#no firm rules about time

[avocado-writing]

just to reiterate: I block blank blogs. And that doesn’t just mean iconless/headerless blogs, but ones where you have customised but don’t bother reblogging anything too. You have fundamentally misunderstood the use of this reblogging platform. It’s so miserable to see what looks like a legitimate blog following me only to see they mass-like and don’t bother to reblog a single post people took time and effort to write. It’s downright rude. If you’re a blank blog which follows me, I’ll block you. If you’re a mass liker who doesn’t reblog any of mine or my friends’ work, I’ll block you. Simple as.

[winepresswrath]

on the one hand whomst is villainizing my beloved bonnibel bubblegum. on the other she did very much create a society of forever children genetically engineered to be emotionally and physically fragile so she could rule over them as mommy-goddess in a despotic utopia without fear of vulnerability or betrayal only to then realize that if anything happens to her they're all fucked and invent an evil superbeing that had to be locked in constant combat with a less evil superbeing rendering both superbeings is unavailable for governance. however she was allowed to do all that and worse. boo.

[numiolaes]

i wonder how many people would stop bitching about the writing for this show if they could've binged it all and had at least one scene per episode where someone stated everything explicitly like that one scene w/ satan in futurama

[kashverse]

the first time it happens, sukuna doesn't even react.

your daughter, a tiny little thing with a head full of wild hair that looks just like his but with your color, storms up to him while he's adjusting his tie. she's got a determined look on her face, a plastic figurine clutched in her tiny hands—a sonny angel doll, of all things.

"papa, hold," she demands, her chubby fingers working to shove it into the breast pocket of his pristine, custom-made suit. he looks down at her, red eyes blinking slowly. then he looks at you, standing off to the side, barely holding back your laughter.

"what is this?" he asks flatly.

"sonny angel," your daughter says like it's obvious. "he's cute. for you."

you make a choked noise behind your hand, and sukuna exhales through his nose. his baby girl, his tiny menace, is standing there with all the confidence of someone who has never been told 'no' in her life. because, well. she hasn't. so what does he do? he lets her shove the damn thing in his pocket. adjusts it a little so it's sitting neatly, because if he's going to have a tiny cherub-faced baby figurine sticking out of his suit, it's at least going to look intentional.

"happy?" he asks.

his daughter beams at him, gives his pant leg a firm pat like he's done a good job, then scurries off to continue whatever other toddler nonsense she was up to before this. you’re wheezing in the corner.

"don't say a word," he warns, fixing his cuffs.

you grin. "i didn't say anything."

cut to his meeting later that day. sukuna walks in like he owns the place (because he does), radiating his usual aura of dominance and unrelenting authority. his executives are already seated, tense and ready, knowing full well that sukuna does not entertain idiocy. but today? today there is something new. today, nestled neatly in the breast pocket of his three-piece suit, is a tiny, plastic baby figurine wearing a duck hat.

the entire room freezes.

one poor soul, likely new and unaware of how the corporate hierarchy works under sukuna, makes the grave mistake of letting out the faintest, almost imperceptible snort.

sukuna turns his head very slowly.

"who the fuck just laughed?"

silence. absolute, suffocating silence. the man looks down at his notes as if they might save him from impending doom.

sukuna leans back in his chair, tapping a clawed finger against the conference table.

"anyone else got something to say about my sonny angel?"

no one breathes.

good.

he conducts the rest of the meeting as if nothing is out of place, occasionally adjusting the little doll in his pocket like it's just another part of his attire.

by the end of the week, rumors have spread. no one dares to question the sonny angel. entire powerpoint presentations are given with the utmost professionalism while a tiny, smiling cherub peeks out of sukuna’s suit.

by the end of the month, it becomes an unofficial rule of the office. mock the sonny angel? fired. make a comment? fired. even looking at it for too long earns you a pointed glare.

and by the end of the quarter, the entire upper management team has started discreetly wearing their own sonny angels in solidarity. your daughter, completely oblivious to the corporate chaos she has caused, simply continues her toddler life, happy and content in the knowledge that her papa always carries her gift with him.

and sukuna? well. if having a tiny plastic baby in his pocket means seeing his little girl’s delighted grin every morning, then so be it.

[missdynamighttt]

watching porn with bf! katsuki bakugo will somehow turn into a bet to see who will give in first.

when you ask him if you could watch porn together, how could he say no to you, his girl? more so when you basically riled him up to convince him.

"bub, can we watch porn together?" you look at him, your legs resting in his lap as the both of you lounged on the couch.

katsuki's eyes widen at your directness, his jaw slightly dropping at your question. he scoffs out of disbelief, looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

"you're real damn blunt, pervert," he grins at your pout, stroking your thighs with firm, gentle squeezes.

"i'm not doing it for weird reasons! just.." you shrugged. "curious to see what happens, i guess? i dunno how to explain.."

he sighs, shaking his head. his hand reaches out to ruffle your hair with a grin. "you're lucky you're adorable. fuck it, why not?"

you grin, leaning closer to him, giving his cheek a kiss. "knew you'd come around. come to think of it, i bet you will jerk off to it first."

his eyes narrow at you and he scoffs. "that confident, huh?"

"with how hot you think i am and all? totally."

"like you don't think i'm hot too. wanna bet, sweets?"

"definitely. ground rules: don't touch yourself. and no touching each other. and i mean holding hands, hugs, and kisses. not just feeling each other up."

"tch, fine," katsuki scoffs. "no looking away to calm down. only when we talk. winner gets braggin' rights and loser lives with the eternal knowledge that the winner is better."

"fine," you scoff back. "you're gonna give in first, 'nyway. since you can’t go a single morning without pulling me into bed again."

katsuki's eyes narrow at you again, this time pouting at you with his cheeks flushed. "says the brat clingier than a damn koala after sex."

"oh, you're so on."

but little did you know, this would be harder than you thought.

you've set up your laptop on the coffee table across the couch, scrolling through the mediocre home page porn in incognito as you sit next to your boyfriend.

you were almost reluctant to continue but knowing him, he would definitely egg you on about being a coward. because one thing about your boyfriend, katsuki, was that he really wanted to win at everything.

"wanna watch?" you look at katsuki with a grin, the video on display captioned: "I hope the NEIGHBOURS were pleased with WHAT THEY SAW!", the preview of the video showing a couple standing by the window, fucking. it wasn't really your thing but you wanted to see how he'd react.

katsuki glances at the laptop before giving you a skeptical look, his tone firm. "fuck no."

"why not? whats wrong with it?"

"just.. no," he shakes his head, a sly grin slowly creeping onto his face as he looks at you. "one second. technically haven't started yet, yeah?"

he leans in, his lips meeting your cheek in a soft, quick kiss before pulling back. his fingers linger, stroking your cheek in a gentle, affectionate gesture. "just pick somethin' else, sweets."

you roll your eyes while wearing a fond grin. you're almost tempted to call him out on how affectionate he was but you didn't want him to stop. you couldn't help but find it endearing and cute.

but after awhile, you and katsuki realize pornhub's terrible acting and weird angles wasn't really working.

"no, too weird. it looks awkward. and fake."

"no, the guy is givin' me the ick. looks homeless."

"no, it looks.. painful. why is it so stretched?"

"no. wait, you're into that? i'm not opposed to it, i just think it looks weird when they do it. just sayin', if you wanna try it.."

so, you go on twitter, looking for porn accounts and already finding better alternatives.

finally, your eyes settle on a compilation of video captioned: "breeding selection 🖤" , the previews of the videos showing various faceless girls getting fucked sloppily and creampied by their partner.

this was it. it wasn't exactly your best plan but you were depedent on him getting turned on by the video and your mere presence to win the bet. and if anything turned him on, it would be the thought of breeding his pretty little girlfriend.

you glance at him from the side, taking in his relaxed demeanor as he leans back with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the laptop as if there wasn't porn on the screen.

"this good with you, boyfie?"

he looks at you and fuck, you can practically feel the heat radiating from his gaze. his eyes rake over you, taking in every curve and contour of your body with a hungry look, like he's undressing you with his eyes, imagining what he'd do to you.

"mhm, 'ts fine."

you nod, going back to the laptop to play the video, stupidly thinking: there was no way he'd be able to play dirty, especially when he can't touch you. but no.

the video plays, only a few seconds showing the girl's rear. the guy squeezes her ass, the cum dripping out of her pussy and in between her swollen folds, down to her thighs as he plays with her ass.

and you know what katsuki does? this man talks you through it, saying the most filthy, lewd shit with a cheeky grin. this man plays dirty by talking dirty.

"goddamn. see the cum, just drippin' out of her? bet you want me fill you up real bad now, don't you? wanna recreate that with me, sweets?"

your thighs clench involuntarily, your body betraying your inner desire. you stare back at him with a glare, feeling a familiar ache settle between your legs. "we do that on a daily basis, katsuki."

"'m just sayin'," katsuki grins, thinking: perfect. you're getting horny. "the idea of pumpin' you full, watchin' my cum drip out of you.."

he was just so desperate to see you rub your clit silly so that he can do it too without admitting defeat. his dick was huge but his pride could compete.

you clear your throat, glaring at his cheeky grin before quickly playing the next video. it's longer, around 8 minutes. it has a better angle, showing the guy's dick disappearing in and out of the girl's pussy, her doughy ass hitting his abdomen. he slams into her as she moans softly around his cock, sticky from their shared slick.

you feel hot and tight in your own skin, your throat going dry. you felt your sore nipples harden as you painfully clench down on nothing, tempted to just subtly grind against the couch for a second. fuck. it hasn't even been 5 minutes yet you were so, so wet.

your boyfriend noticed. and he certainly wasn't of any help.

"shit," katsuki leans down close enough to whisper in your ear, his breath hitting your skin, but far away enough so that he wasn't touching you. "you wet already, sweets?"

"i'm not. shut up and watch the damn porn."

"aww, don't be like that. look at my pants, baby, c'mon."

you bite your bottom lip before your eyes reluctantly dart down to his pants. fuck. his boner was so fucking obvious, it didn't help that he was wearing grey sweats. you were already picturing him naked, imagining how your cunny would look like taking in his dick.

"see? i'm so fuckin' hard for you, baby, it hurts," he sighs, looking at the tent in his pants before whispering in your ear. "don't you wanna take care of me, hm?"

a small sigh escapes your lips as you try to steady your breathing, your eyes darting everywhere but at katsuki. your thoughts consumed by the sight of him, despite your attempts to remain composed.

"you're mean," you huff.

"baby, c'mon. i'll take real good care of you, i promise," he grins at you. "just gotta touch me, yeah?"

you pout again before your eyes return to the screen, thinking your only solution was to ignore him.

although, it wasn't any help as you watched the cum drip out of the girl's pussy before he fucks it back into her, when you wanted nothing more than for him to do the same to you.

he put some distance, and you thought: okay. some time to calm yourself down. but just when you thought katsuki couldn't outdo himself, you hear the ruffling of pants, looking down to see him stripping himself of his clothes.

you look up at him as you feel your face get hot from embarrassment. "hey, what are yo-"

"hm?" he looks back at you, blinking innocently. he throws his clothes unceremoniously somewhere, leaving him in only his boxers as he holds his hands up in surrender. "what? it's hot, sweets. this doesn't count 'nyway, right? besides, 'm not touchin' anythin'."

you huff, pouting at him with a glare, trying not to admire his muscles. that's the game he wanted to play? you glanced down again, a clear fucking mistake. you almost felt drool down your chin as you admired his body, tempted to take his boxers off and just go wild—

you swallowed, looking back up at him. you get an idea. if you can't beat them, then... "you wanna play that game? fine."

you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric over your head, revealing your bare skin to his eyes. tossing the shirt aside, you slowly tug down on your shorts, sliding them down your legs until you're left standing in just your bra and panties.

katsuki's jaw tightens and his muscles tense the moment you started undressing. he clenched his fists, the effort it takes him not to pounce on you was almost physically painful. he takes in the sight of your nearly naked body, his mouth going dry at the sight of you in your bra and panties.

the porn playing on the laptop is long forgotten as he stares at you. because fuck porn when he has such a gorgeous girl right in front of him. his girl.

"the hell are you doin'?" his voice is strained, getting the courage to look away with flushed cheeks. his eyes dart back to the screen, focusing with his arms crossed.

"hm?" you look up at him, blinking innocently like he did. you put your clothes away somewhere and held your hands up in surrender, like he did. "relax. its hot for me too. besides, doesn't count, right?"

"damn it. doesn't count but it's damn well torture."

"what's stopping you from fucking me, hm?"

"you know damn well whats stoppin' me. quit testin' me or i swear to god, i'm gonna fuck you so hard after this."

you laugh, trying to ignore the ache in between your legs as a cheeky smile plays on your lips. "'m just saying. i bet it'd feel really good, y'know. having you inside of me..."

his teeth clench at your words, his hands clenching into fists to keep himself in check. "goddamn it. baby, you're killin' me here."

"bub... all you gotta do is touch me and i can make the pain go away."

"sweets... why are you torturing me?" he groans, his hands clenching onto the couch as he glares at you.

"i want you. fuck, i need you. damn it, you've seen how fuckin' hard i am. so why are you makin' me wait, hm?" his voice is low, almost whining about how much he craves you. how needy he is to be inside you.

"i wanna win too," you bite your bottom lip, almost tempted to fold.

"fuck," he grits out, his eyes closing briefly as he runs his hand through his hair. he looks at you again, his gaze filled with frustration and need. "sweetheart.. you're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

a sly smile spreads across your lips as you lean in closer to him, just close enough that your breath tickles his skin, but not touching him. you were getting there. on top of him not making eye contact, you could've sworn his boner twitched.

"i know. but... please take care of me, katsuki," you whispered, hearing his breath hitch as yours fans across his skin. "i know you wanna."

his eyes darken as he looks down at you, his resolve almost wavering. "oh, i do. i really do, sweets."

that's the last thing you hear before katsuki is finally on you, his movements quick and urgent as he slams his lips onto yours. he kisses you like he's starving, his lips hot and angry against yours, desperate to have his fill of you but take out his frustration on you too.

katsuki pulls away, glaring at you before helping you out of your soaked panties as you help him out of his boxers, his hard cock springing out and stood at his abdomen.

"wanna take care of me that badly, huh?" you grin, reaching for his cock, stroking it up as you thumb his throbbing tip leaking with pre.

his breath hitches, hissing before he reaches down your folds and rubs your swollen clit, your soft moans echoing in his ears. "shut the fuck up. you won't even be able to think, after i'm done with you."

katsuki grunts, aligning himself inside of you, gasping at the softness of your wet, velvet walls. and as he thrusts his cock into your dumb little cunny, he recreates exactly what happened in those videos.

"whats the matter?" he taunts in your ear as he folds your legs near your shoulders, fucking you into mating press. his body covers yours completely, you can feel his weight pressing down on you. "you fuckin' wanted this, right?"

"a-ah, i do..." you gasped, sore nipples feeling the skin of his pecs. "you're just.. mad i won.."

"hah? you callin' me a sore loser?"

"if— oh... if the condom... fits."

suddenly, you squealed from the sudden thrust, whimpering as he slams his cock deeper inside of you, almost kissing your cervix as you feel his balls slapping against your folds.

"won't fuckin' fit 'nyway cause i'm fuckin' you raw— shit," he gasps, desperately rutting himself into you, chasing your release and his. "feels so fuckin' tight, sweets, holy shit..."

"katsukiii," you moaned his name, rolling your eyes to the back of your head as he fucks you dumb. "i-i can't, anymore, please—"

"shhh, you can take it," he huffs before leaning down to give you an affectionate, reassuring kiss. his lips soft and gentle against yours as you wrap your arms around his neck.

he draws back from the kiss, his lips leaving yours with a soft, wet pop. "you can take it, can't you, baby?"

you whine and squirm against him, a desperate, needy sound leaving your lips. you nod, the words failing you in that moment, silently begging him to keep going, to give you more of the pleasure that you need. he smiles at you, leaning down quickly to give your cheek a kiss.

"atta girl," he murmured with pride, kissing down your jawline. his mouth is hot against your skin as he peppers your collar bones and chest with open-mouthed kisses. "that's my girl."

"k-katsuki," you pant, your hips rolling against his as your body begs for the sweet, sweet release that only he can give you. "m-m' gonna.. c-cum.."

"yeah? you gonna cum for me?" he groaned. he wants to see you lose yourself in pleasure. he craves to be the one to bring you to your high. "you wanna cum for me, pretty girl?"

"please," you whimper, your voice shaky and needy as your eyes meet his pleadingly. "please, yeah, m' gonna cum for you, please just—"

your words cut off as you let out a soft cry, your head tilting back further into the couch as your body trembles with the need to let go, to give in to the pleasure that's threatening to overwhelm you.

"cum for me, sweets," he grunts, his hips rocking against yours. "show me how much you like it when i fuck you like this, c'mon."

and that's all it takes— clenching down on him and burying himself inside of you—and you're both gone.

your body tenses, a gasp of pleasure escaping your lips as you feel him cum inside of you, bodies shaking with the force of your release and his. your hips press against his as he relaxes into you, your nails digging onto his (glorious) back.

katsuki pants, taking a moment to admire you. the way your chest rises and falls with each breath, teetering on the edge from your high as you cling to him. like a koala.

"you did so good, sweets," katsuki murmured. he steadies himself beneath you and pulls his cock out, pressing the tip against your folds, waiting for the moment of his dreams. he almost has hearts in his eyes when he watches the cum drip out of you, going down his tip as he pushes it inside you again. "so damn good."

"i asked if you wanted to recreate those videos," he grins when he hears you gasp, feeling the tip of his cock rub your folds, squirming against him as you bit your lip. "i'll make sure i get all the details right by breeding the shit out of you."

and as the night wares on, you both collapse onto the couch, panting and exhausted, a tangle of limbs wrapped around each other, cuddled up close after having the most mind-numbing sex.

"so.." you look up at him with a lazy smile, laying your head on his chest. "loser lives with the eternal knowledge the winner is better, huh?"

he groaned, closing his eyes for a minute before staring at you as he runs his fingers through your hair. "sweets... you're real fuckin' lucky i love you. otherwise, i really would've went above and beyond and made sure i knocked you up."

"i wouldn't be opposed to that."

katsuki narrows his eyes at you, his fingers flicking your forehead. "don't tempt me, brat."

you rub your forehead with a pout, sticking your tongue out at him. "so mean."

he scoffs, his hand reaching out to grab your wrist, gently but firmly pulling your hand away, hovering his lips to where he flicked earlier to give your forehead a soft kiss. "get some sleep, sweetheart."

"fine. i love you too, bub. goodnight."

"tch. love you more, dummy."

and honestly? katsuki doesn't need porn to get his dick hard. not when he has you. his personal porn star, his gorgeous girlfriend, and of course— his favorite person.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ inspired by my ex 🧍🏻‍♀️ hope this was to your liking and i hope you enjoyed, i apologize if it seems too.. lewd? nyways, i'll start working on these requests and the older brother's best friend/ best friend's older brother trope with katsuki (i cannot choose), comment if you wanna be tagged 💜💜

[miihho]

THE KIND OF GUY

( squid game edition boys ) nsfw

Frontman / 001 /

— HE'S THE KIND OF GUY who’d manipulate you subtly, weaving himself so deeply into your life that you wouldn’t realize until it’s too late that he’s made himself the sole person you can rely on, the only one you can trust.

— He’s the kind of guy who rarely lets anyone get close, especially in a place like this. As the Frontman, he’s used to controlling everything with precision and cold detachment. But when it comes to you, something shifts. The games are brutal, unforgiving, but he finds ways to make sure you get a little more help—extra food to keep you going, or a quiet word to the guards to make sure they would help you. He doesn’t do this for anyone else, but for you, he bends the rules just enough to keep you alive, his actions hidden beneath the mask but speaking volumes about the care he won’t openly admit.

— The kind of guy who’d undress you with his eyes from across the room, watching you as you laugh and chat with your teammates, completely unaware of the intensity of his gaze. His stare is almost predatory, soaking in every detail, devouring you without a single word.

— The kind of guy who never shows his jealousy outright, keeping his emotions carefully concealed behind a calm exterior. But his eyes—sharp and piercing—will find the person you’re talking to, delivering a silent, bone-chilling warning. Without a word, he makes them feel exposed, unsettled, and unwelcome.

As their confidence crumbles under his unrelenting gaze, they’ll stammer some flimsy excuse, their discomfort driving them to leave in a hurry. You, sweet and oblivious, will watch them go, your mind never grasping the quiet dominance he just asserted.

And when the space between you clears, he’ll step in with perfect timing, his presence effortlessly stealing your focus. His voice will be warm, his words lighthearted, drawing you into an easy conversation as if nothing had happened.

— The kind of guy who always gets what he wants, and if he’s set his sights on you, nothing and no one will stand in his way. Anyone who tries to come between you and him is dealt with swiftly—whether it’s a rival or someone foolish enough to fall for you. If they dare challenge him, they’re as good as gone.

— In sex, he’s the kind of guy who revels in your every movement, his hands gripping your waist with just the right amount of force. “Good girl,” he’d murmur, his voice low and dripping with desire, each word sending shivers down your spine. “That’s it, attagirl,” he’d whisper, his eyes locked onto yours, dark and filled with raw admiration, as if every move you made was crafted to drive him wild.

If you’re straddling him, bouncing on his cock with desperate urgency, he’d lean back against the wall, his head tilting slightly as his eyes flutter shut, a deep, guttural moan spilling from his lips. His fingers digging into your waist, controlling your movements with a firm, possessive grip as his ragged breaths mingled with husky groans. “Fuck, you feel so good—so tight, so perfect,” he’d rasp, his voice dripping with raw hunger. The words would make your pace falter for just a heartbeat before his hands tightened on your hips, driving you down harder, faster, his need for you utterly insatiable.

But if he’s mad at you, it’s completely different. He’d have you on your stomach, your back arched as he pushes your head down into the bed, his breath hot against your ear as he growls, “Such a fucking bad girl.” in a deep, rough voice that makes your body shudder. His frustration would translate into every powerful thrust, his movements unrelenting as your muffled cries echo into the pillow. The way he claims you, rough and demanding, would send you spiraling, your body surrendering completely as he makes sure you feel every inch of his cock.

— He’d absolutely be the type to let you cockwarm him while he’s busy, his focus shifting between his work and the needy little whines you make every time you shift in his lap. His hand would lazily rest on your thigh, occasionally gripping tighter when you squirm too much, a silent warning to behave.

But when you get too desperate, too needy for him to ignore, he’d smirk, shifting his hips just enough to tease you, his cock pressing against all the right spots. “Patience, baby,” he’d murmur, his voice dripping with amusement as you let out a frustrated whimper.

And when he finally indulges you, he leans back on the couch, drink in hand, watching as you take control, bouncing up and down on his cock with reckless abandon. His eyes stay locked on you, hungry and half-lidded, while he takes a slow sip of his drink. The big screen glows in the background, but his full attention is on the way you move, the way you moan his name like it’s the only word you know.

“Look at you,” he’d groan, his voice low and thick. “So fucking desperate for me, riding my cock like a good girl. Keep going, baby—show me how much you need it.” And when you finally fall apart, trembling in his lap, he’ll just chuckle, pulling you close to kiss you as if rewarding you for putting on the perfect show.

— He’s the kind of man who makes your whole body burn. His panting breaths, low grunts, and the slick sheen of sweat gliding down his chiseled abs are enough to drive you mad. His hand pushes back his messy hair, but that one strand falls stubbornly over his forehead, making him look devastatingly wrecked as his tired, lust-heavy eyes lock onto yours. Each deep thrust is accompanied by a guttural sound from deep in his chest, the intensity in his gaze leaving you utterly undone. He’d lift you like you weigh nothing, slamming you onto the bed with a feral growl. His tie is gone in seconds, ripped away and tossed aside as his jaw clenches, every move commanding your attention and submission.

You were utterly wrecked beneath him, legs spread wide on his bed, your body trembling as his fingers plunged into you, hitting every spot that made your back arch off the sheets. His smirk was downright sinful as he watched you fall apart, his voice low and teasing.

“Feel good, baby?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. The way your thighs quivered and your nails dug into his back said it all. He chuckled when all you could do was nod, your breathless moans spilling out as his fingers worked you mercilessly. You’d already cum twice, your mind foggy and body pliant, but he wasn’t done with you. His dark, lust-filled eyes pinned you in place, making you feel even more exposed, more vulnerable, and it only made you crave him more.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Gotta make sure you’re ready for me, baby. Can’t have my girl getting hurt when I stretch this pretty little pussy out.” His words were sweet and filthy all at once, paired with soft kisses along your jaw and forehead that contrasted with the way his fingers fucked into you.

When he finally pulled his fingers out, leaving you aching and desperate, he unzipped himself, letting his cock spring free, already slick with precum. He stroked himself slowly, teasing you as your eyes went wide, taking in how thick and hard he was.

“See this, baby? All of it’s for you.”

As he pressed into you, inch by inch, your walls stretched to take him, the fullness almost too much to bear. You cried out, clutching at him, but he only groaned deeply, his voice husky. “Fuck… this tight little pussy was made for me,” he rasped, his hips sinking into you completely.

“You’re taking me so well, baby,” he said, his breath hot against your lips as he leaned in to kiss you deeply. His thrusts started slow, deliberate, every movement sending shockwaves through your body.

“fuck, you’re perfect… so good for me, taking every inch like the sweet little slut you are.” His praise was filthy, his tone raw, and the way his body pinned yours down left you completely at his mercy.

HI I'M BACK! also Happy new year everyone! Which person should i do next? Thanos? Salesman? Player 333? Lmk!

[tanoraqui]

shoutout to my dash and the Democratic Party as a whole right now for being like

Some good policy reasons to get excited about Harris. Gun control! Heathcare! LGBT rights!

Fighting for the fate of the world: has said she’ll make climate change a top national security priority; was one of the original Senate sponsors of the Green New Deal (others: Ocasio-Cortez, Markey), much of which became Biden’s stealthily VERY green Bipartisan Infrastructure Bill and the Inflation Reduction Act

Yes, she was a prosecuting attorney; no, it’s NOT an ACAB situation—highlights of her time as District Attorney of San Francisco and Attorney General of California include enabling a re-entry/anti-recidivism program for young drug users which is now used as a template around the country, pointedly not prosecuting people for marijuana possession (distinctly before it was legal), defending Californians against foreclosures, got the “gay/trans panic” defense BANNED in CA courts, and being the first statewide agency to require all police offers to wear body cams.

As VP she’s spearheaded abortion rights, developed and nearly passed a landmark voting rights bill (stymied by Senate Republicans + 2 Democrats unwilling to change filibuster rules), and quietly built a solid foreign policy portfolio, including firm support of Palastine.

Find out if you’re registered to vote in any state!

Register to vote in any state!

Other voting resources—and DON’T FORGET to vote down-ballot, too! See how much Harris did as County District Attorney and State Attorney General? Those are elected offices!

[solxamber]

And I Pick...

In which you choose the club that caught your eye

Part 1

After much contemplation you've finally decided to pick the:

Basketball Club

The basketball court was quiet for all of two seconds after you announced your decision.

Then Ace exploded.

"HA! I knew you’d pick us! I called it!" He was practically doing laps around the court, pointing at nothing in particular. "Ace Trappola: the ultimate recruiter, the club MVP, and now the guy who brought you on board! This is the best day of my life!"

"Eh, it’s about time," Floyd drawled, stretching lazily. "Took ya long enough to figure out where the fun is." His sharp-toothed grin widened. "Now we can play my version of full-contact basketball. Hehehe."

"Absolutely not," Jamil cut in, but Floyd wasn’t listening.

"Don’t worry," Floyd said, throwing an arm around your shoulders like you’d been lifelong teammates. "If you survive the first practice, you’ll survive all the practices. Probably."

Ace jogged back over, breathless but triumphant. "I told you we’re the best club! No boring rules, no endless laps like in Deuce's lame track team, and best of all—" He struck a dramatic pose, arms wide. "You get to hang out with me every day!"

"Please don’t make them quit on the first week," Jamil muttered, giving you a look that seemed to say, Are you sure about this?

"Quit? Nahhh!" Ace grinned. "They’re gonna thrive here. I’ll even teach them my signature moves—like my no-look, backwards, mid-air layup."

"You can’t even do that," Jamil said flatly.

"Not yet," Ace shot back. "But it’s the thought that counts."

Floyd leaned in closer, his grin somehow growing wider. "You better keep up, shrimpy. Otherwise, I might have to… spice things up a little."

"Spice things up?" you echoed, immediately suspicious.

"He means doing things like replacing the basketballs with watermelons," Jamil deadpanned.

Ace snorted. "Or throwing the ball at the hoop so hard it breaks the backboard. Oh wait, that actually happened. Twice."

"It was fun," Floyd said, completely unrepentant.

Jamil sighed like a man who’d aged a decade in the last five minutes. But then, to your surprise, he turned to you and offered a small, genuine smile. "Still… I’m glad you’re here. Welcome to the team."

The words were simple, but coming from Jamil, they felt like a warm endorsement.

Ace clapped his hands together, clearly ready to move things along. "Alright, enough talking! Let’s get you on the court and see what you’ve got!"

"Or we could start slow," Jamil suggested, but Ace was already dragging you toward the center of the court, Floyd trailing behind with a basketball under one arm.

"Don’t worry," Floyd said, tossing the ball up and catching it effortlessly. "If ya mess up, we’ll just laugh at ya a little. No big deal~."

"No one’s laughing at anyone," Jamil said firmly, already pinching the bridge of his nose.

Ace threw an arm around your shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. "Ignore him. We’re gonna have a blast! First practice starts now!"

You weren’t sure what you’d gotten yourself into, but judging by their enthusiasm (and Floyd’s maniacal laughter), you were in for one chaotic ride.

Track and Field Club

The moment you declared your allegiance to the track and field club, Deuce’s face lit up like someone had just told him he passed his midterms.

“You’re… really joining?” he asked, like he needed double confirmation. When you nodded, his grin widened, the kind that made him look both relieved and excited. “That’s awesome! Uh—welcome to the team! Seriously, it’s great to have you.” His usual earnestness shone through, and he scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m still kind of learning the ropes, but we can figure things out together. It’s gonna be great!”

Jack, standing beside him, gave a firm nod of approval. “Good call. Track and field’s a solid choice. You’ll fit right in.” His tail wagged just enough to betray how happy he was, even if his tone stayed calm.

"Yeah!" Deuce agreed. “And, uh, don’t worry about keeping up or anything. It’s all about improving at your own pace. Right, Jack?”

“Sure,” Jack replied, glancing at you. Then he added, almost casually, “We’ll work on your stamina. You’re gonna need it.”

It took you a second to catch the faint glint in his eye, and then you remembered—oh no, the fridge comment. Jack had been disturbed ever since.

Deuce, oblivious to the subtext, chimed in, “Yeah, Jack’s great at that stuff! He’s got this crazy endurance. Like, he can run forever. I’m still working on it, but, uh, you’re in good hands!”

Jack’s tail swished again. “Just be ready to push yourself. But don’t worry—we’ve got your back.”

“Exactly!” Deuce said, his fists clenching like he was ready to run a marathon right there. “This is gonna be awesome. I mean, not that it wasn’t already great, but now it’s even better. Right, Jack?”

Jack gave a small, satisfied smile. “Right.”

As they led you toward the field, you couldn’t help but wonder what you’d just signed up for. One thing was certain, though—Jack’s still thinking about that fridge, and he will make sure it’s not an issue anymore.

Board Game Club

The moment you declared your allegiance to the board game club, Azul adjusted his glasses, looking smugly pleased with himself, like he'd just negotiated the deal of the century.

"An excellent decision," he said, his voice as smooth as the perfectly polished board games stacked behind him. "With your addition to our club, I foresee a new golden age of strategic victories."

Idia, sitting half-hidden behind a pile of unopened game boxes, choked on his energy drink. "W-Wait, you’re serious? They actually chose us?" His hair flared a brilliant shade of pink for a moment before he pulled his hoodie tighter around himself. "Th-this isn’t some prank, right? Like, I’m not gonna look up and see them bolting out the door laughing, right?"

"Nope," you replied with a grin. "I’m all in."

Ortho, ever the enthusiastic hype man, zipped into the room with his jet thrusters. "Welcome to the club! Now we have a full party for dungeon raids. This is amazing!"

Azul cleared his throat, waving a hand. "Ahem, while cooperative RPGs are certainly an option, I believe we should start with a game of strategy and wit to introduce them properly. Perhaps a round of Chess of Betrayal?"

Idia groaned, sinking further into his hoodie. "Ugh, that game takes, like, three hours. If you’re gonna scare them away, at least wait until they’re too deep in to quit. Why don’t we start with something easy, like Goblin King Gauntlet?"

Ortho clapped his hands. "Ooh, I love that one! It has a random trap mechanic! Let’s play that!"

Azul raised an eyebrow, his smile shark-like. "Trap mechanics are hardly a proper welcome. It would be far better to demonstrate the finer nuances of strategy, wouldn’t you agree?"

Idia muttered something about Azul turning everything into a power play, but you interrupted before they could spiral into a full-blown debate. "Honestly, I’m fine with anything. Just deal me in."

Azul’s smirk widened. "Very well, then. I shall prepare the game board. And don’t worry, I’ll make certain you’re fully equipped for our upcoming campaigns. You’ll find we offer more than just fun—we offer victory."

Idia peeked out from his hoodie, a small, hopeful smile creeping onto his face. "You’re not bad at this whole club thing. Maybe this won’t be so terrible."

As they started setting up the game, you felt an unexpected warmth. Sure, it was just a board game club, but there was something endearing about their chaotic enthusiasm.

Though one thing was clear—Azul would probably try to sell you game tokens at some point, and Idia would absolutely try to teach you how to min-max your dice rolls.

But hey, you were ready for it.

Film Studies Club

When you announced your decision to join the film studies club, Vil paused mid-sip of his herbal tea, one elegantly arched eyebrow rising. For a moment, he looked like he was considering whether he had heard you correctly. Then, with a practiced air of nonchalance, he set the teacup down.

"Hm. Acceptable," he said coolly, though his tone betrayed a slight uptick of satisfaction. "It’s rare to find someone with enough taste to appreciate the art of cinema. I suppose your presence will be… useful."

But the slight curl of his lips gave him away.

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his coat, and gave you an appraising look. "We have much to discuss. If you’re serious about this, you’ll need to commit entirely—no half-measures, no excuses. The camera is unforgiving, and I have no intention of allowing this club to falter under subpar contributions."

You opened your mouth to respond, but he was already pacing, gesturing dramatically like the star of an avant-garde production. "Lighting, blocking, composition—they are all integral to creating art, not merely entertainment. I trust you won’t embarrass yourself, or me, for that matter."

Despite his words, you caught the faintest hint of pride in his gaze as he turned to face you fully. "And, if for some reason, acting isn’t your strength, there are other roles. Cinematography, set design, editing… Perhaps backstage work would suit you, should you fail the audition."

He didn’t say it to be harsh; this was Vil’s version of encouragement. And as he continued outlining the club’s vision—"a modern renaissance in storytelling"—you realized he was genuinely excited to have you there, even if he’d rather gargle poison than openly admit it.

Finally, he stopped and gave you a small, approving nod. "Welcome to the film studies club. Don’t make me regret this."

Translation: I’m glad you’re here.

Science Club

The moment you announced your decision to join the science club, Rook’s eyes lit up like you’d just declared him the ruler of the universe.

"Ah, mon ami! What a magnifique choice!" he exclaimed, sweeping you into a theatrical bow so deep you thought he might topple over. "You possess the soul of an explorer, a true seeker of knowledge! Together, we shall unlock the mysteries of nature and celebrate its beauty in all its forms!"

"Uh… don’t scare them off, Rook," Trey interjected, though he was smiling. He adjusted his apron, clearly relieved that you hadn’t bolted under Rook’s enthusiastic greeting. "We’re glad to have you. Really. It’s nice to have someone else around who won’t accidentally set the lab on fire."

You raised an eyebrow. "That’s a low bar."

Trey shrugged. "You’d be surprised how many fail to meet it."

Before you could respond, Rook was already spinning grand plans. "Imagine the adventures we will have! Scaling mountains, crafting elixirs, nurturing delicate blossoms—ah, the poetry of science!" He clasped his hands to his chest, radiating so much joy that you were worried he’d break into song.

Trey, ever the grounded one, sighed fondly. "What he means is: we do a little bit of everything. Growing plants, chemistry experiments, cooking—you’ll fit right in. Assuming Rook doesn’t scare you off first."

Rook turned to Trey with an exaggerated gasp, as if the very suggestion of him being overwhelming was the greatest insult he’d ever received. "Chevalier des Roses, how could you wound me so?" He turned back to you with a theatrical flourish. "Fear not! I shall be your guide, your companion, your—"

"Assistant," Trey cut in, giving you a knowing look. "We'll assist you. Don’t let him take over your projects."

You grinned, feeling oddly at home already. Between Rook’s boundless enthusiasm and Trey’s steadying presence, you realized the science club might just be the perfect balance of chaos and calm.

Pop Music Club

When you announced your decision to join the Pop Music Club, Lilia was the first to react. He shot up from his chair with a dramatic flourish, his cape—where did the cape come from?—billowing as if on cue.

"Ah, an excellent choice! Welcome to the most electrifying club in the entire school!" Lilia declared, his voice reverberating like an arena announcer. He played an imaginary riff on an air guitar, complete with sound effects that you were almost certain were magically amplified.

Kalim clapped his hands, beaming as brightly as the sun. "This is going to be so much fun! We can sing duets, make up dances, throw a party for every new song we write—oh! We should have a welcome party for you right now!" He was already halfway to grabbing balloons out of thin air before Cater stopped him.

"Easy there, Kalim," Cater said with a laugh, pulling out his phone to snap a picture. "We haven’t even started jamming yet! Gotta document this first—‘New Member Alert 🚨🎶! Welcome to the coolest club at NRC!’” He posed next to you, flipping through filters. "Ooh, should we do a pastel vibe or go all-out neon?"

"Why not both?" Lilia suggested, somehow holding a tambourine he hadn’t been holding two seconds ago. He shook it with gusto, the jingles creating an impromptu beat.

Kalim joined in instantly, dancing around the room with energy that could probably power a small city. "This is going to be amazing! Do you play any instruments? Can you sing? Or maybe you’ll write the songs? Wait, can you do all three?!"

Before you could answer, Lilia leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. "Don’t worry, even if you’re terrible, I can teach you. After all, I’ve had centuries of experience."

"Centuries of experience at what exactly?" you asked, though you weren’t entirely sure you wanted the answer.

"Everything," Lilia replied cryptically, shaking the tambourine once more for emphasis.

Cater gave you a wink. "Don’t let him intimidate you. He’s mostly harmless. Mostly."

As the chaos swirled around you, you realized joining the Pop Music Club was probably going to be as much about managing everyone’s energy as it was about making music.

But looking at their genuine excitement, you couldn’t help but feel you’d made the right choice. It was going to be loud, unpredictable, and—most importantly—a lot of fun.

Equestrian Club

When you chose the Equestrian Club, Riddle’s reaction was immediate and deeply Riddle. He straightened his posture, cleared his throat, and gave you a small but dignified nod, though his ears turned the faintest shade of pink.

“A wise decision,” he said primly, but his voice wavered just enough to give away his excitement. “The Equestrian Club values discipline and care, and I trust you will uphold those values. Welcome.” He paused, then added with uncharacteristic softness, “I’m glad you chose us.”

Sebek, on the other hand, reacted with his usual intensity, which was to say, very loudly.

“AS EXPECTED OF SOMEONE WITH DISCERNING TASTE!” Sebek bellowed, saluting for no discernible reason. “THE EQUESTRIAN CLUB IS A PLACE OF HONOR AND DILIGENCE. YOU HAVE MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE, AND I, SEBEK ZIGVOLT, SHALL PERSONALLY ENSURE YOU MEET OUR HIGH STANDARDS!”

“You’re going to scare the horses,” Silver muttered, patting a dozing mare who didn’t even flinch at Sebek’s volume. Clearly, she’d built up an immunity.

Silver turned to you with a sleepy but genuine smile. “Welcome. It’ll be nice having another person around who actually seems calm. I’ll show you the best places to ride, and we’ll make sure you’re comfortable with the horses.”

“And with the rules,” Riddle interjected, already retrieving a stack of laminated pages. “Equestrian care is not something to take lightly. You’ll need to memorize these guidelines to ensure both your safety and that of the horses.”

Sebek leaned over your shoulder to inspect the stack and immediately saluted again. “AN EXCELLENT INITIATIVE, HOUSEWARDEN ROSEHEARTS! I, TOO, WILL MEMORIZE THESE IN CASE THEY EVER REQUIRE REINFORCEMENT!”

“I think they’re fine,” Silver said. “We don’t need to make this harder than it needs to be.”

Riddle frowned. “Standards exist for a reason, Silver. Though I appreciate your enthusiasm, perhaps we can—Sebek, stop shouting—perhaps we can go over the basics first before overwhelming them.”

As Riddle and Sebek debated, Silver handed you a carrot to feed one of the horses. “Don’t worry,” he said, as the horse happily munched away. “It’s not as intense as it seems. Usually.”

You glanced at the stack of rules in Riddle’s hand and the fervent look in Sebek’s eyes. It was definitely going to be an adjustment. But seeing how genuinely happy they all were to have you—yes, even Sebek—you felt like this would be worth it.

Magift Club

When you announced your decision to join the Magift Club as their manager, the reaction was instantaneous and… surprisingly chaotic.

Ruggie let out a whoop, immediately dropping to the floor in a mock bow. "Ayo, everyone, bow to the boss! Finally, someone who can keep this circus in line!"

Leona, lounging on the sidelines, cracked open an eye and smirked. “’Bout time. Herbivores usually flake out, but I knew you were better than the rest.” He stretched lazily, like he’d personally orchestrated your decision. “Just keep the snacks coming, and we’ll get along fine.”

Epel looked between them and grinned, his enthusiasm much more grounded. “It’s great to have ya! With you around, maybe Leona will actually show up to warmups... or not just sleep through it.” He shot a pointed glance at their captain, who was, of course, ignoring him entirely.

“Eh,” Leona drawled, flicking his tail dismissively.

“You could work on that attitude,” you muttered, earning a low chuckle from him.

“See, I told you they’d fit right in!” Ruggie said, gesturing at you dramatically. “They’re already roasting him. This is gonna be great!”

Epel, suddenly inspired, added, “And they’ll keep Ruggie from stealing the fresh apple juice we get after games. That’s worth it alone.”

As the reality of your new role settled in, you felt a bit like a lion tamer walking into a den of mischievous cubs and one very lazy big cat. But their enthusiasm—expressed in their own peculiar ways—was endearing.

Ruggie threw an arm around your shoulder. “Alright, boss, first order of business: snacks! Let’s discuss our game day budget and whether I can convince you to sneak me a sandwich before practice.”

Leona snorted but didn’t argue, which you took as a sign of approval. Epel pumped his fist. “We’re gonna crush it this year!”

Maybe managing this bunch wouldn’t be so bad after all. If nothing else, it’d definitely be entertaining.

Mountain Lovers Club

When you joined Jade for a hike to "test the waters" of the Mountain Lovers Club, you had your doubts. You were prepared for a lot of things—maybe getting lost in the wilderness, maybe Jade pulling out his eerie cryptid knowledge, or maybe just a weirdly formal lecture about moss. What you weren’t prepared for was… actually enjoying yourself.

Jade led the way with an unhurried confidence, pointing out various wild plants, their uses, and fun facts about the environment. He wasn’t his usual enigmatic self, either. He seemed lighter, almost enthusiastic, as he described a tiny wildflower you would’ve missed entirely.

“This particular species only blooms during the autumn months,” he said, crouching to show you. “Quite fascinating how it adapts to the cooler temperatures, don’t you think?”

You nodded, trying not to stare too hard at how his face lit up when he spoke. Jade was… cute? When he wasn’t talking about mushrooms in a way that made you question your mortality, he was actually kind of charming.

By the time you reached a rocky outcrop with a gorgeous view of the campus, you realized you’d been smiling for most of the hike. Jade noticed too.

“It seems I’ve made a decent impression,” he said, turning toward you with a soft grin. “I’m pleased to see you enjoying yourself.”

“It’s… relaxing,” you admitted, surprising even yourself. “I didn’t think it’d be this fun.”

Jade tilted his head. “Does that mean you’d consider joining the Mountain Lovers Club?”

You hesitated for a moment, but as you looked at the breathtaking view and the rare, genuine smile on his face, the answer came easily. “Yeah. I’ll join.”

For a split second, Jade’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly schooled his expression into his usual composed smile. “Wonderful. I must say, I wasn’t expecting this outcome, but I’m glad. It’s not every day someone sees the beauty in what I love.”

There was an odd warmth in his voice that made your heart skip a beat. As he turned to lead the way back, he added, “Now that we’re a team, I look forward to our next adventure.”

Jade Leech was genuinely happy. And, you realized, so were you.

Gargoyle Research Society

When you told Malleus you were joining the Gargoyle Research Society, his reaction was almost imperceptible at first. A slight widening of his eyes, a pause as though he was waiting to see if you were serious, and then—pure, unfiltered delight.

"You have an interest in gargoyles?" he asked, his voice both surprised and reverent, as if you'd just confessed to enjoying a rare and ancient art form.

You nodded. "Yeah. I think they're fascinating. The designs, the history… They’re like stone guardians with stories etched into them."

For a moment, Malleus simply looked at you, his emerald eyes shimmering like the light of distant stars. Then, as if unable to contain his joy, he smiled—a soft, genuine expression that sent a wave of warmth through the chilly Ramshackle evening.

"This pleases me greatly," he said, his tone unusually light. “Not many share my appreciation for gargoyles. Often, I speak of them, and others… how do I put it? Pretend to listen.”

“Well, I’m definitely not pretending,” you said, grinning. “I’m in for real.”

Malleus clasped his hands together in what could only be described as regal excitement. "Then I must share something with you. Sometimes, I create gargoyles myself."

“You what?” you asked, laughing in delight.

“Yes,” he replied earnestly, his eyes alight. “Carving stone requires patience, but there is a certain satisfaction in breathing life into something lifeless. Well, not literal life, of course, but a soul of sorts.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again, the image of Malleus with a chisel and hammer popping into your head. “I never would have guessed. That’s… really cool.”

“I can show you some of my creations, if you’d like,” he offered, almost shyly.

“I’d love that,” you said, genuinely glad to have joined him. “I think I’m going to enjoy this club.”

The glow in his expression was impossible to miss. It wasn’t just that you had joined his club—it was that, for once, someone truly shared his passion. “And I am glad to have you,” he said softly.

In that moment, under the watchful eyes of the stone guardians scattered around campus, it felt like you had chosen exactly the right place.

Masterlist

tags: @techno-danger

a/n: it completely slipped my mind that ortho is a part of film studies sorry :(

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ ultraviolence ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! there is also a part one to this imagine, playing dangerous, and a part two, do you think you’d kill for me, one day? i hope you enjoy reading! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ choosing to take up arms and align yourself with player 456’s desperate plan was not so much a choice as it was an ultimatum. to do nothing, continue playing by their sadistic rules, meant walking the same path to inevitable death. but this? this rebellion, this gamble to strike at the heart of the operation. a blaze of defiance instead of the slow suffocation of compliance.

˚ ༘♡ the gunfire came fast and relentless, each crack like lightning splitting the air around you. the deafening staccato of bullets ricocheted off the metal structures, sharp and unforgiving. you pressed yourself hard against the crimson barrier, your heart a violent drumbeat in your chest. each near miss tore at your nerves, leaving behind the bitter taste of survival.

˚ ༘♡ the red structures were impractical shelter, offering only the facade of safety. around you, the others fought back with what little ammunition and courage they had. some fired blindly, their hands shaking, others aimed with accuracy, faces set with the resilience of people who knew they may never see another day.

˚ ༘♡ the air reeked of gunpowder and sweat, and your own breath came in short, uneven bursts as you tried to steady your hands. the ground beneath you was littered with shell casings and splintered debris, each piece a fragment of the chaos you had willingly stepped into. a thought crossed your mind, whether this was bravery or madness. but the thought vanished as quickly as it came, drowned out by the next thunderous racket of gunfire.

˚ ༘♡ you don’t have time to think, only to act. your fingers find the magazine release instinctively, pressing it hard. the spent magazine drops to the ground, clattering louder than you’d like. your other hand is already reaching for a fresh one, fumbling for a second before finding it.

˚ ༘♡ the cool metal feels heavy in your palm as you slot it into the magazine well. you shove it upward until it clicks into place, a sound that’s both satisfying and urgent. your hand moves to the slide, gripping the serrated edges. you pull it back sharply, feeling the resistance, and let it snap forward with a crisp, metallic clank.

˚ ༘♡ your heart is racing, but your hands are steady. you flick the safety off with your thumb without even thinking about it. the gun is ready again, its weight familiar in your grip. you take a breath that doesn’t seem deep enough, your focus narrowing as you lift the weapon and prepare to fire at the masked men who stand across in another block structure.

˚ ༘♡ player 001 had insisted you stay behind. his voice was grounded, almost gentle, as he took your hand, his rough fingers a stark contrast to the warmth in his tone. “this plan is reckless,” he said, his expression unreadable except for the glint of concern in his dark eyes. “we have enough people. you don’t need to put yourself in danger.” but his attempt at reassurance only fueled your resolve.

˚ ༘♡ “if you’re not staying behind, neither am i,” you replied, your voice firm, though your heart pounded like a war drum. his face darkened with vexation, but he didn’t argue further, young-il knew he could not change your mind.

˚ ༘♡ crouched behind the unforgiving cover of the red structure, your hands trembled as you clutched the empty weapon. “i’m out of ammo,” you called, your voice barely cutting through the raucous chaos around you.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun and jung-bae had disappeared minutes ago, slipping into the chaos to infiltrate the control room. every second they were gone stretching unbearably thin. around you, the others were panicking. shouts rose above the gunfire, “almost out!” player 246 hollered, “running low!” player 120 yelled out, desperation laced every shout.

˚ ༘♡ young-il’s radio crackled to life, gi-hun’s strained voice breaking through. “we’re running out of ammo here. there are more magazines on the guards, someone has to get them. hurry!”

˚ ༘♡ the moment the line went dead, young-il turned to the group. unlike the others, he was calm, his face as still as stone, his composure a striking contrast to the pandemonium. his eyes swept over each of you, calculating, deliberate. “four of us will move to back them up,” he said, his voice even, “but someone has to retrieve the magazines from the guards.”

˚ ༘♡ you felt the weight of his gaze settle on you for a moment longer than the others. your stomach tightened. the bodies of the masked men were out there, sprawled in the open, exposed under relentless gunfire. retrieving the magazines meant running into certain danger.

˚ ༘♡ “i’ll go!” dae-ho shouted, his voice quivering. his hands shook as he clutched his weapon, his knuckles white against the grip. before anyone could argue, he pushed himself to his feet and sprinted into the open, his silhouette a vulnerable target in the chaos. bullets ricocheted off nearby walls, sparks flying like tiny explosions. player 120 darted after him, crouching low and firing in short bursts to cover his reckless charge.

˚ ༘♡ young-il, player 047, and player 015 began moving toward the exit. you didn’t hesitate to follow, the worn soles of your shoes crunching against the debris-strewn ground. before you could take more than a few steps, young-il stopped abruptly, turning to face you. his stern gaze locked onto yours, “stay here,” he said, his voice low.

˚ ༘♡ your chest tightened with frustration, and you met his command with a sharp glare. “i can’t stay out here,” you hissed, your voice barely louder than the chaos around you. “how can i stand by knowing you’ll be in danger while i sit here, doing nothing? i can help.”

˚ ༘♡ his expression darkened, his face hardening as his jaw tightened. the faint lines around his eyes deepened into sharp creases, the wear of age etched into his skin. you could see the conflict inside him, his instinct to protect you clashing with the knowledge that he couldn’t stop you. his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, a reluctant surrender.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t argue further. instead, he turned sharply and continued toward the exit, his steps heavier than before. you followed close behind, the cold air biting at your face and your hands shaking.

˚ ༘♡ once inside, the oppressive silence of the corridors was shattered by the sharp crack of gunfire echoing through the narrow passageways. your boots slid against the blood-slick floors, the dark streaks smearing across the ground like grotesque markers guiding your way. shattered shell casings crunched underfoot, their metallic edges catching the dim light as you moved in tight formation behind the others.

˚ ༘♡ the sounds grew louder with every turn, each burst of gunfire sending a jolt through your chest. when you reached the source, your heart sank. gi-hun and jung-bae were pinned down behind a stack of crates, their weapons barking in quick bursts as masked men returned fire from the opposite end of the hall. “the control room is there!” gi-hun shouted, his voice strained as he gestured toward a guarded staircase. the veins in his neck stood out with the effort.

˚ ༘♡ young-il’s gaze darted between the staircase and gi-hun, his expression grim. “i’m nearly out of ammo,” he said, his voice undisturbed despite the chaos around him.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun didn’t hesitate. he reached into his pocket, retrieving a magazine with shaky fingers. “here,” he said, extending it toward young-il. “it’s my last one.”

˚ ༘♡ young-il’s eyes flicked to the magazine, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “are you sure?” he asked, his tone measured, though the tension in his voice was unmistakable.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun nodded. “dae-ho will be back with more. now go!”

˚ ༘♡ young-il looked as though he might argue, yet with a reluctant nod, he took the magazine. sliding it into his weapon, he jerked his head toward the opposite direction. “this way,” he commanded.

˚ ༘♡ you fell in step beside him, your shoulder brushing his as you moved. the air felt thick, you couldn’t help but glance at young-il, his face a mask of stable focus.

˚ ༘♡ arriving at another stairwell, the tension in the air felt suffocating, every step heavy with the weight of what might come next. player 047 and player 015 moved quickly, their rifles poised as they positioned themselves near the walls, peering toward the masked guards above.

˚ ༘♡ you and young-il lingered behind them. he reloaded his rifle with the magazine gi-hun had given him. your hands tightening around your weapon. the cold metal felt heavier than ever, slick with the sweat of your palms. you tried to calm your breathing, to ready yourself for the chaos that was certain to erupt. beside you, young-il raised his gun, his posture steady and unshaken. you followed his lead, preparing for the onslaught, waiting for the inevitable storm of bullets. the shots rang out, but they weren’t aimed at the guards.

˚ ༘♡ the first sharp crack reverberated through the stairwell, a deafening sound that seemed to shatter the air. player 047 jerked forward, his body crumpling to the ground like a discarded puppet. his rifle clattered away, the life drained from him in an instant.

˚ ༘♡ before the echo of the first shot faded, another followed, sharp and final. player 015 collapsed, his body writhing as blood began to trickle beneath him. he let out a guttural, choked gasp, his hands clawing weakly at the ground as he struggled to breathe. his voice, broken and trembling, was barely audible as he begged for mercy, his words dissolving into wet, rasping breaths.

˚ ༘♡ you stood paralyzed, the scene before you unspooling in a sickening blur. player 047’s body lay still, his eyes vacant, while player 015 twitched helplessly, his life draining away with each agonized second.

˚ ༘♡ your eyes went to young-il, who remained motionless, his gun still raised. his expression was cold, unreadable, as if the weight of what he had done didn’t touch him at all. there was no hesitation in his actions, no flicker of remorse in his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ the distant echoes of gunfire and screams drowned out by the discordant pounding of your own heartbeat. your mind raced, grasping for something, anything, to make sense of what was happening, but your body refused to move. your breath caught in your throat as young-il turned toward you, his weapon still raised, the barrel gleaming under the light.

˚ ༘♡ time seemed to stretch as the frigid metal pressed against your forehead, the faint scrape of the barrel against your skin sending a chill down your spine. his eyes, once a source of reassurance, now bore into you with an intensity that felt almost inhuman. they weren’t angry, but calculating. you opened your mouth to speak, to plead, to demand answers, but no sound came. the words were trapped, strangled by a fear that gripped your chest.

˚ ༘♡ for a vanishing moment, hope sparked when he lowered the gun. relief struck you so abruptly it nearly made your knees give out. that hope shattered as quickly as it came. he aimed the gun not at your chest, but lower. you barely registered what was happening before the deafening crack of the shot filled the air.

˚ ༘♡ the agony radiating from your shattered knee. it was as if every nerve in your body had been set ablaze, the pain so consuming it blurred your vision and stole the breath from your lungs. blood gushed from the wound, pooling rapidly beneath you.

˚ ༘♡ you clawed at the ground, desperate for anything to anchor you as your body convulsed with the shock of the injury. tears streamed down your face, hot and uncontrollable, as a strangled cry escaped your lips. the cold floor beneath you seemed to pull the heat from your body, leaving you trembling and vulnerable.

˚ ༘♡ through the haze of agony, you forced your gaze upward, meeting his cold, unflinching eyes. “why?” you rasped, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your ears. the word was a broken plea, filled with pain and betrayal, though deep down, you already knew no answer could justify what he had done.

˚ ༘♡ young-il stalked over to player 047’s lifeless body, his demeanor disturbingly composed despite the carnage surrounding you both. crouching beside the corpse, he grabbed the sleeve of the dead man’s jacket, his fingers curling around the fabric. with a deliberate pull, he tore a strip from the bloodied material.

˚ ༘♡ you writhed where you lay, the searing pain in your knee refusing to relent. blood continued to seep from the wound, its warmth pooling beneath you in thick, sticky smears. your breathing came in short, erratic gasps

˚ ༘♡ he returned to you, the strip of fabric clutched in his hand like a twisted tool of control. his presence loomed over you, suffocating in its quiet intensity. you flinched as he knelt beside you, the smell of blood and sweat clinging to him, a grotesque reminder of what he’d done.

˚ ༘♡ without warning, his hand shot out, his grip firm as he seized your chin. the sudden pressure forced your head off the cold, blood-slick floor, and you gasped, your lips trembling as you struggled to focus through the pain clouding your vision. his touch was rigid, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of your jaw.

˚ ༘♡ young-il worked methodically, winding the fabric around your mouth. you tried to jerk your head away, but his grip tightened, holding you in place as he secured the knot at the back of your head. the coarse material bit into the corners of your mouth, the taste of grime and death filling your senses as your cries were reduced to stifled, pitiful sounds.

˚ ༘♡ when he finally let go of your chin, your head hit the floor with a thud that seemed to echo inside your skull. the pain was sharp, but it paled in comparison to the turmoil raging within you. confusion clawed at your thoughts, tangled with disbelief so heavy it was suffocating. this was young-il, the man who had stood beside you, risked his life for you. you couldn’t reconcile the murderous figure before you with the person who had once seemed so kind, so loyal. why? the question screamed in your mind, louder than the agony in your leg or the blood pounding in your ears.

˚ ༘♡ he pulled the portable radio from his pocket, the cold efficiency of his actions cutting deeper than any bullet could. he walked over to where player 015 lay, choking on his own blood, the pitiful sound barely audible between gurgling gasps. kneeling down beside him, young-il’s voice changed, slipping into a grotesque mockery of grief and desperation.

˚ ༘♡ “i’m sorry, gi-hun,” he said, his voice uneven, laced with feigned exhaustion. “it’s over.”

˚ ༘♡ your eyes widened as the meaning of his words sank in. you thrashed against the bindings around your mouth, your muffled screams raw and desperate as you tried to drown out his lie. gi-hun needed to hear the truth, that young-il betrayed them, but the gag stifled every sound.

˚ ༘♡ young-il pressed the radio closer to player 015, holding it just inches from the man’s face. the wet, ragged gasps of the dying player filled the channel. you watched in horror as young-il’s hand rested on the radio. it was cruel, calculated, a performance designed to destroy any hope gi-hun might have left.

˚ ༘♡ with a flick of his finger, he silenced the radio. the stairwell was suddenly quiet except for your muted weeping and the faint rasp of player 015’s fading breaths. young-il stood over him, his gun raised once more. there was no hesitation, no emotion as he pulled the trigger. the crack of the shot was deafening, the sound of it reverberating off the concrete walls and leaving an emptiness in its wake.

˚ ༘♡ the silence that followed was unbearable. it pressed down on you, crushing your chest, as the weight of his betrayal settled fully in your mind. young-il turned, his face as calm as ever, and you felt your stomach twist. “i’m sorry,” young-il murmured. your heart sank as you convinced yourself this was it. he was going to kill you, finish what he started and tie up loose ends.

˚ ༘♡ instead, he turned and walked away, his footsteps unhurried. the sound of them faded into the distance. confusion churned in your chest, mingling with the pain that consumed your body. why leave you in such a pathetic state? surely, even he wouldn’t be so brutal as to condemn you to bleed out slowly, to suffer alone in agony until death finally claimed you.

˚ ༘♡ time became meaningless as you lay there. blood seeped from your shattered knee in hot, pulsing waves, the sticky warmth swarming beneath you, soaking into your clothes. the air grew colder, or maybe it was you, the life draining from your body, inch by inch. you couldn’t tell if a minute had passed or an hour.

˚ ༘♡ somewhere far away, gunshots cracked. a scream came, a piercing, gut-wrenching sound that sent a shiver crawling up your spine despite your weakening state, unmistakably gi-hun. you refused to consider what might have happened, it was far too devastating.

˚ ༘♡ and then, footsteps.

˚ ༘♡ as the figure emerged into view, a dreadful realization set in. it wasn’t anyone you recognized.

˚ ༘♡ tall and imposing, the stranger was clad in sleek black from head to toe. the fabric of their attire shimmered faintly under the dim light, perfectly fitted, without a single crease or flaw. their face was concealed by an angular black mask, its pristine surface reflecting nothing, revealing nothing, not even a hint of the eyes beneath.

˚ ༘♡ your mind, dulled by pain and blood loss, struggled to comprehend the sight. fear should have seized you, but your body was too weak, your thoughts too fractured to muster a response. when the figure crouched beside you, their movements swift and efficient, you didn’t resist as they ripped the gag from your mouth.

˚ ༘♡ “who… who are you?” you managed to slur, your voice barely audible.

˚ ༘♡ the figure didn’t answer. they didn’t hesitate. one gloved hand cradled the back of your head, tilting it upward with unsettling care, while the other hand brought a cloth to your face. the sharp, chemical scent hit you instantly, chloroform.

˚ ༘♡ panic flared, yet it was short-lived. the edges of your vision blurred, your body growing heavier, like you were sinking into a dark, bottomless pit. the last thing you saw was the smooth, featureless mask staring down at you, icy and unfeeling, before the world faded into black.

a/n: another hwang in-ho fanfiction! let me know your thoughts and if you have any requests! 🤍

[ds-angel1]

Bunny - brotherly love

cw: SMUT(18+), incest, piv sex, dubcon, hand job, finger sucking, nipple/titties play, reader being pervy and sneaking into Rafe´s room while he´s sleeping, age gap(18 and 25), DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT!!

wc: ~ 1,6k

a/n: first post and first fic, pls dont cancel me... yay

You knew it was vile, you knew it was dark and twisted.

You tried to stop—oh, how you tried--wrestling with shadows in your mind, drowning your thoughts in the shallow pools of distraction.

But they rose like whispers through the flood, unyielding, unrelenting. No, it didn’t work. It never did.

You still bit your lip every time he was shirtless. Your chest still flushed every time he was in your near vicinity. You still imagined him every time you reached your nimble fingers into your cotton panties.

Rafe.

Your brother.

It all started because of a simple joke. One that your friends made.

“Stop, oh my god, your brother is so hot, I’d let him hit so hard,” your best friend giggled as she munched on the popcorn you had cooked up for all 4 of you for movie night.

“Oh, hell yes!” Interjected another of your friends, her voice enthusiastic, “I would let him hit even if I was his sister!”

The living room erupted in giggles before they disappeared and the girls surrounding you focused their attention on the movie again.

Your attention stayed on the topic prior though. On him. Like any human mind would, your thoughts conjured up a realistic third-person image of your big brother fucking you. But what your mind did that not any human mind would do, was like the idea. Your eyes stared at the floor as you pictured the feeling, the view, the sounds. You clenched your thighs and bit your bottom lip—

“Hey, watcha nerds doin’?” He asked with a smirk as he appeared from behind, clad in only sweatpants.

You felt your cheeks flush at the realization of what you had been fantasizing about.

“Nothing, just watching a movie,” you muttered.

“Gee, no need to be so cold, bunny,” he laughed as he ruffled your hair. Bunny was a nickname he came up with for you. When you were 3 years old you just loved hopping around so 10-year-old Rafe decided to call you Bunny. It stuck. He perpetually calls you Bunny even now, 15 years later when you wouldn’t call yourself much of a hopper.

You had always been close. He was a great big brother, protective, and kind, always played with you when your parents were too busy. When you had a nightmare as a kid, you wouldn’t come rushing to your parent’s room, no, you´d sprinted to Rafe’s.

Innocent nights where he comforted you to sleep in his bed. But now you were imagining being in his bed again, but not him comforting you; him fucking you relentlessly. Nothing innocent about that.

Right now you were tossing and turning in your pink, fluffy sheets. You had rutted against a pillow for almost an hour, trying to block out his face but it just kept coming, then you rubbed your aching clothed core for what seemed like an eternity but the need and desperation never subsided.

The need and desperation for your brother.

When you threw your head to the side and saw that the purple, flower-decorated clock on your wall read 2 A.M., you just couldn’t take it anymore. You threw your blanket off of your body, yanking your legs to the side of your bed and then your body to stand.

With as much sneakiness and smoothness as you could conjure up, you slipped out of your bedroom, the patter of your feet fon the firm grey carpet in the hall sounding like church bells in your ears.

Right before the end of the hall, you turned your body left, finding yourself face to face with Rafe’s room. “KEEP OUT” stood in bold messy letters on a burgundy sign hung on the door.

Your parents never really paid much attention to it and just stormed in whenever they wanted. He was a 25-year-old still living with his parents, who could blame them for ignoring his rules?

Your fingers played with the hem of your nightgown nervously before you lifted one of your hands to slowly push down the door handle and crack the door open.

The small creak that came from the wood moving made you cringe in fear. Once the space was wide enough for you to fit, you entered his room.

There he was, lying sprawled out on his black satin bed cover, hair unruly and spiked. His body lay wide and stretched out on the mattress, his boxers the only thing covering him. His blanket lay on the ground as it seemed to always after he slept, even as a kid he did backflips and dances in his slumber.

The thoughts in your mind that screamed that this was wrong were drowned out by the sight of the slight bulge in his boxers.

You knew it was wrong. So so wrong. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You climbed onto the bed, crawling towards where he lay. He looked cute like this, snoring ever so slightly and a tiny bit of drool accumulating in the corner of his mouth.

Anxiously you moved on top of him, making sure to not let a single fiber of your legs or arms touch him.

After you had hyped yourself up enough to do it, you leaned back, letting your ass hit his thighs in a gentle fluid motion and your hands find his chest.

A moment of silence overtook the room and once you were sure he was still asleep you started moving again. Your hands found their way to his boxers, gripping the elastic band at the top and then without a single bit of haste pulling it down. Your hips lifted off of him and you dragged the plaid material all the way down to his shins and calves.

He stirred a bit, the cold air hitting his now bare crotch waking him a bit but he quickly settled into sleep again.

When you were extremely sure he was out cold again you finally let your eyes travel down. His half-hard cock, pretty and pink, barely at its full length and potential, and yet still managed to make you softly whimper out loud.

With a shaky hand, you reached forward, wrapping your small fingers around his thick base and pumping a few times. You weren’t a stranger to this, but this felt different. And no, not because he was your brother and it felt wrong. No, it felt right. Perfect.

A groan fell from his lips and he twisted his upper body, eyes squeezing shut even more tightly. At the sudden noise and movement, you immediately pulled your hand back, eyes widening in fear and worry.

In a desperate attempt to flee the scene, you kneeled up fully, accidentally brushing one of your plush tights against his tip.

It seemed that that was the only sensation left to wake him as a moment later you found yourself staring straight into your brother’s icy blue eyes.

His gaze left yours as he gained consciousness, pupils flicking around and taking in everything.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” He whisper-shouted, confusion, anger and something else you hoped was desire present on his features.

“Um…” Your brain was frozen, all you could do was stare at him in horror as you knelt over him.

“You’re my fucking sister! And you’re 18! We could get fucking arrested! Me especially, you—“ he cut off before he could finish that thought as he saw your eyes watering.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” he half ordered, half reassured, “Bunny, it’s gonna be okay. This never happened, okay? Go back to your room and—“ yet again he didn’t finish his sentence. This time it was because he had gripped your hips, hoping to lift you off of him, but instead, he accidentally brushed your nightdress up a bit and revealed your naked sex to him.

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, “God, Bunny…”

Nothing happened for a few seconds, silence and stillness taking over the bedroom. Then without warning he grasped your hips even tighter and sank you onto his thick, throbbing cock, causing you to moan and whimper out loudly.

Quickly, Rafe’s hand shot up, stuffing three fingers into your mouth to shut you up.

“Shh, Bunny, don’t want mommy and daddy hearing you now, do we?” His voice whispered sharply between heavy panted breaths.

You rolled your hips, gagging on his fingers as they roughly probed down your throat.

“Fuck, such a little slut for your big brother, huh Bunny?” He tantalized, hissing as you started bouncing up and down on his cock.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, his blunt tip hitting that perfect spot on your cervix every damn time. When he forced your dress down your shoulders and took one of your rosy pink buds into his mouth you felt as if your eyes could do a whole 360-degree spin.

You were sure the scene looked vulgar, a big brother letting his barely legal sister ride him, his mouth vigorously sucking, nipping, and lavishing her nipples, his fingers in her mouth to shut her up, drool running down the corners of her mouth and right into his own at your breasts. It was disgusting. Perfect.

It wasn’t long before you were choking and sputtering around his fingers that you were going to come, snapping your hips up and down faster and faster.

“Come for me, Bunny, be a good little sister, and come for your big brother.”

His words pushed you to your limit, clenching around his pipe unbelievably tight and coming. The feeling of your wet warmth snug around him made him quickly follow, shooting his load into you.

After a few more rolls of your hips, you had both come down from your highs and Rafe had removed his digits from your mouth. The room was filled with breathless pants and quiet shuffling now and then.

Finally, Rafe spoke up, his voice silent yet it spoke volumes of what he was feeling.

“Fuck.”

[sweetfictionalworld]

Good Girl

Pairing: Hwang In-ho / Front Man x Female Reader

Warnings: Nsfw, Smut, Daddy Kink, Age-gap.

Requested by anon: Request for just some old fashion smut?? In-ho x fem!Reader. Maybe some age gap, praise,...daddy kink...just an idea.

Summary: You're a servant for the VIPs. One of them is getting a little too close, and The Front Man steps in and handles the situation. Little do you know, The Front Man wants you for himself...

Author's notes: I'm always a sucker for some good, old fashion daddy kink 😉 Thank you so much for your request! I hope you like it ♡

It wasn't easy serving the VIPs, but it was a chance for you to make some more money. It was your third time at the games working as one of the circle guards and your second time as a waiter. The higher ranks made more money than you, but you didn't have the stomach for killing. It was bad enough to clean up the scene after a game.

You examined yourself in the mirror before putting on the black mask. You didn't really feel comfortable in the black, lace bodysuit and high heels you were forced to wear. The VIPs were always a little too touchy for your comfort, but it was something you had to endure.

You took a deep breath before you entered the VIP room with a tray of drinks in your hand.

"Well, look who it is! Our hot, little bunny!" the older man in the tiger mask cheered as you walked into the room. The other VIPs joined in and you could feel their gazes glued to your body as you walked past them.

"The game will start momentarily."

The Front Man's voice made you turn, your stomach flipping at the sight of him in his dark-grey outfit and black mask. There was something about him you found utterly attractive. Perhaps, it was the mystery of what he looked underneath that mask? Or maybe, it was that dark, sexy voice of his?

"Come here, bunny! I want a drink!" yelled the man in the tiger mask. Pulled out of your thoughts, you went over to the VIP. He smiled up at you from beneath his mask.

"Damn, I've missed this fine ass!" he bellowed and slapped your ass, boomed with laughter when you gasped and nearly dropped your tray.

"Why don't you serve the others and then you come back to sit next to me, huh? I want my little bunny close to me," he grinned.

You were glad he couldn't see the repulsive expression on your face. After doing what he said, you returned to the VIP, who pulled you down next to him.

"How old are you, bunny?" he asked, licking his lips as his eyes traveled down to your breasts.

"25, Sir."

"Oh, nice...I like my meat young and firm. How about you serve me personally now, huh?" The VIP chuckled and roughly cupped your tit. You let out a shocked gasp and grabbed his wrist to try and pull him away. You struggled against him, but it only seemed to spur him on.

The VIP chuckled loudly. "I like girls who are a little fiesty."

Suddenly, his hand was pulled away and you stared up at the Front Man standing there with the VIPs arm in his hand.

"No sexual activities unless the servants agrees. The Host's rules. Do you agree, number 5?" he asked, turning his attention towards you.

You stared at him in surprise. He knew your guard number?

You shook your head. "No, Sir."

The Front Man let go of the VIPs arm. "You heard her. She doesn't want you. So, how about we return to what you're really here for. The Game."

The VIP glared at him but knew there was nothing he could do to but obey the Host's rules, so he just nodded.

"Good." The Front Man returned his attention to you.

"Stand up, number 5."

You did as he ordered, holding your gaze to the floor. His intimidating presence and the closeness of his body made you feel so very small and subservient. He lifted your chin, holding it with his forefinger and you stared up at his blank, black mask while holding your breath.

"Continue serving them food and drinks. He won't bother you anymore."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," you whispered and bowed.

In-ho watched as you walked away to get more food and drinks, his gaze panning down to the roundness of your ass. There was another reason he had stopped the VIP. He didn't want your pussy ruined by that old man's cock before he fucked you himself.

The game was over for this time and the VIPs had left. You remained in the room, tidying the last things up before it was time to leave and return home. The money you'd made after your third time was enough to pay off your debts. You didn't have to return for another game.

"You're still here."

Startled by the voice, you looked up and stared at the Front Man, your eyes widening when you realized you'd taken your mask off.

"Don't worry. The game is over for this time. No need to cover our faces. Besides, there's only you and I here," he said and took off his mask.

You stared at him as he approached you with a small smirk playing on his lips. He was a handsome man, no doubt about it, maybe in his fifties. His dark-brown eyes had a twinkle of cruelness and playfulness in them that made your belly flutter as his gaze traveled down your body.

"Do you agree?"

At first you frowned, didn't know what he meant. Then, it dawn on you and your eyes widened as you stared at him breathlessly and nodded.

"I need you to say it."

"Y-Yes, Sir. I agree."

"Good girl." The Front Man smirked and leaned down to your ear, inhaling your scent. A growl of appreciation rumbled in his chest, and the sound along with his hot breath on your skin caused a trail of goosebumps down your body. You couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't believe how quickly your body was responding to his touch. The Front Man's finger slid down the nape of your neck, sending another wave of goosebumps down your skin. A keen whimper slipped from your lips and you became shamefully aware of the arousal pooling between your thighs. The Front Man growled at the sound coming from your lips, his hand landing on your waist.

"I can see your arousal in your eyes, little one," he growled, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips, coaxing an embarrassed moan from your lips.

His hand found its way underneath your lace bodysuit, two of his long fingers slipping between your soft folds and into your wet, spongy core. You gasped and grabbed his arms as his fingers stretched you out.

"So wet and tight," Front Man mumbled and started moving his fingers inside you, grunting at the squishing sounds your pussy was making. His cock jerked at the feeling of your wetness, twitching, and hardening to life, eager to fill your tight, little cunt to the brim.

"Oh fuck," you gasped at the feeling of his fingers thrusting into you.

"Such foul words coming from such a sweet, little thing," Front Man chuckled, the sound vibrating through your core. "Tell me, little one...Do you crave my cock inside you?" At the last word, he pushed his fingers deeper inside you, pushing against your g-spot and you screamed out in pleasure.

"Y-Yes Daddy! Please, yes!" you whimpered, tears welling up in your eyes as he repeatedly thrust his fingers into you at a rapid pace.

"Daddy, huh? I like that," Front Man smirked and took out his fingers from your pussy. "Undress for me."

Cheeks flushed with heat, you obeyed him and pulled down the straps of your bodysuit, slowly wriggling out of the tiny piece of clothing, leaving you naked in only your high heels.

"Gorgeous," was all he said and kneaded the soft flesh of your tits, felt the weight of them in his hands, and rubbed his thumbs across your nipples that hardened at his touch.

"P-Please, Daddy...," you begged, bit your lip at the feeling of your pussy aching and clenching desperately to be filled.

Front Man snickered. "So desperate for Daddy's cock, aren't you?"

"Y-Yes...please Daddy..."

He chuckled at your desperation. "Get down on your hands and knees."

You obeyed on trembling legs, gasped when he grabbed your hips with both hands, pulling your ass up in the air. Then, you heard the unzipping of his slacks and felt him at your entrance, slowly pushing the bulbous head between your fold and into the tight hole of your pussy. Your eyes widened, breath coming out in short gasps through your parted lips.

In-ho groaned in pleasure when the head of his cock suddenly popped inside your warm, wet entrance. At that point, he couldn't control himself anymore. Grabbing your hips harder, he bucked his hips against your ass, pushing his cock into you halfway before pulling back.

You cried out, back arching and head thrown back as his cock stretched you out more than you thought was possible. Then, he thrust forward again and you screamed a silent moan, realizing he had only been halfway inside you and he was now fully seated in your womb.

"Feels so good...you're doing so well, little one, taking Daddy's cock," he crooned, almost lovingly, as he started a slow and gentle pace of fucking you. Your vision got blurrier with each of his thrusts, sending wave after wave of pleasure through your body. Soon, your mind became dazed and numbed, and a smile spread across your lips when all you cared about was how absolutely divine his cock felt inside you. You could feel the pressure building in your core with each thrust, bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. Then, Front Man suddenly pulled out and you whined at the loss of contact, of feeling so empty inside.

Front Man positioned himself above you, on his hands and feet as he pushed inside you again, his frame hovering above yours as he thrust into you. You moaned when he pushed back into you again, smiled as you looked up at him over your shoulder. You looked into his eyes and held his gaze as he quickened the pace once more, rapidly shoving his dick inside you over and over until your senses were overflowing.

Front Man looked back into your eyes as he slammed into you hard and fast, rougher with each thrust. The slapping sounds filled the room, blending with your high-pitched moans and the Front Man's grunts above you. The pressure in your belly intensified and finally erupted just as you felt the Front Man pump into you a final time, burying himself deep inside you as he came. His cock twitched inside you and the feeling of his seed pulsing into you brought you swiftly over the edge.

"Daddy, I'm coming!" you cried out, your pussy clenching and milking every last drop out of him as your orgasm rippled through your body.

"Fuck!" Front Man groaned and threw his head back, his loud, guttural growl echoing between the walls as he emptied the last of his seed inside your belly. You collapsed onto the floor, panting for air and your body becoming limp as you felt his cum flow out of you.

In-ho stood above you with a smirk on his lips, watching as his cum created a white river on the floor between your thighs.

"You're mine now," he muttered quietly and out of breath as he picked up your exhausted body and laid you down on one of the VIP couches. You smiled tiredly and looked up at him through heavy eyelids.

"Yours, Daddy. Forever."

[nanamisgirly]

you gotta win if you wanna cum ྀི

“keep playing” gojo murmurs barely audible, almost embarrassed to say it—but his fingers are already slipping under your shorts like he's done this in his head a hundred time. “i-i wanna see if… my good girl can win…like this.” his fingers slid past the hem of your shorts. 

It was supposed to be just another quiet night. you, your switch, and your nerdy boyfriend with messy hair and a half-finished soda on the table. you were in his lap, like always, thighs straddling his left one, back against his chest. His glasses were crocked because of your head resting on the side of his face. his hands had been resting, harmlessly, mid-thigh.

but tonight it seems like they had a mind of their own. his palms slided up, awkward at first, like he was working up the nerve. and once he brushed your inner thigh and felt how warm you were—how you were already grinding a little without realizing, he sucked in a shaky breath.

“y-you’re, um…" he chuckled nervously, “you're kinda…really…wet already. that's-uh- that's cute.” you can feel how red his ears are. can hear the shaky exhale he lets out as he presses two fingers against the damp fabric of your panties.

you tried to focus on the screen, but his fingers pushed beneath your panties, hesitant but hungry, dragging along your slit with a low groan. his voice was uneven when he spoke again—like he was trying to sound teasing but couldn't hide how wrecked he was.

“wh-what kind of gamer gets this needy holding a controller?” he stammered.

you jolted, hips twitching into his touch, and he gasped softly against your neck—his cock straining against his sweats, and he bit down on a shaky moan.

“i—fuck, wait—don’t cum yet,” he breathed out quickly, as if panicked by how close you already felt. “you—you can’t. not unless you beat the level. that’s the rule.”

you whimpered, legs trembling, gripping the controller tighter as his fingers toyed with your clit in little circles. It was almost clumsy but somehow that made it worse. and the nerdy tone he used—the one when explaining game stats or why a manga panel made him cry—being used, now, to deny your orgasm was really hot.

“i just—it's stupid, but i get turned on seeing you so focused,” he admitted, voice breaking with a shy laugh. “you always look so serious when you play, and i just—kinda wanna mess that up…” when you buck forward, your hips grinding down onto the firm flex of his thigh, he gasps like he’s the one being touched.

“you’re—ngh—you’re seriously doing that on my leg?” His voice cracks in disbelief, cock twitching in his pants. “d-didn’t know you l-liked that…”

his hand creeps up under your shirt with all the subtlety of a boy who’s fantasized about this a thousand times. he palms your breast awkwardly at first, afraid he’ll mess it up, but once his fingers find your nipple—he’s not shy anymore.

he groans, deep and sharp, twisting the sensitive bud between two fingers. “f-fuck, that's so soft,” he breathes. “you're not allowed to b-be this soft when i'm trying…when i'm trying to be m-mean.”

your hands are trembling, buttons mashed half-heartedly as he toys with you like you're his favorite collectible. the pleasure clouds everything. your character on screen stumbles, gets hit, and before you can react—

game over. you freeze, the screen flashes in cruel pixelated defeat.

gojo blinks, “you lost?” his voice is unfortunately too high to be cocky, too breathless to be smug.."c-c'mon you're supposed to be my elite little gamer." you squirm in his lap, frustration boiling in your cheeks—not just from the lost, but also from the aching throb between your legs. “you k-kept distracting me!”

he hums, almost pathetic. then he presses two fingers against your clit, “close doesn't count,” he whispers as he pinches, a sharp flick to your swollen bud. the arm around your chest tightens, his thumb rolling your nipple like it's a fidget toy.

you whine, your head drop on his shoulder, “i w-will win.”

“that's ma girl,” he kisses your temple before licking a stripe behind your ear. “b-but until then…” he presses his thigh up, grinding it into your core while teasing your nipple between sharp tugs. “you're m-mine to play with.”

your fingers tighten around the controller, eyes locked on the screen. and every time you press a button, he mirrors it with a flick or a pinch or a firm grind of his thigh into your pulsing heat.

“shit—satoru,” you breathe, trying to keep your avatar alive.

“keep g-going, you're doing just r-right." he mutters, voice shaky. his glasses are fogged, his hands aren't steady, and his cock is rock-hard beneath you, straining uselessly against his sweats as your soaked core grinds down, again and again, onto his tense thigh.

“you wanna cum?” he asks as he licks the shell of your ear—shaky and wrecked. “t-then win… be my good gamer girl. beat the boss f'me, please...” he presses down harder, rubs the letters W-I-N in slow motion on your sensitive bundle. the pressure is maddening—never enough, always just shy of what you need—and it drags you into the haze of overstimulation.

the motion causes your character to stumble, again, and the screen flashes—again. 

gojo groans, high-pitched. “babyyy—c'mon, you can do better,” he pants, cock twitching. “th-that's a little pathetic, don't make me beg f'you to win…”

you try to grind against his hand, desperate and needy to soothe the ach between your legs. “p-please—satoruu, just let me,”

he chokes out a laugh—breathless and delirious—his grip on your nipple tightens, making you whimper. “s-sowwyyy,” he mumbles, but it sounds more like an apology from someone completely gone. “rules are—ah!—rules, i gotta stick to 'em, right?”

but you lose. again and again.

and by the fourth try, you're barely able to see straight. your legs are trembling, pussy drooling over his pants, leaving an enormous wet patch on his thigh.

he buries his face against your neck, glasses slipping sideways, voice a ragged mess of broken need. “we’ll keep playing,” he groans, like it physically pains him, “until my perfect gamer girl learns to beat the boss while g-getting ruined so bad she forgets her own name.” you moan uncontrollably at his words, tears forming at the corner of your eyes.

his nose nudges your temple, “you sound so pretty when you whine like that.” his voice is so soft. “you feel even better.” your grinding gets slower, deeper, and gojo's hands go from gripping your breasts to fumbling—desperately—with the waistband of your shorts. 

“he-he, wait—" his sentence breaks off in a cracked moan as his thumb drives back to your panties, finding your clit, drawing unfocused circles like he's forgotten what rhythm even is. his face is flushed, so desperate it's almost pitiful—fingers slipping and smearing your slick everywhere, breathing out broken pleas between every twitch. “y-you're so wet, i can't—fuck—i can't—t-this is so fucked up, i can't think—”

gojo groans through his teeth, his whole frame trembling. “fuuuuuck, y-you gotta stop, i'm-i’m…gonna…” he's desperately trying to keep it together but failing spectaculary. his cock jerking under you with every buck. “s-shouldn't feel this good—fucking h-hell, i'm gonna cum—gonna cum in m-my pants…OHSHITOHSHITFUCKSHITFUUUCK”

his whole body jerks, sudden and absolutely out of his control. an embarrassed moan bursts his lips as he ruts up against your ass—cumming hard, painting the inside of his sweats in sticky heat. his cock twitches helplessly, completely untouched. he whimpers your name into your shoulder like it's a confession. his glasses slip right off, forgotten, as his head lolls against you.

gojo still tries to move his fingers on your stimulated clit, as his mouth leaves open-mouthed kisses against your shoulder. he draggs his hand up back to your hardened tits—palming your breasts, rubbing, squeezing, thumbing your nipples with pure, overwhelmed need.

“we're not done,” he groans, like it's hurting him that you're not cumming. “you're dripping all o-over m'thigh, i c-came like a loser—please, win already, pretty.” he whines, “i-i'll help, i swear, just—fuck—win!”

his hand never stills. slippery fingers flick your clit in desperate, uneven motions, his other hand clutching your tits like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. you’re drooling against his neck now, wrecked and teetering on the edge, and gojo’s crying out every time you shift your weight.

“win,” he sobs, high and broken. “win, baby, please—i’ll cum again too, I will, I’m so close again, y-you feel sogood—“

And the boss’s health bar drops. One last combo. You slam the button.

Victory!!!!

you’re shaking, grinding down with abandon, the game forgotten for just one second—because it’s too much. he’s still whispering praise like he’s praying, hips jerking like he might cum in any second just from the way you clench around nothing. you scream, messy and guttural, because you need it—need him—and it’s all spilling over.

“'t-toru, i win—please, w-wanna cum—please ‘toru—pleaseee,” tears streak down your cheeks as you sob into his neck, twitching with every stroke, every messy rub of his soaked fingers. “c-can’t—’toru, i can’t—too much, ‘s too much—“

he’s not stopping. he whimpers your name, glassy eyes locked on your face memorizing every broken cry that falls from your lips. “you won, y-you get to cum now—I have to make you cum—” he sounds just as wrecked as you, maybe worse. his fingers finally slip inside—two of them, thick and long—he curls them immediately, searching that spongy spot, desperate to please you.

your walls clamp around him so tight he nearly cums again. bullet of sweats are dropping down his neck as he wines, “y-you're squeezing me reallyy good—shit” his breath stutters against your neck, sobbing out broken, pathetic moans as his fingers drag over that spot again and again.

“Let go for me,” he begs. “Please, please, I need you to—need to feel you cum, please, baby—" you're a mess in his lap, crying and convulsing, thighs slick and shaking—his fingers keep pistoning you as he babbles some uncoherent praise and filth against your hot skin.

“g-gonna make you cum so hard,” he pants, sounding half-feral. “gonna feel you soak m-my fingers, fuck—wan’ it messy, baby, wan’ it loud—”

and when you do, when your body snaps and you wail into his shoulder, soaking his hand in a gush of warmth—he lets out the filthiest, most broken moan you’ve ever heard as he cums a second time.

 Unprompted. Pathetically. Just from feeling your cunt pulse around his fingers.

[asteroshearts]

Postpartum Confinement

[Zayne (Li Shen 黎深 ) + Sylus (Qin Che 秦彻)]

In Chinese culture, mothers stay and rest for a month or more after giving birth to properly recover (zuo yue zi).

Zayne (Li Shen 黎深 )

Now, while you do go on your postpartum confinement period, Zayne is a doctor and can't help but ramble about the superstitions and old wives' tales that the zuo yue zi is built on.

"There's no need to take all of these rules seriously," he couldn't help but mutter lowly. Pushing up his glasses, he said, "Currently, there is no hard scientific basis on why postpartum women shouldn't shower or bathe. However, I can see where this superstition arose. Historically, clean, hot water was very difficult for the common woman to obtain, and bathing with cold water after giving birth—"

What he does entirely believe in is that the mother of his child should be stress-free and have as much rest as possible.

Vets the Yue Sao (postpartum care nannies) like crazy.

Many of the interviewees leave thinking that it was one of the hardest job applications they've ever done.

He's a bit crazy here: looks through all of their credentials, researching the programs they've graduated from, asks for references, etc.

In the end, he agrees on a middle-aged woman with over fifteen years of experience as a Yue Sao and is a mother of three herself.

He chose her because she aligned with his thoughts of science, she didn't lean too much into traditional medicine, and had a casual personality while being firm. He knew she wouldn't push you into doing anything you didn't want to do.

For the first time since he got into medical school, Zayne Li took a complete pause from work. No emergency calls, no midday meetings. He even left his pager and work phone in his office and Akso.

Surprisingly, he doesn't go stir crazy.

Instead, he dedicates his time to learning from the Yue Sao and taking care of your baby.

You would think he's studying for another medical exam with how he asks questions, takes notes, and looks over her shoulder as she's cooking you a meal, nodding along to her instructions.

He sat beside you as your nanny did your belly binding for the first time, staring with analytical eyes while your baby was rocking in his arms.

Then, when he tried to do the belly binding on you, his first attempt ended in failure as you kept on giggling, ruining your progress. You couldn't help but mess him up, you were too busy staring at the father of your child with such love in your eyes.

However, he does have one insecurity. Traditionally, the mother should prevent herself from being cold as much as possible, bundling up, and covering her feet and shoulders.

Zanye couldn't help but think that with his Evol—he might cause you or the baby long-term health issues. He'll wear gloves, a hat, and scarf indoors if you want him to—

Just tell him that it's silly. How could a man like him ever hurt you or your baby?

Every day you wake up well-rested, with the chores done, with someone looking after your baby, and carefully planned, cultivated meals laid out on the table.

He may be the Head Cardiac Surgeon at Akso Hospital, but here, he takes a backseat. He would never speak over a woman who was a mother, and there's a lot to learn.

He tries not to step on either of your toes, but if there's one thing he wouldn't let your Yue Sao do, it's make you red date tea.

He was the one who made you red date tea even before you got together, and he isn't going to stop now :)

Sylus (Qin Che 秦彻)

Books you the nicest room in the most upscale confinement center/hotel you could find for as long as you want.

All confinement centers come with doctors and nurses at beck and call, baby care, and meals, but he made sure yours was five-stars, with physiotherapy, massages, facials, hair treatments, and classes.

He even has his own men secretly upping the security of the building for your stay.

Although he took parenting classes with you, read some books in his free time, he can admit he's not knowledgeable, so he does what he does best: shuts up and listens to his woman 😌.

Some men are allowed to stay, like the father of the child or male relatives, so of course, he's with you and the baby the entire time.

It's a bit nerve-wracking when the staff take your baby away for a checkup or bath and he's silently standing over them with his dark red eyes.

You might be resting and napping throughout the day, but he'll be awake and following your baby around when the nannies or nurses take care of them or taking the parenting classes the center provides.

He's so annoying though!!!!!

Lays his huge body in your bed, sinking the mattress, and follows you to all your spa treatments. The hotel is thinking of charging you double!! (Not like he cares, money is no object.)

He loves annoying you and clinging to you as much as he loves, well, you.

Tried to rock your baby to sleep and sing to them once while you were napping and upset your baby so much, your sweet baby cried until you woke up.

The hotel had to send him an email politely asking him not to do that again.

You're tired all the time, and while the care center offers spa treatments, what kind of husband would he be if he didn't bring you your personal skin care from home, applying it on your face for you while you lay in bed?

Everything seemed perfect; everything was taken care of.

You thought there was something wrong with you, and maybe it was the hormones, but somewhere in the middle of your confinement period, you couldn't help but feel so ugly. You felt so undeserving of this treatment.

Your belly didn't look the way it used to, your hair wasn't the same texture as it was, and your breasts hurt. (Of course it wouldn't, of course it did. You knew this, but for some reason, you couldn't help but be so upset.)

You were his little Dragon Li, spoiled to the ends of the earth, and now you were crying because throughout all of this, even though he and the rest of the facility had gone above and beyond, you were upset that your nail polish was overgrown.

Something so little, but you couldn't help it. You just felt like you were never going to be the same again.

Sure, he could call your nail guy to come by and give you a fresh pair of nails, but if there was one thing Sylus took seriously, it was your health. He didn't know what kind of contaminants your nail guy could bring to you or your baby.

While you were napping and your baby was resting with you, you wondered what Sylus was doing to occupy his time.

After all, even before you were pregnant, he made it seem like he couldn't last a day without you by his side.

He thought you were glowing like an angel, but if his kitten was crying to him, pouring out your insecurities, he knew words meant nothing if he didn't prove them.

So when he sits at your bedside, pulling out a complete and fully-sanitized nail kit, you can't help but stare in awe as he pulls out the exact nail color you had been wanting, in the most non-toxic formula he could find.

Yes, he had taken nail tech classes while you and the baby were resting, and if you were upset with no one to help you, he was going to step up and do it himself.

[sixeyesonathiel]

roses bloom the prettiest in ruin

pairing – prime minister's son!gojo x princess!reader

summary : as the princess of a fallen monarchy, you were raised to uphold tradition, even in a world where your family’s power is little more than ceremony. as the son of the prime minister, satoru gojo was raised to rule.

your families have always been at odds—yours clinging to the past, his shaping the future. but satoru has never cared for politics, not when it comes to you. from the moment he met you, he’s been impossible to ignore—too bold, too persistent, too certain that your story was never meant to end in polite distance.

but in a world where power dictates fate, some lines aren’t meant to be crossed.

satoru has never been one to follow the rules.

tags –> oneshot, 8k wc, modern & royalty au, political intrigue, high society drama, forbidden love, slow burn but inevitable, gojo satoru is a menace but he’s your menace, power imbalance but he makes it so sexy, privilege and duty, crown and dagger, elopement but make it dramatic, longing stares in grand ballrooms, love like a loaded gun, he would burn the world for you, angsty but he's too freaky for the angst to actually angst

colletion m.list.

you were six years old when you first met him.

it was at a grand gala—one of those glittering, suffocating events where chandeliers dripped with light and the air smelled of imported champagne and expensive perfume. women in floor-length gowns whispered behind painted fans, their laughter soft and practiced, while men in tailored suits exchanged nods that meant more than words. your mother’s grip on your tiny hand was firm, guiding you through the maze of political smiles and calculating gazes. you were dressed in a satin gown the color of moonlight, your hair curled into delicate ringlets, a perfect little doll for the cameras. “posture.” your mother reminded, her voice a quiet warning against your ear, and you obediently lifted your chin. everything was rehearsed, every movement precise—but then you saw him.

a boy with hair like freshly fallen snow, sticking up in wild tufts as if he’d fought off every attempt to tame it. he stood apart from the other children, his tiny navy suit crisp but slightly disheveled, a stark contrast to his bored expression. a lollipop dangled lazily from his lips, his fingers tucked into his pockets like he had no interest in the stiff elegance of the evening. his eyes—impossibly blue, like the sky at its brightest—found yours, pinning you in place. you had been taught to be polite, to be charming, to be untouchable, but something about the way he looked at you made your heart skip. he tilted his head, considering you, and then grinned—wide and unapologetic, like he had just found something interesting in a room full of dull, gray figures.

and then, with all the reckless confidence of someone who had never been told no, he pulled the lollipop from his mouth and declared, “i like you! wanna get married?”

a hush fell over the room like a dropped veil, murmurs rising in its wake. your mother’s nails pressed into your palm, a silent warning, while prime minister gojo’s sharp gaze flicked toward his son with the weight of unspoken reprimand. but satoru only rocked back on his heels, unbothered by the sudden attention, his grin unwavering. your mind, young as it was, processed the absurdity of the moment—marriage? at six years old? but even then, you had been raised to know your worth, and so you gave him the sweetest, most well-practiced smile in your arsenal.

“silly,” you giggled, folding your hands in front of you like the perfect little princess you were trained to be. “princesses don’t marry commoners.”

for the first time, the boy’s expression shifted—not to disappointment, but to something else, something sharper, something amused. the grin stretching across his face didn’t falter; if anything, it widened, as if he had just been given a challenge. “then i guess i’ll just have to become a king.”

the murmurs that followed were no longer just of amusement. they carried something deeper, something weightier—speculation, curiosity, quiet calculations of what a union between the royal family and the prime minister’s bloodline could mean. your mother’s fingers tightened ever so slightly, enough to tell you that you had done something wrong, even if you didn’t quite understand what. but satoru, in all his childish arrogance, seemed entirely unbothered, as if the world would bend to his whims simply because he willed it to.

“a king?” you echoed, tilting your head in consideration. your tutors had taught you that kings were powerful, that they ruled with wisdom and strength, that they carried the weight of nations on their shoulders. but satoru didn’t look like a wise ruler—he looked like a mischievous prince, untamed and unyielding, someone who had never been denied a single thing in his life.

“mmhmm,” he hummed, hands on his hips, as if he could already picture himself wearing a crown. “and when i do, i’ll make you my queen.”

you only giggled, because at six years old, marriage was nothing more than a fairy tale, a distant dream wrapped in lace and golden crowns. besides, you knew—knew with the quiet certainty that only children possess—that your father would never allow it. still, something about the way he looked at you, with that unwavering confidence, sent a strange little flutter through your chest.

a palace attendant appeared at your side, quick and efficient, murmuring something about your father expecting you at his table. your mother’s sigh was nearly imperceptible as she turned you away from the scene, her fingers firm on your wrist. but even as you were led through the sea of glittering gowns and polished shoes, you could feel it—his gaze, lingering, unwavering, like a promise not yet spoken.

when you glanced back, he was still standing there, lollipop tucked back between his lips, watching you with an expression that made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t quite understand.

“i’ll come find you again, princess!” he called out, his voice brimming with the kind of certainty that didn’t allow for doubts.

and somehow, in that moment, you believed him.

true to his words, satoru gojo became a fixture in your world—loud, impossible, and utterly relentless.

satoru was always too much. too loud, too clever, too untouchable. he had that insufferable grin, the one that made you feel like he already knew how this story would end—like he had already seen you in white, standing beside him. from the moment he decided you were his, he followed you around like a stray cat who thought he owned the palace, when in truth, he only ever snuck his way in. the difference was that satoru wasn’t sneaking—he had the power to walk through the palace doors without consequence. his father, the prime minister, held the entire country in his palm, and satoru, his only son, carried himself like a prince, even without a crown.

“we should get married,” he told you every chance he got, as if it was inevitable. “i’d make a great king.”

“you’re no king, satoru.” you would scoff, adjusting the perfect bow at the back of your dress. “you’re a tyrant in the making.”

but he only ever laughed, because you never actually said no.

your fathers hated each other. the prime minister saw the royal family as nothing more than a ceremonial relic, a bloodline propped up by tradition with no real authority, while your father saw the gojo administration as a dictatorship in disguise, unchecked power wrapped in empty promises. the conflict between them was a cold war played behind closed doors, in councils and boardrooms where policy was made without your input. yet somehow, despite the quiet battle waged between them, you and satoru were always in the same rooms, always within reach of each other. whether it was diplomatic banquets, charity galas, or private functions where power was traded in hushed conversations, he was there. and oh, did he reach.

when you were eight, he stole your tiara during a diplomatic dinner and perched it atop his own head, flashing a smirk that made your cheeks burn. “look at me, i’m a king now.”

“give it back, satoru!” you huffed, arms crossed, lips pressed into a stubborn line.

“hmm… nah,” he hummed, tilting his head as if considering. then, with an impish glint in his eyes, he leaned forward and whispered, “but you can have it back if you give me a kiss.”

scandalized, you yanked the tiara off his head with a furious huff, your face burning as he cackled like a devil in silk.

when you were ten, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you away from the ballroom, dragging you through the empty halls until you burst onto the palace balcony. below, the city stretched endlessly, glittering against the night.

“you’re bored, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice softer than usual, those sky-bright eyes searching yours. “let’s run away.”

“don’t be ridiculous.” you scoffed, but you didn’t pull away.

instead, you let him hold your hand, let him be the one reckless thing in your carefully measured world.

when you were twelve, he found you curled beneath the oldest willow in the royal gardens, fists clenched in the fabric of your dress, trying to keep the sobs inside. another argument. another reminder that you would never be enough—not as a daughter, not as a princess, not as anything you were supposed to be. the sky was overcast, gray and heavy, the scent of rain thick in the air. you hadn’t heard his footsteps, hadn’t noticed him until he crouched in front of you, head tilting, gaze sharp and knowing.

satoru hated seeing you cry.

so, without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a lollipop, and unwrapped it with the ease of someone who did this often. “open,” he said, pressing the candy against your lips before you could argue, his tone light, teasing, but unyielding. the sugary scent hit you first—something cherry, something artificial, something that had no place in a world of gold-plated cutlery and imported delicacies. you hesitated, your pride warring with the quiet comfort he offered. but then, slowly, you parted your lips, and he pushed it onto your tongue, watching you like he was waiting for the weight in your chest to ease.

“sweet things always make you feel better.” his voice was softer this time, something careful beneath the teasing.

he was right. the taste melted against your tongue, sharp and cloying, and for the first time that day, the ache in your ribs loosened just a little. satoru grinned like he had just won something, bright and self-satisfied, always too pleased with himself. “see? tastes better when it’s from me, huh?”

you only nodded, small and quiet. he only laughed, the sound easy and unbothered, like the world hadn’t just collapsed around you.

in that moment, beneath a darkening sky, in a life that had never truly been yours, satoru became your first and only act of defiance. he became your escape. your rebellion. your one and only soft, sweet thing.

despite the tension in politics, despite the warnings and whispered disapproval, you and satoru always find each other.

your lessons are held in the same grand estate, halls lined with portraits of ancestors who once held the world in their hands. golden chandeliers hang heavy above you, casting a soft glow over the polished marble floors, the silence between lectures filled only by the ticking of antique clocks and the distant hum of the city beyond the palace gates. you see him in the brief moments between lessons, in the gaps between grand affairs, when the adults aren’t watching. but, of course, satoru never cares if they are. he walks into your space like he belongs there, like he has never once been told no in his life. and when he does, you pretend it doesn’t make the air in the room feel heavier.

“you’re such a fake,” he drawls one afternoon, lounging lazily in your study while you sit perfectly poised by the window. sunlight filters in behind you, casting you in a glow that makes you look untouchable, distant. “all that bowing and smiling—you don’t actually believe in any of that, do you?”

your fingers tighten over the silk of your skirts, nails pressing crescent moons into your palms. “it’s called duty, satoru. something you wouldn’t understand.”

he snorts, tipping his chair back on two legs, balancing with the ease of someone who never fears falling. “right. duty. you mean playing pretend.”

“i’m not playing pretend,” you snap, rising so suddenly that your chair scrapes against the floor, the sharp sound cutting through the still air.

but satoru only leans forward, elbow propped on the desk, chin in his palm, watching you with that infuriating, knowing look. “sure you are,” he says, like it’s fact. “you hate this. you hate them. but you smile and curtsy like a good little princess anyway.”

heat crawls up your spine, your breath catching in your throat. “what would you have me do? throw tantrums like you? break things until people listen?”

his smirk deepens. “at least i don’t lie about who i am.”

the words hit something raw, something you refuse to name. satoru has always been able to see too much, pick you apart with those impossibly blue eyes until you feel like nothing more than an open book in his hands. you hate that he can see through you so easily.

so you don’t answer. instead, you turn on your heel and storm out, the echo of your footsteps chasing you down the hall. when you reach your chambers, you throw the balcony doors shut behind you, and that night—for the first time in years—you leave them locked.

for a week, satoru does not show up.

no pebbles tapping against your window at midnight. no insufferable interruptions during your lessons. no infuriating, knowing glances across the dinner table when you’re forced to sit across from him.

at first, you tell yourself it’s a relief.

but the days stretch on, and the silence in your chambers grows unbearable. your eyes flick toward the balcony doors more times than you’re willing to admit, your ears straining for the sound of footsteps, of something—anything—that signals his presence. when you pass by the study, you hesitate just outside the door, waiting for a scoff, a teasing remark, anything to prove that he’s still there. but the room is empty, and all you have is the hollow weight of missing him.

when you finally unlock the balcony doors, the wind feels too cold against your skin, the vastness of the sky stretching too wide, too empty.

and then, at the next grand event, just when you begin to think that maybe he’s left you behind, that he had realized how asinine your friendship with him is, you feel it.

a gaze too familiar, too sharp, too knowing.

when you glance up, satoru is already watching you from across the ballroom, standing just beyond the golden glow of the chandeliers, half-shrouded in the dim candlelight. he is dressed in the sharp blues and silvers of his family’s colors, the embroidery on his suit catching the light, but his gaze is the brightest thing in the room. too familiar, too focused, too knowing—like he’s been waiting for you to notice him. the conversations around you dull, the clinking of crystal glasses and rustling of silk fading into something distant, inconsequential. because in a room full of dignitaries, of nobles and politicians vying for power, satoru looks at you like you’re the only one who matters. and it makes something tighten in your chest, something you refuse to name.

“your royal highness.” he greets smoothly, voice laced with amusement as he steps forward. the space between you is swallowed instantly, overtaken by his presence—too much, too overwhelming, like the weight of a storm pressing against your skin. he bows, just deep enough to be proper, but there is no real deference in the motion, no real submission in the way he tilts his head and looks at you through pale lashes. this is not a greeting; it’s a challenge.

“gojo.” your voice is even, perfectly poised, as distant as diplomacy demands. but he sees through it like he always does, like he always has, and you know this because his smirk deepens.

then, before you can stop him, he takes your hand—too bold, too improper, too much.

he lifts it to his lips, the movement deliberate, calculated, yet as effortless as breathing. your breath catches as his mouth brushes just above the lace of your glove, against the sliver of skin left exposed. his lips are warm, his breath soft against your wrist, but the effect is anything but gentle. it sears.

your pulse betrays you, a single, sharp beat against his touch.

his smirk spreads, slow and knowing. “you missed me, didn’t you?”

and the worst part—the part you loathe, the part that makes your throat tighten—is that you have no idea how to lie. not to him.

satoru gojo has always been insufferable.

he is a storm in human form—loud, reckless, impossible to ignore. but sometime between childhood games and midnight rendezvous, something shifts. the edges of him sharpen, shedding the remnants of boyhood, his limbs stretching into something longer, leaner, more dangerous. the mischief in his gaze is still there, but it is different now, laced with something you do not have the words for. something that makes your pulse stutter when he looks at you too long.

and yet, despite it all, he still finds you. always.

at thirteen, he corners you in the royal library, where the scent of parchment and ink lingers in the air. dust motes dance in the shafts of afternoon light, a quiet world away from the weight of courtly expectations. you are searching for an old genealogy record when fingers, long and deft, pluck the book from your hands with infuriating ease.

“you’re too stiff.” he murmurs, flipping the pages with little interest. “too dutiful. don’t you ever get tired of being perfect?”

“give it back, satoru.”

“make me.”

your patience snaps like a fraying thread. you lunge, reaching for the book, but he is already moving, slipping just out of reach, laughter curling in the silence. it becomes a chase, your breath quickening as he weaves between the towering shelves, always just a step ahead, always teasing. when you finally snatch it back, your heart is pounding, the heat of exertion warming your skin.

he is too close. the dim glow of lanterns catches in his eyes, his smirk lazy, triumphant.

“see?” he hums, voice smooth, teasing. “you’re more fun when you’re mad.”

at fourteen, he finds you on the palace rooftop.

it is past midnight, the city below pulsing with life, oblivious to the girl perched high above it—trapped in a golden cage lined with silk and duty. the wind tugs at your hair, whispering secrets you will never be free to follow. the stars scatter across the sky in cold indifference, the weight of history pressing against your ribs like an iron hand. up here, away from the watchful eyes of the court, you can almost pretend you are just a girl and not a symbol, not a piece on a chessboard carved long before you were born.

“you’re not supposed to be up here.” you murmur, your gaze fixed on the endless stretch of lights below, refusing to acknowledge the presence settling beside you.

“neither are you.” he counters, voice smooth as ever, careless as ever. he sits too close, shoulder pressing against yours, as if he belongs here, as if he always will.

his presence is warm in the cool night air, a stark contrast to the marble halls and empty courtesies you have known all your life. for a moment, neither of you speak. the wind rustles through the banners below, and the sounds of distant carriages echo faintly in the night.

“do you ever think about running away?” he muses, head tilting back, exposing the sharp angles of a jawline that is beginning to lose its boyish softness. his hair ruffles in the wind, a mess of white against the darkness.

“you’ve been talking about that since we were kids.” you sigh, fingers twisting in the fabric of your skirts.

“and you’ve been ignoring me since we were kids.” he points out, words laced with that familiar, infuriating amusement.

“maybe there’s a reason for that.”

he hums, entirely unbothered, as if he already knows the truth you won’t say aloud. “doesn’t change the fact that you never really leave, though.”

the words settle between you, quiet and heavy, pressing against the space where your heart beats a little too fast. you don’t respond because he’s right.

at fifteen, he crashes a diplomatic banquet, just to get a rise out of you.

he isn’t supposed to be here. technically, his father declined the invitation, sending his advisors in his place. but satoru gojo has never been one to follow the rules, especially when they tell him he can’t do something. so, of course, he waltzes into the ballroom as if he owns it, clad in midnight blue with a smirk that could start wars. the chandeliers cast a golden glow over the polished marble, music swelling in a practiced waltz, but the moment he steps in, the air shifts—people noticing, whispers beginning. his presence is an act of defiance, a quiet declaration that even the prime minister’s absence cannot erase the weight of his name.

you barely have time to react before he spots you, his grin widening like a cat who just found his favorite mouse. “your highness,” he drawls, stepping into your space as if he belongs there, as if you aren’t standing amongst foreign dignitaries who would love nothing more than to report this to your father. panic flares hot in your chest, but you refuse to let it show, only gripping his wrist and yanking him into the nearest shadowed alcove. he lets you, amusement dancing in his too-bright eyes, the scent of something expensive lingering on his skin. “what are you doing here?” you hiss, low and sharp, as distant voices hum just beyond the curtains.

“you missed me.” he answers, unbothered.

“i did not.”

“you totally did.”

you glare. he grins.

“besides,” he continues, leaning in, voice dropping to something low and private. “how could i miss the chance to see you all dressed up? you look…” his gaze flickers over you, slow, deliberate, appreciation flickering in those godforsaken, summer-sky eyes. “…stunning.”

your stomach flips, traitorous. you roll your eyes instead, fixing him with a pointed look, ignoring the heat that creeps up your neck. “if your father finds out—”

“who cares?” he shrugs, the picture of reckless ease, of untouchable confidence. “we’re just two childhood friends catching up, aren’t we?”

friends.

right.

but then, before you can snap back, he lifts your hand—bold, improper, scandalous—and bows his head, brushing his lips against the skin just above the lace of your glove. his breath ghosts warm against your wrist, lingering, deliberate, as if committing the shape of you to memory. a slow, teasing kiss, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he enjoys the way your pulse stutters beneath his mouth. you freeze, caught between outrage and something far more dangerous, something you refuse to name. his smirk deepens when he finally pulls away, watching you with eyes too sharp, too knowing.

“see?” he murmurs, amusement curling in his tone. “you don’t seem so bothered now.”

at sixteen, things shift again.

it happens during a fencing lesson, though neither of you are properly dressed for it. no heavy jackets, no masks—just wooden practice swords and the simmering tension that neither of you have the words for yet. the vast training hall is bathed in late afternoon light, golden streaks stretching across polished wooden floors, dust motes dancing in the air. you weren’t even supposed to spar today, but satoru had grabbed a sword off the rack, tossed you another, and grinned like he already knew how this would end. where you are disciplined, he is wild; where you are precise, he is unpredictable. he circles you now, blade tapping lazily against his shoulder, eyes bright with something electric.

“come on, princess,” he drawls, voice laced with challenge. “show me what all those lessons are worth.”

you do. you lunge, and he parries; you strike, and he meets you—wooden swords colliding in a flurry of sharp movements and breathless taunts. your footwork is flawless, your technique impeccable, but satoru is fast, too fast, slipping through your defenses like water through cupped hands. then, in a blink, he disarms you—sends your practice sword clattering across the floor. before you can react, he moves, pushing you back until your spine meets the wooden wall, his weight pressing just enough to keep you there. the air shifts, suddenly charged, his breath warm against your cheek, the scent of polished wood and something distinctly him curling in your lungs.

“yield.” he murmurs, voice thick with something unreadable.

you should push him away. should remind him of propriety, of duty, of the countless rules you are bound to. but you don’t—because his gaze is locked onto yours, and you can’t seem to look away. your heart hammers, pulse drumming loud in your ears, and for the first time, you realize how much taller he has gotten, how sharp the lines of his face have become. there’s something dark in his smirk now, something dangerous beneath the teasing edge. something you don’t have a name for yet.

“you know,” he murmurs, tilting his head, the dim glow of the lanterns casting sharp shadows across the planes of his face, “one day, they’re going to try to take you from me.”

your breath catches, fingers curling against the fabric of your sleeve. there is no mockery in his tone this time, no teasing edge to soften the words. just quiet, unwavering certainty, as if he has already seen the war they will wage over you, as if the battle lines have already been drawn. something cold slithers down your spine, something you don’t have a name for, because this—this is not the boy who used to steal your tiaras and drag you onto palace rooftops. this is someone else entirely, someone sharp-edged and merciless, someone who speaks as though he has already decided the outcome. someone you should fear.

“who?”

“your father. my father. the entire world.”

his voice is low, even, but the weight of it presses against you, heavier than the steel of his blade had been moments before. because satoru gojo has never been the kind of person who loses—not fights, not games, not people. and you know, with a sudden, sinking certainty, that he does not intend to start with you. his gaze flickers down, where your pulse jumps at your wrist, where the lace of your glove fails to hide the way your blood sings beneath your skin. he lifts your hand with ease, brings it to his lips, and presses another kiss to the exact same spot he always does—slow, deliberate, reverent. his lips linger just long enough for heat to unfurl in your stomach, for something traitorous to bloom in your chest.

“satoru—”

“they can try.” he interrupts, voice dropping lower, something wolfish curling at the edges of his grin. his breath ghosts over your skin, his hold unrelenting. “but i don’t share.”

then, as if nothing happened, he releases you. steps back. extends his hand, as if this is still the same fencing match, the same childhood game, as if he has not just shifted the very ground beneath your feet.

you don’t take it.

because suddenly, you are afraid. not of him, but of what you might become if you do.

something changed in satoru after that conversation and it must've had something to do with him suddenly messaging you to meet him in the middle of the night because you aren’t supposed to be here.

the castle is asleep, save for the flickering lanterns lining the outer walls, their glow barely touching the darkness beyond the royal gates. but there, just past the threshold of where he shouldn’t be, satoru waits—leaning against a stone pillar like he owns the place, bathed in moonlight and audacity. he sees you before you even step past the archway, his smirk unfurling slow and knowing, like he expected you all along.

“satoru,” you hiss, breathless with fury, your voice trembling as you glance over your shoulder, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “if anyone sees you—” your words falter, your mind racing with the consequences, the scandal, the way your father’s face would darken if he caught you like this. but satoru doesn’t seem to care. he never does.

“then let them watch,” he says, his voice pure sin, a slow, teasing drawl that sinks beneath your skin, twisting deep in your stomach. he’s taller now, broader, his beauty sharper, more lethal—something sculpted for war, not courtly dances. and yet, the danger in him doesn’t make you step back. instead, it pulls you in, like a moth to a flame, even as your instincts scream at you to run. his presence is overwhelming, his gaze piercing, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering, about to fall.

he doesn’t wait for permission. instead, he tugs you forward with infuriating ease, his hands rough yet deliberate, your body colliding with his before you can even think to resist. your fingers curl instinctively into the delicate fabric of your nightgown, clutching at it like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. his touch is heat against silk, against skin, the space between you vanishing before you can catch your breath. you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, the way his heartbeat matches the frantic rhythm of your own.

and then he kisses you.

it is nothing like the carefully instructed, polite kisses you’ve been warned to expect. there is no hesitation, no gentleness—only hunger, only greed, his lips pressing, parting, demanding like he has spent years waiting for this. and he has. your first kiss is not sweet or tender; it’s a wildfire, consuming everything in its path, leaving you breathless and dizzy. his hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, and you can’t help but melt into him, your body betraying your mind as you lean into the heat of his touch.

you should push him away. you should remind him of duty, of war, of the blood-soaked line that has long divided your families. but you don’t. instead, you let him press you against the cold stone wall, the chill seeping through your gown as his mouth abandons yours, trailing lower—along your jaw, down the column of your throat. his breath is warm, his lips softer than they should be, the contrast making you shudder. when he reaches the spot wrist he had been lavishing attention since forever, he bites, slow and deliberate, his teeth sinking in just enough to make your breath hitch.

he feels it, hears it—your sharp inhale, your pulse rushing wildly beneath his lips, your fingers clenching in his jacket—and he laughs, low and pleased, his tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. “you are so cute, your highness,” he murmurs against your skin, the words a silken promise, a loaded threat. “i might just ruin you myself before they could.” his voice is a whisper, a caress, and it sends a shiver down your spine, your mind racing with the implications of his words. but even as your thoughts scream at you to stop, your body betrays you, leaning into him, craving more of the chaos he brings.

before you turn seventeen, your fathers were at war.

not with swords, not with soldiers, but with power plays disguised as diplomacy, with whispered threats exchanged in the halls of government buildings. your father, the last vestige of a monarchy that no longer ruled, still held influence, still had loyalists willing to fight for the old ways. and satoru’s father, the prime minister, was the embodiment of the new world—modern, efficient, ruthless.

it was a battle for control, for legacy, for the future of a nation that no longer belonged to kings. but behind the headlines, behind the political chess match, there is this scandalous little thing going on between their heirs.

satoru is breathless against your lips, his hands pressing you against the cold marble walls of a grand ballroom. the air around you was thick with the scent of champagne and the faint sweetness of his cologne, mingling with the sharp chill of the stone at your back. hidden behind a velvet curtain, just out of sight, just out of reach, the muffled sounds of the gala outside felt like a distant dream. his fingers traced the curve of your waist, leaving trails of fire even through the layers of your dress, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours.

the dim light filtering through the curtain cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the glint of mischief in his summer sky eyes. you were trapped, not by his hands, but by the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“we shouldn’t be doing this.” you whispered, your voice trembling as much as your hands, but your fingers curled into his collar, betraying you. the fabric was soft under your touch, but the heat of his skin beneath it was enough to make your head spin.

satoru's breath hitched, a low, almost imperceptible sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting. the words were meant to be a protest, a reminder of the rules, the consequences, but they came out weak, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. you knew you should pull away, should step back into the light where everything was safe and predictable, but the way he leaned into you, his forehead resting against yours, made it impossible to move.

“then tell me to stop,” satoru murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw, his voice an invitation and a taunt all at once. his hands slid up your arms, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every inch of you, and you could feel the faint tremor in his touch. “but you won’t, will you?” his words were soft, almost a whisper, but they carried the weight of certainty, of years of knowing you better than you knew yourself.

and god, he was right. you couldn’t tell him to stop, not when his breath was warm against your skin, not when his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. the world outside the curtain didn’t exist anymore—it was just you and him, and the dangerous, exhilarating thing growing between you.

the older satoru got, the more he loved pushing you, breaking down every fragile, innocent piece of you until you were something else—something that belonged to him.

at seventeen, he kissed you in secret corridors, in the backseats of limousines, in his father’s estate where you were absolutely not supposed to be. each touch, each whispered word, was a challenge, a game he was determined to win. he thrived on the thrill of it, on the way your breath caught when he leaned in too close, on the way your eyes darted around nervously, always aware of the risk.

but no matter how many times you told yourself it was wrong, no matter how many times you tried to pull away, he always found a way to draw you back in. and deep down, you knew you didn’t want to resist.

“if they catch us, we’re finished,” you hissed, clutching at his wrist as he dragged you down a private hallway, past security cameras he had long since learned how to avoid.

your heels clicked softly against the polished floor, the sound echoing in the empty space, but his steps were silent, confident, as though he owned every inch of the estate. his grip on your hand was firm, unyielding, and you could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric of your glove. the hallway was dimly lit, the only light coming from the moon streaming through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the walls. you could hear the faint hum of the gala in the distance, a reminder of how far you’d strayed from the safety of the crowd, but satoru didn’t seem to care. he only smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he glanced back at you.

“then don’t let them catch us.” he said, his voice low and teasing, as though the idea of getting caught was just another part of the game. he stopped suddenly, pulling you into a secluded alcove, his hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders. the space was small, intimate, and you could feel the heat of his body even through the layers of your dress.

he traced the edge of your gloves with his fingers before slipping them off entirely, his touch light but deliberate, and you shivered as his lips brushed against your bare wrists. “you still taste sweet,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and sending a jolt of electricity through you. “but i want more.” his voice was a whisper, a promise, and when you gasped, his smile turned sharp, knowing he had you exactly where he wanted you.

at eighteen, the arguments start.

they are sharp-edged things, honed by frustration, by fear, by the unbearable weight of wanting something neither of you are supposed to have. they happen in hushed whispers behind closed doors, in stolen moments between political meetings, in the space between your duty and his defiance.

the fight happens in the royal gardens, beneath the cold glow of lantern light. the evening air is thick with the scent of jasmine, too sweet, too cloying, pressing in around you like a reminder that this—this moment, this thing between you and him—should not exist. satoru stands before you, white-haired and furious, the shadows casting sharp lines across his face.

“you’re playing pretend.” he snaps, voice low and angry, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“and you’re reckless,” you bite back, every word laced with frustration, with fear. “our families—”

“our families don’t get to decide what i want.” his voice cuts through the night like a blade.

“it’s not that simple, satoru.”

“it is.” he steps closer, unrelenting. “you just don’t want to admit it.”

and maybe he’s right. because no matter how many times you tell yourself this has to end, no matter how hard you try to keep your distance, you always end up in his arms.

one night, he climbs the palace walls just to see you, tapping against your balcony door like a fairytale gone wrong. moonlight pools over him, silvering the edges of his hair, making him look almost otherworldly. he isn’t supposed to be here, in your world, in your life—but he is, always, always finding his way back to you.

“you're insane.” you whisper, glancing toward the locked door of your chambers, every nerve alight with the possibility of being caught despite having done this dance with him a lot of times.

“so stop me.” he challenges, standing too close, breath warm against your skin, eyes dark with something you can’t name.

but you never do.

at nineteen, it becomes something worse—something all-consuming.

it happens in the dead of night, far from the glittering ballrooms and suffocating eyes of court, in a forgotten wing of the palace where the candlelight flickers against aged stone. you shouldn't be here, but then again, neither should he. yet, satoru stands before you, disheveled from the wind, hair messier than usual, his cravat undone like he had run through the city just to reach you. there is something feverish in his expression, something that crackles in the air between you, thick as a storm about to break.

"marry me.” he says, voice hoarse, desperate, the words landing between you like a live wire.

you laugh, light and brittle, because surely this is one of his reckless games, another push to see how far he can take you before you break. “don’t be ridiculous.”

but he doesn’t smile. doesn’t tease.

his gaze darkens, something furious and unrelenting burning behind those godforsaken, summer-sky eyes.

"i’m serious," he says, fingers tightening around your wrist, thumb pressing against the flutter of your pulse. "we could disappear. right now. no titles, no families. just us."

your breath hitches, a treacherous, shaky thing. because the truth is—you want to say yes. want to follow him wherever he leads, want to run until your name is just an echo, until you are nothing but his and he is nothing but yours.

but you can’t.

and satoru gojo is not the type to be denied.

at twenty, it becomes undeniable—you and satoru were never meant to be together.

your fathers made sure of that. your engagement to a foreign prince was inked onto paper, sealed with signatures and handshakes, a carefully calculated move to secure the monarchy’s fragile standing. meanwhile, satoru was no longer just the prime minister’s son; he was the rising sun of the nation, the man poised to inherit an empire built on power, not love.

but neither of you had ever been good at listening.

the breaking point came on the night of your engagement announcement.

the ballroom was suffocating beneath the weight of gold and glass, chandeliers spilling warm light over a sea of carefully curated guests. you stood beside your fiancé—a stranger who held your hand like a possession, like a duty—accepting congratulations with a flawless smile, a mask you had worn since childhood.

and then you felt it.

a gaze that burned hotter than the lights above, pulling at the frayed edges of your resolve.

satoru stood at the far end of the room, silent, still. his presence was a fault line beneath the glittering facade of the ballroom, a quiet promise that everything was about to break. the golden glow of the chandeliers softened nothing—the sharp lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled at his sides as if holding himself back. his expression was unreadable, carved from something colder than you’d ever seen, his usual mirth stripped away, leaving only something raw, something furious beneath the surface. and for the first time in your life, you couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

that terrified you.

you turned away, the weight of his stare pressing against your spine as you moved, each step measured, careful. past the marble pillars, through the gilded archways, down the quiet corridors where the walls didn’t have ears. your breaths came too shallow, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your throat, your hands trembling at your sides. the mask was slipping—cracking at the edges—and you just needed a moment. a moment away from the expectations, the duty, the suffocating weight of a future you never wanted.

but the second you stepped onto the darkened terrace, a hand closed around your wrist and yanked you into the shadows.

“satoru—!”

your gasp barely left your lips before your back hit the cold stone wall, the breath knocked from your lungs. the scent of him wrapped around you—something clean, something sharp, something familiar—and it made you dizzy. moonlight cut through the darkness, slashing across his face, catching the bright, seething blue of his eyes. his grip was firm, almost trembling, fingers pressing into your skin as if convincing himself you were real.

“tell me you don’t love me.”

his voice was low, ragged, the edges fraying with something desperate, something reckless.

you swallowed, your throat dry, your heart a wild thing caged in your ribs. you wanted to say it—to end this before it destroyed you both. but satoru was too close, his breath warm against your cheek, his presence a force of gravity you had never been able to escape.

“tell me,” he repeated, his voice an ache, a command, a plea. “and i’ll let you go.”

you couldn’t.

because you did love him—fiercely, recklessly, in a way that made it impossible to breathe. it wasn’t something delicate or gentle, not something you could tuck away behind locked doors and polite smiles. it was violent, all-consuming, a love that sank its teeth into you and refused to let go. a love that could ruin you, that already had.

his grip tightened, fingers pressing into the delicate bones of your wrist, and you knew he felt the way your pulse stuttered beneath his touch. “run away with me,” he whispered, voice low, raw, a plea wrapped in command. “leave all of this behind.”

for a moment, the world shrank to nothing but him—the way his breath ghosted over your lips, the sharp edge of desperation in his voice, the promise in the way he held you like you were something he would never surrender. like he would burn the world down before letting you go.

it was insanity. you were royalty. he was power itself. the country would burn for it.

but that night, when the palace fell silent and the world believed you were safely asleep in your chambers, you slipped out of bed and pressed your palm against the ornate mirror.

it clicked.

the passage behind it was cold, narrow, the air thick with dust and secrets. it had been there for centuries—an escape route once used by queens in times of war. but to you, it had always been his passage.

satoru had discovered it as a boy, slipping in and out of the palace long before he was supposed to. he had shown it to you when you were twelve, smirking as he dragged you through the hidden tunnels, laughing about how he could steal you away anytime he wanted.

now, years later, you were the one stealing yourself away.

you moved quickly, heart pounding, hands trembling as you pushed open the passage’s final door—out into the night, into the city that had never truly belonged to you. the air was crisp, thick with the scent of rain on pavement, the distant hum of traffic reminding you how far you were from the life you were supposed to be living. you had never been alone here, not really—not without guards, not without duty shackled to your wrists like golden cuffs. but tonight, the city stretched before you, dark and endless, a freedom you had never known how to grasp. and in that vast, unfamiliar quiet, he was waiting.

not at the gates, not where the guards stood watch. no, satoru gojo was leaning against the hood of a brand-new, custom-designed car, sleek and untraceable, its glossy frame catching the glow of the streetlights. his suit jacket was unbuttoned, tie loose around his collar, a portrait of effortless rebellion wrapped in money and recklessness. but it wasn’t the car or his defiant stance that made your breath hitch. it was where he was waiting. the old, abandoned chapel—the one the two of you had found as children, where you had once played pretend, weaving stories of running away, of rewriting fate, before you were old enough to understand how impossible that was. except now, as his sharp gaze found yours across the empty street, you realized he had never stopped believing in it.

“satoru.” you whispered, stepping closer, the word barely more than breath.

he didn’t speak. instead, he reached into his pocket, fingers curling around something small, something that had been weighing him down the entire night. for a moment, he only stared at it, thumb brushing over the edges, hesitant, as if still debating whether to do this—whether to let himself want this. then, with a quiet breath, he flipped open the velvet box, revealing what lay inside.

“marry me.”

your breath caught.

it wasn’t a question. he didn’t kneel, didn’t offer flowery words or grand declarations. he just stood there, holding it out, the blue diamond gleaming in the low light—impossible, priceless, his. he looked at it for another moment, then back at you, as if deciding, as if still waiting for some part of him to pull back.

but he never did.

you stared at him, stunned, breathless, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest like an iron hand. the world outside the chapel was still, the distant hum of the city muffled by the pounding in your ears. satoru stood before you, bathed in silver moonlight, sharp edges and reckless intent carved into his very being. his fingers were curled so tightly around the velvet box that his knuckles turned white, but his smirk—god, that damn smirk—never wavered. it was defiant, cocky, but underneath it, something deeper flickered in the ice of his eyes, something unspoken, something raw. he was waiting for you to understand, to accept that there was no going back after this.

"you said it yourself, didn’t you?” his voice was low, smooth, a blade sharpened with amusement and something darker. his lips curled, something dangerous in the way he looked at you, something wolfish—predatory in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. but his fingers, still gripping the box, betrayed him, tension coiling beneath the surface of his casual defiance. "princesses don’t marry commoners." he let the words settle between you, let them hang in the charged air like an accusation, like a challenge. then he took a step closer, slow and deliberate, gaze never leaving yours.

“so i guess it’s a good thing i’ve never been one.”

your heart slammed against your ribs, a wild, dizzying rhythm that sent heat rushing to your skin. the space between you shrank, the night folding in around the two of you, suffocating in its intensity. you had seen him serious before—calculating, determined, ruthless—but this was different. this was satoru stripped bare of pretense, of politics, of the role he had been born to play. this was him, standing in front of you, asking you to choose him, to burn down everything for him. the realization sent a sharp ache through your chest, twisting something deep inside you.

“you’re insane.” you whispered, but the words lacked conviction, your voice betraying the tremor beneath your carefully constructed walls.

his grin widened, wicked, knowing, a spark of satisfaction lighting up his too-bright eyes. “considering i’m about to whisk away the dearest princess of this country like a big bad wolf," he murmured, tilting his head, watching you through thick lashes, “i guess i am, but you'd let me anyway, won't you?”

he wasn’t wrong.

your fingers tightened around his, around the ring, around the impossible weight of what you were about to do. you didn’t even need to say yes—he already knew. the moment you let him slip that ring onto your finger, something shifted, something irreversible. satoru laughed, breathless, triumphant, his lips brushing against your knuckles, against the cold metal now resting against your skin like a brand. you felt it then—the silent vow, the inevitable destruction, the promise of a future you weren’t meant to have but would take anyway.

“see?” he murmured, lips ghosting just above the lace of your glove, his breath warm against your wrist. “fits perfectly.”

and then he drove—fast, reckless, free.

and you let him, because for the first time in your life, you wanted to be.

a/n : wrote this pretty fast when i was just yapping about it last night because this is what satoru brainrot & ovulation does to an idiot. if you see some errors please do tell & i apologize in advance, i stayed up all night writing this & now i finally get to sleep zzzz

also pls do tell if you are interested in the aftermath, i already have a rough plan on how it will go, just whole domesticity and fluffy stuff (as if he didn't corrupt you into eloping with him but let's not talk about that)

[norristrii]

ALL THE BOYS I LOVED BEFORE.

Your brother Carlos, tired of watching you endure heartbreak after heartbreak, couldn’t bear to see his little sister unhappy anymore. In his determination to cheer you up, he began to wonder if his best friend might just be the perfect match for you.

pairing. Lando Norris x Sainz! fem! reader.

warnings. none.

YOUR LOVE LIFE FELT LIKE A CRUEL JOKE, an endless parade of failed attempts that left you questioning your own worth. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the creeping fear that maybe you were the problem, that perhaps you were unlovable. The thought took root deep in your mind, leaving you wondering what you were doing wrong. Was it something about you that scared people away? Or was love simply not meant for you?

But through it all, Carlos never let you wallow in self-doubt for long. As your older brother, he refused to let you believe there was anything wrong with you. “It’s not you,” he’d say, his words firm, almost stubborn. “It’s them. Just a bunch of idiots who don’t deserve you.” His unwavering support was both comforting and amusing, and even though his bluntness often made you laugh, deep down, his words gave you strength.

Still, you couldn’t help but wonder, even as you smiled at Carlos’s efforts to cheer you up. Somewhere out there, was someone made for you? Someone who could love you the way Carlos believed you deserved to be loved? That little spark of hope kept you moving forward, searching for a connection that didn’t feel like a mistake waiting to happen. One day, you told yourself. One day, maybe you’d find them. Until then, at least you had your brother to remind you that the idiots weren’t worth your tears.

And to your surprise, the answer to Carlos’ scheming might have been closer than you ever imagined. Or, at least, that’s what Carlos believed.

Lando. Carlos’s long-time best friend, the guy who was practically a permanent fixture in your life. Sure, he was hot—those sharp features and that effortless charm weren’t exactly easy to ignore. And yeah, he was funny, with that playful banter and endless sarcasm that could make anyone laugh. But to you, he was nothing more than your brother’s best friend. That was the unspoken rule, the line that you’d never even thought about crossing.

But Carlos? Oh, Carlos had a different perspective. In his mind, it all made perfect sense. Lando wasn’t just his best friend; he was loyal, protective, and maybe even a little too cocky for his own good. And you? You needed someone who could keep up with you, someone who could challenge you but also be there for you without fail. To him, it was like a match written in the stars.

Maybe Carlos was onto something, or maybe he was just meddling. Either way, his genius idea had been planted, and once Carlos made up his mind about something, there was no stopping him. Perhaps the line you thought existed between you and Lando wasn’t as solid as you’d imagined. And maybe, just maybe, Carlos’s crazy little plan wasn’t so crazy after all.

It was typical of Carlos—always managing to drag you into something you swore you’d hate. And here you were, standing in the middle of a pristine golf course, the sun beaming down as a gentle breeze ruffled your hair. The idea of spending an afternoon playing golf with Carlos and Lando had seemed laughable at first. Golf? Really? You’d never understood the appeal of chasing after tiny white balls with oversized sticks. But, somehow, Carlos had convinced you it would be fun. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

Carlos, of course, was thriving, clearly enjoying the sight of you struggling with every swing. His laughter carried across the course, his playful taunts adding to your growing frustration. Lando, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as gleeful. Instead, he seemed content to watch from the sidelines, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he offered the occasional unhelpful tip.

“Try holding it like this,” he suggested at one point, demonstrating with exaggerated precision. You followed his advice, only for the ball to roll a pathetic two feet ahead. Carlos burst into laughter, practically doubling over, while Lando tried—and failed—to keep a straight face.

You groaned, gripping the golf club tighter as you prepared for another attempt. “This is torture,” you muttered under your breath, glaring at your brother, who was still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

Carlos shrugged, his grin unapologetic. “It’s called bonding,” he replied casually, as if that made the humiliation worthwhile.

Lando stepped closer, his smirk softening into something resembling sympathy. “For what it’s worth, you’re better than I thought you’d be,” he said, clearly lying but trying to sound convincing. The teasing glance he shot Carlos didn’t escape you, though —it was clear he was enjoying this just as much as your brother.

You rolled your eyes, your frustration mingling with reluctant amusement. This wasn’t how you’d imagined your vacation, but somehow, it didn’t feel entirely terrible. As much as you hated golf, the laughter and teasing brought a strange sense of comfort—a reminder that, despite everything, you were surrounded by people who cared about you, even if their definition of bonding involved public embarrassment on a golf course.

Carlos let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Oh my god, Y/n, are you even my sister?” he said, clearly enjoying every second of your frustration. His teasing grin widened as he stepped closer, pretending to assess your stance again. “You suck,” he added, the bluntness of his words making you groan loudly.

You narrowed your eyes at him, fed up with his constant jabs. “Well, if you’re so good, show me!” you shot back, your voice sharp as you grabbed the golf club with both hands and thrust it toward him. The force of your gesture caught him off guard, and he raised his hands in defense, laughing as he took the club from you.

“Alright, alright,” he said, still chuckling as he stepped up to take his position. “Let me show you how it’s done,” his smug tone only fueled your irritation, but part of you was curious to see if he’d actually live up to all the talk.

Lando leaned casually against his own club nearby, watching the exchange with a smirk. “Go on, Carlos, impress us,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. Between Carlos’s endless teasing and Lando’s sly comments, the whole situation was ridiculous.

Carlos stood there, his posture full of exaggerated confidence as he stretched out dramatically. “You need to be focused,” he announced, his tone dripping with self-importance as if he were some kind of golf guru. You rolled your eyes, already anticipating some kind of mishap, but you let him have his moment.

With a practiced stance, he lined up his shot, taking his sweet time as if the world was waiting for his golfing masterpiece. The swing was smooth, the ball connecting with the club perfectly—and for a brief second, you thought maybe, he’d nailed it. The ball soared gracefully through the air, catching the light like a beacon of hope.

And then… straight into the woods.

Your laughter exploded before you could stop it, a sharp and genuine reaction to the sheer absurdity of what had just happened. “Wow, Carlos,” you said, your tone dripping with amusement as you struggled to catch your breath. “That was… that was impressive. Are you trying to start a career in forestry?”

Carlos groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he squinted toward the trees. “It’s the wind,” he muttered in defense, but the slight blush creeping up his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment. Meanwhile, Lando nearly doubled over laughing, leaning on his golf club for support.

“You know what?” you said, flashing a sly smile as an idea struck you. This was the perfect opportunity to escape the humiliation of the golf course—at least for a little while. “I think I’m gonna get it,” you added with feigned determination, already planning your retreat. Sure, you probably had at least ten more golf balls, but that wasn’t the point. You needed an out, and this was your ticket.

Carlos didn’t even look up from the app he was fiddling with, muttering something distractedly about “good luck” as he waved you off. But Lando, standing just a few feet away, wasn’t about to let you slip away unnoticed. His smirk widened as he leaned slightly toward you, his golf club resting lightly against his shoulder. “Maybe I should go with you,” he said smoothly, his tone playful yet deliberate. “What if you get lost?”

"Yeah, right," you replied with a playful smirk, sarcasm dripping from your tone. "I need my prince to save me." The joke was meant to be lighthearted, just another quip to match the teasing vibe of the day. But even as the words left your lips, you found yourself quietly savoring this moment. Somehow, it made the whole golf catastrophe feel a little more bearable. At least Carlos was getting a kick out of it, his exasperated laughter echoing faintly in the background.

Lando, however, wasn’t about to let your words go unanswered. His grin widened, confidence oozing from his every movement as he shifted closer, his presence magnetic and hard to ignore. “Exactly,” he shot back, his voice smooth and deliberate, carrying just the right amount of playful arrogance. “Every beautiful princess deserves her handsome prince.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long, sinking into your mind before you could brush them off. Beautiful princess? Handsome prince? Did he really just say that? And the way his smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—so self-assured, so annoyingly charming—made your heart skip, even if you refused to admit it.

Your brain worked quickly to dismiss the thought. No. No, no, no. This was Lando, your brother’s best friend—the guy who had practically been a second annoying sibling at times. And yet... damn it. The worst part wasn’t the comment. It wasn’t even his confident delivery. No, the worst part was that he wasn’t wrong. He really was handsome, in that infuriating, effortless way that made it hard to look away.

Fighting the warmth creeping into your cheeks, you forced yourself to roll your eyes, putting on your best mask of indifference. “Keep dreaming, Prince Charming,” you retorted, your voice firm but laced with humor, determined not to let him see the way his words affected you.

Lando’s smirk only widened, his amusement evident as he leaned casually on his golf club. He didn’t need to say anything else—he’d already gotten the reaction he wanted. And as much as you hated to admit it, you couldn’t entirely suppress the small, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of your lips. Annoying as he was, Lando always knew exactly how to push your buttons. The problem was, you were starting to wonder if you didn’t mind quite as much as you used to.

You and Lando moved quietly toward the tree line, the hum of the golf cart fading behind you where Carlos sat engrossed in whatever had captured his attention on his phone. The air between you and Lando was heavy with unspoken words, the kind of silence that stretched on just a bit too long. You wanted to say something, to break the quiet and fill the space with anything other than the sound of your own footsteps. But the words just wouldn’t come.

Thankfully, Lando beat you to it. “How are you enjoying vacation?” he asked, his voice cutting through the quiet as the two of you stepped beneath the canopy of trees.

His tone was casual, but there was a curious edge to it, as though he genuinely cared about your answer. You glanced at him, his expression soft and relaxed, the playful smirk from earlier now replaced with something a little more sincere. The sunlight filtering through the branches danced across his features, and for a moment, you forgot the irritation golf had caused earlier.

“I mean, other than humiliating myself on a golf course?” you replied with a faint smile, the lightness in your tone matching his. “It’s been... not bad.” You hesitated, then added, “Surprisingly decent, actually.” The admission surprised even you, but it wasn’t a lie. Lando’s teasing had made the day a lot more tolerable than you’d expected.

He chuckled softly at your response, his eyes flicking over to meet yours. “See? It’s not all bad,” he said, a hint of that trademark charm slipping back into his voice. “Maybe Carlos wasn’t entirely wrong dragging us out here after all.”

You shrugged, brushing a stray branch out of your way. “Maybe,” you admitted quietly, though your mind lingered on how much of your enjoyment had less to do with Carlos and more to do with the person standing beside you.

The forest seemed quieter now, the sounds of your footsteps mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves overhead. The playful banter from earlier had given way to a more comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. You focused on the path ahead, brushing aside stray branches, until Lando’s voice broke the quiet.

“I know this might sound a bit weird,” he started, his tone unusually tentative. You glanced over at him, surprised to see his expression softer, almost shy. He looked ahead as he spoke, his grip tightening slightly on the golf club he still carried. “But... are you, uh, talking to someone?”

His question caught you off guard. Lando wasn’t exactly the type to beat around the bush, so this hesitation was... unexpected. And endearing. You blinked, processing his words as your mind raced. Was he actually asking? Did he care if you had someone? The thought stirred something in you, though you quickly pushed it aside, opting for humor instead of overthinking.

“Maximally with you now,” you replied lightly, a wry smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Your tone carried a hint of amusement, but there was no denying the truth behind your words. Your love life was, well, nonexistent. It was a fact you’d come to accept—laughing at it was easier than lingering on the ache it sometimes brought.

Lando turned his gaze towards you, his lips curving into a small, thoughtful smile. There was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite place, a flicker of emotion that almost made your heart skip. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was something more.

The question escaped your lips before you had a chance to second-guess it. “And you?” you asked, your tone steady but laced with curiosity. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, trying not to make the moment feel heavier than it already did. Sure, it was casual—just a question. But deep down, you couldn’t deny that you genuinely wanted to know.

Lando hesitated for a fraction of a second, his grip tightening slightly on his golf club. His smirk faltered briefly, replaced by an expression that was harder to read. Was that shyness? Vulnerability? You couldn’t tell, and it only made you more intrigued.

“Me?” he echoed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he glanced sideways at you. He cleared his throat lightly, and for once, his usual confidence seemed tinged with uncertainty. “No, not really,” he admitted, his voice softer than usual.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his echo of your earlier words, the sound light and genuine. There was something comforting in his answer, something that made the corners of your mouth lift without effort. The way he looked at you now—calm, unguarded—felt different. More genuine. And it left you wondering, for the first time, if there was more to him than the teasing grin and the clever remarks.

For reasons you couldn’t entirely explain, this felt easier—lighter—than anything you’d ever experienced before. All the boys you’d loved before had left a trail of complicated emotions, fractured hopes, and moments you’d rather forget. Each had been so differently flawed, so carelessly capable of turning something that once felt beautiful into something that left scars. Those experiences had planted seeds of doubt in your mind, making you question whether love could ever truly feel natural. But walking alongside Lando now, sharing easy laughter and playful banter among the quiet trees, it didn’t feel forced or complicated. It felt... right. Like it was meant to unfold this way, no pretense or pressure, just the simplicity of two people enjoying the moment.

“Maybe we should—” Lando began, his voice soft and uncharacteristically hesitant. It wasn’t the teasing tone you’d grown used to; this felt different, more careful, as if he was trying to choose the perfect words. You glanced toward him, curious, but before he could finish, something caught your eye.

“I have it!” you shouted suddenly, your attention snagged by the small, bright ball nestled among the leaves. You hurried forward, triumphant, as though finding it somehow made up for your earlier lackluster golfing attempts. Your excitement carried you into the moment, oblivious to the way Lando faltered mid-sentence.

He blinked, startled, before letting out a soft chuckle at your interruption. There was something warm in his laughter, a fondness you hadn’t quite noticed before. Turning back to face him, you realized what had just happened. “Uh, sorry,” you said quickly, embarrassment tinging your voice as you brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “What did you say?”

Lando hesitated for a beat, as though weighing whether or not to repeat himself. Then, his gaze met yours, steady and unflinching. “I said maybe we should go out sometime,” he repeated, his voice quieter now, as if he were letting the words settle between you.

The air shifted subtly in that moment. His question hung there, simple but impossible to ignore. For a second, you could only look at him, the sincerity in his expression catching you off guard. This wasn’t banter or teasing—it was honest, unfiltered. And in the quiet pause that followed, you realized just how much weight those few words carried.

“Yeah, we definitely should,” you said, your lips curving into an easy smile. The words came out naturally, without hesitation, as though they’d been waiting there, just beneath the surface, ready to be spoken. The warmth in your voice matched the way you felt—surprised, maybe even a little nervous, but undeniably intrigued.

Lando’s expression softened at your response, his usual cocky grin replaced by something gentler, something more sincere. He seemed almost surprised himself, as if he hadn’t quite expected you to agree so easily. For a moment, the two of you stood there in the woods, the trees around you swaying gently in the breeze, creating a little cocoon of quiet away from the rest of the world.

“Well,” he said after a beat, his voice light but carrying an unmistakable trace of relief. “I’m looking forward, then.” His smirk reappeared, though it was softer now, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he added, “Just promise me one thing—you won’t make me take you golfing.”

[hangesophtalmologist]

playing with fire burns like hell

part 1

previous name: the salesman’s obsession

part 1, (part 2)

pairing: squid game's salesman/ recruiter x f!reader

synopsis: when someone dares to interrupt his game, the infamous salesman ought to punish them... but she doesn't intend to play by his rules.

warnings: violence, physical assaut, social stigma, psychotic mc, squid game au

a/n: we shall give the people what they asked for (salesman x readers) (i'm people)

The slap rang out like a gunshot, ricocheting off the cold subway walls. The man on the ground – disheveled, panting – flinched. His cheek blossomed red, but he didn’t dare look up. Above him, the Salesman stood poised, palm still tingling. His eyes were bright but empty, the light behind them clinical, dissecting.

"Come on now, one more try,” he taunted. His voice was smooth, almost musical and weightless, as if he were suggesting a game of chess. "Don’t stop at three. You’ll regret that more.”

It wasn’t joy he was feeling. Amusement, merely. Detached, surgical. Like stepping on something fragile just to hear the crack. The pathetic, the desperate – they all crumbled the same way. He just had to give them a little push, and their precious facade fell apart, leaving behind the twitching core of greed, ready to humiliate itself for scraps.

The sweating businessman bent to pick up his red tile, trembling. His shoulders sagged under the weight of silent despair. Miserable. The Salesman’s lips curled, though not exactly enough to be called a smile. He enjoyed the process. The inevitability of it.

Another failure.

He raised his hand, licking his lips in anticipation, but before he could swing, something unexpected happened. A hand grabbed his wrist.

Firm. Unshaking.

Cold.

His head snapped to the side; the sharp turn of a predator interrupted mid-hunt.

You.

His gaze narrowed. He’d noticed you earlier, lingering on the platform’s edge. Background noise. He rarely missed details, but somehow you had slipped through the cracks. Perhaps that was the first red flag.

His gaze drifted over your hand, slender fingers circling his wrist like a cuff. He could break free easily. Yet he didn’t. Your grip felt… deliberate. Measured.

“Enough,” you said, cocking your head to the side, sly eyes scrutinizing him.

His expression shifted, just slightly. Interest flickered, not outwardly hostile, but curious. He searched your face for clues – that familiar, nauseating blend of pity and self-importance most saviours carried. Yet, your eyes betrayed neither. But he didn’t need any tells – he knew people like you. Hypocrites yearning for crumbs of recognition.

“And who might you be?” His voice retained its warmth, but irritation simmered beneath it.

You stepped between him and his trembling opponent, your hand falling away. “Doesn’t matter.”

His gaze darkened as annoyance started to seep in his body. He didn’t even watch as the man behind you scrambled to his feet, disappearing into the crowd like prey escaping a hunter. His focus was entirely on you now – the intruder. He examined you for long time – longer than what he was used to. The Salesman never cared much for remembering anyone other than his recruits – but there was something about the lines of your face, the crooked slope of your mouth, the mischief in you pupils. Something challenging. Something he wanted to crush.

"You just cost me 100,000 won," he said lightly, adjusting his cufflinks with meticulous care – but the tightness in his jaw betrayed the casual tone. "So. How do you plan to pay me back?"

You shrugged, defying. “I don’t plan to.”

His grin widened, but the glint in his eyes sharpened. “I see. Then I’ll have to take it from you. A slap or cash. Choose.”

“I have a better idea,” you smirked, lazily flicking the red tile between your fingers. “I’ll take his place. I want to play too.”

His smile faltered. The thrill flickered out, but simply for a second – you weren’t desperate, not twitchy or ashamed. Not his typical prey. Yet. Because after all, if you wanted to play, it was because you wanted money – like everyone else.

He just needed to crack your confident mask to see you scrambling for it.

A chuckle escaped his mouth, hunger for your humiliation gnawing at his stomach. He wanted to see your heroic aspirations slapped out of your mind until you were nothing more than the lowlives he usually dealt with.

Yes. This would be even more fun to watch.

His smirk returned, though colder. “Fine. Each loss costs 100,000 won. Can you pay?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t lose.”

Your smugness stirred something primal in him—something ugly, something he hadn’t felt in years. You flipped the red card over your fingers, defiance oozing off you. Then in a split second you hurled the tile to the ground with surprising force. There was no hesitation, no tension. He didn’t need to look down to know you had flipped the blue card over. He watched you carefully, waiting for the inevitable flicker of relief that most winners betrayed.

None came.

Your eyes had barely left him either, like you were also gauging his reaction. Your lips stretched in a predatory smile – a thrill of excitement ran down his veins.

“I paid the debt. Now let’s play for real,” you cheered, displaying a naïve smile, one that could have fooled him as genuine if there wasn’t a flick of calculation - measurement - behind the easy curve of your lips.

The Salesman was a man of control – he could recognize when someone was leading a game, and right now this someone wasn’t him. He wasn’t surprised when you succeeded again.

“You won,” he stated, but there was no satisfaction, no amusement – he was still hungry for your humiliation. He reached for his luggage. But your foot stopped him, stepping on it as you suddenly reduced the distance between them.

“Oh no, Mister. You must have misunderstood me,” you slowly leaned towards him and whispered against his face.

He should have seen it before – but it was only now, when you were inches away from him, that he finally noticed the spark of amusement hidden in your eyes. It wasn’t heroism, nor greed that animated you.

Danger. His heart raced with the adrenaline that was reserved for his favourite kills, an all-too-powerful feeling that welcome your next words.

“I wasn’t playing for money.”

And then with sudden, brutal efficiency, you slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to send him stumbling on his feet and wipe any thought from his mind.

The crack resounded louder than his own had.

His head jerked to the side, pain stinging his cheek. Silence stretched between you. The slap burned, but not as much as the unfamiliar sensation curling in his gut.

Your laugh cut through the quiet, light and playful, but dripping with something – something mad.

He scoffed, bringing a hand to massage his cheek. It was stinging, the only proof that the last seconds had happened. When he looked back at you, you had tilted your head in an innocent expression.

But your conniving smirk was taunting him. “I get you now; it is quite fun. Have a nice day, Mister.”

You turned and walked away, your figure shrinking under the flickering subway lights.

The Salesman didn’t follow. Not immediately.

He watched you disappear into the station, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead casting fractured shadows on the tiles.

He stayed rooted, fingers twitching at his side, replaying the moment. Over and over.

Then, without warning, he laughed. Deep, unhinged, shaking laughter that echoed through the empty station. His stomach twisted with hunger, sharper and more vicious than he had felt in years.

You.

You weren’t a prey.

No, you were something far more valuable.

You were a challenge.

And he would break you. Piece by piece.