your hips tight, bruising, anchoring you to the desk as his cock pistoned into you, hard, fast, relentless.

You clenched your fists in his shirt, trembling, lips bitten raw from the effort to hold in your moans as Eli drove into you with maddening precision. His cock hit deep, perfectly angled, every thrust a deliberate invasion—measured, ruthless, like he was solving you, dissecting you one stroke at a time.

“You get fucked after photo shoots too?” he asked, baritone low and laced with venom. “Is that what happens? Do the cameramen bend you over the lights and take their turn?”

You didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Your nails dug deeper into his shirt, breath ragged, but you said nothing. And that silence lit something ugly in him.

“Oh, I see,” Eli muttered, tone sharpening. “You’re quiet during sex. What, is this supposed to be mysterious? All that moaning for the camera, and now I get dead fucking silence?”

You glared up at him, fury burning in your cheeks. “You’re such a bastard.”

Eli’s eyes flared—then he yanked out of you, rough and sudden. The absence made you gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing, empty and aching.

Before you could catch your breath, he spun you around and slammed your chest down onto his desk, papers flying, pens rolling to the floor. He kicked your legs apart, shoved your hips up, and gripped your ass with both hands.

“Fine” he growled. 

He rammed back into you without warning, driving deep. You cried out, one hand scrabbling for purchase as the other slammed flat onto the surface of his desk. His hips smacked against your ass, the sound obscene in the quiet of the office.

“You’re going to call me Professor when you come,” he snarled, pounding into you harder, the angle punishing, brutal. “Say it. Say it.”

You shook your head, trying to bite back a whimper—but then he slammed into you again, and it spilled out of you, breathy and high.

“P-Professor—”

The sound nearly undid him. It was soft, drawn out, feminine and pleading. Eli’s mouth curved into a dark grin.

“Yes,” he hissed. “You moan pretty. Of course you do. Pretty pussy, pretty moans, pretty little liar.”

He chuckled under his breath, reaching down to squeeze your ass, spreading you open just to watch the way you took him. “Fuck, look at that. You’re swallowing my cock like you missed it.”

Then his hand tangled in your hair—tight, unforgiving—and he yanked your head back.

You screamed at the sudden pull, back arching in shock. But before the sound could carry—

His hand clamped over your mouth.

“Too loud,” he snapped in your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “You want someone to know I’m fucking you in this office?”

You moaned against his palm, the sound muffled and broken as he fucked you harder, slamming into you with unrelenting force. The desk creaked beneath you, your body jolting forward with every vicious thrust, your thighs slick with arousal.

“You feel that?” Eli gritted, his voice thick with feral satisfaction. “That’s what it means to be fucked by a man, not some camera-flash fantasy.”

You cried out again—wordless, overwhelmed—but his hand stayed over your mouth, silencing everything but the wet slap of your bodies and the brutal rhythm of his breath. And God, you’d never been so ruined.

You took his hand off your mouth. Your palm was trembling, slick with sweat, but your grip was firm as you pulled it down, lips flushed, panting, trembling with the kind of need that left you exposed in a way no camera ever had.

“I want more,” you gasped. “More force—”

Eli’s hand tightened in your hair again, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat to him, his hazel eyes blazing, breath warm against your cheek.

“Not like that,” he hissed. “Ask me properly.”

Your mouth parted in disbelief.

He smirked against your skin. “Come on. You can do it. I’ve seen your centerfold. You know how to perform.”

You wanted to scream. Wanted to slap him again. But your cunt throbbed around his cock, slick and desperate, stretched to the hilt as he stayed buried in you, unmoving now—taunting you with stillness. You hated him. You hated yourself more.

“Please,” you whispered.

“That’s not my name,” Eli said, dragging his teeth along your ear. “You want something from me, sweetheart, you say it right.”

You closed your eyes, shame blooming hot behind your ribs.

“…Please, Professor.”

He groaned.

A low, rich, utterly wrecked sound from the back of his throat that made your knees go weak.

“Say the rest.”

You hated the heat that climbed your spine as you whispered it, voice breaking. “Please fuck me harder, Professor. Please. I need it.”

Eli didn’t say a word. Just let out a ragged breath and slammed into you with enough force to jolt the desk forward an inch. Your cry cracked against the walls of his office, high and helpless, and he didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. His cock drove into you with brutal rhythm now, merciless, relentless, every inch pounding into your soaked cunt like punishment—no, like possession.

“You take it so well,” he grunted, snapping his hips harder, his hand returning to your throat, just enough pressure to make your pulse flutter. “So fucking greedy for it. And I’m going to give it to you. Every goddamn day.”

You moaned, wordless, broken open, sweat slicking down your back.

“I’m going to fuck you before class, after class,” he growled into your ear, his baritone guttural and wrecked, voice dissolving into something primal. “God help me, I’ll bend you over the lab bench, I’ll fuck you against chalkboards, in my goddamn car—whatever it takes.”

You sobbed his name, legs shaking, clenching around him like you couldn’t bear to let go. Your orgasm built again, furious and overwhelming.

“You moan like that,” he hissed, “and expect me to ever let you go?”

His teeth grazed your earlobe. Then his mouth pressed flush against your ear, voice low, dangerous.

“You’re done with those magazines.”

You gasped, your body jolting under his weight. “What—?”

“If you want money,” he snarled, “you’ll take photos for me. No one else. Just me.”

His cock slammed deeper. “I’ll pay you. More than they ever did. I’ll photograph every inch of you, every angle, every expression. And then I’ll fuck you until you cry.”

You whimpered.

“No more strangers,” Eli growled. “No more glossy pages. Just you. My lens. My cock.”

He thrust again, brutal and deep. “You belong to me now. Say it.”

“I—I belong to you—”

“Louder.”

“I belong to you, Professor.”

He came with a grunt, buried deep, pulsing hot inside you, one arm locked around your waist, the other pressing you down as he emptied himself into your trembling, used body. You collapsed forward, breathing ragged, heart stuttering.

And Eli stayed there—still inside you, still hard, still smirking against your skin. “You’ll pose for me tonight,” he murmured, nipping your shoulder. “Start earning your paycheck.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Your thighs were already trembling in agreement.

[k-nayee]

Between Faith and Flesh Grotesquerie x Midnight Mass

wc: 2.8k a/n: incase it was unclear, this is a little cross-over between Grotesquerie x Midnight Mass while also being an Actor!AU. Might be a lil confusing but wanted to make something new lol

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

"Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything....James 1:2-4." 

The familiar warmth of the chapel enveloped you as you delivered the final lines of your morning homily, your voice calm yet resonant in the quiet space.

Sunlight filtered through the modest stained-glass windows, casting soft hues of gold and amber across the worn pews where Crockett Island's tight-knit congregation sat.

The scent of salt and damp wood lingered faintly in the air—a reminder of the sea just beyond the church walls.

Your gaze swept across the group, catching the faces you had come to know so well over the past year.

The mayor's daughter Leeza Scarborough sat in the front row, wide eyes attentive on you as she folded her hands neatly in her lap.

Even Sheriff Hassan stood near the back as his son Ali sat near him listening intently, despite knowing how outdated many were to his Islamic faith.

These people, they had become your family in a way—this island, with all its quiet mysteries, had grown on you.

You closed your sermon with a passage on resilience, something that had always resonated with you—like how faith, similar to the sea surrounding them, could be both steady and tumultuous.

"We find strength not in the absence of struggle, but in how we rise after the waves pull us under." Your words hung in the air for a moment, met with soft nods and murmurs of agreement from the congregation.

"Let us pray," you began, your hands resting gently on the altar.

As you spoke your thoughts wandered briefly, like they often did, to Riley Flynn—a name you had known only through the accident that had first led you here.

His absence was a constant echo in the small populace community, felt even when it wasn't spoken aloud.

As the congregation stood to leave, you lingered near the altar to exchange kind words with those who came up to you.

A soft word here, a warm touch on the shoulder there—each gesture felt like a testament to how far you'd come.

This role, unexpected as it was, had become more than just a position. It was your calling.

"You've really made a place for yourself here," Anne said quietly, her expression sincere as she approached.

"Thank you Mrs. Flynn," you replied, offering her a gentle smile. "Means a lot coming from you."

And it did. Especially knowing how much of the weight of her son's sins pressed on her mind. 

It still surprised you sometimes how much the town had accepted you. Even when being the first ordained woman pastor—something that should have sparked outrage, especially in a small traditional community—the people had welcomed you with open arms.

Or at least most of them had.

The familiar sound of heels clicking sharply against the stone floor caught your attention.

Bev Keane.

She always had an aura of cold disapproval, her gaze flickering over you with barely concealed distaste.

"Another lovely service I'm sure," she said, compliment laced with her usual acidity. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she continued, "But I wonder if perhaps next time you might include more...traditional teachings? Some of the congregation finds your progressive messages a bit, well, out of step."

Her words stung, but you kept your expression calm refusing to rise to her bait.

Bev had never approved of your leadership from the start—the idea of a woman in your position, however temporary, was something she barely tolerates.

With every sermon you gave, every interaction with the townsfolk that went well, her bitterness seemed to deepen.

"I'll take your suggestion under consideration," you kept your tone firm. There was no point in arguing with Bev directly—it would only lead to more confrontation.

One thing you had long since learned about Bev's resistance was that it was more about control than doctrine.

She craved the power that came with influence over the church, and your very presence threatened that.

Bev's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Of course. Well I'll leave you to clean up. God knows there's always work to be done."

With a stiff nod she turned on her heel and marched away, her presence lingering even after she disappeared through the doors.

As the last of the congregation departed, the chapel fell into a serene silence once again.

You exhaled softly, feeling the weight of the morning settle on your shoulders.

Despite the support of the community, moments like these reminded you of how precarious your position was.

You knew she was waiting for any excuse to discredit you—an outsider who had stepped into a role she believed was hers by right.

Busying yourself by tidying up, your hands smooth the fabric of the altar cloth as you cleared the space for the next service.

The chapel, now empty, felt both peaceful and solemn.

It was in these quiet moments that you often found yourself reflecting on the journey that had brought you here—from your small-town upbringing, to your studies, to this remote island where you now stood as the first ordained woman pastor.

The soft chime of your phone broke the stillness. Pulling the device from your pocket, you faintly smile at the name on the screen. Nick.

The message was short but familiar—a photo of him post-workout, his face flushed with exertion with a cheeky grin plastered across his face.

Nick: Finishing up my workout. Just wanted to give you an update :)

Your could feel the warmth creeping up your neck.

You weren't sure why you were smiling so much—after all, it was just Nick being...Nick. Friendly, teasing, always with that infectious charm.

But somehow, the way your eyes lingered on the photo for a beat too long made you acutely aware of something deeper. Something you weren't sure you should be feeling.

Shaking your head slightly, you reply back.

____: Glad to see you're keeping busy!

You hit send, already imagining the smirk he'd have seeing your response.

As soon you tuck away your phone, intent on finishing the cleanup, another buzz came almost immediately.

Nick: Hope you weren't doing anything unholy with that picture of me ;)

The heat had spread to your face and a startled laugh slipped past your lips.

You quickly type back.

____:  Behave Nicholas. I'm a pastor remember? 

You knew he was just being playful, but it didn't stop the way your heart skipped slightly at the implications.

Unholy. The word reverberated in your mind longer than it should have.

Before you could dwell too much on it, another text came through.

Nick: Sure sure I believe you ;) Anyways got a surprise for you

Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard, curiosity piqued.

____: A surprise? What kind?

Nick: You'll see. Just finished that project I told you about. Check your email when you get home. And no peeking. You promised

The reminder made you chuckle. ____: Fine fine I'll wait. It better be good especially with all this mystery!

You added a playful emoji at the end, the excitement clear in your message.

His response was immediate, and you could practically hear his voice.

Nick: Oh it's good. Don't worry I know you're going to love it.

You smiled at the screen, shaking your head at his confidence. Of course he'd know.

The faint echo of your steps on the wooden floor snapped you back to the present, making your thoughts drift back to his arrival, how it had all begun.

It was almost a year at the time when Father Pruitt had left on his pilgrimage, leaving you in charge of the church—a transition you hadn't anticipated but had eventually embraced.

And just as you were starting to find your footing, Nicholas Chaves had appeared, adding a new dynamic you hadn't expected.

Before he arrived to Crockett Island, you recall the unexpected email you received: a simple inquiry from the actor who was looking to deepen his understanding of priesthood for an upcoming role.

He wanted to shadow someone in the clergy, someone who could give him an authentic insight into the life of a pastor.

And he'd heard about your rather unique position on the island...

You of course were slightly taken aback by his openness and easy way he'd talked about his work.

It wasn't every day someone like Nick came knocking, but you had agreed mainly from intrigue of the whole situation.

Even when Bev became immediately suspicious of him—practically interrogating him when he first arrived—the rest of the town welcomed him warmly, charmed by his easygoing nature.

"Another distraction," she'd muttered once when Nick had offered to help you carry boxes of hymnals inside one time. "This is a church not a social club." 

Her words always came with that same bitter edge, though by now you'd learned to brush them off. 

He stayed in Father Pruitt's old house with you during that time in one of the spare rooms.

As you finished locking up and made your way toward the small home, your thoughts drifted back to him.

You never planned on feeling so affected by him. Yes he was charming, but it was more than that—there was something about him that drew you in even when you tried to resist it.

And it wasn't just his looks—though you couldn't deny the way your breath occasionally caught when he smiled at you in that boyish way of his.

No. It was his presence. The way he carried himself—confident yet curious, never shying away from asking questions about your work and sermons, about faith itself.

He was genuinely interested, even if he wasn't fully immersed in it like you were.

In all, conversations with Nick were easy; late-night talks often ended up stretching longer than intended as you discussed everything from theology to the little absurdities of life.

And yet despite the growing comfort, there had always been a tension simmering beneath the surface.

The first time you felt the it was when he'd sat in on one of your late-night study sessions, helping you prep for Sunday Mass.

His quiet attentiveness as he listened to you practice, his casual lean against the doorway as he watched with a smile tugging at his lips.

Now, as you made your way up the steps, you wondered what this surprise of Nick's could be.

You pushed the front door open, the familiar scent of wood and old books greeting you.

It was home now—at least for the time being. Letting out a sigh, you set your bag down and make your way to the bedroom.

Changing your robes and veil into a more comfortable sleepwear, you grab your laptop and settle into bed.

There in your inbox, you find a sent email from him.

Three video files, each with a timestamp of about an 50 minutes. The subject line read simply: For You.

You frowned in confusion but quickly clicked on the first one. The video loaded, and as it played, the familiar face of Niecy Nash popped up on the screen.

A soft laugh escaped you—a TV show? It wasn't what you were expecting, but you were intrigued.

As the episode unfolded, you were drawn into the storyline.

It was refreshing actually, seeing a concept that brushed against the edges of a religion that's intertwined with your own daily life.

By the second episode you were completely hooked. You'd grown attached to the characters, loving the way they navigated this warped world of morality and sin.

The storyline itself was intense and unpredictable in how it blended the very faith you preached into something so viscerally raw.

But then your heart leapt a little as Nick—or rather, Father Charlie finally appeared on screen.

You smiled, unable to resist snapping a picture of the scene and sending it to him with a simple teasing text.

____: Look who just showed up on my screen.

Your phone buzzed almost instantly, but you ignored it.

You were too caught up in watching him; your eyes tracing the way he moved, the way his expression shifted with every word.

It was surreal watching him play a priest when just a few weeks ago, he had been standing beside you in the church helping with the altar cloths.

Every close-up of his face had your heart doing an odd little flip. You'd shared conversations with that face, shared jokes and moments of comfort. 

The goofy smile on your lips was hard to suppress as you watched him banter with Sister Megan, the two having a light giggle over stolen fries.

You couldn't help but draw parallels between the man on the screen and the man you had grown close to—the actor who had been nothing but kind, thoughtful, and, admittedly, a little flirtatious.

And then the scene change.

The camera panned across a dimly lit, sparsely furnished room. Your eyes narrowed, focusing in on the figure sitting at the edge of a bed.

It was Father Charlie—his broad, bare back flexing as he sat, hunched slightly. The room was silent except for his soft labored breathing.

You watch with growing confusion as his breathing deepens.

A soft sound escapes him—a low moan—and suddenly, the atmosphere in the room shifts entirely.

Your eyes widened upon realizing what you were seeing. Father Charlie is pleasuring himself.

The sounds of his quiet sighs fill the room, and you freeze as you try to process what you're watching. 

The camera caught it all: the soft sighs, the slow measured pace of his hand, the quiet moans that grew more strained with every movement.

You felt your breath hitch, heat creeping up your neck as you watched too stunned to look away.

You know it's just a show—it's just acting—but seeing Nick, someone you know, in such an intimate and vulnerable moment...it shakes you.

Your body feels hot, heart pounding as Father Charlie quickens his pace, his breath becoming more erratic, moans growing louder.

A strange warmth unfurled in your chest that you immediately tried to suppress.

It felt wrong to watch this—wrong to feel anything about it.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for your laptop, the desire to pause or stop the episode battling with the inexplicable pull to keep watching.

And then it changed again.

The camera cuts to him standing at a basin, his back to the facing you once again, the muscles in his back flexing under the low light.

You blink rapidly as he begins to wash his hands, the sound of the water almost deafening in the silence.

That's when you notice it—the chaps. He's wearing bottomless chaps, the skin of his thighs and backside completely bare.

"Sweet baby Jesus," you whisper, hands shaking as you press a hand to your mouth in attempt to contain the heat that spreads across your face.

It wasn't over.

Father Charlie moved toward a small wooden box, opening it with a reverence that made your stomach twist.

He reached inside and pulled out a flogging whip—a thick, multi-tailed instrument of punishment.

His expression is solemn, his lips moving in silent prayer as he prepares the whip, his fingers brushing reverently over the strips before raising the instrument of self-punishment.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch, unable to tear your eyes away as Father Charlie strikes himself.

The sharp crack of the whip fills the room and you flinch at the sound.

Each lash is deliberate. His body jerks with every strike, a soft grunt escaping him with every hit.

His whispered prayers mix with the sounds of his punishment, the intensity of the scene almost unbearable as it goes on, each crack of the whip sending a shiver down your spine.

It's too much. You couldn't take it anymore.

Your hand shot out, scrambling to close the laptop with a thud. For a moment you couldn't move.

Your body felt both heavy and weightless at the same time, suspended in the strange space between what you knew and what you had just witnessed.

The room around you suddenly felt too small, too close.

Shakily, you brush a few stray strands of hair from your damp forehead, trying to steady yourself.

You were a pastor—dedicated to God, to the people you served. You weren't supposed to feel like this.

Closing your eyes tightly, you try to will the feeling to go away and dissipate like the smoke from the candles you had blown out earlier in the church.

But the heat in your face, the trembling in your hands, didn't fade.

You felt as though you had been thrust into a battle between your devotion to God and the temptation of something far more dangerous—something you could no longer ignore.

The dim screen of your phone in your peripheral catches your attention.

Hesitant, you picked it up, and your stomach drops at the sight of Nicholas's message.

Nick: What do you think?

[birdofwildness]

☾Hope in the darkness

Warnings::Smut,slutshaming,mention of dead parents,no aftercare,insane,mean Tom.

☾Tom Riddle

Summary:: You're a criminal psychologist assined to help your ex-boyfriend,who's now currently in azkaban. Stuff happens...

A deep breath filled my lungs, stale and heavy with the weight of forgotten souls. Azkaban was worse than I had imagined—darker, colder, more suffocating. Whether or not its prisoners deserved this fate, I wasn’t sure. But no human being should be forced to endure such an existence.

And yet… most of them were Death Eaters. They had destroyed lives, torn families apart—mine included. I should have been glad to see them rot. And still, here I was. Because one of them still mattered. Because I couldn’t shake the belief that he wasn’t entirely lost.

The Dementors circled just beyond the visitor’s area, repelled by some unseen boundary. A lone Auror led me through the dim corridors in silence, his presence more of a formality than a comfort. My wand was taken, my pockets searched. Standard procedure.

Then, the door opened, and I stepped inside.

The room was small, starved of light save for a sliver of dull gray spilling through a tiny window. A simple table stood in the center, two chairs facing each other. One was already occupied.

Tom Riddle.

He sat unnervingly still, staring at the table as if deep in thought. His dark hair had grown longer, falling in disarray over his sharp, aristocratic features. But his presence hadn’t dulled. He was still a force—caged but not broken.

The moment I sat down and the Auror stepped out, he lifted his head, eyes locking onto mine. The silence between us stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, at last, his lips curled into something resembling amusement.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice smooth as silk, sharp as a dagger. “If it isn’t little Y/N. After all this time, you still can’t let me go.” His head tilted slightly, his smirk deepening. “What a surprise.”

I exhaled sharply. “A hello would have sufficed.”

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Forgive my lack of decorum. Azkaban does tend to kill one’s manners.”

I ignored the bait. “I’m here about your case. As you may know, I’m a criminal psychologist now. It is my duty to take care of you.”

Something flickered in his expression—too brief to name. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“How nice of you,” he murmured, as if testing the words on his tongue. “Still clinging to the idea that I'm redeemable, how adorable.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “

I swallowed. “I believe you were different once. I don’t know what happened, but I want to understand. I want to help.” My voice softened. “Back at Hogwarts, I lo—”

He scoffed, cutting me off with a quiet laugh, devoid of warmth.

“Oh, spare me,” he said, shaking his head. “You never loved me. You loved the image I created—the perfect student, the gifted prodigy, the charming enigma.” His eyes darkened. “But you never knew me. Not really.”

The words struck something deep inside me. I clenched my fists. “Is that truly what you think?” I demanded. “That I left because I wanted to? I had no choice, Tom. The war, my family… I had to leave. And when I returned, you were no longer the boy I once knew.” My voice wavered. “But I still wonder… if I had stayed, could I have—”

“Saved me?” His voice was sharp now, his smile cold. “How touching.”

He rose suddenly, his presence suffocating. “I don’t need saving,” he hissed. “I never did.”

Anger flared in me. I shot to my feet. “How dare you?” My voice cracked with frustration. “You’re the one in Azkaban, not me! And yet, I’m still here—I still care!”

---

I pulled out my notepad, clicking my pen against it. “Let’s start with something simple,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “How are you feeling today?”

Tom leaned back in his chair, shackles clinking softly against the table. His lips curled into a lazy smirk. “Oh, you know, just wonderful. The hospitality here is unmatched. The décor, the company, the ever-present soul-sucking despair—it’s truly a five-star experience.”

I ignored the sarcasm. “Do you feel any remorse for what you’ve done?”

His smirk widened. “Ah, straight to the good part. Tell me, what answer are you hoping for? Should I weep? Beg for forgiveness? Or would you prefer a tortured monologue about how I see the error of my ways?” He tilted his head. “I’m curious—what’s the correct answer that gets me out of here?”

I met his gaze evenly. “There is no ‘correct’ answer, Tom. I just want the truth.”

He let out a low chuckle. “The truth?” He leaned forward, chains scraping against the table. “The truth is irrelevant. You’ve already decided who I am.”

I studied him carefully. “Who do you think I’ve decided you are?”

His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. Interest. He liked this game. “A lost cause,” he said smoothly. “A monster. A mind worth dissecting but never truly understanding.” His lips twitched. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To prove to yourself that you’re better than me? That you can crack open my mind and find the broken pieces?”

I kept my expression unreadable. “Already told you.I’m here because they sent me. It's my job”

“Oh, of course,” he murmured. “Always someone else pulling the strings. And yet, you could have refused. But you didn’t.” He studied me with something close to amusement. “That’s interesting.”

I ignored the provocation. “What about regret? Do you regret anything you’ve done?”

He sighed theatrically. “Regret is such a tedious emotion. It implies there was ever another choice.” His fingers drummed against the table. “But let’s entertain the idea. Let’s say I do regret something. What then? Does that make me salvageable?”

“Do you want to be salvageable?” I asked.

For the first time, he was quiet for a moment too long. His gaze flickered—just for a second—before the smirk returned. “You tell me, doctor Y/N”

I tapped my pen against my notepad. “Deflecting doesn’t answer the question.”

He chuckled. “Oh, but it’s so much more fun.”

tapped my pen against my notepad, keeping my voice steady. “Do you ever feel remorse for what you’ve done?”

Tom Riddle sighed dramatically, his chains clinking as he leaned back in his chair. “Ah, the favorite question of every self-righteous mind prodding at me. Let’s see…” He hummed, pretending to think. “No. There, now you can write that down and be on your way.”

I refused to react. “Why not?”

His gaze flickered with amusement. “Why regret actions I fully intended to take?” He leaned forward suddenly, chains scraping against the metal table. “But tell me, Doctor… do you regret coming here?”

I felt the shift in the air—subtle but undeniable. The way his voice lowered just slightly, the way his piercing eyes held mine, like a hunter toying with prey. But I wasn’t prey. Not to him.

I met his stare, unfazed. “Should I?”

A slow smirk stretched across his lips. “Most would.”

I set my pen down, folding my hands on the table. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Playing these little games. Watching how people react to you.”

“Of course,” he murmured, voice like silk. “What’s the point of a conversation if not to see how far you can push someone?”

His words sent a shiver down my spine. Not from fear—but from something else. Something I shouldn’t acknowledge. I shifted in my seat, trying to remind myself why I was here.

I cleared my throat. “Are you ever honest, or is everything a performance?”

Tom tilted his head slightly, watching me like I was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Oh, but honesty is subjective, isn’t it?” He let out a soft chuckle. “Tell me, what answer would you find… satisfying?”

There was something dangerous in the way he said that word—slow, deliberate, like he was testing the weight of it.

I inhaled sharply. “This isn’t about what I want, Tom.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

The space between us felt smaller than before, even though neither of us had moved. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, betraying me. He noticed—of course he did. He always noticed.

Then, slowly, he lifted his shackled hands and placed them flat against the table. A challenge. An invitation.

I should have ignored it.

But instead, I reached forward, my fingertips barely grazing the cool metal of the chains.

His breath hitched, just slightly. It was subtle—so subtle that if I hadn’t been watching him so closely, I would have missed it. His smirk faltered for the briefest second, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

Then he chuckled. “Careful, Doctor,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave. “You keep touching me like that, and someone might start to think you enjoy this as much as I do.”

My fingers curled instinctively, but I didn’t pull away. “And what exactly do you think I enjoy?”

His lips parted slightly, and for the first time, he looked at me differently. Less like a game to be played and more like something he wanted to devour.

He leaned in just a fraction more, and I did the same—before I realized what I was doing.

The tension snapped taut between us, thick, heavy, charged.

He seemed to fight with himself but then suddenly he mumbled a “Fuck it.” and dove in to kiss me. I was shocked,stunned. I should have stopped. But I was insane myself.And I let him. How couldn’t I?

The kiss was soft, at first, but became heated very fast. He grabbed me by my hips and pushed me onto the table. His hands wandered to my ass and he stood between my legs. He pressed me close to him and squeezed my behind. All while he never stopped kissing me passionately and when I moaned, he slipped his tongue into my mouth.

Oh, how I’ve missed this. Nobody has ever touched me like this after him. I laid my hands onto his chest, which surprisingly was still slightly toned. He left my mouth and kissed down my neck where he instantly found my sweet spot. This had me moaning like crazy and one of my hands shot up to his hair.

“You're such a fucking slut,doll” he spread my legs and grinded his still clothed cock against my core. “Fuck you,” I said, reaching a hand up to cup his face as we made eye contact. “Please,Tom .” his eyes nearly lit up red as I begged for him. He wrapped my legs around his waist, “Needy,slut” His hips moved faster, “Do you think often that perhaps I gave the order to kill your family? That those were my followers,huh?”

I shook my head,getting my senses back. He really was insane.Tom practically ripped my panties in half, showing no real care for the act as he took his cock out, shoving into me.“Oh, my fuck —“ I immediately clenched around him, lifting my hips to join him. I knew I was insane for this,I just couldn't stop.His hands wrapped themselves around me as I squeezed harder, making him moan. “You feel so good,” I panted, my fingers entangling in his hair again. “You’re so tight-like a fucking virgin,doll. I missed you“

“God,doll-” he picked up the pace kissing my neck and face as my head fell back onto the surface. “You feel amazing.”

“Tom,I need to..” I cried, scratching my nails down his back. “Please-please,please“

“Doll–fuck. You wanna come on the dark lord's cock,huh?” He groaned in my ear, making sure not to hold me too tightly as he got closer, going harder as he kissed my mouth again. “Answear me,whore” he demanded.

Through my ecstasy I simply kept repeating “yes” over and over, his hips smacking into mine before finishing inside. He felt my walls flutter around him as I screamed his name, my grip tightening just slightly with my arms before I let him go and he rolled off of me.

We needed some time to recover. "You're a fucking bastard,Tom. What the hell was that talk,about my parents. Have you actually went mental?"—I questioned,getting more and more angry.

He raised his eyebrows mockingly. "Me? Mental? Because I have ambitions unlike other,stupid people? I knew what I wanted from the second I was born. I wanted power,and I have absolutely done everything I could to get it. You're the mental one here. You're a fucking therapist,who fucked a fucking prisoner from Azkaban."

I was stunned at his manipulative tactics. I was about to open my mouth to defend myself,but he cut me off. "Don't you dare open your mouth,because I'm not finished,doll. The truth is you didn't give a fuck about them,when I started fucking you. So get over it. You enjoyed it. Now get dressed."

"You're insane. I"—he cut me off again.

"Please. Doll. You liked it. You like me,I like you. There's nothing wrong with It. Just accept the fact and our life will be so much easier."—he pleaded. A hint of arrogance in his voice.

"You're never going to see me again. I'm leaving"—I hurried away.

[thepiedcurrawong]

WELCOME TO THE MINDFUCK

Here's a new intro post!

last updated 17/04/2025

IMPORTANT POST

BASIC INFORMATION

I live in AEDT/AEST, so click here to see my time.

Am 17! Minor! I've had so many "MDNI" blogs follow me its acually weird. Like fellas i have IT WRITTEN I AM A MINOR!!! dude it actually pisses me off if you're gonna have a dni make sure YOU YOURSELF can follow it!?!!??! like cmon??? you cant expect other people to enforce your restrictions that you have placed on yourself. If i have to go tell someone who is following me that i am indeed a minor then like. dude. cmon.

I am bisexual(1) and panromantic. I am also a trans girl. My pronouns are she/her.

I love DMs! I love social interaction! Please, if you think I'm cool, DM me! I love talking to people!!

Dividers used made by @enchanthings-a and can be found here

Further elaboration below the cut.

COMPLEX INFORMATION

I live in Australia. My favourite drink is coffee, followed shortly by Schweppes Agrum Blood Orange, caramel milkshakes, apple juice, and the blood of my enemies.

You may call me A.V., as those are my initials. If we're mooties I'll probably tell you my name.

I’M ON ESTROGEN, BITCHES! >:3

My singing range is around E2-A5.

I won't reblog reblog bait. Just know that yes, this blog is a safe place for everyone unless you don't tolerate other people, in which case you violate the social contract of tolerance and are as such not included in said contract.

I have many plushies. DM me if you want to know their lore.

I will probably use all slurs that apply to me (faggot, tranny, dyke).

I will probably flirt with you.

I love media piracy.

I FUCKING LOVE BIRDS. My favourite ones are the Australian Magpie, Aussie Raven, and of course, Pied Currawongs.

I have no DNI because they don't really work anyway.

I would totally fuck the xenomorph.

I have multiple sideblogs, DM me if you want to know them :3

I love yo-yos. I'm not good at it but I'm tryning ok just gimmie a minute here

My tags

A number of these I haven't used in a while, and most I just forget.

#av-og for when i write things.

#av-media for posts relating to media I like

#av-dark for DarK related stuff

#av-dune for Dune related posts

#av-silly for silly stuff

#av-rb for reblogs

#av-trans for stuff relating to being trans

#av-hrt for matter specifically regarding me having estrogen

#av-space for SPACE SPACE SPACE SPACE

#av-lore for mostly plushie lore but maybe some amy lore too if i decide to do jazz

MEDIA I'M A FAN OF (BIG LIST SORRY)

BOOKS

Holes

No Country For Old Men

Dune

The Hunger Games series

The Three-Body Problem trilogy

The Martian

House of Leaves

FILMS

Dune

The Princess Bride

Pirates of the Caribbean

The Black Phone

Jaws

Klaus

The Batman

Hunt for the Wilderpeople

The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar

TELEVISION

Test Patterns

Dark (2017)

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Stranger Things (only season 1 though) (3)

The Owl House

The Sandman

Alice in Borderland

Good Omens

Breaking Bad

Squid Game (4)

MUSIC

The Crane Wives

Will Wood & The Tapeworms

Sarah and the Safe Word

Vundabar

Lena Raine

The Heavy

The Black Keys

JCS

VIDEO GAMES

Fields of Mistria

Stardew Valley

Project Zomboid

Minecraft

Minecraft: Story Mode

Subnautica

Terraria

Celeste

Team Fortress 2

Bopl Battle

Pressure

OTHER

The Magnus Archives/The Magnus Protocol

Technoblade

Chainmail Chasers

Colinlock16 continuity

This Man

Jesus Christ: Superstar

Ending notes

Don't kill yourself, please.

The title is a reference to Mind Brand.

have this as a gift for reading the whole thing

[delta-chan]

Thoughts about Dawntrail map six

Needless to say, very heavy spoilers beneath the read more!

I was initially a bit wary of Living Memory's telegraphed "reverse Ultima Thule" structure until I got the prompt that the scenery would be irreversibly altered at the first terminal. I panicked because like a lot of people I thought "oh nice, I'll come back here later for some nice gpose shots". That this beautiful place would have to be taken away for you to progress was almost incomprehensible to me and in that moment the genius of it clicked. It wasn't just a reverse spin on Ultima Thule's structure--it was a reverse spin that was going to back it up to an extreme.

The ephemerality of life is something FFXIV has touched on many times before, including as one of the chief themes of Endwalker. But while in Endwalker this was on a grand scale as a part of radical acceptance as a whole, Dawntrail's second half explores this idea in a more focused, intimate fashion. While the WoL has no one they are close to that they can engage with in an experience with like Erenville, Krile, and Wuk Lamat--they have the environment. And being that you're the person behind the WoL with an investment in that environment on some level the finality of moving forward hits you like a sack of bricks.

I spent a lot of time being kind of awed by this--it's a very, very solid gimmick. I sort of paused at the first prompt going "haha there's no way, right…?" before going "wait" and immediately setting out to take a bunch of quick shots. That place wasn't going to exist anymore, and I wanted a memory of it. That beautiful place--a painstakingly detailed and gorgeous bit of gpose bait if I've ever seen it--wasn't going to exist if I wanted to move on. It was… weird. I took so many nearly identical shots trying to get perfect ones because there was only ever going to be that moment. In the future there'll be new game plus. You might have alts. But in that moment, experiencing it for the first time... it's… really effective. Startlingly effective.

The fact that when I was watching the map introduction and thought about how Living Memory was an almost tailor-made gposing space (and let's face it probably is for exactly this reason) that I would have a lot of fun taking screenshots at later made me think about how many other people thought, are thinking, and will think the same thing not knowing that they're taking it for granted. Who would...? It's absurd. Why would the map be altered to such a degree that it'd be rendered gone all but in name...? It hasn't happened before. So why would it happen now? Why would it even come to mind?

And the thing is--even if someone warns you, even if you're spoiled, even if you have someone fly you from place to place--the terminals are still going to have to be shut down eventually if you want to move forward. You cannot keep it. Living memory is made to be seen once then destroyed by your own hand.

I mean--at the end of the MSQ I thought, perhaps naively, that Living Memory was going to be restored because the threat was resolved. I mean--everyone's gone. There's no need for the environment to stay gone as well, right...? I mean, they put so much loving detail into it!

Wrong.

In the immediacy of when I first finished Endwalker during its early access I wrote that I never wanted to return to Ultima Thule because it creeped me out. The map was emotionally fraught, and my first experience with it was being released into an incredibly dark map with a discordant soundtrack, jumping out of my seat at another player passing by. But returning to it for hunts and the Omicron quests I saw it for the vibrant, beautiful place that it was. It changed for the better and stayed that way.

In spite of how much I've talked up Living Memory's beauty and how much it inspires the drive to capture the moment before it leaves you, it's also far more disconcerting than Ultima Thule from the very beginning in an altogether different manner. Living Memory is something that you want to be that shouldn't be. Both in the context of the MSQ and as a map in general--you want to take screenshots, you want to linger, but the unchanging weather effect and languidly pleasant music begin to push against you if you stay too long.

When everything's said and done Living Memory becomes a featureless husk that now has natural changing weather. At night there are motes of light, golden remains of the once oppressive reminiscence. And in the background as if being piped from distant speakers, the languidly pleasant and slightly warped BGM echoing through the nothingness like an amusement park's PA system playing music for no one after closing for the last time.

It's something you didn't want that needs to be.

[sofreddie]

Not What You Wanted - Part 3

Summary: Held captive by Crowley, Y/N realizes running from the Winchesters was a mistake.

Characters: F!Fan!Reader, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel, Gadreel, Crowley, OC Earl, Others

Warnings: Soulmate AU, Canon Divergent AU, Angst

WC: 4,215

A/N: I completely missed the day of the week. I'm sorry this is late. The darn real world and its stupid real-world responsibilities are scrambling my brain.

Part 2

The thick and rusty iron cuffs clicked around her wrists, pulling her hands above her head, a heavy and long chain keeping her tethered to the stone wall behind her. The demon minions chuckled as they left her alone in the cell - a small and dark room that smelled of mildew and filth and things she dared not think about. How did she end up here? This couldn’t be what Chuck had in mind when he brought her here. Maybe this was her punishment for running away, for attempting to go against God’s plan. 

Y/N wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the door to her cell opened again. But it was long enough that the light shining through caused her to squint against the painful brightness. She could make out a blurry figure followed by two more behind them. 

“Oh, my Dear,” she recognized the voice, verifying it was Crowley when he leaned in close enough for her to see. “You weren’t supposed to be held like this.” The king stood with a sigh, gesturing for his two lackeys to uncuff her and helped Y/N to her feet. “She’s supposed to be a guest,” he chastised his demons as they carried her to another room.

Crumpling to the floor, she landed atop an ornate, soft, worn rug. A glance around the room revealed an elaborate suite, lavish and decorated with fine furniture and tapestries - probably some priceless lost artifacts of a bygone age if she knew anything of Crowley. 

“I apologize for my demons,” Crowley said. “S’hard to find good help these days.” She rose to her feet, gathering her strength to stand and face him. 

“What are you going to do to me?” she asked, terrified of the answer but wanting to know regardless.

“Nothing,” he smirked. “That is if you cooperate.”

“Cooperate?”

“Let’s start with your name and why you were radiating God’s energy?” he asked, walking over to a small table off the side of the room that she had just noticed, covered in various fresh and prepared foods. 

Her stomach growled, alerting her to her hunger. It must have been at least a couple of days, with her stomach now gnawing at her. As Crowley sat, he gestured for her to join him in the other chair. With little hesitation and driven by her need for sustenance, she launched into the other chair, taking a few hasty bites. When he raised an expectant brow, she understood he was waiting for her to cooperate.

“My name is Y/N,” she spoke. “God brought me here and did something to me but didn’t tell me why or what I’m supposed to do,” she offered. It was mostly the truth. 

“He did something to you, alright,” Crowley steepled his hands, his elbows leaning against the edge of the small table. “He made you a Winchester soulmate.”

“What?!” she shrieked, dumbfounded by his statement. 

That can’t be the truth. Soulmate to the Winchesters?! He HAD to be lying. Demons lie. Maybe he was baiting her? Their freaking soulmate?! 

No doubt Chuck’s doing when he touched her. She wasn’t sure what to do with that information, but she knew she didn’t want to betray them in any way or reveal too much.

“Who or what is a Winchester?”

Crowley chuckled as he looked her over, delighted that she seemed unaware. He was sure she had met them, the beginnings of a connection stirring within both her and Dean. A hint of Sam seemed attached to her, making him wonder if the two hunters shared one woman. The fact she was not with them now told him that neither she nor they had to be aware of that connection. Being enacted by God Himself made Crowley wonder what leverage keeping her with him could provide. 

“Never mind,” he waved off her concern before rising from his seat. “I’ll leave you to eat. This will be your room, and Maria here will assist you with anything you need until I return.”

“So I’m still captive?” she dared with a huff, glancing around the room again, which suddenly felt much smaller and colder despite its warm decor. 

“An honored guest,” he countered with a smile before leaving the room, the heavy wooden double doors closing behind him. She caught a glimpse of another man standing watch just outside the doors.

Crowley provided food and clothes as promised and treated her like he had done with a young Amara in the show. However, she was never allowed beyond the heavy wooden doors to her room, stuck within a gilded cage. Maria acted as a demonic lady-in-waiting to help Y/N with whatever she needed. They mostly spent their time talking and playing cards between Crowley’s visits. 

Crowley visited with her every few days as he pleased, having elaborate meals of her favorites laid out for them to dine together. Y/N remained wary, though she did enjoy the conversations she shared with the King, who seemed to accept that she was oblivious to anything to do with the Winchesters or the supernatural.

She was left alone at night, locked in her room to sleep. She let her mind wander in those moments before slumbering to the Winchesters. She lamented having run from them. She wondered if maybe they’d somehow rescue her - though she was confident they didn’t know anything about her - or that perhaps Chuck Himself would intervene. She even tried praying to Castiel. But no one came.

She'd have to save herself if no one were coming for her.

Slinking from the bed, she crept to the door, leaning her ear against it to hear. Someone often pulled the guards from her door to tend to other matters, such as demons being killed left and right in various battles. Between Winchesters and Angels, they had their hands pretty full. Rushing to where she’d stashed a bag - thanks to Maria, who hated Crowley and considered Y/N a friend, offering to help if she ever decided she wanted to try and leave - Y/N readied to put her plan in motion, which she’d made in a last-ditch effort with Maria’s help and guidance. 

Comings and goings in the ‘palace’ were relatively routine and predictable, allowing her to formulate a plan of escape. She practiced lockpicking on the various small locks on the furniture within the room. Hoping her practice served her well, she attempted to unlock the door. She struggled before finally picking the lock, surprising her immensely. Summoning her best stealth skills - mostly learned from watching shows and films and playing video games - she crept through the shadows and recesses of the dilapidated asylum Crowley called home. Armed with an Angel blade she removed from the stash bag, she did her best to tame her racing heart.

Luckily, she managed to avoid any confrontation. As she made it outside, she stopped to take a deep breath of fresh air, the cool night breeze sending a chill through her. Shouting and voices from within the building let her know her time was limited. With her last bit of strength, she took off into the night.

-

After forty-eight hours without discovery or capture, she figured it was safe to assume whatever God-power energy signal she bore had worn off. With that and her tattoos, she was more confident she wouldn’t be found. At least, not easily. However, when she discovered she was in Massachusetts - roughly sixteen hundred miles from Lebanon - she was tempted to turn back into Crowley. 

How would she get halfway across the country to find the Bunker and the Winchesters again? 

Sitting on a bench outside a large and busy convenience store, she tried to formulate a plan to get back to Kansas. As luck would have it - she was beginning to think Chuck had blessed her with some of that Heroes Luck - she met a man outside the store, a truck driver named Earl.

Earl intended to travel from Massachusetts to Illinois, then pick up before heading to Kansas. She was hesitant to accept the ride the small and older male offered but figured she could handle him if he tried anything. Earl was weird but kind and super chatty. They talked about everything, mostly him speaking and her listening with country western crooning in the background. By the time they made it to Lebanon - nearly a day and a half later - she knew all the ins and outs of operating and driving a tractor-trailer and the history of interstate transport from Earl’s forty years on the road.

Sometime after midnight, Earl pulled into the Interstate Travel Center outside Lebanon. They both gave a long stretch before climbing out of the truck.

“Thank you again, Earl, for all your help and bringing me here,” Y/N smiled at the older male, who brushed aside her thanks.

“No problem. I enjoyed the company,” he grinned. “Hope you find what you’re looking for,” he smiled, waving her off again before they went their separate ways inside.

Entering the restroom, Y/N cleaned up as best she could after the long drive, then went to the clerk to get directions back into town. The walk wasn’t too bad, though it was creepy and a little chilly in the middle of the night. It wasn’t long before the familiar bus station appeared, though it was dark with no people at that time of night. 

Tired steps increased their pace as she crossed the darkened parking lot toward the lit-up bus station building, but she faltered as three menacing-looking men appeared from the shadows, placing themselves in her path. Her breath hitched, hoping she could escape whatever was happening without much struggle.

“Crowley was distraught to find you went and ran off,” one of the men spoke, all three pairs of eyes flashing coal black and sending a chill down her spine.

Castiel - she prayed, her heart racing knowing she wasn’t getting out of this quickly - Castiel, please, I need your help. If you can hear me, I’m at the Lebanon bus station. Please! She practically sobbed in her mind while trying to keep her wits about her. She couldn’t get into her backpack and brandish a weapon before they got to her; it was futile.

“How about you come back nice and easy, and we won’t hurt you,” the demon spoke again, donning a menacing grin. “Well…not too much.”

The other demons cackled, and all three began to stroll towards her as she slowly retreated in turn. Making a hasty decision, she turned and ran faster than ever. It all came to a grinding halt as she slammed suddenly against a firm body, hands catching her upper arms.

Looking up, her eyes widened as they met curious blues. Before a sound could be uttered, he looked beyond her and released her to the side, ready to fight the pursuing demons. As she turned to see the spectacle, she realized another man was with Castiel, the two fighting with Angel powers and quickly taking down the three demons. 

The pair turned to her again and stood tall and proud with stone faces. It was the Castiel…and Gadreel. It was a moment of awe that rendered her speechless. Castiel stepped towards her while Gadreel remained in place.

“I heard your prayers,” Castiel answered her unspoken question. “Who are you?”

“Y/N,” she quickly responded. 

“You are the woman from the woods.”  It wasn’t a question, and he looked her over with curiosity before meeting her eyes again. “Why did you run away from the Winchesters? Why did God send you here?”

Gadreel listened attentively as she explained that Chuck had brought her and done something, but she didn’t know what, but she didn’t want to be a pawn. With someone to tell her ordeal to, she poured out all that had happened, Crowley holding her captive and telling her she was a Winchester soulmate.

“Yes, it is true,” Castiel responded with a slight nod. “I could sense you and the connection immediately. I felt it when he brought you, and when I went to investigate, you were already gone and warded, it seems.”

She smirked, swelling with pride at having successfully warded herself, even if there were other things she screwed up and if being warded ended up having its downsides - like not getting rescued. 

“So, what now?” she asked the Angel, glancing between them as they moved together and away from her to have a private conversation. Gadreel nodded, then disappeared before her eyes, making her freeze and blink repeatedly at the space he once occupied.

“I’m taking you to the Bunker,” he explained, pulling out his phone and bringing it to his ear. He began to walk away, and Y/N hurried her steps to follow. 

-

Dean hung up the phone, clenching it in his hand as he leaned his arms and forehead against the roof of his Baby. Castiel had found her - still in Lebanon, of all places, the clever little minx - and was on his way back with her, requesting the chance to talk with her over the walk there. She’d fooled them with her tale of an abusive boyfriend. She’d nearly fooled them into a damn goose chase as they were just about to head out to start tracking the itinerary to find her.

He was pissed.

Well, not entirely.

Part of him was impressed and, dare he say, proud. She was clever and intelligent enough to fool him and Sam, to evade them - at least for a little while - and to ward herself against anything finding her. The girl certainly had some chops. He couldn’t help but admire that and wondered what other secrets she might have.

Utterly livid with Cas for not telling him and Sam about her, Dean knew he’d talk with his Angel buddy. If he had told them, Crowley might not have taken her. That was the other thing he was pissed about - Crowley had taken her. That bastard had to know who or what she was and took her for that reason. He’d have a little talk with him, too.

All he knew, for now, was what Cas had told him: she was their soulmate - made so by Chuck, who happens to be freaking God - and was from another universe where instead of books about their lives, there was a goddamn TV show! Like that universe, Balthazar zapped them years ago.

Maybe Y/N knew something that could help. That was her name - the name of his and Sam’s soulmate. He had a freaking soulmate! - Y/N. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, unbidden.

Where Dean was pissed but calm, Sam was running around like a worried housewife informed last minute that there'd be guests. He was working to straighten the Library, putting items back in their places. Dean had moved the sigil box somewhere - something Sam intended to bring up with his brother later.

Their soulmate was coming, Castiel escorting her to the Bunker. Sam tried not to let the fairytale thoughts of a soulmate consume him. Instead, he tried to focus on the fact that Chuck brought her here. There had to be a reason beyond simply being a soulmate. Being a fan, she might know some things.

Although he didn't do well with fans—Sam's mind immediately thought of Becky and the horrors of those interactions—he had to admit that sometimes they knew things that the brothers didn't, and that information might prove priceless.

So the brothers sat and waited, neither knowing what to expect or even how they'd react.

-

Y/N stood in shock before the recessed entrance to the Bunker, the dilapidated and abandoned power station looming above.

“This is so surreal,” she breathed out, even though she had been walking beside Castiel for the past hour or so back to the Winchester's clubhouse.

She spent most of the walk looking at the ground or her surroundings, anything other than him. Her heart leaped into her throat, choking her uncomfortably every time she dared a glance in his direction. And he seemed to notice and flash her a small, reassuring smile every time, which sent her fangirl into flutters.

“I'm sure Sam and Dean will share the sentiment,” Cas said under his breath. He shuffled down the steps, unlocking the main door and gesturing for her to enter.

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, trying to contain her inner fangirl at seeing the bunker live and in person. As they descended into the War Room, her eyes devoured everything. She couldn’t stop the wide grin as the fangirl won out, geeking over being in the actual Bunker. When her eyes landed on the massive Library, they also landed on the Winchester Brothers, standing tall and staring her down.

"Dean, Sam," Castiel began. "This is Y/N Y/L/N," he introduced, before eyeing the brothers down, "Your soulmate."

Dean’s eyes raked over her from head to toe and back again. Just being in her presence was causing an itch under his skin that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. It wasn’t there when they first met, but he supposed that knowing who she was made it more noticeable.

His breathing picked up as the silence dragged out, and the tension and silence in the room made Sam uncomfortable. Seeing an opening, he took it, stepping forward and extending his hand.

"Hi, I'm Sam. Sam Winchester," he introduced, fitting his hand nicely around hers. She was warm, her grip firm and confident. He held her hand a little too long, releasing it suddenly and awkwardly, trying to play off his bashfulness.

"Hi, Sam," she smiled, small but warm, giving Sam flutters.

He awkwardly led her over to Dean, intending to allow them to greet and shake. Meeting her and touching her would make Dean feel something, too. But when his older brother didn't make a move to shake her hand, his face still stern, he knew it wouldn't go down like that.

“You’ve got some nerve running off like that,” Dean growled, ignoring his brother’s reprimand. He stepped closer to her, his emotions getting the better of him. “You were supposed to come to us, not run off where anything could get to you,” he growled down at her.

He was being a dick, and he knew he was. But the swirl of his emotions collided and turned into fear. He could’ve lost her before even knowing he had her.

“Dean, what the hell is wrong with you?” Sam chastised, coming to stand between the two.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Y/N hissed as she stared Dean down, her gaze piercing. “I wasn’t trying to put you in a position of having to deal with me.”

“You’re our responsibility,” Dean argued.

“You don’t even know me!”

Dean felt his anger getting the better of him, the fire in her eyes igniting his own further, making him want to fight or fuck it out. He took a deep breath and stepped back, placing his left hand over his right forearm and squeezing, his eyes closing as he tried to calm himself down.

Y/N’s eyes flashed to his covered arm, then back up to Dean’s face; her eyes widened with fear as she snapped her questioning gaze to Sam.

“Does-” she paused and licked her lips, “Does he h-have the…the M-Mark of C-Cain?” she stuttered out, her fear getting the better of her.

“You know about the Mark?” Both brothers spoke in unison.

Her eyes widened further, her mouth hanging open in shock as she rapidly glanced between the brothers. She instantly turned and bolted, running for the iron staircase that would lead outside and to her freedom. There was no way in Hell she wanted to be anywhere near MOC Dean.

Once again, luck failed her, and Castiel reached out and caught her before she could even make it out of the library. She struggled against his hold; his strong arms wrapped around her from behind, holding her tightly as she worked against him.

“Let me go!” she growled, stomping Cas' foot before elbowing him hard in the ribs.

Sam huffed, grabbing her and forcing her into one of the Library chairs, releasing her only when Dean stood before her. She looked up at Dean and swallowed hard at the look he was giving her. He leaned down, his hands resting on the armrests, caging her in and bringing him at eye level with her.

“Stop. Running.” He commanded, giving her an ‘I dare you’ look. Without taking his eyes off her, he rolled up his right sleeve, revealing the reddened scar that adorned his skin. Y/N glanced at the Mark, cursing and closing her eyes.

“What do you know about this Mark?” he asked, leaning back against the table's edge and crossing his arms.

Y/N swallowed hard, and her mouth felt dry. “It’s a curse,” she breathed out, settling back in the chair and shaking her head as she reluctantly told them what she knew. “The first curse,” she explained. Sam and Castiel moved from behind her, standing on either side of Dean as they all listened intently to her words.

“In the beginning, God banished the Darkness,” she explained what she remembered from the show's lore. “God is the light, and the Darkness is his sister.”

“God has a sister?” Sam inquired, and he and Dean glanced at one another before looking back at Y/N.

“Go on,” Dean encouraged.

“Right, so,” she breathed out. “God and the Archangels used their powers to attack the Darkness, locking her away in a box essentially. She had a sort of birthmark, which God removed as a way of locking her up. It was the key. And he gave that key to his most trusted. Lucifer,” she said, glancing up at them before quickly looking back in her lap.

“The Mark changed him, its Darkness twisting him. He ended up passing the Mark on to Cain. And Cain passed it on to you,” she said, pointing at Dean’s arm. “You can get rid of it, but doing so will release the Darkness, which is what happened in the show.”

"Dean," Castiel interrupted, the concern and fear evident in his features. "The Darkness cannot be released. It will be the end of everything."

The silence was deafening. Y/N glanced up at them to see they were processing what was said.

“What exactly happens if she’s released?” Dean asked, turning his attention from Cas to Y/N.

“Well, she is the opposite of light and creation. She’s nothingness and destruction. She wants revenge against God. She wants to destroy what he created.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Castiel argued.

“But, Dean-” Sam countered, willing to do almost anything to get his brother back and free of the influence of the Mark.

“Did you not hear what she just said?!”

“She also said it happened in the show,” Sam countered, turning towards her. “What happened after she was released?”

“Well, the world almost ended, but Dean managed to convince the Darkness to make amends with God, and they left together, and everything was okay again,” she shrugged. “I mean, there was a lot of shit that happened before that, but yeah, it was okay in the end. At least, that was. There’s always some other threat looming.”

“What happens if I keep it?” Dean inquired, though he was afraid of the answer. He felt deep down that what she was saying was the truth, the Mark on his arm almost burning in confirmation of her words.

“Uh, well, it makes you angry and violent and bloodthirsty,” she quietly spoke, her eyes closing as she remembered the worst of it from the show.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath at her words, nearly ringing what Crowley had told him when he was in the dungeon. The Mark wants him to kill, and if he doesn't, it will kill him.

“A-and if you die, your soul will immediately change to a demon. A Knight of Hell, like Abbadon,” she added with a wince at her own words.

“Fuck!” Dean shouted as everything settled over him. He rubbed his hands down his face as he paced the Library, processing everything she’d just said.

“Dean,” Sam tried to soothe his brother. “It might be different. She’s here, and that’s not in the show, right?” Sam tried, looking at Y/N and practically begging for confirmation. She nodded, and he released a relieved breath before returning to his brother. “Her being here might mean things are different. She knows stuff, she might be able to prevent the bad shit from happening.”

Dean leaned against the table's far side, his head hanging low. He lifted his head just enough to make eye contact with Y/N across the table’s expanse. She was his soulmate, equipped with valuable information about the future and their lives. He again found his thoughts drifting to Cain and his wife, Collette. His soulmate, Cain, had said. She grounded and kept him sane and civil with her presence and love. Maybe Y/N could soothe his frayed soul the same way.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, standing straight but never taking his eyes from her. “Maybe.”

PART 4

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[wosobrainiac]

Shelter

Pairing: Alessia x Leah x Pet!reader

With most of Arsenal rescuing pets, Leah and Alessia get talked into saving a traumatized pet from a shelter.

Warnings: This work includes Pet!play, and has themes of trauma and trafficking though nothing is explicitly stated. There will also be no sexual activities between the pets and the non-pets. Theres also nothing sexual in this fic. Its kinda cute if i do say so myself.

The univese is based on the Widow au universe found here

This is a side blog because I'm too nervous to post this on my actual blog. Please enjoy and let me know if you have more requests for this universe.

Alessia and Leah had never really considered getting a pet (human or otherwise) until their teammates started rescuing them. 

First was Steph and her partner, who rescued a former pleasure kitten, Bella. She was surrendered when her CEO owner upgraded to one of the newer HFeline models with upgraded sexual proclivity when he lost interest in her. 

Now she got to spend her days in a far too expensive cat tree, sunning herself and eating exotic treats from around the world. 

Next were Viv and Beth who saved an adorable pup named Lady from being a bait dog in a dog fighting ring. Caitlin and Katie soon followed with a hulking retired HK9 named Jax, who begged for scraps at every meal and was a sucker for belly rubs. Kim rescued a bunny, Peaches, from a cosmetic company and Lotte had gotten a pup of her own, Brownie, who was also a pleasurehound for a major network, rejected when he no longer drew high ratings. 

Arsenal was slowly becoming a zoo, filled with barks and purrs. Their team group chat had turned into a pet helpline filled with adorable pictures of the shenanigans 

And while Leah and Alessia had come to love the new additions to their team, the pair still had… reservations. 

Sure, the practice was widespread, and hardly considered controversial. And yes, some people willingly signed up to be pets when they turned 18. But many were surrendered due to debt, chose it over jail or were kidnapped and forced. 

It didn’t sit right with them. 

Not until they saw how their friends' pets were thriving after being treated properly. Not until they saw that they could offer the ability for pets to choose. The ability to show preference and desires and to have them honored. 

Plus, Beth and Viv had made a fair point. Rescuing a pup was different than ordering one from one of the many Labs, Tech Companies or suppliers. It meant taking someone who had been in a crappy situation and offering them a new beginning. One that would be a vast improvement. 

They could show them love, and give them dignity, something that was blatantly lacking from the pet trade. 

That’s how they ended up at a pet shelter on one of their few Saturdays days of trailing after two attendants, Kara and Lexa, as they introduced them to each pet and gave them a short description of their personalities. 

It was a nice way to do it, she thought.

It made each of the pets seem like more than just… objects. It made sure that they found the pet that fit them best. One they would click with. 

She also realized it let Kara and Lexa make sure that her and Leah would be good owners. 

Kara’s questions were subtle, asking about their jobs, the amount of time they could devote to a pet, what kind of home they lived in and what traits they valued. Lexa was more direct, point blank questioning them about what their plans were, and making sure that both of them agreed that many of the practices in both the pleasure and security sectors were despicable and not to be replicated. 

“And who is this?” Alessia asked as they moved on to the next kennel, her fingers trailing along the tall black bars that made up the space. 

Kara smiled widely, flipping the lock on the cage door and easing it open. “This is Missy,” 

She reached up to scratch behind the kitten's dark hair, as Leah followed her. 

“Hello Missy,” The blonde defender said, also reaching to pet the kitten, even as Alessia hovered by the door. 

The kitten batted at her hand, trying to catch it, earning a fond smile from the defender. “You’re a spicy one, aren’t you?”

“Missy is quite playful, and absolutely loves attention,” Kara hummed, scratching the kitten under her chin. “And cooking shows, or anything with fish on the screen really,”

“She does prefer elevated spaces,” Lexa added, gesturing toward the tower of platforms the kitten was laying on. “And will get depressed if she has to stay at ground level,” 

Alessia made a low noise, as Leah scratched gently behind the kitten’s ear, her eyes wandering down the line of kennels. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the kitten or any of the other pets they had seen, but she hadn’t felt that connection yet. 

Still, there were so many kennels left. 

It was heartbreaking how many of them were full. How many had little faces pressing against the black bars, trying to attract a potential owner? 

All except one down at the very end of the hall. 

She tilted back, trying to get a better look at what lay behind the bars, but all she could make out was a blue lump in the corner. 

She couldn’t deny the pull she felt towards the cage. 

“What about the one down there?” She asked, already stepping towards the dark metal bars at the very end of the hallway. 

A pained look crossed Kara’s face as she followed Alessia’s gaze. “She’s one of our newer arrivals,”

“Why is she all alone?” Alessia asked as they passed empty kennels on either side of the ones leading up to the one at the end of the hallway. 

“She’s having a hard time adjusting,” Kara explained, as Lexa walked in front of them. Leah trailed after them, looking much less enthusiastic. 

The tattooed handler grimaced as they got closer to the cage. “Given her circumstances, she might not be the best fit for first-time owners,”

Leah silently agreed based on the giant orange sign taped to the black bars of your area that read: 

Possibly aggressive

Two handlers are required during feeding 

“Less, what about Missy? We don’t want-” Leah suggested, catching the forward's arm. Alessia glared over her shoulder, effectively killing any further protests on her tongue. 

“The sign is just precautionary,” Kara said as they got closer, pausing at the door of the kennel. “She hasn’t been very interactive since she arrived, and we don’t have a good idea of her temperament yet,”

 “And she hasn’t seemed interested in food, or treats, so we require two handlers in case there’s a trigger there we don’t know about yet,” Lexa continued, unhooking her keys from her waistband and with a jingle. 

You pressed yourself into the far corner of the kennel at the sound, curling into a tight ball against the white bricks, and hiding your face from the group under a small blue blanket. 

Alessia couldn’t stop the coo that left her lips at the sight of your nose just barely peeking out from underneath the small blanket. 

“What’s her name?” She asked, shifting closer to the now open door, keeping her voice very soft. 

“We don’t know. Her previous owner only identified her by a number, and she hasn’t responded to any that we’ve tried,” Kara explained, her voice going very soft. “The only thing she’s liked since she got here is the blanket,”

As if you understood that they were talking about the thin fabric covering you, your fingers wound tightly on the edge like you thought they would take it away. 

All the movement did was shift the blanket to reveal more of your skin, littered with thick lines and yellowing bruises. 

“We suspect she was training to be a fighting dog and failed during one of the final checks,” Kara explained softly at their collective intake of breath. “She was in rough shape when they brought her in,”

Leah made a low noise of agreement, her eyes trailing the thick line of gauze that peeked out from the small flannel blanket you had tucked around yourself. It spanned from your too-skinny side, across your ribs, and to your back, where Leah was sure she could count each of your vertebrae.

It made her sick that someone could do this to another creature. “Final checks?”

“They put them with a bait dog to test their prey drive,” Lexa explained, easing the door to your cage open. You made no move to greet them. “From their records and the amount of titanium modifications they made, they thought she would be very… lethal,”

Leah made a low sound in the back of her throat. 

She knew about… modifications that people made to pets. The inhumane surgeries were considered upgrades. 

It made her sick that not only had you been physically abused, but you had also been surgically altered for someone else’s purposes. 

“Viv and Beth’s pup was a bait dog. She's such a tiny thing,” She murmured, thinking of how your scars mirrored those Lady bore. 

“They’re purposefully kept weak so the fighting dogs can beat them and gain confidence,” Kara said, stepping just inside the kennel and to the side so they had a clear view of you. 

Leah’s nose scrunched, thinking about how sweet and tiny Lady was, always rubbing up against legs and asking for pets and scritches. “Nasty stuff,”

“Indeed,” Kara agreed, crouching and leaning against the bars. You just curled tighter into yourself, shifting the blanket to cover more of your back. It slipped higher, revealing the thick scars on your legs just above your ankles. 

The place where your tendons had been cut to prevent you from standing on 2 legs. 

Alessia frowned, crouching next to Kara in the kennel entrance. “But she didn’t pass?”

“No. Their notes said her prey drive was too low, and unfortunately, that’s all the information we have besides the condition she was in when their compound was raided,” Lexa sighed, rubbing her forehead. “It appears that they were trying to enhance her hunting instincts with bearings and starvation,” 

Alessia hummed, stepping into the cage beside Kara and squatting so she didn’t intimidate you. 

“Hey pretty girl,” She said gently. 

You peeked up at her, blinking slowly, most of your face still hidden, meeting her blue eyes. She could see the terror in them, masked only by the deepest sense of anguish. 

She made a cooing sound. “It must be scary in here, huh?” 

A low whimper left your lips, and you shifted towards the door, and Alessia, dragging the blanket with you. 

The three women behind Alessia froze, and Lexa and Kara shared a look. 

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever seen her move,” Kara murmured, reaching into the fanny pack around her waist and pulling a small slice of sausage out. At the same time, Lexa put one hand on the spray at her hip, and gestured for Leah to get low like Alessia and Kara were with the other. 

They didn’t think you would snap, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

She followed Lexa’s instructions, kneeling and placing a gentle hand on Alessia’s shoulder. 

“Try this,” The blonde kennel attendant kept her voice low as she passed the piece to Alessia, neither of their eyes leaving your timid form. “We haven’t had much luck getting her to eat, but maybe you can,” 

She held the sausage out to you with a flat palm, and all four women held their breath as you scooted forward, and stopped, watching them with wide, terrified eyes. 

“It’s ok, sweet one,” Alessia said, her voice soft, reassuring. “You can take it,” 

You glanced from the treat to Alessia’s face and back, your nostrils going wide as you sniffed in the new scents, sliding just a bit closer to them. 

You didn’t reach for the treat, instead you ducked your head and very gently raised it to touch the back of Alessia’s hand. 

She moved slowly, taking the treat with her free hand and flipping her palm over to gently scratch your head. 

You practically melted, pressing more of your head into her hand. Her nails ran over your scalp, and a sound that was cross between a purr and a growl fell from your lips. 

Leah couldn’t hold in her little awe.

“She’s adorable,” She mumbled, inching towards you and extending a hand to join Alessia’s. She picked a spot just behind your ear, gently stroking the place where your skin and hair met. 

You paused as you registered the new sensation, your body contorting like it didn’t know if it wanted to lean in closer or pull away. 

“It’s ok. It’s just Leah. She won’t hurt you,” Alessia murmured, though she could tell you didn’t quite believe her. 

She gently nudged Leah with her free arm, a silent order to say something that wouldn’t break the tenuous truce you had developed. 

“You’re ok,” Leah murmured, gently scratching behind your ear. “Less is right, you are quite cute,”

You made a groaning sound in the back of your throat that was a mix between a grumble and a purr. 

It pulled a smile from her lips. “You don’t like being called cute?”

You made the grumbling sound again, shrugging to displace Leah’s hand behind your ear. 

The defender chuckled. “I see how it is,” 

Alessia dragged her nails more deeply against your scalp, turning your grumble purr into a straight up purr, a wide smile pulled across her lips. “I want her,”

Leah hummed in agreement. 

You were clearly attached to Alessia, and she trusted that - despite the large orange sign on your door- that you wouldn’t hurt the forward. 

You were just scared and hurt, and you deserved a chance. 

“Kara can get you set up in a room so we can fill out some paperwork and go over some of our suggestions, and I’ll get this one set up with a nice new collar and a muzzle,” Lexa said, pushing herself to her feet. 

You flinched at the movement, causing the blanket to fall from your back. 

“Shh pretty girl,” Alessia soothed you gently. “You’re ok,” 

Leah frowned, gesturing towards where you were practically melting at Alessia’s touch. “Why does she need a muzzle? She hasn’t been aggressive,”

A pained expression crossed Kara’s features as she also pushed herself to her feet, more slowly than Lexa had. “The muzzle is just precautionary. We’ve had her isolated since she’s been here, and we don’t want an incident if she gets overwhelmed,” 

Leah sighed, she had to agree. 

The last thing she wanted was for you to lash out because you got frightened. 

“I don’t want to leave her,” Alessia murmured, and you nuzzled deeper into her hand. 

She took that as you saying you didn’t want her to leave either, but she knew she had to. 

“They’ll only be a few minutes,” Kara promised. 

“And I’ll take good care of your pretty girl,” Lexa added, smiling genuinely at them. 

Alessia’s fingers dragged through your hair one more time, as she released a long breath. 

“I’ll see you in a few minutes alright?” She said, giving your one last scratch before she pulled away.

You pouted as she stood, making a low, upset sound.

“I know,” She repeated. “Just a few minutes, and you get to come home with me and Lee,” 

You huffed, turning away from them, grabbing your blanket between your teeth and heading for your little corner.  

Alessia frowned, but didn’t stop you. 

She knew it would take a lot to earn your trust. 

“It’ll be alright,” Lexa said as she closed the door of the kennel. “We’ll come find you guys as soon as I got her all set up,”

OoOoOoO

“She’s had all of her shots, and her medical paperwork is in the file. The first issue we should discuss is her temperament,” Kara began, sliding a stack of papers across the table for them to read, pointing to the first page that listed dietary suggestions. “I would suggest hand feeding. It’ll help her learn to trust you,” 

“You said she hasn’t been interested in food,” Leah said, looking down at the page. 

Next to likes and dislikes almost nothing was checked. There were no notes. 

All except a little star next to the line that read Peanutbutter. 

“No,” Kara agreed quickly. “But that could all be down to stress. Variety will be your best friend in the beginning. Stick with finding foods she’ll enjoy first, and then we can worry about meeting her required macros later,”

Alessia nodded, her mind already working through the foods they had in the cabinet and the ones they would need to buy. 

The Arsenal meal team had done well to provide the growing zoo within the team with foods that fit their preferences. If they could grill Jax a T-bone steak for lunch every day, then surely they could grill whatever food you latched on to. 

It would just be at home they would need to worry about. 

“I’m also going to suggest obedience classes,” Kara continued, flipping the packet of papers to show them a flier. “We offer one three times a week that I think would help both of you and your new pup,” 

“This is the one Lotte takes Brownie to,” Alessia noted, taking the flier. 

Leah hummed. “Beth and Viv took Lady last week too,”

“Friends in class are good,” Kara nodded. “It will help her to be around the same pets, and she should feel more comfortable,” 

Alessia and Leah shared a look. 

Making you comfortable was their number one priority. 

“We’ll be there,” Alessia said, only looking away from her girlfriend when a light knock sounded G the door, and it slowly swung open. 

Lexa peeked her head in, before she looked behind her. “Alessia and Leah are in here, don’t you want to say hello?”

They waited another long second, before your face very hesitantly appeared beside Lexa’s leg in the doorway. 

“Hey pretty girl, you’re ok,” Alessia said, breaking into a smile. 

You perked up considerably at her voice, looking up at Lexa as though you were asking for permission to actually enter the room. 

“Go ahead,” Lexa smiled down at you, reaching down to unclip the leash from your collar. “I think they’re excited to see you too,”

You waited a long second before you eased your way into the room, your blue blanket tied around your collar so it fell around your back like a cape. 

“Come here sweetheart,” Alessia cooed, drawing your wary eyes away from Lexa and Kara towards her and Leah. 

It took you another long second to make your way over to her, gently nudging her leg with your head. 

She reached down to scratch the sensitive spot just behind your ear, over where the straps of the leather muzzle landed. 

“Are you sure she needs that?” Leah asked, watching you carefully paw the material that covered your mouth. 

“It’s just precautionary,” Lexa repeated, taking the seat beside Kara. “She’s not aggressive, but fear can provoke a reaction bite. I would suggest she wear it when you’re going to be around people and other pets, just until she’s socialized and loses that fear response,” 

Leah and Alessia shared a hum, though Alessia didn’t look thrilled with the suggestion. 

They understood, yes, but it felt… dehumanizing. You were a person after all, despite what you had been conditioned to believe. 

At the same time, they both knew they couldn’t risk you biting someone, even out of fear. 

“We just need a name for her to complete the paperwork,”  Kara said, flipping the packet to the last page. “You can use pretty girl if you like,”

Leah and Alessia shared another look. 

While pretty girl was a nice nickname for you, they had something different in mind for your actual name. 

“Let’s go with Y/n,” Leah said, looking back towards Kara and Lexa. 

You hummed contentedly at the name, leaning into Alessia’s fingers. 

“I think she likes that name,” Alessia cooed, digger her nails under the straps of the muzzle, making sure none of your hair tangled in it. 

You made another sound of contentment as Kara finished filling out the papers and slid them to Leah and Alessia. 

“Just sign on the dotted line, and she’s all yours,” 

It only took them a second to scrawl their signatures on the indicated lines, and then Alex’s was passing them your leash. 

“Enjoy your new super pup,” Lexa said, winking at you. “And treat her well,”

“We will,” Leah promised. 

They would take care of you, and fix the damage that had been done if it was the last thing they ever did. 

OoOoOoO

Getting you back to their apartment had been… interesting. 

You had not been thrilled about the chest harness they strapped you into, but you hadn’t minded the car ride, even enjoying it when Alessia opened the back window for you. 

It was fine until they pulled up alongside a car that also had a pup in the back. You had pulled away from the window immediately, nearly jumping into the boot of Leah’s jeep before he started barking.

By the time the light changed and Leah eased the car forward, you were shaking like a leaf. It struck both of them as slightly off considering you had been trained to be a fighting dog. 

You had been very hesitant as they got you out of the car, your eyes swiveling around as they led you into their apartment and showed you around. 

Since then you had been curled up on the soft pet bed they had stationed in the living room, not even letting them close enough to you to remove the muzzle. 

They knew it would take time for you to settle. Their friends had all warned them of that already, so they let you be, flipping through channels until they got to a shark documentary that seemed to catch your attention. 

Alessia was thankful that the kitchen was connected to the living room so she didn’t have to leave you as she made dinner. Not that she didn’t trust Leah to watch you, but she didn’t want you to think she had disappeared. 

The first step to building trust was to show you that they were there, and you were safe. 

She stuck with simple foods, chicken and rice, partially because Leah didn’t like anything remotely adventurous and partially because she didn’t know what you would enjoy. 

She and Leah ate first, sharing worried looks when you didn’t even patter over at the smell of food.

After their meal was cleaned up, they turned their attention to you. 

They started by sitting on the floor in front of their couch, a good distance from your pet bed, with your food bowl. 

“Hey pretty girl, are you hungry?” Alessia asked gently, holding the bowl out for you to sniff. “If you come a little closer I can take your muzzle off and you can eat,”

You didn’t lift your head off of hand, or make any move to approach them. 

Your nostrils didn’t even flare out to smell the bowl. 

It sent red flags spinning in their brains. 

They shared a look before Alessia passed the bowl to Leah and scooted closer to you, to the edge of your bed. “Ok pretty girl, will you let me take the muzzle off?”

Your eyes flickered away from shark show and towards the blonde briefly, before your head tilted minutely. 

She took that as the ok to reach for the buckle on the leather contraption attached to your face, carefully easing it open and sliding it off of your head. 

You yawned wide as soon as it was removed, scrunching your nose adorably. 

Alessia passed the leather contraption she never intended to use again back to Leah, and the defender passed her the bowl. 

She reached into the bowl and pulled out a piece of chicken, carefully holding it out to you with a flat palm. “Eat for me, pretty girl,”

You huffed. 

“Please,” Alessia said, her voice edging on pleading as she offered you the piece again. 

You sighed, clearly unhappy, but you leaned forward and took the piece of chicken from her gently, chewing and swallowing. 

“Good girl, Y/n,” The forward hummed, reaching into the bowl and pulling out another piece. 

You let her feed you a few more bites before you buried your face in your bed, clearly signaling that you were finished with your meal. 

Alessia sighed again, looking back at Leah who could only shrug. 

She turned back to you and slowly extended her hand, scratching behind your ear. “You can be done,”

You made a groaning noise that sounded like relief. 

Leah snorted, pushing herself to her feet and grabbing the half-filled bowl of food from Alessia. “I don’t think I ever per a pet who was happy dinner was over,”

“Y/n is one of a kind,” Alessia agreed, her nails dragging pleasantly against your scalp. 

OoOoOoO

Bedtime was relatively easy. 

Alessia and Leah went about their normal routines, only adding brushing your teeth and showing you where there was a second bed for you at the base of their bed. 

This one had a fluffy red blanket and a stuffed dragon. 

You had been… hesitant at first to get into it, looking at the door for the blue bed that existed in the living room. 

You chose to sit just in front of it, curling in a little ball that didn’t look comfortable, and draping your favorite blue blanket around you. (Alessia longed to fix it since it was bunched and only covered half of your body). 

Again, Leah and Alessia let you be. 

Lights were turned off as a stupid show played on the television as all three of you wound down, and before you knew it, a silence had settled over the room. It was broken only by the sounds of breathing and the occasional shift on the bed.

It was… uncomfortable. 

You weren’t used to it being so… quiet. 

You were used to the sounds of barks, and chain link shifting lulling you to sleep. You were used to a corner you could curl up in. 

You weren’t used to a bed, and you wanted to lay in it but you were sure it was a… trap. 

Just like you had thought the chicken Alessia tried to feed you was a trap. 

It had always been a trap before. 

You huffed, shifting next to the pet bed. 

Maybe if you slept in it, but woke up before the two women who had adopted you, you would be safe. 

It was soft, and you would be warm. 

You shifted again, freezing at the sound of someone moving from on the bed permeated the room. 

You had woken them up, and now the other shoe would finally fall. 

You curled tighter into yourself and waited for the pain that never came. 

Instead, there were only soft footsteps. 

“Trouble sleeping?” 

Your eyes blinked open at Leah’s soft question, meeting her blue eyes in the low light of the television. 

You nodded hesitantly. 

“Me neither,” Leah agreed. “Let’s go get a midnight snack,”

You padded after the defender as she headed towards the kitchen, stopping by the island near the stove as she headed for the cabinet by the fridge. 

She grabbed a brown jar with a teal lid, setting it on the counter before rummaging around in the drawer below. 

“Ah ha,” She cheered, holding up a spoon victoriously, grabbing the Jar, and turning to face you. 

Your head tilted to the side at the object. 

“I think you’ll like this,” She said, unscrewing the top and dipping in the spoon. 

When she pulled it out, the most delicious-smelling substance you had ever encountered coated it. 

You watched with rapt attention as the spoon disappeared into her mouth and came out clean.

Your mouth watered. 

“Peanut butter?” Leah asked, tilting the jar your way. 

Your head tilted, and you just barely leaned forward on your knuckles as your nose flared, trying to catch more of the scent. 

Leah’s lips tilted up at how adorable you looked, as she dipped the spoon back in the jar and then held it out for you. It was just out of your reach, closer to her than you had ventured yet. 

You had an immediate connection with Alessia but were still incredibly wary of her for some reason, she tried not to let it bother her.

You were hesitant to take the step forward. 

But it smelled so good. 

Your tummy rumbled, and your tongue darted across your lips. 

Leah stayed perfectly still, watching you with bated breath. She knew this was the only way to build trust with you. To show you that they wouldn’t hurt you. 

You very slowly took a step, tilting your head towards the offered treat, your eyes moving rapidly between her and the spoon. 

Your tongue carefully made its way between your lips and licked the spoon. 

Your eyes went very wide at the taste, and you quickly leaned closer to take the spoon into your mouth. 

“Good right?” Leah asked with a chuckle as the spoon came out of your mouth, completely free of peanut butter. 

You woofed softly, using your nose to nudge the now empty spoon back towards Leah, eyeing the jar on the counter.

She followed your eyes, shaking her head. “How about we try something else?” 

Alessia would kill her if she found out all you had eaten was Peanut Butter when you hadn’t been interested at all in dinner. She would point out that you needed carbs and protein to help you get to a healthy weight while being healthy. Neither of them liked how… skeletal you were, and any food was good really, but so was balance to give you the most sustainable energy they could. 

Leah searched the counter, looking for something to pair with the only food you seemed to like. 

“What about some banana?” She asked, grabbing for the fruit. 

She opened it and broke off a piece, offering it to you. 

You leaned forward to sniff it and pulled back in disgust. 

“What about if we add some Peanut butter?” She asked, digging the spoon back into the peanut butter and sticking the pale yellow slice on top. 

You stared at her skeptically, sure that the fruit would ruin the delicious brown treat underneath. 

“It’s good, trust me,” Leah promised when your eyes flickered back up to her. 

You huffed, scrunching your nose up at it, and then flinching away when you realized what you had done. 

“No pretty girl, you’re ok,” Leah said, dropping her voice and immediately sinking down so she was on the same level as you. She didn’t want to frighten you. “You’re allowed to not like things,” 

You curled into yourself, tucking your body as close as you could to the island. 

Leah wondered idly if Alessia would have elicited the same reaction from you. You seemed to trust the forward more for whatever reason. 

She gently pulled the banana bit off of the spoon, popping it into her mouth and offering the peanut butter to you once again. 

You sniffed, barely peeking out at her. 

She understood now why peanut butter was the only food on your list at the shelter. 

It was the only thing besides Alessia (and maybe your blue blanket) that you would risk coming out of your shell for. 

“You can have it,” Leah assured you, keeping her voice soothing and calm, ignoring the soft sound of padding feet coming down the hallway from their bedroom. “You’re ok,” 

You sniffed again, wishing you had brought your blanket with you on this excursion. Bad things always happened when you forgot it. 

You wanted to trust Leah, and the peanut butter did smell amazing. 

Very slowly, you leaned forward towards the spoon, making eye contact with Leah before you took it back into your mouth. 

She kept still as you licked it clean with a satisfied sigh, and pulled away. 

“Let’s go to bed,” She said, slowly pushing herself to stand, placing the spoon in the sink to be dealt with in the morning, and putting the jar of Skippy back into the cabinet. 

You woofed again softly, padding after her once she was done. 

Maybe things would be good here.