#mid thigh to mid calf even

[satorena]

࣪ ִֶָ☾. an ugly, green eyed monster resides in the pits of your guts, and to his utmost confusion— don’t you know he has eyes for you only?

cw. 18+. lowkey sub gojo. a littleee foot action. reverse cowgírl. cunningulūs. sorta ruined orgașm. fem!reader. 3k wc.

you’re upset.

you’re upset with him.

what he’d thought had been the perfect date at the perfect restaurant with the most perfect partner, had positively gone to shit, and he’s not sure who’s to blame. himself or that unnecessarily audacious waitress— who might get blacklisted as soon as he gets home for having the nerve to foul his girlfriend’s mood.

(but not you. you’re never to blame. you can literally do no wrong in his eyes.)

he tries to ease the tension in his sleek car by talking your ear off about god knows what, reminds you how beautiful you look in your suede dress, rubs the pad of his thumb at the smooth skin of your thigh— but to no avail, you remain as quiet as you’d been back in that crappy establishment.

after all, there’s only so many “wow’s”, “insane’s,” and “that’s crazy’s” you can muster. . . right?

wrong.

because when you both make it to your shared condo, he hangs his keys on their respective hanger and immediately kneels on one knee. you don’t seem surprised in the slightest— and he’d be a horrible boyfriend if you had been, you deserve nothing short of the ultimate princess package — arms crossed over your chest expectantly.

and just who is he to disappoint you?

his fingers get to work with quickness— expertly as they undo the straps of your heels. he can’t imagine the pain your gorgeous feet endure just for the sake of his lowly self. so he grants you a short but tender foot rub where your skin reddens. his knuckles ease some tension where it throbs, and the soft hum you release is enough to bring a smile on his lips.

he’s finally doing something right.

you roll your ankle once he’s finished his caress, face as stoic as ever, but before you can even think about resting your foot on the floor, he lowers himself and kisses. he peppers the ankle bone in hot, gentle kisses that come from the depths of his soul, and trails his way up from your calf all the way up to your mid thigh. when he lays down the last of his embrace to your leg, cerulean eyes flutter open and meet yours— eyes narrow just slightly.

he doesn’t falter in the slightest, parroting every movement onto the next leg. he undoes the straps of your heels, massages your foot, and spoils your leg in kisses once more. there isn’t an inch of you that doesn’t smell nothing short of divine.

but the moment fleets as soon as it came, and you make your way to your shared bedroom in the blink of an eye. his knee may ache against the hard floor, but he finds it impossible to keep his eyes off of you— there’s a certain elegance in every step you take towards the bedroom, hips swaying with divine femininity, fingers fumbling as they work to undo the hook at the top of your dress.

it’s only when you arrive at the door, that you take a beat of a pause. he doesn’t take his eyes off of you once. he doesn’t think he could if he wanted to, anyway. there’s a pregnant silence in the air, safe from the ticking of the clock in the living room. it seems you’ve finally managed, as your arms lower to rest at your sides and your dress slips comedically slow from your frame and pools at your ankles.

his dick immediately stirs to life. you’d gone commando this whole time. and it’s only when your hand hovers over the knob of the door, you cast him a look over your shoulder, the ghost of a smirk tugging at your coloured lips. you step out of the dress and waltz into your shared space, and he doesn’t think he’s ever ran this fast in his life, tumbling over scattered items in the house in desperate attempts to get to you.

(he picks up your fallen dress of course.)

oh, you’re so beautiful yet so cruel. he admires the duality you carry with ease— like a deceitful siren luring pathetic fishermen into the sea, he falls for your trap with no regards of his own safety, enamoured by your entire existence.

which was how he found himself bound to your king sized bed, limbs restrained to the headrest and his cock throbbing in his tight slacks. he’s flushed from the neck up— he’s so hard it hurts, watching as you pay him absolutely no mind, carrying on with your nightly routine. the anticipation drives him insane, as you pace from the bathroom, the sound of the shower running, before pacing back to your bedroom, grabbing your essentials before heading back to the bathroom.

all the while adorned in your birthday suit. wet and naked— his favorite combination.

god, you’re cruel.

after an infinity and a half, you come out of the bathroom, now wrapped in your silk robe, hair tied up and face completely bare. christ— just when he thought you couldn’t get any prettier. you sit at your vanity, grabbing at whatever tools you needed for your lash care, and that’s his final straw.

“princess,” he croaks, hoping he sounds as desperate as he feels. you tilt your head back, expression entirely remorseless, though you do cock a brow. he swallows harshly, “c’mon, untie me already. please?”

you blink at him, spoolie in hand, “for what?”

for what? isn’t it obvious? for him to grab at your hips, pull you over his face and tongue fuck you so raw that he erases all traces of negative emotions in your soul that’d come to life within the past few hours and have you forgive him of any wrongdoing.

duh.

gojo’s a smarter man and keeps those thoughts to himself. instead, he heaves out a deep sigh that kins to a whine and shifts his hips, “to properly apologize, baby.”

you turn your focus back onto your own reflection in the mirror, running the brush over your lash extensions. even when you pretend to ignore him, you’re beautiful. he doesn’t miss the way you cast him look through the glass though, “well what’s stopping you?”

he tugs his wrists against his ties restricting him as an answer, an exasperated look coating his face. truthfully, he could’ve easily managed his way out of this predicament but then he’d have to deal with your attitude worsening. he’s already on your bad side and doesn’t wish to stay there longer. so, he’s willing to sit this torture out just to have you forgive him.

but good lord, his balls hurt.

you put the spoolie down and sigh. hope blooms in his chest as you stand up from your vanity and make your way towards the bed. as you begin to crawl into bed, he spreads his legs a little further, creating an opening in case you were to change your mind. you have an unreadable expression on your pretty face, and he can’t lie, it’s kind of worrying him.

and turning him on, but fork spotted in kitchen, right?

you take the bait and make your way in between his legs. though, instead of releasing him from his restriction, you sit criss cross and give him a long look. his chest heaves and he’s starting to feel like those madmen scientists that come close to achieving whatever bullshit project they’d poured years of their lives into.

you don’t falter, however, “you want to properly apologize?”

he nods eagerly, like a puppy trying to please its owner, and frankly, that’s exactly what it is. some may call him desperate— pathetic even, but they’ve never came close to having the god earned blessing of having you as their partner. and they never will, so respectfully, they can shut the fuck up.

“that’s all i want.” he emphasizes, and for extra measure, “let me say sorry the best way i know how.”

he watches the gears turn in your pretty head. and, with a convictive nod, you stretch your arms backwards to support your body weight as you bend your knees and spread your legs. and whether or not you meant to send him to the great court in the sky, you swipe your tongue against your index and middle finger, before crawling them down your stomach and right at your cunt, spreading your lips apart in a filthy fucking sound.

his eyes might as well pop out of their sockets in heart shapes as his jaw falls slack. he thinks he hears his stomach growl in hunger, eyes narrowing at the sight of the meal he craves most. your robe slips past your shoulder and reveals a sexy amount of collarbone and boob, while simultaneously slipping past your hips, revealing the cash prize.

your dripping pussy.

his throat runs dry as all rational thoughts are immediately thrown out the window. if he doesn’t have your cunt in his mouth this instant, he might actually die. she clenches around nothing and trickles a tantalizing trail of slick. you have the world’s prettiest smile on your lips, and despite deriving pleasure from his demise, he’d gladly let you ruin him if it got you this turned on.

“thought you wanted to apologize, toru?” you ask him, with feigned innocence and a tilt of your head. and if the cutesy bat of your lashes wasn’t enough to kill him, then dragging your foot over the print of his bulge definitely did. you rest the arch of your heel over his shaft and experimentally roll it around. he didn’t even consider he was into foot play, but coming from you? another box checked from his kink list.

he groans, hips chasing the pleasure set ablaze in his fiery guts, “god— i do. i really, really do,” lord knows if you keep this up, he’s never going to beat the minute man allegations. and frankly? he doesn’t care.

“but i’m right here,” you coo, lowering your foot to cradle at where resides his heavy balls. you nudge at the sack and the whimper that follows his lips cracks a pity pout on your own, “what’s the hold up?”

this psychological ass torture. at this rate, he figures you know he knows he can free himself out of the ties at any given moment. but doing so would definitely upset you. and the chances of him getting some would be slim to absolutely none.

you beautiful yet painfully cruel woman.

“you know what’s the hold up,” he groans, fighting both inner demons and the urge to paint his boxers white, “at this point, you don’t even need to untie me— just let me eat you out, please.”

and like the angel sent from heaven you are, you comply. had he been released from the binding, he’d gladly be kicking his feet in the air and twirling a strand of snowy locks in his fingers in pure bred excitement. except, in the position he’s in, that outcome is not possible. but never fear— munch man is here!

and with his back pressed against the headboard, you stand on the bed, your feet at each side of his hips, and bend forward— not without a quick look back and a knowing smirk of course. and from this angle, with your spine dipping into a sinful curve, he’s presented with a view that puts the goddess of beauty herself to shame.

the roundness of your ass paired with the fullness of your cunt— a two for once combo. hell fucking yeah.

and he wastes no time. he stretches his neck as far as it allows him to and then some, as he indulges into the five star michelin meal that is your pussy. with your arms stretched out and your hands supporting your body’s weight, you moan gracefully into the quiet of the night, your sounds unfortunately overshadowed by the slurping of his filthy mouth at your sloppy core. if he was a better man, he’d have reduced his own volume at the expense of hearing yours,

but it was just so hard when you tasted so good.

and like the selfish bastard he is, he doesn’t quiet down. doesn’t even think to, instead voicing out his delights in the art of cunningulus. yes, because being blessed with the opportunity to have your pussy in his mouth is nothing short of art itself. he flicks his tongue from that sensitive bundle of nerves and drags it up to your tight hole, and tongue fucks the shit out of you.

“s-shit, baby,” a soft mewl comes from your voice. he feels a hand caress his hair, and when your manicured nails claw at those locks, he feels his cock jump eagerly in his pants, “that’s it— fuck, eat it right.”

he’s a weak, weak man. you grind your hips back on his face and praise him for doing what he was put on this earth to do, all the while riding his tongue. he flattens the muscle and lets you use him like the toy he is— up and about for your pleasure, always. if he died suffocating between your plush thighs, don’t mourn his death, because he went out doing the thing he loved,

you.

it feels like both forever and a second when he’s rewarded with your juices. you wail and cry out his name, and before he knows it, you’re gushing all over him— his nose, his mouth, his chin. to the best of his abilities, he widens his jaw and slurps everything you have to offer him. the taste is so authentically you, a sweet nectar you couldn’t pull out of the ripest of fruits from a tree. his face is moist and damp and the only thought process going through his mushy brain is don’t cum just yet don’t cum just yet don’t cum just yet.

luckily, he doesn’t, but you’re not done just yet. because it doesn’t take anymore than a few breaths for him to catch up on unsolicited air, before a deep and boyish moan rips out of his chest like wind had gotten knocked out of him.

in all your glory, you squat down— he’d been too dazed out to even notice when you’d taken his brick hardened dick out— and ride him. you’re pulling out all the big guns— both hands and feet planted on the mattress, your silk robe resting right above your lower back, as you sink down on him.

gods, it takes everything in him— everything, to not bust. his fingers tighten against themselves as his toes curl, and his head is thrown back, but even so, he never takes his eyes off of you. the ripples of your ass ricocheting with each bounce, the amplified bass of your cries, the melody of your wetness squelching on his cock.

why the fuck would he ever look away?

your pace is steady and fast— you are by no means wasting time. and he loves it just like that, quick and meaningless despite his love for you being everything but that. every meet of your ass on his hips comes as fast as the last one, and tugs on the coiling in his stomach ready to snap.

sweat begins to collect at his hairline, and given the fact you’d sprayed him earlier, he’s certain his hair is now matted to his forehead. no matter though, “justtt like that,” he eggs you on, knowing despite your foul mood, there’s nothing you enjoy more than praises. there’s nothing he enjoys more than praising you, “use me baby, this dick ‘s all yours— fuckkk,”

and because he knows his princess so well, you ride him even harder— his sincere words running like fuel to you. he notices your creamed unison coating the peremiter of his dick, glazing his shaft to the point he can barely feel himself in you because of how wet everything feels.

“damn— ‘m not gonna last,” he warns you, and to his biggest mistake. his balls are heavy with love he’s itching to release in your womb, and if you keep jerking at his cock with your gummy walls, he’s bound to spill. he blames it on it being the first round, after all.

you tilt your head back and there’s a mischievous glint in your pretty eyes. you bat your lashes a few times, and the corner of your lips tug into a radiant smile, “yeah? you wanna cum inside, baby?” there is literally nothing more he wants. he nods his head excessively, not enough languages in this entire world to describe in words just how badly he needs to fill you up with his sperm.

but still, he tries with moot point, “yesyesyesyes— fuck, i’ll do anything,”

and with purposeful kegels, you clamp down on his cock whenever you bottom out and latch onto his tip whenever you sit up. he can’t take anymore— he feels heat licking at every extremity of his limbs, blood rushing into his head and his abdominal muscles are caving in. he needs it— he needs it.

at the very last second, just as the dam is ready to break and release— you pull away.

his eyes widen before snapping shut as his orgasm washes over him anyways. his cock springs out of your warmth and rests at the crack of your ass, and shoots. he’s soiling your gown in his nut, and you slip a hand between your thighs to cradle his twitching balls. his back arches at your touch, and somehow, shoots double his average load.

“aweee,” you coo condescendingly while fondling his privates, giving him both the best and worst time of his life, “‘s too bad i’m still upset with you.”

his ears ring pretentiously as his limbs fall limp— not his dick though. never his dick when you’re around— his breathing ragged and skin blotched a bright shade of pink. with an adorable giggle, you give your ass a little shake, and his dick bounces with you, shooting weaker spurts of cum. what a view.

but shit. . . he’s gonna be here for a while, isn’t he?

as long as it’s with you, he doesn’t mind. he’s ready for round two whenever you are.

sum calm, sum slight 🙂‍↔️. enjoy these crumbs while i fight for my life

[hanniebaeee]

Touch Me

Felix x fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI

Genre: established relationship, fluff, smut

Summary: You and Felix have been dating for a few months now, and you both haven't ventured beyond kissing. And one night, he asks you for something more.

a/n: I had to write one for him.

You and Felix have been dating for just over three months now, but honestly? You still can't stop staring at him like it's the first time. He’s downright mesmerizing - easily the most breathtaking person you've ever known.

Right now, you're curled up together on the couch, two half-drunk glasses of wine sitting on the coffee table. The room hums with that golden, cozy kind of magic - part wine haze, part warm lighting. But also part Felix and the way he’s looking at you like he’s got very specific plans that don’t involve much talking. 

He’s mid-story, waving his hands dramatically about some dance practice mishap, and you’re laughing so hard, nudging his thigh with your socked foot. He’s sprawled out next to you, long legs draped over the cushions, his blonde hair done in a cute bun.

“You're a disaster,” You laugh, and he catches your foot, smirking, and tugs you closer until you’re sitting flush against him. 

“Says the girl who’s been eye-fucking me all night,” he fires back, voice low and playful. His hand lingers on your ankle, sliding up to your calf, and suddenly the air’s thicker.

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your cheeks heat up.

“I HAVE NOT. I’ve been… appreciating your storytelling skills.” You say, shivering a little as he drags his fingers along your skin. 

“Liar,” he murmurs, leaning in.

His lips brush yours, soft at first, wine-sweet and warm. You kiss him back, and it’s like flipping a damn switch, because the kiss deepens, all hungry and messy. Your tongues clash, and your hands find his shoulders while, his slide to your waist.

And before you know it, you’re straddling him, heart pounding erratically. 

“Hi,” he breathes against your mouth, grinning like a fool.

“Hi,” you echo, giggling. 

His hands roam up your back, tugging you closer, and you can feel him - hard and insistent against your thigh.

Ok, so you freeze. This is new territory. You’ve kissed plenty, sure, but this? This is the deep end. Felix pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and hooded.

“Touch me,” he says, voice rough but so damn soft, like he’s asking for a favor. 

You freeze - again. Your hands hover over his chest, fingers twitching like they’ve forgotten how to function.

“I…uh…what?”

“Touch. Me,” he repeats, slower, guiding your hand down his chest, past the buttons of his shirt, toward the waistband of his jeans. “You know you want to. I can see it in your cute panic-face.”

“I’m not panicking!” you squeak, totally panicking.

Your palm’s hovering over the situation in his pants, and it feels like you’re defusing a bomb. Except this bomb’s sexy and smirking at you.

“I just… I’ve never… I mean, we’re new, and I don’t wanna mess this up, and oh my god, what if I’m bad at it?” you stutter. 

He laughs, a deep, throaty sound.

“Babe, you could slap me now, and I’d still be into it. Just…here.”

He takes your hand, pressing it against the very obvious bulge in his pants. And holy hell, he’s hard. Like, really hard. You gasp, and he groans, head tipping back against the couch.

He looks so blissed out, you panic even more. 

“See?” he says, voice strained but teasing. “Not so scary. Just a very enthusiastic Felix junior saying hello.”

“Felix junior? Oh my God, you're ridiculous!” You snort, despite the worry and heat pooling in your gut.

“Only for you,” he quips, giving you a grin. “Now, c’mon, babe. You’re killing me here.”

You bite your lip, the nerves and longing waging a war in your chest. You do want to. God, you want to, so bad. But your hand’s still just… sitting there, like it has lost its function.

He shifts under you, hips rocking up slightly, and you feel him twitch through the denim of his jeans. Your heart literally stops. 

“Okay, seriously,” he says, a little edge creeping into his tone. 

He grabs your wrist, eyes locking with yours, and there’s this wild, desperate glint in them that’s somehow still sweet.

“Are you gonna make me beg? Because I will. I’ll get on my knees if you want. Write you a song even. ‘The Fingers That Won’t Touch My Dick’.”

You burst out laughing, the tension snapping. “Lixie! Are you for real?!”

“Very real and very horny!” he shoots back, grinning despite his frustration. “C’mon, babe. I’m begging here.”

Something about his dramatic plea does it. You fumble with his zipper, clumsy and giggling, and he lets out this exaggerated, “Oh thank GOD,” that makes you laugh harder. 

When you finally touch him, he moans. He is so velvety and hot under your fingers, and you see his head lolling back again.

“Fuck, yes,” he breathes as your fingers wrap around him and he’s putty in your hands. Literally and figuratively - hips bucking, little gasps and whimpers spilling from his lips. He looks at you, all starry-eyed and wrecked, making your heart do a somersault.

“You’re perfect. Knew you’d be.” he praises.

“I’m winging it,” you admit, stroking him nervously, and he laughs, a bright, giddy sound that’s so him, even in the middle of this.

“Wing it harder,” he says, grinning, but there’s a strain in his tone now. His hand covers yours, guiding you, and when you don’t speed up, he whines - whines - and fixes you with those big, pleading eyes.

“Don't be so cruel!” He wails, making it sound as pathetic as possible, and that's all it takes. You give in, wrapping your fingers around him properly, stroking with a little more purpose. And the way he melts - groaning your name, hands gripping your thighs is simply the hottest yet most adorable thing ever.

“There you go,” he mumbles, voice wrecked.

You run your thumb over the soft pink head, tracing over the little slit and he whimpers, bucking his hips into your hand desperately. And it's quiet except for his moans and whines, and the sound of you moving your hand up and down his length.

He kisses again, sloppy and sweet, moaning into your mouth like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. It’s messy and so damn romantic, and you bite his bottom lip a little too harshly, and that's what it took for him to fall apart, whimpering your name like it’s a prayer. 

You grin as he pants, and he pulls you close, sweaty and grinning, pressing lazy kisses to your jaw.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs, voice all warm and gooey. “I’m keeping you forever.”

“You’re a dork,” you say, but you’re glowing, warm and giddy in his arms. "But I'd love that."

“I love you,” he says, softly, and you whisper it back against his lips, making him chuckle.

“Now, your turn, or are we ordering food first?”

You shove a pillow in his face, both of you dissolving into laughter. (You definitely don't order food first.) 

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120

[seasidefallenangel]

little by little, finger to finger

"helping" your boyfriend work out ft sae itoshi

notes: sae x gn reader, fluff, reader is silly, suggestive towards the end and i nearly killed myself over it

“are you-” kiss “-sure that this-” kiss “-is actually helpful?”

sae pauses his push-ups to glare down at you for asking such a stupid question. the plush carpet beneath you cushions any discomfort you might normally feel when laying on the literal floor as sae is doing his morning workout. 

sunday is generally the one day you two have to spend with one another and while you usually loathe getting up so early, the view of sae’s muscles flexing is pretty good compensation. of course, when he saw you staring and drooling he opted to just call you a creep before saying that if you’re gonna ogle him then at least make yourself useful.

you had assumed by ‘help’ he meant maybe getting him some water or moving his weights when he was done. not… being motivation? you’re not exactly sure what to classify it as. he says that it helps him reach his goal faster, and you’re not one to complain about free kisses from your boyfriend. you are one to complain about the fact his sweat is starting to drip onto your face, though.

“ugh, gross!” you whine, making him roll his eyes and sigh. staying up for a few moments, he motions his head for you to instead crawl onto his back for some extra weight which you do with haste.

“aren’t i too -”

“don’t be a dumbass,” he interjects before continuing his routine like you weren’t there at all. despite appearances, his annoyance is obviously falsified since he’s the one who insisted you stay for the workout in the first place.

being a pain in his ass is the most integral part of your relationship though, so you place a few feather light kisses on the back of his neck while he’s continuing his push-ups. he pauses for a moment before promptly throwing you off his back - though his hands quickly move and cradle your fall before you can fully collide with the ground.

his eyes narrow as you look up at him with a smug grin and he sounds exasperated when he asks, “is your only purpose in life to irritate the shit out of me?”

your reply of, “pretty much” only makes it worse.

he flicks you on the forehead before moving to lay on his back next to you. his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment and he tells you, “can you at least help me stretch? or is that too much for your brain to process too?”

eager for any excuse to touch him, you easily comply and move to sit in front of him with bright eyes.

(in the back of his head, he can’t help but think about how adorable you look awaiting orders.)

“put this hand here,” he instructs while guiding your left hand to the back of his mid-thigh and your right hand to his heel. slowly, you push backward as he lets out a hiss of relief from the tension in his muscles fading. 

he urges you to move a little closer and stretch his calf further, and you grow a bit worried at the idea you might accidentally hurt him. something about “not doing it right” falls from his mouth and before you can ask him exactly what he means, he tugs your arm so you collapse on top of him.

you’re about to yell at him and ask what the point having you help even was if he’s just gonna purposefully mess you up, but your thoughts are scrambled by the feeling of a familiar hardness pressing against your stomach.

when you glance up at sae, he’s wearing that self-assured smirk he usually has when he’s playing with you. the only acknowledgement he gives you is a low, “you’re awful at taking a hint,” before pulling you towards him once more.

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Pillow Wall

Where Harry wants to blame the cold or the mattress or her gravity, but the truth is, he just sleeps better wrapped up in her.

Word count: 1,357

Every night, they start the same way.

Harry climbs into bed first, flops onto his side with a groan like it’s been the longest day in the world—even if it hasn’t. Y/N follows a minute later, switching off the lamp, the room going soft and quiet.

He shifts to the far edge of his side. She mirrors him on hers. A whole country between them.

“G’night, love,” he says, muffled into his pillow.

“’Night,” she replies, already halfway to sleep.

Sometimes he’ll add something dumb, like “Don’t steal the covers,” even though she never does. Or, “Don’t kick me,” even though it’s his foot that always ends up on her side.

They face away from each other. No touching. No cuddling. No crossing the invisible line.

It’s not a cold thing—it’s just how it is. She likes her space. He says he sleeps better without limbs on him. It works.

At least until morning.

Because every single day, without fail, Y/N wakes up with Harry practically glued to her.

This morning, it’s worse than usual. He’s managed to wedge himself between her arm and chest, face smushed against her collarbone, one leg thrown across her hips like he’s trying to claim territory. His breath is warm and slow against her skin. Peaceful. Way too comfortable for someone who swears he needs “distance to function.”

She blinks at the ceiling for a second, lips twitching.

“Again?” she mumbles, mostly to herself.

Harry stirs, groaning like someone’s just disturbed his royal slumber.

“You dragged me in,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “Every time. Like a bloody magnet.”

She snorts. “Sure I did.”

His arms tighten just slightly around her, and then he goes still again, already drifting back off.

Liar, she thinks.

It keeps happening.

The next morning, she wakes up with his nose buried in her neck and his hand resting casually under her shirt, palm flat against her stomach like he belongs there. He’s snoring lightly, and his leg is hooked around hers in a way that makes it physically impossible to move without waking him.

She lies there for a minute, not quite annoyed, not quite amused—just… baffled. Again.

“Harry,” she whispers, shifting just enough to make a point.

“Mm?” His voice is rough, still half in a dream. “Cold. You pulled me in.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did too.”

She sighs. He’s not even trying anymore.

Morning three, she wakes up practically spooning him. His back is to her, but her arm is slung around his waist, his fingers lazily twined with hers, like they fell asleep mid-conversation. Like this is just what they do.

She pulls her hand back slowly, like she’s dealing with a wild animal, and rolls onto her side. He follows her instinctively, still asleep, reaching for her even as she escapes.

By the time she gets up to brush her teeth, he’s taken over her pillow and curled into the spot where she was like a cat chasing warmth.

“Menace,” she mutters under her breath.

The next day, she wakes up nose-to-nose with him. Full frontal cuddle. His knee between her thighs, his arms around her like they’ve been in the middle of some intense, slow-motion hug all night. His lips are slightly parted, curls a mess, breath hitting her chin in soft little waves.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try.

“You okay down there?” she whispers.

His eyes barely crack open. “Would be better if you’d stop yanking me in like a sleep-deprived octopus.”

She just stares at him. “You seriously think I’m the one doing this?”

“Babe,” he says, voice low and hoarse, “I’m a victim.”

Then he presses his face back into her neck and falls asleep again.

A smug, snoring victim.

It happens again on a Thursday.

She wakes up with his entire body sprawled on top of hers. His head is tucked beneath her chin, his arms wrapped under her back, and somehow, he’s managed to get one of his feet under her calf like he’s trying to anchor her in place.

She’s had enough.

“Harry,” she says, sharp this time.

“Mmmph.”

“Get off me.”

He groans, buries his face deeper into her chest like that’ll help. “Why’re you so loud?”

“Because you are a liar,” she says, untangling her arm and smacking his shoulder with it. “You keep blaming me for this. Every morning. Like I’m the one dragging your six-foot ass across the bed in my sleep.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just exhales, long and dramatic.

“Look at this,” she gestures, even though his eyes are still shut. “You’re fully on top of me. There is no way I pulled you into this.”

He cracks one eye open. “You’re warm.”

“Oh my god.”

“You’re warm,” he repeats, like that explains everything. “And you smell nice. And sometimes I wake up a little and think, ‘Cuddles would be good,’ and then I just… do it.”

She gapes at him. “So you admit it.”

“I’m only human, Y/N.”

She smacks him with a pillow.

He grins into her shirt. Doesn’t even pretend to move.

Later that night, she makes a big production out of it.

“I’m putting a pillow wall between us,” she announces, tossing one of the big decorative ones from the couch onto the bed and propping it upright between them. “You stay on your side. No trespassing. I mean it.”

Harry watches her from his side, already under the covers, biting back a smile.

“Alright,” he says, hands up in surrender. “Message received. No cuddles. Ever again.”

“Exactly,” she says, climbing in. “Cuddle embargo. Effective immediately.”

“Harsh but fair.”

“Thank you.”

She clicks off the lamp. Silence falls.

For two minutes.

Then���

“I just think,” he says quietly, “you’re being a bit dramatic about how much you love me.”

She groans into her pillow. “Harry.”

“Can’t help that you’re clingy in your sleep. I’m the victim here, remember?”

She tosses a hand over the pillow wall and hits him in the face without looking.

He laughs. “That’s assault.”

She stays silent. Firm. Unmoving. She’s serious this time.

Until morning.

Because, of course, when she wakes up, the pillow wall is gone—mysteriously vanished—and Harry is back where he always ends up: wrapped around her like he belongs there, like it’s instinct. Like neither of them ever meant the distance in the first place.

She doesn’t bother waking him. Just lies there, hand idly brushing through his hair.

She’ll rebuild the wall tonight. Maybe.

Probably not.

[allthethingsiwanttoforget]

You picked at the food on your plate with your fork, something your father cooked up a couple times a week—a pile of mashed potatoes that had long since gone cold, some roasted asparagus you hardly touched, and a piece of chicken that tasted bland after the first few bites. You weren’t even hungry, really—just wanted to get dinner over with.

Your father was going on about one of his favorite old stories—something about a fishing trip he’d taken a few summers ago, the same trip he brought up every chance he got. He told it the exact same way, too: the “massive fish” that got away to the epic battle with his fishing line. You nodded along and gave him the occasional “oh, really?” like the good daughter you were. Your mind, however, wasn’t on fishing—or the food.

You took a sip of water, looked down at your plate, then glanced up at the man sitting in front of you. There he was, Logan—and fuck, did he look good. He was patiently listening to your father, sometimes letting out a chuckle, drinking a little bit of beer from the bottle next to his plate—barely touched, too. You can tell he was just as bored as you were. Only difference was, he wore it better.

Then it came to you. You didn’t have to sit here quietly, bored out of your mind. Not when he was right there, so close, looking so put-together. No, you wanted to fuck with him a little, have some fun.

You took a quick look at your father, making sure he was still caught up in his stupid story, and after what felt like hours, he was. Good. You slipped off one shoe under the table, feeling the cool floor against your bare foot before reaching out, letting your toes brush Logan’s jeans—feather-light. Just a little something to get his attention without making it too obvious.

You stared at your plate, even though a smile tried to pull at the corner of your mouth. After a few seconds, you looked up at Logan, expecting him to be looking at you, too, but he wasn’t. He just continued to drink his beer, talk to your father, take a small bite of food from his plate. He wasn’t doing anything. Why wasn’t he doing anything?

Okay, maybe he didn’t really feel it. Beneath the table, you pressed your foot a little higher, up along his calf. Still, nothing. Logan barely blinked, even, he just leaned back with a small smile on his face as he listened to your father, bringing his bottle back to his mouth for another drink. Fine. You slid your foot higher, pressing along his thigh, harder this time. There was no way he wasn’t feeling this. And yet—he just went on, acting like he hadn’t noticed a thing, even though you knew he did.

But then, just when you were about to drop your foot, Logan casually reached under the table, catching your ankle in his hand. The move was so sudden you almost choked on the food you were keeping in your mouth. His fingers tightened around your ankle, holding you in place. Your hand tightened around your fork, trying to pull your foot back, but he wouldn’t let go. He made it clear that he was aware of your little game—and that he was going to win it.

You yanked your foot back hard enough to slip out of Logan’s grip, causing the table to shake. Your father paused mid-sentence, looking over at you.

“Oh, um—I think I’m full,” you forced a small laugh out, pushing your chair out from under the table as you got up.

Logan finally looked over at you, lips curling in the slightest smirk. You knew that look. “Leaving so soon, sweetheart?” He nodded toward your half-full plate, “Barely touched the food on your plate.”

Jesus Christ, was he going to be the death of you.

[theachinghunger-if]

The Aching Hunger

Demo (TBA -- Prologue Expected to release in mid-late June)

You are a good, upstanding citizen. You’re a devoted best friend, get good grades in college, and life is looking up. You would go as far as to call yourself a good person. That is, until you aren’t anymore. 

When your best friend gets cheated on by her asshole boyfriend, you’re furious on her behalf. And when you see him at a party, something in you… snaps. In a fit of fury, you murder him. 

And this unleashes a bloodlust in you that no one would have ever expected, least of all yourself. Soon, a terrible, aching hunger forms in the pit of your stomach and travels up to gnaw at your heart. You want to kill – need to kill. The question is: can you get away with it, or are you destined to fall? 

The game has four romance options who go as follows:

Delilah (F) Delilah is the kindest, sweetest person you know. She would never even hurt a fly. But despite that, she helps you cover up the murder of her (ex) boyfriend with little more than a scolding look. There’s a burning in her eyes when you reveal your bloodlust before her. Could it be possible that she’s drawn to it?

Delilah is of average height with a lean, athletic build. She has black skin, coiled black hair she keeps in locks, and dark brown eyes. She has a round, heart-shaped face and deep dimples.

Sebastian (M) Sebastian has always been a bright, easy-going guy. He’s always been a pleasant person to hang out with, despite his poor choice of best friend. But ever since his best friend’s death – well, ever since you happened to murder him – his joy has been muted. If he ever found out that you murdered his best friend, he would never forgive you.

Sebastian is tall with broad shoulders and a muscular build. He has sun-kissed skin and curly brown hair that reaches his shoulders. His eyes are a light shade of brown. He has a scar on his calf that winds all the way up his thigh.

Alexander/Alexandra (M/F)

A is the detective who’s been put on your case. They’re charming, with a silver tongue and a mind as sharp as a finely-honed blade. They’ll stop at nothing to discover who the serial killer haunting the streets of their city is. Too bad that that person happens to be you.

A is tall with a wiry frame. They have pale skin and light blue eyes. Their hair is a pale, platinum blond. Their features are angular and sharp, making them look almost shrewish. A scar slashes across their left cheek.

Hugo/Helga (M/F) H is your classmate who you’ve been assigned on a group project with. They’re a twitchy, nervous thing, often acting as if they’re afraid of the entire world at large. As your killing spree commences, however, they develop a fascination with your serial killing persona. Maybe they’re not as much of a delicate little lamb as you thought they were. 

H has a short, wiry frame. They have pale skin and light blue eyes, along with fiery red hair. Their features are angular and sharp, making them look almost shrewish. They have a smattering of freckles across their body.

Choose your MC's gender

Customize your MC's appearance and personality

Choose between four different romance options

Get away with murder or don't

Feed that hunger inside of you, or try to reject it

All updates will be posted on this blog. I'm totally cool with asks about the MC, ROs, and so on. I’m a-okay with nsfw asks too. Thank you for checking out the blog!

[sinful-sonnet]

“Bad Idea” Pairing: No-Outbreak!Joel Miller x Younger!Reader WC: 1k

Warnings: NSFW, age gap (reader is mid-20s, Joel is late 40s), rough sex, dirty talk, slight power imbalance, Joel feeling conflicted but giving in, unprotected sex, mild angst.

Joel shouldn’t have even been on Tinder.

It was Tommy’s fault. His dumbass younger brother had gotten drunk one night, talking about how Joel was too “damn grumpy” and “probably rusty as hell” when it came to women. Next thing he knew, Tommy had his phone in hand, setting up a profile for him with a blurry photo from a barbecue and a half-assed bio:

“Just a guy. Work too much. Lookin’ for something easy.”

Subtle.

He hadn’t taken it seriously. Had barely even looked at the app—until your name popped up.

You were young, too young for a man like him, but there was something about your profile that made him pause. Maybe it was your smile, all pretty and sweet, or the way your bio read just looking for trouble in a way that sounded like an invitation.

And maybe—maybe—he was just a little desperate.

So he swiped right.

And when the screen lit up with It’s a Match!, something hot and uneasy settled in his gut.

The messages started innocent enough. You asked him how his day was, teased him for using “dad emojis” when he sent a thumbs-up. He tried to talk himself out of it, but you were persistent, funny, and way too easy to talk to.

Then you sent, Wanna grab a drink?

And that was when Joel really should’ve deleted the damn app.

Instead, he replied: Yeah.

Now, he’s sitting across from you in some dimly lit bar, wondering how the hell he got here.

You’re even prettier in person, and that’s a problem. A big one. Your outfit hugs your body just right, and when you lean forward on your elbows, looking up at him with those wide, mischievous eyes, he feels like a goddamn fool for showing up.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” you admit, swirling your drink in your hand.

Joel exhales through his nose, gripping the beer bottle in his palm. “Neither did I.”

You laugh. “You nervous, old man?”

Joel huffs, taking a sip of his drink to mask the way his jaw clenches. “Not nervous. Just wonderin’ what the hell a girl like you wants with a guy like me.”

Your lips curve, slow and knowing. “Maybe I like older men.”

He swallows. He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t engage, shouldn’t entertain it.

But then your foot brushes up his calf under the table, and his fingers tighten around the bottle.

Yeah. He’s fucked.

It doesn’t take long to end up back at his place.

Joel barely gets the door shut before you’re on him, pressing up against his chest, fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt. He groans when your hands find his stomach, when you kiss up the side of his throat like you already know he’s been starving for this.

“Bad idea,” he mutters, even as he cups your jaw, even as he tilts your head back and drags his mouth over yours.

“Yeah?” You hum, pressing against him, rolling your hips up to feel the evidence of how bad an idea it really is. “Then why aren’t you stopping?”

Joel growls, gripping your ass and walking you backward until your back hits the wall. “Because you don’t want me to.”

Your smirk falters when he presses a thigh between your legs, forcing a gasp from you. His hands are rough, gripping your waist, pushing your shirt up so he can feel the heat of your skin.

You whimper when he shoves a hand down the front of your jeans, fingers sliding over soaked fabric. “Jesus,” he rasps. “You been like this all night?”

You nod, panting against his lips. “Wanted you since I saw your picture.”

“Fuck.” Joel’s resolve snaps. He grabs the hem of your shirt, yanking it up and over your head. “Gonna ruin you, sweetheart.”

You moan, arching into his touch, letting him strip you down piece by piece. When he gets you on the bed, he’s already yanking his belt free, already undoing his jeans.

You spread your legs, looking up at him with those wicked, needy eyes, and any last bit of hesitation he had vanishes.

Joel fists his cock, stroking himself as he takes you in—soft and open, waiting for him. “Gonna regret this in the morning,” he mutters.

You smile, hooking your fingers into his belt loops, tugging him closer. “Not a chance.”

And then he’s sinking into you, slow and deep, groaning as your body stretches around him.

And fuck, it’s a bad idea.

But it feels too goddamn good to stop now.

You’re making the prettiest sounds—little gasps and whimpers, breathy moans that go straight to his cock. Your pussy is tight and hot around him, squeezing down every time he drives in deep, and it’s making him lose his goddamn mind.

“Fuck, Joel,” you whimper, rocking your hips up to meet his thrusts. “So good—so fucking deep.”

He groans, leaning down to nip at your throat, gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. “Yeah? This what you wanted, sweetheart?”

You nod frantically, body arching against him. “Please, don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t want to. Not even close. He wants to ruin you, fuck you stupid, make sure you’ll be thinking about this for weeks—

But then it happens.

His rhythm falters, his breath catches, and suddenly there’s a tight, burning heat in his spine, his balls drawing up too fast, too soon.

“Shit,” he grits out, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to will it away. He’s not ready yet—fuck, you’re not ready yet—but your pussy feels too good, too perfect, and he’s slipping, losing control.

Panic flares in his chest, and he blurts out, “In or out?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “What?”

Joel stills, and that’s when you feel it.

His cock twitches inside you, hot and pulsing, and you realize—oh.

You bite back a grin. “Did you just—?”

Joel groans, pressing his forehead against yours, jaw clenched. “Goddammit.”

You giggle, reaching up to stroke his cheek, amused at the way his face is flushed with both exertion and embarrassment. “It’s okay,” you murmur, tilting your hips just a little to squeeze around him. “You were just too excited, huh?”

He glares at you, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just frustration.

And maybe just a little bit of shame.

“Don’t start,” he mutters, but you can feel how sensitive he is, how he twitches inside you at your teasing.

You smirk, knowing damn well you’ll be replaying this moment later, fingers between your thighs, chasing the high he didn’t quite get you to.

Joel sighs, pulling out slowly, already reaching for a towel. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

You stretch out on his bed, still flushed, still needy, and watch as he runs a hand through his messy hair.

Maybe next time, you’ll finish first.

Or maybe… you’ll make him lose control again.

[brucewaynehater101]

I’d love to see more of the Emotional Marks AU. I want to see the reveal and the Bats having the realization that just because they’re doing better /now/, it doesn’t fix the damage they did before. And that they can’t force things to heal. Healing takes time.

Post being mentioned is here

What I'm curious about is if it's a human only thing or if others (like Kyrptonians, Martians, Atlanteans, etc.) also get marks.

Anyways, here's some more stuff I thought of. As always, take as little or as much as you'd like of it ^^

Tim never takes off the object hiding his marks, even for himself. It's part habit and part desperation to never see how much his loved ones have actually hurt him.

He's unique in that he isn't sure where most of his marks come from. People usually see the marks within 24 hours of their appearance. Tim has gone years between seeing his own marked skin.

As I've stated before, the object works like glamor. Therefore, those with enough magic power would be able to see past it. This is part of why Tim wanted pants for the Robin uniform (any magicians working with Robin would see the moment they saw any of Tim's bare skin). Tim is very lucky the marks on his face only appeared a bit before he became Red Robin (and part of his reason for the cowl).

Marks typically stay away from the face. They only appear there if symbolically significant or if the marks are running out of space elsewhere on the body. Bart and Kon dying really did a number on Tim even though it wasn't their fault.

YJ and Dick have helped soothe some of the marks left behind by the Drakes (and Bruce too if you want good dad Bruce). Quite a bit have even fully disappeared due to them.

Tim still collected them like Halloween candy, though.

Major marks and their placement [though feel free to offer different ideas]:

Bruce calling Tim "Jason" - x on the back of neck

16th birthday - Major gash on right temple hidden by hair

Janet dying - splintering cracks along hand (bigger version of the one Janet fakes)

Jack coma then death - line in left calf then up to mid back of thigh

Bart dying - right side from under armpit to end of ribs gash

Kon dying - giant oval over sternum

Jason's TT attack - left foot/ankle cracks

Damian's attacks - stomach area

Losing Robin - largest slash diagonal across back (left shoulder to right hip)

There's more marks, but the ones on his face are caused by people not believing in him [this is not a "they should have" argument. It would have hurt regardless of what they should have done]

Hmm... So, the reveal? I'm thinking a magician. This would be after Tim switches back to just a mask and no cowl. His face marks would be on display for magicians but no one else. He, wrongly, assumed he'd be fine.

He's playing nice with the Bats at this point, even if he doesn't fully trust them. He loves them and wants to keep the peace. He'd never voluntarily show them his marks or tell them about it.

The Bats are being nicer under the idea that their assumptions about markless were incorrect. It weirds Tim out and usually has him ghosting them for a few days if they try to initiate feeling conversations with him. He kind of wishes they would just go back to normal.

It's a few months of this behavior before some magician makes a remark about Tim's facial marks. Something along the lines of, "You okay, Red? You're aware of how dangerous it is for marks to progress as far as the face, right?"

Cause what happens when there's no more room for marks? Drastic decrease in physical health. Could lead to death.

The Bats overhear and promptly freak the fuck out again.

Tim, who has been dealing with their bullshit for the last few months and doesn't want to deal with the confrontation, disappears. He's waiting for them to process their shit before returning [he loves them but does not want to be caught in that fucking whirlwind. Bats notoriously do not handle emotions well]

[amuromi]

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 6.2k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! baby fever!gojo, breeding kink, unprotected sex, established relationship, pet names (mama, baby), oral (f!receiving), talks of having kids and starting a family, ooc!gojo

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ The sequel is here! I felt like I couldn’t continue the storyline without at least mentioning the complications of someone like Gojo having a kid. It’s inevitable that they’re going to have a high level of cursed energy, so I wanted to explore the idea of sorcerers trying to live outside of jujutsu society constraints while also still having to adhere to them.

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

The heat is on because it’s mid-winter and it’s finally gotten cold enough to snow, but somewhere in Gojo’s sprawling apartment a window is open. Not wide enough to cause a terrible draft–not that Gojo cares because he can afford to open all the windows while the heat is blasting at full tilt–but just enough to let in the smell of the crisp air outside. Gojo admittedly isn’t overly in tune with his sense of smell, all things considered. His strength is in his eyes so he’s never bothered to mull over the things that aren’t associated with his sight. He can’t exactly see the scent of frost and he can only smell it as well as any other person, but the window is open because he knows you like the smell of light snowfall. 

His staring problem comes with the territory, but, in the comfort of his own home, Gojo can’t really be faulted for looking too hard at any one thing. Especially not when his eyes are locked on his pretty girlfriend laid up on his couch. You’re curled up like a kitten in a nest, tucked into another one of his shirts and bundled beneath the giant fleece he bought because you’re always catching a random chill. It probably has something to do with low iron levels and leaving the window open in the winter. He briefly considers buying supplements but the thought is lost as soon as it forms when his eyes catch on the distracting length of your leg peeking out of the fuzzy blanket. It’s a wide expanse of bare skin that belies a lack of pants or at least anything beyond another pair of those damningly short shorts you love to wear around the house. There’s the fleeting thought that your aversion to longer pants might also be a contributing factor to your constant chill but he isn’t about to mention it. You’ve never had any qualms about going against things he says, but it’ll be just his luck that you actually decide to start wearing pants around the house and then where would he be? 

Infinity makes his footsteps imperceptible, especially with the adage of the downy carpet. There isn’t even a twitch of your lashes as he crouches in front of you, staring at your face half buried in the blanket before he reaches out to touch your leg. There’s no need for him to have his Infinity up in the house, but it’s habitual at this point, as easy as breathing. It’s the dropping it that always gives him pause. After going so many hours, day after day, never truly touching anything, it always feels like he’s relaxing a tense muscle when his barrier comes down. Not necessarily painful but palpable. The same way you can always smell when a storm is coming, Gojo can feel when his Infinity dissipates even though it’s intangible by nature. And once it’s gone he can feel everything. Hot or cold, the temperature never really matters because he’s always in his little bubble of body heat, but now he can feel the artificial rush of the vents pumping out waves of warm air and the slightest chill from the open window. 

Goosebumps rise over your skin as he traces his finger up the length of your leg. The jut of your ankle, the slope of your calf and the curve of your knee to settle over the softness of your thigh. You’re warm in a way that’s different from the blasting heat. Soft and comforting and Gojo tries not to dwell on what that might mean for his constant lack of physical contact. He drops his Infinity on occasion. Especially to interact with you or his students that are doing nothing but feeding into his desire for fatherhood, but it’s still few and far between. More often than not, Gojo is locked inside the untouchable barrier of his cursed technique. It’s not exactly loneliness that he’s feeling but some type of longing that makes him settle next to the couch so he can lay his cheek against your leg and just feel. His Six Eyes still tries to tell him things, outlining the shape of your body buried elusively beneath the blankets in a silhouette of cursed energy, but he closes his mind to it as best he can.  

It’s always been something unspoken between you; your level of cursed energy. You ended up a bit like Nanami, a bit like Suguru, turning your back on jujutsu for your own reasons. He’s never forced you to come back, never really even asked why you left because he doesn’t exactly care. All Gojo needs to know is that you’re happier with your life as it is, living as a non-sorcerer. He can’t really wrap his head around your love of working retail when it’s such a mixed bag of benign and volatile customers, annoying bosses, and ridiculous hours from what you tell him. But it’s leagues safer than fieldwork and Gojo isn’t about to be the one to coax you back into active duty. He barely tolerates when the higher ups call you in to do menial managerial tasks when the school is shorthanded. 

Their excuse for still keeping you on the payroll even after all these years always boils down to something about death being the only way a sorcerer ever really leaves the business. As if jujutsu society is some kind of yakuza holding members hostage. The people in charge act like sorcery is an inescapable cult and Gojo will be glad when he’s done tearing them down from the inside out. And as if you can sense him working himself up even in your sleep, Gojo watches your lashes pinch and flutter before a hand comes slinking out of your fuzzy cocoon to settle on his head. Your eyes are still closed but the momentary tension leaves your brow as soon as your fingers skim over his hair. No Infinity, only comfort. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” It’s always so instinctual the way you reach out to him. You always have an innate ability to tell when he’s falling and needs catching. Even just the sound of your voice, low and thickened with sleep, is enough to banish any worries from his mind. At least for the moment. 

“Nothing,” he says just to hear you mumble back “it’s something,” like you always do when he lies about what’s on his mind. It isn’t a matter of trust because Gojo trusts you with his life. He just doesn’t want to plague you with all the things he’s mulling over. It’s really only important to him. You’ve already declared your disinterest in sorcery, he’s not about to force you to listen to him formulating a plan to reform jujutsu society. And besides, he can’t have you worrying because it isn’t good to worry when you’re pregnant. Something about stress not being good for the baby. Sure, you aren’t pregnant yet, but he can see it coming in the near future. 

It’s not like he’s worn you down, you’ve always been way too steadfast to be bending to anyone’s whims. It’s more so just that it’s time. That ever constant “soon” looming closer and closer on the horizon. 

“Quit your job,” Gojo says, sounding every bit like a petulant child. Finally, your eyes open. Just barely, only enough to give him a hazily unimpressed look. 

“I know that’s not what you were thinking about.” He knows you know, but he also knows you won’t press him on it. Even when you were an active sorcerer, there were just some things you didn’t want to know about for plausible deniability’s sake. No need to get your hands dirty, especially now that you’re not even active anymore. Gojo’s strong enough to take on the consequences of his actions, strong enough to keep you safe from the fallout of his decisions. And anyway, he’s far more concerned with his personal life at the moment. What he does at work becomes virtually irrelevant the second he’s alone with you. 

“It’s what I’m thinking about now!” He’s whining because it’s really all he has on his mind now. The idea of coming home from a long day of work and being greeted by the pattering of little feet as your babies rush to meet him at the door. He imagines them all chubby cheeked and starry eyed, pushing to be the first one he hugs when he gets home. He’s annoyingly fixated on the thought and thumps his forehead against your thigh, knocking against you over and over until you’re fisting your fingers in his hair to keep him still. 

“You’re annoying.” You mean it but he can hear the endearment in your voice. And just to really get on your nerves, Gojo starts pouting. 

“I’m lonely.” It’s true in a way he doesn’t want to admit. Never mind the fact that he has his cheek pressed against your leg, arms wrapped tight around your thigh. There’s always been that nagging sense of loneliness. The looming feeling that something is missing. Children or something else, Gojo doesn’t know. But he does know that he wants babies. Your babies. Preferably sometime in the very near future if you’ll let him. 

“Lonely? Then what am I?” He feels you flex your leg as if to remind him that there’s no space for loneliness between his skin and yours. But there’s a hint of something in your voice, that heaviness of unspoken acknowledgment. You’ve known him for so long, been together for so many years. Some things don’t need to be said for you to know. It’s innate, intrinsic. And he loves you for it. You’re everything to him, but what he decides to say is,

“The mother of my children.” There’s desperation in his voice but Gojo doesn’t care to be embarrassed. He’s been stuck on this for most of your relationship and he isn’t about to get flustered asking for what he wants for the umpteenth time. You haven’t shamed him the first thousand times he’s asked so he isn’t expecting to get teased on attempted one thousand and one. 

“I’m not pregnant yet.” Gojo perks up. That’s new. The two of you have had this conversation in some variation at least once a week for months now and Gojo has grown used to all the answers you usually give him. It’s always something like “not yet,” or “let’s wait a little while longer.” And he does wait, but he’s also woefully impatient. Gojo knows you’re not pregnant and that’s the torture of it all. You’ve already said you’ll have his children. Kissed his forehead and reminded him that not now doesn’t mean not even whenever he gets particularly sulky after being told to be patient. It’s always just a matter of when but he’s eager for when to be now. And something about your answer makes him look at you with wide eyes. 

I’m not pregnant yet. It’s teasingly open-ended, like you’re taunting him with the knowledge that you’re not pregnant but you could be. But Gojo knows you wouldn’t tease him like that. Not about this. He’s always been a tad bit overzealous in his pursuit of babies but that’s because he wants it so bad, and he knows you wouldn’t be cruel enough to taunt him with it. He trails a hand up your thigh, dipping beneath the blanket as he maps out the curve of your hip. A shiver runs through your body as his fingers dip under the hem of your shorts. 

“Not pregnant… yet?” It’s hopeful. A question lingering in his tone. Is it time? Will today be the day? You smile, going back to petting his head, and that’s all the answer he needs. “You looking to change that, mama?” 

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask again,” you tease. “Thought you kept track of my ovulation window.” You’ve been waiting? Gojo’s heart stutters in his chest. All he had to do was ask. It’s always been that way really. He’s been begging you for so long because he knew it was just a matter of asking when, but after so long of being told to wait a while it seems almost too good to be true hearing you say you’re ready now. 

“You better be serious.” He knows you are because you know how desperate he’s been for it, but he can’t help but want to hear you say it again. Hear you ask in so many words. He’s always begging and pleading and Gojo wants to hear you want it just as plainly as he does. 

“Don’t make me beg, Satoru.” It isn’t what he wants to hear but he scoops you and your blanket into his arms even still. He’s got all the time in the world to hear you ask for it and he’s not about to delay it any longer just because you want to play coy. He can see it in the way you’re biting at your lips trying to hide a smile, feel it in the way your arms wind around his neck. There’s a slight tremor to your hand as you run your fingertips up the column of his neck. He can almost hear the way your heartbeat has spiked, blood swelling with desire as he lays you down in his bed. It’ll be your bed soon because there’s no way he’s about to spend even a second more than necessary away from you. He’s been begging to get rid of your apartment for almost as long as he’s been wanting a baby, and Gojo is looking to have it all in one fell swoop. 

“Gonna have to move in with me, mama,” he reminds you. Marriage is a more amorphous thought. Really it’s just a piece of paper that will serve to complicate your lives. He’s the head of a clan and his wife will have certain expectations imposed upon her that he doesn’t want to wrestle with right now. Maybe later, when he’s made things better. But for now he’s happy just having you. You don’t have to be a Gojo just yet because you’re his regardless. You’re in his bed, wearing his clothes, wanting to have his baby. Gojo can’t put a bigger mark on you than that but he’ll sure as hell try as his mouth latches onto the sensitive skin of your neck. You make that same gasping sound you always do, a little shiver running through your body as your hands find his hair again. Your grip is tighter than before, pulling at the roots as he digs his teeth into your delicate skin. Usually he’d be more careful about where he’s putting his little love bites but he can’t bring himself to care right now, and you don’t seem to mind. 

“You gonna ask for it, mama? I’m not gonna give it to you if you don’t ask for it properly.” As much as he’s been begging for it, Gojo won’t settle for anything less than hearing you tell him exactly what you want from him. All he’s been hearing is you telling him to wait, so he’s not giving you anything without explicit permission. Of course you take your time with that, too, and Gojo is more than happy to indulge you. It’s like running a marathon and finally seeing the finish line so close within reach. He can count the steps, the breaths, the heartbeats it will take until he crosses the line and finally, finally gets what he wants. It’s what you want too, or else you wouldn’t have said anything. It’s easy to provoke him when it comes to this and he hasn’t heard exactly what he wants yet, but he’s still keen to get you out of your clothes. And for all your smirking silence, you let him. Lifting your hips and arching your back as he strips you out of your clothes. 

For a moment, all he can do is savor the sight. His girl laid out on his bed, so close to asking for his child. You squeak when his nose presses into the space between your breasts, skin cold without his Infinity to regulate his temperature but he’ll be warm soon enough. Already he’s soaking in the heat pouring off your skin. You’re that fuzzy sort of warm that comes with the first waves of wakefulness, eyes still half-lidded and skin nearly feverish as he rubs his cheek against your bare chest. You smell nice. A perfect balance between his scent and your own, mingled together in a heady fragrance that has his tongue drawing wet streaks across your skin. He shivers as you thumb at the nape of his neck, brushing over the cropped hair at the back of his head because you can’t get enough of the feeling. Gojo is almost certain he’ll be just as insistent with touching your stomach when you start to show. 

He can already imagine how you’ll look. Only a few months pregnant, belly just starting to show. In his shirts you’d look the same as you always do. They hang so big off your frame that no one would be able to tell what was growing beneath it. But he’d know. And when you got bigger the whole world would know. Belly round and breasts heavy, whole body changing to accommodate the little life you made together. Gojo already can’t stay off you and he imagines your first pregnancy will shatter what little is left of his restraint. 

“You’ll tell me what I wanna hear, right, mama?” He murmurs against your stomach. He kisses around your naval, moving lower to dig his fingers into the thickness of your hips. You return the favor, running a hand through his hair until your grip tightens, pulling his eyes towards you. It sends a stinging twinge of pleasure down his spine, scalp prickling beneath your rough treatment as he stares up at you. He realizes you’re holding so tight because you need something to ground you. He can feel the way you’re squirming beneath his weight, hips shifting awkwardly as he pins you down with his bright blue gaze. Gojo has always been so open about wanting to start a family yet you can hardly articulate the words to ask him. It’s what you both want, but after so long saying no he can imagine how hard it is to fix your lips to say yes. It’ll be hard to collar him again once you let him off the leash. 

“Satoru,” he nearly melts at the sound of his name on your tongue. The way you say it with such sweet reverence. He can hear the affection in every syllable. “I want it.” It isn’t some heartfelt confession but it’s just as sincere, and Gojo hasn’t exactly been asking for it in the most romantic terms. You aren’t begging yet but it’s a start. A slow one compared to how feverish he’s been in his desire to get you pregnant but it’s enough for the moment. He can hear threads popping with how quickly he works to get your clothes off. It’s his shirt anyway and he has the money to buy you as many new sets of underwear that you want for nearly ripping your panties in half as he yanks them down your thighs. The poor lace is mangled as you kick it off your ankle but he doesn’t hear you complaining. In fact, you’re giggling. Laughing and smiling so pretty as he kisses your knee. 

“What’s so funny, baby?” He asks. You poke him square in the forehead as he looks up at you. 

“You are.” You’re still laughing. “You’re like a damn puppy.” It’s not the first time you’ve called him that but it makes him smile every time. He presses his grinning lips against your skin and smiles wider when you call him a weirdo as he licks the inside of your thigh. 

“Don’t complain now. In a few minutes you’re gonna want my tongue all over you.” His tone is joking but he watches the word land. The way you go quiet, nipping at your lip to hide your smile behind a shy pout. He can feel your thigh flexing as he rests his head against your leg, squirming at just the thought of him touching you. Gojo has regained some of his control, reigning in his eagerness so he doesn’t get overzealous. The last thing he’d want is to hurt you. He wants the conception of his first baby–all his babies–to be perfect. Even if it’s him that’s asking for it, it’s not really about him. It’s about you. Your body. You’re the one that’s going to be going through the woes of pregnancy, so the least Gojo can do is make the prelude feel good. He kisses your leg again, sinking his face into the soft skin, absolutely melting as he frames himself between your thighs.

There’s an ease to the way his arms hook behind your knees, pulling you down the bed until you’re flush against his face. The sound you make when his nose nudges at your clit has his head going hazy, empty to anything that isn’t you. Sleep still clings around the edges as you moan his name, a low hum that’s steeped in fading fatigue. He can feel your body rising to full consciousness, finally catching up with your mind as your legs shift along the curve of his shoulders. 

You’re still so warm, that sleepy heat lingering as your thighs close around his head the moment he wraps his lips around your clit. He’s only got his lips on you for a second and you’re already squirming, half trying to run away from his mouth. Gojo laughs, the sound rolling off his tongue to tease at your clit. You whine, pushing at his head even as your thighs pull him closer. He whines when you scramble far enough to get away from his mouth, glassy eyes staring up at you like you just slapped him across the face. There’s tears sparkling in your eyes as you look down at him, brows furrowed and lips caught between your teeth. Gojo leans in again, real slow like you won’t notice if he moves at a steady pace. You whimper and start squirming again the second his lips brush against your skin. He tries to be gentle, kissing over the swollen hood of your clit as his tongue parts your sticky lips. A faint, whimpered “wait!” falls from your lips and Gojo pulls away, forcing back a groan, trying not to look at the way your pussy is drooling on his sheets. 

He presses a kiss over the curve of your mound, doing anything to distract himself from thinking about where he really wants his mouth to be. The mess of your arousal is drying sticky on his lips, leaving glossy little prints as he kisses across your stomach. 

“What do you need, baby? Tell me.” His voice is breathless, muffled against your chest as he crawls up your body. You’re still trying to pull him closer and push him away, thighs locked around his waist even as you knot a fist in his hair to pull him away from your pert little nipples. 

“Fucking tease,” he mumbles against your collarbone, void of any true malice. It would almost be amusing if he wasn’t nearly vibrating out of his skin with the strength it’s taking to restrain himself. 

He can’t help but grind against you when you pull him into a kiss. It’s a heated mess of tongue and teeth, barely passing for affection. It’s desperation on the cusp of frenzied aggression as he grinds against you, cursing at the barrier of fabric between you. You’re already clawing at his shirt and there’s no mistaking the sound as Gojo shreds the fabric to be closer to you. His pants are a bit harder to contend with, made infinitely more difficult with the way you’re all but fucking him through the fabric, legs locked so tight that he can barely inch his hand between you to shove the last piece of distance between you out of the way. He knows the moment you register his skin against yours. You’re babbling, close to tears as you whimper his name. It’s a broken mantra that sounds so sweet on your lips. He only gets his pants down to his knees before you’re shoving his hand out of the way. He nearly misses the determined mumble of “make it fit,” too focused on the way your hand feels wrapped around his dick. 

It snaps him back to focus for a second. Long enough to worry about you hurting yourself without his fingers to stretch you open first. But all thoughts melt from his mind the moment you guide his dick between your thighs. He can feel the last threads of his self control unwinding bit by bit as you clumsily guide him where you want him. It’s a messy drag up and down your slit before he catches against your entrance. He can feel how eager you are, clenching at his head as he grips at your hips to keep you still. 

“Just the tip,” he stutters even as you groan out your despair. “Be patient, baby, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” He still has the taste of you on the back of his tongue, that orgasm that you ruined for yourself. He can feel the way you’re still trying to pull him in closer, heels digging into the small of his back to no avail. Gojo is stronger than you. The strongest ever. And even when he’s on the cusp of coming–pitiful when he’s barely inside you–he can keep himself from giving into temptation if it means keeping you from harm. Even if you want it now, you’ll be cursing and whining about how sore you are later and he wants this to be a good memory. It’s messy and fast but he can still practically see the hearts in your eyes when he looks down at you. Then you smile and he knows he’s a goner. 

“I’m gonna come,” Gojo says without a shred of embarrassment. He’s long past that as he feels your pussy suck at the tip of his cock. He doesn’t go any deeper, still feeding you shallow thrusts as he goes over the edge. It’s a disappointment to watch the steaks of white spilling out of you when he pulls back, sticky threads still clinging between you. 

“Gotta keep it inside, mama,” he murmurs, already cleaning up the mess with his fingers. Your hand is on his shoulder the second he curls his fingers inside you. Pushing and pulling as your nails scratch across his skin. Only you can ever leave marks on him, only you can ever touch him like this. He gets drunk off the thought, balancing himself on his forearm as he presses his forehead against yours. Your face is wet, smeared with tears and spit and sweat. You look dewy in the lowlight, eyes glittering up at him. It’s muscle memory getting you to the edge. He knows just where to press, just how deep you need it. It’s so second nature that Gojo nearly forgets he’s got his fingers inside you until you shove your hand between your bodies, rubbing desperately at your neglected clit until your back is arching, pressing your chest against his. He can feel your heart fluttering behind your breasts as your nipples skim over his bare skin. 

When you finally sag against the sheets, coming down from the high, your hand slinks over his shoulder until you’re cupping his cheek. Gojo leans into the touch like it’s the last thing he’ll ever feel. 

“It’s time, Satoru,” you say, voice soft and breathless. “Let’s have a baby.” 

The sound he makes sounds pitifully desperate even to his own ears but Gojo can’t bring himself to stifle his voice. He only gets louder when he’s inside you again. An orgasm has you loosened enough to take him now, pulling him in with three deep strokes.

“Just like that, mama,” he murmurs. You’re less erratic now, far calmer after coming once already. “Not running now, are you?” You have the nerve to look bashful, looking away as he rubs his hands down your sides. It’s easy to guide you now, to get you to follow his rhythm as he bottoms out inside you with each thrust. There’s something so enamored about your eyes as you stare up at him. Dazed and half-lidded, full of adoration as you catch his arm where he’s holding your hips. The adoration that floods through him the moment he feels your thumb brushing against his wrist is enough to nearly choke him. Fuck, he wants to marry you. Wants you to be his in every way possible. But there’s still a thousand things he needs to do first. Things to make the world better for you and your baby. His eyes fall to your stomach, vision almost doubling from how hard he’s staring at your tummy. There’ll be a baby in there soon. His baby. Gojo feels himself getting close at the thought. 

“Eyes on me, baby.” It’s a sound like music as you call his attention back to your face. Something you only say when his eyes are closed. He was lost in his dreams of the future. Of babies with his name and your face. 

“I’m here,” he assures you, panting the words against your parted lips in a messy imitation of a kiss. Words are spilled in a slurred litany between soaked mouths with no clear distinction between either whining voice. The sentiment is the same no matter which one of you is saying it. I love you, I love you, I love you. 

“What do you want?” Gojo feels himself murmuring. It’s a hushed mumbling that comes as the end of a long drawl of your name, so low that the syllables come out as graveled sounds against the edge of your ear. Still, you answer to the barest hint of his voice, back bowing off the bed like you’re drawn towards him like a flower to the sun. His arm fills the space, wrapping around your waist. He can feel the way you shiver on the cusp of falling over the edge, can hear it in your voice as you babble your answer of, “you, you, you, just you!” 

“My babies?” He can’t help but goad and tease even though he’s so deep inside you that there’s no question of what you want from him. Still, you answer. Clawing at his shoulders as you do. 

“Yes, Satoru! Your babies, only yours!” It lights something deep and possessive in his chest as he reaches a hand down to rub the shape of his name on your clit. It’s the best he can offer with no ring, no wedding. Writing his name on your skin, pressing his mark into every corner of your body until he can do it the right way. 

“My babies. My girl.” He sets his teeth against the skin of your throat, tasting the sweat as the sound of your voice vibrates across his tongue. There’s no mistake of what you want when you come. Your legs lock tight around him like he’d try to run from the way you’re milking his cock. Squeeze tight like you never want him to leave. He squeezes you tighter in turn, fingers pressed tight against the shivering column of your spine. He spells his name there too, tracing each muscle as they move under his fingertips. He feels your hands in his hair again, scratching at the back of his head. It’s a feeling he’s come to associate with comfort–with you–and it’s enough to throw him headlong over the edge. 

When he tosses his head back, cursing towards the ceiling, your hand is still there to catch him. Brushing against the nape of his neck as your nose tucks up under his chin. He feels your lips wet and hot against the place his pulse is racing in his throat, and knows you can feel each whining pant of your name as it falls from his lips. It’s the only word he knows as his stomach flexes, ropes of come spilling inside you. So much that it starts to leak out in a dribbling mess. Gojo is quick to pull you up, struggling to his knees so he can keep his come where it needs to be. He’s still pulsing inside you, achy from the sensitivity as your walls squeeze around him. You start squirming as the high fades, wiggling in his hold and mumbling about “put me down.” 

Gojo hikes one of your legs higher, pressing a kiss to your ankle. “Can’t, mama. Gotta keep it in or it won’t stick.” 

He placates you with another orgasm, thumbing at your clit until you’re whining and shivering. He can feel the dull pulses as it washes over you, clenching his dick as he softens inside you. You’re so warm that it feels like he’s melting but Gojo can’t suffer the thought of pulling out just yet. But he does finally let you down. He follows you as you sprawl across the rumpled bedding, resting his head against your chest. He nuzzles against your breast until you snap at him to quit it when he sneaks a nipple into his mouth. He pulls away with a pout, kissing across your chest because he can still feel the way your heart is hammering behind your ribs. Your skin is hot beneath his lips and tacky with sweat but he can feel the goosebumps starting to rise with each kiss. 

A car honks outside. The sound carries from down the hall where, somewhere in the apartment, a window is still open. A draft blows in through the half-open bedroom door. He’s not cold yet, but he can feel the shivers starting as you cling to him, soaking up the warmth of his body. He lets you pull him in, reveling in the closeness. 

“Puppy,” you mumble affectionately as he nuzzles closer. You press kisses to his eyebrow, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth. Places only you can touch. Even without his Infinity, people act like Gojo’s face–his eyes–are something beyond human. Sometimes he feels like something divine and untouchable but then your lips press softly against his eyelids and he’s suddenly just a man. A desperate, possessive man. He catches your mouth against his, licking at the seam of your lips until they part to let him taste your tongue against his. When he’s done he takes the liberty of licking a bead of sweat from your temple and you push him away, whining about him being gross. 

“S’not gross,” he pouts. “I love you.” He says it like an explanation. Like everything he does can trace back to the fact that he can’t breathe if he goes without touching you for too long. Tasting your sweat is one of the tamer things he’s done to prove his love. Sometimes Gojo wonders if you forget that he’d burn the world down for you. Then he remembers that he’s already doing it. For you, for your baby. For himself. His hand squeezes between your bodies to press against your stomach. Soon, he smiles at the thought. Now. 

“You should eat something, baby.” He hears you talking, hears the concern in that soft, satisfied tone, but you’re stroking his hair like you’d rather he fall asleep against your chest. 

“C’mon,” you say when he doesn’t move, patting where your nails left scratches across his shoulders. “I’ll make you food and then we can go again later.” Gojo chokes on his breath with how fast he’s trying to get his words out. “Calm down, baby, I know it takes more than once to make a baby.” 

Gojo watches you grab his shirt off the floor–the one he just took off, not the one you’d been wearing all day–tucking your nose into the collar as you waddle to the bathroom with your knees hugged tight to keep the mess he made from dripping on the carpet. Fuck, he wants to marry you. The look you give him when you come out of the en-suite, eyeing the way he’s tenting the sheets just thinking about his come spilling out of you does little to make him feel ashamed. He waits long enough for his body to calm down before he’s pulling on a pair of shorts and joining you in the kitchen. You’re bouncing around in front of the stove, making eggs even though it’s late in the evening. Gojo crosses his legs and tries not to imagine that you’re making breakfast before school, waiting for your oldest to finish getting dressed as you bounce your youngest on your hip. 

“You want pancakes?” He must nod because you start making batter. 

“You gotta move in with me,” Gojo reminds you, eyes watching the way your–his!–shirt hikes up every time you lift your arms too high, conspicuously checking for a peek of what’s hidden just beneath the black fabric. 

“My lease is up in like two weeks.” And just like with your teasing not pregnant yet, Gojo knows he has you. For good. Happiness suddenly smells like freshly fallen snow and maple syrup. 

[unholybacon355]

Kinktober Day 15 - Lisa Manoban x M! Reader

Kinktober Masterlist

A/N: Sorry but here it's late and I'm very tired, so probably this is poorly written and gonna feel more rushed than usual. I promise edite it when I have time.

Also. ISTG This was scheduled and it is pure coincidence that today was Lisa's turn.

In fact it was a pretty good club, the best and most expensive you ever had been. Although money isn't a problem to you, this place still feels kinda expensive for what you're used to spending on a regular night, but so far the money has been totally worth it. 

In front of you there is a small circular stage with a pole dance pole in the middle, and color lights pointing directly to the center. The rest of the not so small private room was in complete darkness. You were sitting on a really comfortable chair looking directly at the pole, so the bright light prevented you from seeing the hooded figure that entered the room till they were near the stage.

When the hooded person stepped on the stage you were able to see a black boot high heel boot that covered up to her mid-calf, coming out of the big coat that was hiding they identity. Soon their steep lead them tho be standing between the pole and you, even with the lights you weren’t able to see their face. 

Suddenly music start to play coming from an undetermined point, filling the room with a sweet melody. That was the signal to start the show, so the figure finally took off the hood revealing the facial features of a woman on her late twenties. She was by any standard beautiful, and the make up just enhanced her natural beauty. When she discarded the big coat that was covering the rest of her you saw that her body was beautiful too.

The outfit was simple but it totally served its purpose. It was a two-piece suit that simulated an office outfit. The sleeveless top clung to the woman's curves, hugging her completely, highlighting them and also highlighting her breasts. Pressing them together to create the effect that her bust was more prominent than it really was. The top also showed off her marked abdomen. The shorts on the other hand barely covered from the waist to the beginning of her thighs, and from the front it gave the impression that half of her ass was visible. Fishnet stockings and the aforementioned boots completed the outfit.

After a few seconds of looking directly at you, the woman turned her back, revealing that the shorts did indeed only cover half of her plump buttocks. Raising her arms, she grabbed the pole, and immediately began to spin on the stage until she jumped into the air, using the pole as a pivot point.

The dancer was good at what she did, even you who didn't know much about the subject could see that. She moved gracefully, twisting her muscles to the beat of the music, while she spun non-stop, holding on to the pole. Now the melody had changed to something sexier to accompany the moment.

Her movements were impeccable. Controlled and precise, showing that she was a true professional. But maybe being this good was the only way to work in a club as exclusive as this one. Only the best of the best for the best clients, that was clear. And if you needed any further confirmation, the dancer was currently spinning on the stage with her legs completely open, constantly changing the hand that supported her weight.

After a few minutes of hypnotic dancing, the music changed again and the dancer landed, spinning down from the stage. Only a few meters separated her from you now, and it took her a couple of steps to cover them and stand directly in front of you. Without saying a word, she put her hand on your shoulder and began to sway to the rhythm of the new music. Soon she began to spin around you, getting closer and closer to your body.

Now you could better appreciate her beauty, which was truly stunning, but you could also see from a closer distance how delicious her curves were. It was when she passed in front of you that you were able to see how the tiny shorts hugged the flesh of her buttocks, and how they bounced lustfully with each step. Each sound of heels touching the ground was accompanied by a tremor in her ass and thighs. That drove you crazy while her perfume intoxicated your senses.

Taking you by surprise, the dancer took a few steps away from you and began to unbutton her top, which was soon discarded revealing her perky tits. Her breasts, now free from the embrace of the garment, bounced once before remaining firmly still, only rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing. Two pasties covered her nipples, preventing you from seeing her tits in all their glory.

Then the dance began again. Now she touched her body as she danced in front of you, immersed in the light of the spotlights that had moved to accompany her. She turned and bent down, stretching her ass back, making her buttocks stick out more from her shorts. You wanted to reach out and touch the most perfect ass you had ever seen in your entire life, but you knew that was off limits. It had been made clear to you that you could only watch, the right to touch was above the amount that even someone like you could pay. Still the dancer could put her hands on you if she wanted to.

As if she was reading your thoughts, the girl spread her legs and leaned in ninety degrees, putting her ass as close to you as it had been all night. Grabbing the shorts by the waist she pulled them off in one swift movement, removing them in one go and ripping them in the process. The image that was revealed in front of you made your cock throb, protesting inside your pants for being touched.

A few inches from your face was her round, plump ass, covered only by stockings and a tiny thong that was lost between her buttocks. The garment was large enough to barely cover her anus and vagina from your view, but even so you were able to see the outer edge of her rear entrance. In front of you was a whole meal served and you were not allowed to take a bite.

But the torture didn't end there as now the girl sat on your lap, placing her ass crack directly on your clothed penis. It was obvious that she could feel your tip digging into her flesh despite the clothes, but like a true professional she didn't protest. Instead she began to move her ass rubbing against you, while grabbing her hair and lifting it up revealing her delicate neck to you.

Of course you wanted to kiss her neck, her shoulders, and the delicate but toned muscles of her back. Everything about this woman was perfectly delicious and drove you crazy, even how her tanned skin seemed to shine with pearls under the light of the colored spotlights.

You needed more from her but all you could get was the action of her ass on your crotch. Your cock protested and you struggled not to make any noise even though your state of arousal was evident. You could practically feel your tip pressing against her barely covered anus. Your balls ached and all you could think about was the woman you had dancing on your lap.

The controlled movements of her ass, the way her back pressed against your chest letting you see her tits firmly bounce, her perfume, the little kisses she gave you on the cheek. It all drove you crazy and quickly took its toll on you. Unable to hold back any longer you came in your boxers, staining them with your hot cum as you moaned and panted.

The dancer continued to move her ass in a circular motion over you, until she felt the wetness of your semen against her skin. You had come so much that even your pants were stained. She then stood up and gave herself a hard spanking so that you could see her ass shake for the last time. She then turned around and made the gesture of kissing her fingers, which she then delicately placed on your lips as if she were sharing a kiss with you.

With that, and having fulfilled her task, she simply took her coat and left, leaving you alone in the now dark room. With your pants stained by your own semen, panting without having been touched,  and thinking about how much money would be a reasonable sum to leave her as a tip.

[thecheshireprincess]

Because all of two people said they wanted to read my newest story obsession, here's a sneak peek at my favorite chapter I've written . . .

Let me introduce you to:

The Game Itself

A Chishiya x childhood best friend reader (Niragi's sister!) fic

Content Warning: Mentions of an abusive father, mentions of reader trending toward a panic attack, canon-typical violence, curse words, Niragi is in here and is a menace

A/N: This chapter takes place well into the story, having already introduced many of the main characters and some important plot points. None of my own twists are spoiled by reading this chapter first, and I think it's the best representation for how this story will be 😘 I hope you love it 💕

You lean back with a sigh, relaxing into the plastic beach chair set in front of the glittering pool packed with bodies. The sun is high in the sky, and the citizens of The Beach are happily drinking it in. That's not the only thing they're drinking in, mind you - it's mid-afternoon, and the party is absolutely raging. The music is bumping, the drinks are flowing, and the people are doing what people at The Beach do best - celebrating life. It may seem macabre, to party the days away when you're forced to face deadly games by night, but honestly it feels kind of right when you aren't really sure how much longer you have left to live.

Chishiya sits at your feet, one arm draped lazily over your bare calves and the other holding him upright on the chair. As usual, his face is devoid of any emotion, but you know he is enjoying the opportunity to people watch and get some sun. Even he isn't a vampire, after all.

You spend a few moments studying the people yourself - many splashing around drunkenly in the refreshing pool water and others dancing uninhibited around its edges, everyone looking free as can be. How must it feel to not have to worry about anyone in the Borderlands but yourself? How easy it must be to not have the two most important people in your life stuck here with you, wondering if today is the day they're going to die.

You feel the familiar tight feeling in your chest start to build, and force yourself to shake away those suffocating thoughts - you simply cannot afford to panic here.

You turn your attention instead to playing with the beads adorning the straps of your emerald green crochet bikini. The suit was new, wearing it outside of your room for the first time today. It was special to you - Kuina had found it while she was out for a game last week, saying it had reminded her of your sparkling eyes. The gift made you feel loved, and the suit made you feel sexy.

Rolling the wooden beads between your fingers seemed to help settle your nerves. When your breathing finally returned to normal and the simple anxious task was no longer needed, you sigh loudly, covering your face with your arms and flopping further back into the chair. Bored.

Chishiya smirks, raising an eyebrow. The man very nearly laughs at the dramatic habit that was very you. "Bored already, hm?" He hums, "Coming down here was your idea after all."

"Yes, but I thought there would be more excitement" you whined, flailing your arms widely to accentuate your point. Chishiya sweeps his eyes over your form, looking at you with amusement.

He's about to say something more when he's interrupted by the arrival of two familiar figures - a nervous looking guy with shaggy black hair, and a fit, muscular girl with a cute bob cut. Chishiya squeezes your calf to get your attention, flicking his eyes toward them as they sit down apprehensively on two beach chairs across the pool from you. It was the two newcomers from the most recent executive meeting, and before that, your 5 of Spades game. Arisu and Usagi.

"So they decided to stay after all," you muse, sitting up in interest and folding your legs underneath you. You scoot your body closer to your friend, your thigh brushing against his, as you continue to observe the couple. You briefly wonder what had happened to his blonde friend, and the one they'd been trying to get medical help for. In a place like this, it's probably best not to ask.

The blonde turns his head to study your face, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear as he does, "I can't imagine that it would have gone over well had they declined Hatter's offer." You feel a slight shiver run down your spine at Chishiya's intimate touch. That's new, you note. He had brushed your hair behind your ear like that many times in your life, and only now does it take your breath away. You hum distractedly, still staring at the pair but suddenly feeling very far away from the events taking place around you.

You grin brightly, then, having noticed Kuina skipping over to them. She plops, likely uninvited, down on the chair beside Arisu, her unlit cigarette hanging characteristically in her mouth. There is no doubt in your mind that she was already teasing them about the relationship between them, despite having just introduced herself.

Kuina was confident like that, and you loved that about her. Well, except for when she was teasing you and Chishiya. You blushed slightly just thinking about it, wondering when you had started becoming so flustered about your best friend. You duck your head at these thoughts and pretend to study the sparkly manicure Kuina had given you last night.

You and Chishiya were still just best friends, right?

Within a minute or two, the air had turned from relaxed to tense, and your neck snapped up to find out why. Your discerning eyes land on the militants, of course, you really should have guessed. The hostile and generally power hungry group of The Beach's "personal protection unit" were filing into the party, sure to flash their weapons at anyone looking. The smart people were avoiding their gaze entirely, and the stupid (drunk?) people were openly gawking. You rolled your eyes, how typical.

Leading the charge onto the pool deck was Aguni, looking cold and calculating as usual, with your brother following close behind. Your eyes narrowed, having not seen him for a few days.

"Looks like you're about to get your excitement after all," Chishiya whispered, his breath tickling your ear. You took in a sharp breath in anticipation; the full militant corp was standing at arms looking ready to fight, at the pool. Could this mean the fall of The Beach could be coming sooner than you previously expected? Anxiety swirled heavily in your stomach, fingers subconsciously finding the wooden beads again.

You look to Niragi, the one person who would normally soothe your frayed nerves with just a glance, but feel even worse seeing the wild look in his darkened eyes. Had your relationship truly deteriorated so much in a matter of weeks?

Being all the way on the other side of the pool from them, you're unable to hear Aguni's request, but Niragi was quick to obey. He moved towards Usagi, pulling her roughly up to her feet.

You watch with widened eyes - had Aguni asked for Usagi? What would he even want her for? Nothing good, certainly. Maybe you overestimated his kindness and empathy the day he saved you in the 9 of Hearts game. Or maybe this place really does create monsters out of men - you could certainly see that in the long-haired man across the pool from you, once soft and caring, now swinging a gun around without a care in the world and physically threatening a girl not much older than you. Hell, you see it even in yourself, having been happy enough to let everyone but Chishiya die from the second you landed in this wretched place and started playing.

You're shaken from your reverie when Arisu springs up from his place beside Kuina to help Usagi. You groan in despair, knowing full well that your brother would only be further provoked; Borderlands-version Niragi has an extremely short fuse. Kuina also looks displeased, as though she'd literally just told them not to mess with them, which she probably had.

The people of the party are now definitely watching, but openly pretending not to be. If you didn't feel so anxious at the situation, you'd probably laugh at how nosy and indiscretion drunk people truly are.

You find yourself standing instead, ready to close the distance between your perch and where Niragi has now thrown Arisu to the ground, kicking him repeatedly in the stomach. You felt like throwing up watching the display. Memories flooded your mind of watching your father do the exact same thing to the tall man who was now delivering the blows. It was taking everything in you to not curl up in a ball crying like you always had when the two men in your family were fighting. No, this time you had to put an end to it. This time you would be brave and fight.

"You're going to try to save them, aren't you?" Chishiya mumbles in concern, knowing this scene was likely triggering to you. You knew he wanted you to stay out of it, but you just couldn't help yourself.

"I can't sit back and play victim anymore, Shiya," you whisper. You move swiftly around the pool, before you could lose your nerve or Chishiya could stop you.

"Niragi, please. They're my friends," you plead with the violent man, grabbing onto his forearm as he delivers another crushing blow to Arisu's ribcage. The people of The Beach were now actively watching the scene, fully invested in your family drama. You're unsure of why you called the couple your friends, when you just barely know their names. All you know is that you don't want to watch your brother kill the poor guy, and you definitely don't want to find out what Aguni had planned for Usagi. Or was it that you couldn't stand to see your sweet brother hurt someone the same way he had been hurt so many times in his life?

Niragi ceases his assault on the boy and rips his arm from your grasp. He gives you a full once over in the process, his cold eyes meeting yours for the first time in days. You feel real, raw fear filling your system, something you haven't felt since leaving your father's house for the last time 8 years ago. You'd never felt smaller in your life than you did now, shrinking under Niragi's brutal gaze.

Taking a shaky breath, you muster the shiniest, prettiest puppy dog eyes you can, peering up at Niragi through long eyelashes. "You won't hurt them, right? I'm friends with them."

Niragi continues glaring intimidatingly down at you, in what you realize is disgust. He doesn't address your concerns, but instead has something else to say.

"Put some fucking clothes on, you look like a slut" he spits fiercely, his pierced face now just centimeters from yours. The tight feeling in your chest had returned in full force, threatening to suffocate you.

You stumbled back as if he'd struck you - Niragi had never spoken to you like that. Your stomach dropped, and it took all of your willpower to maintain your composure. You obviously couldn't cry in front of all these Beach idiots, gaping at the two of you like you were the best soap opera in the Borderlands. You turn your head to escape his intense gaze, and put your tongue in your cheek to keep the tears from spilling over. You want soap opera? I'll give you soap opera.

Looking back up at your brother, you cross your arms over your chest. "What are you going to do, make me?" you implore him brattily. Niragi seethed, pierced eyebrow arching, looking like he was seriously considering slapping the attitude right out of you. You stand your ground, the way you should have every other time you've faced a monster like this.

As you and Niragi stare each other down, the initial cause for your dispute long forgotten, Aguni and the others have become distracted by Hatter's arrival. One side demanding peace, and the release of the newest members of the beach; the other begging silently for chaos to ensue. The tense atmosphere surrounding you indicates the balance of power between the two leaders was indeed in jeopardy.

After what feels like hours of strained silence, Aguni ultimately yields to Hatter. The Beach seems to collectively release their held breaths as Aguni and the militant corp flock away to another part of the resort. Usagi quickly tends to Arisu, leading him back into the building to treat his wounds and get to safety. Meanwhile, you have your own struggle for power going on.

Niragi still stands towering above you, obviously not in the mood for your games. He unbuttons his black and white collared shirt, draping it over your shoulders, "Go. Change. Not a request." His fingers wrap tightly around your forearm, aggressively yanking you towards the entrance to the hotel. The force that Niragi had exerted on you nearly sent you careening into the pool still glistening mockingly at your feet, but luckily Chishiya had appeared in just the right position to catch you. Unbeknownst to you, the two exchange a brief look before Niragi skulks off to find Aguni and his other lunatic friends.

The panic within you threatened once more to boil over and your brain simply shuts down - this day had been too fucking much. In your daze, you barely register Chishiya dragging you inside, away from the curious and scrutinizing glances of The Beach citizens. You were embarrassed, confused, and fucking mad.

Just as you passed through the swinging double doors and into the air-conditioned building, Kuina fell in step with you two. She let a reassuring hand fall on your shoulder, squeezing it for comfort. At her kind touch, you feel your carefully crafted resolve finally crumble to the floor. Chishiya knew immediately that you were done for, lifting you easily into his arms and allowing you to ground yourself in him. He carried you protectively the rest of the way to his room as your thoughts thundered around in your head like a wild storm.

You had been lying to yourself your whole life, Niragi had been lying to you your whole life. He promised that your family wasn't broken, that you weren't broken. You guessed it was too much to ask for you to remain untouched by your father's special brand of cruelty. That one day, you'd likely both become just like him.

And now Niragi had. He called you a slut, degrading an outfit that had made you feel beautiful. He embarrassed you in front of an audience. He grabbed you so hard you could see his fingerprints etched in your skin. He was just like him and this time you knew you wouldn't escape.

It was then that you knew - this game that you were playing was much more dangerous than you had initially realized.

♤ ♡ ◇ ♧

OKAY so I got a little carried away 😅 Yes this was supposed to be a sneak peek, but believe it or not it's not even the entire chapter 🤭

Who's ready for the whole story?

Chapter One

The Game Itself Masterlist

[lilac-5ky]

TOJI AND VIRGIN READER!

The Favor (officeAU!Toji x virgin!Fem!Reader)

Plot: The first day you met Toji, he told you everything on his CV was a lie. Three years later, he's your beloved work husband, the one you go to when you decide it's time to lose your virginity.

Tags: Office!AU, loss of virginity, fingering, oral sex (f.receiving), agee gap (reader mid 20s, toji mid 30s), soft!dom toji, dirty talking, praising, pet names (sweetheart, darling, kid, wife, whore, slut, etc), aftercare, toji catches feelings after fucking you, daddy vibes without the word, friends to lovers dynamic, size kink, lube handjob, MDNI obviously.

A/N: Combined your idea with my intense need to write an office!au. Hopefully this turned out to your liking and you forgive me for writing this much filth LMAO

Masterlist | AO3 | Requests

For promotion, for demotion, for raises and for cuts, in overtime and in bureaucracy, until layoff do us part.

In the insufferable reality of Japanese corporate life, a work spouse exists to shoulder the burden of overdue deadlines and never-ending stacks of paperwork. A husband who, in spite of not being bound to you through marriage, has vowed to stick by your side until either one of you breaks free from the shackles of human resources; your work husband.

You met each other on your first day at the company, both of you passing interviews for the same lowly position of staffing coordinator.

Your first impression of candidate number 9 was that his suit wasn’t really his but was likely borrowed from someone whose bicep wasn’t the size of their thigh and calf combined. Your second impression was whispered to your ear as the dark haired man rose from his chair and paraded down the interview room, nonchalantly letting slip that his bachelor’s degree along with every bit of qualification on his CV had been faked.

Whether that was a declaration of war or a testament to his unparalleled confidence, you wouldn’t know until a week later when you were assigned to the same miserable office corner, sharing a desk, a title, and a secret whose value skyrocketed once you became acquainted with your work place’s imposing policies.

One word would get both him and his knowing smile fired, but the moment you shook hands with Fushiguro Toji and promised to get along, you signed yourself up for a long-lasting partnership.

Over the three years you worked together, each grew out of their initial post. Your all-nighters paid off and you got promoted to an HR assistant, meaning you didn’t have to memorize everyone’s coffee order any longer, while Toji flourished as the department’s eye candy.

He’d ceased pretending that his broad shoulders could be boxed in second-hand suit jackets, and instead opted for rolled-up button-ups with the occasional monochromatic tie—a fit that put his sculpted physique into full view and threw the entire female populace out of balance.

He was an objectively good-looking man who bordered on great. The type to be conscious of their effect on others, cutting corners with suggestive glances and smiling his way out of otherwise unforgivable report oversights. Every woman in the office was openly in love with him. Even your supervisor referred to him as the team’s ace and discreetly unbuttoned her cleavage in his presence.

You realized then, they’d sooner let go of you and your hard-earned master’s, than part with the department’s mascot.

Despite the differences in skill and appearance, your sense of kinship survived the passage of time. Perhaps you’d subconsciously fallen victim to his charms, but whenever you saw his thin brows furrow and his right foot threaten the unresponsive copy machine with a killing blow, you couldn’t look away. This is a favor; you’d remind him at every formal email and resume assessment you helped put together.

And favors are repaid.

While Toji couldn’t assist with payroll processing, he always had the scoop on who cheated on their spouse with whom and whose bra was filled with padding—which you didn’t find all that interesting, but turned into a fun game of guess the cheater during dull 9 a.m. meetings.

On mornings when the alarm was hurled at your bedroom wall, he made excuses for your absence, and on work dinners, he saved you a seat away from all the grabby drunks.

Toji was far from a good person. His mere presence in a company you’d broken your back to get into was a mockery of your efforts. He led others on and got into muffled shutouts over his phone behind the water fountain, where he thought no one was listening in.

That’s how you found out about his eight-year-old kid and the custody battle with his allegedly “psychotic” ex-wife. He didn’t know you knew because you never told him. Everyone had skeletons in their closet, and it wasn’t your job to sort his out. As far as your work marriage was concerned, he was a good husband who diligently fulfilled his marital duties—all except one, which you feared the pretext of a favor wouldn’t begin to cover.

“Here’s your poison,” you slid the scalding coffee cup in his direction, mindful of the papers on his desk. “Black Americano with four shots of espresso and no sugar to compliment your wretched dark soul.”

Toji raised an open palm in your face, motioning for you to wait until he was done punching words on the keyboard and pressed save file. Your eyes were drawn to his fingers, threaded with faded scars that followed the expanse of veins down his wrists, dipping deep below the white cotton of his shirt. Another unsolved mystery you hadn’t gotten to the bottom of.

He brought the cup to his equally scarred lips, defying the steam spirals with a long-drawn sip. “Unnecessary intro, but thanks.” He gave a lazy smile. “Aren’t ya a sweetheart?”

You dropped your beverage on your side of the desk and swiveled your chair nearer. “Think you could do said sweetheart a favor?

“A favor, huh?” His breath was laced with caffeine. “Depends. If you’re asking for a buck, ‘fraid I’m all dried up till the end of the month.”

So he isn’t planning on paying for his order.

“I make more than you.”

“Doesn’t mean ya can’t find yourself in a pickle.”

You shook your head, stealing a sip of liquid courage from your mocha. How did people ask those things again?

Your contemplation lasted long enough for him to turn his head back to work, filling his home screen with enough tabs to distract you from his unfinished round of solitaire.

“What are you doing after work?” Your voice cracked into shards of uncertainty.

“Nice try.”He sneered. “You dug your own grave taking on the grievance procedures from the union. Climb out on your own.”

“Not everyone offloads their work load on others, Toji.” You rolled your eyes, scooting even closer to make sure only he’d be the recipient of your next words.

He sensed something was off because he wasn’t pretending to input random lines into the search bar anymore, and while he studied you, you studied him back. You had your doubts about this, and you weren’t sure he was your type either. You liked your men responsible and mature—like Nanami from sales, who would’ve been your first choice if your legs didn’t turn into jelly the minute you saw him.

Toji was the safe option. You talked to him. You joked with him. You were used to him, and more importantly, you trusted him. All the lack of qualifications in his job, he made up for with his experience in that other field you were a stranger to.

“Hey, kid.” His voice mellowed down with a beat of concern, a heavy hand landing on your shoulder. “If you’ve gotten yourself into trouble, I—”

“Please have sex with me.”

“Make yourself at home.” He nudged your back into the apartment, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were following even after he’d pulled away.

Moving forward felt hard—as if you’d forgotten how to. You weren’t sure whether to wipe your shoes on the mat or stash them in the corner. You didn’t know which foot to put forth and what set of slippers to pick. Every decision suddenly mattered a lot more than it should.

You’d never been to Toji’s house before, and up until a few hours ago, you couldn’t fathom standing at his doorstep either. You weren’t that close so as to meet outside work hours, but you were about to get a lot more up close and personal.

The way he accepted your request with a mere, almost offensive, okay still boggled your brain. You’d considered every question he could possibly ask, painstakingly compiling your list of answers like a witness called to the stand, only for him to not speak a word of it—not even when it was just you and him and the solitude that came from enjoying lunch a hundred stories above Tokyo’s bustling streets.

He seemed to have forgotten all about your plans, up until he pulled over at the bus stop where you were waiting and stuffed you in the front seat of his car.

“You coming?”

Kicking your heels off your feet, you skipped straight through the hallway, your head turning left and right as if you were at an art gallery. You didn’t know what to expect, but a high-end apartment in the heart of Minato wasn’t it. Neither your income nor his justified an inox steel kitchen with mahogany wood flooring—let alone a direct view of the illuminated Tokyo Tower.

You were so bedazzled by the city skyline that you nearly missed the hastily buried socks peeking beneath the kotatsu, along with the cobwebs his untouched bookshelf flaunted. Much like his suit, his apartment was handed to him by someone whose love for both their books and spouse had run out.

“Whaddya think?”

Toji stalked behind you, his reflection in the glass becoming more defined with every step he took. He was holding something in each hand—two glasses whose orange liquid sparkled in place of the stars.

You turned around slowly, accepting your share with a small smile on your face.

“Your ex-wife has good taste.”

He blinked, taken aback for a split second. He wondered what gave it out—the pink slippers or the flipped-down picture frames you’d yet to notice—and somewhere down the line, he got the wrong idea, beaming with an unwarranted “Thanks.”

“I meant the house, not you.” Although you couldn’t blame him for his inflated ego when every female practically dropped their panties at his feet. Especially not when you were there to do the same.

Your teeth clicked sharply against the glass as you tilted your head and sipped on what tasted too sweet to be whiskey. Apple Juice?

“That’s not alcohol.” You stated.

“Ever thought of becoming a detective?” Toji padded toward the leather couch, spreading his thighs across the two middle cushions.

“Ever thought of becoming a comedian?” You retorted, squeezing in to his left. The furniture would’ve been big enough to fit you both, had he been considerate. “So what’s the joke? Too young to be drinking, or hard liquor ain’t for pretty girls like me?”

“Nah.” His head dropped on his shoulder, both propped against the headrest. “Need you sober for what’s about to happen.”

You mirrored his stance, your knees touching as you folded them on the smooth leather. “And what’s about to happen?”

“I think we both know, or else ya wouldn’t have followed me here.” He wet his bottom lip, pretty green eyes clouding dark.

A certain dryness gnawed at your throat, the pink color of his tongue appealing to you more than it should. You weren’t interested in Toji, but the strands of black that fell over his forehead painted a cuter image than you were used to seeing at the office. You wondered what he’d look like with his hair pushed back, all slick from beads of sweat rolling down his temples. And when you realized you couldn’t pin any of those thoughts on the alcohol, you took another sip, hurriedly averting your gaze.

“How many have? Women from work, I mean.”

You were surprised to hear him state “None,” and even more surprised that he claimed not to mix business with pleasure. You could think of at least three coworkers you suspected he fooled around with. At least so they bragged in the ladies’ room.

“So why bring me home?”

“‘Cause you asked.” Toji said gruffly.

“You fuck every woman who asks you to?”

“Only the cute ones.”

Your cheeks flushed red as you reminded yourself to take his words with a grain of salt. He wasn’t interested in you any more than you were in him. This was simply platonic—almost transactional. He’d do what you asked, and then you’d pay him back with another, mundane favor like sorting mail in his stead.

You finished your drink, your eyes licking up the remaining drops at the bottom of the glass. “This line works?”

Toji shrugged. It probably did. He probably didn’t even have to open his mouth for it to work. While the moment you opened yours—

“Want more?” He motioned to your glass. You nodded, extending your arm, only for his expression to turn sour. “I’m not your fucking maid. Bottle’s on the counter.”

You sighed, getting up so he wouldn’t see your eyes roll at his comment as he shoved his glass in your face. Who’s the maid now?

Aimlessly, you strolled into the kitchen, taking longer than necessary to fill both your glasses. You didn’t mean to start snooping around, but you couldn’t help yourself from seeking a sign of his presence in his picture-perfect apartment. Houses typically reveal something about their residents, and while the display of crystal glasses spoke plenty of his ex-wife, there was no evidence of Toji’s personality.

You weren’t interested in him—just curious. That’s what you kept telling yourself as you picked up a frame stowed away behind an empty cookie jar.

Four smiles greeted you, the brightest belonging to a young girl with elongated bangs, holding a boy who strove to copy his sister’s expression. Their parents stood behind them, a beautiful woman with long brown hair tucked in a ponytail blissfully leaning against the shoulder of a Toji that seemed less happy the longer you processed his strained features.

“She left.” The proximity of his voice startled you. The frame danced between your fingers until he snatched it, his jutted-out chin betraying his annoyance. “Took the kids, left the house and me behind. Ain’t that what ya wanted to hear?”

You shook your head, about to drop to your knees and beg for forgiveness on his parquet. However, the hostility that rose faded as soon as he threw the picture in the first open drawer and returned to the living room, leaving you to fetch your drinks. Then you remembered the phone calls. They weren’t on good terms.

“Having kids isn’t bad. Nor being divorced.” You handed him the glass, assuming your previous position on the couch. “Doesn’t ruin your cool guy image whatsoever.”

“Who said I care about that?” Toji snorted.

“Then you wouldn’t care if anything slipped in front of your fan club?”

“Mind your own fucking business.” He hissed. You chuckled. Sharing a couch wasn’t that much different from sharing a desk, and sharing two secrets was the same as sharing one.

“What are your kids’ names?”

“Kid,” he corrected. “Megumi.”

By the name, you assumed it was the girl. You were wrong. You tried to ask something about his son’s mother, but somehow you couldn’t find one right thing to say, since the woman in the photo wasn’t the boy’s biological mom either. You were lost. The more cryptic answers he gave, the more unanswered questions you ended up with.

Your plan took a backseat while Toji trod the sensitive topic of his divorce to that “bitch,” who’d taken his kid from him out of spite. The custody battle was tipped in her favor, courtesy of a legal system that’d rather see a child separated from its biological parent in the face of cold cash.

Megumi only visited every second weekend of the month, which explained his father’s eagerness to leave early on certain Fridays and come late on the following Mondays. He didn’t need to say this, but you understood his reasons for cheating his way into the company. A proper job looked good in court, and whatever earned him those scars was far from proper.

Both your hands emptied as you finished your second round of drinks. Your head would be buzzing if there was alcohol involved, but you didn’t miss it. Toji was hard to engage, and talking to him felt like running into one brick wall after another. However, working out of those dead-ends was preferable to clinking glasses with some guy who wouldn’t quit boasting about his Ivy League diploma or his burning passion for vocaloid singers—both cases reflecting the sad reality of blind dating in your twenties.

“So.” Toji drawled, a burly arm stretching behind your head. “Why you want me to fuck you? Can’t find good dick in the market?”

Your mind went blank in an instant, every excuse and curated version of the story vanishing when you needed them the most.

“I—um,” you cleared your throat, while your eyes scanned over his body.

There was a lot to take in: the fine lines of his pecs, highlighted under the taut white fabric; the black tie hanging loose around his unbuttoned collar; the hem of his shirt that dangled out of his fitted pants, exposing the tiniest window to the happy trail on his lower abdomen; his slim waist and his thick thighs; the curve of his bum; and the light touch of his fingers closing around your shoulder. You traced the same route of landmarks, finding yourself returning to his achingly handsome face and the playful curiosity in his eyes that had you shifting in your place.

All the reasons for someone to want to be fucked by this fine specimen of a man were right there, and you picked the most inclusive one. “Because you’re hot.”

The ends of his scar drew apart as Toji smiled a wolfish smile. He inched closer, your back hitting the armrest when his right hand caged your body between his arms and the couch.

“Bullshit.” A tickle from where his nose brushed against yours, and a thud from where your heart dropped inside your chest. “You think I wouldn’t know if ya had the hots for me, kid?”

“N-not everyone throws themselves at others.” You tried to reason.

“Maybe. But attraction comes with signs.” The side of his hand grazed the corner of your eyelid. “Batting your pretty lashes,” he trailed off, rough knuckles softly tracing the apple of your cheek. “Blushing your cheeks red.” The pad of his thumb swiped down your cupid’s bow. “Biting your lip raw.” He continued with his eyes, glancing at the skirt that lay high above your knees suggestively. “Pressing those plushy thighs together.”

“You do none ‘f those things.” Toji accused. “So why the sudden itch? Indulge me, and I’ll pound that pussy till ya scream.”

The promise of his words forced a gulp down your throat as your thighs involuntarily rubbed together. You started to reconsider. You didn’t want to fuck him just because any man would do. You wanted to fuck him because it was him and because every patch of skin he made contact with begged to be touched again.

“I’m a virgin.” You admitted, voice low, and stare even lower—utterly defeated as he flinched away in surprise.

You wondered what he’d say. A virgin at your age? was the most common response, followed by Is something wrong with you? and typically concluded with You sure you’re not a lesbian?

Everyone preaches how precious innocence is, but no one wants the pressure of taking it. What men really want is a woman who is both a saint and a slut—a woman who can suck their dick ten inches deeper than they can provide while simultaneously shying away from every insinuation of sex.

The problem is with the poor souls who belong in either category without adhering to the other, because squeezing your legs shut is just as faulty as spreading them open for the public.

Seeing as Toji remained silent, you realized you wouldn’t get an answer, and maybe it was for the best. You didn’t want to put a strain on your work relationship. It’d take a while to look him in the eye again, but in a month or two, you’d laugh about the incident over a cup of soggy store-bought noodles like nothing happened.

“Sorry for bothering you.” You mumbled as you picked up your last vestige of dignity and stood on your feet, only to be anchored by a set of fingers that tightly gripped your wrist.

“Sit.” His unfaltering gaze confirmed the sincerity of his command.

You thought about breaking free and dashing to the door. You thought about how much it’d actually hurt to let him ridicule you, and the tears started to build up on their own. And when you didn’t do as you were told, he towered over you with a palm that was eager to cup your cheek, tilting your face in position for him to print a rough kiss on your parted lips.

“I said fucking sit.” Toji repeated, while you contemplated how someone who spews words so harshly could have such soft lips.

Sheepishly, you fell back onto the couch, expecting him to follow suit and not kneel on the floor like he did. “What’s the story?” He asked, large hands taking hold of your knees and slowly rubbing them apart.

“What makes you think there’s a story?” You prayed that he couldn’t feel your heartbeat bounce across your body as if it were an empty vessel.

“With you, there always is.” He licked his lips as his eyes settled between your thighs, darkening with lust the second they were met with the damp patch in the middle of your pink lace knickers. “Wanna hear all about it while I feast on your little hole.”

“You’re not gonna fuck—”

“First things first, sweetheart. Gotta make sure y’are all prepped before I stuff you with my cock.” Toji smiled, pushing your skirt until it rolled over your stomach. “If ya gonna scream my ears off, better be from pleasure, mm?”

You nodded, watching as his slender fingers slid your underwear off and temporarily—you hoped—shoved it in his back pocket. You saw him marvel at the sight of your exposed cunt and wished you could peer into his brain to hear him curse himself for not coming up with this idea first.

You looked so pretty down there, your puffy clit safely tucked behind its hood while your lips shimmered with your wetness—the scent so intoxicating his pants tightened into a size too small.

He was already considering his next favor. Now that the door was open, he’d make sure it never closed again. Bending you over the copy machine was the front-runner. Getting a print of your tits squeezed against the scanner while he blows your back, his palm muffling out the pathetic sounds you let slip—he’d be lying if that wasn’t what he fantasized about whenever you refilled the ink cartridges for him.

“Ya ever touch yourself here?”

His thumb swiped over your clit, drawing an incomplete circle that ended with light flicks around the sensitive nub. Left and right. Up and down. Searching for the combination that’d have your body answer in place of your mouth, and when your hips bucked forward, he knew exactly where to press.

“Y-yes!” You whined, more as a reaction than an answer to his question.

“And ya ever push a finger in?” He continued, teasingly dragging his thumb between your lips.

“Just one. Rest hurt.”

“Mhm, bet they do.” He hummed as he tasted you on his finger, exaggerating the suck with a soft pop. “Ever had a guy kiss ya there before?”

Toji gave his own answer as he buried his head in your pussy, the sticky mix of his saliva and your juices trickling down your entrance while he made out with your clit. You struggled to keep your thighs apart, the raspy grunts at the back of his throat vibrating against your mound in joint symphony with your breathy moans. His tongue felt so good soaking on your slick that you felt yourself melting into a pool of pleasure.

“Get talkin’ or I’ll stop.” He warned, slowing down with broad, near-maddening, strokes that occasionally dipped between your folds.

“I wanted to w-wait,” you panted. “Wanted to fall in love first, but then I waited too long, and—ngh, fuck, right there!” Toji pinched your folds apart, his stare lecherous as he sucked the puffy pearl into his warm mouth.

Your body jerked in response, the leather squeaking hard beneath your bared ass. You weren’t sure at what point interest surpassed curiosity, but the signs were all there, manifesting as heat in your cheeks and blood that threatened to drop from your chewed-up lip.

His jade eyes narrowed into a shrewd reminder. Putting your thoughts in order was impossible, but if you stopped, so would he.

“Everyone ‘round me started d-doing it, and I was the only one l-left.” You tried to regulate your breathing through your nose, your throat turning hoarse from all the strain. “Went on a bunch of blind dates, but the guys were t-turned off, and—how the fuck are you so good at this?”

Toji chuckled, the pink tip of his tongue parting your lips in a languid motion that made you shudder. “Let’s just say my marriage didn’t fall apart ‘cause of this.”

He mounted your knees atop his shoulders and neared your entrance, with his middle and ring fingers ghosting over the softness of your pulsing slit. “Gonna use my fingers now. Be a good girl and cum on them, will ya?”

The first digit pushed forward, much thicker than any of your fingers. You felt so full already—nails digging into the cushions, while he thrust in and out of your walls, curling the lone pad to find a spot so sweet it elicited a moan of equal sweetness.

“Ya did well to come to me.” He continued, his raspy voice effortlessly sexy. “Kids these days don’t know shit ‘bout pleasing a woman.”

The veins on his wrist flexed along with his scars as his ring finger joined in the action to defy your previous claim. There was no pain. Only immense waves of pleasure leaking through your squinted eyes as hot tears beaded your eyelashes.

“Doin’ so good for me, darlin’.” He praised, repeatedly hitting the swollen bundle of nerves inside your throbbing cunt, bringing you closer to the edge with each thorough pump.

“Maybe I was wrong, hm? Maybe that’s what ya wanted all along. I know I did. Fucking wanted my hands on this pussy since I first saw ya fidget with your little skirt at that interview.”

“Toji—”

He dived between your legs again, his hand maintaining the same erratic pace even while his tongue hungrily lapped at your clit. Your head lolled back, the tension in your guts rapidly building up until you came undone, your pussy clenching and creaming around his calloused fingers.

You’d never finished so hard on your own, the tremors of your orgasm ringing in your ears and jogging your memory.

Your first impression on that day was sadness, right? Sadness over the wedding band the handsome stranger hid in his pocket right before entering the building, thinking no one else caught sight of it, and embarrassment about how your impure thoughts for a married man followed you into the shower every night after work.

“Atta girl.” A present-day and very-much divorced Toji licked his lips into a smile. “Their fucking loss.”

His knee pressed into the gap between your thighs as he stood on his feet and prompted you to open your lips. You took his fingers in your mouth, licking your cum off while your chest heaved with one labored breath after the other.

“See how good ya taste?” Toji cooed, rhythmically fucking his fingers on your tongue before removing them. “Sweeter than honey.”

“Thought you didn’t like sweet things.” His coffee order came in mind.

“How ‘bout we make an exception?”

You weren’t sure what got into you when you grabbed him by the tie and pulled him forward, kissing him with such vigor you’d never experienced. You always thought of losing your virginity as checking an item off your bucket list. You didn’t imagine you could ever lust after someone the way you currently lusted after Toji, your desire escalating into an all-consuming need.

His tongue moved as skillfully in your mouth as it did when it explored your pussy, dancing with your own rather than overpowering it. You liked kissing him. You liked kissing him so much that you wanted to incorporate it into your morning hellos and your evening goodbyes, dragging yourselves into an endless loop of returned favors.

Without breaking the kiss, Toji hoisted you up from the couch and held you in his arms, his palms finding the perfect excuse to grab onto your ass while he carried you across rooms you didn’t care enough to see. A door creaked behind your back, and soon you were tossed onto a large body of endless softness—a bed, you realized as Toji hastily shoved a couple of pillows behind your head.

“Ever heard of that stupid nickname that goes ‘round work?” He whispered in your ear while his fingers worked on undoing your blouse. “How they call ya my work wife?” His palms slid around your ribs and back to unhook your bra. “Guess this makes it our wedding night, heh.”

You rolled your eyes, holding back a chuckle. “Don’t you feel any shame calling me your wife when you’re about to fuck me on your ex-wife’s bed?”

“My bed now, and what I say fucking goes.” He stripped your body from every garment, salaciously gawking at your nude figure on his (her) satin sheets.

You didn’t feel too bad about showing your body, but his stare was almost intrusive—especially with how he hadn’t lost a single article of clothing himself.

“Such a gorgeous body, wife.” He dragged out the final syllables, hoping to elicit a reaction separate from the soft pants you let out as he caressed your soft curves—both much softer than the bedding you were splayed across, liquid velvet in his hands. “Such a good little wife, saving herself for her husband to deflower.”

“Why thank you, husband.” You chortled, cupping his face in a deep kiss.

You knew Toji was the right choice. Not because touching him felt like winning the lottery or because he knew exactly what he was doing, but because he could’ve made this situation a lot more awkward and didn’t. He made your first time feel special, granting your wish of doing it with someone you loved, even if it was all an illusion that’d fade come tomorrow morning.

You almost thanked him as he began to unbutton his shirt, the display of corded muscles and pale scars breaking the dam between your legs. Whatever your type might’ve once been, was no more. It was all Toji, with his clenched fists lifting the weight of his brawny, veiny arms, his shoulders so wide you could ride on them, and the self-complacent smirk your stupefied expression brought to his lips.

“This ain’t an exhibit, sweetheart.” He mocked. “You can touch all ya want.”

He didn’t need to say it twice for your palms to roam his body, starting from his neck and slowly gliding down his torso, feeling out the tension in his steeled abdomen. His skin was smooth, except for the few unruly hairs leading down to the bulge in his crotch, whose sight alone made you lick your lips and buck your hips into his. You wanted to see the rest of him.

“You are the hottest divorcee I know.” You smiled earnestly.

“Ya know lots of ‘em?” Toji cocked his head while you shook yours with a giggle. “Don’t be so flattering.”

“I do have a great-aunt…”

“Oh, please.” He groaned, allowing you to laugh it out. He didn’t like how his bottom lip twitched as he struggled to contain a chuckle of his own. He’d long sworn off girls that made his heart skip a beat.

“Think y’are ready?” You nodded. Repeatedly.

Digging his knees into the bed, he stretched an arm toward the nightstand, fishing for a bottle in one of the drawers. Lube, you realized as he settled it beside you to remove his pants, flinging them along with his boxers to the other side of the room.

Your eyes widened at the sight of his cock, an expression that didn’t look too good considering fear was about the last emotion you should be experiencing.

He was packing in every sense of the word. Long, thick, and definitely heavy as it hung above his hefty balls, the reddened tip pointing at your entrance. It wasn’t like you’d never seen a cock before. Porn existed, and so did perverts in trench coats, but comparing either one to him was both disrespectful and a huge understatement.

“Don’t go cold on me now, mm? It will fit.” He read your mind, taking your hand in his and slotting the bottle in your fist. “Prepped you so good for it. You’ll see; you’ll like this more than my fingers.”

“Promise.” He added, squeezing your hand reassuringly. You chose to trust him, and when he brought your other hand to his shaft, you knew what he was asking you to do.

The bottle spurted a thick glob of liquid that your palm smeared all over his cock head. Toji watched with bated breath as you stroked his length, each thorough pump of your delicate hands warming him up.

He deserved a pat on the back for not cumming right then and there—the distinction between the clear lubricant and his creamy precum becoming more prominent while he throbbed and twitched in your tight grasp. He thought about how much tighter your walls would be, milking every drop he had to offer while you writhed beneath him, with little ah-ah-ah’s and Toji please’s complimenting the squelching of your tight virgin cunt.

“That’s enough.”

He pulled your hand away and cracked the bottle open once more, rubbing a small quantity between his fingers and then scissoring them in your walls. You clung onto him, your hips chasing after his touch. Cute.

“Eyes on me, darlin’.” Toji leaned close enough so that your field of view was consumed by his face. “Keep your eyes on me, breath in ‘n’ out, and it won’t hurt one bit. I’ll take good care of ya.”

Your legs were parted as he ran his cock between your folds and pressed down firmly, his hand moving to your hip once he guided the first inches inside.

Toji was the first to react as he sank in deeper, about two-thirds in when he felt your pussy snare around him like a vice, the warmth of your walls making him curse under his breath. His last fuck was less than a weekend ago, and yet he felt like one of those loser kids he scorned earlier. He’d forgotten just how good being inside a virgin was—a one-and-done deal that would cease to amaze him after he fucked you into his shape.

“All good?” He remembered to ask, taking your strained yes at face value.

Small creases formed over your forehead, contorting your expression into a pained wince the further he sheathed himself into your wet cavern—and when his words weren’t enough, his lips took over. He kissed your worries away and cradled your breasts in his palms, doing everything in his power to keep the pain to a minimum as his hips met with your pelvis, bone against bone and skin against skin, until he finally bottomed out.

A whimper cut your kiss short, and for a second he feared tears would stream from your glassy eyes, not considering the possibility of your shaky legs wrapping around his back and your swollen, pretty lips calling out his name with a stuttered moan.

“F-fuck me, Toji. Please—fuck, I need you so badly.” You begged, dropping the pretense of composure.

“Yeah? Want me to fuck your little virgin pussy?”

“Y-yes, Toji, yes!”

“Yes, what, doll?” He teased. “Say it.”

“Please be my first, Toji.”

His grin turned feral in a heartbeat, your words stirring something in him that he could not explain.

He was prepared to spend the entire night fucking you at a snail’s pace, buttering you up with praises, and pampering you as if you were a golden egg goose, but now he didn’t have to. He could fuck you exactly how he pleased—fold your knees onto your stomach and hold down onto your thighs, pussy all exposed to where he could watch his cock pound into your hole and hear each and every strike of his balls against the fat of your ass—and you would take it.

But when he looked down and saw the ring of red that’d formed around his shaft, he had a change of heart. Maybe another time.

Planting his fingers on your hips, he withdrew slightly, purposely aligning his tip with the roof of your cunt. He didn’t have to go hard to make you happy. All he had to do was hit that one spot, and you’d be coming back for more. Having a steady thing wouldn’t hurt either. It was convenient—certainly better than burning gas driving across town just to pick up some random slut he’d tire of five minutes into her over-the-top screams. At least you lived close by.

With lavish strokes, he rolled his hips against your own, dipping forward to grind his pubic bone against your mound. It didn’t take long for the stimulation to get overwhelming, your hair falling from your strict work up-do all over your sweaty forehead while you thrashed around the sheets, huffs escalating into whiny moans.

“Sh-shit, gonna cum, Toji.” You managed, though there was no real need to tell him.

Your body responded perfectly to his, wetness gushing over his cock while your walls tightened impossibly around him. He fucked you through your high, wrapping his arms below your shoulders and muting your blissful sobs to chase after his own release. Your breasts were squeezed against his pecs, pebbled nipples making him regret not giving them the proper attention.

This wouldn’t be the last time. Your body was like a playground to him, and he sure as hell wasn’t done playing.

“My fucking work wife.” Toji grunted possessively in your ear, nipping at the lobe. Only his lower half moved, a constant snap of hips bouncing through the room as the second lewdest sound after the ones you traded. “Wanna send your ass crawling to work on all fours. That’ll show them, mm? Show them who fucked you so good. What a—fuck, what a good slut y’are f’me. From a virgin to my whore—hah, make ‘em all so jealous.

“Shhhhit, ya like that?” He interpreted your clenching as he willed. “Wanna start a rumor? Fuck on every desk, in every stall, and have everyone know?”

“Yes, Toji! Yesyesyes, want everyone to know you f-fucked me.”

You went back and forth between panting out his name and chanting yes, as those were the only two words you could mindlessly repeat. He wasn’t joking about making you scream. You were on the verge of passing out, so engrossed in ecstasy that you’d lost track of how many times you’d climaxed.

“‘s too much, T-Toji!” You begged, burying your head in the curve of his neck and breathing in his musk. You were both so sweaty, glued together like two puzzle pieces.

“One more, sweetheart. ‘m so close—wanna feel ya cum with me.”

He toyed with your clit until he started to fall out of pace, drawing his cock out before it was caught in the spasms of your pussy. A hefty load burst in his fist as he jerked himself off to your fucked-out form, hot drops of cum spraying your stomach like creamy droplets of rain.

Neither of you realized how soaked the sheets were until Toji left the bed, his eyes not faking their surprise. You didn’t seem to be in that much pain, and yet the amount of blood and wetness was at least equal to carnage.

Would it be a dick move to task you with his laundry?

He spared you a glance, not bothering to hide his smugness. Your legs were still trembling, your breasts puffing up in your struggle to breathe through your agape lips. He was tempted to tell you off—something cheesy like, “Want somethin’ in your mouth that badly?”

“Hey, kid. You are not dead—are you?” He asked jokingly, laughing through his nose as you found the strength to flip him off. Now that the effects of your orgasm were wearing off, so was your obedience.

“How’d ya like your first time?” A thumbs-up this time. “A’right. C’mere.”

The longer he let the stain settle, the more of a bitch it’d be to remove it. That’s what Toji told himself as he picked you up in his arms and carried you into the bathroom, returning to the bedroom only to roll the sheets into a ball he’d later discard in the washing machine. He wasn’t avoiding looking at your cute face, and he definitely didn’t think of your weakened infant-like state as cute when he scrubbed your thighs clean with a wet towel either.

A weird image sparked in his memory, one from the many nights you’d spent working side by side at a dimly lit office. He remembered you ordering him takeout and looming over his head like a vulture while he went neck-to-neck with the vicious spreadsheet program. You insisted on tutoring him, claiming your dressy outfit was a result of canceled plans—even though you kept stealing glances at the clock—and staying with him until the wee hours when you didn’t have to.

You really were a sweetheart, an angel, and all the other terms of endearment he used on you knowing they made your lips stretch and your eyes sparkle. But that wasn’t for you to know.

“Toji?” Your voice jolted him out of his reverie—frail, but not as frail as the hands that wrapped around his own to snatch the towel.

What could he say to make you leave without any harsh feelings coming back to bite him in the ass?

He pondered his options while you bent forward from where he’d seated you on the counter by the sink. You held his limp dick in your palm, gently wiping the dried blood and cum that clung to his girth.

It was sickening how quickly he stiffened, all ready to ram it in your pussy and fuck you with the mirrored view of your ass in the backdrop, but what truly made his guts churn was the little cheeky smile you beamed with. He stood by his words. Virgins were the biggest sluts.

The towel dropped to the floor as you pointed his cock at your entrance, and that was all the convincing he needed.

“Fine.” Toji sighed, pinning your wrists on the cold quartz counter top. “You can stay the night, but mention work and I’m kicking ya out.”

This is definitely not how you say it.

You made it to the office the next day after a brief raid on your apartment. Going to work in your previous day’s clothes screamed, “Look at me! I got laid!” And as fun as creating all those fantasies with Toji was, you could do without earning “Hated Employee of the Month.” Everyone hated you for being friends with him as is.

He waited until you’d changed into a presentable outfit and dropped you off a block further away for precaution. You shared your final kiss in the car, wasting a whole fifteen minutes sucking each other’s faces off like teenagers at a drive-in. Dating a colleague was against the rules, and you didn’t want to date Toji either. Not that he’d asked. Not that you expected him to ask.

Losing your virginity was a lot more complicated than you thought.

He counted on you to bring coffee, and you would have if an intense craving for spicy tuna onigiri didn’t win you over. The convenience store was right around the corner, and its coffee was honestly not that bad if you squinted your eyes and fooled your senses a bit.

You grabbed two onigiri from the stand—in case Toji felt like stealing yours—along with an apple juicebox, both as a means of thanking and poking fun at him. You paid for the items and walked to the office, nauseated by the butterflies that swarmed in your stomach. You should’ve really eaten something instead of having your final hookup at the breakfast table.

A few people greeted you in and out of the elevator to the forty-seventh floor, some commenting on your looking less gloomy than usual, but that was about it. The world spun the same way it did even before you had sex. No big change or mind-blowing epiphany; just a euphoric feeling of accomplishment that dissipated the moment you saw the stack of documents waiting on your desk.

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg.” Toji magically sprouted from behind, loaded binders balanced on his arms—the same arms that’d lavished you with affection all night long. “They had a fall out at one of the subsidiaries, and now we gotta clean up their shit.”

And back to reality we go.

“Where’s my coffee?” He searched for a cup on his desk.

You pushed your desperation aside and held the juice to his face with a smile that turned awkward the longer he took to accept it.

“It’s um, you know.” You stepped closer, placing the box atop his mountain of files. “Thank you.”

“Also, got you this, so don’t even think of taking mine.” You balanced the onigiri beside the juice and plopped down on your chair, an antsy, blushing mess that refused to meet his stare until he looped an arm around your headrest and attached his mouth to your ear.

“Care to do me a favor?”

[cursingtoji]

a friday night for most mid twenties should be more exciting than yours, but you wouldn’t exchange it for the world, not when you could order your favourite meal for dinner then cuddle with nanami watching a reality show he swears he doesn’t like but doesn’t miss an episode.

“what a bitch” he gasps when it’s revealed the guy’s fiancé had a secret boyfriend, you hold back your laughter from his exaggerated reaction. his hand is on your back, rubbing it and playing with the elastic of your shorts without any malice while you lay on his chest.

after the episode ends he kisses your temple and gently rolls you over to remove himself from the couch.

“don’t go to bed too late” he says moving to the bedroom.

“yeah i’m going right after this one” you reply as a new show starts.

as promised, an hour later you stretch your back and turn off the tv moving to your shared suite and going straight to the bathroom.

“kento?” you call from the toilet, where you kept the door open, he hums in acknowledgement, “what time am i supposed to pick yuuji from megumi’s?” you flush and go wash your hands and face, already beginning your skincare nightly routine.

“i’ll do it, don’t like the way fushiguro flirts with you” you look up from the sink watching him through the mirror, his reading glasses are on the tip of his nose and he licks his finger before turning the page of his book. such an old man…

“he’s just being friendly, love, besides it’s not like i flirt back” you justify.

“i know, i trust you, just don’t like him. megumi is a good kid though” you hum agreeing with your husband.

with a dot of retinol on the tip of your finger your walk barefoot to his side of the bed, leaning close to his face and gently applying the product under his eyes and where his wrinkles would be in a few years. would, since you’re trying your best to include a little bit of wrinkle prevention in your husband non-existent routine as well.

nanami doesn’t move his head, allowing you to put cream under his eyes, soft fingers tapping the skin behind his glasses, he said he trusted you but he close his eyes just out of precaution.

“i think that’s enough tapping, darling” he holds your wrist gently.

“just making sure your skin absorbs it well. in 10 years i don’t want people to think you’re my father” he watches your pretty ass march back to the sink in order to brush your teeth.

“i thought you liked calling me daddy” he resumes his reading listening to you choke, “everything alright in there?” he asks nonchalantly.

“y-yeah, just… caught me off guard with that, kento” he hears an additional ‘thankfully yuuji is not here’ and as soon as you’re done you apply some lip balm and brings it to him as well.

“no, that’s too glossy” he stops you.

“gojo uses this one too” he knows you say this with the intention of telling him it’s not too feminine but he now despises the little tube even more, “bad argument sorry” you hold his strong face and pepper his lips a couple of times to transfer the lip balm on your lips to his “there you go”

“that’s low even for you” he protests but doesn’t rub it off.

you make your way to your side of the bed, laying on your stomach with your head at the end of the bed catching your phone and scrolling through socials. your husband’s hand naturally finds the back of your thighs, rubbing the skin of your legs softly while reading.

“i scheduled my wax appointment for monday” you try to justify your cactus-like legs.

“you know i don’t mind” indeed, he keeps rubbing the back of his hand on your calf, finding comfort in the way your barely grown hairs trickle his skin, you murmur something about him being too good to you and focus back on your phone.

nanami finishes a chapter and quietly closes his book, he now pays full attention to you and the privileged view he has of your ass and the cute underwear peaking from the hem of your tiny shorts.

“darling? i think my lips could use a bit more of what’s on yours.”

[iwoulddieforher]

Puppydog | Alex Cabot ×/ Casey Novak

I read something about the misunderstanding trope being really good for calex, so.. here it is! 9k words of Casey being unable to understand anything at all. Also, she's high out of her mind on cocaine, which is another thing I pulled from on here. @jeongonion for inspiration

Summary: Alex is sent by Elliot to investigate Casey's late-night activities, because Elliot's worried about her after she's been suspended. Alex finds her, but getting Casey to understand that all she wants to do is help is another battle on its own.

Warnings: rated M, includes graphic descriptions of drug usage, overconsumption of substances, a strip club, and attempts at sex

can also be found here, alternatively, on ao3

There was no way in hell she’s actually going to do it, Alex thought to herself, standing awkwardly and very incorrectly dressed in a corner of possibly the most shady place she had ever been in. 

Bathed in exclusively the glow of gleaming, dangerously alluring neon lights, Alexandra Cabot stood frozen, her heart pounding nauseatingly in her chest, as her gaze fixated on the woman she had been attempting to seek out. At the white powder being prepared.

The air hung heavy with cigarette and vape smoke, sickly warm and disgusting to breathe in. Alex thought she would gag from the smell of sweat and polluted sex. She wanted out, she hated being here, but now that she had set eyes on Casey there was no way she’d be leaving without her.

Laughing, scantily clad strippers gently tugged wide-eyed men with foam dotting the corners of their mouths by the wrists into private rooms, and some bumped into her in their haste, though none bothered to even glance in her direction, which she was very appreciative of. She didn't want any distraction, she didn't want anything to happen that would make her glance away from the redhead for even a fraction of a second. 

She wanted to move closer but she was still struggling to attribute the established, decorated assistant district attorney who had helped her regain her sense of safety, and therefore her life, with this- this woman before her, who hadn't yet noticed Alex’s eyes locked on her lithe figure. 

Casey was dressed in a clipped black dress that exposed not only the entirety of her back, but also the sides of her torso, the silhouette of her breast visible from Alex’s angled perspective. The dress ended at a length Alex would generously affirm to herself was mid-thigh, and it rose up as Casey shifted, revealing even more of the pale expanse of delicious skin that was her long, lean legs, adorned with calf-high heeled black boots. Cabot felt guilty even for looking at Casey, when she was so vulnerably dressed, so exposed, even though- to her immense relief- she was still more covered than the majority of other women in the room.

Alex swallowed nervously, wanting to move closer, but worried to keep watching, worried to see. Because- there was no way Casey was actually going to do that, right?

But Casey was laughing at something her companion said, and she was settled between the thighs of a woman whose genitalia was hidden only by a thong and bralette that employed enough reflective, shiny patterns to make a disco ball flustered. Alex felt sick.

The woman, who looked beautiful in a tainted, wrong way, cupped Casey’s pale face in her hands as broken laughter continued to bubble from her throat, cooing small praises into the former attorney’s ear, sliding one hand from her defined jawline to tug on the halter formation the kept Casey’s dress together gently. Alex couldn't hear the words that slipped from the curved, cheshire-cat grin on the stripper’s face, but she was sure it wasn't something she would ever want to hear. It seemed to feed Casey, though, who almost purred, writhing closer into the faux affection with obvious enthusiasm.

Alex’s blue eyes fixated on the object of her fear, and when the situation only progressed, she knew it would happen before she could rush forward- but she couldn't force her petrified muscles to move, and she didn't know exactly what she thought she could do, anyway. If she attempted to wrangle Casey, the chances were the only outcome was Alex being kicked from the club while Casey and her vulnerable wallet stayed inside, pried open. 

A thin vertical line of white had been drawn in powdered substance on the bare thigh of this other woman, and as Alex watched, shocked beyond measure, Casey lowered her head, and took the line straight off of the exotic dancer’s thigh. 

Alex’s heart dropped into her stomach.

Casey pulled her head up and stood forward on her knees, into the waiting arms of the stripper, whose face split into a large encouraging grin. Casey’s intoxicated face seemed to indicate a level of contentment, her eyelids half shut as she nestled her face against the stripper's sternum. The woman’s nails trailed lightly against her face, and Casey’s eyes shut and Alex could almost hear the soft whine the ministrations elicited. With a start, Alex was snapped out of her voyeurism- the woman’s face had raised to shoot Alex a questioning look.

Bile rose in Alex’s throat and she knew she was getting weird glances shot at her from others as well for standing there numbly, dressed in jeans and a turtleneck, the expression on her face- one of pity- emphasized by the neon reds tracing the walls. 

Oh god, Casey, Alex thought to herself despairingly, Oh no.

Hours earlier, she had been perched on Olivia’s desk in the bullpen, chattering animatedly about the latest news- idle chatter, but chatter was always entertaining with Liv. It had been a while since she had been able to exchange witty banter with her favorite detective ever since her return from the WITSEC, but within twenty minutes she and Olivia had already come up with multiple plans to get together sometime soon, to catch up, to rebuild the friendship. 

That was until Stabler had announced his presence with an awkward clearing of his throat, rubbing his nose and placing his hands on his sides. Olivia looked up with a smile, which quickly turned into mild interest at the look of concern on Elliot’s brow. 

“A quick word, Alex?” He requested, motioning with a tilt of his head. Alex and Olivia exchanged a brief glance, before Alex stood up and smoothed out her blouse.

“About the case?” Olivia piqued, but what she really wanted to question was why Stabler wasn't forthcoming about the matter of his inquiry in front of her- Stabler just shook his head quickly with an apologetic look which Liv seemed to accept. 

“So, what do you need me to fix this time?” Alex murmured teasingly as she allowed Elliot to guide her to a space in the corner, a few feet away from anyone else inside the bustling precinct. Stabler’s discomfort seemed to grow, slightly. 

“You remember Casey? Casey Novak?” He asked slowly, and a small part of Alex’s heart stirred.

Yes, she did remember Casey. The fiery redhead who had helped her convict- well, she had helped Casey convict, actually- the man who had almost stolen her life.

She remembered the curve of her lips and the slope of her neck, the hair curled out at the ends, the gentle honey-covered rasp of her voice as she talked Alex through the process Alex had been through tens of times. She remembered the way she so gracefully accepted her accusation and apology, her understanding. She remembered the soft sound of her chuckle, the way Casey’s hand had felt on the small of her back as Casey showed her out that night. The way the tension had felt so palpable, but doomed by circumstance. 

Casey had been the epitome of what she had needed in that moment, an attorney she could place trust in, foster the embers of hope. She had been so worried that the SVU’s replacement would be someone cold, or perhaps someone lax, someone who was bending over to the will of politics, someone entirely different than her. But Casey was professional, ambitious and determined, all beautiful qualities for an esteemed attorney, while still holding the personal attributes Alex sought out in a lawyer- the immense sense of justice, the soft and warmth where it was needed. Casey had seemed almost maternal with Antonio, and lined herself up with Alex wonderfully well, able to fit the glove of what they both needed. Casey had been just that- wonderful.

She remembered green eyes that had seemed to see straight into her heart, and pink lips that had looked so alluring in the dim lighting. The want she had felt, despite everything. They hadn't, of course. But she hadn't forgotten that.

“Yes, I remember her.” Was what she said in a voice a bit more curt than she intended, but she was wary to provide the extent of her thoughts, “Why?” 

“So,” Elliot rubbed his face again, a nervous tick. “She got suspended, right? You know about that?” 

Alex nodded slowly, with no idea where this was going. She did know Casey had been suspended, of course, she had asked about the attorney when her life had been reinstated, seeking to extend her gratitude and hint at the possible friendship she wanted to foster, but had gotten that unsatisfactory answer. Violating the Brady Rules trying to protect an officer. If it had been Olivia, Alex thought perhaps she would've gone down the same way. 

“Yes, I do. Elliot, where is this going?” 

Elliot then extended his hands, holding her softly on both of her slim biceps, and Alex registered the break in his face, the desperation bleeding through.

“Olivia- she’s like, your detective, right? You two are close, you trust each other with things, you're like a duo.” Alex nodded again, although she did raise an eyebrow, since Olivia and her’s relationship did occasionally toe a line she wasn't sure Elliot was entirely aware of. 

“Casey, well, she was mine.” 

Alex’s eyebrows raised further, arching over one blue eye, and Elliot sighed, elaborating, although it was obvious he was going to keep explaining either way.

“We’re both Catholics, and we go to the same church- we used to- and she babysat my kids for Kathy and I a couple times. I have a big family, she does also, similar backgrounds, you know? And I- I guess, I was like her brother, and she was a sister to me. We bickered and we fought but at the end of the day, I… you know. Sibling bond. She looked out for me, I… I tried my best to look out for her.” 

Elliot’s eyes were so softened, Alex relaxed, some of his concern beginning to seep into her own mind now too. She reached up to hold one of his arms, tilting her head and trying to help soothe him, because if he was displaying this degree of emotion she knew him well enough to know there was a lot more going on under the surface in his stoic body.

“Elliot, what's wrong? Did something happen?” She offered softly, and Elliot let her go, turning in a small circle- another nervous movement, an action that spoke to his heightened state of emotion, before turning back and sighing deeply.

“She got assaulted, this one night- not recently,” He added quickly at Alex’s startled expression, “in the DA’s office. By luck, Olivia had been there that night, so someone found her before- but, anyway, after that, I added her to my… Life360.” 

“You have Life360?” Alex offered, trying to add a note of lightheartedness neither really appreciated.

“I have five kids, Alex, and all troublemakers. Of course I have Life360. Anyway, I just had it so I could check to make sure she got home safe at some point, you know, so I could check if I was ever worried about her. I think she forgot I have it, though.” 

“Okay, so- ?” The blonde attorney shifted her weight slightly, concern and simultaneous confusion mounting. What could be wrong that Elliot would seek out her help, of all people? Not Olivia? 

“Listen,” he started, “She’s- I’ve been realizing that lately she’s been out at night, increasingly, and I’ve- I know that,” he stumbled over his words, rubbing his face again, before sighing deeply.

“Casey and Olivia didn't have the most straightforward relationship, and I don't know how she’d react if I came to find her, but- but I don't like where she’s been going, and I think- I just need you to go and make sure she’s okay, alright?” 

“You want me to go look for her?” Alex asked, a bit in disbelief, because- why? The note in her voice seemed to ring clearly, and Elliot sighed deeply again, growing even further uncomfortable. 

“It’s a… a strip club. I keep checking her location and from- from ten to sometimes four, five in the morning she’s- she’s there.” 

“She’s a stripper?” Alex said, now completely in disbelief, because there's no clue she- what? “She went from prosecutor to exotic dancer?” 

“No!” Elliot barked, denying the thought firmly, “No, I don't- it's a homosexual-friendly one, I think she’s just- Jesus, Alex, I can't send Olivia because I know she’d try to tough love Casey out of it but I just need someone to go make sure she’s okay, and I know I’ll get too emotional, and just- please, okay? I don't know any other women who I’d trust to go. Please?” 

Alex felt a bit shellshocked, and a bit lightheaded. She was reeling to grasp the reality of the situation, she didn't think anyone who had been as designated as Casey to end up in a place like Elliot was describing, and she didn't know if that's something she could do. 

“So I’m- what am I doing, exactly?” She asked quietly, pulling on the joint of her finger. 

“Just go look for her,” Elliot asked, his voice cracking just barely as he begged, dropping his guard for a fraction of a second to show her the depth of which his care extended. “Just tell me if she’s okay, or if… Alex, I really don't know. I don't want to slap her with any charges to try to convince her to turn things around because it'll jeopardize her standing, but I just- can you?” 

“Okay,” Alex inhaled deeply, “Yeah, okay. Text me the address the next time you see she’s somewhere she probably shouldn't be- although I do need to remind you visiting a strip club isn't illegal on its own- and I’ll… go review her wellbeing.” 

Because Elliot was right, of course, Olivia would definitely be harsh in her attempt to reinstate Casey’s self-respect, and perhaps that wasn't the best approach, because no one really knew what state the fallen lawyer had been in. But her? Why should she be the one to do this? But perhaps Elliot simply had no one else to turn too about this, and maybe she could… yes, maybe she could. 

It hadn't been more than twenty four hours, only about ten exactly, just as she had been beginning to wind down for the night, when her phone went off.

Elliot Stabler → Alex

Elliot Stabler → [address.attachment] 

Alex didn't respond, choosing instead to immediately search the address, grimacing at what she found. Elliot was right, it was beyond shady looking. 

The images provided by the internet did not soothe her fears to any extent, rather only exacerbated them, harsh neon signs adorning the walls around deep-set couches that seemed to sink even before a figure placed themselves onto one. The place only had a few reviews, but was rated only two stars despite that, with a comment complaining about the obvious drug usage. One of the images provided was of a woman in a thong so small Alex wasn't sure it was trying to hide anything and a bralette with star-shapes covering the nipples as essentially nothing else, and it made her queasy on view. After momentarily cursing herself for letting Stabler’s obvious anxiety involve herself with this, she closed her phone and took a deep breath.

Alex swallowed, pulled herself off of the mattress, and got dressed. She didn't know what she should wear for a brief undercover mission, but the last thing she wanted was to be mistaken for someone who genuinely wanted to be there, so she swapped a nightdress out for a simple pair of jeans, sneakers and the turtleneck she had worn on the stand- perhaps, she thought to herself, that would allow Casey to recognize her, in case she didn't. Just because Casey had been fluttering around in Alex’s mind didn't mean the vice versa was true.

Before leaving her penthouse, she threw a water bottle and a handful of protein bars, because she had absolutely no clue what the appropriate materials to bring on this type of journey was, but she felt like she needed to bring something. She hesitated in the doorway before ensuring she had a wad of cash in her wallet. 

The drive to the strip club was a long, quiet one. Alex was uncomfortable to turn on the radio and listen to anything, not when she was doing something like this. The only sound was the tap-tap-tapping of her fingers against the steering wheel when she got caught in the occasional red light, but thankfully the usual late-night traffic didn't waste too much of her time. 

Alex began to feel increasingly anxious the closer she got to her destination. The imagery she had held, of statuesque Casey Novak pacing on the courtroom with her on the stand, each step ringing clearly in her mind, grounding her slightly with the echo, was too dear to her heart to reveal a Casey unlike that figure of protector.

But Elliot had asked her to do this, and perhaps it was time to return the favor. Casey seemed to need a protector, if Elliot was that anxious. Tarnishing her mental image was a payment worth doing if it helped her in the longitudinal case.

The bouncer didn’t bother with ID, although he made a minor comment about her choice of wear which left Alex feeling unsettled- although that feeling of slight discomfort was quietly swept into an overwhelming urge to get out as soon as possible the moment she was actually inside. 

It was dark, save for the neon lights, and dingy. The air felt palpable with cigarette smoke and a combination of cheap cologne, cheaper perfume, sweat and sex. Walking through the place felt like wading in a swamp of the worst type of lust. Alex tried her best to avert her eyes from the women adorning the stage and the poles around the establishment, the mostly naked dancers serving beer-bellied men drinks and very obviously faking enthusiasm. 

If Casey had chosen this place out of desperation to find someone no one she would know would ever be there, she had picked well. It was harsh, but Alex thought this might be the worst, most degrading environment she had been in. 

It occurred to her, then, that she had no clue how to go about searching for Casey. The place was crowded in an confusing way, intertangled limbs on couches and women constantly flitting around, and she hadn't seen Casey in ages. 

She pulled out her phone and decided to text Elliot, because her best chance was probably to work this like a detective would- simply asking the bartender, and dragging her out. 

Although she had come here simply for a wellness check, there was no way she’d leave even if she affirmed Casey was perfectly fine. No one who was perfectly fine would be here, in a place like this.

← Send me a recent picture of her? I’m here 

Elliot Stabler → [CAM_248594382.jpeg]

Alex’s heart sank slightly in her chest, feeling her fingers balling automatically in her chest, because Jesus Christ Casey was beautiful, and she hated that the first time she saw her in the years since the trial was going to be in a place like this. 

In the picture Elliot had sent, Casey was smirking, an overexaggerated haughty tilt to her lips that could only come off as teasing. She was at a bar, but sported what Alex assumed was her court clothes- this must've been taken while celebrating a win of her’s. The image was just slightly not in focus, and it seemed like John Munch’s hand was raising behind Casey’s head in an attempt to make a pair of bunny ears he hadn't managed to create in time to be caught in the quick, candid photo. 

The top of Olivia’s head was visible on the side of the frame, brunette locks against Casey’s shoulder, and Alex felt even worse. She didn't know the extent of depth contained in Casey and Olivia’s relationship, but she hoped Olivia would forgive her for not telling her about Elliot’s request.

Alex attempted to wander over to the bartender, but was intercepted by a bottle blonde woman dressed in a tight-fitting dress that failed to conceal the tip of her areolas and only barely hid the space between her thighs. A heavy layer of makeup failed to conceal the exhaustion written in the darkness under her eyes, and over lined lips failed to hide the fact she wasn't particularly eye-catching. Not like Casey was, anyway.

Alex didn't know where that thought came from.

“Hey there, lady,” The woman purred, hands raising to wrap around Alex’s arm, pushing her breast against the same bicep Elliot had held hours earlier, “Why so dressed up? You look so stiff, yo-u need some help letting loose?” 

The woman spoke in a heavy Brooklyn accent, stretching the vowels of her words and fluttering her lashes in a way that must've been an attempt at seduction- an attempt that fell utterly flat faced with Alex's increasingly obvious discomfort.

After a brief failed attempt at an inhale that left as an awkward cough, Alex shook her head, averting her gaze. “No, thank you, I’m alright.” 

“C’mon, da-rling,” she drawled, tapping her fingers against Alex’s arm as the attorney attempted to pull away, “Aren’t you hawt? I bet there's a sexy body beneath that sweau-ter. You need a little more privacy to take it awf? For yo-u, I’ll even lower my rates.” 

“No, really. I’m only here to look for someone.” Alex muttered, shaking her head adamantly and successfully pulling her arm free. It felt impolite to try to brush off the sensation of a body pressed up against it with her other hand, but her fingers itched to do so. She tried to disguise it by smoothing the fabric out, but the attempt was clearly poorly concealed, because the entertainer looked offended.

“Well, what's yo-ur type?” She said impatiently, “You need someone to take it haard? Someone you-nger? Ou-lder? You want a big strou-ng man, Mau-ma?” 

“No, no.” Alex shook her head, her brow furrowing with frustration. “Look, just- can you tell me if you've seen this woman?” 

Alex turned her phone back on, displaying the image of Casey, despite immediately feeling a surge of protectiveness, something inside of her wanting to gatekeep the shared image- the image she hadn't even been there for- as her own. She didn't like the way the stripper’s eyes examined it intently. 

“Auuh, Miss Puppydawg! I didn't even recognize her in a getup like that. The hell? What’s she dressed all fancy faur?” 

“Puppydog?” Alex echoed incredulously, beyond uncomfortable. There was no way in hell she'd be divulging any details of Novak’s person to this woman. She felt her spine straighten awkwardly as she swallowed back another wave of nausea. “She- she actually works here?” 

“Works here? Nau.” Alex tried not to let her relief be obvious,  “We call her puppydawg because she’s our favorite re-gular. She’s prou-bably around here somewhe-re, homegirl au-lways is. Why the interest?” 

“Favorite regular?” Alex echoed the dancer’s speech again instead of answering, turning slightly to scan the surrounding area. She couldn't see locks of auburn hair anywhere in the dimly lit room, but with a sinking feeling she realized if Casey had accepted an offer to go somewhere more private, the chance Alex could find her was little. 

“Yeah, she’s soh cute. Eager to please us, even though she's the o-ne who's paying. Just wants to be told she’s good, like a dawg, get it? Miss Puppydawg. Cause she’s cute like a pu-ppy, and acts like a dawg.” The stripper babbled, pulling a cigarette out of apparently thin air- Alex had no clue where she could've been holding a cartridge- and then a lighter from between her breasts to light it with. 

Alex barely contained the will to lash out. She hated the fact the woman was so casually referring to a woman who should've been Alex's esteemed colleague, one who had tried so hard and apparently fallen so far. It felt disgusting, and Alex’s skin crawled, but she bit her tongue.

After taking a long drag of the cigarette, the woman studied Alex and waited for some form of response while Alex continued surveying the room, and eventually, the stripper shrugged idly. 

“If you're looking for her, yo-u won't find her out here. She’ll be in VIP, prou-bably.” 

“How much?” Alex asked distractedly, wrinkling her nose at the stench of the cigarette and already beginning to walk forward a sign that hung above a doorway she assumed must lead to said section, and the exotic dancer fumbled in heels for a second to follow at her heels. 

“It's- Huh?” She tried to explain, but Alex pushed a small stack of hundreds in her hand before she could finish, and with a surprised gasp the woman decided she had bigger concerns than following around a woman so intent on her mission. Alex was allowed into the section exclusively for paying members, and she continued her search inside. 

The first thing she noticed was the very obvious drug usage- in here, people weren't even trying to hide it. A drug bust in a place like this would turn up thousands in supply, and possibly tens of thousands in fines. Elliot was right that attempting to discourage Casey from coming here using any legitimate legal method would likely fall flat, because being involved in a bust like this would be life-ending- assuming Casey wasn't already throwing away her life simply by choosing to be here. 

Vape-smoking strippers were using phone flashlights to illuminate the workspace of clients rolling joints in their lap, and others were encouraging intoxicated people to do lines of cocaine off the glass tables, sneaking crumbled wads of cash from delirious men’s pockets. The tables were cluttered with empty shot glasses and various vessels of liquid, whether it be short tumblers with half-finished dark liquid or mysteriously colored liquid in tall skinny glasses. As Alex watched, a stripper extended her tongue while making eye contact with a client to swirl around the rim of a martini glass, and Alex had to look away, her heart pounding in her chest with the queasiness the sight brought her. She needed to find Casey and get the fuck out before she threw up from the anxiety being here gave her.

There were hallways that seemed the lead to a labyrinth of private rooms. The doors were painted in a way that made it obvious they had been painted and then repainted again and again, perhaps from people slamming against them or scratching at the wood, and as Alex walked through the dingy corridors she could hear moaning through some of them. The doors that held open, waiting for a stripper to lead a guest inside, seemed beyond unsanitary.

But even outside the private rooms, in some corners of the hallways there were chairs in which clientele were led and exotic dancers played up the act, giving a show to any passersby, making the men and handful of women who were being entertained even more rowdy and impatient to claim space for themselves. 

One of those chairs, false affection on full display, was where Alex had inevitably found Casey Novak. 

She had immediately grown wary of the woman entertaining her, of the way when Alex found them she had been in the process of crushing up the crystals with what she assumed was Casey's credit card. The line was formed on her thigh, and as Alex watched, frozen in horror, Casey took it. 

Visiting a strip club wasn't a crime, but doing cocaine definitely was-  Alex already knew, though, that she wouldn't tell a soul about finding the disgraced attorney like this. 

A deep sense of pity overwhelmed her, suddenly, and she let her shoulders drop, because she understood exactly what the previous gogo dancer had been referring to. The way Casey’s legs twitched when the stripper brought her head to her chest in a tight hold, the way her eyes closed with a sickly pleased expression- Casey seemed undeniably like a lost puppy.

She just wanted someone to hold her, it seemed. Alex supposed she just wanted to not feel the surge of emotion that must be overwhelming her, the way Alex assumed she herself would feel if it truly had been her attempting to sacrifice her career for Olivia- and through substances and paying arms to embrace her, she was doing just that. 

Poor Casey. Alex would hold her. Not here, but Alex would. 

Alex forced her petrified muscles to move with a renewed sense of urgency, forcing her way towards the chair Casey was perched aside and ignoring the defensiveness that overtook the dancer’s previously curious posture. 

“Casey, sweetheart, it’s time to go.” Alex whispered fervently in the auburn woman’s ear, bending to place her hands on Casey’s shoulders and watching with resigned horror as the woman could only tilt her head up blearily, beyond intoxicated. 

“Hey,” the dancer bristled, cupping Casey’s skull and bringing the woman closer almost protectively, and Alex wanted to punch her for attempting to exploit the weakness of Alex's saviour like this. “Puppygirl, baby, do you know this bitch? You want to leave with her, honey?”

It didn't feel like a real question aimed at Casey, moreso a veiled declaration of opposition to Alex.

“I don't have time for you,” Alex snapped impatiently, straightening with a cold gleam in her blue eyes, and the sheer intensity of her gaze causing the other woman’s hold on Casey to loosen. “I’m taking her out.” 

“The fuck?” The woman snapped, only to be immediately dissuaded from the argument when Alex thrust a handful of bills into her face haphazardly, seizing the momentary confusion as the dancer attempted to collect and sort out the money to tug Casey into a loose standing position. 

“Take this and get the hell out of my way,” Alex growled in a low, biting tone, dropping her voice and directing it solely at the stripper so Casey wouldn't be able to hear the obvious aggression dripping from it, “and if you ever service this woman again, you’ll live to fucking regret it.”

Casey’s eyes seemed to follow the monetary transaction, and then fix on Alex’s face with a degree of bewildered interest. 

“...Alex?” Casey asked finally, and it was genuinely a question. Casey couldn't recognize her very well, given her brain's addled state, and with a soft sigh Alex nodded, wrapping one arm around the woman’s waist. 

“Yes, Casey, it's me. Come on, I’m taking you to mine, okay?”

Casey seemed to have no argument, not even sparing a glance at the woman who she had been paying to entertain her, allowing Alex to support her fumbled movements as Alex aided her on the way out. 

Deep, darkened green eyes were boring holes in the side of Alex’s face as Casey examined her with an unexplainable intensity, and with a small huff Alex realized with Casey’s heels the other woman was now noticeably taller than her, despite both of them being approximately the same above-average height. It didn't help her lead Casey out, rather with every stumble the other woman had to bend down slightly to find Alex’s support, which wouldn't be as much the case if Casey was currently shorter, or at least on par with Alex's height. 

Regardless, eventually the two did manage to make their way out- but not without a few women calling out in a forlorn or faux enthusiastic voice for ‘puppydog’ to turn and stay a while longer. Alex's jaw clenched and she focused on grinding her teeth together so she wouldn't deck one of them. She had no clue where her sudden protectiveness over Casey was really coming from. Despite craving the satisfaction of forcing some kind of repercussion for the nickname a sober version of Casey would've been enraged by, she knew she couldn't act on it.

Alex helped Casey crawl into the backseat of the car, feeling the absence of the auburn woman’s feverish skin on her side the second she let her go. After paying the meter for parking, Alex climbed into the driver’s seat, turning to ensure Casey had buckled, which she hadn't. Alex had to awkwardly reach across the entire car, kneeling on her seat and pushing her body through the gap between the two front seats, to help Casey force the buckle closed. 

“I brought water and some- some protein bars.” Alex said in a hushed tone, awkward and with little clue on what to say now that she had effectively extradited Casey from the unfavorable situation. Casey hadn't moved to express or say anything, not since questioning Alex’s identity while still within the confines on the stripper’s thighs. 

A woman whose sharp features and eyes that reminded Alex eerily of a hawk, who entertained a strange juxtaposition between almost intimidatingly gorgeous and refined features, and the way she had been grovelling for attention and affection, was now sitting quietly and unarguingly in the backseat of Alex’s car as the blonde began the drive back to her home. 

Although Alex remained aware that eyes were still studying her from an angle of the rear view mirror, nothing was said or exchanged, not other than Alex briefly urging Casey to drink or eat something during a pause at a red light. Casey held one hand briefly over her stomach, which seemed to signal ‘nauseous’- Alex wasn't at all surprised, she too felt sick to her stomach, and she hadn't consumed anything. After a pleading glance exchanged through the mirror, Casey begrudgingly took several small sips of water, which Alex chose to be content with. Forcing Casey to eat wouldn't be worth it if the end resulted only with Alex cleaning vomit from her car. 

“You're beautiful,” Casey said faintly from the backseat, and with a furrowed brow yet a bemused smile Alex glanced back at her. She was leaning contently against the back, head lolled to the side slightly, but she seemed conscious and aware enough to settle a bit of Cabot’s nerves. 

“I could say the same for you,” she responded easily, and Casey’s lips curved up in a small smile.

Alex wished briefly she had thought enough to bring a blanket, or something for Casey to conceal herself with, because it felt awkward for her to be dressed so modestly with Novak in such scandalous attire in her backseat. Casey didn't seem to register the disparity, which made Alex feel worse about it. 

The dialogue, if one could even call it that, stilled after that, although Casey’s obviously delirious smile did not drop for the rest of the car drive. 

When Alex opened the door, Casey was able to get out and stand unassisted, which Alex was relieved by. Casey stepped closer, eyes searching Alex’s face, and the blonde realized faintly Casey was waiting for her to guide her again, to lead her, to place her arm around her waist like she had when tugging her out of the club. Although it felt awkward, Alex obliged. 

The garage beneath the complex had an elevator that went straight into Alex’s penthouse with a special key, so thankfully they didn't have to make it very far. As soon as the elevator doors opened and Alex led the auburn woman out, into the safety of her apartment, she felt tension ease from her shoulders.

That feeling of relief was quickly overshadowed when Casey turned, gently pushing against Alex's body, until the blonde woman was pressed up against the wall with Casey’s currently-taller-due-to-heels frame above her. Blue eyes searched dark green ones with concern and confusion, but Casey seemed not to register the puzzlement. 

Both of Casey’s hands raised to effectively trap Alex’s head between them, and Casey leaned forward, pressing her forearms entirely against the wall as she bent, looking up at Alex with wide, puppydog eyes, and completely blown pupils.

“How do you want me?” Casey asked simply, her voice low and alluring, the sound of the rasp of her tone sending a sudden chill down Alex’s spine. 

“What?” 

Alex’s voice came out like a startled gasp, and she pushed herself against the wall, swallowing in an effort to cover the sudden jolt of discomfort. What did Casey think Alex wanted from her, exactly?

“You paid for something,” Casey murmured, leaning forward until her pink lips were an inch or so away from Alex’s own, auburn hair swaying in an undeniably tantalizing way as she tilted her head curiously. “You were trying to pay for me, weren't you?” 

“Casey, I-” Alex mumbled, feeling the rush of confusion and surprise turn into a harsh flush that covered her face, but Casey hushed her before she could explain the misunderstanding. 

“I’m not an escort,” Casey breathed softly, “but you won't be the first to mistake me for one. And I can play the role.” 

Alex opened her mouth to protest, wriggling just slightly to try to slip to the side so she could back away, but she remained trapped between Casey’s lithe figure and the wall. Her heart pounded uncomfortably quickly in her chest, and she could feel her face heating up against her will.

“Shh, words can wait until I’ve properly satiated you,” Casey rasped, moving her head to the side of Alex’s face, dropping her voice to a low murmur in her ear. Warm breath fanned across the small strip of skin on Alex’s neck just above the turtleneck feature of her shirt as Casey continued, “unless the words are, ‘on your knees’, or something else similarly appropriate.” 

“Casey,” Alex repeated, trying not to physically push the woman away, because she didn't want her behavior to come off as either genuinely interested which she currently wasn't, or harshly rejecting. She focused on not squirming as much as she felt as though she wanted too, mind whirling as she tried to properly deduce what to say to calm the quickly accelerating situation, but nothing came quickly enough.

“I’ll do anything,” Casey promised in a whisper, her voice taking on a slightly higher pitch that brought a pang of pity again to Alex’s heart, “you won't regret me, I promise. I’ll be worth your effort.” 

Her eyes were flicking back and forth over Alex’s face, intently studying, trying to figure out what Alex wanted from her. Casey seemed to realize Alex wasn't responding to her straightforward advancement, and seemed to think that that meant she had somehow done something wrong, played the situation incorrectly. Made Alex lose interest in her, somehow. Alex’s breath caught, and her brow furrowed, still wracking the confines of her mind and cursing them for freezing her, for not allowing her some eloquent phrase to comfort her. 

“I can be what you wanted,” Casey said, her voice taking on a shaky, pitiful note of desperation when all she was faced with was Alex’s lack of reaction, “I’ll be- I’ll be worth it. Let me prove I’m worth it?” 

Casey moved, one hand finding Alex’s, intertwining fingers briefly to bring Alex’s slim fingers to her own hip, while the other hand reached behind her to unfasten the halter formation that kept Casey’s dress together. 

With a rustle of fabric, black polyester fell apart.

That, finally, broke Alex out of the shock-induced freeze, and the blonde woman let out a small strangled sound, squeezing her eyes shut and forcing her head to the side before her eyes could catch sight of anything she’d hate herself for perceiving. 

“Casey, pause.” Alex spit the words out quickly, and despite Casey’s obvious inebriation the auburn-haired woman stilled her movements immediately, dropping Alex’s hand and letting it draw itself away. 

Alex kept her eyes tightly shut as she pulled her turtleneck off in a swift movement, holding it out expectantly and letting out a small approving breath when she felt the weight of it leave her palms. A second rustle of fabric, this time a more hushed, gentle sound of expensive fiber, was perceived, and Alex opened her eyes to see an anxious looking Casey staring at her somberly.

Casey’s eyes didn't stray from Alex’s face in the slightest, which soothed the small part of Alex’s brain that told her standing before the intoxicated woman in a bra wasn't the best idea, but it seemed Casey genuinely had no intent other than a desperation to please Alex, or to play along with what she assumed Alex’s desire was. The cold air of her penthouse caused goosebumps to prickle along Alex’s arms, but she cared more than Casey was finally dressed in something modest- it made her feel less guilty to look at her like this.

“I don't understand,” Casey offered softly, her voice quiet, her hair tousled from pulling the turtleneck over it. She fumbled with her hands now that she wasn't using them provocatively, tugging on the ends of the sleeves, “I- I thought you wanted-?” 

“No,” Alex said hoarsely, crossing her arms over her exposed stomach, “No, Casey, I’m not trying to have sex with you.” 

Casey’s eyebrows tilted, a small anxious crease appearing between them, as the corners of her eyes similarly crumbled with the rejection. “Do you not … - am I not…?” 

Satisfactory, Alex’s mind tried to fill in the word Casey wasn't saying, because it looked like if Casey said it she might burst into tears. Worth it, she might be trying to say. Alex wasn't entirely sure but whatever it was she wouldn't let Casey keep demeaning her value to either financial means or the utility of her body. 

“That's not what this is about, sweetheart.” Alex soothed gently, extending her hands slightly to reassure Casey she wasn't rejecting her entirely, she wasn't pushing her away, she wasn't disgusted. Casey inched forward almost shyly, and Alex took her in her arms without hesitation. 

The press of the turtleneck against Alex’s bare skin, this time the outside of it, was comforting to Alex. She hoped the feeling of the inside of it, the warmth that Alex had previously fostered, was comforting to Casey.

“I’m sorry,” Casey mumbled against Alex’s skin, burying her face in the exposed curve of Alex’s neck, and Alex hummed a rejection to the unnecessary apology. 

“I don't want you to apologize, honey,” Alex murmured, “It's okay, I could've been more clear earlier. Stabler sent me, he wanted me to make sure you were okay.” 

“Elliot?” Casey’s voice cracked, and suddenly she looked very small, and very weak, despite still being taller and less physically vulnerable than Alex was.

“Yes,” Alex hummed, letting her hands drift from Casey’s shoulders to rub what she hoped would be comforting circles on Casey's back. “He wanted to make sure you were okay,” she repeated softly, “Are you?” 

Casey didn't respond, but her shoulders started shaking and with a resigned sigh Alex realized she had begun crying. The intoxication and the overwhelm of emotions were simply too much for the battered woman to handle.

Droplets of warm liquid began to fall on the skin of Alex’s shoulder and she closed her eyes, humming a small note of sympathy, unsure what else she could do to comfort the redhead.

“I thought you wanted me,” Casey sobbed, body wracked with a sudden bout of shivers that left Alex gripping her tight, worried she’d fall without the support. “I thought, I thought-” 

“It's- I don't mean to say I- it's, it's not that I don't think you're attractive, Casey,” Alex tried to plead, “There’s nothing wrong with you, I- I don't know, but I do know it would be beyond wrong for me to let you do anything with me right now. You’re not in a position to consent like this.” 

Casey could only cry harder, tears of anguish, grief and shame wetting the space between her face and Alex’s skin as Alex tried to console her. 

Alex grimaced with sympathy, closing her eyes and letting the auburn woman nestle as closely as she could, desperate for some kind of support, some kind of reassurance. 

“I want it,” Casey begged, her tone so desperate Alex winced and had to force herself not to flinch away, “I need you, I want to be- I want, please, I thought you wanted me. I wanted you to want me. Just- can you?” 

It was almost impossible for Alex to attribute this behavior with the snarky, stoic yet fiercely protective, loyal woman who had saved her in court. Casey’s skin was fevered and tinted with an obvious lack of care, her nose red and her eyes puffy, her hair having lost some of its shine. Her vocalizations and composure had altered drastically, from sly and composed to rambled, desperate and scratchy, and her attitude had transformed completely. 

She seemed like a shell of her previous self, of the person who had so patiently comforted Alex’s pre-trial nerves. Of the woman who had led her out, who had looked into her eyes, and who Alex had almost kissed while standing at the doorway of the DA’s office- almost. Doomed by circumstance. She wouldn't kiss her own attorney. But she had wanted to. 

And Alex felt unbelievably guilty, because when Casey had been so close to her face seconds ago, with a look so sultry in her eyes, she had wanted to again. Of course she wouldn't have, she would never ever kiss someone under circumstances like these, but it was still making her feel desperate and horrible that she had even for a fraction of a second considered becoming one of the many people who had exploited Casey’s emotional, wrecked state.

“Casey,” Alex breathed quietly, and Casey hushed herself momentarily, holding her breath so she wouldn't keep sobbing so she could hear what the blonde was trying to say. 

“Casey, let me get you in bed, and let me help you get it all together, and next week if you’re sober and if you're feeling alright, then ... we can talk about it then, okay? Because I- I… not like this.” 

The other woman sniffed, straightening to rub the evidence of her crying fit away and leaving trails of mascara across her pale skin, but nodded quietly. 

“On the forehead, though?” She asked, though, in a low croaked voice, and with a mixture of pity and a small hint of amusement Alex smiled sadly and obliged, cradling her face gently with both hands and pressing her lips to the space Casey had requested.

Alex realized she might be the first person in days who had offered Casey any sort of attention she wasn't using her wallet or her body to pay for.

“You don't need to give people incentive to hold you.” Alex murmured quietly, grimacing at the though and then kissing her cheek too for good measure, “I would've, had I known.” 

The look in Casey’s eyes told Alex very clearly that Casey did not believe her, but she didn't attempt to verbally oppose, instead just staring at her blankly, hopelessly. 

They stood there, still and desperate, for a long moment. 

Alex swallowed anxiously at the sound of a low whine in Casey’s throat, and the auburn-haired woman’s hands found her waist, thumbs on the crest of her hips. Casey’s lips parted, eyes flickering from Alex’s eyes to her lips and back up, one last desperate attempt to seduce Alex. A last attempt to reassure herself that she was wanted, that she was worthy of affection. Alex’s heart broke in her chest. 

“Please,” Casey’s voice was so broken it came out like a whimper, “Alex?” 

“You know better, Casey.” Alex breathed, watching sadly as Casey’s eyes welled up with tears for a second time. 

It was surprising to Alex to find how gorgeous Casey was, even in such a visibly wrecked state. Her eyes were blown with substance abuse but a shade of green and rimmed with blue like collector’s prized sea glass, her bottom lip plumped and textured from her chewing on it yet obviously soft and alluring, her eyebrows shaped so elegantly. Her hands were warm and gentle on Alex’s exposed skin, slim long fingers shivering just barely, her arms thin yet simultaneously muscular, lean with the effort of athleticism. She was beautiful, and everything Alex wanted, but just- just not right now, not like this. 

Not even when Casey’s melodious, deep voice seemed so needy, so heady, in a way that stirred Alex’s abdomen in a way that disgusted herself.

Alex enveloped the woman’s body in her arms before Casey had the opportunity to pull away, holding her against her with deep-set sympathy, cupping the base of her head and pressing it against the side of her face so Casey wouldn't be able to see the look in her blue eyes. 

“Let me get you to bed, sweetheart.” Alex repeated quietly, “You must be exhausted.” 

Casey sounded utterly defeated when she muttered a quiet, “Yeah… okay.” 

Alex wondered if she had sounded the same the first time someone had offered her something, the first time someone had approached her in a bar. She didn't let that thought linger for long, though, because she’d either kill someone or throw up if she continued to think about it. 

Casey stood still as Alex crouched to undo the zipper on the side of her high heeled boots, stepping out of them delicately, and the two left them and the crumpled small heap of fabric which was Casey’s dress on the floor as Alex prioritized getting the other woman under a blanket. 

She stumbled as she walked, needing to readapt to balance without the heels she had grown accustomed to moving in, and Alex stayed by her side, hand on her back to support her as she guided her towards the bedroom. Casey sat down on the bed, looking up at Alex who was still standing over her with wet lashes and puppy-like eyes. 

Her pale legs, now exposed entirely without the boots, were so long, toned and exquisite. Alex felt ridiculously guilty for admiring the sight of Casey propped on her mattress. 

Alex ran her tongue along her dry lips, averting her eyes as if the doorway had something that held her interest more than the half-naked woman on her bed.

Biting back the nausea the guilt brought her, Alex rested a hand gently on the side of Casey’s face, a thumb brushing over her cheek, because the woman seemed so appreciative of physical affection. As if to affirm that notion, Casey leaned into the touch.

“Kiss my forehead again,” Casey requested, and again Alex obliged, bending forward to press her lips against the pale skin, her blonde hair brushing across Casey’s face when she moved. 

“Can I bring you something? Would you want anything?” Alex murmured, her tone hushed, “Nightclothes? Water? Something to eat, maybe?”

“I want you,” Casey said drowsily, reaching up with her arms to encircle Alex's waist, pressing her chin and neck against Alex’s exposed stomach as she looked up at her. 

“We already concluded that notion, Casey.” The blonde chided as gently as she could, running her thumbs along the side of Casey’s face, the pads of her fingers submerging in auburn locks to create patterns on the woman’s scalp. She was rewarded for the ministrations with a contented sound from Casey’s throat, her eyelids fluttering.

“Not sex,” Casey clarified in a whisper, “But hold me.” 

After a pause, in which blue eyes studied green intently, Alex sighed softly. “Let me get changed, and let me get you some makeup remover, and water.” 

Casey nodded and relented, lithe arms slipping away from Alex’s middle, and the blonde briefly exited the bedroom to fetch a glass of water, a small stack of wipes to erase the evidence of tear-streaked mascara from Casey’s cheeks, and to swap her jeans out for a college sweatshirt and pajama bottoms. She returned, bringing alongside the aforementioned items a bundle of nightclothes for Casey to change into. 

She looked away awkwardly as Casey slid the sleep shorts she had brought up the expanse of her legs, but in a shorter time than she expected she felt hands tugging gently at her sweatshirt. Alex turned back to see Casey still in the turtleneck she had thrust upon her, although her face was now clean and unmarred by cosmetics. 

“I want to sleep in this, if that's okay,” Casey murmured, tugging again on Alex’s hem, and the blonde tilted her shoulders slightly to indicate her indifference.

Casey wanted Alex to engage with her. Casey wanted Alex to create direction, give her something to respond too, something that would allow her to avoid the feeling of responsibility, of consciousness. She wanted Alex to take away the shame and the guilt, but Alex knew she couldn't do so. She didn't know what to do.

So she just stood there, quietly, observing the details of Casey's face while she waited for something that wasn't coming.

Casey took Alex's lack of motion as a signal of uninterest, her shrug as complete indifference, not just to the notion that Casey would sleep in her sweater but to Casey as a whole.

Her hands curled into balls around the fabric of Alex's sweatshirt as she gazed up at her, willing her to speak, which Alex didn't know how to. 

“What do you want me to do, Casey?” 

Her voice came out a bit flatter than she intended, and Casey’s forlorn exhale told Alex that tone wasn't what the redhead had wanted, but Casey didn't seem deterred enough to send Alex away. Even if she thought it was being fabricated, she wanted the comfort she thought she could find in Alex's form.

Casey paused, blinking once and then twice as a sort of resignation settled over her face, before letting go of Alex’s clothing to motion to the other side of the mattress. Alex agreeingly moved over and laid down on her side, still facing Casey, who wriggled until she was curled beside her, head near the flat of Alex’s chest. 

“Put one hand near my head, and the other on my shoulder.” Casey continued to direct in a hushed, numb tone, which Alex again immediately obliged too. Casey nestled closer, then closer still, before huffing a deep, forced breath. A small wave of anguish washed over Casey's expression, but was quickly replaced as her features went lax, and exhaustion overwhelmed her body.

Casey was asleep almost immediately. 

She must've been beyond drained, Alex thought to herself, sympathy still very evident in her eyes even with no conscious being there to witness it, although Casey hadn't seemed to realize her emotions even when she had been studying her.

Casey had misunderstood her initially, thinking Alex was bringing her back for some form of demented intercourse, and then further misunderstood her brief words now as a lack of enthusiasm, which she supposed in some way it was. It hurt Alex, the realization that Casey had fallen asleep thinking Alex didn't actually want to hold her and was only doing so through direction. She hoped she could fix it when she awoke.

She hoped Casey would remember, but then again, maybe it would be better- simpler, perhaps, if she didn't. 

She realized she had completely forgotten to update Stabler at all, and she’d definitely be receiving an earful about that the next time he saw her, but she couldn't bring herself to move away from Casey’s bundled figure, nor tear her eyes away from the steady rise and fall of the woman’s side as she breathed. Content, finally, and not in any sort of danger. Not overwhelmed, not anything numb, just asleep in Alex’s bed where the blonde could take care of her, at least physically. She could shield her from the dangers her desperation had led her too, at the very least. 

Alex paused, curling her fingers gently through locks of reddish blonde hair almost thoughtfully, before leaning in to press a final lingering kiss on Casey’s forehead. 

“I’m sorry, Casey.” Alex breathed quietly, “I did want you.” 

[nglgfics]

Picnic - part 1

(18+)

Masterlist

The park was lazy with heat—sunlight filtering through trees, children shrieking in the distance, the occasional bark of a dog. It was idyllic, really. Polite. Wholesome. And none of that matched what was happening on the picnic blanket where you were currently stretched out, bare-legged and gleaming, thighs parted just enough to suggest and not quite reveal.

Your sundress clung in all the right places. Thin, pale, near translucent in the right light. You were out stretched long and satisfied.

Liam was beside you, half-lounging, half-staring, one elbow braced on the blanket, a bottle of still water forgotten in his hand. He was mid-sentence—something about some band that had “no fucking idea how to use a hi-hat”—when he paused.

You’d shifted, casually, like you weren’t thinking about it at all. One leg bent, the other straight. And the hem of your dress slid up.

It gave just the barest flash of the soft skin at the top of your thighs.

No lace. No fabric. Just skin.

That’s when you felt it.

His whole body went still. Silent. Like someone had pulled the volume out of the world. His sunglasses didn’t hide the way his jaw tensed, or the way his fingers curled slightly around the water bottle.

He was looking now. Not pretending. Not even trying.

“Are you…” he started, voice low and cautious, “Are you not wearing any fuckin’ knickers?”

You didn’t look at him right away. You reached lazily for a grape, popped it into your mouth, chewed slowly, swallowed. Then you turned your head.

“Nope,” you said, lips glossed and smug. “Too hot.”

His eyes flicked back down. “You serious?”

“Deadly.”

You lifted your leg, just slightly, and watched his mouth part.

“There are people everywhere,” he muttered, scanning the park.

“Mm,” you hummed, stretching, back arching, breasts pushing lightly against the front of your dress. “They’re not looking.”

“They might.”

You rolled your head to the side, gave him a look that was all honey and trouble.

“Then they’re lucky.”

Liam stared at you like you’d slapped him and moaned about it. Then he blinked hard, like trying to reset.

“You came out here,” he said slowly, “to a fuckin’ park. Full of families. In a dress with nothin’ under it.”

You grinned.

“Technically,” you said, voice silken, “I reclined out here. And I never said it was for the families.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He looked wrecked already, eyes blown wide, throat working as he swallowed.

“Christ, you’ve been sittin’ there like that the whole time?” he asked, voice rougher now, more guttural.

You tilted your head.

“You’ve been staring at my legs for the last hour,” you teased. “Don’t tell me you’re just now putting it together.”

His gaze dropped again, to the vee of your thighs, where the breeze flirted with your hem, where the sun touched skin no one was supposed to see.

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenching. You could see it in his face—restraint. Fragile. Failing.

“You’re a fuckin’ menace.”

You licked a smear of juice from your thumb. “I know.”

Liam shifted closer. It was subtle, but it was predatory. His eyes didn’t leave you. His body was loose but charged, like a spring being wound tighter with every breath.

“You planned this,” he said again, voice low and slow and dripping with want.

“You think I sit around in sundresses for fun?”

He laughed, sharp and breathless. “You came here with a picnic basket and no underwear.”

“And now you’re hard under those jeans,” you shot back. “Who’s the real menace?”

That hit him like a body shot.

His eyes darkened. “Fuckin’ hell, love.”

You stretched again—obviously this time—arms overhead, tits shifting under the fabric, the dress rising even higher on your thighs. You watched his eyes follow the movement, completely unashamed.

“You wanna look?” you whispered.

“I’m lookin’.”

“You wanna touch?”

He leaned in, close enough that his breath hit your neck. His hand ghosted up your calf, slow and deliberate.

You smiled, sweet as sin. “Then go ahead, love. See what you’re working with.”

The sun kissed your skin. The breeze flirted with your dress. Liam just stared.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he said.

His voice was low, tight, not even pretending to hide how wrecked he already was.

You smiled, eyes still closed. “Dramatic.”

“I mean it.”

You cracked one eye open. “You’re sitting five inches from heaven, Gallagher. Don’t act like you’re suffering.”

He let out a low, breathless laugh, the kind that barely held back a groan. Then he leaned in. One hand braced beside you, the other sliding casually up your thigh.

“You’ve been laid out here,” he said, voice dropping to a near growl, “legs open, no knickers, lookin’ like you belong in a dirty dream and daring me to touch you.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“You didn’t have to. This little dress said it for you.”

His hand disappeared beneath the fabric. You didn’t stop him. His fingers found bare, slick skin, and he swore softly—feeling how wet you were, how open, how ready.

“Fucking hell…”

You smiled wider. “Still suffering?”

His thumb brushed over your clit, gentle and maddening.

“No,” he said. “Now I’m obsessed.”

Your breath caught. You tilted your hips toward his hand, just slightly, just enough. His fingers circled slow, dragging through your folds, playing the edge of it without giving you what you wanted.

You turned your head lazily toward him. “You’ve got a filthy mouth, you know.”

His grin crooked.

“And you’ve got a cunt made for it.”

You nearly laughed, half a gasp.

“Charming.”

He leaned closer. “Tell me you haven’t been thinking about this since you sat down.”

You met his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it since you ran your mouth about hi-hats.”

He laughed, full and wicked.

“Oh, I’m gonna make you pay for that one.”

Then—footsteps. Voices. Close.

You stiffened on instinct, head turning toward the path. A couple. Talking. Laughing. Getting closer.

But Liam didn’t flinch.

He reached for the smaller blanket beside him, flipped it up smooth and quick, draping it casually over your lap, hiding everything in one practiced motion. His fingers never left you.

You blinked.

“What are you doing?” you hissed.

He smirked.

“Multitasking.”

His hand moved again—beneath the cover—two fingers slipping back between your thighs, stroking through the slick heat there like it was nothing. Your breath caught. Your hips twitched.

“They’re gonna see—”

“No, they’re not,” he said softly. “They’re gonna walk past, and you’re gonna keep your face pretty, like I’m not fucking you with my fingers under this blanket.”

You clamped your jaw shut, breath shaking, thighs twitching as he pushed a finger inside—slow and deep. He leaned in, lips grazing your ear.

“You’re clenching already.”

You stared straight ahead, body buzzing. “Because you’re infuriating.”

“And you’re soaked,” he whispered. “Your body loves being bad.”

His thumb brushed your clit again, and you bit down on your lip to keep from gasping. The couple passed, oblivious, chatting as if nothing was happening near by.

You could barely think.

As soon as they were gone, Liam turned to you again, voice low and rough.

“I want you. Right now. Under me. Around me. Hands in my hair, legs around my waist. I want to hear what your little sounds actually sound like.”

You turned your head, breathing hard, face flushed and hot.

“Take me somewhere quiet,” you said, “and you can hear everything.”

He stared at you like he’d win the lottery and lost all control in the same moment.

Then he slowly pulled his fingers out, slick and glistening, and sucked them clean with a groan that went straight to your spine.

“You taste like summer,” he murmured. “Like sin.”

He stood and held out a hand.

“Let’s go.”

You didn’t move yet.

“You sure you’re up for it?” you said, voice light. “You’re awfully worked up for someone who’s been so calm all afternoon.”

He looked down at you, cock hard behind his jeans, jaw tight.

“Get up before I fuck you right here on the picnic blanket”

You took his hand and rose slowly, letting the dress fall back into place, your thighs still slick and trembling.

You leaned in, mouth grazing his ear.

“You’d never survive it.”

He smiled, wide and wild.

“Try me.”

The clearing opened up quiet and green, tucked behind the trees like a secret waiting to be used. The bench was there—old, wooden, dappled in sun. You barely saw it before Liam stopped walking.

He dropped the blanket in the grass.

Then he turned.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and warm, but charged. Not rough—intentional.

“You look wrecked already,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m not the one who was panting after fingering someone under a blanket.”

He stepped in close, hands sliding around your waist, under your dress and into your folds. “You’re still wet.”

“You’re still talking.”

He laughed—soft, breathless, aroused as hell—and kissed you.

This time, it was messy. Mouths open. Lips plush. Tongues tangling. His hands slid down, gripping your hips, your ass, pulling you flush against him. You felt him—hard through his jeans, pressed up right where you needed him.

You gasped against his mouth. “I thought we were in a hurry.”

“I’m not skipping steps,” he said, low and hot. “You’re getting every bit of what you earned.”

Then he sank to his knees in the grass.

You froze—not from uncertainty, but from the way he looked up at you. Hands already under your dress, pushing it higher, settling it around your waist. His palms slid up your bare thighs, his fingers spreading you open, and moving one of your legs over his shoulder.

He leaned in, kissed the inside of one thigh—soft, then slower. His nose brushed your skin as he turned his head and breathed you in.

“Sweet,” he muttered. “Warm. Fuckin’ heaven.”

You exhaled. “You always talk this much?”

He looked up at you, lips curved.

“You won’t be complaining in thirty seconds.”

And then he buried his face between your legs.

You braced a hand against the edge of the bench behind you as his mouth opened against you—tongue licking a slow, perfect stripe through your folds. His hands held your thighs, thumbs spreading you gently, and he took his time. Licked like it mattered. Like he craved it.

You moaned, head tipping back.

“Liam—”

He didn’t answer. His mouth was full of you.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, flicked it softly, then flattened his tongue against you, moaning low when your hips bucked toward his face. One of his hands slid up to your belly, holding you steady as he picked up the pace.

It was so good. Too good. You felt it start to build fast—tight, pulsing heat behind your ribs, down your spine, pooling low in your belly.

“I’m gonna—fuck—”

He nodded against you like he wanted it.

And when you came, you came hard—grinding against his mouth, thighs trembling around his face, both hands now gripping the bench behind you. You spilled onto his tongue, gasping, swearing, and he stayed with you, licking you through it, softer now but no less focused.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, chin shining. He looked wrecked—and smug about it.

“You’re shaking.”

You were.

“And you’re proud.”

He stood, hands sliding up your sides. “I’d frame that sound you made if I could.”

You reached for his shirt, yanked him into another kiss—tasting yourself on his mouth. He groaned, low and full, and you felt the last of his restraint break.

“Turn around,” he said into your mouth.

This time, it wasn’t a command. It was a need.

You turned, hands braced on the bench, dress still hitched up around your waist. You felt him behind you—fumbling open his jeans, breath rough against your neck.

Then he was there.

One hand on your hip. The other guiding himself. And then—

He slid into you.

One slow, thick stroke.

You moaned—long and low, head falling forward as he filled you completely.

“Fuck, you feel—” he swore, cutting himself off as he sank deeper. “So hot. So tight.”

You pushed back against him and he caught your rhythm instantly. His hips snapped into you, fast and filthy, the sound of skin on skin loud in the quiet clearing.

The bench creaked beneath your grip.

“You’ve been teasing me all day,” he panted. “All that sass. All that mouth. And now look at you.”

You looked over your shoulder, breathless. “Don’t act like you’re not loving it.”

He laughed, flushed and wild, and fucked you harder.

“Loving it?” His voice broke a little. “I’m never getting enough of this.”

His hand came around to your front, fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed fast and sure, synced with every thrust, until you were right there again, body clenching, legs shaking.

“Come for me,” he breathed. “Right here, bent over, wide open—let me feel it.”

And you did. Harder this time. Loud, unfiltered, wrecked.

He followed with a low moan, thrusting deep and coming with you—filling you so full you felt it everywhere.

You stayed there, panting, forearms braced on the bench, his body still pressed to yours.

Then he kissed your shoulder.

Soft. Sweet. Contrasting everything you’d just done.

“You,” he murmured, “are dangerous.”

You smiled, still catching your breath.

“And you,” you said, “talk a lot of shit for someone who just came like that.”

He laughed, forehead against your back.

“I’ll shut up next time.”

You looked back at him, your lips curling into a smirk

“Good. Because next time I’m riding you.”

Part 2

[enchanting-chit-chat]

Beetlejuice's Backstory and the Black Plague 💚🕷️🥀💀 PART 3

Good evening! As promised, here’s Part 3 of my series on Beetlejuice’s past and movieverse. Today, we dive deeper into historical fashion, analyzing the outfits of Beetlejuice and Delores to uncover their personal stories.

If you missed the earlier parts, check out PART 1 and PART 2.

Warning: This post contains SPOILERS for ‘Beetlejuice Beetlejuice’ (2024)... and many, MANY speculations.

Quick recap: In Part 1, we discussed the Plague. In Part 2, we delved into Beetlejuice’s past, questioning the claim that he died over 600 years ago.

I wondered: is that really true? Why does his clothing reflect the Baroque style, then?

That's right! In Part 3, I confirm my previous point: there are several clues suggesting that Beetlejuice most likely lived during the Baroque era - a cultural movement that began in Rome at the end of the 16th century and faded around 1750. Here is the list of the clues I noticed:

The lace neckband around BJ's neck.

His three-piece wedding suit.

Delores off-the-shoulder neckline and puffed sleeves.

The bird masks used by Delores and the undertakers.

AliveBeetlejuice first outfit (when he's stealing from corpses): specifically, the pirate shirt and the type of shoes.

Keep in mind that most of these elements were revolutionary novelties of the 16th-17th century. Here is proof for every. single. one of them.

The Lace Cravat

A behind the scenes still of Michael Keaton in 'Beetlejuice Beetlejuice' vs. the portrait of Jacob de Witte, Lord of Haamstede (Netherlands). The artwork was made by Jan Mijtens in 1660.

The first cravat, the predecessor of modern neckties and bow ties, originated in France during Louis XIV’s reign as a political and fashion statement. (Although the early idea comes from the Ancient Roman focale, used around 200 CE). The King was inspired by a particularly eye-catching necktie wore by Croatian mercenaries as part of their uniform. The new article of clothing quickly became a fashion staple for high-ranking men across Europe.

In its use, it represented the evolution of the common handkerchief, already popular in the 1500s as a practical tool, a flirty decoration, and a status symbol. I believe the variant Beetlejuice is wearing in the picture is called ‘jabot,’ and is one of the older, simpler versions.

Lace, often used in cravats, highlighted the wearer’s wealth. Italian lace, especially from Venice, was highly sought after by the European elite since the 15th century, when ruffs and collars were in vogue.

This detail suggests two possibilities:

Beetlejuice might have been an impoverished aristocrat (or a rich merchant) clinging to his title until the end. This could also explain the ring on his index finger, symbolizing power or family ties. Or both.

Alternatively, he may have been someone who strongly wished to be part of the elite.

Jacket and Breeches

Aristocratic fashion, 1630 (Victoria & Albert collection) vs. What Beetlejuice wore in the wedding scene.

Another standout innovation of the Baroque period was the introduction of the three-piece men’s suit, known as the ‘Habit à la française.’

This ensemble included a tailcoat (a calf-length jacket), a coat (a long waistcoat), and knee-length breeches. Like the cravat, this fashion was adopted across Europe. As you can see, Beetlejuice is perfectly embodying this fashion, which evolved and remained popular until the 19th century. Interestingly, one shoe is missing.

Pirate Shirt

Originating in the 16th-17th century, the ‘poet shirt’ or ‘poet blouse’ remained popular through the Romantic era. These multi-purpose shirts served as both underwear and nightwear, featuring long tails that reached mid-thigh or knee. The body and sleeves were gathered at the collar and cuffs, creating a full, loose fit.

Delores' Outfit

For comparison, I’ve included an illustration of noblewomen’s fashion at the court of Louis XIII (died 1643). His successor, Louis XIV, made France a cultural and fashion beacon for the next two centuries.

In the movie, Delores wears two nearly identical outfits: long dresses with puffed sleeves ending just below the elbow, a corset, and an off-the-shoulder neckline. This style aligns with 17th-century trends when fashion became more comfortable and relaxed.

The black color suits her character’s personality and role in the film, possibly hinting at a connection to the late Renaissance and the Spanish Court.

In fact, during the reign of Charles V (1500-1558) and his son Philip II (1527-1598), Spanish aristocracy particularly favored the black color, as it represented austerity and power for both men and women. Additionally, a deep shade of black was particularly difficult to achieve with the dyeing methods of the time, making those fabrics quite expensive to make.

However, The Spanish style was quite the opposite to what France later proposed: it consisted in a severe and somber luxury, which increased in opulence as the time passed. As Spain happened to be the beacon of fashion before Louis XIV came along, it's only natural that black rapidly became quite popular all around Europe as well. The color was particularly appreciated by the members of the middle class in Protestant nations and, apparently, in Italy as well.

Finally, keep in mind that 'Delores' is a variant of the more common 'Dolores'. Both names have Spanish origins and means 'sorrows'.

So what do we think? Was Beetlejuice from a rich family? Was Delores a Spanish witch?

Who knows! But I’m willing to dream and speculate!

Until the big reveal from Tim Burton himself in the now teased but not confirmed yet sequel, have a fantastic week!✨