#nothing graphic but it's still there so be warned :)
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nemo-writes · 3 days ago
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⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆
↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader
↣ chapter summary; haunted by the aftermath of your choices, a surprise visit unravels old wounds and buried emotions, as a tearful confession forces you to confront a tangled web of guilt, pain, and forgiveness.
⚠️ warnings; blood and graphic depictions of violence
★ previous ; next
☆ story masterlist
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Your eyes drifted to the ripples in the water, your thoughts sinking beneath the surface as you replayed the journey back to the coven.
König hadn’t hesitated. He had all but dragged you back, his grip firm yet careful, as though you might shatter if he let go. There was no stop to regroup, no pause to process—just a direct route home, the tension in his towering frame mirroring your own.
And so, the head sat on your lap the entire ride home, its weight a grim reminder of everything that had transpired. You refused to part with it, even as the blood seeped through the fabric, staining your clothes further. You hadn’t spoken a word, your focus locked on the bag as if it might come alive again.
Sybil had kept watch the whole way, her eyes scanning the passing horizon through the window as she curled protectively by your side. She didn’t whine, didn’t nudge you, only remained steadfast and silent, as though sensing the fragile thread you were hanging by.
Even now, you could feel the phantom weight of the bag on your lap, heavy and unrelenting, as though it had been branded into your skin.
Your thoughts drifted to the moment you had walked through the grand doors of the manor, every nerve in your body screaming with pain and exhaustion, yet your focus razor-sharp. You hadn’t paused to speak to anyone, hadn’t stopped to explain.
The staff had stared long and hard, their whispers trailing behind you like ghosts. It didn’t matter. Nothing did, except what needed to be done.
You had found her in the dining hall. Your Mother sat at the long table, elegant as ever, her posture immaculate as she shared a quiet dinner with your Mom and their familiars. The glow of candlelight softened the room, the quiet clink of cutlery the only sound as they ate in peaceful conversation.
That peace shattered the moment you entered.
Without a word, you stepped into the room and strode forward, your steps echoing sharply against the polished floor. Your Mother looked up, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly at your disheveled state, but before she could speak, you dropped the bloodied bag onto the floor with a dull, wet thud.
The room froze.
The maids gasped, their hands flying to their mouths as they stepped back. Your Mom’s fork clattered onto her plate, her face painted in shock.
Then the bag fell open. Cath Palug rose up and hissed, while Barghest simply stared.
The severed head rolled out, its lifeless eyes staring at nothing, and the room seemed to tilt with the collective intake of breath.
Your Mother’s expression didn’t falter—not entirely. Her gaze flickered between you and the grisly trophy at her feet, but her voice remained steady when she finally spoke. “So it’s done, then.”
You hadn’t answered. You couldn’t. The tightness in your chest made speaking impossible, and the burning in your throat made it clear you would break if you tried.
Instead, you turned on your heel and walked out, leaving behind the whispers, the questions, and the horror etched into their faces.
A soft knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. The sound was gentle, hesitant, as though whoever was on the other side knew how fragile the moment was.
“Come in,” you said, your voice hoarse from disuse.
The door creaked open, and your Mom wheeled herself into the room. She was alone—not with Horangi, not with your Mother, just her. The sight of her brought a lump to your throat. She stopped by the edge of the tub, her sharp eyes scanning you silently for a moment before she spoke.
“Figured you’d still be in here,” she said softly, her tone laced with a quiet understanding. “Thought I’d come check on you.”
You lowered your gaze, your knees pulling closer to your chest as the lukewarm water rippled around you.
She didn’t wait for a response, her hands working deftly as she reached into the bag hanging from the side of her wheelchair. From it, she pulled a clean towel and a small jar of salve. Her movements were steady, deliberate, as though trying to ground you through her actions.
“Let me see,” she said, her tone firm but gentle.
You didn’t argue. Slowly, you unfolded yourself, exposing the myriad of cuts and bruises that marred your skin. She leaned in, her hands careful as they traced over the wounds that had already been tended to.
Her attention lingered on the bite mark at your neck. Though it had been cleaned and treated, the faint outline of the fangs still remained, a cruel reminder of how close you had come.
Her fingers hovered just above the wound, her jaw tightening. “The venom was extracted in time,” she murmured, more to herself than to you. “Your nature did the rest. If you weren’t a witch…” Her voice trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavily between you.
You didn’t need her to finish. You knew. You would have turned—become one of them.
She sighed, sitting back slightly as she set the jar of salve on the edge of the tub. “You’re lucky, you know. Stubborn, reckless, but lucky.”
Her words made you blink, your gaze snapping to her face. There was no anger in her expression, no reprimand—just quiet understanding and something deeper, something that made your stomach twist.
“I need you to listen to me,” she said, her voice quieter now. “This is going to go against what your Mother wants, what we’ve always told you. But I can’t ignore what I see.”
You swallowed hard, her words settling heavily in your chest.
“If this isn’t what you want,” she continued, her sharp gaze meeting yours. “If you want to leave—to go back to the pack and leave the coven for good—I’ll help you.”
“I’ll make sure you’re safe,” she said continued. “I’ll make sure you get where you need to go. But it has to be what you want. Not what they want, not what I want, and not what anyone else expects from you.”
Her hand reached out, resting lightly over yours, her warmth grounding you. “Think about it. Really think about it. Whatever you decide, I’ll stand by you.”
You looked at her, really looked at her for the first time since you got back. She was… older. Older than you remembered. The lines around her eyes seemed deeper, her posture less rigid than it once was. The strength she always carried so effortlessly now seemed tempered, worn down by time and worry.
A flicker of emotion stirred in your chest—pity, maybe even sorrow. You tried to feel sorry for her, and you did, just a little. But it wasn’t enough to sway you.
Sitting up straighter in the lukewarm tub, the water sloshed against the sides as your gaze met hers, steady and unwavering.
“It’s too late,” you said quietly, but the conviction in your tone was unmistakable. “I’ve made my decision. Just like I told you and Mother before.”
Her expression faltered, a shadow of something unspoken crossing her face, but she said nothing. She only waited, her silence heavy with anticipation.
“I will become the new leader,” you continued, your voice firmer now. “This is what I’ve chosen. What I have to do.”
Her lips parted slightly, as though to speak, but the words never came. Instead, she exhaled softly, her shoulders sinking just a fraction as she studied you.
There was no pride in her gaze, no triumphant acknowledgment of your strength. Only quiet resignation, a sadness that settled into the lines of her face.
For a moment, she simply sat there, the distance between you feeling both vast and unbearably close. Finally, she gave a small nod, her hand still resting lightly over yours.
“If that’s your choice,” she said, her voice calm but tinged with sorrow. “Then I’ll support it. Just know… it doesn’t have to be the only path.”
Her words lingered in the air, but you didn’t respond. You had already made your choice, and nothing would change that.
. . .
The day of your confirmation came with a grandeur that left little room for subtlety. The entire town, along with the coven, had spent weeks preparing for the festivities—a week-long celebration to mark your ascension as the coven’s first seat.
Witches of every background, from the powerful High Covens of the North to independent practitioners from distant lands, came to greet you, to confirm your role as the one who would inherit your mother’s seat when she chose to step down. Each arrival was marked with gifts, blessings, and no small amount of scrutiny, their curious gazes ever-present.
The town itself was open to all—a rare gesture meant to foster goodwill among practitioners and the mundane alike. Yet with the open gates came an unease you couldn’t quite shake. It was tradition, yes, but one that carried its risks.
Now, as the celebrations roared outside, you found solace in your new studio, tucked away from the crowd.
The room was an eclectic blend of past and present—a reflection of your position as both a keeper of old traditions and a harbinger of new leadership. Ancient tomes lined the shelves alongside sleek magical tools. The faint scent of lavender and sage lingered in the air, mingling with the soft scratch of a quill as you worked on a letter to one of the visiting covens.
Sybil lay sprawled near the large window, her silvery coat catching the golden light as she watched the festivities below with quiet vigilance.
The moment was broken by a firm knock at the door.
You glanced up and called out, setting down your pen. “Come on in.”
The door creaked open, and Fiona stepped inside, her expression a mix of annoyance and concern. Her crisp uniform was immaculate, as always, but the faint crease in her brow spoke of something out of the ordinary.
“There’s someone here to see you,” she said, her tone clipped but careful.
You frowned, unsure of who would bypass the usual process of introductions to demand your attention directly. “Who?”
The name hit you like a jolt. For a moment, you could only stare at her, your mind racing to make sense of what she’d said.
“What?” you echoed, disbelief thick in your voice.
Fiona nodded, her frown deepening. “She’s at the front door. Said she wanted to see you.”
Your stomach churned with a mix of emotions—shock, anger, and something dangerously close to relief. You tried to process the name that had haunted you for so long.
“Did she say why?” you asked quietly.
“No,” Fiona replied, her tone softer now. “Just that she won’t leave until she speaks with you.”
Sybil’s ears perked, her gaze shifting to you as if sensing the storm of emotions brewing within. She rose to her feet, padding silently to your side.
You took a deep breath, your hands tightening slightly on the desk before you pushed yourself to stand. “I’ll see her,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
Fiona hesitated. “Are you sure? I can—”
“I’ll handle it,” you interrupted gently, offering her a small smile.
Fiona gave you a lingering look, then nodded and stepped aside to let you pass.
With Sybil at your side, you made your way toward the main hall, each step heavy with anticipation. The hum of the festivities outside faded into the background as you approached the the entrance hall.
And there she was.
Leah stood there, framed by the warm glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the open door. She looked… different. Tired. Worn down by time and whatever journey had brought her here. And yet, she remained beautiful as the first time you saw her. 
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was heavy, laden with bad memories and unspoken questions.
“Leah,” you said finally, your voice calm despite the swirl of emotions beneath the surface. “What are you doing here?”
Her lips parted as though to respond, but no words came.
“I came to see you,” she said at last, her voice quiet but steady.
The words hung in the air, their simplicity belying the weight they carried. You stood there for a moment, studying Leah’s face, before finally gesturing toward the hallway. “Come with me,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling beneath the surface.
Leah hesitated, her eyes darting toward Sybil before nodding and following you. Sybil padded silently behind, her dark eyes watchful as always. Fiona herself watched the two of you go, a frown still set over her features.
As you led her back to your studio, the silence between you was heavy, punctuated only by the soft thud of footsteps on the wooden floors. She began chattering nervously, her voice quick and uneven, filling the quiet with fragmented observations and apologies.
“I wasn’t sure you’d even see me,” she said, her words tumbling over one another. “I mean, I didn’t know what else to do. I—this place, it’s beautiful, I—”
You didn’t respond. Your silence seemed to unnerve her further, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak, not yet.
When you reached your studio, you opened the door and stepped aside to let her in. “Apologies for the mess,” you murmured, though the room was hardly disorganized—save for the stacks of books and papers scattered across the desk.
Leah hovered uncertainly near the entrance, her hands wringing together. Sybil walked past her, settling back near the window but keeping her gaze trained on the two of you.
You crossed to a small bell on the desk and rang it once, summoning someone from the kitchen. “I’ll have some food brought up,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.
Leah opened her mouth to protest, shaking her head. “That’s not necessary, I—”
“Sit down,” you interrupted sternly, your eyes meeting hers. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Just sit.”
The weight of your tone silenced her, and she sank onto the nearest chair without further resistance. Her shoulders sagged as though the act of sitting had drained the last of her strength.
While you waited for the food to arrive, the room filled with a tense silence. You leaned against the edge of your desk, arms crossed, watching her carefully.
It was Leah who broke first.
She sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white as she stared down at them. She took a shaky breath before starting, her voice low and trembling.
“It started… months ago. I was out clubbing with some friends at Konni” she began, her gaze flickering briefly up to meet yours before dropping again. “We’d gone to celebrate something—maybe exams or someone’s birthday. I can’t even remember now. It’s all so foggy.”
Her fingers twisted together nervously. “That’s where I met him. Makarov. I didn’t know his name then—didn’t even know what he was. He was just… there. Charismatic, charming, and… different. He stood out.”
Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard, her eyes glistening. “I don’t even know how it happened, how he pulled me in. I just… I wasn’t myself anymore. He had this way of making you feel like everything you wanted was within reach, and I believed it. I believed him.”
You remained silent, letting her continue. Suddenly, Sybil was next to her, her snout nudging into Leah’s lap. She looked surprised for a second, before hesitantly moved to stroke Sybil’s fur.
You let Sybil be. She was always best at things like this.
“I didn’t even know how much time passed,” Leah admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “Weeks? Months? I lost track. It wasn’t until you and your mother found me—helped to heal me—that I even started to remember who I was.”
Her gaze lifted to yours, and you could see the tears pooling in her eyes. “B-but I remember when you came to the pack’s house to treat me. I was so out of it, but… when you were there, it was the first time I felt like me in weeks. Like I was finally waking up from this nightmare.”
Leah’s voice wavered as she continued. “And then I learned what was happening with the pack—how they’d been affected, how I’d twisted them…” Her voice faltered, and she shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I never slept with them. Not that it didn’t almost happen. There were moments…”
She shuddered, her shoulders trembling. “It haunts me. I can’t stop thinking about what could’ve happened, what almost did.”
Sybil nudged her hand gently, and Leah took a deep breath, her fingers curling around the Borzoi’s soft ears.
“I was just a student,” she said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. “I was in school, working toward my degree. I had friends, a life… and now it’s all gone. I disappeared without a trace. No one knows what happened to me. I’ve lost everything—my home, my friends, even school. I miss it all. I miss them. I miss the normalcy.”
The room fell silent except for the sound of Leah’s quiet sobs as she buried her face in her hands. Sybil stayed close, her presence steady and warm as Leah clung to her.
Leah’s hand stilled against Sybil’s fur, her voice trembling as she spoke again. “I’ve been staying with Laswell,” she said, her tone low and hesitant. “She’s been… kind. But it doesn’t feel like kindness, not really. It feels more like punishment. Like I’m a prisoner.”
Her gaze dropped, tears streaking silently down her cheeks. “And maybe I deserve it,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Her voice cracked under the weight of her words. “The pack… they treat me like a disease. Like I’m toxic, like just being near me will make everything worse.”
She took a shuddering breath, her tears falling faster now. “I get it. I do. I know where they’re coming from. I know what I… what Makarov did to them. But it still hurts.” Her voice broke completely, her shoulders trembling as she clung to her words. “It hurts so much.”
Leah’s gaze lifted to meet yours, her eyes red and swollen, her voice dropping into something almost too raw to bear. “But what hurts the most? What I did to you. To all of you.”
She pushed herself to her feet suddenly, the chair scraping back as she staggered toward you. Before you could stop her, she dropped to her knees in front of you, her hands reaching out desperately.
“Leah—” you started, but she didn’t let you finish.
Her hands found yours, gripping them tightly, and before you could pull away, she pressed her forehead against them, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
“I didn’t know,” she choked out, her voice trembling with desperation. “I didn’t know what I was doing, how much damage I was causing. But it was me, wasn’t it? It was me, breaking your heart. Breaking their hearts.”
Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs, her words tumbling over each other in a rush. “Please, forgive me. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything, anything to make it right. Just… please, forgive me.”
Her raw sincerity hit you like a blow, her tears soaking into your hands as she clung to you with an almost unbearable desperation. Sybil rose from her spot beside her, letting out a soft whine as she nudged Leah’s shoulder gently, but she didn’t move.
For a moment, the room was silent, save for the sound of her quiet sobs, each one breaking the stillness like a fragile thread snapping. The weight of her plea lingered, heavy and unrelenting, settling over the space like a final, inescapable truth.
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scariusaquarius · 17 hours ago
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rehab. 3.
Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader
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Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.
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A/n: I had someone on Ao3 ask me about how often this will get updated and my answer is that I don't know. My IRL can be pretty unpredictable and I do deal with depression on a daily basis. I'm going to do my best to update this while still working on my Leon Kennedy fic, Unlikely Salvation! Please do bear with me as I try to figure out where I want this story to go!
This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!
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Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares
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Author: ScariusAquarius
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rehab masterlist. chapter 1 / chapter 2
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The lab was hustling with scientists, the Wakandan sunrise filtering through the enormous windows with an intensity that made Bucky eyes hurt as he stood by the cryostasis pod where the Winter Soldier would soon be housed.
The whole trek to the lab had been uneventful: not once did the soldier fight back. It seemed that the failure to complete her mysterious mission had caused her to shut down, and Bucky was tense as she was strapped down with multiple magnetic cuffs like the ones he and Steve used back in the quinjet.
Even with the super soldier serum coursing through her veins and whatever other enhancements she might naturally have or that HYDRA might have given her would prove useless. She was strapped down nice and tight.
There was a machine hovering over her knee, the tissue and bone beneath crunching and grinding as it was fusing back together, her expression unchanging despite her kneecap and patella being exposed. The air was beginning to smell of singed flesh and hair, and Bucky felt slightly nauseous.
Bucky hated knowing how much damage his arm could inflict; how unforgiving his grip was and how hard it was to regulate the strength at times so he would break yet another glass just by holding it and trying to take a drink.
And it had been so easy to crush her flesh like it was nothing.
"Howard? Howard, oh god...oh god, Anthony...!"
Bucky clenched his jaw, swallowing harshly as Maria Stark's voice whispered to him, and he was broken out of his trance by Shuri announcing.
"Once we are finished with her knee, I would like to begin deconstructing her mind. If efforts are fruitless, I would like for you to activate her again if possible. We might be able to figure out what her previous orders were and her intentions, history, anything that would prove useful to the eradication of HYDRA."
Steve frowned, asking as T'Challa simply stayed quiet, observing the Winter Soldier as she sat complacent and quiet; seemingly not hearing a word that they were saying.
"Are you sure that's a good idea? What if it doesn't work?"
Shuri replied confidently, flicking her eyes over to Steve before gesturing towards Bucky with a nod of her head.
"We will have to reset completely and start over. Sergeant Barnes' rehabilitation was easy due to the flaws within his programming that HYDRA was unable to remedy. However, we do not know what improvements have been made to HYDRA's algorithm since then. It will be challenging to separate the core person that this woman was before her programming, but not impossible."
T'Challa then asked, raising an eyebrow at Shuri as she shined a light into the Winter Soldier's eyes, taking down notes and recording her vitals.
"What if you are unable to separate the identity from the programming?"
Shuri sighed deeply, shrugging.
"She will have to be built from the ground up. This woman will be like a completely clean slate down to a new name if we are unable to figure out who she was before. I am already running the best biometric identification programs within our arsenal to figure out who she could have been. I would assume that Stark is also doing so?"
Steve nodded, replying as he watched the soldier closely as her eyes inconspicuously flicked to a scientist that readying a syringe.
"Yes, he's also got Nat looking through the database that we downloaded and coursing through any previous databanks we obtained from previous HYDRA raids."
Shuri then turned to Bucky, making him quirk an eyebrow up slightly as she regarded him with a raised brow.
"What is your take on this, Sergeant Barnes?"
All eyes were on him, and Bucky sighed slightly he stared down the soldier, watching the way her brow began to tense slightly the closer the scientist got. The second the syringe touched her skin, the soldier began to freak out.
Due to the cuffs restricting her movement, she resorted to smacking her back against the chair over and over, hissing and yelling loudly as the scientist jolted and stumbled back. T'Challa immediately shoved her down, Shuri exclaiming profanities as she snatched the syringe from the scientist and shoved it into the soldier's neck.
The soldier hissed and yanked her neck away, breaking the needle, and Shuri groaned, gesturing with her hands wildly.
"Really? Now I'm going to have to dig that out. You make things harder for yourself!"
Okoye quipped, her spear pointing towards the soldier as Steve and Bucky stood tensed and ready should the Soldier somehow get out of her binds.
"How primitive! She is like a wild animal!"
The sedative began to kick in, the woman's bucking gradually stopping, and she went limp within the chair, head rolling to the side as her eyes rolled into the back of her skull. Bucky's heart was racing slightly with adrenaline, and Steve observed.
"Seems like she knew what the syringe meant."
T'Challa frowned deeply, leaning back and brushing his hands off slightly as he glanced back at Steve.
"An important but grave detail: she must be remembering...or perhaps, it is a recent memory."
Shuri plucked the broken needle from the soldier's neck, humming.
"I will take it as a good sign that there is at least someone beneath the rubble. I promise you, Mr. Rogers, that I will do my best to find her."
Steve nodded before clapping Bucky on the shoulder.
"You going to be alright?"
Bucky glanced over at Steve, muttering truthfully.
"I don't want to do this, but I'm only doing it for you. I'm worried that she is going to somehow lead HYDRA to me and it's gonna be a shit-show all over again."
Steve was firm, declaring quietly.
"You know I wouldn't let that happen. I'd have to miss that big head of yours again."
"You're a goddamn punk, you know that?"
Bucky couldn't keep the smile from gracing the corners of his lips, and Steve smiled at him softly before hugging him firmly and backing away.
"Alright, I'm going to leave you to it. I'll check in periodically; let you all know what we find on our side of the world."
T'Challa hummed, walking towards Steve.
"I will accompany you. I would like to discuss some things before your departure."
Steve nodded, and the two men walked out of Shuri's lab. Bucky turned back around, making a slight face as Shuri cut away pieces of the woman's clothing, revealing a black and tight-fitting compression camisole.
There were numerous scars and marks all over her body, some jagged and unforgiving while others were clean and precise. Shuri hummed softly, muttering as her fingers grazed a jagged scar that ran beneath the woman's neck.
"The things this woman must have been through...HYDRA is truly despicable."
Bucky couldn't speak. Hell, he couldn't even think outside of the boiling hatred and rage that was beginning to consume him at the sight of the gruesome scars that covered her upper body. Bucky could only assume that it got worse beneath her uncut clothing, and he had to bite his tongue as hard as he could.
Whip scars, burn marks, mutilated flesh that never regenerated, her body was a canvas; a horrendous painting that HYDRA had taken delight in decorating. This was more than just punishment, it was a warning.
A warning that disobedience will not be tolerated.
How many times did they slash her throat for the scar to become so prominent? How many times did they burn her skin to the point that the serum couldn't work to regenerate? How often did they beat and prod and jab and shoot and stab at her until she was too weak to fight back?
In a morbid way, Bucky took it as a sign that despite her being activated and still dangerous, her history of resistance let HYDRA know that the person that used to be there still existed.
There was someone still underneath the rubble, as Shuri had put it, and Bucky hoped that Shuri could pull her out.
But even so, would it help? Would it be right to let this woman have to live with the memories and nightmares of what had happened to her? Was it right to subject her mind to the torture of HYDRA even after being rescued?
Was it right to try despite knowing how traumatized and desolated the woman was going to be once she was free? Hell, there were times were Bucky could still smell the scent of the cologne his Handler wore when punishing Bucky, and now Bucky couldn't stand to smell the scent without being pushed into a panic.
"Don't worry, White Wolf. I am going to do what I can to help this woman."
"That's not what I'm worried about."
His voice was choked, cracking slightly as he rushed to respond, and Shuri tilted her head at him, asking Bucky with a curious gaze.
"Then what is it that plagues you?"
"I just...is it right to do this when she's gonna have to live with the memories and the nightmares?"
Bucky felt ashamed by the frown that crossed Shuri's face, but was slightly relieved to know that the disappointment that flashed within her eyes was not directed at him.
"I understand the concern, and I understand that it will not be easy for her...but that is why you are here. You have survived HYDRA and are free of the programming they worked hard to instill within your mind. With living proof that persistence yields peace, I truly think that she may become a person again...it will just take time and a lot of work."
Bucky nodded, and Shuri was quiet for a moment before she murmured.
"While it may not seem fair to save her...it is truly a tragedy to deny her the chance that HYDRA never gave her."
The words left a profoundly bitter taste within Bucky's mouth, and he could distinctly taste copper from him biting into his cheek too hard. Shaking his head, Bucky looked away from the woman as Shuri began to assess her further.
"Reactivating her will come with a risk. I would only be able to activate her, but I don't have the knowledge to deactivate, if that's even possible. When I was activated...the longer I was out of cryostasis and hadn't been wiped, the easier it was to resist the programming. I don't know if it will be the same for her."
"As I said: reactivation will allow us the ability to communicate with her. She has not been wiped, it would seem, so it is possible that this woman knows something."
Shuri grabbed a butterfly needle and a vial, putting on gloves and tying a tourniquet around the woman's arm so that she could find a vein. Once she found it, Shuri inserted the butterfly needle, taping it to the soldier's skin.
"I am now going to collect bloodwork to run DNA diagnostics and input the data into the biometric identification program to see if we may be able to identify her this way. I'm also going to do some testing to see what serum she might have been injected with to trace it back to the creator."
Bucky nodded and sat back, watching and listening intently as Shuri described what she was doing and what the programs did on a deeper, intellectual manner. While Bucky was listening and trying to absorb the information, he couldn't stop glancing over at the scars that lined the woman's body.
Horrific couldn't even describe it. It made him sick to his stomach. If Shuri noticed that Bucky was slightly distracted, she gracefully didn't comment on it. Instead, Shuri tried to distract him the best that she could while the machine she was operating was taking a scan of the woman's brain.
After a moment, Shuri hummed, a perplexed look on her face as she sauntered around the hologram of the woman's brain, tendrils of red seeming to pulse all over the organ, and Shuri's brows furrowed as she thought to herself. Bucky asked with an intrigued look on his face.
"What is that?"
"This is a digital recreation of the woman's brain as well as the areas most affected by HYDRA's programming."
Shuri looked proud as she began to move the hologram around, zooming in and out of different areas and lobes before breaking it down into layers.
"Thanks to the work that I did for you, I was able to develop an AI that was capable of identifying HYDRA's programming, as well as detect the intensity and depth that it runs. It gives possible solutions and suggestions on what to work on first...and tells me when something activates the program."
Shuri's voice seemed to lower slightly, side-eyeing him for a moment before she looked back at the hologram, but Bucky didn't notice. Bucky was floored, in awe at the ingenuity of the AI that he couldn't help but to whistle lowly.
"That's incredible, Shuri."
"Please, compared to her, you were like a walk in the park."
Shuri waved him off before she hummed, pointing to a area that was largely red within the hologram.
"However, unlike your programming, her programming is much more complex. There are multiple layers where the programming intertwines with core pieces and memories, which will make unraveling the ties difficult. There might be parts of her that will not be salvageable."
Bucky pursed his lips slightly, shaking his head as he replied gently.
"Like you said: from the ground and up if needed."
Shuri smiled widely at Bucky, her eyes crinkling as she teased gently, pointing at him.
"See, now you are beginning to understand."
Bucky rolled his eyes before he asked as Shuri began to work, a screen popping up and flashing slightly.
"So, what is that?"
"If we are going to salvage as much as we can of the core person she was before she became a Winter Soldier, we will have to analyze every piece of her psyche. Unfortunately, I cannot do much with HYDRA's program basically firewalling me. It is like they added some sort of encryption to her so that any attempt of undoing their work would be unsuccessful or too risky."
Bucky tilted his head, becoming slightly confused as he pointed to the red parts of the woman's brain.
"Is that why those areas are red like that?"
"Yes. If you look closely, it is almost as though these red areas are wrapping around the parts that are otherwise untouched by HYDRA's program. If we can get past the encryptions, we might be able to get through."
Bucky nodded along, crossing his arms before he glanced down at the woman, asking apprehensively.
"Are you going to make me activate her?"
"For now, no. I do not think that it will be necessary. All I need to do is bypass the encryptions, break them down, and then I will begin to root out the memories with the most significance to her."
Shuri spared Bucky a glance, relaying to him honestly.
"If possible, I would like to keep you from doing so because of the mental repercussions activating her will have. I will entrust the process to Okoye if activation is the only option we have left."
Bucky shook his head, murmuring to Shuri as he glanced down at the woman again as her face scrunched slightly.
"No, I'll do it...let's just hope that I don't have to."
Shuri became quiet, staring Bucky down for a moment before she turned away and suggested.
"Perhaps you should see the Captain off. Breaking through the encryption will take time, and I can tell that you are starting to become brain-dead listening to me."
Bucky chuckled before bowing his head slightly, shaking his head.
"I'd rather not upset your brother by leaving you with her by yourself."
Shuri made a face at him, the expression reminding him of Steve pre-serum.
"Do you think I am not capable of defending myself? This is my territory, white boy."
Bucky raised his hands in surrender, wincing slightly.
"I'm sorry, your highness, but I've been on the receiving end of your brother's foot."
Shuri barked out a laugh, and Okoye made her presence known by snorting while a couple of the Dora Milaje stood by the entrance to Shuri's lab.
"At least he knows what he would be up against. Do not worry, Sergeant Barnes, I will stand watch. The Captain is about to make his departure."
Bucky nodded before expressing his gratitude, nodding gently to Shuri.
"Thank you. I'll be back shortly."
Bucky turned and left quickly, his steps quick and urgent as he arrived outside. However, the quinjet was already flying away, making Bucky purse his lips. T'Challa's voice greeted him, making the man look over at the King as he spoke.
"You just missed him."
"He's always running off on me somehow, so I'm not entirely surprised."
T'Challa chuckled slightly, before he glanced over at Bucky.
"How are you feeling about all of this?"
Bucky glanced over at T'Challa, regarding him with an exhausted look before he turned back front, watching Steve leave again.
"I'm worried, honestly. There's so many things that could go wrong. What if HYDRA is trying to find me and was using her to do it? HYDRA must know that the Avengers have been raiding the old facilities that aren't in use anymore, so why not leave her to be found and taken in?"
T'Challa hummed, clasping his hands together as he replied.
"Let them try. They will not make it very far."
Bucky pursed his lips slightly before he murmured.
"It's...strange, honestly...seeing this from an outside perspective. I knew that this was serious, but I wasn't aware of how bad it actually was. Standing on the other side of the glass...it's almost poignant."
T'Challa nodded, replying with a hum.
"When my father was killed and I was under the assumption that it was you in Vienna, a deep hatred rooted within me for HYDRA. While I understand now that it was Zemo's schemes...that hatred for HYDRA has never wavered. Even now when knowing the dangers that lie beyond those doors, I still hope for peace."
Bucky was quiet, listening intently to T'Challa's words as the king spoke, his brown eyes downcast as he continued.
"Nobody deserves to be subjected to such horrific torture."
Bucky wasn't sure on how to respond. Instead, the man just nodded and took a moment to breathe before he settled, glancing over at T'Challa.
"You're right, and if we have to start from scratch, then I'm willing to help how I can...both with rehabilitating her and eradicating HYDRA once and for all."
T'Challa nodded quietly before turning to walk back towards the lab, suggesting over his shoulder.
"You should get some rest...and maybe put that on ice."
At the mention of the wound on his temple, it began to pulse, and Bucky just sighed.
"I'll sleep it off...and thank you for listening."
T'Challa didn't respond, but a smile graced the king's lips as he disappeared through the doors. Bucky's shoulders sagged slightly, and he rubbed his temple gently, wincing when he pressed down to hard.
He had to admit: that woman could give a mean right-hook.
-
STORY NOTES: Bucky, T'Challa, Steve, and Shuri are all within her lab with the Winter Soldier. So far, the Winter Soldier has made no move. Shuri is using a machine that heals and reconstructs the soldier's knee, and Bucky is perturbed by the damage he had inflicted. He reflects on the hardship it took to regulate the strength of his grip in his metal arm; reminiscing about the difficulty of clutching a glass of water.
Shuri then tells the group that she would like to begin deconstructing the Winter Soldier's mind to get an understanding of her intentions, and suggests activating the Winter Soldier again should Shuri's efforts fail. Steve is apprehensive, and Shuri voices that if neither efforts are successful, then she will have to completely reboot the Winter Soldier.
Shuri elaborates that she is currently attempting to figure out the identity of the Winter Soldier, and makes a remark that she hopes Tony Stark is also doing the same. Steve comments that Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, is also combing through the databank Bucky had downloaded, as well as previously recovered databanks.
When a scientist attempts to inject a sedative into her, the Winter Soldier begins to resist; causing a scene and consequently breaking the needle of the sedative within her neck. Steve observed that the woman understood what the syringe meant, and T'Challa points out that it might be a sign that she is remembering.
Before Steve's departure, Bucky voices his fear that HYDRA is using her to get to him, and Steve reassures Bucky that he won't let HYDRA get their hands on him again. Steve exits with T'Challa, and Bucky and Shuri are left alone within the lab. Shuri begins to remove a bit of the woman's clothing, and more scars are revealed.
Bucky becomes upset by the sight of the scars, understanding what they meant, and Bucky begins to become apprehensive about saving the woman. Shuri reassures Bucky that what they are doing is right. Later, Shuri shows Bucky a digital rendition of the Winter Soldier's brain and explains what she is going to do in order to save the woman's core identity.
Shuri comments that Bucky should see Steve off, and though Bucky tries to get to Steve before he leaves, he is unsuccessful. Instead, he meets with T'Challa. They begin to converse with each other, Bucky revealing his concerns, and T'Challa reassures him that HYDRA would not make it far into Wakanda if they attempted to retrieve him. Bucky makes a final thought on the woman and reflects on her strength. End scene.
TAGLIST: @vicmc624 @tilldeathripsusapart
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noblewildwoodfiction · 3 days ago
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SVSSS MoShang Sugar Daddy AU
This fic was a commission by @primtheamazing. Thank you, Prim, this was SO fun to write. You can find my commissions information here.
Rating - T for Teen. Suggestive themes but nothing graphic.
Pairing: Mobei-Jun/Shang Qinghua
Wordcount: 1.5k
Warnings: None.
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As an author of stallion novels, Shang Qinghua - more famously known as Airplane Shooting Through The Sky - was well accustomed to backbreaking, exhausting work to earn his living.
Admittedly, the backbreaking work was usually done sitting at a laptop, but his posture was terrible, and his suffering was real. And despite the criticisms of his beloved haters, it took a lot of mental energy to keep up his pace. He would like to see them try to add ten thousand words a day to a story where all of the possible ground had been tread and retread a dozen times already. (In fact, put all ten thousand words in the comments! Engagement! Yes! Keep paying that hate-reading money, so Shang Qinghua can have a little pork belly with his noodles!)
All that to say, it had already seemed like too much to expect that his mysterious arts patron was lavishing him with money and expensive gifts solely because of his passion for Shang Qinghua's literary genius. Particularly since he did not seem to know that much about Shang Qinghua's current webnovel. There was definitely something fishy going on.
The big, gorgeous fur-lined coat that had arrived that morning just proved it. When he'd first unpacked it, he'd looked the brand up on Baidu and nearly choked at the price. This was not an artist gift! This was a trophy wife gift!
Shang Qinghua held the coat up to himself in the mirror. He looked absurd. His haircut was terrible, and the coat was huge, covering all of his body but his round face. He had spots on his face. He put the coat on to see if that would help. It didn't. It just made the rest of him look cheaper by comparison. He had some unidentifiable brown sauce stain on his pants, and his t-shirt had a small hole by the collar where it had worn through.
Shang Qinghua took the coat off, and then everything else but his black boxers. He went and combed his hair and washed his face, then put water on his fingers and tousled it again, but better. Then he came back and put the coat back on.
The coat was a little too big on him, the hem of the long coat nearly hitting the floor, the collar and sleeves going over his face and hands. The fur on the inside of the coat was the softest thing he'd ever touched, and it felt obscene on bare skin. It was even softer on the sides of his ribs, the back of his neck, the soft part of his thighs. Goosebumps prickled up his skin, and he turned the collar up to nuzzle at the inside of it like a cat.
When he looked in the mirror, he had to put his hands over his eyes for a minute to recover. He still looked like a sort of chubby-cheeked kitten who had just woken up, but a sex kitten. Maybe. At the very least, he looked like he'd stolen his boyfriend's coat after a night of being - wait.
Shang Qinghua raked a hand through his hair and bit his own lip, widening his eyes at the mirror.
Now he looked like he'd spent the night being ravished by someone large and handsome. Especially if he stood like this, where the coat draped in such a way his boxers weren't visible, and one of his pale thighs stuck out of the coat.
Oh, yeah, he needed a picture of this. Just for himself, of course! Shang Qinghua took a few pictures with his phone, striking a variety of poses. In a fit of recklessness, he even took the boxers off and took a few suggestive ones just barely obscuring his dick. Certainly enough to show his inner thigh. These were the kinds of pictures that a sugar daddy would be looking for, right?
"Do you like it, my king?" he purred at the mirror, and then, in a sudden attack of paranoia, triple-checked to make sure all of the curtains were closed and the door was locked.
His mysterious patron identified himself as Ice King online, and Shang Qinghua had called him "my king" in their message history ever since he had seen the first deposit of ten thousand yuan into his account. He had, admittedly, indulged in some fantasies about him being some sort of tall, dark, and handsome princely type. Maybe with a chiseled jawline and brooding eyes.
Not that Shang Qinghua was thinking of anyone in particular! Knowing the internet, Ice King was probably some gross old pervert anyway. Not that Shang Qinghua had anything against perverts, given his line of work.
He tossed his phone on the bed, and went and changed into some regular clothes. Cleaner clothes, this time, and, admittedly, nicer than his usual daily wear. Then he put the coat back on and took a regular selfie. It was only once he clicked the photo button and heard the sound of a recording ending that he realized that most of that had been a video. Whoops.
He took an actual photo of himself fully dressed, and then sent that to the message thread with Ice King. He captioned it, "My king, this is 2 much!!!! I <3 it," hit send, and then, in a fit of self-consciousness, silenced his phone and started working on the chapter update.
By the time he resurfaced for air a few hours later and reached for his phone, his heart was beating fast in his throat. It wasn't like he'd never sent Ice King selfies before, but there was a difference between that and "look how good I look modeling the expensive coat you got me."
There was a notification on his lockscreen, timestamped for four hours after he'd sent the original picture.
"Yes."
Eloquent as ever, my king! Yes, what? Shang Qinghua swiped to open the text thread, trying to remember exactly what he'd said.
His blood froze. There was a play button on the picture he'd sent. He pressed play, and watched in numb silence as he stripped for the camera. That whole time! The whole thing! Filmed! Do you like it, my king he'd said! Naked!
There was no help for it. He would have to strangle himself with his laptop cord. There was no other way.
Belatedly, his brain caught up with him. Ice King had said yes. He liked it?
There was a typing bubble in Shang Qinghua's messages. He clutched at his chest, waiting. A photo started loading in.
The photo loaded.
Shang Qinghua was so fucked.
The photo was of a man, familiar and sharp-edged and coldly, pristinely beautiful, with dark hair falling around his face. The man was wearing a coat identical to Shang Qinghua's brand new one. It fit him better than it fit Shang Qinghua. Especially around the shoulders. Magnificent shoulders on this man, Shang Qinghua noted, distantly. The rest of him scrambled to comprehend what he was seeing, and finally spat out, "Mobei-Jun?!"
He hadn't talked to Mobei-Jun since Mobei-Jun was shoving him around in secondary school. He'd seen him on TV sometimes, in news reports about the company he'd taken over from his father, looking as blank-faced and stern as he ever did. Shang Qinghua had only seen him smile two or three times in their entire shared shitty teen years, and every one lived in his mind rent-free.
It's the same as mine, Mobei-Jun texted, as a final killing blow.
"Shut up!" Shang Qinghua said, to his phone, flustered. "What am I supposed to say to that?"
He messaged a key smash, and then mobei-jun????
Yes.
its me sqh
I know.
how long hav u known 4?
Two years.
why didnt u tell me???
There was a long pause. The typing bubble appeared and disappeared several times, as if Mobei-Jun was thinking about it. Shang Qinghua's nerves skyrocketed. Mobei-Jun was going to be offended! And block him! And stop covering a not inconsiderable portion of Shang Qinghua's rent!
nvrmind, its whatever, he added, hastily. i didnt kno u liked my writing ;3
I don't.
Shang Qinghua's heart wept. Cruel! Harsh and cruel! The world did make more sense this way. Marginally.
?????? then y the coat?
An excruciatingly long pause.
To see you in it.
Oh! Well, in that case.
oh okay ;) anything else u want 2 see me in? ;)
Another excruciating pause.
Yes. I'll get them for you.
Shang Qinghua's heart soared. He messaged a bunch of encouraging heart emojis and then a few more suggestive emojis. What was Mobei-Jun going to do? Block him about it? Maybe come over and shove him around a little more like they were back in secondary school? He could be okay with that. He could be more than okay with that, given the circumstances.
Shang Qinghua nixed the plans for self-asphyxiation by laptop cord. Life was beautiful! Let the haters barrage his comments section! His sugar daddy was Mobei-Jun.
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slimybeth69 · 15 hours ago
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Que Será, Será: Part 8
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Rating: Explicit- Smut, violence, drinking/drug use. MDNI!! Summary: It's almost twenty years after some weird outbreak almost happened but the CDC took care of that...Now you're living in Austin, Texas as an adult.What happens when you meet Joel Miller who hasn't been hardened and ruined by twenty years of murder and loss? Warnings/Tags: DaddyDom!Joel/ you. no use of y/n. No physical description of the reader besides one tattoo. Reader has a background story. Drinking/drug use. Slow burn. Smut. Angst. Cheating. Graphic depictions of violence. Eventual loss of virginity. Use of nicknames/pet names (lil girl, baby girl.) DD/lg dynamics. BDSM play. Unbeta'ed. WIP. Cross-posting from my Ao3. Chapter Warnings: read at your own discretion- no warnings due to chapter spoilers.
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Previously--
Joel doesn’t text you or call you for four days. You are fuming. So mad. Not sad anymore. Rage filled. But you only text him one thing on the fourth day and nothing else. 
Cool. 
And then you almost throw your phone against the wall but…you can’t afford a new phone and a laptop. Not even with Joel paying for the window. Your phone dings and it’s him. Your heart flutters until you open it. 
Sorry.
Currently-
Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool, cool, cool. Love that. Love all of this.
This is fucking wonderful.
You delete his text thread. You hesitate deleting the contact info because…that would be it. You don’t have any other way of contacting him unless you show up to his front door. You don’t delete it. You’ll hold on to it for a night you get real drunk and wanna make a fool of yourself. 
It’s another two weeks later and you’re at work, cashing people out when he comes through your line. You don’t even notice until he says something. You hadn’t even looked up.
“Hi.”
When you do look it feels like your heart is going to fall into your ass. 
“Hi.” It comes out of you so quiet and small. You’re so fucking scared for some reason. It feels like all the bones in your body have been turn to liquid.
“How y'been?” He asks and sounds shy. You shrug your shoulders and the anger returns. 
“Fine.” You snap softly. 
“Good.” Joel speaks softly to you but doesn’t say anything else. 
You cash him out and then he leaves. You’re so thankful that no one was behind him. You tell the person working next to you–with tears in your fucking eyes– that you need to go to the restroom and you’ll be right back. You spend ten minutes in there fucking crying. Heartbroken. 
Your co-worker– an older woman named Babs, comforts you gently when you come back teary eyed and red faced.
“You cryin’ over that mean lookin’ feller?” She asks quietly when no one else is around. You nod, but don’t start crying again. You can’t. You’ll have to leave if you start again. “Eh, you can do better.” She shrugs her shoulders.
It makes you feel worse because you don’t want ‘better’ you want Joel Miller. Wanted him so fucking badly it hurt everywhere. These last couple weeks have been nothing but pain and you can't even pinpoint it because it feels like it's overtaking your whole world.
You drive home and go straight to the whiskey cabinet. No fucking around tonight. You are drinking to be drunk. Drunk, drunk.
You change into something more comfortable, almost nothing— a little sundress because it’s hot. So fuckin’ hot. You bring your bong and bottle of whiskey outside with a can of Coke.
It’s happening: you’re getting over Joel Miller tonight. 
That bottle goes down…quicker than you expect it to, easier too. There wasn’t much left and…now it’s gone. So, you’re feeling better. Feeling not as sad. Not mad at all. Numb. Good. It’s good. Better than sad. Yes. Smoke weed. Get drunk. Be numb. The best way to handle your problems. 
It’s getting dark when your phone rings. You’re too drunk to care who it is. 
“Yessss?” You answer…very drunkenly.
“Y’expectin’ my call or somethin’?” Joel chuckles into the phone nervously. 
“Whaaaat?” You’re in shock. Stunned and still drunk. “Why’re y’callin’ m’fer?” You slur into the phone loudly. 
“You okay there, lil girl?” He asks, sounding worried about you and not nervous at all anymore.
“I’mm. Fiiiine.” You try to snap but it comes out long and drawn out, but annoyed. 
“Don’t sound fine… ” He speaks softly now. 
“Well why would I be? Huh? Huh?” You are angry again hearing his voice. “Jus’fuckin’ ‘banoned me? Fuuuck yooooou.” You are too drunk to be talking to him right now. You really should just go to bed. “I liked y-you ssoo muuuch. SOO much. I did.” You poke your chest like he can see you. “N’ y’fuckin’ leave.” You’re sad. Almost crying now. “Fuuck yoooou. I liked you!!!” 
“Can we talk?” He asks, sounding ashamed, not hearing or not caring that you’re hammered. 
“I’m lissstenin’.” You slur in a hiss. You’re pissed off. Drunk and angry.
“In person, stupid.” Joel chuckles into the phone. 
“M’not fuckin’ drivin’ nowhere. M’not that stupid!” You snap into the phone.
“M’out front. You don’ gotta go nowhere.” He whispers into the phone. You look at the back door of the house like you can see right through all the wood and drywall and plaster to try and see him. 
“Comin’.” You hang up on him and make your way to the front door. Joel is walking up to meet you as it opens. 
“Hey…” He says softly. 
“Fuuck. Yoou.” You teeter to one side but steady yourself. 
“You drinkin’?” Joel pinches his brows together softly. 
“Soooo much.” You glare at him like that’s supposed to bother him or make him feel some type of way. But it does. 
“Why?” He asks with a shrug on one shoulder. You haven’t invited him so he still on the porch. 
“Because.” You snap. ‘That’ss it.” You nod your head and blink for a long time. 
“You gon’ be okay?” Joel asks as you open your eyes. 
“Yesss.” You sigh at him.
“You want me t’go home? Delete yer’ number?” He asks quietly. “Want me t’ask y’again when yer’ sober?” He chuckles now but it doesn’t last long and he goes back to staring at you. You do not know. You want him to stay. But…why? He’s embarrassed of you. 
“I dunno.” You whisper up to him. 
“I’m sorry.” He shrugs his shoulders and tries to teach for you but you take a step back from him and scowl. “You hate me now?” Joel leans against the door frame and looks down at you sadly. 
“Y’hurt my feelin’s.” You grumble. “You're ‘sha–med of me.” You hiccup. Joel shakes his head. 
“No. I’m not.” He whispers. “I mean it. We can talk in the morning when yer’ sober. I’ll come back.” He nods his head and reaches for your hand.
You let him take it and he rubs his thumb across the back of your finger. “I wan’ you.” Your drunk heart and brain tell him what you want for you. “Real bad.” You nod at him.
“Yer’ so drunk, baby. Can I put ya t’bed?” Joel asks softly.
You keep nodding at him and he helps you back into the house and starts to lead you down to the basement.
“M’stuff… ” You point out to the back deck near the pool but Joel just walks you to the top of the stairs.
You take one stumbling step down before Joel wraps one arm around your waist, lifts you quickly and gets you downstairs himself, holding you facing out with your back against his chest.
You’re very concerned about your things outside though. “I got thingsss outssside.” You look up at him as he puts you into bed and pulls the blanket up over you. 
“I’ll go get ‘em.” He kisses the top of your head very softly and turns your fan on, turns the lights off and then you’re passed out.
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It’s not a pretty morning. It hurts. The whiskey hurts you so bad. You don’t even want to open your eyes.
No. You cannot. You will die here in this bed in the basement. Die of sadness and loneliness, probably. You could weep from the pain and the heartbreak.
Agatha meows softly and jumps up on the bed behind you. You pspspspss her real good but she never comes. You roll over and then fall out of your bed quite literally. Jump out screaming, is more like it!
There is a man beside you– Joel Miller!? And he’s petting your cat!!
“What are you doing here?” You ask from the floor as Joel rolls over onto his back to look at you. 
“Want me t’go? I stayed in case ya got sick or whatever.” Joel shrugs his shoulders and sounds disappointed in your reaction to seeing him. 
“When did you get here? How did you get in?” You’re still on the floor and still so confused. Your head is pounding and you just wanna go get sick and crawl back into bed. 
“Last night. Showed up after y’started boozin’.” Joel explains and starts to get out of your bed. He has all of his clothes on except for his boots. “I’ll go. M’sorry fer’ jus’ showin’ up. Saw ya at the store yesterday n’ ya looked real nice. I been missin’ you. Wanted to talk if you’d listen…” Joel trails off as he stands at the end of your bed, towering over you still sitting on the floor. He extends his hand and helps you to your feet. 
“You– you don’t have to go.” You whisper softly. “I don’t want you to.”
Joel’s eyes light up and he takes a step closer to you. You might be sick. You put one hand over your mouth and dart into the bathroom. 
It's possible, by the power of Satan himself flowing through you that you are fine. You are going to be okay. You drink water and...actually just have to get into the shower.
It’s good there.
It feels so good to lay down, so you do, you lay down and curl up into a ball on the floor of the stand up shower for an embarrassingly long time.
All you can think about is what happened last night that your blacked-out brain cannot remember. Did you embarrass yourself? Did you do anything stupid that he can use against you in the future? Did you say that you loved him?
Ugh.
You're not sure Joel would tell you any of those things, even if they did happen.
When you stand up, things don't hurt as much, but you feel just as disgusting as you did when you got in, so you wash and scrub the evidence of the day before off and let it swirl around the drain and into the pipes to be gone forever.
You get out, and brush your teeth- that's what you needed more than anything.
When you come out you can feel his eyes on you immediately, but you don't look at him. You pull on a pair of panties with your towel still wrapped around you. You do the same thing with a new dress that barely touches any of your body when you put it on.
That's when you take off the towel and finish drying your hair.
“I’ll understand if y’dont wanna smoke…” Joel gives you a sad smile as he watches you from the couch.
It's so hard to be mad at him for ignoring you, and not giving you any explanation for why he didn't want to see you anymore when he's looking at you with his big, sad brown eyes.
“Why’d ya leave that day?” You ask softly, sitting yourself down on the couch with enough distance between you for a whole person to lay down.  
“You know. S’awkward. ” Joel shrugs his shoulders, his eyes not meeting yours anymore. “Made me feel weird– bad." Joel doesn’t sound mad when he says this, he sound almost regretful. "Felt like a fuckin' pervert."
Now you're scared of the reason he came over here.
“What changed?” You whisper.
Joel chuckles and turns his head to look at you. “I realized… I am. I wanna fuck th’shit out of your tight, young, lil virgin pussy… so god damn bad. I get so fuckin’ hard thinkin’ ‘bout it.” Joel growls the words to you quietly. “I think ‘bout watchin’ my hard cock slidin’ into yer’ lil hole fer’ the first time n’ I could fuckin’ bust right there.” His mouth is so tight when he speaks, like he's trying to hold the words back from slipping between his lips.
He's quickly closing the distance between you two on the couch, and it makes your heart race, and his words make your pussy clench around nothing.
“Oh.” 
You’re so wildly turned on by his words, he's barely said them and you're already dripping. Your stomach is fluttering so much you feel like you might actually be sick this time. There is pressure and also a weird weakness in your chest simultaneously, like it might cave in on itself. 
“That’s all ya want from me?” You murmur, staring at him as he inches himself closer to you. He shakes from side to side silently. “What else do you want then?” You close your eyes because he is so close, you know he’s going to kiss you and you know where. Under your right eye.
“All of you.” Joel breaths against your eyelid and it makes you shiver. “Everything. Whatever ya wanna fuckin’ give me. I don’ care. I’ll take it, n’ be your pervy old man.” Joel speaks quietly and softly and moves down your cheeks as he speaks until he’s to your lips. “I’ll take whatever y’give me. I want it.” Joel whisper against your lips before he kisses you. 
You lean back and let him climb between your legs and rest some of his weight on top of you. He doesn’t grind himself down into you like you so desperately want him to, he lays his hips gently onto yours and rests there as he kisses you deeply. One of his hands finds the side of your face and he cups, then slides up, carding his fingers through your hair as he tries to deepen the already intense kiss.
It’s so deep it feels like he’s trying to lick your throat, but… you’re right there trying to lick his– trying to crawl into each other's mouths. 
He moans quietly as your hands find his hair and hold him to you as your mouths do the opening and closing-thing, the desperate-thing. Wet kissing sounds, and both of your breathless, panting moans fill the room. 
“I need you.” You whisper, pulling his head away from you by his hair. He chuckles and tries to kiss you again but you don’t let him. 
“No.” He growls, and there is another attempt to kiss you, more forceful this time, but you grip his hair tightly and yank his head back, he groans when you do it but doesn’t stop grinning down at you or panting.
“Why not? Why are you dragging it out?” You’re almost angry about it but…how can you stay mad at him? He’s grinning down at you all stupid, with his chocolate brown eyes and his body is just so big on top of yours. So warm. He smells so fucking good. 
“Yer’ special, so it's gotta be special.” He pants and makes an attempt to pull free from your grasp in his hair but you don’t let go and he rolls his eyes and groans in frustration but it’s short lived when he looks back down at you. 
“I don’t want it to be a big thing?” You whisper, reminding him of why you hadn’t lost it yet. 
“Shhhh. You want it sooo fuckin’ bad. Right?” Joel speaks like he knows exactly what he’s talking about.
You nod.
“S’let me keep doin’ all this– all these fun n’ sexy things that make ya feel soooo good– they make ya feel good, right?” He questions you again and pauses with his eyebrows raised.
You nod again.
“Okay. Ya' were sooo nervous with e'ryone else 'cause ya weren't comfortable, right?"Joel is still talking like he is so smart and has all the answers.
You shrug your shoulders and nod. begrudgingly.
“M'gettin’ ya' there…” Joel nods his head. “Doin’ all this fun stuff…makin’ ya more n’ more comfortable— confident n’ how to use that sexy fuckin’ body ya got- I- need'ya a lil more comfortable ‘fore we go n’ take the plunge. ‘Kay? Sexy fuckin’ lil girl with the tightest fuckin’ pussy, that work fer’ you?”
You nod silently.
“‘Kay. Shut up n’ kiss me a lil ‘fore we smoke n’ relax a. You gotta work today?” He questions you.
You shake your head no.
“‘Kay. You still like me?” He gives you a crooked half smile.
You nod.
“‘Kay. So stop worryin’. Daddy’s gon’ take reeeeal good fuckin’ care of you.” He snaps his head forward slightly, in the process pulling his hair free from your grasp. “Ha!” Joel laughs in your face once and brings his lips to yours again and opens your mouth for you with his tongue, and it turns into who can kiss the wettest very quickly. 
When he finally pulls himself away, you're both panting as he rests his forehead against yours. Then he exhales loudly and quickly, then kisses you once more before he climbs off of you and goes back to the coffee table with weed and smoking paraphernalia on it.
You stare at him. 
Is he your boyfriend now? 
You replay the last ten minutes in your head and everything he said. It sounded…like he wanted to be your boyfriend. Kinda. Kinda sounds like he just wants to fuck you? You dunno. You’re too fucking scared to ask and look stupid. 
“What?” He asks when he feels you staring at him while he gets ready to smoke. 
“Nothing.” You snap and turn to face the TV. You put on the only thing you watch and Joel says…nothing. For a long time. You start from the first episode. He doesn’t talk for three and a half episodes of Jersey Shore before he turns to you. 
“What’re they doin’?” Joel asks with his eyes still partially looking at the TV. “What’s th’point of this show?” You snort and shake your head slowly. 
“There isn’t one. That’s why it’s amazing.” You turn back to the screen and enjoy your comfort show. So simple. So easy. Brain rotting. 
“Jus’...gettin’ drunk?” He doesn’t understand. 
“Yeah… they were doing a lot of coke too, but they didn't show all that.” You laugh and rub your feet along his thighs. He rubs your shins as you do that and cannot take his eyes off the TV. 
“That makes sense…” Joel trails off and goes quiet again. You flick your eyes to him intermediately to see if he’s enjoying himself. Never once does he look like he is. His nose is always wrinkled or his eyes are wide. Or he has no emotion about it at all but it’s been on for hours. Joel never complains. Once your headache is gone and now you are pandered by hunger…you turn the TV off and Joel’s head snaps to you. “What?” He wanted to keep watching, apparently. 
“I need food.” You groan and can’t fathom standing. 
“Wanna go somewhere? I can order us somethin’? I can…”
“Don’t say cook because I have no groceries.” 
“Do– do you wanna go get some?” Joel asks like you’ve been holding off on running errands to hang out with him. 
“No?” You’re so confused. 
“You don’t… need food here?” He has his brows pinched together like he doesn’t understand you. He doesn’t. Clearly. He has food in his fridge. 
“Uh… not really? I don’t cook for just myself. It all goes to waste. I eat out a lot. Order food…” You feel silly when you say it but it’s the truth. Go through all the bullshit of cooking a really good meal to sit alone and the leftovers never get touched? No. You don’t… not cook. Just…not all the time. Gotta have a craving for something from back home for you to want to cook. 
“Oh. Okay…” 
“Do you cook dinner every night? We ordered out when I stayed there..” You feel judged. 
“I cook more than I order out…” Joel might be judging you. 
“Well if you stick around maybe I’ll cook more!” You say it in annoyance of his judging eyes but then he smiles and snorts softly. 
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Gotta go to Mexico in six months but… I’m comin’ right back.” Joel smirks and wraps his hand around your ankle softly. 
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do without you … probably order food.” You stick your tongue out at him and he grips your ankle tighter. 
“Alright.” Joel sits up and pushes your feet off his knees gently. “Yer’ toooo fuckin’ comfortable ‘round me n' the way you talk to me?” Joel is slightly smirking when he says it but…he sounds kinda serious. “Gon’ teach you a lesson, lil girl. C’mere.” he sits up on the couch, pushes the coffee table away from his legs with his foot and pats his legs. You stand up and go to sit down but he stops you. “Oh no. Lay over top of ‘em.” He grins now. 
“What!” You take a step away from him but he has his hand on your wrist before you get too far. 
“Shut yer' fuckin' mouth n' get over here. Y’heard me. Y’wanna get spanked? Alright. Let’s go.” He nods to you over to him, pulling on your hand lightly. 
“When did I say I wanted to get spanked!?” You exclaim. This is exciting, sexy and also fucking terrifying. He was being so, so sweet a couple minutes ago and now he wants to spank you!
“I’m just gon’use my hand, baby… nothin’ crazy. No flogger, no whips.” He explains. He’s speaking like he’s trying to calm a rabid animal. Firm, but nice. 
“What the fuck is a flogger??!” You are now more terrified and a little less turned on but then you realize he said no. None of that. Just his hands… maybe. You still fight him a little. 
“That toy from that special video…” He teases and flicks his eyebrows up once. “Just using my hands today…” Joel looks so excited. 
“Your hands are so big and so strong!!” You are inching towards him though with shuffling feet. 
“I know, baby girl. It'll be okay,” Joel tugs on your hand and pulls you over his lap.
You’re staring at the black faux fur rug and wondering how you got here. You pray to Satan that you enjoy this and it’s not scary and doesn’t hurt too bad. Shit. Okay. You shiver as Joel lifts your sundress over your ass and halfway up your back. Then he shifts a bunch and leans over you partially.
“Now… I’m gon’ buy ya new ones… later today— I promise.” Joel explains but you’re confused about what he means until you hear the fabric ripping.
What is it with him and ruining your things???? He's tearing the underwear right off of you.
He doesn’t even take them all the way off– just rips them in the back right down the middle so he can have access to your bare ass. 
“Okay.” It comes out of your mouth as a whimper and you are trembling as he rubs his rough palm and pads of his fingers across both cheeks very gently. So slowly. You get goosebumps. Immediately. 
“Awwwhh. You kinda scared, lil baby?” Joel chuckles like this is so much fun for him. Scaring and teasing you. Making your heart race. It's good. So fucking good.
“Lil bit.” You mewl up to him. He laughs. Deeply. 
“Don’t be. It’s only gon’ hurt for a lil while…then Daddy makes everything better. S’how this works baby, ok?” He is being so patronizing the way he speaks-it’s fucking so hot for some reason. 
“Alright–”
And then your naked ass is greeted by his palm for the first time with real force behind it. It doesn’t knock the air out of you, not even a little, but it does sting, and it does make you hiss with clenched teeth. Then Joel's hand moves across your ass so softly, so lovingly. 
“Yer’ a good girl— you will be. Imma make you a fuckin' good girl.” Joel chuckles again softly as his hand rubs the sting out of your ass fat. It still burns a little but it’s nothing bad. You don’t hate it. “Now…do’ya know what good girls do?” So condescending. It drips out of his mouth as he talks to you. 
“What?” You purr to the floor as his fingers inch their way towards your slit. He brushes the tips of his fingers against your pussy and then leaves and goes back to rubbing your ass cheek. 
"They want more. Y’want more, Birdie-girl?”He purrs back down to you deeply, rumbling in his throat when he speaks. You nod silently. “Use that pretty fuckin’ voice you got then.” He snaps at you and grips one of your globes in his hands and jiggles it slowly. He groans happily at the sight of your body moving under his hand. 
“I want more.” You whine happily as his touch. 
“Jeesus. Okay. Listen t’me. Ya listenin'?" He confirms like you are not bent over his knees.
"Yes." 
"Good. Now shut th'fuck up n you listen good. You say: Can I have another–. N’ then you call me whatever you want. I don’ care…but you address me, ask for it, tell me whatcha want… n’ then say please..” Joel explains with a hint of annoyance in his tone and you roll your eyes. 
“Fine. Okay. Here, you ready?” You ask him, also sounding slightly annoyed. You don’t let him respond. “Can I please, please have one more, Old Man? I need it so bad. I want you to spank me… Daddy.” You lather it on for him and roll your eyes once again when you finish. Joel doesn’t say anything. His hand stays moving on your ass still. He just snickers to himself quietly. 
“You forget where the fuck yer’ layin’, y'fuckin brat?" He barks after a second. It's snapped out his mouth at you, and makes you jump. 
Your pussy is dripping. Why?? "Huh? 
"You forget what we’re fuckin' doin’? Who the fuck yer' talkin' to?” Now he is whispering, but it’s coming out of him growled and angry sounding. “Now…yer’ gon’ get a real one. That first one? Nothin’.” Joel sounds so upset--but, you think he likes this?
You dunno, not really.
Regardless, your heart is pounding, and now you’re fucking terrified. Youare so, so regretful. Why are you always being a sarcastic bitch all the time?! Shit. Shit. Fuck. He is still rubbing your ass cheek gently. 
“M'sorry, Daddy.” You whimper even though you mean to say it real strong, real powerful because you want him to know that you are really sorry.
But he chuckles at you and pinches your ass gently and his hand disappears.
Oh noo. This is gonna be so bad and you’re gonna hate it. Shit.
Then he’s going to hate you. 
“Awhhh, don’t be sorry, baby. I’m not mad.” He sounds nice again.
Like he isn’t gonna spank you again. Phew.
“I’m gon’ take you out today, shoppin’. Getchya some food. Coffee if yer’ cute lil ass wants one. If ya’ take this real good might even have a surprise for ya…” He doesn’t spank you but he’s waiting for something. You don’t know what to say. “I’ll do all that whichya anyway… but… I’d like t’spank ya real good first. Teach ya a lesson… if you’ll let me? Y'need it.” Joel is waiting for your consent. 
“And you won’t be mad if I said no?” You question him.
Joel gently– so very carefully and softly– presses his hand against your ass as he speaks comfortingly. “Never. I mean it. I like this, but y’don’t gotta. Doesn’t matter t’me. We can still go have fun n’ all do all that fun stuff anyway…” His voice is deep and even, calming and he means it. You can tell.
“Can I please have one more, Daddy, please? I’d really like you to spank me.” You are so nice. So nice and such a good girl about it-- genuinely.
He is happy with you! So happy!! He taps your ass twice gently and chuckles. “Yer’ fuckin’ great.” He chuckles a little harder and takes his place sitting straight up. “Now… it’s gon’ hurt baby. I’m sorry.” He warns you and now you’re fucking scared again. “Soon as I do it…Imma rub the sting out… n’ do something else fer’ ya, okay? But.. yer' gon' learn a lesson.” He gets your consent once more. 
“Okay.” You fuckin’ give it to him even though you are terrified because, guess what? You’re drenched. Dripping down your thighs. Soaked. You’re aching in a way you never knew your pussy could ache. It feels like your lips are on fire and they feel swollen and puffy. You wonder if he can see you looking like a desperate mess for him. Yearning for him so badly. 
Joel rubs your ass once more and then the warmth from him is gone. You wait and wonder what he’s going to say to you know to increase the anticipation but, those thoughts are all gone from your head when you hear a sharp crack from behind you and those thoughts are replaced with just blinding pain. Searing hot and focused all in the shape of Joel Miller's hand-print on your right butt cheek. Shit. That fuckin’ huuuurts . Tears come to your eyes before you really even feel the pain. The sound his hand made on you was so loud it scared the tears right into your eyes before the pain had anything to really grip onto. 
It’s gripping. Ooooh boy is it gripping. Joel’s hand rubs over the spot he just smacked and it…just keeps hurting. He is cooing to you though and the nice, and sexy things he says kinda make you feel a little better. And what he’s doing with his other hand makes you almost forget about the pain immediately. He pushes three fingers into you. Definitely more than you’ve had before. You’ve never felt so stretched and full. You can’t hold back your gasps and whimpers as he twists his fingers around inside you. 
“Yeahhh lil girl. Did so good. Didn’t even make a sound.” Joel praises you over and over. “So fuckn’ good. You did so good. I’m so fuckin’ impressed. Fuckin’ perfect.” He sounds genuine and also very excited. “You like all these fingers inside you?” Joel whispers. “Don’t forget.. I wanna hear you, lil girl.” He pushes his extremities deeper into you and continues to twist them in both directions. Stretching you.   
“Yesss...” You hiss loudly between clenched teeth. You shut your eyes as his fingers work in and out of your channel quickly. You gasp and moan softly at him inside you. His fingers are still thrusting, but also twisting inside you slowly as he pumps in and out of you. He fingers you gently for a moment, getting you used to the size and thickness of his extra finger. Once he feels less resistance and hears your whimpers turning to moan is when he starts to really thrust— pummel you with almost his whole hand it feels like.. “Oh god. Oohh fuuuck.” You groan and grip his shin and drop the other hand to the floor. “Oohhhh fuuuck, Daddy.” You moan loudly. Joel never stops, his fingers move so fast and he’s angling them down just a little to rub the pads of his fingers over your spot each time. 
“Who’s yer’ Daddy?” Joel growls down to you, the hand on your lower back sliding down to your left ass cheek to pull it apart. He spits directly onto your asshole and one rough calloused tip massages his saliva against it gently. There is no pressure against your second hole at all, just a gentle rubbing. 
“You are, old man. ” You cry out as he brings you closer to rapture and good blinding white lights behind your eyes. You want it so bad. “Please please make me come. I wanna gush on you so bad.” You’re begging so hastily. “ Pleasepleasplease .” It’s strained coming out of you. 
“Whenever you want, lil girl. Let go n’ gush all over. Make a mess. I love t'see it.” He’s speaking so encouragingly. “Just say my name when you come… like a good girl.” His fingers are going to send you there, it’s happening and he’s chuckling before you even do it. Your walls are clenching him– trying to keep him inside of you on that perfect little spot. You need just a little more. You clench your eyes now because you can– he can’t see you. 
You explode. The most powerful gush yet, maybe. You cannot say his name. You cannot even think of anything besides how to breathe. You’re also attempting to crawl off his lap like this isn’t the most incredible feeling you’ve ever experienced. Mind shattering. No white lights. It’s just silent in your head for thirty seconds and you are crying. Sobbing on his lap and you hope that everyone experiences bliss like that in their lives. 
Joel eases his fingers out of you and whistles. 
“You okay there?” He asks your sobbing, crumpled form on his lap. “It hurt? S’why yer’ cryin’?” He’s so nervous. This man probably feels like he is walking through a minefield when he is with you.
“N-N-No. It’s s-s-s-sooo good.” You stutter and then with much grace and much agility, you stand off his lap and stare at him. 
"Ohhhh lil crybaby likes getting finger fucked by Daddy? So good, it makes her cry?" He croons to you, chuckling. "I like makin' you cry like that. Gon don' do it more often." 
“You’ll do that every t-time you s-spank me?” You hold a pinky finger out to him like a literal child and he chuckles and hooks his pinky with yours. 
“Every time, lil girl. Let’s go get you a surprise.”
If Joel is going to do this kind of stuff with you when he’s done spanking you… you’ll let him do way worse. Soooo much worse. He gets you an overpriced iced coffee and doesn’t even bitch about it. You are bitching about how bad your ass hurts in the passenger seat though. So that’s probably why he doesn’t say anything. Then he takes you to the mall. A place you haven’t been in so long because you don’t really need to stop. You loved shopping in Jersey but… it doesn’t feel the same down here. Spending money doesn’t make you happy the way it used to. 
Watching Joel happily and willingly spend his money on you is making you happy though, and you never cared about this shit before. Honestly, none of the guys you ever talked to before could do this… just… treat you? All the time? You didn’t even really want him to spend his money on you. His time and him holding your hand around the mall was literally more than enough. So much more. 
“I like these.” Joel speaks very quietly and it almost doesn’t look like he’s talking at all.
“Do you even want to be in here? You can go look at whatever guys look at in the mall while I buy this stuff.” You whisper back to him, because you’re not trying to embarrass him in Victoria’s Secret. He does not look like he wants to be in here though. He actually looks like he might be blushing a little as he eyes people walking by— they’re not even paying attention to him. No one is looking at either of you. 
“I like bein’ involved.” Joel snaps softly and innocently. He is embarrassed though. 
“Did you never come in here with your ex or buy stuff for her?” You question back in a whisper. 
“No. I ain’t have money to do all this back then. Hell no. She didn’t fuckin’ deserve all this anyway.” He whispers directly into your ear so no one will hear that. 
“Okay!” You whisper. “Which ones did you like?” You look down and he has his finger already pointed at a black lace pair. “Is that your favorite color?” You ask softly and look up at him. He’s shaking his head no and then nods down back to the table of sexy underwear. Now he’s pointing to a cheeky cotton pair that are very plain but they're hunter green.
“That.” He says sharply but again, innocently. He’s on edge, poor old man. You grab both pairs he pointed out and go to walk away but he snatches you by the elbow and pulls you back. “Get more.” He urges and points to another pair. Hot pink. So pink and so bright. “Those.” He whispers again, directly into your ear. And then he’s pointing to all different colors and styles. You get six more pairs and then he’s pulling you further into the store…the sexy side of the store.
“You involved in the process for this too or this all me?” You smirk up at him and his fingers pinch at your side softly. 
“You liked that lil blue thang or…you want somethin’ else” Joel is still whispering but his eyebrows are raised curiously. 
“Well…it’s more for you—”
“Oh naw it isn’t… I want you t’feel pretty n’ sexy. Whatchya like? What makes y’feel sexy, lil girl?” His voice and breath in your ear makes you shiver. That lil sexy blue thang did make you feel sexy. It did. You grab something that is similar in black. The only other color they have is white and you… dunno. Don’t like it. 
“Okay.” You smile up at him very happily and hold all your things in your hand. Joel looks around briefly and points with just his finger– his hand is still down by his side when he points. 
“That one.” He whispers and you follow his gaze and then his fingers and he’s pointing to a white babydoll style corset top with a flowy tulle skirt– also white and very see through. It comes with a matching thong. Not something you would pick out…but he seems to like it so, you grab one and are done spending his money now. 
You think.
Joel is driving towards your house but then he turns left when he should turn right. You furrow your brows when he does that but he smirks like he know what he’s doing and where he is going. 
“What’re you up to?” You give him genuine confusion because he’s been so quiet since you left the mall. You kinda have too. You have an excuse though. You’re hungover and also, buttcheek. It still hurts. You might have to ice it. 
“Don’ worry ‘bout it.” Joel shakes his head at you, but he does offer you his big, perfect hand to hold. You accept it happily and just shut up. Happy to be here. Along for whatever he’s gotta do today. You have a little headache, but…it’ll be fine. You’ll nap when you get home.
“Whaddya gotta get here?” You ask nosily. What new electronic could he need. He had a giant fucking TV and a nice sound system at his house. A nice TV in his room too. He lifts his ass a little and reaches into his back pocket. Joel pulls out his wallet, opens it up and hands you his card. 
“Nothin’...but you do.” He narrows his eyes on yours and smirks. You pinch your brows together in confusion. 
“Huh? I dunno what you want in there. I’m not getting the wrong thing just for you to have to go in there with me, return what I got, and then pick out the right one. Come in.’ You hand his card back him but he doesn’t take it. 
“I’m gonna roll us a lil somethin’. I don’t need nothin’. Go get yer’self somethin’. You deserve it. I was an asshole.” He sighs loudly. “Should’a called you that night n’ told you how I was feelin’. N’ I didn’t. I wasn’t gonna call you again…” Joel admits quietly. “Then I saw ya at the store.. N’... I dunno…” He trails off and looks like he has more to say. But he just sucks his teeth and then nods his head towards the store. “Go get yer’ lil computer.” Joel leans in over the console and waits for you to lean in as well. 
“You sure?” You blink at him and he nods. 
“I am.” He is still waiting for you to kiss him. You lean forward and he tangles his fingers in your hair on either side of your head and holds you and inch away. Your eyes scan trace along each others faces for second before he speaks. “Claimin’ you right now. Don’t give yer’ number out ‘cause yer’ nervous that I don’t like ya. I do. Shut up. Go get yer’ computer… n’ then lets go relax a lil. You can give me a lil fashion show…then I wanna do somethin’ else witchya.” Joel grins. “Go.” 
You go to grab your purse because… you’re not going to use his card. You have money. More money now that he paid for you window to the truck. You’re not going to tell him that you’re going to pay. It’ll be a lil trick and then he can do nothing about it. Ha. You’ll already have the computer. And he will have his card back.
You open the door and Joel whistles sharply at you. Not a sexy whistle. An attention grabbing whistle. You snap your head to him and he has his hand out. You look down at it and then back up at him. 
“What?” You blink at him and his open, empty hand. 
“Wallet– leave the whole purse— you can take yer’ ID but, leave everything else.” Joel is smirking at you now. “I’m not that big n’ dumb.” 
“You don’t need to buy me a computer. You paid for my window. That’s enough.” You put his card back in his hand and he rolls his eyes and opens his door. 
“Let’s go. Makin’ it fuckin' difficult. Must wanna ‘nother fuckin' spankin’ on the other side when we get home.” Joel mumbles to himself but he doesn’t sound mad or anything. He’s teasing you. You’re learnin’ him. Figurin’ his scowling ass out. Kinda nice, actually. 
You are floating into the electronics store. Absolutely floating. He likes you? Claiming you? No one’s ever…claimed you before and it’s hot. So hot. Why is Joel so hot? It’s not fair. It really isn’t. Now he wants to buy you a new computer. He is holding your freaking hand again in public with so many people around. 
“Get whatever you want. I don’t care.” Joel mocks annoyance as you look for a computer but he squeezes your hand when he does it. You get the same one you had. It was perfect and you loved it and don’t need a different one. 
As soon as you get in the car and put your computer in the backseat you’re crawling into his lap over the console and straddling him. Kissing him, smothering him because he is perfect. Joel runs his hands along your back and ass and squeezes you. Deep kissing, such deep desperate kisses that flick and tease every inch of your mouth. They make you dizzy. 
Joel is the one to pull away but it’s so he can tilt your head to the side with his gentleness and kiss along your jaw and under your chin and down your neck. 
“Thank you.” You pant as he kisses down into your exposed cleavage as far as he can until your shirt and breasts won't let him. He groans in frustration and his hands leave your ass and he uses one to grab at the neckline of your shirt. He glances around in every direction and there’s no one around. A lot of cars but no bodies… yet. His fingers worm their way into your bra and then he pulls down and exposes you to him and anyone else in the parking lot who could possibly come out of a store and see this monstrosity. 
Neither of you care as he wraps his mouth around your hardening bud and nibbles down on it gently and looks up at you as you stare down at him. His tongue flicks at it between his teeth until he makes you moan– then he smirks and sucks it into his mouth as it ungulates the flat of his tongue along it slowly while applying suction. He makes you moan again. He does that until your hips start to move on his– your back accidentally presses into the horn on the steering wheel and honks loudly until you pull away. You both jump and then he pulls away from you with a loud, wet sucking sound. 
“Get offa me you horny Bird. Jeesus.” He lets your shirt go and is pushing you off his body and into your own seat. “Gonna get us arrested. Public indecency.” He’s smirking when he says it and also adjusting his jeans near his groin because he’s a lil tight down there now.
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Back at the house Joel is sitting in just his boxers on the bed, smoking– which…sonofabitch it shouldn’t be hot, but it kind of is… A lot. A lot hot. Shit. You’re in the bathroom with all your new sexy panties but you’re not trying them on. No. You’re in that sexy black lace getup with a pair of black thigh highs that came with it and that fucking belt. This one took so long to get hooked into the god forsaken stockings. You’re fine now though– all hooked and strapped and tied in. He better not fucking rip this thing. 
You take a deep breath and open the door. Joel is waiting for you and he likes what he sees. He was already teasing himself through his boxers when you went into the bathroom and now as you’re walking out, Joel holds the joint between his lips so he can free himself from his boxers and wrap his fist around it. 
“Spin.” It’s a soft spoken demand while his fist tugs at his hardening length. You spin slowly with your hands held out at your waist. He rumbles in his throat as you do. “Now…face the other way n’ bed over.” You’re smirking stupidly as he pulls his fist away from his hand to noisily spit into his hand and then he palms it over the head of his cock before he starts to stroke himself. You’re watching with your mouth hanging open like an idiot. “You like when I do this, huh?” He strokes himself more dramatically as you watch and nod your head. “I’ll give ya a show. Turn around, lil girl. Lemme see that ass.” He sighs softly as he squeezes at the base and slowly moves his fist upwards. 
You wanna look at it. You don’t wanna turn around. But you are and you're bending at the waist with your legs together so he can see you through the lace. Joel hums happily and then, for some reason you spread your legs slightly and snake your hand up your middle from between your legs over the lace, and trace the outline of your cunt for him. He inhales sharply. 
“Get over here.” Joel growls at you and you skip to the bed and crawl in next to him but he holds his hand up to stop you. “Listen– you ready?” He smirks at you. “Lay with your head down there…” He points to the end of the bed near the corner. “N’ then put one leg here.” He points to his legs. “N’ the other right here.” Now he taps your shoulder. “I know that was a lot n’ yer’ all distracted.” He smirks as your eyes flash quickly between his talking face and him jerking his hard cock slowly– pacing himself. 
The position he wants you in leaves your lace covered pussy completely exposed to him but he’s not putting anything inside you. Joel just wants to touch your pussy through the lace. Right over the outside of it is gentle and sometimes his hand will rub your inner thigh. You’re up on your elbows watching him worship you. And he loves to talk. Loves to speak and make you hear him. He wants you to speak back to him when he prompts you. He's teaching you...
“Yer’ gonna ride this hard cock soon, you excited?” He growls as he rubs the pads of his fingers along the lace. You can feel the heat of him through the delicate, barely-there fabric. 
“Yes, Daddy.” You bat your eyelashes at him and nod. He grunts soft and pushes his hips up into his fist. 
“Can’t wait to feel how fuckin’ tight you are, baby. Fuck.” Joel’s eyes flick between yours and what his hand is doing to your hidden cunt lips. “Yer’ gonna be s’fuckin’ tight.” You don’t know why he sounds angry…it doesn’t bother you anymore. It’s just…Joel. And that’s fine. He’s not angry at you. You know this now, so, you don’t care. 
“I can’t wait to feel you inside me– feel your big cock stretching me.” You purr to him and he moans softly. 
“Don’t I fuckin’ know it.” Joel holds up his fingers and they’re glistening. “Yer’ fuckin’ leakin’ like a slutty lil thing...but you ain't.” He chuckles and pushes his fingers back against your pussy. “S’fuckin’ hot. Put my hard cock in you while you wear this. Gonna make this my pussy soon. Claim it.” Joel says it like he’s thinking about doing it but he stays still and his hand just moves on him faster. “Say yer’ a good girl.” Joel whispers to you. 
“I’m a good girl, old man. You don’t think I am?” You pout at him and run two of your fingers over one of your nipples through the cup of the lace bra. “I’m a very good girl.” You bite your bottom lip now and try to hide a smirk as his body jerks softly to this statement and his hand pumps up and down on him with more meaning and now his hips are moving slightly as he touches himself listening to your voice. 
“Y’like t’be bad though, right?” Joel pushes down on your clit gently and smirks. You nod and sigh softly. 
“I love bein’ bad with you, Mr. Miller.” You coo to him. “Love when you touch me n’ make me say naughty things.” You whisper it now and Joel is watching your mouth move, rubbing his fingers gently against your bundle over the lace. He wants to come, maybe needs to. He’s doing everything to himself and you just get to watch? “I love looking at your hard cock.” You mewl to him and his stomach clenches softly. 
“Don’t stop. K-Keep talkin’.” He stammers over his pleasure and it’s immaculate watching his strong arms flex as he strokes himself vigorously. "How bad, baby?" His body is twitching and clenching uncontrollably and now his hand grips at the meat on your inner thigh in not the most flattering way, but he loves it. “S–so fuckin’ soft.” 
“You like my soft skin, Daddy?” You purr and put one hand over your pussy and mimic what he had been doing, rubbing just around the outside. “You excited to come in my soft, tight pussy, old man?” You grin as he groans while you speak. Then Joel paints his chest and stomach with ropes of white. He groans loudly and deeply through his orgasm, puffing air out of flared nostrils heavily as he milks his cock slowly, the almost purple tip of him disappears within his fist and he covers his palm and fingers in his release. He drags his fist back down the length, smearing it down his shaft as he continues to thrust through the release. 
“Fuck.” He spits it out and lets his head fall back against the pillows he set up for himself. “Holy fuck.” His eyes are closed and he’s breathing so heavily. 
“Does… okay… be honest with me.” You ask with all of your breath, because you didn’t just come. He is sitting there with his eyes closed, listening to fast talk with his own release on his hand, stomach and chest. “Does it feel better when you do that…or when I’m on top of you?” You stare at him awaiting a response. 
“Uh.. I dunno. Feels… uh…different.” Joel answers in between deep breathing. 
“Like a better different or a weird different?” You ask casually, tipping your head from one side to the other. 
“Not weird different. Not better either.” Joel shakes his head but his eyes are still closed. “Stronger.” Joel says after a minute. 
“When you do it.” You make a statement because it is not a question. He came… so hard when he did that to himself. He didn’t come that hard the two times you did what you do on him— the moving and grinding. 
“Uh.. yeah. Kinda.” Joel isn’t looking at you. “S’not a bad thing—”
“I didn’t say it was!” You exclaim. “I’d just rather see you come like that.” You nod your head even though he isn’t looking at you. “Fuckin’ hiding it in your boxers. Lemme see that shit.”
"Yer' gonna let me come inside you?" Joel flicks his eyebrows up. "Really make that pussy mine when I fuck you? Or jus' talkin'?" Joel asks with his eyes still closed. You don't respond. Not with words.
You sit up and take his hand in yours and drag your tongue along the back of his and and run it between his fingers. This makes him open his eyes. Now he’s smirking watching your tongue clean up every drop he spilled. Off his soft stomach and his strong and broad chest. 
You’re going to do this. You’re right here and it's going to happen. Okay. 
You lean forward and Joel is waiting. He’s right there, leaning in to kiss you. Once your lips touch, he opens his mouth and parts your lips with his. It’s messy and starts to drip down out of the corners of your mouth as he swirls his tongue around with yours. His release and your saliva mixture coating each other's tongues. You feel it dripping down your chin and your neck as he deepens the kiss and you pass what you had just licked off of him…back to him. He is huffing through his nose heavily while you do this.
It is really fucking hot and messy. Sticky. Without breaking the kiss, Joel moves to hover over you, laying you back down on the bed and now with gravity on his side, he transfers it all back to you. He pulls away and looks down at you, his lips are shiny and wet-- sticky.
“Swallow it.” He stares down at you as he licks his bottom lip. You do and watch as leans into you and now with your empty mouth you can kiss and lick and suck any access off of him. “Good fuckin’ girl. Perfect.”
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THIS IS MY WARNING TO ALL OF YOU INVESTED RIGHT NOW: I WRITE MEN GOOD, I DON'T ALWAYS WRITE GOOD MEN, OKAY?
That being said, Joel isn't really a bad guy-- just doesn't fuckin' know. Okay? Is he a little toxic? Sure. Is that not great? SURE.
Do I love it!? HELL YES.
tag list: @immyowndefender @korikolove @untamedheart81 @fanficlover1414, @creepycorbeaux @ohmillerbaby @rosebuds-and-moonlight @harriedandharassed (you'll have to read the other chapters, but I'm tagging you anyway)
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broidobe · 2 days ago
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𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫
requested by @rocketqueen1989x and maybe @xo-myloves??
☾a night of unrestrained passion unfolds as guns n’ roses indulge their wildest desires with you, turning chaos into an intense symphony of hedonistic pleasure☽
☾warnings: smut, gangbang, graphic descriptions, p in a, themes of dehumanization, rough☽
⁎⁺˳✧༚guns and roses masterlist
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as you step into the motel, guns n’ roses are waiting for you, their eyes fixed on you with a hunger that makes your skin prickle. axl rose, slash, izzy stradlin, duff mckagan, and steven adler - all five of them are ready to unleash their wild side on you.
as you approach them, axl's voice growls in your ear, "we've been waiting for you, baby. we're gonna make you scream our names." his hands grab your hips, pulling you close as he crushes his lips against yours. the kiss is rough and demanding, his tongue invading your mouth as slash joins in, his hands roaming over your body.
slash's fingers tease your nipples through your clothes, sending shivers down your spine. izzy's hands slide up your thighs, pushing up your skirt as he whispers dirty nothings in your ear. duff's fingers dig into your ass cheeks, squeezing hard as steven’s drumsticks tap out a rhythm on the nearby table. 
the room erupts into chaos as they descend upon you like wolves. clothes are ripped off, and soon you're standing naked amidst the whirlwind of bodies. axl's mouth latches onto one nipple while slash takes the other between his teeth. izzy buries his face between your legs, licking and sucking at your clit as duff and steven take turns fondling and kissing every inch of skin they can reach.
you feel like a rag doll being passed from one pair of hands to another - each one more skilled at driving you wild than the last. fingers probe every opening; mouths devour every inch of skin; tongues dance across every sensitive spot until you're nothing but a quivering mess of desire.
as they work together to break down any shred of resistance left within you, it becomes clear: tonight is about excess - about abandoning all restraint and indulging in pure hedonism.
axl spins you around to face him once more; this time he lifts one leg over his shoulder before slamming into you with a force that leaves breathless gasps hanging on both sides of this writhing mass. you wrap an arm around slash who pulls himself tight against your side so that when axl drives deeper still there’s double pressure focused intensely within just inches from uncharted territories inside...
as izzy's cock delves into your ass, stretching and probing, you feel a wave of intense pleasure wash over you. duff's hands grasp your breasts, squeezing and kneading them as steven's mouth latches onto your neck, sucking and biting.
the room is a blur of sounds and sensations - the clash of bodies, the scent of sweat and sex, the pounding rhythm of flesh against flesh. axl's cock drives deeper into you, slash's hips grind against your side, and izzy's fingers dance in your ass.
you're a vessel for their lust, a playground for their desires. they take turns using you, passing you from one to another like a toy. duff takes axl's place, his cock thick and heavy as he plunges into you. Steven takes over where izzy left off, his cock probing your ass with a fierce intensity.
slash spins you around to face him, his eyes blazing with desire as he lifts you up onto the table. his cock slides into you with ease, filling you to the brim as he begins to pound away with reckless abandon.
the others gather around, watching with hungry eyes as slash uses you like a doll. axl takes your mouth again, his tongue dueling with yours as duff and izzy fondle your breasts and steven laps at your clit.
you're nothing but a quivering mass of flesh now - no thoughts left except for the primal urge to be used and abused by these five men who are hell-bent on driving you over the edge.
just when it seems like it can't get any more intense - when every inch of skin is being used or abused in some way - they all come together in perfect syncopation: slash pounds deep into your pussy; axl shoots down your throat; duff unloads across one breast while izzy decorates the other; steven coats one hand then uses those same sticky digits inside both holes making everything that much slicker...
your vision blurs; sounds fade away except for labored breathing all around...
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kickingitwithkirk · 20 hours ago
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Winchester's Folly
Summary: When Dean gets into trouble John decides to hide the truth for his family
Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader x Alpha!Sam
WC: 1126
Dark! Fic-don't continue if you are disturbed by the subject matter.
Warnings: A/B/O, dystopian au, canon elements, non/con, dub/con, incest, subjugation, pandemic, mentions of nudity, physical/mental abuse, mention of collaring/leashing, sexual/slavery, rut/heat, physical altercation, death/murder conviction, show level violence, parental dominance, trafficking, branding, panic attacks, bondage, forced mating, dated derogatory terms, medical treatment
*Additional warnings will be added
Square filled: @spnabobingo Slutty Omega
A/N I: Still working on reigning myself in, keeping each part reader-friendly length, and have no clue how many parts this will end up being.
A/N II: a few notes about designations in A/O sub-genders for this story.
Alphas-Dominant (head of the pack/family) Subordinate (obey Dominant) Breeders (rare & highly coveted by the government. Can challenge Dominant for pack/family leadership)
Omegas -Domestic (mostly wiped out by plague, few natural born left) Feral (government-supplied breeders sold commonly called O's) House O’s (3rd generation+ Feral/Dominant breed. Used as servants/sex workers) Pack (rare & highly coveted by the government)
*Divider by @firefly-graphics
*No Beta-all mistakes are mine
**Apologies for taking so long getting this part out-had an accident at work and will have limited used of right hand for a bit.
Series Masterlist
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Part XI
Dr. Stevenson slid surgical scissors under the ties, quickly sniping, explaining the original posture collars were redesigned for auto-erotic asphyxiation. It fades out as Dean feels like he's having needles pulling out from under the skin of his neck when she drops. "I was expecting that. Let's get the O back on the table."
The doctor continues talking as they slowly remove it, "And this is why they're outlawed," stepping back allows Dean to see the deep purple bruises with black depressions stripping the unconscious O's neck.
****
The doctor gently scrubbed her neck with a fine-pore sponge and commented, "You felt it, didn't you? " The question took Dean off guard and touched his neck, "How'd you?"
"I noticed the claim mark while I was removing the collar. Finding an O you're biologically compatible with isn't easy these days, and even more so for the owner to claim them if they are." Dean doesn't respond. "'Course, it's none of my business. I'm seeing a lot of soft tissue abrasion but no skin necropsy. That's good. Bruise cream will speed up healing." The doctor shined a light into her mouth. "Has she attempted to speak?" Dean admitted he had not heard anything outside coughing.
"I am concerned about this inflammation in her throat." They pick up a swab. "I'm going to have some labs run. Make sure it isn't from an STI since O clinics are only obligated to run standard STD testing for appearances." Slipping the swap into a sterile tube notices the Alpha's confusion.
"Several years into Hibbing, there was unrest brewing about selling people, so the government mandated all O's must have their hymens intact before the first purchase and made propaganda reels still shown in schools to program the populous in believing they're not mistreated." The doctor moves to a cupboard, pulling out a sterile pack.
"Truth is, these O's are versed in various sexual acts by the time they're teens. Going by the physical, I'd say she's been repeatedly throat fucked with that collar on; undoubtedly, it's also done some damage to her vocal cords. But if you're willing, you can do things to help." They gauge Dean before continuing.
"Give her nothing too hot or cold, only room temperature. Tea with honey, soft foods only need to swallow, nothing chewy, and protein supplement specifically for O's. If lucky, she'll recover enough to be understandable but be prepared for the worst, that she'll never speak again." They began preparing a site near the original implant. "I'd normally like to wait on the suppressant; it'll slow down healing. But with her current physical condition, going into heat would be detrimental."
They continued talking, oblivious Dean's vibrating with anger in muscle memory: unable to stop the strangers hovering over his Omega because being tased several times had temporarily left his legs unusable; furiousgrowls bounced around the room when he smelled her blood. Needing a distraction before his instincts swallow him, Dean turns his attention elsewhere and eyes the collar.
Running his fingers over it, he feels the visual bumps and discovers slim, horizontal boning embedded in the leather and hears the doctor comment, "They're constriction rings, function similar to cock rings without the pleasurable effects."
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Dean's habitual guilty-as-hell caught in his throat. He failed again to see what was right before him. He shouldn't have kept blindly believing his dad's continued quoting of that damn pamphlet, that him treating it like any other person confused its lower intelligence.
Sam's snide comment that only dick Alphas believed in that antiquated bullshit led to the latest round of Dean physically getting between them before punches got thrown. His wonders what level of dick his brother now considers him is interrupted by the phone's ringtone.
"Hey Bobby, no, still at the clinic. What? Sam's registering shouldn't be an issue; his paperwork is all there." Dean listened to the Betas ranting. "Alright, I'll head over there and deal with it." Then came a list of errands the Beta needed him to run made Dean pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Just what he needed; more things slapped on his overflowing plate when he felt the O coming around, ending the call to focus on her. "Hi, sweetheart. Have a good nap?"
She turned towards his voice, spotting the IV pole, and glanced down at the tubing protruding from her wrist. She peered at him and blinked three times, the signal for question. "You have something going on in your throat and need some antibiotics and fluids. Listen, I gotta run out for a while and deal with something at Sam's school. Will you be okay?"
That's when it smacked Dean; something had shifted between them. If he allows himself to be honest with himself, it scares him. Refocusing on the O, he's unnerved by her concerned expression, too similar to Sam's, and feels relief when she blinks once for yes since he's unsure how to react to her becoming more in tune with his internal feelings.
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Grabbing the three-quarter-drank bottle of rotgut, Bobby doesn't bother with the glass; he feels it burn his throat as he polishes it off. Banging the bottle down, he stares at the wording on the paperwork and understands why John was so cagey about his questioning about Frank. The sonuvabitch knowingly mated his children; that practice hasn't been done since before the Omega plague. And knowing the temperament of the man, it wasn't to get Dean out of dire straits because he is John’s son, but for the older Alphas' continued vendetta.
The Beta's mind whirled with questions, but one kept popping to the forefront- who or what made her appear out of nowhere, and why now?
The longer he broods, the more he's convinced it has links to Mary Winchester. Picking up the cordless phone, he dials a familiar number. "Hey Bobby," a female voice warmly says. "Guess you're not calling to find out who to bet on in Sunday's playoffs."
"We both know the Vikings are going to the Superbowl," there's an amused laugh on the line, "Keep telling yourself that. So what can I help you with?"
"I'm not sure where to start with this one," Bobby admits and hears cards shuffling through the receiver. "It'd be best to go back to the beginning. And keep the drinks down to a minimum." He glances at the new bottle he had sat on the desk just before calling, "How'd you...?"
"I'm the best damn psychic in the state," Pamela reminds him, "So start talking, or I will reverse the charges for this call." Bobby makes a vexed noise at his fellow Betas' cheekiness.
"In 1986, I met a man with two small boys looking for answers."
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Part XII
SPN TAGS: @donnaintx @lyarr24 @flamencodiva @lassie-bird @nancymcl @spnbaby-67 @leigh70 @b3autyfuld1sast3r
Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid
Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies @stoneyggirl2 @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl
WF: @slamminmine @ladysparkles78 @deans-spinster-witch @ilovetaquitosmmmm @strawblueberrys @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @kazsrm67 @elmolovesw33d
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papasbaseball · 2 days ago
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The Wizard x Reader (Wonderful Wonderful Girl) | Chapter 11
Pairing: Wizard x F!Reader
Rating: Mature (Rating to Increase)
Warnings: Power Imbalance, Boss/Employee Relationship, Graphic Depictions of Violence
Summary: Being a maid in the Royal Palace of Oz is not half so bad. Despite the meager wages, everything else is provided for you for an honest day's work. It can be unnerving working for the most powerful man in Oz, but you are able to avoid him most of the time. This changes during Lurlinemas, your paths soon becoming inextricably intertwined.
Word Count: 2,438 of 29,558
Start | Prev | Next
AO3 Link
Frottica has no friendly faces to offer us, only howling wind and bitter cold. If the air was thin in Wittica it's threads of ice this far up in the mountain range. It's good and I like it that way. As each arctic gust blows my black peacoat open and stabs me with a chilled knife, I feel the tether of reality to my situation.
I moved back into the sleeping cabin after we left Wittica, and to the Wizard's respectable credit, he hadn't brought up how I had shut down after the meeting with Morrible. Madame Morrible, actually. They were so familiar that when I asked him if we would see her again at Rouncible, he gave me a queer look as if I had addressed her by some childish nickname. She was a woman of great accomplishments and Headmistress of Shiz University. It would be a great faux pas if I were to ever address her as anything other than Madame Morrible.
The possibility of accidentally insulting someone else once we get to the safe house has been eating at me since that moment. All of this, the war and secrecy, was so foreign and new. What I had experienced back in the Emerald City between the Wizard and Ambassador Humak was shallow compared to the depths of the political web of Oz that we were now swimming in, groping for any sort of lifeline.
Once in the train station, we make our way up to the counter and the Wizard asks for any correspondence for and Oscar Diggs or Engine 1701.
"Mail's running late," the concierge says, "but there is a letter that came yesterday for Engine 1701." He fishes out a mint green envelope from one of the back cubbies and gives it to the Wizard.
"It's for you," the Wizard says, almost astonished. He hands me the envelope, and I can see that it’s from Bruno back in the Emerald City.
"How?" I ask, smoothing my thumb over my name, trying to see if the ink is real. "The city is under siege."
"He must've snuck it out," the Wizard says. "Come on, let's get some lunch."
We walk to the diner, and I glide my finger underneath the seal, trying not to tear the delicate paper. I’d have to find a safe place to put it once we got back on the train. "This means he's alive," I say as we sit down.
"It means that he was alive when he sent it," the Wizard corrects. "I haven't gotten news of death tolls yet... Hopefully, we'll get some today. I'm sure they're still... counting bodies.
I pull the letter from the envelope. The top right corner of the paper was addressed two days prior.
"We made it through the night," I recite. "Prince Fiyero has escaped, and we're still looking for the Grimmerie, but we have rid the palace of any Winkies. The ambassador probably stashed it somewhere in the palace thinking he'd be able to come back and get it.
"I checked on Fileah this morning. She's alright. A little shaken, but alright. I'm making sure that the kids there have enough food and heat. That place is like an ice box. It isn't right. Kids with no coats and the fires are nothing but coals. Fileah wanted to know where you were. I tried to explain it to her without talking about the ongoing investigation, but I don’t think it made much sense. She asked when she could see you again. I told her that it would hopefully be soon.
"We haven't gotten a good count of the dead yet, but it's good you got out when you did. A few bystanders were killed in the attack. The Gale Force is looking into identifying them so their families can be informed, but they've been stretched thin with spy efforts lately.
"It's a huge risk putting all of this into a letter, but I'm doing my best to get it smuggled out of here and away from enemy hands. I've got a friend in one of the amnesty medic units, but even that is not guaranteed safe. Don’t expect further correspondence from me.
"Tell the Wizard that we're working around the clock to find ways to break through the roadblocks and get the city restored. We'll succeed or die trying.
"-Bruno."
We sit in silence together, letting the verbal ghost of Bruno linger. The Wizard stares at the letter, tapping his index finger against the table.
"That's it?" he asks.
I flip the letter over; nothing is on the back. "That's it," I reply.
He drags his hand over the lower half of his face, leaning back into the booth. "They haven't even counted the dead yet," he says to no one in particular.
Those words linger over the meal as we half-heartedly eat our bacon sandwiches and drink watery burnt coffee. Every bite feels like a herculean effort, knowing that my own sister is being kept in a freezer and that Bruno alone is seeing to her being fed while also fighting a siege. If I was ever going to see her again, I would have to find a way to slip away from the Wizard, before we got on that train to Rouncible.
We head back to the concierge to find that mail has arrived with two envelopes for Oscar Diggs in care of Engine 1701. If I pretend I have a question to ask the conductor once we get back to the train, I think, then I can get away and have time to hide.
"Anything good?" I ask him. I have to act normal.
"Death tolls," he says quietly, eyes glued to the one paper. We slip away from the counter where people might hear us and onto a wooden bench meant for passengers heading back to Wittica. This far up into the Pertha hills, there are hardly any trains that continue north. There were a few smaller villages up north and the hunting lodges for the particularly wealthy, but they were so few and far between that the board for departures going north only showed one time of departure for seven o'clock this evening.
"How bad?" I ask, placing a reassuring hand on his forearm. He turns from the paper, briefly glancing to where I have touched him, and then looks me in the eye.
"Hundred of the palace guards. Half the Emerald Guard. Some party guests," he says.
I squeeze his arm, trying to let him know that everything will be okay. "We can come back from it. There's always the backup of Gillikin."
He doesn't say anything to that, simply moving on to the next letter. This one is from Governor Thropp. Good news that makes me breathe a sigh of relief. A favor repaid was exactly what the Wizard needed. He tears the letter open and as he reads it his face darkens into a grave expression.
"Thropp isn't coming," he says.
There are no good words to say to that. It's impossible. I know nothing of the man, but everything of the Wizard. You did not refuse the Wizard of Oz. Whatever power he had, he had earned the name Oz the Great and Terrible. He was the Wonderful Wizard of Oz and all of the benevolence that came with the title. Maybe he didn't get everything he wanted, but it would be unthinkable to refuse him. To be in direct rebellion would be a sign of wickedness of the heart.
The Wizard gets up from the wooden bench and walks silently toward the exit for the train platform. I follow after him, my pathetic boots clicking on the tile floor to match his long strides.
"Morrible said she was going to talk to the Lord-Mayor," I offer, trying to bring some ray of shining hope back into the situation.
He doesn't respond to that.
"A thousand guards is more than enough to replace what we lost," I offer. We are back to the train car and he turns on me.
"I don't want to hear it!" he snaps, startling me. "I am good as dead without Thropp's help. I have no way of forcing him to help if all of my troops are locked in an Emerald Box. Do you get that? Everything…. Everything that I have built for the past fifty years is about to be rocks. It’s going to be rubble. Just..." He shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, hands held up to silence. "I need time to think. I- I need to be alone."
I can feel my bottom lip trembling as he steps into the passenger car and shuts the door behind him. This is what I wanted, right? To be left unsupervised so that I could slip off? There are a few strangers milling about the train station – bums, really, with the holes in their clothes and shoes worn fabric-thin – but I need to be alone. I need privacy. My hand reaches for the passenger car handle but shies away from it. The train station seems like exactly the wrong place, so I hop down onto the tracks, hoping to find some engine heading back to Wittica. As I step around engine 1701,  I peer into the cab, hoping that the conductor has stepped away for a bit.
Unfortunately, when I get to the doorway, I can see a man in a sooty gray uniform – probably a railway worker – sweeping coal dust out from the cab floor of the engine. I try to slip away without notice but he calls out to me.
"Oy! Miss! You can't be running around the tracks!" he shouts. "You're going to get run over."
"I'm sorry," I say, feeling my cheeks burn as if I were a child scolded. Near the engine component, the smell of smoke and ash is unavoidable. It makes it impossible to think about anything else besides wanting to hold your nose. There is a creeping fear that if you breathe too deeply you'll die hacking up a lung.
"Well then get off alright?" he says. "I'm pulling this engine out in ten minutes and I don't want anything gumming up the works."
I hurry back around the train, wishing that I could punch him for ruining my plans. I have ten minutes to disappear before the Wizard comes out to get me.
Once back up on the platform, I walk down it quickly enough to put some distance between me and the train. I need to be careful not to walk too fast so that anyone looking might make note of me and report which direction I went to the Wizard if he came looking. Frottica is almost identical to Settica and I smile for a moment thinking how funny it is that the two towns form drab slices of bread for the colorful sandwich of Wittica. There are some plain-looking shops just ahead: a tailor, a bakery, a bank. Those will be the first places he looks. I make a right turn down the cobblestone street, pulling my coat tighter around me from the biting wind. Wherever I'm going, I need to get there soon, before I get frostbite.
I scan the shops, trying to swallow the fresh memory of the Wizard tearing into me. It really was my fault for setting him off like that. Why couldn't I have just kept my big mouth shut? It was so obvious that things had gone from bad to worse with the lack of support from Munchkinland. A thousand guards would not be anywhere near enough if his estimates of a 5000-strong Winkie host were true. Optimism only got you so far, and even I knew that. Why else would I be running away to save my sister by myself? Whatever magic he holds would do no good if she ended up dead.
I turn the corner, thanking the Unnamed God that I am finally doing what's right. If I had stayed on that train I might as well have signed her death certificate. I would need to come back here and find the railway worker someday to thank him. If he hadn't told me that the train was pulling out in ten minutes-
I stop, trying to put two and two together. Maybe it had been the awful choking smoke or the biting cold, but the man who was in the cab of the engine looked nothing like the barrel-chested and balding man from the boiler room.
I grab my head, trying to focus. I need to keep going, to get out of here before someone comes looking for me. And yet, here I am worrying about some stupid train conductor… or was he a railway worker? My feet refuse to budge any further down the cobblestone street.
Something is wrong. I don't know how long I've been gone, but if I can warn him, maybe he'll listen. If something really is wrong he can fix it and I’ll find another way to get away while he’s fixing it. My hand grips the ten dollars in my pocket as I race back to the train. It's a promise: a promise that after this, it'll be the last time I see him.
I'm wheezing when I get back to the platform, the thin and icy air stabbing my lungs with its crystalline fingers, but I can't help smiling. The train is still there. I made it in time. Ten yards away from the platform, the train blows its whistle and slowly the smile drops from my face. My legs are still running, but I know I won't be able to get off if I get on. Smoke has already started to billow up from the stack.
The thought about optimism from earlier occurs to me. He wasn't guaranteed to save my sister, only I could do that. But if there was something wrong with the train conductor, who would warn him? Who was there to save him?
The wheels creak forward and I push my legs harder and faster into the ground, diverting my course toward the moving train. I reach the door and heave it open to find the Wizard standing there. He pulls me in and shuts the door.
"I felt the train start moving and I- I didn't realize we were leaving so soon." His eyes roam over me, taking in my wind-reddened face and the way I'm gasping for air. "I'm sorry that I said that stuff earlier. It's just that-"
"Something's wrong," I cut him off, wheezing. "The train... Something's wrong."
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fushitoru · 2 months ago
Text
infect me with your love
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pairing ⸺ spiderman!gojo x reader
summary ⸺ you have always existed in gojo satoru’s shadow. he is a physics prodigy, a person that everyone endlessly admires for his intelligence and charisma, and you hate him for taking the spotlight that you deserve to share with him. but it all changes one day at 5:07AM at your starbucks job when gojo barges in, ordering ridiculously sweet drinks and posing existential questions. is there more to gojo that meets the eye, and is it linked to the vigilante swinging around New York City?
warnings ⸺ college au, academic rivals to lovers, SMUT, tooth rotting fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, basically the holy trinity, reader works at Starbucks (BOYCOTT tho), set in NYC, both reader and gojo are physics majors, mentions of SA, attempt at SA on reader but nothing too graphic, some violence, gojo swings reader across NYC so might trigger fear of heights?. SPIDER-MAN KISS SPIDERMAN KISS, injury and mentions of blood, mentions of gun, inappropriate use of webs LOL, fingering, oral, p in v sex, reader has a vagina, fem reader implied
playlist ⸺ quantum rizzics
a/n thank you for @avaults my POOKIE for beta reading this. this has been a journey and my first longfic and i hope you guys enjoy this as much as i did writing it it's my baby:')
if u don’t wanna read the smut just skip the part after they make up, it’s not necessary to the story and is the ending scene. but just to be clear, minors dni.
kinktober masterlist | general masterlist | spiderman!gojo masterlist
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fun fact: starbucks opens at 5am.
of course, that depends on your local hours and where you live, but in the campus starbucks you worked at, your manager fortunately didn’t really care if you showed up to your opening shift a bit late. after all, no professor or undergrad is waking up at the ass crack of dawn to get a fuckin coffee; if they really needed a pick me up, they’d go to get the free alcohol at one of the frats that was still partying. 
matter of fact, your manager didn’t really give a fuck what you did as long as you didn’t get the shop blown up or the matcha spilled (it was expensive). this meant you could leisurely wake up at 4:45am and set up the display muffins and cake pops when you arrived in the shop at 5:20am. really, the manager ought to reduce the hours because all you do is finish your readings for your gen ed history classes on the canvas app on your phone. so, really you get paid for doing your homework on your shifts—not that you’re complaining or anything.
that is, until gojo satoru.
first, let’s get the record straight about who gojo is. gojo is a physics second-year—same as you–who is the bane of your existence. up until a few months ago, you never saw gojo satoru outside of classes (where he was dozing off) unless you happened to show up at a frat party, which was only a few occurrences when you got peer pressured by your friends. clearly, he was a “work hard, party hard” type person because he frequents the frats more than the library while having the grades to make up for it because he’s a prodigy. he’s charismatic and smart as fuck; right out of middle school he was studying manifolds and abstract algebra while the rest of the high school freshmen were learning the quadratic equation and the concept of variables. he probably learned what gravity was at age of two and was doing research in quantum field theory by the time he got into college. 
take the last time you saw him outside of class, at office hours with professor yaga.
the air in professor yaga’s office is thick with the scent of old textbooks, the hum of the overhead lights adding to the familiar quiet. you’ve been waiting all week for this chance, and you’re armed with a question that’s supposed to signal i’ve done my homework. you lean forward, trying to project confidence as you ask, “i read in your last paper that you’re working on optimizing error correction in quantum computing systems. is there a reason you prioritized stabilizer codes over surface codes?”
professor yaga’s brow lifts, impressed, and you can feel the warmth of his approval starting to settle around you. “ah,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised, “you’ve actually read it. that’s... a complicated question.” he leans back, launching into an explanation, and for a second, you think this might actually be it—the moment he notices you for your dedication, your depth of knowledge.
but then, the door creaks open behind you.
you tense, a sinking feeling pooling in your stomach even before you turn around. of course, it’s gojo satoru, strolling in like he owns the place. his bag is slung over one shoulder, and he’s flashing that easy grin that never seems to falter. he spares you the briefest glance before zeroing in on professor yaga.
professor yaga’s face shifts instantly, a mixture of annoyance and resignation flashing in his eyes as he sighs, “gojo. nice of you to join us.”
“hey, i was just passing by,” gojo says casually, though he’s clearly anything but. he doesn’t pass by anywhere without making an entrance. “thought i’d check in on how everyone’s doing.”
the glint in yaga’s eyes sharpens, and he fixes gojo with a look. “when’s that last problem set coming in, satoru? i’ve had enough late assignments from you for one semester.”
at this, another professor at a nearby desk chuckles, casting an amused glance at gojo. “don’t push him too hard, yaga,” he says as if gojo’s delinquency is something charming, a shared inside joke. “kid’s already got the department’s highest scores without trying.”
oh, for god’s fucking sake. you force yourself not to roll your eyes, your grip tightening on the strap of your bag as you sink back in your chair. of course, all it takes is for him to show up and somehow you’re rendered invisible. just minutes ago, professor yaga was engaging with you, treating you as if you might actually belong in this room with your carefully constructed question. now, he’s utterly distracted, entirely absorbed by whatever pseudo-flattering insults he’s throwing at gojo. and, for the record, that stupid, balding professor is wrong. you have the same fucking scores as gojo, so you’re equals.
you’re not even sure gojo realizes he’s doing it—that he has this magnetic, obnoxious effect on everyone in a room. but that’s exactly what grates on you the most. he pulls all eyes to him, like he’s some cosmic force everyone’s compelled to admire. and you? you’re just… there. not that it’s any different than the usual experiences you’ve had as a woman in stem, always feeling like you have to prove yourself five times over. but somehow, gojo makes it worse.
and he does it all effortlessly, like physics is some sort of playground where he can breeze through research and exams, sprinkling charisma wherever he goes. he’s probably off writing his own theories on manifolds while everyone else is struggling to keep up with quantum mechanics. meanwhile, here you are, clawing for every shred of recognition, only to watch it fizzle as soon as he steps into the room.
he flashes a grin at professor yaga. “i’ll get it in,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “i’m just, you know, prioritizing. some of us have… extracurriculars.” he doesn’t wink, but he might as well.
you resist the urge to scoff, sinking deeper into your seat as the frustration bubbles up, sharp and hot. it’s not like you’re jealous. you’d rather endure anything than admit that. but watching gojo waltz in and immediately siphon off any attention you’d managed to earn feels like a slap. if he could just stop showing up, or better yet, stop pretending to be so casually brilliant, maybe—just maybe—you’d have a chance at something other than this routine invisibility.
you let out a huff, pretending to check the time, imagining you had somewhere better to be. you have brilliant, observant blue eyes following you out the door, but you’re too busy trying to keep yourself together until you reach your dorm, where you ugly cry it out.
which, of course, brings you to mornings like this one, where you actually do have to be somewhere. namely, behind the counter at the campus starbucks, opening up shop while most of the world is still asleep. you catch sight of the green mermaid logo ahead, just visible through the dim haze of a 5:07 a.m. chill.
and right beneath it, there’s a familiar head of silver hair.
your eyes have to double take on the man who seems to be looking a bit slouched, tired and leaning against the light pole while tapping his foot. the muscular yet tall stature and white hair are unmistakable; it’s the same ones you’ve dreamed about throttling. but you’re so confused as to why he’s there that you just decide to wordlessly walk towards the store and open up, ignoring his presence until his voice cuts through the morning silence.
“doesn’t this store open up at 5?” his voice sounds tired and groggy, you notice. 
“uh, yea,” you answer tentatively, shrugging. “but, um, no one comes until 7 so i show up late.”
his eyes narrow and somewhat playfully (well, as playful as he can sound at the ass crack of dawn anyways), he asks, “don’t you know time is of the essence? seems pretty irresponsible to me that you’re not showing up on time.”
you just stare at him for a bit because, after all, this is the guy you’ve been having the murderous equivalent of wet dreams about for the past year talking to you in a friendly, joking, familiar way. needless to say, you’re at a loss of words in your slightly flustered state, so all that comes out is a short “sorry” before you’re walking in, getting ready to put on your apron and setting the oven on to heat up the croissants. 
gojo follows in after you, choosing to sit at the table closest to the counter. he sets the backpack he had on his back down, rummaging through and whipping out his laptop and plugging it in. it’s a heavy old thing, and gojo’s biceps strain as he pulls it out and you almost snort when looking at it in its entirety. a gaming laptop.
 but you don’t do that, because laughing at someone who’s a stranger to you would be mean, no matter how much you hate him, so you resort to setting up the counter and getting some powders out. bending over, you get the newly shipped box of cake pops, deigning to put them out on display until you’re interrupted with a cough.
you turn, looking inquisitively at gojo until he points down to the counter, indicating that he wants to order. you mumble, “just a second!” before you continue hauling the box to put it on the top counter where you can easily unpack it and brush your hands, walking up to gojo and getting the system ready to take his order. 
and your fingers are poised on the buttons until you realize that no order is coming out of his mouth. you blink, and he blinks, keeping a stoic face that nevertheless poorly conceals an amused expression.
“…what can i get you?” 
at that, he pouts. “no good morning? no chirpy hello?”
you just stare at him for a good second. what the fuck?
“what?” gojo frowns. “shouldn’t you do that to every customer?” you realize belatedly you’ve said it out loud in your shock, but shake it off nonetheless. 
the silence lingers after gojo’s teasing comment, making you acutely aware of the odd situation: you’re standing there in your work apron, face-to-face with the man you’ve imagined taking down in your head a thousand times, and yet here he is, tired but playfully trying to chat you up. you should hate this—he’s getting under your skin, but for some reason, you just feel unsettled, disturbed that he’s so human.
you don’t trust your voice to not crack while making eye contact with him, so, instead, you focus on your screen. you settle on a simple, flat, “morning,” without a hint of cheerfulness, staring down at the register like it’s your lifeline.
gojo’s eyebrow quirks at your half-hearted greeting, but he says nothing, opting instead to study you with an amused glint. you can feel his gaze, like a weight on your skin, and it almost makes you shiver. he leans forward a little, propping his elbows on the counter, his posture loose but expectant. his playful energy is barely masking something beneath it, something harder.
gojo's grin is wide, almost boyish, and it makes your stomach churn more than it should.
“see? was that so hard?” he says, leaning forward on his elbows like he’s settling in for a chat. his tone is too friendly for someone who’s never exchanged more than a glance with you in class—someone you’ve been actively avoiding whenever possible.
you scowl, moving to the register to finally punch in his order. “what would you like?”
“hmm...” he taps his chin, dragging out the silence. he’s enjoying this, that much is obvious. “surprise me.”
you blink, fingers still poised over the buttons. “surprise you?”
“yeah,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “you work here. you know what’s good.”
you want to throttle him. really, truly throttle him. there’s no way this is real—no way the gojo satoru is sitting in front of you at 5:07 in the morning, asking you to surprise him with a starbucks order like he’s some quirky regular.
and yet, here you are.
“fine,” you mutter, punching in the order for the sweetest, most ridiculous concoction you can think of. caramel drizzle, extra whipped cream, a pump of every syrup in the back room—you’re not going easy on him. “that’ll be eight dollars.”
he doesn’t blink at the ridiculous price. of course, he doesn’t.
pulling out his phone, he taps it against the card reader and flashes you another grin. “thanks, i’m sure it’ll be great.”
you barely resist the urge to roll your eyes. “uh-huh.”
as you move to make the drink, the silence between you stretches uncomfortably. you’ve spent so much time thinking about gojo, despising him, that now that he’s here, right in front of you, you don’t know how to act. and the worst part? he seems perfectly at ease, completely unfazed by the fact that you’ve spent the better part of a year dreaming of his downfall. he’s back to looking at his stupid heavy ahh gaming laptop, and as you move over to put in copious amounts of caramel pumps, you notice that he’s on cool math games playing fireboy and watergirl and almost snort out loud. he’s locked in on his game, his legs moving up and down anxiously, reminiscent of an ipad kid.
after a few minutes of assembling his monstrosity of a drink, you slide it across the counter. “here,” you say, trying to keep the irritation out of your voice.
gojo raises an eyebrow at the drink, the sheer volume of whipped cream threatening to spill over the lid. “wow,” he says, sounding genuinely impressed. “you really went all out.”
“you said to surprise you.”
“i did,” he admits, grabbing the cup and taking a slow, deliberate sip. his eyes widen slightly at the overly sweet taste, and for a brief moment, you think you’ve won.
but then he smiles again, that same irritatingly carefree smile, and you know you haven’t. 
“so,” gojo begins, leaning back in his chair like he’s settling in for a long conversation. “what’s a genius like you doing working the early shift at starbucks?”
your hands freeze mid-clean, and you glance at him sharply. genius?
you can’t tell if he’s being sincere or mocking you—probably the latter, considering who he is—but the word still lingers in the air between you, unsettling.
you scoff, trying to brush it off. “gotta pay the bills somehow,” you mutter, going back to wiping down the counter. but gojo’s gaze is heavy on you, and you can tell he’s not letting it go.
you glance up at him. “look, i like having time to think in the mornings. it’s quiet. besides, no one’s lining up for coffee before 7, so it’s not like i’m missing anything.”
gojo chuckles softly, but there’s something off about it. “thinking time, huh?” he repeats your words, but there’s a strange edge to them, like he’s mulling them over. in fact, you think you just realize that he’s been acting oddly this entire morning, restlessness evident in his figure. he taps his fingers on the table, his eyes flickering to the window, watching the gray morning light spill into the shop.
“doesn’t it ever feel like…” he trails off, brow furrowing slightly. “i don’t know… like you should be doing something else? like… something more?”
his question hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken, but you get the feeling he’s not talking about you. there’s something in his voice, something that sounds like he’s grappling with his own thoughts, with his own place in the world.
for a moment, you’re tempted to brush him off. to tell him he’s overthinking things, that he’s gojo satoru and he already has everything laid out for him. but something stops you. maybe it’s the way he looks—his usual confidence slightly cracked at the edges, his playful tone masking something else. something deeper.
you shrug, turning back to the counter. “i mean… it doesn’t have to be ‘more’ all the time. sometimes just showing up is enough.”
there’s a pause, and you can feel the weight of your words sinking in. gojo goes quiet, really quiet, and when you glance back at him, his usual smirk is gone. he’s just… staring at you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure you out.
“just… showing up, huh?” he repeats softly, almost like he’s testing the words. his fingers stop tapping, and he leans back in his chair, his gaze unfocused, like he’s somewhere else entirely. somewhere in his own head.
you don’t say anything else. you’ve said your piece, and somehow, you know it hit deeper than either of you expected. there’s a strange silence between you now, not uncomfortable, but heavy with understanding.
gojo stands up after a long pause, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. he looks at you, his usual grin slipping back into place, but it’s softer now. less cocky. more real.
“maybe you’re right,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing in his voice. “sometimes it’s enough just to show up.”
and with that, he gives you a small nod, turning and heading out into the cold morning. the door swings shut behind him, and for a second, you just stand there, staring after him.
something’s shifted. you don’t know what it is, but it feels like the start of something. something bigger than just a rivalry.
you shake your head, turning back to the counter. it’s too early for this shit.
“you know, i didn’t get your name.”
gojo’s voice cuts through the low hum of the espresso machine as he leans against the counter, that same insufferable grin plastered across his face. he’s here again, of course, only this time it’s during your closing shift. the place is quiet, almost deserted except for the occasional customer who swings by for a quick coffee before heading back out into the cold.
you look up from the equipment you were cleaning, already annoyed. “i’m pretty sure we’ve shared at least one class every semester.”
you weren’t trying to hide the pettiness. gojo, for all his academic genius, clearly couldn’t be bothered to remember you—a recurring face in his orbit. it’s not like you were expecting him to remember you, especially among the sea of faces in lecture halls, but something about the way he strolled in, acting like this was just some cute, quirky meet-cute, got under your skin.
gojo quirks an eyebrow in confusion, his gaze drifting up toward the ceiling as if searching the recesses of his mind for your name—only to come up empty. “are you a grad student?”
you flash him an exasperated look. “just for that, i’m not telling you.”
grabbing a towel to wipe your hands, you step out from behind the barista counter, heading towards the trash can just behind him to restock the straws. as you make your way to the supply room, you can feel his eyes following your every move. to your surprise, gojo starts walking toward you, his presence looming as you dump the straws into the container.
it isn’t until you turn around that you realize he’s standing right next to you, bent comically at the waist and squinting at something on your chest. heat creeps up your neck and into your cheeks as you realize his proximity and move to take a step back. 
he wasn’t ogling you (thank god), but instead, squinting at the nametag pinned to your apron.
"ah," he says, straightening up with a triumphant grin. “there it is. y/n, huh?” the way his mouth rolls over your name slowly makes you feel a bit weird, because after all, this is the guy you’ve shit talked about in your diary finally acknowledging you existed, but before you can reflect on the feeling, you bristle again in annoyance. 
“really? you had to get that close just to read my name?”
gojo doesn’t seem fazed by your annoyance, in fact, it only seems to amuse him further. “hey, i was just trying to be thorough. gotta make sure i get it right, you know?” his grin widens, and you swear he’s enjoying this way too much.
“thorough. sure.” you turn away, trying to busy yourself with the straws again, but the heat still lingers on your face. his proximity had been… unexpected. and a little too close for comfort.
when you’re done with the straws, you steel the courage to turn your body so you’re facing him, making an indication with your hands for him to move out of your way. instead of him giving you space to leave the cramped corner, he leans against the counter now like he practically owns the place. in doing so, he effectively pins you against the corner of the coffee shop, leaving you no option but to fiddle with the straws while pointedly avoiding his gaze, but not before you see the pout on his face. “you’re not going to ask me for my name?”
“i know it. it’s gojo.” you immediately curse yourself for letting your lips loose.
fuck. he squints his eyes in what you perceive as suspicion. “how do you know my name?”
“i saw it on your credit card information.” you couldn’t exactly tell him how you’ve stalked him (as well as how inefficient you found a function in his 6th grade robotics code), so that would be a plausible enough reason. 
but gojo, of course, doesn’t let up. “so, y/n,” he starts. “you going to the party next week? you know, for halloweekend?”
ah, halloweekend. the ultimate weekend for getting excuses to dress slutilly, excessively drink, and get laid. at your college, it was an even bigger deal, with people partying for all three days of the week’s end as well as the weekend before and after halloween. you shook your head. “i don’t think so.” that phys 321 assignment was not going to finish itself, nor were parties really your scene.
“what?” he immediately crosses his arms across his chest, frowning and leaning closer to you to squint at you. “why?”
you sigh inwardly, awkward at the prospect of him bugging you further about your life. “i’m bu—”
you’re interrupted by the sound of the door opening and instinctively move to get behind the counter to take the new customer’s order; at first, you thank the heavens that you got a distraction from gojo, that you’re not alone anymore, but seeing who the customer was, the hope extinguishes like a candle face with wind.
you both see a man swagger in, the same guy you’ve noticed hanging around far too often lately. his eyes immediately lock onto you, and a slow, sleazy grin spreads across his face.
“hey, look who’s still here,” the man says, sauntering over to the counter like he owns the place. “my favorite barista.”
you tense, forcing a smile. “what can i get you?”
he doesn’t answer right away, his gaze sliding down your body in a way that makes your skin crawl. “i was thinking…” he drawls, leaning in closer than necessary, “you and i should hang out. you’re always here, and i’m always here, so it’s like fate or something, right?”
your stomach churns, and you take a small step back, maintaining your composure. “i’m good, thanks.”
but he doesn’t let up, leaning further across the counter. “come on, don’t be like that. just one drink. you deserve it after a long day.”
“i really can’t—”
“don’t be shy,” he interrupts, a grin spreading wider. “i’m a nice guy, i promise.”
before you can think of another polite rejection, gojo steps forward, his body language shifting entirely. the playful air around him evaporates, replaced by something colder, more dangerous. he positions himself squarely between you and the guy, effectively cutting off the man’s view of you.
“she said no,” gojo says, his voice firm, low. “so why don’t you fuck off?”
the sleazy guy blinks, clearly not expecting the sudden shift. his smile fades, and he glares at gojo, sizing him up like he’s considering pushing back. but one glance at gojo’s unwavering stare, and the guy decides it’s not worth it. with a muttered curse, he turns and leaves, the door swinging shut behind him.
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. the guy’s been bothering you routinely; part of you thinks that he’s still not going to leave you alone, but the rest of you visibly relaxes, the weight of this guy’s harassment lifting off your shoulders under gojo’s protection.
gojo turns back to you, the usual teasing smirk creeping back onto his face, though his eyes are still sharp. “you okay?”
“yeah,” you manage, though your voice is quieter than you’d like. “thanks for that.”
“don’t mention it.” he shrugs it off like it was nothing, but there’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now—something protective. “i know you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself, but i figured i’d speed things up a bit.”
you roll your eyes, trying to shake off the tension. “you’re such a hero, gojo.”
“always,” he replies with a wink. and just like that, the moment’s lightened again, the balance between you restored, though there’s a subtle shift in the air. something unspoken between the two of you—an understanding, maybe.
you don’t acknowledge it out loud, but as you go back to restocking, you find yourself glancing at him more than before. and for the first time in… well, ever, you don’t completely mind his presence.
fast forward a few hours, and after a bit of conversation, gojo finally leaves the fine institution that is your campus starbucks. right now, you’re alone and finishing cleaning up. you lock up, the starbucks finally closed, finishing your last task for the night. it’s quiet—too quiet, actually, with the usual streetlights casting strange shadows across the empty sidewalk. the air feels heavy, like something unseen is lingering just out of reach, watching from the dark. you shake it off, telling yourself you’re just tired and letting your nerves get to you.
as you start your walk back to your dorm, the feeling only grows. the street’s nearly empty, and with each step, the silence presses in closer. it’s fine, you tell yourself, picking up your pace. but then you hear it: the echo of footsteps, faint but unmistakable. heart pounding, you speed up, every instinct telling you to just get back. almost there. you just have to cross the alley—
“hey there,” a voice drawls, and your stomach sinks. a hand moves to grab at your shoulder, making you turn quickly. what meets your vision is the same guy from earlier, his grin widening in a way that makes your skin crawl.
you try to move out of his grip, but he grabs you harder, cutting off any escape. “aw, don’t be like that. i just wanted some company.”
your throat’s dry, but you manage, “i said no.”
he doesn’t even pretend to listen, his gaze trailing over you with that same leering interest. “no need to be so uptight. i could make this fun for you.”
your back hits the wall of the alley. trapped. he leans in, his breath warm and sour against your face, one hand reaching out as he says something sleazy that you can barely hear over the pounding in your ears—
and then a voice cuts in from above, all easy humor. “y’know, i always thought this city’s trash problem was bad, but this is something else.”
your heart leaps in your chest at the small flicker of hope, that someone has the balls to try to rescue you. but as you—and this creep—turn, you find no evidence of another party present, only his mysterious presence. 
“who’s there?” the guy snarls, his grip tightening so much that you wince. “why don’t you get lost if you know what’s good for you—”
“dude, don’t you have any rizz?” the mysterious boy retorts.the stranger has a youthful voice, someone of your age.  “the way you have to resort to sexual harassment is just sad. you guys are always sooo predictable, you’re so gonna tell me to scram or something.”
the man scowls, hand leaving your arm in an effort to search for the stranger in the dark. “why don’t you mind your own business, punk—”
and he’s interrupted, because a shiny, silver something flings out in the darkness and lands on his face, sending his arms in a frenzy to uncover what it is. the man rips the sticky, silver webbing off his face with a growl, looking around wildly, his expression shifting from confusion to anger. his eyes dart through the dark alley, searching for the source of that cocky voice, but there’s nothing—just shadows and the faint flicker of a streetlamp somewhere down the block.
“who the hell are you?” he snaps, twisting his neck as if he could scare whoever’s hiding out there into the open. “show yourself, you bastard!”
a chuckle echoes from the darkness, bouncing off the brick walls. “wow, real tough guy, huh? but you should work on those anger issues. they’re, uh…a bit unbecoming.”
the man spins around, and another burst of webbing flies out from somewhere unseen, sticking to his shoulder this time. he yanks it off with a frustrated grunt, his head whipping from side to side as he tries to locate the stranger.
“you think this is funny?” he spits, voice raised in a mix of fear and fury.
“depends. do you?” the voice is closer now, almost like the stranger is right above you, yet no one’s there. “or is this just a big overreaction? all i did was suggest you rethink your approach. go to therapy or sum’.”
the man snarls, fists clenched, starting to look downright unhinged. “get down here and say that to my face, punk!”
“as you wish.”
with a soft thump, a figure drops from above, landing directly in front of the guy in a low crouch. in the dim light, all you see at first are the blue and black accents on the otherwise white suit, his head tilting up, illuminated just enough that his white, wide eyes glow with a certain playful menace. and then, your eyes widen as you gasp to yourself. 
you’ve seen him before.
okay, pause.
you’re a busy college student, one who stays entrenched in the bubble of upcoming exams, assignments, and problem sets that you don’t check the news often. in the off chance you do turn from your usual consumption of social media during your breaks to the news, you only have time to read the big headlines.
so you did read somewhere that in your university’s city of new york city, there was a masked menan—vigilante that had beat up a few guys near a shawarma joint or prevented some shootings at a nightclub. new york city was full of incompetent cops that were on the lookout for him (a/n acabbbbbb) since this guy was a vigilante, some kind of superhero slinging around on webs. some name—spiderman.
but before you could read more into the article, your soul almost left your body when you got a canvas notification saying your midterm was graded, so that was the end of that.
alright, pause over. back to now.
“hi!” spiderman chirps, giving him a friendly wave before ducking just as the man throws a punch. the swing goes wide, and spiderman straightens up with a disappointed sigh. “see, this is why i’m the one with the web powers. you’d hurt yourself with these moves.”
without warning, the man charges again, swinging in rapid succession, but each one misses as spiderman easily sidesteps, practically dancing around him. “oof, dude, how did you make it this far in life with reflexes like that?” he ducks another blow, slipping behind the guy to give him a light tap on the shoulder as he passes.
the man stumbles, eyes flashing with frustration, and lets out a roar, reaching down to pick up a loose brick from the alley floor. he raises it above his head, face twisted in a snarl.
“oh, so we’re improvising now?” spiderman quips, and before the man can bring the brick down, a strand of webbing shoots out, sticking to the brick and yanking it from his grasp. it flies off somewhere into the alley, landing with a dull clatter.
the guy stumbles forward, off balance, and spiderman takes the opportunity to web his feet to the ground, immobilizing him in place. the man struggles, pulling his legs, but he’s stuck fast.
“ever heard of boundaries?” spiderman asks, tilting his head with mock innocence. “or, like, self-restraint? you should look into it.”
the man glares, seething, still struggling against the webs. “you think you’re some kinda hero?” he sneers.
spiderman shrugs, glancing over at you, catching your gaze in a way that makes you feel both strangely comforted and seen. “nah, hero’s a big word. i’m just your friendly neighborhood guy with slightly above-average reflexes.”
with a frustrated yell, the man finally wrenches one arm free and makes a desperate lunge, his fist connecting with spiderman’s side. spiderman lets out a small grunt but only wobbles slightly before grinning. “okay, buddy, playtime’s over.”
before the man can even react, spiderman sends out another web, this time at his wrist, effectively pinning him to the alley wall. he struggles, face twisted in anger, but spiderman just raises a gloved hand to his lips as if hushing a child. then, in the lull that follows, you remember the thick quantum mechanics textbook in your bag. without thinking, you yank it out and, in a burst of adrenaline, swing it at the man’s head. the book lands with a solid thud, and he slumps, finally, into silence.
spiderman looks at the unconscious man, then at the textbook in your hand. he lets out a low whistle. “you know, i’ve always thought textbooks were a weapon of choice, but that’s next-level dedication.” that’s when you realize just how tall he is compared to you, and you can’t help your excitement when you realize that he’s here in the flesh.
“nice hit, by the wa—”
“it’s you!” you exclaim. 
“what?” he sputters, white eyes widening almost comically. “me? oh,” then he straightens up, “yea, yea. just your friendly neighborhood spiderman. rescuing pretty girls from creeps, kinda my thing. ” he shrugs.
you continue, excitedly, “right, you’re the one on the news—” you move your hand to point at him but quickly wince, the pain of the man’s grip catching up to you. 
he doesn’t miss the movement, eyes squinting at you. “hey, we’ll have to get you home. do you trust me?”
you look at him, clutching your arm in pain, and really take a moment to check him out. he’s saved you, he’s probably six feet tall, and his ass looks fantastic in his suit. at this point, you’re looking at him with heart eyes. but you can’t exactly tell him you want him to propose, so all you utter out is a “y-yeah. my dorm’s randall.”
he doesn't waste any time. with a quick nod, he hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you close as he aims a webline up toward the buildings. “hold on tight, randall’s just a swing away,” he murmurs, his voice light but steady. his hand settles on your hip, and you can't stop the way your stomach flips at the contact.
before you can even process what’s happening, he launches the two of you into the air, the city blurring beneath your feet as you cling to him, fingers gripping the fabric of his suit for dear life. his arm stays solid around you, his grip somehow both gentle and strong. he lands lightly on the roof of your dorm, setting you down carefully like you’re something fragile. and he steps back, dusting his hands off in the most nonchalant way possible, like he didn’t just take you on the most exhilarating ride of your life.
“this is your stop,” he says, that signature, almost cocky smile playing in his voice.
“uh… yeah. thanks. for the rescue,” you manage, your voice a little shakier than you’d like. you don’t know if “thank you” is enough—it doesn’t even come close to covering what you feel.
but he just shrugs, taking a step back. “all in a day’s work,” he says. “or night’s work, i guess.” he pauses, giving you a quick once-over. “get some sleep, yeah?”
and just like that, he gives you a small, almost playful salute and vanishes, swinging off into the night as easily as he’d appeared, leaving you standing on the rooftop with your heart still racing.
back in your dorm room, you drop onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling as tonight’s events replay in your head: the alley, his voice cutting through the dark, that cocky smirk, the way he felt holding onto you as you soared over the city lights. a tiny part of you wonders if you imagined the whole thing—if maybe you’re just the victim of some wild, sleep-deprived hallucination.
but no, your arm still aches from where the creep grabbed you, and you can still feel the ghost of his hand on your waist, steady and reassuring. you bite your lip, a smile creeping onto your face despite yourself.
just before sleep finally claims you, you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all. “the city’s vigilante, huh?” you murmur, as if he’s somehow still listening.
the thought is wild, a bit surreal—and strangely comforting.
“one caffe americano!” you call out, reading the label on the cup before handing it over with a small nod. the customer takes it with a quick thanks, and you return to the counter, barely holding back a yawn. the events of last night flicker through your mind—a web-slinging hero, an alley, the lingering ache in your arm—and you shake it off. there’s no room for distractions. life as a college student means the grind never stops, especially on a morning shift right before class.
when your coworker finally arrives, you let out a quiet sigh of relief, grab your bag, and step out into the brisk morning air. the chill helps wake you up as you make your way across campus, hoping to catch up with your friends before the lecture starts. just outside the building, you spot utahime, sitting on a bench, waiting with her usual tired smile.
“hey, finally off the clock?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“yeah, barely,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “i’m still running on fumes from last night. you guys save me a seat?”
“of course. nanami’s already inside,” she says, gesturing toward the building.
you sigh. “you won’t believe the things that happened last night.”
she gives you a look, in the traditional utahime protective-mother-hen type way. “what happened?”
you give her the rundown of what happened, the guy (who she bristles at, gives you a slap at your hand to tell you that you should’ve told her earlier, kento would’ve been able to beat his ass if she hadn’t gotten to it first) and how spiderman saved you. “i would give him what he’s missing,” you sigh, dreamily. 
utahime looks at you in a judgmental way. “and that’s all you got from this? for fucks sake, he’s a vigilante, you don’t know if he’s started to tail you or not. pooks, he could literally be dangerous. try to convince your boss to let someone else get your night shift.” as soon as you open your mouth to protest, she cuts you off immediately. “and no, i don’t give a fuck about your people pleaser tendenci—”
“we’ll revisit this conversation later.” you give her a sweet smile as you start to speed walk, door of the lecture hall of the 9am section of phys401: intro to quantum algorithms, falling in with the usual stream of students after you hear an irritated “yea, cause i’m gonna kill you otherwise.” the familiar chatter and echo of footsteps make the day feel almost normal, grounding you as you weave through the hall.
inside, you quickly spot kento’s shining, disney prince-like blonde hair, who has saved seats for the three of you near the middle of the hall, away from the ugly, smelly grad students who always crowd the front. he gives you a quick nod as you settle down beside him, flipping open your notebook. the reliable calm on his face helps ease the lingering jitters you hadn’t realized you were carrying.
“long night?” he asks, glancing at the dark circles under your eyes.
“you could say that,” you mumble, not quite ready to get into details. instead, you wave it off. “just work assignments, and getting jumped, the usual.”
nanami breaks into a series of shocked coughs, and you hurry to pat his back as he undeniably burns his tongue on the coffee he was taking a sip of. “what?”
his rather loud exclamation sets off stares from people sitting closer to you both, so you give utahime, who lets out a quiet groan as she’s settling into her seat beside you, a knowing look. “it’s a long story, i’ll tell it to you later.”
he reluctantly settles in after that, not because he has a choice but because yaga is starting to address the class by asking about the weekend and getting his usual blank stares in return until a voice you recognize as suguru geto’s is saying something to undeniably piss him off, but you don’t register quite what it is exactly because the door opens and any attention on geto is directed to the boy with white hair and blue eyes tiredly walking into class. 
he’s about ten minutes late to the lecture, which is already weird because he’s usually about 27 seconds late, not that you keep count. but also, normally gojo is the picture of confidence and cockyness, making some of the female grad students whisper things about him that you don’t think they should be for the five year gap between them and gojo. 
but today, he looks different—messy, unkempt, with shadows under his eyes and a weird angle to his torso, the way he walks, and the way his opposite hand is subconsciously hovering around his side.
your brows knit together as he heads to an empty seat rows behind you next to geto, ignoring the stares of half the room. it’s so out of character for him that you can’t help but wonder what’s going on. you shoot utahime a knowing look, and she stifles a laugh, barely managing to keep a straight face as she watches gojo slink to his seat. nanami’s usually impassive face exchanges a look with you as well before he turns his attention back to professor yaga’s opening remarks. gojo slides into the row behind you without a word, avoiding everyone’s gaze—or so you think, until you feel it.
as you attempt to listen to professor yaga, you can’t shake the sensation of eyes boring into the back of your head. you resist the urge to turn, telling yourself it’s probably nothing… except the feeling lingers, so strong that your pulse ticks up a notch.
“okay, now that we’re all here,” yaga says in a dry tone, barely able to hide his irritation as he glances pointedly in gojo’s direction, “let’s begin with today’s lecture on grover’s.”
professor yaga taps the board, and the projector switches to a set of slides titled quantum speed-up and the grover search algorithm. he launches into his explanation, voice clipped. “grover’s algorithm provides a quadratic speed-up for unstructured search problems, a notable advantage in quantum computing. but can anyone tell me why this isn’t considered an exponential improvement?”
you raise your hand, as does nanami. a subtle shift of movement in your peripheral vision draws your eye to gojo, who’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. yaga’s attention lands on nanami first, and he gives a succinct answer about how grover’s algorithm yields only a quadratic speed-up in terms of computational complexity. as he answers, you swear you catch gojo watching you, again, through the corner of your eye.
determined not to let him get under your skin, you lean over to whisper to nanami. “what’s with him today?”
nanami, still watching yaga, raises a brow. “maybe he finally realized that he can’t get by without skipping class today.”
utahime snickers quietly. “doubtful. more like he thinks it’s funny to waltz in whenever he likes and still ace every test.”
“exactly.” you sigh, drumming your pen against your notebook. gojo’s rare absences don’t even seem to faze most professors. and despite his unpredictable attendance, he’s always managed to stay miles ahead. today, though, something’s… different about him. like he’s made a life changing decision in the past 48 hours.
“moving on,” yaga says, pointing to the board where the next slide materializes. “the heart of grover’s algorithm lies in its use of an amplitude amplification technique, where we iterate a search oracle along with an inversion process. pay attention—this concept of iterative improvement will become key when we start covering variational quantum algorithms.”
as yaga delves deeper into amplitude amplification, you manage to focus, jotting down notes on the necessary steps in grover’s search. yet each time you settle into the lecture, you feel gojo’s gaze pricking at you. the first time you turn around, there’s nothing there—just him slouched, seemingly absorbed in whatever he’s staring at on the ceiling. but then, you sense it again and, on your second glance, you catch his blue eyes meeting yours, and he quickly looks away.
what’s his problem? you give him a questioning look, but he’s adamantly not looking at you, trying to look nonchalant as he’s pulling out his laptop. he might look like a student taking latexing notes of what yaga’s yapping about, but the way he’s using his mouse more than he is his keyboard tells you that he’s probably on papa’s freezeria instead.
you decide that you’re going to waste your time wondering how gojo’s brain functioned, so you instead focus back on the lecture. after all, you didn’t understand any of the lecture notes you took notes on before and what it said about the diffuser in the circuit. 
“now,” yaga’s voice sharpens, pulling you back into the room, “these iterations act as amplitude amplification steps, so pay close attention—especially those of you who have a habit of being late.” his eyes slide back to gojo, who remains oblivious, leaning back with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as the sound of his name brings him back to the lecture.
gojo doesn’t even look phased. instead, he raises a hand casually, like he’s about to ask a simple question. you can feel the anticipation ripple through the room—half the students are waiting to see if he’ll fumble, and the other half already know better.
“professor yaga,” he drawls, “don’t you think amplitude amplification is a bit of an oversimplification? the way it’s typically presented, you’d think grover’s algorithm was just… guessing with style.” he flashes an infuriatingly smug smile, drawing out the pause before continuing. “but we both know it’s more about quantum phase inversion, right? the oracle reflects about the mean state, iterating with a precision that isn’t just luck. or maybe that’s all too technical?” he leans back, feigning innocence.
the smugness in his tone makes something flare up in you, and before you can stop yourself, your hand shoots up.
“actually, gojo,” you interject, your voice louder than you intended, “calling it “guessing with style” is a very gross oversimplification. grover’s algorithm isn’t about intuition or luck. it’s about optimization. it’s not just about spotlighting a target like a rando guess, it’s more like rotating the probability in a controlled manner—with iterations—to amplify the correct solution. not just some quantum trick or guess.” you cross your arms, leaning back in your chair as you stare him down. “it’s not even that bad, compared to what we have classically.”
as soon as you spoke, it seems that the fight and mischievous look in gojo’s eyes fades, replacing it with something that shockingly looks like him being flustered as he averts your gaze, looks to the ceiling, and murmurs something like “yea, that’s basically most of quantum computing, desperately trying to prove we’re not just wasting our time” but yaga interrupts him, clearly a bit annoyed at the two know-it-alls that you and gojo were acting like. 
“now,” yaga says, shifting back to the lecture as if nothing happened (probably because he wasn’t paid enough to deal with this shit), “these iterations act as amplitude amplification steps, so pay close attention—especially those of you who have a habit of missing lectures.”
you’re just left confused as to why the conversation didn’t escalate like the typical academic rivals in movies, because you’ve definitely seen gojo bully some people who didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about instead of just blushing like some schoolgirl. regardless, you can’t help but notice the thrill that you felt, having finally argued with him, having been seen as someone worth arguing. you try to temper it as yaga continues onto the rest of the lecture.
“i can’t believe you’re making me go.” you tug at the hem of your white corset, paired with a matching skirt, still incredulous at how utahime managed to talk you into attending one of the infamous halloween frat parties. the night air is crisp against your exposed shoulders, and despite your complaints, you shiver more at the thought of wasting the next few hours among sweaty strangers than the actual cold.
utahime, walking beside you in a devil-red version of your outfit—complete with horns perched precariously on her head—looks far too satisfied with herself. she adjusts the horns with one hand, giving you a sidelong glance that practically drips with smugness.
“stop pouting,” she chides. “i’m not going to let you waste another night holed up in your room, buried in manhwa or quantum physics. i’m pretty sure there are cobwebs growing in your—”
“utahime,” you hiss, cutting her off with a mortified glance around.
“pussy,” she finishes, completely unbothered. “i’m going to find you a guy to hook up with. i’m not saying you have to go all the way, but flirting? kissing? maybe something more? very healthy. highly encouraged.”
your mouth falls open in protest, but before you can get a word in, she fixes you with a sharp glare, her dark eyes flashing with all the authority of a disappointed parent. “don’t even think about arguing with me. i swear, if you don’t at least try to enjoy this, i’ll make it my personal mission to find someone for you.”
“i can’t believe this,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “you’re supposed to be my friend, not my pimp.”
“oh, i’m your friend. that’s why i’m doing this. you’ll thank me when you’re sixty and not crying about how boring your college life was.”
“i’m not boring,” you counter. “i’m selective.”
“sure,” utahime drawls, clearly unconvinced. “and whatever weird sexual tension you’ve got going on with gojo doesn’t count.”
you scoff, stopping in your tracks to stare at her. “what tension? we’ve literally talked once this week. and that was the first time we had a conversation.”
she doesn’t respond, already scanning the scene ahead. the street of frat houses looms just ahead, glowing with gaudy orange lights strung up across balconies. the bass from the nearest party reverberates through the pavement underfoot. it’s already crowded, hordes of people shuffling in and out, laughing, shouting, and showcasing their half-baked halloween costumes.
you follow utahime’s gaze to the nearest house, packed with enough people to make the windows fog up. just the thought of squeezing into that humidity makes your stomach churn.
“looks crowded,” you mumble. “maybe we should—”
before you can suggest retreating, utahime grabs your wrist and practically drags you toward the house. “nope. you’re coming in. no backing out now.”
the moment you step inside, the smell hits you. sweat, stale beer, and an undercurrent of what you can only describe as frat-house musk. your nose wrinkles, and you instinctively recoil, pulling your arm free from utahime’s grasp.
“god, it smells like a gym locker in here,” you say, covering your nose.
utahime doesn’t seem fazed. she’s already scanning the room, her eyes landing on a beer pong table set up in the corner, surrounded by cheering students. “this is perfect!” she says, beaming.
“for what? contracting a fungal infection?” you mutter.
but she’s no longer listening, her focus shifting as a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a makeshift cowboy hat approaches her and then stops in front of both of you, his stare fully enthralled by utahime. “hey,” he says, a bit suavely, in the way that makes you inwardly roll your eyes because you know she’s going to eat it up. she likes it when they’re a little ugly, and this guy fits the bill. 
“hey,” and she giggles, making you have to physically fight the urge to puke, “what’s up?”
 they exchange a few words, and before you know it, she’s smiling in that way that tells you she’s found her entertainment for the night.
“go ahead,” you say dryly, waving her off. “i’ll just fend for myself.”
utahime starts to protest, but you’re already beelining for the kitchen, trying to get a drink that’s not too crazy to survive the night. it’s surprisingly less chaotic in the kitchen, though the counters are cluttered with half-empty bottles, red solo cups, and some questionable punch that looks radioactive. you scan the room, your eyes landing on a cupboard that might hold something simple—like water. a series of ding! ding! ding!’s go off in your mind as you find the pack of plastic water bottles. 
standing on your toes, you reach for the handle, but it’s just out of your grasp. you huff in frustration, shifting to get better leverage when a hand way bigger than yours suddenly appears above yours, effortlessly grabbing the item you were reaching for.
“let me get that for you.”
you turn to thank the person, the words dying on your lips when you see who it is.
gojo.
he’s standing impossibly close, his signature smirk firmly in place, but there’s something almost casual in the way he looks at you, as if this is the most normal interaction in the world. you swear you’re so close that you can see like the two open pores on his otherwise flawless skin, as his eyes inevitably drag themselves downwards to scan your outfit for the night—a shitty angel without wings and halo (you couldn’t be paid two shits to put in the effort; both of the top and skirt were utahime’s, anyways.) then, his eyes meet yours again, a bit of playfulness in them. 
“well, well,” he drawls, handing you the water bottle. “never thought i’d see you here.”
you take the bottle, trying to ignore the brush of his fingers against yours. “didn’t have much of a choice. utahime dragged me.”
his grin widens. “classic. let me guess—she’s off trying to find her soulmate at the beer pong table?”
“something like that,” you mumble, not wanting to give him the entire story. twisting the cap off the bottle,  you take a sip, hoping he’ll just leave you alone, but instead, he leans against the counter, looking entirely too comfortable.
“so,” he says, tilting his head, “i heard through the grapevine that you had a run-in with that spider-man guy this week.”
that makes you pause mid-gulp of water, instead coughing a bit as you try to swallow it down without basically drowning in kirkland signature natural spring water. you’ve only told like, three people outside of kento and iori, so you’re confused why he knows this information, but you continue on regardless. the memory of spider-man swinging in to save you flashes through your mind, and you can’t help but smile softly to yourself. “it was amazing. he’s—he’s incredible, honestly. the way he just swooped in and handled everything? so fast, so precise. he’s like a real-life superhero.”
you’re basically gushing to him, and you realize that a bit too late as you look at his face to gauge his reaction. he’s looking at you with a newfound interest, albeit a bit too conflicted to fully tease you about it when he says, “sounds like you’re smitten.”
“maybe i am,” you admit, laughing. “i mean, who wouldn’t be? he’s brave, he’s kind, and he doesn’t even stick around for the credit. it’s like he’s this selfless, untouchable figure.” you also kind of want to give him a sloppy toppy for saving you like that, but you spare gojo the details. 
“untouchable, huh?” gojo echoes, his tone turning a bit wry and…jealous? “sounds like someone’s got a crush.”
you roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted, and you think gojo can tell with the way you’re heating up and bashfully looking at the ground. “don’t be ridiculous.”
“i’m just saying,” he continues, leaning closer, “if that’s your type, you might want to raise your standards. superheroes are overrated.”
you raise an eyebrow. “and what, you’re not?”
he grins, that infuriatingly charming grin that makes you want to simultaneously punch him and laugh. “i’m better. i’m real.” he then puts his hands on the counter behind you, caging you between them until your knees are lightly brushing, and suddenly his face is so close that small little breaths from his nose are fanning across your face. “i can prove that to you.”
and you hate your body for being so…reactive and enthusiastic to his smooth-talking, face flushing. despite that, you try to put on an air of nonchalance. “god, you’re insufferable.”
“really?” he teases. his hand leaves the marble counter to hover at your hip, his hand subconsciously tracing your curves an inch above your skin. the motion, firm but tentative as if he’s waiting for you to give him the green light, makes you shiver as you subconsciously move your hips to finally have the skin-to-skin contact. and your skin sings in happiness as he draws circles into the area right below your skirt, even momentarily dipping just below, to which you realize that he’s treading very close to your panties, since your skirt’s really short.
"yea," you basically sigh, hating yourself for how breathy your voice sounds. 
it seems to have an effect on gojo because his eyes darken as he murmurs, "wastin' your time on that spiderman guy."
maybe it's the fact that it's late (you've been getting sub four hours of sleep this past week) or the lights in this humid frat bring a heady air, but all academic-rivalry-overshadowed-woman-in-stem history between you and gojo disappears in your brain as you rake your eyes up and down his torso and then look at him through your lashes. "who should i spend my time on instead?"
he gives you a little smile as he stares down at you, eyes raking over your face, catching at your lips and then going back up again to meet yours. “i don’t know, someone who’s as smart as you,” he murmurs.
“yea?” you laugh out breathlessly. your faces are so close that in normal circumstances, you would worry about how you both looked so close together, one hand on your thigh and the other splayed on your waist. “and how would you know how smart i am?”
satoru starts, lips coming closer and closer. “because i—”
but he’s interrupted, because you both hear a “satoru” and pull apart, breathing heavily as you both turn to look at the offender standing in the entrance of the kitchen: suguru geto, gojo’s best friend, looking more tired than anything as his eyes catch on you, then going to gojo with a pointed look. it’s not hard to figure out what was going on based on how disheveled you both look, your skirt crooked and his shirt crumbled, and your cheeks heat. before you can say anything, however, suguru sighs and says to gojo, “there’s a burglary happening nearby.” then, he turns but not before giving you a nod. “make sure to stay safe.”
he promptly leaves, leaving you confused standing there. was this such an emergency worth noting that he interrupted his best friend?
you try to seek the answer in gojo’s face, but he has this conflicted, annoyed countenance and you suddenly feel kinda of insecure because he’s raking his hand through his hair, staring painfully at the ceiling then at you. at the same time you utter out a “uh–” he says “i have to go.”
“oh.” you blink. a why brews on top of your tongue, but you temper it, reminding yourself that you’re not close to gojo like that. needless to say, you feel a little embarrassed as you watch him jog out of the kitchen with a little wave to you. you want to overanalyze gojo’s last look to you, the one that looked a bit like disappointment and yearning, but you shake it off, staring at the 16.9 oz plastic water bottle in your hand that you forgot about.
taking a sip, you cringe as you become more aware of your surroundings and the state you’re left in because of gojo. that your panties are a bit more sticky—you reach under your skirt to adjust them so they don’t stick to your crotch so much—and you’re hot all over. 
then reality comes crashing back. what the hell did you and gojo just do right now?
you groan out loud, banging your head against the fridge, but as you reel back, in your peripheral you see  someone there. your head shoots to see the guy who’s now looking at you with a weird expression as he undeniably waits for whatever freaking out you were doing to gain access to the fridge. 
“sorry,” you blurt out, and gather yourself to beeline for the exit. god, you needed to find utahime.
the soft hum of a tv in the corner of satoru’s apartment provided the only sound, save for the faint rustle of suguru flipping through a textbook. the remnants of takeout—boxes of half-eaten pad thai and a pile of discarded chopsticks—littered the coffee table between them. satoru leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out, staring at the ceiling like it held answers he hadn’t thought to ask yet. he held a small foam ball, tossing it up and catching it over and over. his mind, however, wasn’t focused on the ball but on you.
it was starting to feel like an obsession. he’d always been able to compartmentalize things—his studies, his friends, his other responsibilities. but you? you’d broken through the usual barriers in his head, wedging yourself firmly into every free thought he had.
“do you think she likes me?” he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.
suguru glanced up from his book, his expression unreadable. “who, starbucks girl?”
satoru scoffed. “she’s not starbucks girl. she’s…” he trailed off, tapping his fingers against his knee. your name lingered on his tongue, oddly weighty in a way that felt almost unfamiliar.
suguru smirked. “oh, she’s got a name now? progress.”
“shut up.”
but he couldn’t shut his mind off, not when you kept taking up space in it. it wasn’t just that he’d noticed you now—really noticed you, for the first time. it was more than that.
satoru had always known who you were. you weren’t exactly easy to miss. in a program full of ugly guys who didn’t shower and loud personalities, you had carved out your niche by being the cold, unreachable one. the one who didn’t bother with group projects unless she had to, who barely engaged in conversations beyond what was strictly necessary. other guys in the program talked about you, of course. they always did.
“frigid,” they called you. “too serious. probably thinks she’s better than us.”
they weren’t entirely wrong. you were better than most of them, but not for the reasons they assumed. satoru had read your work—papers that brimmed with insights that most of their half-baked theories could only dream of. he could tell you put in the effort in your classes and research, while all the guys left shit-talking had to rely on their grad student mentors to be able to write a legible paper. for fucks sake, he doesn’t even thing anyone could code in qiskit or cirq like you could; he had skimmed your notes once, left them behind after a lecture, and found them meticulous and sharp before he turned them into the professor to return to you.
and yet, despite the brilliance you carried with you, you had never given him a second glance.
that day at starbucks, though.
satoru rolled his head to the side, gaze drifting toward the window. he hadn’t expected to see anyone at five in the morning, let alone you. he’d been desperate for answers then—he had spent his night staring at his hands, which had seemed to keep ejecting spider-like webs after he’d been horribly sick. he knew he shouldn’t have gone fooling around in new york’s subway tunnels at 3am with suguru and shoko, but after a seemingly-harmless spider had bit him, he had been reeling from the discovery of his newfound powers and grappling with the weight of what they meant ever since. 
and there you were, unlocking the starbucks, bleary-eyed but no less composed.
you’d handed him his coffee, not interested in him the entire time, and he remembered blurting something out—something ridiculous about fate or responsibility, his usual bravado faltering in the quiet of the moment. he had been spiraling, unsure of who he was anymore, and you’d said something.
what was it again?
“it doesn’t have to be ‘more’ all the time. sometimes just showing up is enough.”
the words had stayed with him, carved deep into the corners of his mind. you didn’t know it, but they had pulled him back from the edge that day. since then, he’d started noticing you in ways he hadn’t before.
the way you brushed your hair behind your ear when you were deep in thought. the furrow of your brow when you argued as respectfully as you could with a professor (gojo knew you were holding back, though, and the thought always made him smile to himself because if he wasn’t an idgafer he would be incensed like you at the idiotic teacher). the smile—rare, fleeting, but utterly disarming—that occasionally lit up your face when you talked to utahime or that guy you were too friendly around, nanami.
“you’re doing that thing again,” suguru said, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“what thing?” satoru asked, sitting up straighter.
“brooding. you’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”
“no.”
suguru arched an eyebrow. “you’re a terrible liar.”
satoru sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “fine. maybe i am. but it’s complicated.”
“how is it complicated?”
“she doesn’t like me,” satoru said, shrugging. “at least, not as me. she likes spider-man.”
suguru blinked, clearly unimpressed. “you’re being stupid bro.”
“i’m not being stupid,” satoru argued. “she thinks spider-man’s this amazing, selfless hero. she doesn’t know i’m just some guy who can’t even figure out how to flirt with her without making an ass of himself.”
suguru leaned back in his chair, regarding satoru with an almost pitying look. “so let me get this straight. you’re worried that she only likes spider-man, even though spider-man is you. like it’s some kind of split personality thing?”
“well, when you put it like that—”
“it sounds dumb,” suguru finished. “because it is dumb.”
satoru glared at him, but suguru only shrugged.  but how could he not think about you? even now, the memory of your voice—calm, steady, and unexpectedly warm—echoed in his head. you had this way of looking at him, like you were peeling back layers he didn’t even know he had. and that smile... he groaned inwardly. he wasn’t supposed to be so drawn to you, wasn’t supposed to imagine what it’d feel like to have you smile at him like that all the time.
“look,” suguru continued, “if you like her, shoot your shot. you’re already overthinking this, and you haven’t even done anything yet. what’s the worst that could happen? she says no?”
“or she laughs in my face,” satoru muttered.
“which would be deserved, honestly,” suguru said, smirking. “but seriously, you’ve got nothing to lose. and everything to gain.”
satoru didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the takeout boxes on the table. he wanted to believe suguru was right, but there was a small, stubborn part of him that wasn’t so sure.
because it wasn’t just about rejection, or even whether you liked him as satoru or spider-man. it was about what came after. if he let you in and something happened to you—if his double life brought danger to your doorstep—he wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself.
but then there was suguru’s voice in his head, steady and persistent: you’ve got nothing to lose. and everything to gain.
amidst a week of endless projects upon projects and other miscellaneous assignments from your research group partners (since the grad students loved to pile their work on top of you, the helpless undergrad), you find yourself nursing a hot chocolate while on top of your dormitory building’s roof. 
you find sanctuary, coming on here for time to yourself whenever you find yourself stuck in a busy week. quiet, solitary, with a view of the city lights flickering like scattered fireflies. you hugged your cardigan tighter around your shoulders as you stepped onto the roof, your laptop tucked under one arm, a mug of tea precariously balanced in the other hand. the air was crisp, biting just enough to sting your cheeks.
setting your mug down on the ledge, you perched beside it, pulling up your knees and balancing the laptop precariously as you typed. the words on the screen blurred after a while, blending into the chaos in your mind. frustrated, you closed it with a snap and leaned your head back to gaze at the stars.
“rough night?”
you startled, spinning your head around so fast your tea nearly toppled. but you can’t find anyone, just the sound of soft footsteps landing somewhere not visible to you. 
“you scared the hell out of me,” you sighed, clutching your chest.
“sorry,” he said, though his tone didn’t sound all that apologetic. “didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“then maybe don’t sneak up on people like that,” you muttered, still trying to calm your racing heart.
he chuckled, and the sound was warmer than you’d expected. “noted. so, what’s got you out here at three in the morning? don’t tell me you’re pulling an all-nighter.”
you sighed, the initial shock fading into a dull thrum of shyness. “it’s not an all-nighter if the night isn’t over yet.” then, you squint at a random spot, pretending it’s him. “besides, why are you here? shouldn’t you be out stopping robberies or saving cats from trees?”
“done and done,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the ledge. “now i’m just enjoying the view.”
you turned your gaze back to the skyline, hoping the darkness hid the faint heat creeping up your neck. “so, what’s a guy like you doing on a random rooftop at three in the morning?”
“could ask you the same thing,” he countered.
you hesitated. for some reason, admitting the truth to him felt easier than admitting it to anyone else. “just…needed a break.”
“from?”
“everything,” you said, exhaling slowly. “classes. expectations. people.” you paused, then added with a faint smile, “not you, though. you’re an exception.”
“oh?” his voice lightened, carrying a hint of playful intrigue. “should i feel honored?”
“maybe,” you said. “it’s not every day you get to meet a real hero.” then, “okay, but why do you always hide in the dark?”
his voice is smug, meant to be playful. “it adds to the mystique?”
you pout. “what if i call the police?”
“it’s not like the cops can catch me anyways, baby. their shitty coffee and donut filled asses aren’t enough to keep up with me.”
you really try not to flush when he calls you that pet name. “is success getting to you?”
“what success? most i hear is everyone debating whether or not i should be experimented on.”
“really?” you teased. “that’s not what i saw on my for you page last time. there are girls out there who want you to sign their tits after you rescued that baby.”
then, you hear the soft thud of nimble feet dropping onto the ceiling and turn your head to see him in all his glory. he has a muscular figure highlighted in his white suit, blue and black lines traveling their way across his body. casually, he stretches and then drops down to the floor, sitting cross legged from across from you as if joining you in a regular gossip sesh. he puts his elbow on his knee and rests his head on his hand. “are you one of those girls?”
you laugh sheepishly, turning away as heat creeps up your face again and your heart hammers, because you can’t exactly tell him that, yes you’re absolutely enamored with him after he saved you that day and yes, you do indeed want him to sign your tits.
“you should do that more,” he said.
“what?” you look back at him, wide eyed in confusion. 
“laugh.”
the way he said it, low and almost reverent, made your cheeks heat. you busy yourself with toying with your cardigan, scooting yourself away from the edge and closer to him. “and you should stop being such a flirt,” you said, though there was no bite in your voice.
“can’t help it,” he said, leaning closer. “it’s kind of my thing.”
“is that right?”
“mm-hmm.” he paused, then added, “you know, there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“what?” you asked, arching an eyebrow.
“take my mask off.”
the words hit you like a gut punch, dissolving the playfulness that had filled the air seconds ago. you blinked up at him, searching his face—or at least what you could see of it—for any sign that this was some elaborate joke. but there was no hint of humor, no smirk tugging at his lips. he meant it.
your fingers hovered at your sides, hesitant. “are you sure?” the question came out soft, barely audible, but it felt like it echoed in the quiet night.
“never been more sure of anything,” he murmured, voice low and steady.
you swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. slowly, almost against your better judgment, you reached up, fingertips brushing the edge of his mask. the fabric felt smooth, warm under your touch, but your nerves were anything but.
with a deep breath, you peeled it back. bit by bit, his face came into view—a shock of white hair, impossibly sharp features, and finally, those eyes. those unmistakable, infuriatingly familiar blue eyes. your breath caught, and for a moment, the world tilted sideways.
“gojo?”
the name fell from your lips before you could stop it, unsteady and disbelieving. your mind raced, trying to piece together the impossible puzzle that had just landed in front of you.
he grinned—that grin, the one that always made you want to slap it off his face and yet somehow managed to disarm you every single time. “hey.”
“hey?” your voice cracked as you took a step back. “that’s all you have to say? hey?”
“would you prefer, ‘surprise’?” he quipped, his grin widening as though this was the most normal thing in the world.
you laughed, the sound a little hysterical but real, like you couldn’t contain the storm of emotions rushing through you. “surprised? you’ve been… you’ve been spider-man this whole time?” the words felt foreign on your tongue, like they didn’t belong in the same sentence as gojo satoru—the one you’d argued with in class, the one who had no problem making you want to tear your hair out. and yet here he was, standing in front of you, the last person you ever would have suspected to be the city’s most infamous masked hero.
gojo gave you that crooked grin, the same one he wore when he thought he had won—when he thought he had it all figured out. “i know. it’s a lot to take in.”
you stared at him, trying to make sense of it, but no amount of logic could bridge the gap between the gojo you knew—the guy who drove you up the wall in class and always had a cocky comeback—and the masked hero who had saved you and the one you had a crush on.
you didn’t know whether to scream, laugh, or cry. 
you take a shaky breath in, still trying to process everything. “you... you saved me, gojo. you’ve been right there, all these times, and i had no idea it was you.”
“guess i’m just that good at keeping secrets,” he said, his tone playful, but there was something more there, something softer, that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. his eyes held a flicker of something—maybe vulnerability, maybe uncertainty.
the weight of the moment hung thick in the air between you, and for a long second, you didn’t know what to say. this revelation was like the ground beneath you had cracked wide open, and you were left staring into an abyss that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
finally, you shook your head, letting out a short breath. “this is insane.”
he didn’t seem bothered by your reaction, though his eyes darkened just slightly, the smirk still there, but with something a little more honest creeping into his expression. “yeah. but you’re handling it better than i thought. kinda thought you would faint, or something.”
the world had shifted, but somehow, with gojo now sitting in front of you like this, with the mask off and the man behind the myth revealed, it felt like the pieces were finally starting to fall into place. even if they didn’t make perfect sense yet.
and yet, something about his presence—his undeniable realness—felt oddly grounding. he wasn’t the invincible spider-man anymore. he was just gojo. the gojo who had somehow become more than just your academic rival, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit more than that.
something in gojo’s facial expression shifted to something a bit more hesitant, a little nervous as he stands and extend his arm out to you. softly, he asks, “do you trust me?”
“yes.” you took his hand, standing up as he flashes you a charming, yet mischievous grin, one so shit eating that you regret saying that. “why?”
“i’m taking you for a ride. consider it an apology for freaking you out earlier.”
you hesitated, looking between his outstretched hand and the city skyline just beyond your college campus. “i don’t think this is a good idea—”
“you trust me, don’t you?”
and somehow, against all logic, you realized that you did.
“fine,” you said, stepping closer to him to cling onto him. 
he pulls you closer, and as he does so, he cranes his neck down to meet your eyes, smiling giddy. “anywhere you wanna go?”
you think for a moment, but know immediately the place where you’d like to visit that’s open at this ungodly hour. “do you know that one shawarma joint—-”
before you can even finish, the wind whips around you as gojo slips his mask back on, pulls you closer to him, and uses his free hand—that is, the one that’s not clinging onto your firmly—to shoot a glistening web, one that you saw when he used it on the man who harassed you in the ally. it clings onto a nearby building, and then you’re off the ground, soaring through the air.
you let out a scream of terror against gojo’s chest, tightening your arms around him. you can feel a laugh rumble in his chest, a boyish chuckle as he peers down at you and shouts, “are you having fun?” 
“gojo,” you whine, burying your head into his chest further. despite your initial fear, exhilaration creeps its way into you as you the city blur, skyline jumping and dipping as gojo effortlessly swung you both around. 
when he finally stopped, landing gracefully on a secluded rooftop, you were breathless—not just from the ride but from the way he was looking at you.
“you good?” he laughed, panting from the exertion and tenderly using his hand to rake his hand through your  hair, which, you note out of embarrassment, must’ve been messed up from the wind passing through it.
“i hate that you made me dizzy, but yea, i’m good,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to open your camera, fixing your hair.
when you’re done, gojo looks at you with the manic buzz you can only have at 3am. “ready to get some shawarma?”
the streets were eerily quiet, the kind of silence only a city at 3am could have. just the two of you, your footsteps echoing against the pavement, the occasional glow of a streetlamp painting your path.
“okay, that shawarma was like, mid at best,” gojo walks alongside you. he’s thrown on a sweatshirt and gray sweatpants over his suit, walking alongside you on the street. your stomachs are full, and you suggested a walk to be able to digest the bigass bowl you both ate.
“nothing tastes better than something you’re eating when you’re supposed to be studying, instead,” you shot back, hiding your little smile as you cross your arms while strolling. the shift between you and gojo was so jarring that you’re still reeling at it, but what is 3am if not for big life changes?
“yea, that’s fair,” he sighs, crossing his hands behind his head as he continues strolling beside you.  “so,” he continues, “now that i’ve officially blown your mind with my secret identity and fed you some incredibly mid shawarma, what’s next? should i fly you to paris, or is that too cliché?”
you roll your eyes, but deep inside, you’re really biting back a grin. “relax, bugboy. maybe first let me recover from being swung like a human pendulum.”
gojo stopped walking, turning to face you with a playful glint in his eye. “you’re still thinking about that, huh? admit it—you loved it.”
you raised an eyebrow. “i screamed into your chest for a solid ten seconds. does that sound like love to you?”
he tilted his head, feigning deep thought. “i dunno. there’s a fine line between terror and thrill. and judging by how tightly you were holding onto me…”
“you’re insufferable,” you muttered, but your voice lacked bite.
“and yet, you’re still here.”
his words hung in the air, the playful edge softening into something quieter, more sincere. your steps faltered, and you looked up at him, the absurdity of the night fading into the background as your gaze held his.
“guess i’m curious,” you admitted.
“curious, huh?” he said, taking a step closer. “careful. curiosity killed the cat.”
without thinking, you blurted, “at least i’ve got a fifty-fifty shot, right?” the words barely left your mouth before the regret hit, your inner voice screaming at you for making a lame quantum mechanics joke at a time like this. schrödinger would be proud, you thought bitterly.
but then gojo laughed—not the teasing, obnoxious kind of laugh or the weird look you’d expect, but a genuine, boyish chuckle that reached his eyes. he smiled at you, soft and unguarded, and suddenly, the space between you seemed to shrink.
the flickering streetlamp cast a warm, uneven glow over the two of you. in that moment, the sprawling city felt impossibly small, narrowed down to just him and the pounding of your heart in your ears.
gojo reached up, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. “you know,” he murmured, his voice low, “i’ve been wanting to do this for a while now.”
your breath hitched, heart thundering in your chest. “do what?”
“this.”
before you could respond, he closed the space between you, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was somehow both soft, yet electrifying. for a moment, time seemed to stop, the city around you fading into nothing as the warmth of his touch anchored you in the moment.
when he finally pulled back, his grin was back in full force. “so, was that better or worse than shawarma?”
you blinked at him, still trying to find your footing in the aftermath of what just happened. an immediate feeling of bashfulness crept over you because not only did you just kiss spiderman, you just kissed gojo. there are girls who would kill to be in your position, and that makes you flustered as you turn your head away from him so you don’t have to make eye contact. “i hate you,” you mumble half heartedly, cheeks burning.
gojo doesn’t let you off so easily. his thumb brushes gently along your chin, coaxing your face back toward his. his touch is warm, deliberate, and it sends a shiver down your spine.
“oh my god,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “are you embarrassed? you’re so cute.”
when the warmth of his hand leaves your chin, you open your eyes, shocked as you find out that he’s nowhere to be seen. you call out a tentative, “gojo?” 
somewhere behind you, to the left, comes out a muffled shout. “i’m here!” you whip around, your brows furrowing as you follow the direction of his voice. it’s coming from an alley just off the street, dark and bathed in shadows.
“seriously?” you mutter under your breath, your annoyance half-hearted, making your way toward the sound. you find yourself at the mouth of the alley, the dim glow of a distant lamp barely illuminating his silhouette.
gojo’s perched on the side of the wall like it’s the most natural thing in the world, one leg propped up, his mask pulled halfway up to reveal that damn smirk. “you’re slow,” he teases, his tone light and infuriatingly smug.
“what are you doing?” you ask, crossing your arms.
he gestures toward himself. “you came looking for me, didn’t you?”
you roll your eyes, stepping closer despite yourself. “what, did you think i’d just leave you lurking in some alley like a creepy insect?”
“well,” he says, shooting a web to stick on the bottom of some stairs of one of the buildings to hang upside down, “you could’ve left, but i had a feeling you wouldn’t.”
before you could retort, he shoots his web closer to something on top of you, now dangling upside down yet again but his proximity even closer, stealing the air from your lungs. his fingers brush a strand of hair from your face, lingering just long enough to make your knees feel unsteady.
“so,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, “are we doing this again, or are you gonna keep pretending you hate me?”
your heart stutters, but before you can overthink it, you pull his mask down even further to uncover more of his lips, and you join them together—this time, softer, slower, as if savoring the moment. you grab at his chin to pull him closer to you, you both sighing into the kiss, and then smiling giddily each time you pull back, only to come back in.
and just like that, you start to fall into…something with not only the vigilante that’s swinging around new york, but also gojo satoru, your long-time rival.
when satoru swings by your dorm next, he doesn’t expect his heart to lurch so much at the view of you so cozy.
it’s undeniable; you and satoru have been dancing around each other. you’re not exactly a hook-up to each other—you two haven’t had sex—but you’re not exactly girlfriend and boyfriend. and it’s not something casual, either. he doesn’t reveal that he’s spiderman just to get into girls’ pants. 
you’ve both developed a sort of rapport, he supposes. it’s been stolen glances during phys401 and late nights spent talking or, occasionally, making out. you’ve even started to nurse his wounds, if he ever shows up with bruises and blood matting his suit. one of the perks of you having a single. 
he’s even fallen asleep overnight, especially on friday nights when he doesn’t have lecture in the morning. some of his things, like some spare equipment and suits, have even found their way into your closet. 
you’re both on a dangerous roller coaster, and satoru is closing his eyes on the fall down. 
but right now, he’s perched outside your window like a creep. you’re sitting on your bed, cross-legged and squinting at something on your laptop, and satoru smiles to himself as he sees your tank top and shorts and just how homey you look. you probably know satoru is coming, but you’re so comfortable around him that it makes his heart ache. he shouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t stop.
satoru lightly taps on your window, his knuckle brushing against the glass softly, not wanting to startle you. you glance up, catching sight of him, and there’s no hiding the smile tugging at your lips.
you get up, and satoru follows the movement of your bare legs with his eyes as you slide the window open. “you know, most people knock on doors like normal humans,” you say.
“i like to keep things interesting,” he shoots back, climbing in effortlessly. the faint chill from the night clings to him, and his hair is slightly disheveled from the wind.
he glances around your room, catching sight of your scattered notes and the distinct look of frustration etched across your face. “what’s got you looking so miserable?”
“phys401,” you reply with a resigned sigh, flopping back onto your bed. “this problem set is impossible.”
satoru smirks, peeling off his gloves and mask and plopping down beside you. “let me see.”
acquiescing, you hand over your notebook, watching as he scans your work with intent, eyebrows scrunching as he tries to understand the statement to prove. he makes a few thoughtful noises, before grabbing a pen and scribbling something down. “here,” he says after a moment, “you’re overcomplicating this step. instead of doing the tensor product you did, you could just make this zero by taking an inner product, since they’re orthogonal states. the rest will fall into place.”
you squint at his messy, rushed handwriting, and sure enough, the proof seems to come together. “how are you so good at this?” 
“physics prodigy, remember?” he teases, leaning back on his hands as he lays down on your bed.
“thanks for the help,” you say softly, your eyes lingering on him a beat too long. he’s kind of dreamy, you think. the moonlight filters across your window, giving his platinum hair a sheen as his cerulean eyes look into yours with kindness. 
his smirk fades, replaced by something softer, something unspoken. “anytime.” he then makes a show of stretching out his limbs, purposely bumping into you with one eye open smugly to observe your reaction, to which you glare at him. he spots your notebook, picks it up, and flips through it. “you know, for someone who complains so much about phys401, you’re not half bad at it,” he teases, scribbling something in the margin of your notes by grabbing a stray pen next to him.  
you roll your eyes, shifting so you’re cross-legged on the bed, facing him. “not all of us are physics prodigies, satoru. some of us actually have to work hard.”  
he chuckles, handing the notebook back to you. “hard work is overrated when you can just charm your way through everything.”  
you snort and joke, “if charm was all it took, i’d have aced the midterm.”  
there’s a beat of silence as you glance down at his notes. he’s corrected a mistake you hadn’t even noticed, and his scrawled proof flows so effortlessly it makes you a little envious. “how do you do that?” you ask, more to yourself than him.  
“do what?”  
“make it look so… easy,” you say, frowning slightly. “everything. physics, life, swinging through the city.”  
satoru leans back on his palms, his smirk softening. “trust me, it’s not as easy as it looks.”  
you glance up at him, surprised by the honesty in his tone. “what do you mean?”  
he shrugs, but there’s something vulnerable in the way his gaze flickers away from yours. “i mean, everyone sees the guy with the jokes and the perfect test scores, but no one sees the late nights or the bruises.” he gestures vaguely to his chest, where you know the bruises from his spider-man escapades hide. “guess i’m just good at pretending.”  
you sit with his words, the weight of them settling between you. “you don’t have to pretend with me, you know,” you say softly.  
his eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the mask—the real one—drops. “i know,” he says, just as softly.  
the air between you feels heavier, like the world has shrunk to just the two of you. you’re hyper-aware of how close he is, the faint smell of the night clinging to him, the way his knee brushes against yours.  
“thanks,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “for letting me be here. for…” he trails off, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back up.  
your breath catches. “satoru…”  
“yeah?” he says, leaning in slightly, his voice lower now.  
“i…” you trail off, not even sure what you were going to say.  
he leans closer, and it feels like everything around you stills. his hand finds its way to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “can i?” he asks, his voice barely audible.  
you nod, and then his lips are on yours.  
the kiss starts tentative, almost shy, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. it deepens, his hand sliding to your waist as you pull him closer. the tension that had been building for weeks—months, maybe—finally snaps, leaving nothing but heat and want in its wake.  
his weight presses you back into the bed, and you can feel his heart racing against yours as he pins you to the bed, now on top of you. his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and as his thumb traces shapes into your circle and closer to more sensitive areas, a sigh escapes you.  
that’s when he freezes.  
he pulls back, his breathing uneven, his eyes wide and filled with something like fear. “we can’t,” he says, his voice hoarse.  
your heart drops into your chest.
“why not?” you ask, trying to catch your breath.  
“because,” he says, sitting up and running a hand through his hair and he’s heaving. “because i’m spider-man, and you—” he breaks off, looking anywhere but at you. “you deserve better than this. better than me.”  
you sit up, pulling your shirt back into place and looking at him, hurt. “that’s not your call to make, satoru.”  
“i’m trying to protect you!” he says, his voice rising in agitation. he sits back onto his heels, raking a hand through his hair as he looks at the ceiling, as if in pain.
you can’t believe him. his self-righteousness irritates you to no end, especially after you’ve bared your soul, and now your body to him, something you considered intimate. you feel conflicted—whatever you had, it didn’t have a label. but that didn’t mean that you didn’t want that to be true. badly.
“and who asked you to?” you snap back. “i’m not some damsel in distress who needs saving.”  
“i know that,” he says, his tone softening. “but if something happened to you because of me…” he shakes his head. “i couldn’t live with that.”  
the anger bubbling in your chest boils over, and you snap. “so what? you’re just going to walk away? after everything?”  
he stands, his expression pained. “i’m sorry,” he says, heading for the window.  
“don’t you dare apologize,” you say, your voice trembling as you stand by the foot of your bed, hating how your eyes brim with tears. “if you leave, don’t bother coming back.”  
he pauses, his hand on the window frame, before glancing back at you. “i’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time, before slipping out into the night.  
the window clicks shut behind him, and you’re left alone in the silence, the ache in your chest threatening to swallow you whole. 
the whir of the espresso machine and the gentle hum of background music fill the mostly empty starbucks, the occasional customer wandering in like clockwork. it’s a quiet shift, the kind you’d usually relish—except today, the quiet only makes the knot in your chest tighten.
you’re stationed behind the counter, staring blankly at the milk steamer as it hisses, lost in your thoughts. that is, until utahime’s voice breaks through.
“alright, spill,” she says, leaning her elbows on the counter beside you.
you glance at her, eyebrows raised. “spill what?”
utahime rolls her eyes, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “oh, please. you look like someone stole your favorite pen and broke it in half. what’s going on?”
“nothing,” you lie, turning back to the steamer. “i’m fine.”
utahime’s skeptical gaze bores into you. “you’re a terrible liar. nanami, back me up.”
from his spot at a nearby table, nanami looks up from his book, his sharp eyes narrowing as they lock onto you. “it’s boy trouble,” he says flatly, like he’s solving an equation.
your head snaps toward him, a glare already forming. “excuse me?”
“it’s obvious,” he says, setting his book down and regarding you with his usual piercing gaze. “you’re distracted, you look upset—it’s boy trouble.”
utahime perks up, leaning closer. “wait, is he right? is this about a guy?”
you let out a groan, leaning your elbows on the counter. “can you two not gang up on me right now?”
“so it is a guy,” utahime says, her tone turning smug.
“i didn’t say that,” you retort, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you.
nanami raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your deflection. “you might as well just tell us. it’s not like we’re going to let it go.”
you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “fine. it’s… someone i liked. someone i thought liked me too. but he freaked out and said it was too…dangerous to keep going.”
utahime frowns, her curiosity replaced by concern while kento snorts. “dangerous? what does that even mean?”
“that’s what i’d like to know,” you say bitterly, the frustration bubbling up as you speak. “he acts like he cares, but the second things get serious, he bolts. like i’m some fragile thing that can’t handle it.”
nanami leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “he might not be scared of you. he could be scared of what it means for him. of responsibility and commitment. some people run when they feel too much.”
utahime nods, her hand resting gently on your arm. “whatever his problem is, it’s not fair to you. if he can’t get it together, that’s on him, not you.”
you glance between them, the weight of their words settling in your chest. “i know that,” you say quietly. “it just… sucks.”
“of course it does,” utahime says, her voice soft but firm. “but you’re not the problem here. don’t let him make you think you are.”
nanami picks up his book again but pauses before opening it. “and don’t let him live rent-free in your head. if he can’t see what he’s giving up, that’s his loss.”
their support feels grounding, like a steady hand in the middle of a storm. you manage a small smile, nodding. “thanks, guys.”
“anytime,” utahime says, flashing you a reassuring grin. nanami simply nods, returning to his book but keeping an eye on you like always. for the first time all week since gojo left your room, the heaviness in your chest feels a little lighter.
the knock at your window is faint, almost timid, but it jolts you out of your daze. you sit up in bed, your heart pounding as your eyes dart toward the window. it’s late—so late it’s early—and for a moment, you think you imagined it. you hate to admit it, but because of your boy troubles you haven’t been able to sleep all week. you’re also no stranger to imagining ants crawling up your body or phantom noises, so you adjust in your bed, trying to go back to sleep.
then it comes again, a little louder this time.
you throw off the blanket and pad over, the chill of the floor biting at your bare feet. when you pull the curtain aside, your breath catches.
satoru.
he’s crouched outside, his suit torn in places and soaked with blood. his head lolls slightly, like he’s barely holding himself up, and when he lifts his gaze to meet yours, it’s tired and pleading.
you don’t think—there’s no time for that. you unlatch the window and shove it open, reaching out to help him inside. “satoru, oh my god,” you breathe, your voice shaking.
“hey,” he mutters, his grin weak but still so unmistakably him. “sorry for the mess.”
“shut up,” you snap, guiding him onto your bed and setting him down with gentle hands, ones that contrast your tone with him. “what the hell happened?”
“nothing i couldn’t handle,” he says, wincing as he tries to sit up straighter and flashes you a sheepish smile. “you should see the other guy.”
“you’re bleeding everywhere, satoru. you clearly didn’t handle it.” you grab your first aid kit from under the bed and yank it open, your hands trembling.
“i’ve had worse,” he murmurs, but his bravado is thin, cracking at the edges.
“stop talking,” you say, your voice trembling and cracking. “just—just stop.”
for once, you thank the gods that he listens.
you work quickly, cutting away the shredded fabric of his suit and cleaning the worst of the wounds. it’s not pretty—his torso is littered with bruises and gashes, the kind that make your stomach turn—but you keep your focus.
when you press a disinfectant-soaked pad to a particularly deep cut, he hisses, his hand flying to grab your wrist.
“sorry,” you whisper, glancing up at him with a tender look in your eyes. his expression matches yours, and your faces are so close to each other that you can’t bear it anymore, going back to your work.
his fingers loosen but don’t let go, his grip warm and grounding. “you’re good at this,” he says softly, his voice rough.
“yeah, well,” you mutter, ducking your head to avoid his gaze. “you’ve given me plenty of practice.”
the silence stretches as you finish bandaging him up. when you’re done, you sit back, your hands still trembling as you place them in your lap. “you’re an idiot,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.
he laughs, soft and hoarse. “yeah. i get that a lot from this girl i know.”
you look up at him, and the weight of everything—his injuries, his secret, the distance he tried to put between you—crashes over you. “you can’t keep doing this, satoru. you can’t keep pushing me away just to show up like this.”
his smile fades, replaced by something raw and unguarded. “i know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “i know, but…”
“but what?” you demand, your voice cracking. “you’re spider-man? you think that’s an excuse to keep shutting me out?”
“it’s not an excuse,” he says, running a hand through his messy hair, matted with even more blood. his or someone else’s, you’re not sure. “it’s a reason. i don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”
“you think i’m not already hurting?” you snap, the anger bubbling to the surface yet again. “you think it doesn’t kill me to see you like this and know i can’t do anything to stop it?”
his eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks like a little boy, lost and unsure. it is then that it hits you that he’s just twenty. a college student, not someone who’s wanted by the cia or someone who’s battled terrorists. for fucks sake, he can’t even legally drink. 
and your heart can’t help but melt as he says, “i just… i don’t want to lose you.”
“then stop trying to,” you say, your voice softer now. “stop pretending like you’re protecting me by keeping me at arm’s length. let me in, satoru.”
he stares at you, his breath hitching like he’s holding back a thousand words. then, in a rush, he closes the distance between you, his hands cradling your face as he presses his forehead to yours.
“i’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “i’m so sorry.”
you exhale shakily, your hands finding their way to his wrists. “just stop being an idiot, okay? stop trying to do this alone.”
he nods, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. “i promise,” he says, and for the first time, you believe him.
a cramp gripping satoru’s entire leg is what wakes him up. 
he winces in memory of the injury; one of those stupid terrorists had too good of an aim, grazing his leg while he was mid-air. it hurts like a bitch now, and he moves to lay on his back, until something stops him. roses.
he looks, bleary eyed, to you. the floral scent coming from you, making him dizzy. his body cocooning yours. 
you both unconsciously moved in your sleep so that you were spooning, your fragrant hair, soft from shampooing, tickling his throat with your ass in his crotch.
nestled right against his morning wood.
good fucking lord, he groans to himself, then starts to panic because if you wake up and realize he had a raging hard-on while you were sleeping, you would definitely think he was a creep. he’s already on thin fucking ice. so naturally, he starts to recite the star spangled banner while trying to will his boner away.
oh, say can you see—
to no avail, because you huff softly in your sleep, soft and warm body unconsciously leaning back to grind your ass against his lap, turning his dick to steel.
“oh, fuck,” he curses out loud, using his hand to cover the lower half of his face and clench his eyes shut. you feel so sweet, innocently adjusting while he can’t even control his lust for you.
but once the grind seems to continue for a bit too long, more than what can be chalked up as adjusting in your sleep, he peers down at you. you’re awake. 
and because satoru’s selfish, his hands creep up your tank top, settling on your bare stomach, where he knew you were ticklish. as a result, you wiggle, and he uses this opportunity to pull you even closer to him, right up against him. 
“baby,” he says, making his voice all deep and sighs on purpose, just to be unfair to you. “is this okay?”
you whine, and he settles his face in your hair, the strands of it tickling his skin as he inhales in the scent of you. “i thought it was a dream.”
he smiles into your hair. you make him feel like sunshine incarnate, and the rush he’s getting right now is akin to the one he gets jumping off the empire state building. “no, this is very real.”
“hm,” and you continue to drag your ass into him, murmuring in a soft voice that makes him want to take you right there and then, “it still feels like a dream. like you’re not real, right now.”
oh, what he would do to make you say his name in that same voice; he wants to whisper all the things he wants to do to you right now. “i know, baby. you feel like a dream.” his hands continue to slide up and up your torso, groaning at your sharp intake as he gently fondles the softness of your breasts. 
you overwhelm his senses, teasing him, and when you let out a whine of his name, satoru snaps.
“i’m going to make you feel good right now. tell me if it’s a fucking dream,” he grits out, ignoring whatever cramps that were screaming at him to get on top of you. 
you gasp out a “satoru,” wriggling in his grasp, and he can’t take it anymore. he brings up one of his hands. shoots a web that lands right on your left hand. then your right hand.
satoru just tied you up using his webs.
you look at him in whatever version of shock you can muster in your tired state. “satoru, what the—” but you’re muffled, because he’s kissing you, hard, roving his hands up and down your body and grabbing whatever he can as if he’s devouring you while making out with you.
“do you know,” and his eyes flash dangerously while looking down at yours, “how you’ve teased me with these shorts?” his hands trails down to the waistband of the offending piece of clothing, pulling it to make it snap against your skin. you jump, looking at satoru desperately, who’s left you bare at his mercy, subject to his super human strength as he grabs your shorts with both his hands again. “every fucking time i’ve sneaked up in to your room, it’s been so hard to not fuck you senseless in these flimsy things. it’s only fair you pay the price, right baby?”
it’s not like you have anything to answer him with, having lost all brain cells being fucked out like this. he pulls them down, and if he had laser vision, he would have stared through your panties long ago, eyes fixated on the crotch that was nearly translucent with the amount of slick going through it. burying his face right in between your thighs, he noses at your cunt before groaning. then, he uses his teeth to grab onto the middle and pull. until your pussy is bare to him.
“oh, fuck you’re so pretty,” he curses, lapping at your sweetness. his tongue roves up and down your folds, and if your hands could, they would be pulling at his hair solely because you were so sensitive. but you were trapped, thighs gripped in his strong hands and your arms trapped by his ultra-strong webs. “my good girl.”
then, you feel pressure at your opening. “sato—” you squeal but are immediately interrupted by your own moan as he curls his long, thick fingers, eyes observing your every movement as you squirm, electric shocks running up and down your body as he hits your spot dead-on.
and he notices, because the motherfucker chuckles. “oh, so that’s the spot, huh?” he purrs, visibly pleased as he memorizes it and abuses it, hitting it with every stroke. you barely notice him add one finger, add two fingers as he starts to suck on your clit. overwhelmed with pleasure, you’re only brought back to reality when he rips all contact away from you.
“what—” you mumble mindlessly, until you see what he’s doing. he pulls his sweatpants down. and he’s not wearing boxers, so you drool when his cock springs out, leaking copiously and hard. without taking his eyes off you, he pumps it to its fullest length, and you’re just staring in awe at its sheer length.
“what’re you looking at, baby?” he teases, using his hand to wiggle his cock in front of your face to mock you. “want it so bad, isn’t that right?”
you glare at him half-heartedly, but whine regardless. “just put it in, gojo.”
“oh,” and he flashes you a smile that makes a big danger sign in red flash across your mind. “it’s gojo, now is it?”
 “satoru,” there are tears brimming in the corner of your eyes, the ones that make satoru even more aroused at your want, “please. i need it.”
a boyish grin and a forehead kiss that has you reeling at his duality. “anything for my woman in stem.” with that, he pushes in, both of your eyes rolling back as his cock is engulfed by your gummy walls. soon after, he starts thrusting, desperation fueling both of you as you cross your legs behind gojo’s back, the deeper angle making his thighs shake while fucking into you. 
he grabs your face, gives you a tender kiss. “fuck, i love this pussy. so sweet for me.” 
you give him a wanton moan in return as he continues to thrust deep, tender strokes into you. “satoru, ‘m not gonna last long.” with the amount of foreplay he’s done alongside how sensitive you are, you’re steadily reaching your orgasm already, and with the way satoru’s now tightly gripping the sheets beside you while thrusting inside you, he is too.
wet squelching noises echoes across the room, and you know the neighbors can hear the obscene plap! plap! plap! coming from skin meeting skin, your hips against his. he buries his face into your neck, panting at your ear until he uses his hand to wrench your face towards his.
“i love you,” he groans, forcing your eyes to meet his. “i love you forever and will do so. so you can’t break my heart,” and he’s desperately thrusting again, “and you can’t leave me. please.”
at his confession, you break, back arching as you also squeal out a iloveyou while gasping loudly, hips rolling to rise against his as he fucks you through your orgasm. quickly, his thrusts veer into overstimulation and you whine. “toru.” he takes one look at your state—face impossibly flushed, hands tied, and pussy absolutely engulfing his cock, and his orgasm hits him like a truck, making him gasp and bend and break as he goes to heaven and back with the aftershocks of your orgasm making your pussy clench around him so beautifully. his cum enters you in hot spurts, making you exhale sharply at the feeling as he comes down from his orgasm, collapsing next to you.
for a few minutes, heavy breathing fills the room, both of you catching your breaths. until satoru breaks the silence. “so, what’s it like to fuck a superhero?”
you take one look at him—all smug and propped up on his elbow—and spidey sense be damned as you try grab a pillow. key word is try because you’re then wrenched back with a reminder that you’re still bound. “satoru,” and you give him a sickly sweet smile, the one that he knows means he’s in trouble, “when are these going to dissolve?”
and satoru pretends to be deep in thought, but you can see him trying to inch off the bed slowly, as if to escape your wrath after his answer. “uhm…maybe five hours?”
if it weren’t for the damn spidey sense that he had, he wouldn’t have been able to escape the swing of your legs as you looked at him murderously. “satoru gojo you will unhand me from these webs this instant—-“
“i don’t know,” he shrugs, shit eating grin in his face. “you look kinda sexy in bed like this. mad at me.” but when your eyes flash with anger, he hiccups nervously, telltale of the fact he won’t mess with you.
“i hate you,” you groan out, pouting like a petulant child while you glare at the ceiling.
 satoru comes close to you to bend at his waist and give you a forehead kiss. “no, you don’t.” 
you give him a pointed glare, telling him not to be testy. “clean me up. now.”
at your expression, his eyes widen in fear and he salutes. “anything for you, ma’am.”
at his retreating form, you giggle and sigh to yourself. you never would’ve known that spider-man would be the one fetching a clean up rag for you after fucking the shit out of you, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world.
when satoru comes back, he cleans you up, tenderly, as if he is afraid that you will break. you’re a little drowsy when he returns to you, but he doesn’t dare try to wake you up when he hears little breaths from your nose indicating you’ve fallen asleep. after he finishes his job, he admires your features.
satoru lingers for a moment, his gaze softening as he watches the gentle rise and fall of your chest. the weight of his responsibilities presses on him, as it always does, but tonight, it feels heavier—like a tether pulling him between the life he’s chosen and the life he craves.
you, so peaceful in sleep, represent something fragile, something precious. and that terrifies him. because what if he fails? what if the cost of being spider-man is losing the one thing that feels real?
still, he knows he can’t walk away—not from this city, not from you. with a deep breath, he leans down and presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead, a silent promise lingering in his chest.
“i’ll keep you safe,” he murmurs, barely audible. “no matter what.”
instead of leaving, satoru settles down beside you, careful not to disturb your rest. the city can wait, just for a little while. for now, he wraps an arm around you, grounding himself in the warmth of your presence. as your breathing evens out against him, he lets his own eyes drift shut, the weight of his responsibilities momentarily lifting. today, he chooses to stay.
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kinktober masterlist | general masterlist | spiderman!gojo masterlist
a/n ok if you're ever curious what being fucked in the ass with a wooden dildo no lube is like, just try to write this fic or any longfic. it's 4am, this a/n is short and unintelligble just like most of this fic but it's been a journey, im very sentimental because of this fic and i hope you guys like it. ok im going to pass out so pls ignore all typos xoxo but please flood my inbox im excited to see yalls reactions when i wake up
plspls pls comment and reblog!!!
TAGLIST
@sugoroo @ryutotsukai0824 @sharkubi @lisvanrouge @mxlktae
@samisfunky @achbbys000 @xd3pr3ss3dx @jottositto @cheescakebroom
@r0ckst4rjk @callmeagardengnome @rottmntrulesall @blankwashed @sindulgent666
@honeynanamin @obsessgurlll @starrnai @herefor-tojis-tits @ramonathinks
@creamflix
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bi-writes · 1 month ago
Text
anatomy of us (2) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader
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type: limited series, part 2 (7.2k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.
series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+
PART 1
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Tradition is not something you are fond of.
It’s something forced on you. When you question it, it’s offensive–how dare you question these things, made sacred over time? Why would you want to betray thousands of years of history? Time makes it definitive. Your being makes it natural. You submit because that is the natural thing to do, so in that sense, you submit to it all.
That is your duty. That is your calling. When you are claimed, you belong to them. You are property. Autonomy be damned–your place is on your knees, keeping your mouth shut, and any behavior against that is nothing short of a punishable offense, proper. Disobedient omegas make for troublesome households.
To keep you in line, you must be held at a short length from your alpha. It is what is done. It is what is expected.
Tradition.
Simon keeps a hand on you, curled at the base of your spine as he leads you back to where the sleeping quarters are. You know it’s for your protection, but the better part of you wants to smack him off of you whenever you feel his palm press just slightly against you. When you make it back into your room, Simon pauses in the doorway after he opens it for you. He looks nervous almost, sheepish. You turn to face him, looking him up and down. “You can come in if you want. I’m not gonna carry all my stuff by myself, you could probably carry a fucking tank looking at you.”
Simon finally comes inside, ducking his head a little to make it in. You know this room wasn’t meant to house an alpha, but it’s still startling to see him do it, taking up way too much space to be anything but claustrophobic. He watches as you pack your things, stuffing your clothes into your bags and picking up small trinkets around the bedside table and desk. After the bag starts to get heavy, you shove it into his arms as you look towards the bed. It’s a standard issue twin-sized, with barely enough sheets to keep you warm and a lumpy pillow that you hate. You make a face at it before turning around and putting more things into Simon’s arms as you empty the closet.
“Tha’ it?” Simon mutters, still able to peek over the mountain of items that he holds, and you shrug.
“That’s it.”
Simon’s own room is like a hospital room. It’s too clean–there’s nothing personal anywhere, no pictures or barely any clothes other than military issue fatigues. The only civilian clothes he has wouldn’t even make you think twice if you saw him in a bar–Simon will always look like a soldier, through and through, and his room stinks like it. It smells clinical, and nothing about it is cozy or warm. You stand in the middle of the room as Simon puts your things down. You ring your hands together nervously, eyeing the bed with one single, thin sheet on it. It’s too small of a bed for the both of you. It’s too small of a bed just for Simon–you don’t want to think about the kind of sleeping arrangements you’ll need to fit with him on it.
“Wot’s wrong?” Simon asks lowly. You look over your shoulder at him. He’s putting your things into the closet. He’s divided it in half already, and some of your clothes are already hung up next to his. You look back at the bed, pursing your lips.
“There’s not enough blankets,” you say softly. “A-And…And the pillows, here, I don’t like them.”
Simon turns back to your bag, picking up another shirt to hang. You glare at the back of him. It doesn’t do anything; he doesn’t erupt in flames like you might have hoped, but it does give you a moment to notice how well those jeans fit him.
Fuck. Keep it together.
“I’ll get you more blankets,” he shrugs. “And a different pillow.”
The answer is immediate. No fuss. You want to complain, to bite back at him for it, but you don’t know how you would explain your displeasure. You’re looking for a reason to tell your omega that she’s a scheming, hopeless, naïve little shit.
“...I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” Isn’t that what he had said? Isn’t that what he had said when he gripped you by the throat and made you realize that everything you had thought about alphas was true? Hadn’t he already shown you that none of them are redeemable?
Not Kate. Not John. Certainly not Simon–they’re all scheming, terrible fucking people, and you cannot wait until you can sink your teeth into Simon’s jugular and rip it out.
Belonging to, being one’s own, fuck if you care. Simon can claim ownership all he wants, but he’ll never tame you. Your omega might be pulling the strings at the moment, but you’re going through withdrawals, you think. Your medication was your lifeline. It kept you from falling off the tightrope, and you just need to learn how to stay upright without it. You can. When you get it back, when it’s in your hands again, she’ll understand.
She has to understand that only you know what’s good for you.
Simon places the rest of your things on his desk. A couple personal things, like your jewelry and some knickknacks, and then your bag with the rest of your clothes to be folded and put away. You take a seat on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. At least before, you could pretend like things were still a little normal. You could pretend that in your own room, you were simply waiting for another assignment, that you were just waiting for Kate to give you a call and move you somewhere new, somewhere safer.
“Am I just supposed to stay here and wait for you?” You ask finally. Simon shuffles around the room. He doesn’t look at you; instead, he takes a seat at a desk way too small for him and spreads a few papers around, frowning when he reads something that he doesn’t like. “Is that…is that my job?”
“Dunno.” Simon takes his phone out of his pocket, and he starts typing. “Don’t really feel like babysittin’.”
“I can take care of myself, you know,” you tell him. “I…I have combat experience. I was in training before this.”
Simon snorts, still focused on his phone. He shakes his head a little.
“Cute,” he mutters. “Tha’s cute.”
Patronizing shit.
“I bet I can shoot a target ten times better than you,” you spit at him. His fingers hover over the screen for just a moment, irritated, before he goes back to typing. “And I can hold my own. I don’t need a babysitter.”
Simon puts his phone back into his pocket. He crosses his arms over his chest, letting out a deep breath before coming over to stand in front of you. You tip your head back, and he reaches down with a hand to cup under your jaw, holding you there. Just like that–your omega has you. You lean in, just that much. Simon sees it in your eyes, and he sniffs, looking you over.
Maybe he thinks you’re pathetic. In some sense, you agree with him, because what the fuck is wrong with me? You get one look into Simon’s eyes, and something chemical in you fires. You bend, and you relax, and you know if he asked you to open your mouth so he could spit in it, it would take a tremendous amount of effort to tell him no. It angers you and excites you all the same, and the conflicting flashes under your ribs bring tears to your eyes.
You hate yourself. You hate yourself for not being able to say no. You hate yourself for being everything they said you would be. You hate yourself for being nothing like you thought you were.
You’re soft. Sweet. All bark, no bite, a spiteful kitten that deep down, aims to please. The only thing that really baffles you, though, is why you only feel this way with Simon.
Is it because they told you that you were his mate? Is it because he’s done something, that he’s projecting some kind of scent? Has he already unknowingly changed your very makeup so your body knows that you are bound to him? When you look into John’s eyes, you see alpha. You see big, salivating dog, and if you could, you’d rip the hairs of his beard out just to see him in pain.
But Simon–it’s like you can’t move. Every time you look at him, and he looks at you, he holds you there. Just like now, he’s got you, and you feel like he can read everything you’re feeling. He’s being fed your secrets, and you hate him for it, but I can’t look away, please look away, please don’t make me–
“Need to get you somethin’ to eat,” Simon says finally. “And it’s time to meet the rest of the lot.”
Simon is starting to get used to keeping a hand on you. It annoys you a little, to feel his hand at your back, but the annoyance dissolves when you realize this base is filled with sneering alphas. They holler and yell, and they are very large and angry, but they still are small compared to Simon. They quiet whenever they walk past you, and even the whiff of omega doesn’t deter them with Simon behind you.
In the mess hall, you see Captain Price sitting at a table with two others. When you get closer to the table, you cough a little, stumbling back, and Simon catches you around the waist to hold you upright. The stench of alphas hits you like a truck, and Simon grunts as he tells you relax, fuckin’ hell.
You give him a hard stare–how the fuck would he know? There’s four alphas in your close vicinity, and they’re all puffing their chests and smiling, and it stings to smell them all at once. You turn your head a little to shield yourself, and when you filter everything else out but Simon, it frustrates you a little how much of him seems to calm you down.
Smells so good. Get closer. Press your nose to it, I-I want more–
“I see you two are getting along nicely,” John comments, leaning back in his chair. You roll your eyes a little, and when you lock eyes with him, you purse your lips and try to look anything but pleased. Simon guides you to sit down; he motions to the bench, just to the left of where someone else is already sitting–a big, burly soldier with crazy blue eyes. He has a terrible haircut, short along the sides with tufts of curls falling down the middle and over his forehead. He’s wiggling his eyebrows at his lieutenant behind you. Across from him, there’s another alpha with dark eyes and soft skin, and he’s smiling like an idiot around the rim of his plastic cup. You’re a little nervous–you had spent most of your time on your old base surrounded by betas who barely gave you a glance, and now you’re off your meds and being hit with a million different sensations everywhere you go. Simon’s touch on your back eases your shoulders a little.
“Tha’s Johnny,” Simon points to the one next to you. “Tha’s Gaz. ‘n I’m sure ya had the pleasure of our Captain.”
“Yeah, looks like your beard is still in tact, so glad to see it,” you say curtly, crossing your arms over your chest. The two sergeants laugh, ducking their heads, and John raises a brow before looking at Simon with a clenched jaw. Simon just shrugs, stretching his arm out on the back of your chair, and you get the feeling this happens often–John giving Simon that look, and Simon merely brushing it off. You smile to yourself a little, looking at Simon from over your shoulder. When you meet eyes, he stares back, looking over your face. He lingers on your lips for just a second too long before looking back up again.
I bet he tastes good under that mask. Let’s find out.
“Hungry?” He asks, and you blink. Your omega has never been inside of your head like this. You nearly opened your mouth and asked him for it, asked him please, please–let me taste, I won’t look, just let me taste you. You swallow her down a little, and you just nod to keep yourself moving. Simon stands up to make his way towards where the food is, and you watch curiously as instead of standing in line, he pushes open a door into the kitchen and disappears behind it.
“LT’s been gettin’ ye special meals,” Johnny says with a full mouth. You frown a little, and not just cause he’s chewing with his mouth a little too open.
“What do you mean?”
“He has the cooks make you somethin’ special,” Gaz says as he takes a sip of water. He leans back, smiling again, and it irks you a little. Alphas are brutes, disgusting big things with too many hormones, and you hate that this one gets to be pretty, too. Not that John or his sergeant aren’t attractive, but this one definitely enjoys a good mirror selfie, and it shows. “Something not on the menu. He didn’t like that you weren’t eating much, at the beginning. Made a fuss, and now he gets you better food.”
“He can do that?”
“Well, would ye say no to tha’ big man?” Johnny snorts, dipping his crusty bread in sauce. You look back towards the door, and Simon comes out holding a tray. He sets it down in front of you, and you bite your lip looking down at it. It smells so good, and you pick up your fork gently, sticking it into the pasta and twirling it. When you take a bite and sigh, Simon takes a seat next to you, and you can barely hear the sweet rumble in his chest of satisfaction.
Providing for you. Taking care of you. He’s so capable, isn’t he? Look at what he does for you.
If Simon notices you scoot closer to him, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t react either–it wasn’t a conscious choice.
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Simon’s shower has hot water. Not that the showers you’d had were cold, but the communal showers were just that–communal. Shared, and although your escort always made sure you were the only one in there while you showered, it was still feeding off a water heater that always had barely any juice left. Lukewarm showers, so you tried to finish quick.
Simon’s shower turns the water scalding. You giggle with relief when you stand under it, letting it loosen your sore muscles and relieve your aching bones. It feels good, and you take a little longer in there, taking your time and enjoying the heat.
When it’s time to wash your body, you realize you’re missing your own soap. You look around for something else, noticing the unlabeled bottle that rests on a ledge. You squirt a pump of it into your palms, and when you raise it to your nose, your eyes flutter shut.
It’s the eucalyptus you smelled on Simon. A little plastic aftersmell, which you know is from whatever backwater dollar store the military buys it from, but on Simon, it smells so good. You lather it in your hands and hold it up to your nose, and you sigh deeply.
He’s just outside. Why don’t you call for him? I bet he’s listening. I bet he’s waiting for us.
You slide your hands down your arms. With the heat of the water, the whole bathroom starts to smell like it, and you let your hands slide down further, over your waist, between your thighs. When your fingers touch your puffy clit, you’re nearly jolted back into reality.
“Fuck–” You gasp, reaching for the level, shutting the water off. The last of the water curls down the drain, and you cough as you look around. You curl your toes, grounding yourself, and then you get out of the shower and reach for the towel. When you look into the mirror, your pupils are blown wide, and you feel like you don’t recognize yourself. You drop the towel and dress yourself, trying to keep your mind occupied with menial tasks.
Get your shit together.
When you open the bathroom door, Simon is back from his little errand he had run. He’s carrying a few blankets and a thick comforter, and there’s a few new pillows on the bed with it. You use the towel to keep drying the wet strands of your hair, and Simon turns around when he hears you walk in further.
You pass by him wordlessly as you reach the bed. You put your hands on the blankets that he put down, and you close your eyes when you feel how soft they are. Threaded cotton and fleece, lots of thick feathers in the comforter to make it nice and fluffy. When you turn to look over your shoulder, Simon does a terrible job of pretending like he wasn’t just staring at your ass in the little sleep shorts you’re wearing. You want to snap at him, but your omega pinches your tongue.
Take them off. Take them off. Take them off.
“So, what…” You clear your throat. “How are we supposed to sleep in that bed? T-Together?”
Simon tilts his head to the side. You start to despise the mask. You hate that you can’t tell what he’s thinking, not even a little, and after the rather joyous conversations you’ve had with Simon (barf), you can’t say you’re entirely excited to be in this close of a space with him.
“Don’t worry,” Simon murmurs. “I’ll be good.”
Oh, that totally makes you feel better.
Prick.
He makes you get into bed and turn facing the wall as he turns out the lights. He pulls at the edge of his mask uncomfortably, and you realize he doesn’t want you to see his fine. Fine, you think to yourself, throwing the sheets back with a huff, bet you’re fucking ugly mug would blind me anyways.
You cuddle under all the blankets, snuggling into the new pillow that sinks under your head. You hum gently, closing your eyes, and you aren’t able to see Simon rubbing his chest warmly as he watches you. He sucks on his teeth, not truly understanding what he feels, but knowing that it’s soothing the beast in him to take care of you.
It rattles him. Simon isn’t used to this. He’s not used to feeling like he doesn’t have control. He resisted this for so long. He tried so hard to fight, he said no to Kate over and over and over again.
Omegas to Simon were liabilities. To care was to have a target on your back. To be mated meant having something to lose.
Ask Price, is what he told her, ask the fuckin’ sergeants, anyone but me, but she wouldn’t hear it. It had to be him, it had to be, and then she locked him into a room with her, and she leveled with him.
She told him that you are special. That you are precious. That omegas like you don’t exist, that you are one in a single generation, and there isn’t anyone else in the world that will do except for him.
Price, married to the field. The sergeants, immature and might as well be titled barracks bunnies. But Simon–purebred, quiet, controlled. Terrified of himself and what he is. His unofficial pack that he defends with his entire being, that is the only alpha worth giving to you.
Kate had thought about it before. What it might be like to push the hair away from your neck and sink her teeth there. As easy as putting her signature to paper, she could have the CIA running laps to keep you protected, but she knew that wasn’t the life for her. It couldn’t be.
In every situation, Kate would have to choose that lesser evil, and in her world, it would mean her choice would unlikely be you.
Simon? Simon answered to no one. Unlike his sergeants, he cared little for authority; he wouldn’t blink twice saying no to his superior. Unlike his Captain, Simon didn’t mind choosing the bloody way out. He was the first with his finger on the trigger, and the last to sweep a room. Kate knew–if Simon had to choose between the greater good and the omega he claimed?
Fuck the greater good. That, she could count on.
If Kate only asked for one thing, it would be this. She did promise you. She promised she would keep you away from it all. She promised that she would make things right. She promised that she would protect you, but even Kate answers to others, and the reality of this kind of world is that the only way to really protect you was to give you away.
To put you into the same world that you had only begged to be kept away from.
Nobody likes playing matchmaker, but maybe putting together the most stubborn and angry people in the world might save you from yourselves. At least she hoped so.
You’re nearly asleep when you feel Simon come to bed. All the lights are off, and it’s pitch black in the room. There’s some shuffling around the room, and then you feel the blankets move. All of the sudden, a heat stronger than you’ve ever felt takes up the entire bed. Pressed against your back, a solid chest, and then a huge arm falls over your waist.
“We cuddling now?” You mumble sleepily, and Simon breathes out slowly, not responding. When you fall asleep, it’s unnervingly easy. Your omega purrs, digging her nails into you, and when you turn your head in the dark and feel the brush of his unmasked face against yours, she preens.
He’s right there–just a little taste. Just a little. Please, please, please–
Omegas cannot claim, but they can bite. It takes everything inside of you not to sink your teeth into him.
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“You smell that? Smells like fuckin’ sweets, mates.”
You take off your headphones and safety glasses, looking over your shoulder. There’s a few recruits a few lanes down from you, wiggling their eyebrows and licking their lips. One of them crudely grabs his crotch, winking at you. You make a face.
Gross.
“Let me see you, baby. Smell so good.”
You holster the gun you’re holding, leaning against the counter with your hip. You raise a brow, tilting your head to the side.
“Are you done?” You ask, and they take that as their cue to start walking closer. An invitation.
They don’t get very far. You smell him before you see him. On instinct, your shoulders relax with that whiff of charcoal. You push off the counter just in time for him to come up behind you, and you feel the heat of his chest as it presses against your back. The recruits in front of you stop immediately, and you feel a disgusting sense of satisfaction when Simon bends over your shoulder to look at you.
“‘n wot’s this?” Simon growls. You shrug, crossing your arms over your chest.
“I don’t know. They wanna have a dick-measuring contest, but I think they’re afraid they’re gonna lose,” you say. You let out an annoyed sigh, turning again to put your safety glasses on. You put the headphones back over your ears and take the gun out of your holster, turning the safety off as you line it up with the paper targets near the back of the course. “You know. Cause my dick is way bigger.”
You unload the clip just for fun. You’re supposed to be practicing on accuracy, which for you meant slower, spaced-out shots to try and hit the same spot over and over, but the sound of the gun going off again and again helps distract you from the laughing, untrained dogs that are littered across the shooting range.
When you put the gun down after emptying the magazine, Simon is salivating. The paper target head is obliterated, each bullet almost next to its last. When you turn around, Simon tilts his head to the side. You holster the gun, starting to walk, and Simon lets his eyes drop to the sway of your hips as you pass by him. It’s not a conscious decision, the way his fingers curl into fists and squeeze hard.
“Told you,” you say to him. “Huge dick, right, baby?”
Something flares in Simon’s chest when he hears it. Like a switch, his legs start moving, following you, and when he passes by a recruit that is standing much too close to you, Simon shoves the recruit back so hard, they smack their nose against the wall and curses from the impact, blood dripping under their bruised nose.
The rest of the day, you don’t see another rookie walk even five feet into your vicinity. Even without a mark on your neck, you are claimed, and right before you leave your room for dinner, Simon is fitting a dark hoodie over your head. The smell overwhelms you. It’s soaked in his scent, and you turn to face him, looking at him suspiciously. Your omega keeps you from questioning him. She wants you to start walking, because she knows he’ll touch you when you do.
It’s that night that Simon asks John for you to join them. All Simon does is slide the shredded paper target across his desk. John picks it up, tacking it onto the wall. He chuckles, shaking his head. It’s an impressive piece of paper, but being a good shot isn’t the only reason someone is cleared to work with them. Even besides that, it’s forbidden.
“Omegas aren’t allowed in the field, Simon,” John reminds him. “You know that.”
“Think tha’s why we should take her,” Simon mutters. “She’s a distraction. A good one.”
“A weapon,” John frowns. He can already hear Kate screaming into his ear if she ever saw you geared up between them on an op.
“A tool.”
“And what does she think of that, eh?” John slips his hat off, tossing it onto his desk. He sighs, running a hand over his beard, and he shakes his head. “And Kate…Kate would hang my fuckin’ head.”
“Not Kate’s responsibility anymore, she’s mine,” Simon bites back. He knows it’s wrong. In all honesty, the sentiment tasted bad from the moment he said it to you, but it is easier to let you believe that he’s using you then try and make you understand him. You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t get his reasons, and that’s fine, so if he has to be the bad guy, so be it.
The least he could do is make himself useful. Put your skills to work, poke your mind. See what you can really do.
“Don’t let your girl hear you talkin’ like that, Simon,” John says lowly. “Not her, and certainly not Kate.”
“But you agree,” Simon continues, chuckling lowly. “I speak for her. ‘n I think she’d be right in on it, Captain. Wot else is she to do, eh? Sit in my fuckin’ quarters and wait f’me? Wot kind of life is tha’? She needs this. She’s good. I can teach ‘er. She’ll learn. Well and good she will, I know it.”
John sniffs, running a big hand over his short hair before tapping a pen over the target paper on the wall.
“I need her OK,” John relents finally. “I need to hear it from her. I get that, I’m alright with it. But she has to know what she’s getting into, Simon. And no one but you is responsible for her. If she gets into something, I’m not gonna risk Soap or Gaz for it–”
“I know,” Simon mutters. “She’ll be my shadow. I’ll teach ‘er.”
She’ll be good. She’ll be good because she’s mine.
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“Bravo-7, sitrep.”
“Eyes on target. Waiting on confirmation.” Simon looks over his shoulder for a moment, where you’re sitting as his cover. You look cute, he thinks. All geared up. He lets his eyes sweep over the cargo pants that are cinched around your waist. Your nice curves. Thick thighs. Fuck, you smell good, even with all the sand up his nose and the smoke clinging to his mask. You have your rifle tucked into your elbow, and you’ve got it aimed towards the door of the roof.
“Is it always so fucking hot?” You ask, running your wrist over your lip. You’re sweating; you can feel it dripping down the back of your neck and along your back. You’re wearing a lot of gear, but you’ve done this before, and you don’t remember it being so uncomfortable. It must be the climate–you’re not used to this kind of desert, and you need to get it together.
Despite the irritation you feel every time you look at Simon, your omega wants to please him. She wants to show him she can do this, that she’s capable, and you’re starting to not like that she’s behaving as if you and her are one and the same.
I’m in control. Shut the fuck up. Let me focus.
“Just watch the door,” Simon mutters, turning back to focus. He adjusts the scope of his rifle, taking a deep breath as he leans into the stock. He gets his target into his line of sight, and he narrows his eye a little more to watch the group more closely on the ground. It’s hard to ignore you. Normally, the person covering him goes almost unnoticed. Their scent never affects him, not enough to make him look away from his scope, but there’s something in the air way too close to him, and he scrunches his nose a little as he adjusts his position on the ground. “You stink, by the way.”
“Shut the fuck up,” you snap. “Not my fault.”
“Certainly is y’r fault.”
“You reek, too, you ass,” you mumble, wiping your forehead again. You adjust how you’re sitting, clearing your throat. It’s scratchy, and you’re starting to itch a little all over, too. “Like wet dog.”
Simon smiles under his mask. He keeps his index finger next to the trigger, and you keep yours on it.
“How much longer do we have to do this? I mean…I thought you were SAS. Don’t you guys…get your hands real dirty? I mean, don’t you go tearing doors down? Get a lot of action? I mean, we’re just sitting ducks on a roof here right now.”
“Wot, you wanna go kick some doors down now?” Simon asks. He shakes his head. “The real job is boring. We do things nice and clean, we only get dirty when we ‘ave to. If I can get a target from 1000 yards away, then tha’s wot I’ll do. Besides. This is wot I’m good at.”
“Yeah, you look real good there on your knees, honey.”
Simon blinks hard when something strong hits his nose. It stings, makes his eyes water. He coughs a little, dropping his head for a moment.
“Fuckin’ Christ,” Simon hisses. “Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?”
“I-I don’t know,” you whisper. You take your hand off your rifle for a moment to adjust the collar of your shirt, but it doesn’t help. You shift a little, loosening your tactical vest. You want to take it off, but you know that’s a bad idea out here. It’s hard to think clearly, though, when your brain is cloudy and you’re starting to see things in double every so often. “It’s…it’s too hot.”
Simon huffs, “‘n when was the last time you had a heat?”
“I’ve…I’ve never.” You clear your throat. “I’ve never had one.”
Can you smell him? I can smell him. He smells so good.
Simon nearly leaves his post. He grips his rifle tight, gloved hands squeezing the metal, and he turns to look at you incredulously.
“Fuckin’ repeat tha’?”
“I know you’re blind and dumb, but don’t tell me you’re fucking deaf, too,” you mumble. You swallow, wiping your face again, and Simon presses on the radio on his shoulder.
“Bravo-7 to Bravo-6, how long do we got?”
“Just observation on target for now. Why?”
“Need 10 minutes.”
Simon shuts off the radio. You blink, starting to see double pretty consistently now, and you take a shaky breath as you grip your rifle a little tighter. You hear shuffling behind you, and you look back to see Simon moving from his position.
“What are you doing? Simon–”
“Get over ‘ere.” Simon sets his rifle down. “Tha’ wasn’t a fuckin’ suggestion, tha’ was an order!”
There’s something different in his voice at the end. Something more animal that lilts his drawl, and it makes you coherent enough to start moving–like his voice made all the fog clear up for just a few moments, long enough for you to realize you need him.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
You put your rifle down, crawling over to him, and just as you stumble, Simon catches you. You put your hands on his shoulders, falling into his lap, and he hoists you up until you’re straddling him. You feel him starting to tug on your cargos, and even in your daze, you squeeze his shoulders.
“S-Simon? What are you…What are you doing?”
“Y’r gonna go into heat soon,” Simon mutters. Alarm bells go off in your head, and you dig your nails into his shoulders. He can see it clearly–the panic on your face.
“H-Heat? R-Right now?”
“Not right now,” Simon clicks his tongue. “More like a…pre-heat. Get y’r bloody pants off–”
When Simon tugs your cargos down enough, you gasp when you see the mess your panties are in. They’re soaked, drenched until the cotton is a darker color, sticking to your cunt, and you whimper as Simon tugs you back into his lap with your pants around your ankles. It’s awkward and messy, and you’re sweating bullets, hot and bothered, and your chest feels tight. There’s nothing romantic about it, nothing sweet about the way Simon turns you in his lap. It’s hurried, but you’re just as desperate, clawing to whatever piece of him you can touch and trying to sink into him. If you could, you’d pry him open and force yourself to tuck yourself inside of him. You want to live there forever. You want to be in his skin, soaking it all in–you want it. You want this, don’t you?
He’s touching us! He’s touching us! Let him in!
“W-What’s happening t-to me?”
“‘s olright,” Simon whispers in your ear. “I’ve got ya. There we are…” He cups your pussy, making you squirm. You jolt in his lap, throwing your head back against his shoulder, and he hums as you sink into his touch. Something inside you curls and lights on fire. Your vision blurs, and his scent surrounds you. “Oh…fuck…tha’ wot ya needed, swee’eart? Yeah…”
Yes! Yes! Yes!
“Simon–” Your back arches, and you push your hips into his hand. When he touches your clit, your omega seizes inside your head, and it’s a feeling like you’ve never felt before.
She takes the reigns; and God, does she fucking pull.
You palm at the zipper of his pants. There’s something there, something you want–and you need it. There’s something in your chest that blinds you, that familiar voice in your head that chants–take it out, take it out, take it out.
“‘m workin’ on it, love,” you hear from behind, and you realize you’re talking. You’re out of your body, you think. You’re not yourself. When you feel him in your daze, big and throbbing under your hand, you whine. It comes from deep within your chest, a bubble of nonsense, and Simon coos. He drags your hips closer, and his cock slips under you, between your folds, and you use your palm to keep him pressed to you. You can’t see him, but you felt him when you first met him, and you’re feeling him now.
If there was any doubt that he was anything but an alpha, that thought disappears when his fat tip kisses your clit. He’s hot and throbbing under your hand, and he is more than enough to appease the voice in your head that’s screaming for some kind of inherent relief that it knows he can give.
“Simon, I need it–I need it–”
“I know, love.”
Fuck, Simon would win any dick-measuring contest, you think. Barely the tip of him, and you’re baring your teeth, gripping his thighs and digging your nails into him as you try and breathe through the stretch. He’s not even fully hard yet; the blood is rushing to his cock, and you moan and cry as he sits you down further and further and further–
“What the fuck–what is it you have in your fucking pants, a-a fucking pipe–?!”
“Y’r so much prettier when y’r mouth ain’t runnin’,” Simon mutters. “Ahh–fuck–’s mine, oll mine–”
You put your hands on his knees and throw it back. You’re feral, brain foggy, and all you can think about is getting yourself off. Your body clings to Simon like a thick, curling vice, pussy clamping around him and taking him to the root. You’re dripping down your thighs, wetting his cargos, and you’re thankful that he’s wearing black, otherwise you can’t think about the mess you’d really be leaving on him. The sounds are lewd. Frantic smack, smack, smack against his thick thighs, and the sound is only making you drool for more. He’s so big. He’s hitting you deep, and you swear your insides have never been stretched this far, but it’s like your body is molding itself to fit him. Like you’re making room for him.
It’s so good. It feels right. Your omega growls like an animal, crying with relief. It’s the only thing she’s ever wanted, and she has it in her hands, and she licks at your scent gland until it practically vibrates. Simon’s face is pressed to it, like he can hear her calling. His mask is the only thing separating you, but you can feel his teeth straining against the fabric. They cut over the gland, wet like his tongue is poking against it, too, and your omega screams.
Bite me, bite me, bite me.
“Not yet,” Simon grunts. “Won’t take.”
“You’ll make it take.”
He laughs, and then he punches the air out of you with a nice thrust. Then he’s on you. Suddenly, you’re on your knees, your tummy against the sandy rooftop, with a stallion of a soldier on top of you, taking you like his last meal.
He sounds like more bear than man. Growling, spitting, both hands on either side of your head as he fucks you into the floor. There’s a smile on your face, soft relief that leaves you in your pretty moans and gurgled pleas. It feels so good. The tip of his cock curves and hits against the same place each time, sending pulses that rack your body over and over and over again. Your thighs are shaking, and then Simon slips one hand under you and cups your pussy, fitting it just right until you can grind down on his palm in perfect timing with the way the fat tip of him hits you just well enough. It should hurt. You’ve never taken anything so big–of course you’ve practiced, but nothing can prepare you for the real thing.
This is still practice. You’re not in your heat, not really, and Simon hasn’t lost his fucking mind yet.
Like a fiend, you chase it. The stars, the mountain to climb, the beautiful end. You get up a little more onto your knees and you wrap a hand around his neck, force him against your jaw. You goad him on with pretty words, soft moans–that’s it, right there, please.
It’s not his first time. It’s not his first time relieving an itch he can’t scratch, and it’s not his first time taking an omega by the neck and pounding into her until she can’t speak, but it’s the first time his resolve shatters.
He wants to bite. He’s never felt the urge to bite. If it wasn’t for the mask, his teeth would be an inch deep in your neck, and he’d be memorizing what your blood tasted like for the first time. Your scent is just that much off that he knows it isn’t the right time, but fuck–the need is there. It’s clear.
Special. One of a kind. No one like her. Soft. Sweet. Mine.
His knot swells a little, but it doesn’t lock. You’re not in a proper heat, so it’s not right just yet, but you can feel the edge of it, like the preface to a glorious poem. Thick and spongy, hot, and when he comes, your eyes roll back in your head. It feels like being thirsty for days on end and finally getting that sweet drink of crystal clear water. He pumps you full, creamy and thick and dribbling between your thighs as you squeeze them together. Subconsciously, you’re trying to keep it inside, and Simon groans when as he latches his mouth over your scent gland under the mask and sucks–so hard, it pinches you just right.
The stars align. The tide wanes. You mumble softly, dopey smile on your face, and when your own high hits you, and you’re squirting into his hand, you let his rumbling, low voice pull you back to earth.
“I ‘ave ya, swee’eart,” he says. “Shhh…easy, kitty…Shh…yeah, easy.”
You sigh with relief. Simon handles you with ease. He picks you up, gets you to sit back on your heels. You don’t see it, but Simon fits his wet fingers under the mask, and you keen when you hear him suck on his fingers and hum.
He likes us. Hear that? He likes us.
“Want you to eat me,” you giggle suddenly, and Simon wipes you down, picking your pants back up and zipping them. He pats your ass gently, smoothing a hand over the back of your neck. He knows you’re still in a different headspace. He knows there’s still something else drawing your breath, but he’s trying not to think about it too much. It sounds so much like you.
“Do plenty o’tha’ when we’re in the thick o’it, kitty.”
Back in the humvee, Johnny is smiling like an idiot. He’s sitting next to Kyle, hitting him with his elbow as he wiggles his eyebrows at you and Simon sitting across from them. You tilt your head to the side, glaring.
“What?” You snap, and Johnny cackles. His eyes are flashing, and he reeks like happiness.
“Smells like ye had fun.”
“My gun is loaded, shithead,” you warn him. “And I know how the fucking safety works.”
When Johnny moves to sit in the front near your captain, you try not to think about the sudden warmth over your knee, and the squeeze of Simon’s hand on you.
NEXT
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paganinpurple · 2 years ago
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AO3 Etiquette -UPDATED
Based on both decent and not so decent replies, I have made some changes to my original post below.
It would seem a whole new kind of AO3 reader/writer is emerging and it is becoming clear not everyone quite understands how the website community works. Here is some basic guidance on how most people expect you to go about using AO3 to keep this a fun community archive that funtions correctly:
As well as likes, kudos is for when the story was interesting enough to make you finish reading. If it sucked or was badly written, you probably left. If you finished it, you liked it - so kudos.
If you really liked it, you should try to comment. It can be long and detailed or a literal keysmash. Writers don't care, we just love comments.
No critisism unless the author has specifically asked or agreed to hear it (so use your notes to say if you want some constructive feedback). Even constructive critisism is a no-no unless an author note tells you it's okay. No, posting it online is not an open invitation for that. Many people write as a fun hobby or a way to cope with, among other things, insecurity and just want to share. Don't ruin that for them. I've seen so many authors just stop writing coz they can't handle the negative emotions the critism brings, and it's only meant to be a fun thing shared for free (pointing out tagging errors is not included in this).
Do not comment to ask the author to write/update something else. It's tacky and off-putting and will probably have the opposite effect than the one you want.
There is no algorithm, it's an archive. Use the search and filter function to add/remove the pairings/characters/tropes etc. you want to read about and it will find you the fics that fit the bill.
For this to work, writers must tag and rate stories. This avoids readers finding the wrong things and missing the stuff they want. I don't care how cringy that trope is in your eyes - it gets tagged.
The tag exception is if you don't want to tag a million things or spoil your story, you can rate it as "chose not to use warnings," and maybe tag the bare minimum.
Don't censor tags. How can someone exclude a tag if the word isn't typed out correctly? There are no content bans for terms so don't censor them.
If the tags are mostly content/trigger warnings, especially if they are things considered very fucked up or graphic, you might want to use "dead dove - do not eat" to ensure people know that you're not messing around with tags and what they get is exactly what you've warned them about.
Character A/Character B means a ROMANTIC or SEXUAL relationship of some kind. Character A&Character B is PLATONIC, like friendship or family.
Nothing is banned. This is an rule because banning one thing is a slipperly slope to banning another and another, until nothing is allowed anymore. Do not expect anyone to censor for you. Because of the tags system, you are responsible for your own reading experience.
People can create new chapters and sequels/fic series any time after they "complete" a story. So it's considered perfectly normal to subscribe, even to a finished story. You can even subscribe to the author instead just to cover your bases.
Do not repost stories or change the publishing date without an extremely good reason (like a complete top to bottom rewrite or an exchange youve written for going public). It's an archive, not social media. No one cares what's the most recent, only what fits their tag needs.
Instead of deleting a story you wrote if you hate it - consider making it anonymous or orphaning it so others can still enjoy it, without it being connected to your name anymore. If you still want to delete it, fair enough.
It's come to my attention that metaworks ARE allowed on AO3, which is something I wasn't aware of. So if you do post an essay or theory, please tag it as such so others can choose to search for it or exclude it. Art is also allowed.
The only reason this archive works is because NON ONE PROFITS. Do not link to your ko-fi or patreon or mention monetary gain in any way or you violate the terms and risk having your account removed. If anyone does link, it leaves the archive open to people claiming it's for profit and having the whole thing removed.
I KNOW there's plenty more I missed but I'm trying to cover most of the basics that people seem to be struggling with.
I invite anyone to add to this, but please explain, don't berate.
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fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 months ago
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Prima Nocta
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Marcus Acacius x Virgin!F!Reader oneshot
{ Main Masterlist }
Rating: E (18+ only)
Summary: Tomorrow, you will marry your husband-to-be. But tonight - it belongs to his father.
Word count: 6k
Warnings: DUB CON only due to nature of prima nocta, both parties enthusiastically consent, twist on prima nocta, unspecified age gap, loss of virginity, dirty talk, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, dry humping, unprotected sex, unrealistic descriptions of first sexual experience, all manners of historical inaccuracies and linguistic anachronisms sorry not sorry, ignores the events of the movie so you can consider this an AU, Marcus is widowed and has a son, shall we call this bfd: Ancient Rome version lmao
Notes: I'm a bit rusty for sure, but I had the absolute best time writing this oneshot. It's a departure from my usual themes to say the least, but once this idea took hold of me it never let go. I know prima nocta is meant to be invoked on the wedding night, but I like the idea of it being the night before so I made it so 🤷🏻‍♀️ Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics as always.
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He thought he had gotten away with it. Having lived more than fifty winters in the capital and outlasting eight emperors, he regrets to confess that he is still none the wiser. 
It would have been such a clever manoeuvre. Palming off a generous but very much unwanted gift from the emperors, and marrying off his son in one fell swoop. 
He should have been suspicious of their swift assent to his proposal. In his eagerness to bow out of their audience, it had been convenient to dismiss the flash of malice in their eyes.
And in the snake pits of Roman court, no misstep goes unexploited.
He is not proud that he is caught off guard by the emperor’s closest advisor who intercepts his walk home from the armoury, even less so of his ineloquent response to the missive handed to him.
‘What is this?’
‘Urgent word from the emperors, sir.’
Cold sweat prickles the back of his neck as he stares unseeingly at what is scrawled on the parchment.
‘I cannot,’ he blurts out, indignance rising fast and hot in his chest. ‘I will not.’
‘You think it wise to twice refuse the emperors’ generosity, general?’
General. To him, the culmination of a lifetime of service and sacrifice. To them, an instrument of bloodshed in war, a plaything in peacetime.
Desperate, he tries a different tact. ‘The right of the first night belongs to the emperors. I dare not commit sacrilege.’
‘It is not sacrilege if it is freely bequeathed upon you, general.’
There is no mistaking the warning lilt in the last word, and he has no answer.
‘The hour grows late. You had better not keep the bride waiting,’ says the advisor with an air of finality before retreating into the shadows.
Marcus shudders at the cold that settles into the empty space, fingers stained with ink from the now crumpled dispatch. 
He remembers nothing of the remainder of his short journey to his quarters. As the front door swings open, he realises there is something in the night air that is out of place.
Sea salt.
You are here. 
Would you be demure? Frightened? You are of royal lineage, a lady of the small but proud coastal kingdom strong-armed by Rome into an unequal treaty for its profitable trading posts, in return for the mercy of not being razed to its fertile grounds.
And now, you are lowered to marry a general’s son. 
Worse, lowered to have your virginity taken by his father.
Candlelight spills from the crack underneath the door to his bedchamber. Marcus takes a deep breath, and pushes it open.
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You hear him. The swish of fabric, the slide of leather soles on marble.
The general is here.
Your hand in marriage is part of the terms of the treaty, and the missive that sent for you announced your match as the widowed hero general. You had him cast on the wretched journey from your home as one of the domineering, brutish soldiers now garrisoned at your family’s kingdom - only to be told on your arrival that you will be marrying his son instead.
Relief at the news that your future husband would not be decades older than you is instantly snatched away by furtive whispers of prima nocta.
Your future father-in-law will take you first.
The humiliation is bitter on your tongue. You are Rome’s to marry off, hers to give to whomever she pleases -
But she won’t break you.
The door creaks. You stand tall and hold your ground.
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He sweeps into the room with an air of well-worn authority, the cloak on his back dark as the shadows that nip at his heels.
The candles flicker when he sheds the heavy robes with a smooth sweep of his arm.
You stare, in a manner that would have had your lady-in-waiting tutting. But you are alone, very much so, with this man not ten paces from you.
General Marcus Acacius. 
He is older, certainly old enough to have a son your age. But you had not imagined him so - strong, for the lack of a more imaginative word. His shoulders are broad under his wine red tunic, and you can see the muscles in his arms flex as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. From where you stand, you can hardly see any silver in his dark curls.
Marcus unflinchingly assesses you right back. 
No, you are decidedly not demure. Or frightened. Far from it. 
You are defiant, even as you observe him with evident curiosity. Your head held high, a telltale sign of your noble breeding, mouth set in a stern line while your eyes burn bright with a proud fire. 
Judging the silence has gone on long enough, he breaks it with a formal, ‘My lady.’
‘General,’ you answer steadily.
The door slams shut belatedly behind him, and you flinch - the first glimpse of weakness you concede. 
Marcus breathes in, delivering his next sentence with as much composure as he can muster. ‘I expect you have been informed of the - formalities that we are to perform tonight.’
You grind your teeth so hard you are astonished that your jaw doesn’t crack.
Your virtue is just a formality.
Refusing to dignify his question with an answer, you nod once. 
He watches you wordlessly, and you meet his gaze. You thought you would find something else there, not the regret that you see.
Turning away from you, he reaches for the amphora on the table. 
‘Wine?’
‘Yes, please.’
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The wine is drunk in silence and moderation. Him at his desk, you perched on the end of the bed.
As you sip, pacing yourself, you observe the general discreetly from across the small distance between you. 
To say that you are disconcerted by his behaviour would be an understatement.
You assumed that he asked for this - for the perverse pursuit of deflowering his son’s bride-to-be while eschewing the unwanted responsibility of a wife. 
Yet, watching him stare pensively into his goblet, lips pursed in a pout that is almost sullen, you are not so certain anymore. 
When you bring your drink to your mouth to find it empty, you clear your throat. ‘I have to wake up early tomorrow morning - for the wedding.’
The general starts before collecting himself, drawing himself up to his full height as he sets down his cup with a heavy clunk. ‘Understandably, my lady.’
Then he moves, charting a course across the room, licking his thumb and index finger to douse the candles dotted around the space.
The thought comes to you unbidden - he has thick fingers. And big hands. 
Your cheeks tingle with heat.
Soon the chamber is cloaked in darkness, save for the candles next to the bed, the warm light pooling in the most inviting manner on the soft surface despite your trepidation. You long to rest your aching feet. 
He comes to a standstill on the other side of the bed, as if waiting for you to take the lead. You cannot decide whether you are thankful for him not imposing on you, or frustrated at him for not taking the lead in what is very much unfamiliar territory.
In the end, the desire to get off your feet wins out, and you gesture at the bed. ‘Shall we…?’
‘Certainly.’ He bends down, you assume to take off his sandals. You do the same, toeing off the soft leather slides the maids had you change into when they dressed you.
Once barefoot, you climb in with as much grace as you can summon, acutely aware that you have an audience. Your knees sink into the mattress, and you’re relieved that it is stuffed with feathers, luxuriously giving under your weight. Shifting primly, you find your back against the headboard, cushioned by equally soft pillows.
The general follows suit, the frame creaking as he eases onto the suddenly too small bed, strong shoulders brushing yours as he settles next to you.
You stare hard at the back of your hands, the only way to stop your gaze from wandering to the span of his fingers splayed wide on sturdy thighs, or lower to the bony ridge of his knees - gods, you must be unwell, since when have you been drawn to knees?
You are still questioning the state of your sanity when the general, who has been nothing but unperturbed and composed since he stepped into the room, stumbles over his words in a manner that is neither, as if he had held the question behind his teeth for too long.
‘Are you - are you absolutely certain - in no doubt - that you are… untouched?’
His question stings like salt in a festering wound. Indignant doesn’t even begin to describe the retort you spit at him. ‘Yes, I am. Are you?’
Peering at you sideways, his eyes widen at your outburst, and fear briefly flits across your heart that you have overstepped.
 But then, he surprises you with a smile. ‘You bite, don’t you?’ 
You let your shoulders sag, too far gone to hold onto your facade. 
‘It’s been a long day, sir,’ you admit. ‘To be frank, I just want to get this over with and forget it ever happened.’
He pauses at your confession, as if weighing his options. Then he shifts, and says, ‘The reason I ask if you were untouched is because, if you were not - we could have just pretended we did this.’
You frown. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I did not invoke prima nocta, it was imposed upon me. The emperors are displeased that I turned down the betrothal, this is their way of punishing me for my ungratefulness.’ 
Oh.
As much as you didn’t want this either, your pride suffers to hear him describe it as a punishment.
‘I know…’ you stumble, halting to steel yourself. ‘I know I am nothing like the women here in Rome. I spend too much time in the sun, and my hands are rough from working with horses -’
‘Why do you say that?’ he interrupts you.
You look away. ‘That is why you do not wish to marry me, is it not? And why you do not want this - why you do not want me.’
The general sits up, palms on the mattress to support his weight, the lines on his forehead deepening with a frown. ‘No, that is not the reason. You are young, you deserve a husband who can build a life with you in the years to come. Not a washed-up widower.’
The bitterness in his voice turns your head. 
‘You’re not washed up, from what I hear.’ Somehow, you find the courage to add boldly, ‘Or from what I see.’
Letting your eyes trail unabashedly over his broad frame, a thrill chases through your blood when you notice his Adam’s apple bob with a tight swallow. He’s so close that you know you’re not imagining the heat seeping into your bones.
Silence stretches between you, charged with a consciousness that creeps in and spreads. Two souls from different worlds and stations put in a situation in which neither of you had a hand. This may not be how you imagined giving away your virtue - far from it - yet your stomach twists in anticipation.
You glance upwards, only to find him already watching you.
Something has shifted when you so bravely reached out and tipped the balance with your words. He can tell that you are not one for flippant flattery, and it takes him a moment to collect himself, harder said than done with the blood roaring in his ears.
When he speaks, it comes out in a much lower register than he intends, so much so it sounds like a secret. 
‘You say you just want to get this over with. But I can - I can make it good for you. It doesn’t have to be something you want to forget.’
Your eyes widen and your lips part, and heat blooms almost uncomfortably in his chest. ‘You would do that for me?’
‘I will serve you in whatever way you ask of me tonight, my lady.’
Never have mere words, albeit delivered in such a delicious baritone, moved you so. You came in expecting to have your virtue stripped from you, the same way Rome callously stole you away. Where you thought humiliation and dishonour awaited, this man is offering deliverance and devotion - if only for one night.
Your throat tight with emotion, you nod in lieu of a spoken answer.
Marcus is deliberately slow in his movements, wanting you to feel safe in his presence. ‘How much do you know? So I know what I need to teach you.’
Despite yourself, shyness rears its head and you mumble, ‘I’ve - I’ve heard stories. I know what… happens… between a man and a woman in the bed chamber.’
He nods reassuringly, making you feel less of a fool for the juvenile answer you gave. ‘And has anyone touched you before?’
There’s no mistaking the lurch in your stomach as your heart hammers violently. ‘No. No one. Never.’
The protector in him stirs, summoned to duty, warring with the desire that seethes under his skin like the unholy flames of Vesuvius. He fears it is a quickly losing battle. 
Reading the desire in your endearingly open face, Marcus reaches over you to settle one hand on your hip as he leans close, his breath warm on your cheek.
‘Have you ever kissed a man?’ he rasps. 
You shake your head, eyes fixated on his mouth, framed by a tidy moustache. He is so close that you can see his beard is flecked with silver.
You swear the general is leaning into you, and every inch of you is on tenterhooks, enraptured by his proximity -
‘You should save it for your husband.’
You barely forestall the whine of protest that teeters on the tip of your tongue, pinching your lips together, but his lopsided smile tells you that he knows. 
‘I can kiss you elsewhere though.’
‘Oh,’ you inhale shakily when he dips to mouth at the side of your neck, landing on your pulse point in a suckle. Your whole body arches off the bed, hands gripping the sheets, head spinning at all the sensations that are new to you - the burn of his stubble, the cool trail his lips leave behind -
Then the palm on your hip pulls you into him, sprawling you against the wide cage of his body, your breasts pressed against his broad chest. The dress they put you in is thin, and the fabric rubs against your pebbling nipples as his kisses travel daringly low.
‘Am I going too fast?’ he pauses, voice strained.
Breathlessly, you shake your head.
‘If you want me to stop, or wait, you say the word. Understood?’
‘Yes, general.’
Two words he hears daily from his men, and yet from your lips, they unleash a dangerously feral side of him.
More. Is the only coherent thought that remains. 
Impatient hands reposition you so that you are astride him, and he groans when you slot flush in his lap. He watches your eyes widen at what you feel between your legs. Your dress rides up, and his blood rushes south at the bare expanse of your inner thighs on his skin. 
‘I want to see you,’ he speaks plainly, palms squeezing the dip of your waist. ‘May I undress you? Please?’
All decorum flees you, and you might have chanted yes, yes, yes to his question.
Dropping your chin, you watch his thick fingers nimbly undo the knot holding the front of your dress together. The silk capitulates like water, tumbling down in delicate drapes around your waist, baring you to his heated gaze.
‘You are beautiful,’ he declares with a solemnity that steals your breath.
And it is easy to believe him, the way his dazed eyes trail over your breasts, before his hands follow. Calloused palms, which you are sure have held many a sword in triumph, now cup your tender flesh in reverence. 
Your head lolls to the side as he teases you, but when he rolls his hips upwards, your eyes snap to the pained expression on his face. You’ve heard ladies in court whispering over wine about length and girth, but nothing could prepare you for the thrill of feeling a man’s undeniable desire for you.
Instinct guides you, moving your hips so that you are grinding against his length, seeking relief from what is building deep within you.
‘Do what feels good,’ the general murmurs encouragingly, palms on the small of your back to let you take control.
And just like that, you are thrown back to one summer’s day in your youth. You were bathing in a rock pool, under the spray of a waterfall in perfect solitude when you accidentally slipped forwards on the smooth stone surface. The unexpected sensation between your legs ripped through you like lightning on a clear day. And you chased that feeling, hips undulating until you shuddered and cried out. Knees trembling in the aftermath, you never dared to seek it out again, but neither did you forget.
And now, years later, you finally know what had transpired. Pleasure. And this time, under the general’s hooded gaze, you pursue it with single-minded determination.
Marcus wishes you knew how beautiful you are in this very moment. Breasts swaying in tandem while you rock back and forth on his clothed length, eyes glazed, every whimper from your swollen lips making him throb harder for you.
‘Good girl,’ he rasps, throat tight. ‘Take your pleasure. Take what you need.’
And when he sucks your nipple into his mouth, you wail, tipping forward at an angle that unexpectedly takes you apart.
The waves that wash over you are more intense than you remember, and you are sure that has to do with the man holding your hips to his as you buck, and the warm swirl of his tongue against your breasts, sucking and nipping as you come down from your high.
‘That was not your first time,’ he states as a matter of fact when the white noise in your ears finally fades.
‘It happened once, a long time ago, and I didn’t understand then -’
‘And now you do.’
‘Yes, general.’
This time, he lets loose a moan at your words. ‘I can feel your wetness through your dress.’
Confused, you look down, and your cheeks burn when you spot the dark patch on the delicate fabric. ‘Oh, I -’
‘It’s natural,’ he assures you. ‘The wetness makes it easier for -’
It dawns on you when you feel his hardness twitch under you. Oh. 
‘It - you feel -’ you stutter, struggling to comprehend how the girth of what you are sitting on could possibly fit inside you.
Taking your hand, Marcus presses a chaste kiss to your palm, eyes warm and open. 
‘We will take it slow. I will use my fingers first, to prepare you for me,’ he explains patiently. ‘I promised I would make it good for you, did I not?’
‘You did.’ 
And you have complete faith in him.
Your knees knock into each other hopelessly when he slides you off his lap, and he has to bodily prop you up against the pillows. Sinking into the soft feathers, you watch him kneel between your parted legs, and you feel so safe even as he towers over you. 
‘May I disrobe you?’
You bite your bottom lip, and nod. 
Except it’s not a disrobing, it’s nothing near as civil as that. The general rips the rest of your dress clean down the middle, rendering you completely bare beneath him.
Marcus knows should be ashamed of his brash behaviour. But how could he when you react so viscerally, jaw slack as your chest heaves in unmitigated desire? 
His gaze shamelessly trail over every curve and dimple, from the breasts he has tasted to where your knees are demurely closed, and knowing that he is the first - the only - to have laid eyes on you makes him impossibly hard. 
It matters not that you are not his to keep. This will always be his. 
‘You are exquisite,’ he professes, voice tight. 
You duck your head, more shy of his compliments than being nude before him. ‘You don’t have to.’
Sliding a finger under your chin and tilting your head until you meet his gaze, he assures you, ‘I mean every word.’
Then he moves down the bed until he can rest his weight on his elbows, and you startle when rough palms glide over the outside of your thighs, stopping at your knees. 
He pauses to give you time. ‘Are you certain you wish to continue?’
Your answer is a confident yes.
Then, as if opening the shell of Venus, he delicately pries your knees apart, and his breath hitches as you are revealed to him.
He is aware that he’s staring like an imbecile, words failing him. As the silence stretches on, you become self-conscious.
‘General,’ you demur, moving to cover yourself.
Shaking his head, he finally says, ‘Forgive me, but you are perfect.’
Then he looks up at you with such intensity that has you struggling to catch your breath, and without breaking eye contact, he bows his head - 
And closes his lips over you there. 
You are wholly unprepared - no one has ever gossiped about this in court. Your hips buck violently off the bed, but Marcus holds you down with reassuring hands, suckling on the pearl between your thighs with gentle laps of his tongue.
‘Oh, oh, oh,’ you stuttter, torn between watching the man wreak the most devastating pleasure on you and averting your gaze.
You’ve only ever known worship to be pious, and yet, this most vulgar adulation is the closest you’ve been to the gods.
His beautiful curls brush the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, catching the candle light as he moves, and the crook of his nose - so proud even with the scar on its bridge - draws patterns on your skin as he stakes his claim where no one has ever touched you. 
You quickly realise that what you felt just now in the general’s lap was insignificant and thin in comparison. This pleasure is all-consuming, something divine that has you weak and trembling all over. All you hear are slick, wet sounds of tongues and lips, and your own whimpers between garbled groans.
Marcus feasts on you, unapologetically. Flattening his tongue, he tastes you in broad sweeps, moaning into your sweet cunt as you writhe above him, your needy mewls driving him to the edge of madness. You taste like fig - the earthiness of the purple peel, ripe sweetness of the pink flesh.
Then your hands wind into his hair, pulling him closer, ankles hooking over his shoulders. He groans harder, the sound rattling in his ribs as you soak his beard. Surrendering any last vestiges of shyness, you rock against his tongue, nails scratching his scalp as you whine louder into the night air. 
Moans that will echo long after you’re gone.
The thought alone hardens his resolve to mark you unequivocally. You’re close, your pliant body quivering and breaths coming in shallow gasps now. He peers up at you, but your eyes are sealed shut and upturned at the gods, your breasts heaving.
Gently, he eases one finger inside you, and he grunts at how easily he slides in. You barely react, and so he pushes back in with two, coaxing a cry from you. Your cunt clenches as he gently thrusts his digits in and out, stretching your tight walls. 
‘Oh gods. Oh gods,’ you pant violently.
You’re close, so close. He wants to warn you of what is to come, but it feels like sacrilege to tarnish the moment with words. When he feels you begin to quiver, he laves at your clit harder, burying his fingers inside you to the knuckle, until he feels you crest and break. 
‘Gods, oh gods - Marcus!’
The cry of his name catches him off guard. He nearly loses control right there and then, as you ride out your high on his fingers, but by some miracle he holds out through gritted teeth. He devotes his attention to kissing his way up your body, from the slick inside of your thighs, to the side of your hip, making you jump when he sucks on your sensitive breasts.
You stare at his mouth with wild, dark eyes, and him at yours, but he vowed to leave your first kiss to your husband. Girding his self-restraint, he asks, ‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes, Marcus.’
His cock twitches at the sound of his name on your lips. He wants to hear you say it in all manners of ways - whisper it, gasp it, scream it. And by the cheekiness in your smile, it’s clear that you know what he’s thinking.
Your eyes drop to where his hardness is pressed against you. ‘Will you teach me how to please you, general?’
He swallows a groan, the animal in him rattling the bars of its cage. He replies diplomatically, ‘I will teach you how to teach your husband.’
In one smooth tug, he shucks off his tunic, then his loincloth, and he tries not to be self-conscious under your watchful gaze. Pulling you against him, skin on naked skin, he smears kisses along the side of your neck, smiling at your answering shudder. In return, you run your lips and scrape your teeth over his collarbone. 
Taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, he slides it all the way down his chest and wraps your fingers firmly around his throbbing cock, his pained moan in your ear.
Eyes wide, you marvel at the size of him in your grip. ‘You are so big.’
Marcus curses through clenched teeth. ‘You are an insolent girl.’
With a wicked glint in your eyes, you correct yourself, ‘You are so big, general.’
If he wasn’t so aroused, he would have chuckled at your cheek. Instead, he growls, ‘Such insubordination.’
Tilting your head to one side, you grin. ‘And how would you discipline me, sir?’
He lets the silence linger for a beat, allowing anticipation to build as one big hand splays over your ass, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. ‘I would deny you my cock, my lady. Let your sweet cunt weep for me, empty, not knowing how good it would feel to have me deep inside you.’
You are unsure if you are more shocked at the explicitness of his words, or at the gush of wetness that has you pressing your thighs together. If you had to wager a guess, he is just as affected as you by the way his length pulses in your grasp.
Marcus smiles as he takes in the way your body reacts to him. ‘But how can I deny such a lovely, desperate creature such as yourself?’
A sob escapes you. ‘Please, Marcus - I’m yours to take.’
With that, all self-restraint abandons him, and his lips crash into yours. At the back of his mind, he knows you deserve a better first kiss, something gentle and sweet. But to your credit, you seem to take it in stride, winding your arms around his neck with a deep groan as he deepens the kiss. Opening up your mouth, he sweeps his tongue against yours, making sure you taste yourself and the pleasure that he had wrung from you.
When he reluctantly pulls back for air, you hum, ‘I thought you said I should save that for my husband.’
He all but snarls, ‘Damn your husband.’
The possessiveness in his tone sends you reeling, and his resolve wears even thinner when your cunt brushes against him, so wet and soft, begging for him. 
‘I cannot wait any longer,’ he declares.
You bite your lip beseechingly. ‘Please, Marcus, I cannot either.’
He braces himself above you on strong arms, until all you can see is him, backlit by the soft candlelight. Beholding his beauty - the wisps of gray at his temples, the scar lining his cheekbone - your breath catches at the tenderness in his eyes as he stares down at you.
Holding the base of his cock, Marcus notches himself at the entrance of your cunt, trembling as he holds himself back. 
‘I will go slow,’ he assures you. ‘If it hurts, you tell me to stop. Understood?’
Your mouth dry, you can only nod. 
Holding your gaze, Marcus rolls his hips ever so slowly, jaw slack when he breaches you, inch by tortuous inch.
He is barely inside you and you already feel so unfathomably full.
‘Marcus,’ you gasp when it gets impossibly tight, nails digging into his broad shoulders.
He stops, and whispers encouragingly, ‘You are doing so well for me, taking me so beautifully. Just breathe.’
In between his patient, languid kisses, you unfurl, and Marcus gently pulls back, before pushing into you, deeper this time.
When you cry out, he shushes you, brushing the wet corners of your eyes with his lips. ‘Does it hurt?’
You shake your head. ‘No, it’s just - so much.’ 
‘I know, I can feel how tight you are gripping me,’ he mumbles into your neck, throbbing inside you while he holds himself still as you adjust. ‘Brave, sweet girl.’
When you find your voice again, you give him cheek. ‘I am a woman now, general.’
He smiles at you - a warm curl that crinkles the corners of his eyes endearingly - and claims your lips again. Feeling the tension seep out of your body, he thrusts shallowly so you can learn the movement of his hips. When he hits a spot that makes your jaw drop and your hips buck, he pulls all the way back, and drives himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.
And with that, you become a part of his soul, and his yours. His chest swells with the fiercest possessiveness and the greatest honour all at once, despite knowing that the circumstances that brought you together will inevitably tear you asunder at the break of dawn.
‘Marcus!’ you choke on a sob, throwing your head back, your walls clutching his cock in a merciless grip.
‘There she is,’ he grunts, mouth scraping the shell of your ear. ‘Say my name like that.’
And you do, over and over again, as he fucks into you. His pants land harshly in the crook of your neck with every thrust, hands greedily squeezing all the skin he can find - the curve of your ass, the dimple in your waist, your thigh to hitch it over his hip.
Looking down at you, eyes drunk and unfocused as you stare back at him, each squeeze of your wet cunt around him, every breath from your lips feels sacred.
He is seized by a sudden need to know. ‘How does it feel?’
Your eyes soften, and he shudders when you cup the side of his face to bring his nose to yours. ‘Divine.’
Marcus loses himself in you, in the wet squelch of your cunt around his length, the way your tightness takes every thrust. Words of praise that he doesn’t even hear tumble from his lips and onto every inch of skin he can reach as you cling to him, scraping your nails down his back and digging into the meat of his ass.
Pitching forward to press a hard kiss to you, he says, ‘I want you to fall apart for me again.’
‘Please, Marcus, please.’
Pushing himself up to his knees, still buried deep inside you, he spreads your thighs obscenely wide over his hips, and he moans at the sight of your cunt so full of him. With hooded eyes, he sucks on two of his thick fingers and brings them between your legs, carefully drawing circles on your clit, knowing that you are already sensitive from cumming twice for him before.
Your face twists in agony as he builds you towards another climax, patiently weaving the web of pleasure that wounds you tighter and tighter until your spine feels like it will snap in two. ‘Marcus, oh - don’t stop, don’t stop, oh gods -’
He bares his teeth as he feels you start to clench around him. ‘That’s it, that’s it. Cum on my cock, let me feel you, give it to me.’ 
Your peak crashes into you relentlessly, and as you are swept away, you can only wail and thrash, while Marcus curses and stutters unintelligibly above you as he spins out of control.
He had every intention to pull out, but it is as if some higher power is determined to foil his plans. With a guttural roar, his hips snap flush against yours, big palms grasp you so hard by the waist that you squeal, and he spills into you in hot gushes, once - twice - and again until he is spent.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
He doesn’t know if he said that aloud or if it was a trick of the mind. All he knows is that he eventually collapses bonelessly onto you, skin fused together with sweat and cum as your breaths become one in the crisp night air.
It is him who breaks the stillness, his old bones creaking when he stirs to relieve an ache in his back. His softened cock slides out of you, prompting you to whine in protest. He grunts when he looks down to see his cum dribble out of your cunt, leaving a pearly trail on the inside of your thighs.
When he meets your eyes, there is no awkwardness in the silence. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to spill my seed inside you. That was reckless.’
Your heart skips a beat at his admission, and you can’t hide the pride in your voice. ‘Do I make you reckless, general?’
He tries and fails to be stern in his answer, the tenderness with which he brushes his nose on your cheek giving him away. ‘I know better than to encourage your insolence with an answer.’
You are far from discouraged though, quite the opposite. Knowing you have this man - who commands armies of thousands - at your mercy is a siren’s call.
Peering at him from under your eyelashes, you curl one leg around his waist. ‘Do you want to be reckless again?’
He huffs, but a smile breaks through. ‘Have you ever been told that you are a cocktease?’
You hum teasingly. ‘I have never heard that word before, but I like it.’
‘You do?’ he breathes against your lips. ‘You like being my cocktease?’
‘Yours, general.’
Marcus is astounded when he feels himself harden again, and he moans as you press open-mouthed kisses down his neck. ‘What spell have you cast on this old man, my little cocktease?’
You grin, letting him ease you onto your back so he can settle between your thighs again. ‘The kind that lasts until dawn.’
Eventually, morning must break, sure as the moon turns and the sun rises. In the golden rays of day, you will wed his son in ironic, virginal white, showered in rose petals. He will look on from the side in his finest ceremonial robes of red, as you walk away from him and into your new life as someone else’s wife.
But in the velvety folds of this night and many more to come, safely ensconced in the deepest corners of his memories, in lands far away, in war and in peace, there he keeps you - where you are not.
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More notes: Thank you for reading! As usual, comments/reblogs/asks would be very much appreciated 🥰 I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I loved writing it!
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stylesispunk · 2 months ago
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'Hands in the hair of somebody named Marcus'
Marcus Acacius x f!reader
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summary: the cursed blood of Geta and Caracalla runs through your veins sealing your fate. However, the General Acacius is willing to fight for you.
w.c: 5k>
warnings: angst, violence, power imbalance,and fluff.
a/n: I had this one in my drafts but after watching gladiator ii twice. I had to finish it and write about my beloved General Acacius because he deserves it. I hope you like it. This may have a part ii depending on its performance. PLEASE DON'T BE MEAN. Reblogs and comments are always. appreciated 💌
| dividers by @/saradika-graphics |
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Inhale.
Exhale.
Breathe in, breath out.
There was it, the rattle breathing inside Marcus Acacius lungs. The way life has turned out for him felt like cuts all over his skin.
Sometimes he felt he could even breath from how bloody his hands were. How dirty his name felt to his own honor. How salty his tears felt down his cheeks every night. Every time he closed his eyes at night, the screams pierced through his ears.
Mothers mourning their children.
Men mourning their wives.
Families destroyed.
All because of him.
All because he must have served those two spoiled kids so called emperors of Rome.
And he still couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of you, someone so pure and kind was cursed to share the same blood as them.
Every time he came back to the city. He witnessed on first hand, how badly you were treated by them.  The laughs, the humiliation, the segregation, and how your voice had been silenced just for you to be unwillingly part of a legacy that felt like your back being split in two.
Marcus was aware of the adoration people felt for you, how your kindness had reached to every single person in the empire. People loved you, but you were nothing more than a puppet under their fingers.
And he felt pity for you.
He could see the way your eyes seemed lost in the arena, in the way your hands trembled where Geta or Caracalla looked at you with disgust when you didn't approve of the madness they had arisen under their control.
You were the opposite of them.
You were Kind.
Kind as no one had been on here for so many years. You shared the same dream of Marcus Aurelio.
An empire for the world and a refuge for those in need.
and Marcus looked at you with tenderness in his heart from afar.
Most of the time you didn't acknowledge him. He knew you weren't really fond of him or the idea of him leading armies to claim cities under the glory of Rome.
For you, he was just a general repeating the same cycle of madness.
And you didn't acknowledge him until Geta slapped you on front of him for not showing your gratitude towards him after his returning from battle.
The sting lingered on your cheek after his slap, not from the force but from the humiliation of it. The room fell silent, the tension arose like flames to the fire. Geta and Caracalla, with their arrogant disdain, seemed to punish your perceived disobedience.
But Marcus? His expression shifted, subtle, yet profound. His sharp gaze, so often unreadable, burned with an intensity that wasn’t anger but something close to defiance. He stepped forward, his towering presence demanding the attention of everyone in the room.
“Enough,” Marcus said, his voice calm and gentle, the command laced with quiet fury. The word carried weight, a warning not to be ignored. Your brothers exchanged a glance, clearly displeased but unwilling to challenge the general directly. They turned and left, leaving muttered curses in the air.
The room fell silent once again, and you found yourself standing alone with General Acacius. Your hand hovering your cheek, the skin still warm from Geta’s punishment. You didn’t look up at first, embarrassed not just by the slap but by the realization that Marcus had witnessed it. You had worked so hard to ignore him, to keep him at a distance, but now, there was no avoiding him.
“You didn’t deserve that,” he said softly, his voice a startling contrast to the authority he had wielded moments ago.
You finally raised your eyes to meet his, expecting pity but finding something else entirely different, something softer. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured, attempting to dismiss it, but he shook his head.
“It does,” Marcus said, taking a step closer. “You shouldn’t have to endure this, least of all from them. They’re your blood”
His words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw him not as the general who commanded armies in your brothers’ name but as a man standing apart from their cruelty. He wasn’t like them, not entirely.
And perhaps, you thought, he never had been.
Your gaze lingered on Marcus for a moment longer, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say something—anything. But you couldn’t. Your throat tightened, and you turned away, moving to the window to avoid the weight of his attention.
“I don’t need your protection,” you said, though the words came out softer than you intended. “You’ve done enough by speaking against them. They will get under your skin for it.”
Marcus hesitated, his heavy footsteps echoing as he approached you. “You shouldn’t have to thank me for doing what’s right.”
His words made your chest ache. When was the last time anyone had done what was “right” for you? You stared out at the gardens beyond the window, their beauty feeling distant, unreachable. Your brothers had never cared about right or wrong, only power.
“I don’t understand you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “You fight for them. You serve them. And yet…”
“And yet I see who they truly are,” Marcus interrupted gently. “I serve Rome, not their cruelty. There’s a difference.”
You turned to face him, his nearness almost startling. For the first time, his presence didn’t feel overwhelming. Instead, it felt… grounding. Safe. He stood tall, but his expression was open, waiting for you to respond.
“They’ll hate you for standing up for me,” you said, your tone cautious. “They don’t forgive things like that.”
“Let them hate me,” Marcus replied without hesitation. “I won’t stand by and let them treat you as they do.”
The conviction in his voice sent a shiver through you. You wanted to argue, to remind him that opposing your brothers would bring nothing but trouble, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you found yourself studying him. His broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his face, and the way his eyes softened when they rested on you.
“I don’t need anyone fighting my battles,” you said, though even you weren’t sure if you believed it. “I’ve survived this long on my own.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” he replied, stepping closer, his voice low but steady. “You deserve better than survival.”
Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing against you. Before you could respond, Marcus straightened, his demeanor shifting as if sensing he had said too much. He nodded once, a gesture of respect, before stepping back.
“I should leave you to rest,” he said. “You’ve been through enough today”
Your breath caught at the sound of his voice, so steady and sincere, the words lingering in the air like a balm to your frayed nerves. You wanted to reach out, to say something and stop him, but you hesitated, unsure of what held you back.
Marcus took another step away, his broad shoulders tense, as though leaving you was harder for him than he let on. His words, though respectful, carried a tone of finality that made your heart twist.
“I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. He bowed slightly, taking your hand in his, and kissing it as his dark eyes met yours, “My lady.”
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As if his words had worked as a kind of manifesto, the “soon” came no long after.
There you were in the gardens, barefoot, with your wild hair looking at the moon shining over the town you had been forced to call it home.
Marcus could see from your posture to your void eyes when you were there in the middle of your brothers, faking enthusiasm, while inside your bones you hate with passion this torturous show.
You didn't wish to be cruel to the world but kind.
You didn't wish to see blood coming out from innocent men who had fallen prey under the hands of the cruelty of the roman empire.
And you were exhausted of seeing and hearing the cheering of people celebrating death as a spectacle.
You didn't want this to be your life but just a nightmare you were going to wake from too soon.
And now, as Marcus could see the moon reflecting on your face. He was able to see through the golden jewelry and the soft material of your dress, he could see a soul pleading to the moon to set her free.
Something must have alerted you. You turned around facing him hiding under his cloak.
"General Acacius?" You whispered, closing your eyes a bit to take his form under the soft light of the moon.
"My lady" he replied softly, with respect to his tone.
“What are you doing here?” you breathed, your voice trembled under his gaze.
He hesitated for mere seconds, his gaze intense as it locked onto yours. “I could ask you the same, my lady,” he replied, a trace of sweetness in his tone. “It seems even those closest to the emperors need to escape from time to time.”
A silence fell between you, charged with a tension that both thrilled and unsettled you. The few stolen glances you’d shared over the past days had spoken volumes, but you had never dared to hope his heart could be beating as fast as yours in your presence.
You turned around again, your back to him. "I love coming here to look at the moon. " You spoke, breaking the silence "This seems to be the only place my brothers haven't tainted yet."
"How they don't know about this place?"
"My father sent this place to be built for his only daughter." You replied, and Marcus could notice how the corners of your lips graced with a smirk, even from behind. "A place for her to be a girl."
"What do you mean?"
"You know, General. Women seem to be useless for having a voice, less for ruling an Empire. Everything I can do is stay here and feel like I own something." You hold your voice for a minute, “I’m just a statue waiting to crumble.”
Marcus didn't reply to your words and if it wasn't for the sound of his steps getting closer you would have thought he left.
You could see his outline from the corner of your eyes, the way his face had been marked by cruel events you despise. A red mark on his cheek, a few scars on his neck and for brown eyes that contrasted from his hard exterior, shinning under the same moon as yours.
"How did you find this place, General?" You asked, bow fully looking at him. You were wondering how your brothers never knew about this place but him had been the first man to find it, just after his return.
He took a brief look at you from the corners of his eyes. "I would say that something brought me here," he paused for a moment, "but it seems like it was you, my lady."
You had to hold your breath for a moment. You didn't expect such words from Marcus. He was the beloved general of Rome. But to your eyes he was still a man who had built his honor from cruelty or that was what you thought.
"I don't believe so." You replied, despite the rapid beating of your heart, you didn't want to be fooled by a man with soft brown eyes and a heart that seems to be kind. "I do not desire a man to follow me, not less one who is the puppet of the cruelty of all this cold nonsense."
"My lady…"
"Please, you may go now." you said, turning your gaze back to the moon.
Marcus didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint torchlight flickering in the hall. His hand rested on the edge of the door, his knuckles tight and pale as if he were restraining himself from saying something he would later regret.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the embers in the hearth. The tension between you felt almost unbearable, a quiet battle waged in silence.
“I know what you think of me,” he finally said, his voice softer now, like the hush of a secret shared in the dark. “You see a man of blood and iron, one who serves an empire that devours cities for the Glory of Rome.” He exhaled slowly, almost as if gathering the strength to continue. “You’re not wrong to think that. There are nights when I wonder if all of this is worth it, if I am worth anything beyond my sword.”
His admission struck something deep within you, though you kept your face turned toward the moon. You refused to let him see the small crack forming in your carefully constructed armor.
“Then why stay?” you asked quietly, your voice carrying an edge of challenge. “Why continue to serve a cause you doubt?”
“I stay because I must,” Marcus said without hesitation. “It is all I have known, and it is all that has been asked of me. But you…” His voice faltered, and you felt the weight of his gaze, though you didn’t dare meet it. “You are different. You are everything this empire is not, kind, unyielding. Someone like you should be the one ruling Rome, the princess.”
You chuckled at the statement “My brothers would send me to death before I’ll have the chance to sit on that throne.”
Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your dress. His words shouldn’t have this effect on you, yet they lingered, stirring something unfamiliar.
“And that is why you should go,” you said, more firmly now. “You’re talking nonsense”
Marcus took a step closer, his steps echoing faintly against the cobblestones “Perhaps I do not belong here,” he said, his tone unwavering, “but that does not mean I will walk away so easily and let this empire fall under your brother’s madness.”
You turned to him then, unable to ignore the quiet determination in his voice. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that had once seemed so dangerous, now held a sincerity you hadn’t expected. For the first time, you saw not a general, but a man, a man who carried the weight of his choices and the burden of his doubts.
“You think you can change my mind?” you asked, your tone sharp despite the unease stirring in your chest.
“No,” Marcus admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I hope, one day, I can show you what I am talking about.”
Before you could reply, he bowed his head slightly, as a gesture of respect rather than submission, and turned to leave.
As the door closed behind him, you stood in the quiet of the garden, your heart beating fast while his words played over in your head.
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The arena buzzed with the deafening roar of the crowd, their excitement spilling into the air as dust kicked up from the floor below. You sat stiffly behind Geta and Caracalla, their laughter and sharp whispers grating against your ears. This was how it always was, trapped in their own world, watching their cruelty unfold.
Today, the games were bloodier than usual, the violence more drawn out, as if they relished every clash of blades and every cry of pain. You tried to ignore the chaos, your gaze drifting to the far horizon, where freedom felt like a distant dream in the blue sky.
But then, a movement to your right drew your attention. You turned your head just slightly, your breath catching when you saw Marcus approaching. His expression was calm, unreadable, though his eyes softened ever so slightly when they met yours. Without a word, he settled into the seat next to you.
“General,” you greeted, your voice low.
“My lady,” he replied, his tone equally soft, though there was a subtle warmth in it.
For a while, neither of your spoke. The sounds of the crowd and the clash of weapons filled the silence between you, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one.
“They love this,” Marcus finally said, his voice barely audible over the noise.
You didn’t reply, too focused on fidgeting with the material of your dress, your fingers twisting the fabric in small, anxious movements. The tension in your shoulders was noticeable, your gaze fixed on the arena below, though it was clear your mind was far from the bloodshed.
Marcus noticed. He always noticed. After a moment of hesitation, his hand moved, gentle, placing it over yours. His touch was warm, steady, and it stopped the restless motion of your fingers.
Startled, you glanced at him, your breath catching as you saw the softness in his expression. There was no judgment, no pity, only quiet reassurance. For a moment, you forgot where you were, the chaos of the arena fading into the background.
But the moment didn’t last.
“Ah, what’s this?” Geta’s voice cut through the din, sharp and mocking.
You flinched, quickly pulling your hand away as Geta turned in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he looked between you and Marcus. His lips curled into a sly grin, the kind that sent a chill down your spine.
“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. “Our dear sister has caught the attention of the great general. How… intriguing.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his gaze unwavering as he stared ahead.
Geta leaned back in his seat, his grin widening as an idea seemed to spark in his mind. He turned to Caracalla, nudging him with an elbow. “Brother, I think we haven’t been too generous with our sister, have we?”
Caracalla raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What do you suggest we could do for her?”
Geta’s grin turned wicked, his eyes gleaming with malice. “A little incentive for the games. Let the gods decide her fate.”
Your blood ran cold as you realized what he was suggesting. “Geta, don’t—”
He ignored you, standing abruptly and raising his arms to address the crowd.
“Citizens of Rome!” Geta’s voice boomed over the noise, silencing the arena. “Today, we have a special reward for our brave gladiators. A prize worthy of their strength and valor.”
Caracalla caught on quickly, his laughter echoing through the stands. “Indeed, a prize unlike any other,” he added, his voice dripping with amusement.
You shot to your feet, panic rising in your chest. “Geta, stop this!”
He turned to you, his smile cruel. “Sit down, sister. This is for the glory of Rome.”
You didn’t move, but your voice faltered, your protests drowned out by the cheers of the crowd as Geta announced his decree.
“The victor of this fight,” he declared, “shall win not only their freedom but also the hand of our beloved sister.”
The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, their excitement deafening.
Beside you, Marcus remained seated, his expression unreadable. But you could see the storm brewing in his eyes, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he processed what had just happened.
And for the first time, you saw something in him that you hadn’t before, a quiet, burning fury, one that made you wonder just how far he would go to defy your brothers.
"They offered me as a price." You whispered to Marcus who was offering his arm for you to hold, as you tried to keep your composure.
You felt humiliated.
You felt that men owned you and despised the feeling.
Marcus didn’t respond right away. His arm remained steady, extended for you to hold, a silent offer of support. His face, though unreadable, betrayed hints of a restrained anger—anger that wasn’t directed at you, but at the cruelty of your brothers, the twisted spectacle they had made of your dignity.
“They did,” he finally murmured, his voice low but firm, so only you could hear. “And they will answer for it.”
You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly before resting on his arm. The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but between the two of you, it felt like a silent pact. Marcus guided you to sit back down, his movements deliberate, as if shielding you from the prying eyes of the crowd.
“Hold your head high,” he said quietly, leaning just close enough for his words to reach you. “You are not a prize. You are a queen in all but name.”
His words, though softly spoken, struck a chord deep within you. They carried a weight that steadied the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm you—humiliation, anger, and a raw, aching vulnerability you despised feeling. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to sit straighter, your gaze fixed on the arena even as your chest burned with resentment.
The fight began, the clash of swords and the roar of the crowd filling the air. The gladiators fought with a ferocity that was almost unbearable to watch, knowing that your fate hung in the balance of their blades. You despised every second of it, despised the men in the arena who saw you as a reward to be claimed, despised the crowd who cheered for your subjugation, and most of all, despised your brothers for orchestrating this humiliation.
And yet, as the fight dragged on, your attention kept flickering to Marcus. He hadn’t moved, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the arena with an intensity that made your heart race. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening with every blow exchanged below.
“They cannot do this,” you whispered, your voice trembling with barely contained anger. “They cannot decide my life like this.”
“They can try,” Marcus replied, his tone like steel. “But they will not succeed.”
His words were cryptic, but there was something in his voice, a quiet, unshakable resolve that made you glance at him. For a moment, you wondered if he already had a plan, if his mind was racing with strategies to undo the cruelty your brothers had unleashed.
The fight ended abruptly, the crowd roaring as the victor emerged, bloodied but triumphant. Your stomach churned as the man was announced, his grin wide as he looked up to the podium where you sat. You felt Marcus tense beside you, his hand gripping his sword so tightly you feared it might snap.
“Don’t,” you whispered urgently, sensing the storm about to break within him. “Please, Marcus.”
But he didn’t respond, his gaze locked on the victor below. And for the first time, you wondered just how far Marcus would go, not just to defy your brothers, but to protect you from their cruelty.
The victor's triumphant roar echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted into wild cheers. You couldn’t bear to look at the man below, his eyes alight with the promise of his prize—you. Your stomach churned with revulsion, and your breathing quickened, panic clawing at your chest.
“Come,” Marcus said quietly, his voice cutting through the noise. His hand found yours again, firm but not forceful, and this time, you didn’t hesitate to take it. The heat of his palm against yours grounded you, gave you a tether to hold onto as you stood on unsteady legs.
You didn’t wait for your brothers’ gloating remarks or the smug expressions on their faces. Without a word, you let Marcus guide you away, his presence shielding you from the leering eyes of the crowd. The noise of the arena began to fade as you descended the steps, replaced by the rapid beating of your heart.
The corridors beneath the stands were dimly lit, the cool air a welcome reprieve from the suffocating heat of the arena. You kept your gaze forward, refusing to look back, refusing to give your brothers or the victor the satisfaction of seeing your fear. But inside, you were trembling.
“Marcus,” you finally whispered, your voice breaking. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere they can’t touch you,” he replied, his tone low and steady. His hand tightened around yours, a silent vow that he wouldn’t let you face this alone.
The two of you emerged into the open courtyard behind the arena, the setting sun casting long shadows across the stone walls. The sounds of the crowd were distant now, muffled by the heavy doors that closed behind you. You stopped walking, pulling your hand from his and turning to face him.
“They’ll come for me,” you said, your voice laced with frustration and fear. “They won’t let this stand. Geta and Caracalla—”
“They’ll have to go through me first,” Marcus interrupted, his tone sharp, his brown eyes fierce. “And I promise you, my lady, they won’t succeed.”
You stared at him, his words sinking in. He looked every bit the general now, strong, resolute, and unyielding. And yet, there was something else in his gaze, something softer that made your chest tighten. He wasn’t just protecting you out of duty or honor. There was something personal in the way he looked at you, in the way he stood so close, as though shielding you from the world.
"I can fight in the arena" he said, "for you."
You stared blankly at him, shocked at your core.
"What would you win from that? Do you want to own me like those men?" You asked.
"I do not wish to own you, my lady. You're not property. You're a free woman, and If I win, I'll become your husband and you would never have to endure those humiliations ever again."
"Just because I would be yours." You whispered, still broken at the thought of not being enough.
"You would be my wife, not my property." He clarified, "I will live and fight to keep your honor just as you deserve"
You looked away, heart pounding, his words washing over you like laurels over your skin. A part of you longed to believe him, to let his offer pull you from the grip of your family’s ambitions. But fear clung tightly, rooted in years of being nothing more than a pawn in your brothers' power games.
"General…" you murmured, voice wavering. "If you fight for me, you put yourself in danger. And if you fall, my life will only become darker, lonelier. I don’t want your blood on my hands."
He stepped closer, his eyes steady, fierce. "I would rather risk everything than stand by while you suffer. You deserve a life where you choose, where you're loved, not used."
Your throat tightened, emotions swelling. "But if you fight and lose, you’d be at their mercy. They’d make you a symbol. A warning to anyone else who dares to defy them."
He lifted your hand, pressing it to his heart. "Then let them try," he said, his voice unyielding. "For you, my lady, I would face even the wrath of the empire."
His touch was gentle, but his resolve was unbreakable. In that moment, you realized he wasn’t just a man willing to fight for you, he was someone who saw you as more than a title, more than a sister to emperors. He saw you, truly.
“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you risk this for me?”
For a moment, he hesitated, the stoic mask slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the man beneath. “Because you deserve more than to be treated as a pawn in their games,” he said finally. “And because I…” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if the words were too much to say aloud. “You don’t deserve this.”
You swallowed hard, your throat tight with emotion.
"Acacius… if you truly wish to do this," you whispered, your fingers trembling in his, "then I will stand by your side, come what may."
He smiled, a rare softness breaking through his stoic exterior. "Then we’ll face them together, my lady. And if they stand in our way…" His eyes darkened, a spark of defiance glinting within them. "They’ll learn that love is a force they cannot control"
"Do you believe you could come close to loving me?" You asked, heart pounding.
His reply didn’t come from words. Instead, he squeezed your hand over his heart.
His words lingered in the air, hanging between you like the delicate balance of a fragile moment. You searched his face, his steady eyes holding yours as if daring you to see the sincerity in them. For all his strength, for all his might as a general, Marcus stood before you as something else entirely. A man laying his heart bare.
Your breath hitched as his hand moved from yours to gently cradle your cheek, his touch warm and careful, as if he feared you might pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you leaned into his palm, your heart pounding so loudly you thought he must hear it.
“May I?” he murmured, his voice soft and hesitant, as though you were something precious, he was afraid to break.
You nodded, unable to speak, your eyes fluttering closed as he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours, tentative and light, testing the waters of your comfort. It was not the kiss of a conqueror or a man accustomed to taking what he wanted. It was the kiss of someone who had been waiting, who had held back his own desires out of respect for you.
The first touch was fleeting, but when he felt you relax into him, he deepened the kiss, his other hand settling on your waist to anchor you against him. The world around you faded. The distant noise of the Coliseum, the threat of your brothers, even the weight of your own fear. All that remained was the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your other hand.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet that followed. “Loving you,” he whispered again, his voice thick with emotion, “would be the easiest battle I’ve ever fought.”
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nereidprinc3ss · 5 months ago
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pillow talk
in which spencer reid chooses a very odd time to reveal an anecdote from his past to fem!reader
18+ (fluff, extremely suggestive) warnings/tags: fingering but nothing graphic whatsoever, it's basically fade to black sex, discussions of spencer's gsw from season 5, medical talk (and inaccuracies), spencer is a sarcastic little shit a/n: found this super random little thing in my drafts and it was done and i think it's silly and cute so i'm posting it! 600 words, short n sweet!
“You got shot in the knee?”
It’s perhaps said too loudly for the setting—tucked into Spencer’s bed in the late hours of the night when up until this point the conversation had been nothing but murmured stories and quiet giggles. And before that, well—before that there hadn’t been much conversation at all. 
Still you can’t find it within yourself to apologize as you sit up, holding the top sheet to your chest and looking down at Spencer incredulously. His eyebrows raise like he’s surprised by your reaction. 
“Thigh, technically. And it was years ago. Come back.”
You huff but allow yourself to be pulled back down, head on his shoulder as his hand finds its place stroking your hip once more. 
“How have you never told me that?”
“You never noticed the multiple incision scars on my leg?”
“What? No! Can I look now?”
“You won’t be able to see them. It’s too dark.”
You angle your head toward him, and he does the same, tilting his down until your noses almost brush. 
“So turn the light on.”
“If I turn the light on I’ll get distracted.”
“Distracted by what?” You ask, realizing what he means and voice quickly fading even as you finish the sentence. He chuckles and kisses your head. 
“I’ll show it to you in the morning. Come here.”
“I am here,” you grumble. He hums, leaning down further to try and kiss you. 
“Closer.”
So you scoot up the mattress and roll onto your side, pressed right against him, to meet him halfway in a sweet kiss. 
“You’re kind of spoiled,” you laugh against his lips as he begins pushing the sheet from your body. 
“You have to be nice to me. I got shot, remember?”
“Right. And how long ago was this, approximately?”
“It was 19 days before my 28th birthday.”
So much for approximations. 
“Aw. You got shot for your 28th birthday?”
It’s his turn to laugh into the kiss as he carefully rolls over you but recovers quickly, assuming a deadpan delivery. 
“Yeah. And it was really bad.”
“Sexy,” you murmur as he kisses down your jaw. “Tell me more.”
“Shots to the leg can be life-threatening if the femoral artery is nicked. Thankfully the bullet missed mine. You’re welcome.”
Your heart skips with a split second of true anxiety, but you snort at his cavalier attitude. 
“Yeah? This is really working for me.”
He lowers his voice to the one he uses in more intimate contexts and you giggle as he explains his gunshot wound to you like it’s dirty talk. 
“The bullet went in through my rectus femoris…” now uninhibited by the sheet, he finds the spot on your thigh and pinches lightly, “and came out clean through my semitendinosis muscle.”
“Clean? No bone fragments?”
“Nope. The doctors said I was extremely lucky it didn’t splinter my femur but it completely destroyed my muscles. I had to do physical therapy for a year and a half and I had a cane for months.”
“That’s kind of hot,” you breathe, losing commitment to the bit as his kisses get lower and his hand creeps higher. 
“Wait until you hear about the mid-surgery aortic clamping and ligature complications. You’ll love this—I was awake the whole time.”
A soft moan slips from between your parted lips and your brows pinch. 
“Spencer—”
“What?” He murmurs. “Me getting shot in the leg isn’t sexy anymore?”
You manage something between a breathy laugh and a mewl as your back arches. 
“I’m gonna kill you.”
He hums against your throat. 
“Good luck. You’d be far from the first to try.”
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xenteaart · 13 days ago
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the hard way
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pairing: vampire!chris x to be vampire!reader genre/warnings: dark romance, mean chris, angst? kinda dead dove, mentions of death, blood and a lil gore (not too graphic tho imo), it's okay in the end??? and they're in love plot: reader is getting turned into a vampire and it's not as cool as she imagined author’s note: obvsly heavily inspired by railway and that SPITTING SCENE. idk it's prolly gonna flop but i wanted to picture that process and a not so hot side of it
“no.” “why not?!” “because i told you so a million times already. we’re not discussing this.” chris spits out and furrows, growing more agitated with each passing second.
“what, you don’t want me to be equal to you?” you ponder desperately while your mind searches for any, any reason at all as to why chris won’t turn you. it’s been getting to you for the last couple of months, and you’re sure you’ve gone through every possible explanation your troubled brain could come up with: he doesn’t love you. he doesn’t wanna spend eternity with you. or maybe it’s a power thing. or, or, or...? this endless cycle of worry and uncertainty has been keeping you on edge for way too long to think clearly now. “gosh, it has nothing to do with equality,” he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “what is it then?” “drop it.” you snap. “we’ll have to find out the hard way, then.”
you grab the nearest kitchen knife, and it turns out to be the one you use for cutting meat, a chef’s knife as they call it. how fitting. chris barely has enough time to catch up with your madness infused impulse, and when he turns his gaze back to you, the knife is already deep in your guts.
you thought it was gonna be romantic or somewhat dramatic at least. something from the movies where he sinks his vampire teeth into your neck, and just like magic — your eyes flash bright red, announcing the beginning of a new life.
“you dumb bitch,” he exhales shakily and somehow manages to catch you in time because the sharp pain in your stomach makes you lose your balance instantly. you’re still bitter and angry in the heat of the argument and you expect him to be the same way, but when you glance up, chris looks nothing but panicked. “that’s a new look on him,” you think, and it confuses you.
chris growls and sinks to his knees, carefully holding you and trying to move as fast as possible. what you don’t know is that turning can only be done in around thirty seconds since fatal injury. that might explain the rushing and chris’s pure bambi eyes panic but your consciousness is already starting to drift away to hold onto that train of thought.
chris bites into his wrist with unmasked fury, tearing and ripping his own veins even though using a knife would have been much cleaner. probably less painful, too. “swallow. now! come on, don’t you fall asleep on me now, focus!” he grabs your face and presses hard on the jaw joints, making you open your mouth like a puppet doll.
the sickly metallic taste of your own blood at the back of your throat from the internal bleeding mixes up with chris’s thick blood that he generously spits into your mouth, and you want to throw up. your head feels dizzy as your eyelids are getting heavier, your hearing suddenly fails completely as if someone turned the volume down from ten to zero. limbs are falling weak, and the pins and needles in them are so, so far from pleasant.
the thing about turning is... you actually have to die first. be fully, completely gone to be able to come back changed and corrupted, turned to the extent of your DNA having been violently rewritten. that you did not think through enough. the muscles in your throat contract almost on reflex, swallowing and gagging on the gooey salty substance, making your chest heave while coughing strangles you further. the tingles and nausea are so overwhelming and all consuming you actually catch yourself thinking dying would be a relief now. and then it follows as you wished.
you doze off for god knows how long but, by the looks of it, it can’t have been more than a few minutes because as you regain consciousness, chris is still looming over you, his own blood fresh on his lips. he’s blurry, though, everything is.
“come on, suck on me. c’mon, baby, there we go,” he coos as he brings his wrist to your lips, forcefully pressing it into your mouth and leaving you with little to no choice. the phrasing, unlike usual, doesn’t sound dirty or hot now, more like a life-saving command while you’re still so out it. it feels good, though, chris’s blood.
it doesn’t taste so metallic and gross anymore, and the texture feels almost soothing on your dry throat, like hot honey milk on a friday evening. suck, gulp, suck, gulp, suck, it almost lulls you back into serenity, some primal instinct of being attached to your only life line, finding comfort in someone’s warmth and touch and taste.
you wonder how much you’ve drunk already and whether chris will have anything left but you’re so, so thirsty you can’t even bring yourself to care.
what finally makes you stop is the sudden sharp ache in your gums. it feels so piercing the aftershocks are almost reaching your brain and eye sockets, and as you feel your old teeth fall out, a pair of longer fangs cuts through and settles into the upper teeth row. hot tears are stinging your eyes and you whine like a wounded deer, still unable to speak properly. it’s all too much, and you start to regret what you’ve done, and maybe, just maybe that’s why chris so passionately refused to put you through it. this kind of hunger and the animalistic, blood thirst driven rage were never something he wanted to inflict upon you.
your entire body is shaking but it’s not really a fearful tremor, more like restlessness, a new sort of “itch” somewhere deep, deep inside that you’ve never experienced before, the feeling so intense and soul wrenching you simply can’t disobey it. it makes you want to jump up and run.
“don’t worry, i’ll teach you how to handle it.” chris cups your face after taking off his leather gloves so you can feel the comfort of his actual skin. the touch is calming, but barely enough compared to that growing desire and need to satisfy the itch. “you stupid crazy cunt, why do you never listen,” he whispers into your forehead, his lips lightly brushing over your cold sweat covered skin, as he holds you closer, squeezing you against his chest in a protective manner, though the real danger to yourself is now planted within you.
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pucksandpower · 22 days ago
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Shouldn’t Have Done That
Mafia boss!Max Verstappen x Leclerc!Reader
Summary: trying to get one of the most dangerous men in the world to put a hit out on the love of his own life probably isn’t the brightest idea (or in which, for someone with a PhD, your professor is shockingly stupid)
Warnings: 18+ content, sexual harassment, imbalanced power dynamics, graphic violence, and descriptions of bodily harm
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The door to your apartment swings open, and the chatter from the hallway stops. Four of your classmates shuffle inside, their footsteps faltering as they take in the sight before them. They’re silent for a moment too long.
“Wait,” Katie says, her eyes wide as she looks up at the vaulted ceiling and back down to the gleaming hardwood floors. “Is this your place?”
You shrug, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door. “Yeah.”
“You live here?” Carla echoes, her voice tinged with disbelief.
“I mean,” you chuckle lightly, “obviously.”
The apartment, with its high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Mediterranean, feels miles away from the cramped student housing they’re all used to. It's not just the space. The sleek furniture, the abstract art pieces on the walls, the elegant touches — none of it exactly screams student budget. They’re trying not to stare, but they’re doing a bad job of hiding it.
“I thought we were coming over to, like … study,” Peter finally says, breaking the silence, a nervous chuckle following.
You give him a playful nudge with your elbow. “We are.”
“But here?” Katie crosses her arms, glancing at you with a raised eyebrow. “Come on, what’s the deal? This place has to cost a fortune.”
There’s a beat, then a couple of them laugh, but it’s a little strained. They’re not joking. They’re genuinely trying to piece it together. You could brush it off, let them make their own assumptions, but something about their wide-eyed curiosity feels harmless.
“My brother,” you say, almost casually. “He’s … well, he’s doing okay. He helps me out.”
They’re all staring, but it’s Carla who finally speaks up. “What does your brother do?”
You hesitate for just a second before answering. “Honestly, I’m not entirely sure.”
Katie’s eyes narrow. “You’re not sure?”
“I mean, I know it’s something with negotiations. Like, high-level stuff. It’s complicated.” You wave it off like it’s no big deal, like it doesn’t really matter. Because it doesn’t, right? You’ve never been the type to get too involved in his work. You just trust that he knows what he’s doing.
Carla tilts her head, curious but not pushing further. Peter, on the other hand, leans against the kitchen island, his lips curving into a smirk. “Something with negotiations? So, what? Is he, like, a spy or something?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “No, nothing like that.”
“Are you sure?” Peter presses, his tone teasing but with just enough edge that he’s probably half-serious.
“Not everything is out of a Bond movie, Peter,” you say, rolling your eyes.
“But the view!” Katie says, pulling everyone’s attention back to the massive windows overlooking the water. “I can’t believe you get to wake up to this every day.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Carla adds. “I’d never get any work done.”
“I manage,” you say, grinning. The truth is, it’s still surreal to you too. This place is everything you didn’t know you wanted, and sometimes you catch yourself staring out those windows, trying to remind yourself that it’s real.
“Man, I bet you never want to leave,” Katie says, still wandering around like she’s in a museum.
“Not when she has everything she needs right here,” Peter quips. “Look at this kitchen. You could probably host a Michelin chef here.”
You open the fridge, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water. “I wouldn’t know. I mostly use it for reheating leftovers.”
“You’re telling me this place has a kitchen like this, and you’re eating takeout?” Carla gasps dramatically, as if this is the most offensive thing she’s heard all day.
You shrug, uncapping the bottle. “Priorities.”
There’s a pause as everyone takes another lap of the apartment, taking in the minimalist, yet undeniably luxurious decor. The vibe is light, but you can feel the unspoken curiosity still lingering in the air.
“So … how well off are we talking, exactly?” Katie asks, not looking at you directly but instead at the marble countertops.
You shrug again, like it’s not that big of a deal. “Comfortable. Let’s just say he’s good at what he does.”
“I’ll say,” Peter mutters under his breath, and you can’t help but smirk.
For a moment, there’s silence again, but then Carla’s eyes light up like she’s had the best idea in the world. “Wait. Hold on. You know what I need to see?”
You raise an eyebrow, curious but already a little wary of where this is headed. “What?”
“Your closet.”
You blink, caught off guard by the request. “My closet?”
Katie jumps in, clapping her hands together. “Oh my god, yes. I didn’t even think of that. You have to show us.”
“I-” You hesitate, glancing towards the hallway. You hadn’t planned on giving them a tour of your personal space. “It’s not-”
“Come on!” Carla insists, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards the hallway with an eager grin. “We won’t judge. We just want to see.”
“Please?” Katie adds, pouting slightly for emphasis.
You laugh, giving in. “Fine, fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
As you lead them down the hallway, you can feel the anticipation in the air. When you stop in front of the large double doors, their excitement is palpable. You twist the knob, pushing the doors open with a small sigh.
“Okay, here it is.”
The collective gasp that follows is almost comical. You step aside, letting them wander into the massive walk-in closet, which feels more like a high-end boutique than anything else. The walls are lined with shelves and racks overflowing with designer labels. Chanel, Dior, Balmain, Gucci. Every label under the sun is here, all neatly arranged and organized in a way that’s both overwhelming and aesthetically pleasing.
Carla immediately rushes to a rack, her fingers brushing over the fabric of a Givenchy gown. “Are you kidding me?”
“This is unreal,” Katie whispers, her voice filled with awe as she runs her hand over a pair of Louboutin heels. “It’s like a dream.”
Peter whistles low, leaning against the doorframe, trying to play it cool, but even he looks impressed. “I’ve never seen this much designer stuff in one place.”
“I’ve only worn, like, half of it,” you admit sheepishly.
Carla spins around, her mouth hanging open. “Half? You could dress an army in here.”
You laugh, leaning against the doorframe, watching them fawn over the collection like kids in a candy store. It’s surreal, seeing your life through their eyes. To you, it’s just your brother’s way of making sure you’re taken care of, but to them, it’s something out of a movie.
Katie pulls out a vintage Valentino dress, holding it up in front of her. “I would die for this.”
“Please don’t,” you tease. “It’s just clothes.”
“Just clothes?” Carla repeats, incredulous. “This is practically a museum of couture.”
They spend the next several minutes pulling out pieces, laughing and gasping at everything from limited-edition handbags to extravagant gowns, and you can’t help but smile. It’s kind of fun, seeing them so excited, even if you still feel a little weird about the whole thing.
Finally, Carla turns to you, eyes wide. “Okay, you have to let us borrow something for the next event. Like, you have to.”
You shake your head, laughing. “We’ll see.”
But as they continue to gush over your closet, you realize that maybe it’s not such a big deal after all. Maybe sharing a little piece of this life with them doesn’t have to feel strange. Maybe it can just be fun.
***
Class is over before you realize it. Professor Turnier’s lecture on the intricacies of international negotiations had been more droning than usual, and the faint buzz of students gathering their things fills the hall. You shove your notebook into your bag, barely listening to the idle chatter around you. There’s a slight tension in the air that you can’t quite place, a sharpness that feels out of sync with the mundane end to the lecture.
You stand up to leave when you hear the professor’s voice, smooth and calculated.
“Could you stay behind for a moment?”
You freeze, glancing over your shoulder. His words aren’t unusual. He often asks students to hang back to discuss assignments or offer advice on projects. But something about his tone feels different. Off.
You sling your bag over your shoulder and nod, offering a polite, if tight, smile. “Sure.”
The last few students file out of the room, their footsteps echoing in the now-empty lecture hall. You hesitate before walking down toward his desk, feeling his gaze tracking your movements. His office is just off the hall, an enclosed glass-walled space where you can already see stacks of papers cluttering his desk.
“Come in,” he says, gesturing towards the open door, his voice too casual.
You step inside, noting the heavy scent of tobacco clinging to the air, and the way the blinds are partially drawn, casting strange shadows across the room. You stand near the door, feeling a sudden urge to stay as close to an exit as possible.
“Have a seat,” Turnier offers, motioning toward the chair across from his desk.
“I’m okay standing,” you say, trying to keep your tone light, even though your instincts are kicking into overdrive.
The professor doesn’t push it. He leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers together, watching you with a strange smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve been doing quite well in this course,” he starts, his voice calm and slow. “Very well, actually.”
You nod, unsure where this is going. “Thanks. I’ve been putting in a lot of work.”
“I can tell,” he replies. “You’re … very impressive.”
There’s a flicker of something unsettling in his words, and your stomach tightens.
He clears his throat, standing from his chair and walking around the desk to lean casually against the front of it, much closer now. “You know, I’ve been thinking. Someone like you, with your intelligence, your connections, could really go far in this world.”
You glance toward the door, wondering how much longer you’ll have to listen to him before you can politely excuse yourself. “I’m just focusing on the coursework right now. Trying to stay on top of things.”
“Of course,” he says, nodding, but his eyes are still on you. There’s a slowness to his movements, a deliberate lack of urgency that feels like he’s setting up for something. “But you could be doing so much more. I could help you.”
You take a step back instinctively. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
His smile widens, though there’s nothing friendly about it now. “You know exactly what I mean.”
You stare at him, the air in the room thick with a sudden, unmistakable tension. The distance between you feels far too small. He’s watching you with a kind of predatory stillness, like he’s waiting for a reaction, like he wants you to feel trapped.
“I should probably go,” you say, your voice steady but your heart pounding in your chest. “I have another class soon.”
Before you can move, his hand darts out, grabbing your wrist with a firm grip. The shift from casual to threatening is immediate, and panic flares in your chest. “You’re not going anywhere yet.”
You try to pull your hand free, but he tightens his grip, pulling you closer. His other hand moves to your waist, fingers curling possessively as his breath catches in a disgusting, anticipatory way.
“I could do a lot for you,” he murmurs, his face too close to yours now. “You’re smart enough to know that. I could make your career. Or ruin it.”
His hand slides lower, and you freeze, caught in the horror of the moment, disbelief mixing with disgust. But then something in you snaps.
“Get off me,” you say through gritted teeth, your voice trembling but fierce.
He laughs, a low, condescending sound that makes your skin crawl. “You don’t want to make this difficult.”
Your body moves before your mind fully catches up. With all the force you can muster, you slam your knee upward into his groin. His breath catches in his throat as he doubles over, releasing you instantly, his face twisting in pain. He stumbles back, clutching himself, groaning in agony.
You don’t wait for him to recover. You turn toward the door, ready to sprint out of his office and never look back. But just as your hand grips the doorknob, you hear his voice, raw and venomous behind you.
“You’ll regret this.”
You stop, your pulse pounding in your ears, but you don’t turn around.
“I’ll make sure you regret this,” he spits, still hunched over but his voice sharp and filled with fury. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
You swallow hard, every muscle in your body tensing.
“You think your money can protect you?” He sneers, his words like poison. “I have friends — powerful friends. You think you can humiliate me like this and just walk away? You’ll never have a career. I’ll make sure of it.”
You stare at the door in front of you, every instinct screaming at you to leave, but his words hang in the air, twisting into something darker, something more sinister.
“I know people. People who could make your life hell. Mafia connections, sweetheart,” he says with a sickening smirk, though his voice is still ragged from the pain. “You have no idea how easily I could ruin you.”
Your breath catches, your fingers gripping the doorknob so tightly your knuckles turn white. His threat lingers, the weight of it pressing down on you. You’ve heard stories — whispers of people who move in dangerous circles, people who have connections that go far beyond what you’d ever imagined dealing with.
You know he could be bluffing. He probably is. But what if he’s not?
You force yourself to open the door, stepping out into the hallway, your legs trembling. You don’t look back. You can’t. The hallway is empty, the echoes of your footsteps the only sound as you walk, faster and faster, away from his office, away from the suffocating tension of what just happened.
But his voice, that horrible promise, follows you like a shadow.
“I’m going to ruin you.”
You step out of the building, the cool Mediterranean air hitting your face, but it doesn’t calm the storm inside you. You feel the bile rise in your throat as you stop just outside the doors, leaning against the wall and trying to steady your breathing.
Your mind races, replaying everything that just happened. The feel of his hands on you, the way he looked at you, the way he thought he could get away with it. And then his threat — the weight of it hanging over you, heavy and suffocating.
What now?
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, but you don’t look at it. You can’t focus on anything but the gnawing sense of fear and anger churning inside you. For a second, you consider going back. Reporting him. But then you remember the look in his eyes, the cold certainty in his voice when he made that threat.
Mafia connections.
It sounds ridiculous, like something out of a movie. But here, in Monaco, where money and power intermingle in ways that blur the lines between the law and something far darker, it doesn’t feel so far-fetched.
You push yourself away from the wall and start walking, needing to move, needing to get away from the university, from the weight of what just happened. But as you walk, your mind keeps circling back to the same thought.
He’s not going to get away with this.
You refuse to let him.
***
You don’t remember driving to Charles’ apartment. The world outside had blurred into a haze of flashing lights and slick streets, your breath ragged in your chest as you fought to hold back the tears. By the time you park the car, your hands are shaking, white-knuckled on the steering wheel. You sit there for a second, trying to gather yourself, but the weight of what happened presses down, heavy and relentless.
Finally, you stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut, your footsteps hurried as you rush toward the entrance of the building. Your vision swims, the tears threatening to spill over, but you force yourself to keep moving, to get to Charles.
You don’t even knock when you reach his door. You punch in the code he gave you a long time ago and push the door open, not caring about anything but the need to see him, to feel safe for even a second.
Charles is in the living room, standing by the kitchen counter, his head turning the moment you step inside. His face instantly shifts from casual surprise to deep concern when he sees you — your tear-streaked face, your trembling body. He moves toward you without hesitation, his arms reaching out before you can even say a word.
“What happened?” He asks, his voice low and urgent as he pulls you into his chest. His strong arms wrap around you, holding you close, his warmth grounding you in a way you didn’t even know you needed.
You try to speak, but the words are stuck in your throat, tangled with sobs. You collapse into him, your legs giving way as the tears finally break free. His grip tightens as he catches you, lowering you gently onto the couch, cradling you like a child. You bury your face in his chest, gasping for air between sobs.
“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmurs, rocking you gently, his hand running through your hair in soothing strokes. “You’re safe now. You’re with me. Just breathe, okay?”
You try to follow his instructions, but your breaths come out jagged, choking on the tears. It feels like the whole day is crashing down on you at once, and the more you try to hold it together, the more everything falls apart.
He keeps murmuring reassurances, his hand never leaving your hair, his other arm a firm anchor around your shoulders. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. Just take your time.”
It takes a few minutes before you can even manage to form a coherent sentence. The sobs slow, but your whole body still trembles in his arms. You pull back just enough to look up at him, your face wet, eyes puffy, but the words still feel thick on your tongue.
“Charles …” Your voice breaks, and another hiccup escapes before you can stop it. “It’s … it’s my professor. H-He …”
His face hardens instantly, the warmth in his expression replaced by something darker, colder. “What did he do?”
You swallow, trying to steady your breathing, but the panic rises again as the memory of that office, the way his hands grabbed you, floods back. You squeeze your eyes shut, your words coming out in a rush. “H-He tried to touch me. He wouldn’t let me leave. I-I had to push him off me, and he said … he said he’s going to ruin me, Charles.”
Your voice cracks, and fresh tears spill over as you cling to him, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline.
Charles doesn’t say anything at first, but you feel the tension radiating through his body. His grip on you tightens, and when you finally open your eyes, you see the fury etched into his face, his jaw clenched so hard it looks like it might snap.
“He what?” His voice is low, almost too calm, but there’s a dangerous edge beneath it.
You nod, your words barely a whisper. “He grabbed me, and I pushed him, but he … he said he’s going to fail me now. He said he has mafia connections, and he’s going to ruin my life.”
For a second, Charles just stares at you, his eyes dark with something unnameable. Then, suddenly, he pulls you even closer, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it feels like he’s trying to shield you from the entire world.
“He’s not going to do a goddamn thing,” Charles says, his voice rough but steady. “I won’t let him. I promise you, he won’t get away with this.”
You hiccup, shaking your head against his chest. “But he … he said-”
“I don’t care what he said,” Charles cuts in, his hand moving to cup the back of your head, pressing your face into his shoulder. “He’s not going to touch your career. He’s not going to touch you. I’ll make sure of that.”
Your whole body shakes, the weight of his words sinking in, but the fear doesn’t leave. It clings to you, tight and suffocating, like a shadow you can’t shake. “He said he knows people, Charles. Dangerous people.”
“I know people too,” he says, his voice hard, cold in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. “You’re my sister. He’ll wish he’d never crossed you.”
You pull back slightly, blinking up at him, your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
He lets out a slow breath, his hand brushing a tear from your cheek. “You don’t need to worry about that. Just trust me, okay? I’ll handle it.”
“But-”
“No buts,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. “I’ll take care of everything. You just need to focus on staying safe. I won’t let him come near you again.”
Your lip trembles, and you lean into him, letting yourself be comforted by his certainty, by the strength of his promise. But the words the professor had said ��� his sneering, his threats — they linger in your mind, gnawing at you.
“What if he really can do it?” You whisper, the fear creeping back in. “What if he ruins me, Charles? What if-”
“He won’t,” Charles says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
You press your face into his chest again, trying to breathe through the panic. He holds you, rocking you gently, his voice a steady anchor in the storm.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he murmurs, his voice softening. “You’re my little sister. No one messes with you and gets away with it. Do you understand?”
You nod against his chest, your tears slowly subsiding as his words wrap around you like a protective shield.
“I’ll make him pay for what he did,” Charles says, his voice dropping lower, more serious. “He’s not going to hurt you again. And he sure as hell isn’t going to ruin your career. I’ll make sure of it.”
For the first time since you walked into his apartment, you feel a small flicker of relief. Charles has always been the one to make things right, the one who takes care of things when you can’t. If anyone can fix this, it’s him.
“But how?” You whisper, looking up at him, your voice fragile.
He meets your gaze, his expression softening just a bit, though the fire still burns in his eyes. “I have my ways.”
The cryptic answer doesn’t do much to soothe you, but there’s something in his voice, in the way he holds you, that makes you trust him. You know he means what he says. He always has.
You let out a shaky breath, leaning into him again, your body exhausted from the rollercoaster of emotions. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Charles says, his voice gentle now. “I’ve got this. You just need to rest. Take a breath. You’ve been through enough.”
His words wash over you, and you feel yourself relaxing slightly, the weight lifting just enough for you to breathe again.
“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand still cradling you like you’re something precious. “You don’t need to thank me. You’re family. I’ll always protect you.”
***
Max sits at the head of a long, polished mahogany table, a glass of whiskey resting in front of him. The dim lighting casts sharp shadows across the room, reflecting the power and wealth that permeates everything around him. He’s calm, calculating, the very image of control, his blue eyes scanning the room as his men discuss the details of the night’s business. There’s an unspoken respect, an awareness that every word spoken in his presence is weighted, measured, as if any misstep could have consequences.
Charles is beside him, his right-hand man and oldest friend, the only one who can match Max’s intensity. Charles leans back in his chair, but there’s a tension in his posture tonight — something Max doesn’t miss.
Max notices everything.
It’s been that way since the day he took over the family business, since he became the Max Verstappen, the name that inspires both reverence and fear in equal measure.
His phone buzzes on the table, breaking the momentary silence. He reaches for it, raising an eyebrow when he sees the number. Unknown, but local.
“Hold that thought,” Max says to the room, lifting a finger as he stands up and steps away from the table, phone in hand. He walks toward the tall windows overlooking the city. Monaco spreads out beneath him, glittering under the night sky. With a flick of his thumb, he answers the call.
“Yeah?” His voice is deep, smooth, but edged with impatience. He doesn’t do pleasantries with strangers.
There’s a pause on the other end, and then a voice, hesitant but smug, seeps through. “Mr. Verstappen. I wasn’t sure if you’d answer.”
Max frowns slightly, recognizing that tone — someone who thinks they’ve called in a favor, someone who believes they have power. He hates those kinds of people.
“Who is this?” He asks, cutting to the point.
“This is Alan Turnier. I was told you’re a man who gets things done … discreetly.” There’s an oily confidence to his words, and Max’s frown deepens.
He’s heard the name before. Some professor at the university, an arrogant prick by all accounts. Charles had mentioned him in passing a few times, and now the man is calling him, of all people.
“And what exactly do you want from me, Professor?” Max’s voice is low, his tone dangerously calm. He already doesn’t like where this is going.
“Well,” the professor begins, “I’ve got a problem. A student. A rather difficult one, actually. She’s been causing some … trouble, and I need her to be taken down a peg or two. You know, rough her up a bit, teach her a lesson.”
Max’s grip on the phone tightens, but his face remains impassive. He’s handled scumbags like this before. He’s used to people thinking they can use him to solve their petty problems.
“Who’s the student?” Max asks, keeping his voice steady, though there’s a hard edge beneath it now.
The professor chuckles like he’s sharing a secret. “Her name’s Y/N Leclerc. She’s been a real pain. Thought she could get away with disrespecting me, so I figured I’d call in a favor. Make sure she learns her place.”
Max stops breathing for a moment.
The name hits him like a sledgehammer, slamming into his chest with a force he didn’t expect. His mind races, his body going rigid as every instinct flares up. Charles’ sister. Your name. The girl he’s known for years. The one he’s always been protective of, even if he’s kept his distance. The one who’s always had that soft, unaffected smile that somehow disarmed him, even when nothing else could.
His free hand curls into a fist.
“What did you say?” Max’s voice drops dangerously low, quieter now, but the threat in it is unmistakable.
“I said she needs to be put in her place,” the professor repeats, not realizing the fatal mistake he’s just made. “A little lesson in respect. Maybe scare her a bit — she’s been thinking she’s untouchable.”
Max’s vision narrows. The world outside the window blurs as a violent rage surges through him. He’s usually calm, calculated, but this? The idea of anyone laying a hand on you? His jaw tightens, his pulse quickening with the force of the anger boiling inside him.
Without another word, Max pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it for a second. He doesn’t think — he acts. His grip tightens, and with a sharp motion, he hurls the phone across the room, sending it crashing against the wall. The sound of it shattering echoes through the room as shards of glass and metal fall to the floor.
“Max?” Charles’ voice cuts through the haze, concerned and alert. He’s already on his feet, moving toward Max. “What the hell was that about?”
Max doesn’t answer immediately. His chest heaves with barely restrained fury, his hands still balled into fists at his sides. He breathes deeply, trying to steady himself, but the rage won’t let go. It claws at him, consuming him.
“Max.” Charles is in front of him now, eyes searching his face for an answer, his own tension rising. He’s seen Max angry before, but this? This is different. Personal. “Talk to me. What happened?”
Max finally meets his gaze, his voice like gravel as he speaks. “That was Turnier. The professor.”
Charles’ eyes narrow at the mention of the name. “What did he want?”
Max clenches his teeth, trying to control the storm inside him. “He wanted me to rough up a student for him. Said she was causing trouble.”
Charles’ face darkens, his own anger simmering just beneath the surface. “Who?”
Max’s eyes burn with intensity as he holds Charles’ gaze. “Y/N.”
The moment her name leaves his lips, Charles freezes. The color drains from his face, and his jaw tightens. “What?”
Max doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t need to. The weight of what the professor asked for hangs heavy between them, the unspoken understanding thickening the air.
“He didn’t know she’s your sister,” Max says, his voice low but lethal. “Didn’t know she’s my family.”
Charles exhales sharply, his fists clenched. “What did you say to him?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Max growls, his voice hardening. “I hung up. Smashed the phone.”
There’s a long pause as the two of them stand there, the weight of the situation settling in. Charles looks like he’s ready to explode, his hands twitching as if he wants to hit something, anything, to release the rage coursing through him.
Max, however, remains deadly calm on the outside, even though the fury inside him is almost unbearable. His mind races with possibilities, with thoughts of what he’s going to do next. He has power, more than Turnier could ever imagine, and he’s going to use every ounce of it to make sure that man never comes near you again.
“We’ll handle this,” Max says finally, his voice cold, determined. “He’s going to regret even thinking about touching her.”
Charles nods, but his eyes are still filled with a kind of wild, protective fury. “I want to be there when you do.”
Max meets his gaze, and for the first time since the call, a grim smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You will be.”
For a moment, they stand in silence, the only sound the faint hum of the city below. Then Max turns back toward the table, his movements deliberate as he grabs the decanter of whiskey and pours himself another glass, the liquid sloshing into the crystal tumbler.
“Call Nico,” Max says to Charles, his tone businesslike but laced with an edge of menace. “We’re going to need a cleanup crew. And tell him to bring the big car.”
Charles doesn’t hesitate, already pulling out his phone, his expression steely. Max takes a long sip of the whiskey, the burn of it doing nothing to dull the fire inside him. He knows what needs to be done, and he knows exactly how to make Turnier pay.
The professor had no idea who he was messing with.
Max sets the glass down with a sharp click, his mind already working through the logistics, the steps he’ll take to destroy the man who dared to threaten you. Because this isn’t just about revenge. It’s about protecting what’s his. And as far as Max is concerned, you’ve always been part of that.
“I’ll take care of it,” Max says, more to himself than to anyone else, his voice low and final.
And he will.
No one touches you. Not ever.
***
Max moves through the dimly lit warehouse with the kind of purpose that turns heads and commands silence. Every step is deliberate, every movement calculated. His men line the walls, standing in the shadows like sentinels, but none of them speak. Not when Max is like this. Not when the air is thick with the unspoken threat that something bad is about to happen.
Charles walks beside him, his face set in hard lines, his shoulders tight with barely restrained fury. The kind of fury only family could ignite. The kind that burns hotter and longer than anything else.
At the center of the room, tied to a steel chair, is Professor Turnier.
He’s already bruised, his face swollen from the initial “conversation” Max’s men had with him. But this? This is different. Max and Charles didn’t come here to chat. They came to finish this.
Turnier’s eyes dart nervously between the two men as they approach. His arrogance, his smug self-assurance — it’s gone now, replaced by something desperate and fearful.
“Please … I didn’t know!” Turnier’s voice trembles as he speaks, his words tumbling out too quickly, as if speed could save him. “I didn’t know she was your sister. If I’d known-”
Charles steps forward before Max can, grabbing Turnier by the front of his shirt and yanking him forward, close enough that the professor’s breath hitches in fear. “You think that matters?” Charles hisses, his voice low, lethal. “You think it makes a difference who she is to me?”
Turnier’s lips quiver, his face pale. “I-I didn’t mean-”
“You didn’t mean?” Max’s voice cuts in, smooth but ice-cold, his hands sliding into the pockets of his tailored suit as he steps up beside Charles. “You didn’t mean to assault her? Didn’t mean to threaten her future? Didn’t mean to call me, of all people, to finish your dirty work?”
Turnier’s mouth opens, but no words come out. Max watches him with a look of disdain, his lip curling slightly. It’s pathetic, really — this man, who had so much confidence, so much entitlement when he thought he had control, now reduced to a trembling, sniveling mess.
Max tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he studies Turnier. “Do you know what I do to people who ask me to hurt someone I care about?”
Turnier shakes his head frantically, tears already beginning to spill from his eyes. “Please … I didn’t know. I didn’t know who she was. I was wrong, I see that now. Just — just let me go. I’ll leave. I’ll disappear. I won’t come near her ever again. I swear!”
Charles lets out a low, bitter laugh, but there’s no humor in it. He releases his grip on Turnier’s shirt, only to backhand him across the face with such force that the chair tilts. The professor yelps, blood spraying from his split lip as he teeters before slamming back down onto the floor.
“You think it’s that easy?” Charles growls, his hands flexing at his sides, itching for more. “You think you can just walk away after what you did?”
Turnier groans, his head lolling to the side. “I-I made a mistake. I can fix it. I can-”
“No.” Max’s voice is sharp, final. “There’s no fixing this.”
He steps closer, crouching down so he’s at eye level with Turnier, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes boring into the professor’s. Turnier tries to look away, but Max grabs his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “You thought you were untouchable, didn’t you? That no one would question you. That you could do whatever you wanted and get away with it.”
Turnier’s breath comes out in shaky gasps, his eyes wild with fear. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just let me go.”
Max shakes his head slowly, as if he’s disappointed. “You don’t understand. This isn’t about what you can do. It’s about what I’m going to do to you.”
Turnier whimpers, his whole body shaking now, the weight of his impending fate finally settling in.
Max stands, his movements graceful, effortless. He turns to Charles, who is vibrating with rage, his fists clenched, every muscle in his body taut like a coiled spring.
“Charles,” Max says calmly, “what do you think we should take first?”
Turnier’s eyes widen in terror as he realizes what’s coming. He jerks in the chair, trying to free himself from the ropes that bind him, but it’s no use. His voice cracks as he screams, “No, please — no! Don’t!”
Charles steps forward, his eyes gleaming with a cold, focused hatred. “The tongue,” he says, his voice low, almost detached. “He won’t need that anymore.”
Max nods, as if that was exactly the right answer. He moves to the side, and one of his men steps forward, placing a gleaming pair of pliers on the table in front of them. Turnier’s screams grow louder, more desperate, but Max simply gestures to one of the guards.
“Gag him,” he orders.
The guard nods, shoving a rag into Turnier’s mouth to stifle his cries. The professor writhes in his chair, his face contorting with panic, but there’s nowhere to go, no one coming to save him.
Max picks up the pliers, turning them over in his hand, his eyes cold and detached as he tests their weight. He looks at Charles. “Do you want the honors, or should I?”
Charles’ lips twist into a grim smile, and he steps forward, taking the pliers from Max without hesitation. “I’ve got it.”
Turnier’s muffled screams are nothing more than background noise now, a pathetic, meaningless sound that neither man pays much attention to. Charles leans down, grabbing Turnier by the jaw and forcing his mouth open, the gag now drenched with the professor’s tears and saliva. He positions the pliers inside the professor’s mouth, gripping his tongue with merciless precision.
Turnier’s eyes roll back in his head, his body jerking violently against the ropes. Charles pauses, glancing over at Max, who watches with a cool, detached expression.
“Do it,” Max says, his voice calm.
And Charles does. The sound of the tongue being ripped from Turnier’s mouth is wet, violent, and final. Blood gushes from the professor’s mouth as he slumps forward, his body sagging in the chair as he groans in pain, the gag doing little to mask the wet, gurgling sounds of his suffering.
Charles tosses the bloodied piece of flesh to the floor, wiping his hands on a handkerchief one of Max’s men offers him. He looks down at the professor, disgust evident in his eyes.
“Not so smug now, are you?” Charles mutters, stepping back as Max approaches again.
Max crouches down, staring at Turnier, who can barely keep his head up. “We’re not done,” Max says softly, his voice chilling in its softness. “You hurt her. You wanted to destroy her life, her future. Now we’re going to make sure you never hurt anyone again.”
He motions to the guard once more. “Strip him.”
The men don’t hesitate. They move quickly, cutting away Turnier’s clothes until he’s bare, his body trembling in the cold air of the warehouse. Max nods to Charles, who steps forward, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He picks up a blade this time — small, sharp, efficient.
Without a word, Charles steps forward and swings the knife with brutal precision. The scream that comes from Turnier’s throat — guttural, primal, filled with the pain of someone who knows they will never be whole again — echoes through the empty warehouse.
Max watches impassively as the professor collapses in on himself, blood pooling beneath the chair, his sobs now nothing more than broken gasps. He kneels again, leaning in close, his face calm, his voice quiet.
“If you ever thought you were untouchable, I hope tonight has taught you otherwise. You will never speak again. You will never harm another woman again. You will spend the rest of your life as a reminder of what happens when you cross someone who’s mine.”
Max stands up, looking at Charles. “Make sure he’s cleaned up. Dump him where someone will find him. Let him explain to the world what happened without his tongue.”
Charles nods, his chest still heaving with anger, but he knows it’s over. Turnier’s life is ruined. He’ll live, but barely. And the fear will stay with him forever.
Max takes one last look at the professor, broken and bleeding, before turning to leave. His voice, cold and resolute, echoes in the warehouse as he walks away.
“No one touches her. Ever.”
***
The next day, you walk into the lecture hall with your usual sense of dread. Every step feels heavier than the last, the weight of what happened with Professor Turnier pressing down on you like a lead blanket. Even though Charles assured you everything was handled, you can’t stop the anxious thrum of nerves coursing through you. What if Turnier follows through with his threat? What if he finds some way to make your life hell without you even knowing it? The thoughts circle in your mind like vultures as you make your way to your seat.
The room is already buzzing with the usual chatter of students. You sit down next to Camille, who shoots you a quick smile before returning to scrolling through her phone.
"Are you okay?” She asks absently, still distracted by whatever is on her screen.
You nod, forcing a tight smile. "Yeah, just tired.”
Camille glances at you, her brow furrowing slightly, but she doesn't press it. "Same. This class is killing me. I swear if I have to sit through another one of Turnier’s mind-numbing lectures, I might actually pass out.”
The mention of his name sends a jolt through you, but you manage to keep your expression neutral. The thought of seeing him, of facing him after what happened, makes your stomach twist. You wonder if he’ll look at you, if he’ll acknowledge anything at all — or if he’ll act like nothing happened. The idea makes your skin crawl.
More students trickle in, filling the room, the noise level rising with laughter and chatter. You find yourself scanning the doorway, bracing yourself for the moment when Turnier walks in with that smug expression, as if he still holds all the power. Your heart hammers in your chest, fingers gripping the edge of your notebook a little too tightly.
But the door swings open, and instead of Turnier, someone else walks in.
There’s an immediate hush that falls over the room, the shift so sudden it feels like the air has been sucked out of the space. The new professor strides in confidently, carrying a few books under one arm and glancing briefly at the rows of students. He looks like he belongs in an entirely different world — a man in his mid-40s, tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. He wears a tailored suit, but his demeanor is far more relaxed than Turnier’s ever was.
He sets his things down on the desk at the front of the room, and for a moment, no one says a word. Everyone seems to be waiting for some kind of explanation, the tension palpable as the professor faces the class.
“Good morning, everyone,” he says, his voice calm, clear, and authoritative. “I’m Professor Mathieu, and I’ll be taking over for the remainder of the semester.”
You feel the shift in the room as everyone processes what he’s just said. Whispers immediately break out among the students, confused murmurs of “What happened to Turnier?” and “Did anyone know about this?” ripple through the lecture hall. Your heart skips a beat, and you sit up straighter, shock momentarily pushing the anxiety aside.
Camille leans in toward you, her voice a hushed whisper. “Did you hear that? What do you think happened to Turnier?”
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. “No idea,” you say quietly, hoping the tremor in your voice isn’t noticeable.
At the front of the room, Professor Mathieu doesn’t seem fazed by the murmurings. He taps his hand on the desk lightly, drawing everyone’s attention back to him.
“I understand you all have questions,” he says, his tone not unkind, “but I’ve been asked to inform you that Professor Turnier is no longer available. As far as the specifics of his departure, that’s not something I can discuss. What I can tell you is that I’ll be taking over for the rest of the semester, and I expect we’ll all be able to adjust without any issues.”
You can feel the tension in the room crackle like static. Some students exchange glances, but no one dares ask any more questions. You, on the other hand, are frozen in your seat. No longer available. The words echo in your head like a distant bell, sending a surge of relief and confusion through you.
Camille nudges you, leaning in closer. “Do you think he got fired?” She whispers.
You shrug, keeping your voice low. “Maybe. I mean, it’s weird that we didn’t hear anything about it.”
“Super weird,” she agrees, still watching the new professor with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “I wonder what he did.”
The same question nags at you, but for an entirely different reason. You think of Charles, his words from last night still fresh in your mind: I’ll take care of it. He won’t hurt you ever again. You wonder what exactly he meant by that. Clearly, Turnier isn’t coming back, but what happened to him?
Professor Mathieu opens a folder on the desk and begins to speak, pulling your attention back to the front of the room. “Now, as I said, we’ll be continuing with the curriculum as planned, but I’ll be implementing some changes to the structure of the course. We’ll focus less on rigid theory and more on practical application, which I believe will be more engaging for all of you.”
The shift in focus seems to settle the room slightly. The murmurs die down as he moves into his lecture, his voice smooth and confident. But even as the class starts, you can’t shake the feeling of something monumental having shifted.
You’re barely paying attention as Professor Mathieu drones on about diplomatic history and the complexities of statecraft. Your mind is somewhere else, replaying the events of last night, the relief you felt when Charles held you close and promised to make things right. You glance at the students around you. They have no idea, no inkling of what almost happened. What could have happened.
Suddenly, you feel Camille nudge your arm. You blink and realize you’ve zoned out completely.
“Are you okay?” Camille whispers, her voice laced with concern. “You look … spaced out.”
You offer her a small smile, though you know it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah, just tired, I guess.”
Camille studies you for a second, clearly not convinced, but she drops it. “Well, this is going to be an interesting semester,” she says, her voice light, but there’s an edge to it. “I mean, Turnier just disappearing like that? Something’s gotta be up.”
You glance over at her, trying to play it cool. “Maybe he retired early or something.”
“Yeah, but no one knew? No announcement, nothing? Feels sketchy.”
You don’t respond, just nodding along as you turn your attention back to the new professor, who’s already deep into his lecture. But as the minutes tick by, you can’t help the growing sense of unease in your chest. There’s relief, sure — Turnier’s gone. But the fact that it happened so suddenly, so completely, leaves you with more questions than answers. What did Charles and Max do?
Camille shifts beside you, flipping through her notes and scribbling things down. “At least the new guy seems decent,” she mutters. “Way better than Turnier.”
You nod, though your mind is elsewhere. You can barely focus on the lecture, your thoughts spinning like a whirlpool. Is Turnier really gone for good? Did Charles and Max … do something more than just get him fired? You remember Max’s cold eyes, the way he’d told you once, in passing, that he’d do anything for family. That no one crossed him or those he cared about without consequences.
What kind of consequences?
Your phone buzzes in your lap, pulling you from your thoughts. You glance down discreetly and see a message from Charles.
Everything’s taken care of. You’re safe.
You stare at the words for a long moment, a chill running down your spine. Safe. The word should make you feel better, but somehow, it only deepens the mystery.
You glance around the lecture hall again. Everyone else is oblivious, focused on their notes, their laptops, their whispering conversations about the sudden change in professors. But you know something they don’t. You know that the world you live in is a lot more dangerous than they realize.
***
When you step out of the building, the afternoon sun blinding for a second, you blink to adjust. Students mill around the campus courtyard, some gathered in groups, others rushing to their next class. You fish your car keys out of your bag, already mentally going over what you’ll make for dinner tonight, but as you approach the edge of the steps, you stop dead in your tracks.
Max is there.
Leaning casually against the sleek, charcoal body of his Aston Martin Valkyrie, arms crossed, aviators shielding his eyes. The car is a thing of beauty — sleek lines and aggressive angles, a car that demands attention. And it’s getting it. You can feel the stares from all around. Students have slowed their pace, eyes darting between Max and you. Whispers start spreading through the crowd like wildfire, curious and speculative.
You swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your pulse picks up. It’s not unusual for Max to turn heads, but seeing him here, on campus, waiting for you, feels like something else entirely. He’s never been the type to drop by unannounced — especially not in a setting like this.
You step down from the stairs, feeling like every pair of eyes is following you, but your focus is on Max. His casual confidence is unnerving, but then again, it always has been. There’s something about the way he carries himself, like he’s always in control, that makes it hard to breathe around him sometimes.
“Max?” You call out, a mix of confusion and concern in your voice. “What are you doing here?”
He pushes off the car and takes off his sunglasses, revealing those sharp, blue eyes of his, which are locked entirely on you. He walks toward you with a swagger that’s impossible to miss, as if he owns every inch of space he moves through.
“I’m here to pick you up,” he says smoothly, voice low but with a hint of amusement.
You look over your shoulder, towards the student parking lot. “But I drove here,” you protest, feeling a little ridiculous saying it aloud. You motion vaguely in the direction of your car. “I’m fine. I can-”
Max cuts you off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll have someone pick it up and drive it back to your place. You’re coming with me.”
You hesitate, feeling the weight of the dozens of gazes on you. Max doesn’t seem to care about the attention at all, which isn’t surprising. He’s used to it. But the thought of climbing into his car, with what feels like half the campus watching, sends a jolt of nervous energy through you.
“Max, I-” you start, but he opens the passenger door with a casual, almost commanding gesture.
“Get in,” he says, his tone leaving little room for argument.
You glance around, noticing some of your classmates openly gawking at the scene. You feel a flush creep up your neck, but there’s no way out of this without causing even more of a spectacle. With a sigh, you lower your head slightly and step forward, sliding into the seat of the Valkyrie. The leather is cool against your skin, the interior smelling of something clean and faintly masculine. Max shuts the door behind you and walks around to the driver’s side, slipping in with fluid grace.
As soon as the door closes, the low hum of the engine fills the air, and Max glances over at you. “Seatbelt,” he says quietly, waiting until you click it in place before pulling away from the curb.
You can’t bring yourself to look out the window as the car glides through campus. You know everyone’s watching. You can almost feel the collective curiosity, the questions that will follow this moment — why is Max picking you up? What’s your relationship? The ride is smooth, the low rumble of the engine making it feel like you’re floating. Max doesn’t speak, and neither do you, but the silence is charged with something unsaid, heavy in the space between you.
It’s not until you’re out of campus, away from the prying eyes, that you risk a glance at him. His jaw is set, eyes focused on the road ahead, his hands relaxed on the wheel. There’s something about the way he drives — calm, controlled, like he’s in command of everything around him.
You chew on your bottom lip, unsure of how to ask the question that’s been gnawing at you since this morning. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you break the silence, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Did you … did you and Charles have anything to do with Turnier being replaced?”
Max doesn’t answer right away. His fingers flex on the steering wheel, his gaze still straight ahead, but there’s a flicker of something dark in his eyes, something cold and calculating. For a moment, you think he might brush off the question, but then he exhales through his nose, a short, humorless sound.
“We took care of it,” he says, his voice firm, unflinching. There’s a note of pride in it, too, a quiet sort of satisfaction.
You feel a shiver run down your spine. “What … what did you do?” You ask, even though you’re not sure you want to know the answer.
Max glances at you, his gaze steady, unyielding. “Turnier won’t be taking advantage of anyone else. Ever again.”
The words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. You stare at him, trying to process what he’s just said. There’s something final in his tone, something that makes your chest tighten with a mixture of relief and dread.
You swallow hard, turning your gaze back to the road. The tension in the car is palpable now, thick and unspoken. You know better than to push for more details. Max and Charles operate in a world where consequences are swift and absolute. You don’t need to ask what they did to Turnier. The important thing is that he’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.
But the weight of that realization — of what Max and Charles might have done — sits heavily in your stomach. You glance at Max again, trying to find something in his expression that might offer more reassurance, but his face is unreadable.
“So that’s it?” You ask, your voice small. “It’s over?”
Max nods, a slight tilt of his head. “It’s over.”
You should feel relieved. You should feel grateful. But there’s something unsettling about how easily they made Turnier disappear. About how calmly Max talks about it, like it’s just another business transaction.
The car continues to glide down the road, and for a while, neither of you speaks. You’re lost in your thoughts, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt. The reality of it all is sinking in now — Turnier’s gone. He’s not coming back. But at what cost?
You steal another glance at Max, wondering how much he’s willing to do for you. For Charles. For family.
“Thank you,” you say softly, the words barely audible.
Max doesn’t respond immediately. He keeps his eyes on the road, his expression unreadable. But then, after a moment, he nods once, almost imperceptibly.
“Anything for you,” he says, his voice low and quiet. But there’s a weight to his words, a promise that hangs between you like a silent vow.
You don’t know how to respond, so you just sit there, the sound of the engine filling the silence. Part of you wants to ask more questions, to understand what exactly Max did. But the other part of you — the part that knows how dangerous his world is — tells you to leave it alone.
So you do. You sit back in your seat, watching the city blur by outside the window, and try to focus on the fact that, for now, you’re safe.
***
Max pulls the Valkyrie into the underground garage of his building, and the moment you step out, the cool air hits your skin, grounding you again. The weight of the day, of everything that’s happened, still presses on your chest. You follow Max through the private elevator, feeling the tension rise the higher you go. When the elevator doors slide open, revealing Max’s penthouse, the warm glow of the lights and the familiar scent of home greet you.
Charles is waiting.
He stands by the window, a drink in hand, but the moment he sees you and Max step in, his expression softens. He strides over, his eyes searching your face, concern etched in every line of his posture.
"How’re you holding up?” Charles asks gently, wrapping you in a brief but firm hug.
You exhale into his embrace, grateful for the comfort. "I’m … better,” you admit, your voice steadier than you expect. But the presence of both men, these two constants in your life, makes everything feel a little less overwhelming.
Charles glances between you and Max as he steps back, something flickering in his eyes. “Good. You’re in safe hands.” The way he says it, like there’s something more behind the words, makes your heart skip a beat.
Max doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, tall and imposing, his gaze fixed on you. You feel the weight of it, the intensity, and it’s making you too aware of everything — the closeness of him, the way his arm brushes against yours as you move toward the dining table, the way your pulse quickens every time he looks at you.
The table is already set — simple but elegant. You all sit, and Charles takes the head of the table, a casual smirk tugging at his lips as Max takes the seat opposite you. The food is rich and fragrant, the kind of meal that should make your mouth water, but you’re finding it hard to focus on anything other than the electricity buzzing in the air between you and Max.
The dinner conversation starts out light. Charles talks about work, a new deal he’s working on, and you try to engage, but your mind keeps drifting back to Max. His presence is impossible to ignore, especially when you feel his eyes on you. Every time you steal a glance at him, he’s already looking at you, like he’s been watching you the whole time.
And he has been watching you.
It’s not subtle, the way Max’s eyes linger on you, the way his gaze softens whenever you speak, like he’s memorizing every word. You try not to read too much into it — this is just Max being Max, right? He’s always been protective, always looked out for you. But tonight … there’s something else in the way he looks at you, something deeper, more intense.
You take a bite of your food, trying to focus on anything other than the heat creeping up your neck. But every time you dare to look back at Max, you catch his gaze, and your heart stutters in your chest. There’s a softness in his eyes, something that makes your breath hitch, and you have to look away before it overwhelms you.
Charles, ever the observer, doesn’t miss a thing. He watches the silent exchange between the two of you for a good part of the meal, his eyes flicking between you and Max like he’s piecing together a puzzle. His lips quirk up in a knowing smile, but he doesn’t say anything. Not yet.
It’s halfway through the meal when the silence stretches a little too long, the weight of the unspoken tension thick in the air. You keep your eyes on your plate, your hand trembling slightly as you reach for your water glass. Max hasn’t said a word in what feels like forever, but his gaze — God, you can feel it like a physical touch.
And then, just when the tension feels unbearable, Charles leans back in his chair, placing his utensils down with an exaggerated clatter, and clears his throat dramatically.
"Alright,” he says, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "This has been fun and all, but I’ve had enough of watching you two make heart eyes at each other across the table.”
Your fork freezes midway to your mouth. You glance up, eyes wide, and catch Max’s expression — a mix of surprise and amusement flickering across his face.
Charles grins, entirely too pleased with himself. "Seriously,” he continues, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "I mean, it’s cute, don’t get me wrong. But how long are you two gonna keep pretending there’s nothing going on here?”
Your face burns, and you open your mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. You don’t even know what you’d say if you could. Deny it? Laugh it off? You’re not even sure what this is, let alone how to explain it.
Max doesn’t flinch. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, and raises an eyebrow at Charles. "Heart eyes?” He repeats, his tone casual but with a hint of a challenge.
Charles smirks, not backing down. "You heard me. I’ve been sitting here watching you two eye each other like you’re the only people in the room. I swear, it’s exhausting.” He looks at you then, his eyes softening slightly. "And for the record, there’s no one in this world I’d trust more with my sister than you, Max.”
Your heart skips a beat. The weight of Charles’ words sinks in, heavy and full of meaning. Max doesn’t react immediately, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something that makes your breath catch.
Charles leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his grin widening. "So, why don’t you two put us all out of our misery and just kiss already?”
The room goes still. You can’t breathe. You glance at Max, your heart racing, and for a split second, you think maybe he’ll laugh it off, that this is just Charles being Charles, stirring the pot for his own amusement.
But Max doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t hesitate. His eyes lock onto yours, intense and unwavering, and before you can even process what’s happening, he stands up, his chair scraping against the floor as he moves.
The next thing you know, Max is in front of you, and without a word, without a second of doubt, he reaches across the table, his hands sliding under your arms. He pulls you out of your seat with such ease, like you weigh nothing, and before you can even register it, you’re being tugged across the table toward him.
Your breath hitches, and your hands instinctively find his shoulders as he pulls you closer. His grip is firm but gentle, and his face is just inches from yours now, his eyes dark with something you’ve never quite seen before.
And then, with a slight tilt of his head, Max closes the distance.
His lips press against yours, warm and soft, and the world around you melts away. Everything goes quiet, every sound, every thought, drowned out by the feel of his mouth on yours. It’s a slow, deliberate kiss, like he’s savoring every second, and your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can feel it through your chest.
You can feel his hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, and you melt into him, your fingers tangling in his shirt as you kiss him back. The taste of him, the warmth of his skin — it’s all consuming, overwhelming in the best possible way.
Charles lets out a low whistle from across the room, but you barely register it. All you can think about is Max, the way he’s holding you, the way his lips move against yours like he’s wanted this for a long time.
“Well,” Charles says, breaking the moment with a grin, “about damn time.”
Max’s breath lingers warm against your lips, and for a moment, the world feels suspended — just you and him, the faint hum of the city outside, the quiet flicker of candlelight on the table. His hands tighten slightly on your waist, pulling you even closer, and the electricity between you ignites into something undeniable.
You kiss him again, harder this time, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his hand slides up your back. Your fingers tangle in his hair, and there’s an intensity in the way he’s holding you, as though he’s been waiting for this moment for years. It’s a slow burn at first, but then something shifts, the heat between you building until you feel like you might explode if you’re not closer, if you can’t feel more of him.
Max responds in kind, his grip on you firm, and his lips more insistent. You forget where you are, lost in the sensation of him — the taste of his mouth, the feel of his body pressed against yours. It’s like nothing else exists, nothing else matters.
But then, from across the table, Charles clears his throat loudly.
You pull back slightly, breathless, and Max’s eyes flash with frustration, as if he’s annoyed at being interrupted. You glance over at Charles, who’s sitting with his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in amusement, but his expression is serious.
“Alright, alright,” Charles says, his voice calm but firm, like he’s trying to keep the situation from spiraling. “That’s enough for now.”
Max shoots him a look, clearly not on the same page, but Charles just shakes his head.
“Nope, not happening,” Charles continues, pointing between the two of you. “Nothing — and I mean nothing — gets any further without a ring.”
A heavy silence falls over the room. You blink, trying to process what Charles just said. You and Max are both frozen, still tangled together, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You expect Max to say something — to push back, to laugh it off — but instead, he lets go of your waist and steps back, his jaw tight.
Without a word, Max turns on his heel and walks out of the dining room.
You’re left standing there, stunned, your heart racing for a whole new reason. “What … just happened?” You murmur, looking at Charles for some kind of explanation.
Charles looks just as confused as you feel, his eyes following Max as he leaves the room. “I don’t know,” he admits, his brow furrowed. “I didn’t think he’d-”
Before he can finish his sentence, Max strides back into the room, something small and familiar in his hand. Your eyes widen when you realize it’s a jewelry box. The dark velvet catches the low light, and it’s clear from the way Max holds it that this isn’t a last-minute idea.
He stops in front of you, his expression steady, but there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes — something raw and vulnerable. He meets your gaze, and his voice is low, serious when he speaks.
"Good thing,” Max says, flipping open the box with a flick of his thumb, revealing a dazzling diamond nestled in the center, "I’ve had this since the first time I saw you. Years ago.”
Your heart stops. Literally, you can feel it stutter in your chest as the words sink in.
“What?” The word escapes your lips in a whisper, your gaze darting from the ring to Max’s face, trying to understand if this is real, if you’re not imagining the whole thing.
Max holds your gaze, his eyes unwavering. “I knew,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I knew from the first moment I met you, there was no one else. You were it for me.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you can’t think. You can’t speak. The room feels smaller, quieter, like the entire world has narrowed down to just this — the man standing in front of you, the ring in his hand, the weight of what he’s saying.
Charles, who had been watching the whole scene with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, now leans back in his chair, crossing his arms with a satisfied smirk. “Well, that escalated quickly.”
Max doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’ve been waiting,” he admits, his voice soft but certain. “Waiting for the right time. But Charles is right. There’s no point in pretending anymore.”
Your chest tightens. You’ve always known there was something between you and Max, something unspoken, something simmering beneath the surface. But you never expected this — never expected him to have felt it for so long, to have been carrying this weight of certainty with him all this time.
The ring sparkles in the dim light, beautiful and overwhelming, and your mind races, trying to catch up with your heart.
“You’ve had that … since we met?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
Max nods once, his gaze unwavering. “Since the day Charles introduced us,” he says, his voice low, gravelly. “I knew then. And I’ve kept it, waiting for you to feel the same. I didn’t want to rush you, didn’t want to push you into something you weren’t ready for.”
There’s a pause, the silence between you both filled with a thousand unsaid things.
Charles clears his throat, the amusement in his voice more pronounced now. “So, are we going to do this properly, or what? You’ve got the ring. She’s standing right there.”
You shoot Charles a look, but you can’t help the small, nervous laugh that escapes your lips. “You’re really ruining the moment, you know that?”
Charles shrugs. “Just trying to help.”
Max smirks, and for a brief second, you see the playful edge return to his expression. But then his eyes are back on you, serious, and the weight of what’s happening comes crashing down again.
He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his presence filling up the space around you. “I’ve loved you for a long time,” Max murmurs, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “And I’ll keep loving you for the rest of my life. If you’ll have me.”
You blink back the sudden wave of emotion that threatens to spill over. You never imagined that this moment — this moment — would feel so natural, so right.
“I don’t-” you start, your voice catching, but then you take a deep breath and try again. “I don’t know what to say.”
Max’s smile softens, and he takes your hand, pressing the small jewelry box into your palm. “Say yes,” he whispers.
Your heart pounds in your chest, and for a moment, you just stand there, staring up at him, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions racing through you. But then you look into his eyes — those dark, steady eyes that have always been there for you, always protective, always his — and the answer is clear.
“Yes,” you whisper, barely able to get the word out past the lump in your throat. “Yes, Max.”
Max’s face breaks into a smile, something soft and relieved, and before you can say another word, he’s pulling you into his arms, kissing you with a fervor that leaves you breathless all over again.
Charles lets out a low whistle from the other side of the table, his voice laced with humor. “Well, it’s about damn time.”
Max doesn’t pull away this time. He just kisses you deeper, one hand cupping your face, the other pressing the ring box into your hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world. And to him, you know it is.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, he grins. “Guess you’re stuck with me now.”
You laugh, your heart soaring, and whisper back, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
***
Max pulls the car up to the curb in front of the university, his sleek Valkyrie drawing curious stares from students lingering outside the building. You’re still adjusting to the events of the night before — the suddenness of it all, the weight of the engagement ring now resting on your finger. It feels unreal, like you’re caught in some strange but thrilling dream.
He gets out of the car first, walking around to open the door for you. His hand extends toward you, a protective gesture, and you take it without hesitation. The moment you’re standing, Max pulls you into his arms and kisses you, slow and deliberate, as if he’s making sure the entire campus knows that you’re his.
There’s a pause when he pulls away, his hand still resting on your lower back. “You sure you don’t want me to stick around? Make sure no one bothers you?”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Max gives you one last look, his brow furrowed slightly with concern, but then he steps back and nods. “Alright. Call me if you need anything.”
With that, you turn toward the building, the weight of his gaze on your back as you walk away. Your heart is still racing from the kiss, and you know you’re about to walk into a storm of questions — your friends haven’t even had time to process everything that happened yesterday.
Sure enough, the second you’re inside the courtyard, you hear voices calling your name. You look up to see a group of your classmates, their eyes wide, jaws practically on the floor. They surround you like a pack of excited reporters, eager to get the scoop.
“Who was that?” Katie asks, her eyes still fixed on the spot where Max’s car had been. “And please don’t tell me that’s the same guy who picked you up yesterday. Because holy shit, girl.”
Peter, arms crossed, steps closer, squinting at you with a mix of amusement and suspicion. “Is that why you’ve been acting weird lately? You’re seeing someone?”
You can’t help but smile, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. “Uh, yeah,” you say, holding up your left hand to show the ring. “That’s Max … my fiancé.”
The group collectively gasps, the air around you suddenly filled with a flurry of shocked exclamations.
“Fiancé?” Carla nearly shrieks, grabbing your hand to inspect the ring up close. “Excuse me? Fiancé? How the hell did we not know about this?”
Katie, clearly still processing, stares at you with wide eyes. “You mean to tell us you’ve been engaged this whole time and didn’t even mention it?”
You laugh nervously, knowing what’s coming. “No, no, it’s not like that. It’s … it just happened. Yesterday.”
The shocked silence that follows your words is almost comical. They all exchange glances, trying to make sense of what you’ve just said.
“Yesterday?” Peter echoes, looking at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You mean you got engaged yesterday?”
You nod, feeling the pressure of their disbelief. “Yeah. Yesterday.”
“And you’ve been seeing this Max guy for how long exactly?” Carla, her arms crossed, eyes skeptical.
You hesitate, knowing the answer is going to send them into another round of questioning. “Uh … officially? One day.”
The shock hits them all at once. They’re staring at you like you’ve just announced that you’re moving to Mars. The disbelief is palpable, and you can practically hear their minds racing.
“One day?” Katie finally blurts out, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You got engaged after one day of being together? Are you serious right now?”
Carla, clearly concerned, steps forward and lowers her voice, like she’s trying to be gentle. “Y/N, I love you, but … are you sure about this? One day? That’s … I mean, that’s crazy.”
You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of their judgment, but you stand your ground. “Look,” you say firmly, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “I know it sounds insane. But we’ve known each other for years. Max is Charles’ best friend. We’ve been in each other’s lives for so long, and … we’ve loved each other for a long time. We just didn’t make it official until now.”
Your friends exchange glances again, clearly unsure of how to react. They’re still in shock, still processing, but you can tell they’re trying to understand.
“Okay, but …” Peter starts, struggling to find the right words. “How did you go from ‘just friends’ to engaged overnight?”
You laugh, the memory of last night flooding back, and you shrug. “It wasn’t exactly overnight. It’s been building for a while. We’ve both known how we felt, but neither of us acted on it. And then … well, things happened, and we just decided to stop pretending.”
There’s a long pause as your friends take that in, their faces softening a little. You can see the concern in their eyes, but also a flicker of understanding.
“So … you’ve loved him for years,” Katie finally says, slowly nodding. “And he’s loved you for years. But you just made it official now?”
You nod, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. “Exactly. It might seem fast, but we’ve known this was coming for a long time. We just didn’t realize it until now.”
Your friends are quiet for a moment, and then Carla sighs, throwing her hands up in the air. “Okay, fine. I still think it’s crazy, but … if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.”
Peter chimes in, smiling a little. “I mean, the ring is gorgeous. And that car? Damn.”
There’s a ripple of laughter through the group, and you feel a sense of relief wash over you. They’re not completely on board yet, but they’re starting to come around.
“So, when’s the wedding?” Katie teases, nudging you playfully. “If you’re moving this fast, I’m assuming it’s next week?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “We haven’t even talked about that yet. It’s still sinking in for both of us.”
Carla grins. “Well, I guess we’ll have to start dress shopping soon. It’s probably going to be some extravagant, over-the-top wedding.”
You can’t help but smile at the thought, your heart fluttering. “I don’t know about that. But … yeah, maybe.”
They laugh again, and you can feel the tension easing. The questions aren’t completely gone, but they’re starting to trust that you know what you’re doing. They’re your friends, after all — they want you to be happy, even if they don’t fully understand how this all happened so fast.
As you start walking toward the lecture hall together, Peter loops his arm through yours. “Alright, tell us everything. How did he propose? And how did we not know you were in love with him this whole time?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s a long story …”
“Well, we’ve got time,” Katie says with a grin. “You can fill us in after class. We need details.”
As you all head inside, you glance down at the ring on your finger, the weight of it feeling more natural with every passing minute. It’s strange how quickly everything has changed, but it also feels like it’s been a long time coming. Like this was always where you were meant to end up — with Max, with the man who’s loved you from the start.
And no matter what anyone else thinks, you know in your heart that this is right. You and Max may have only made things official yesterday, but the love between you has been there all along, quietly waiting for the right moment to bloom.
Now, it’s finally your time.
***
Class lets out early today. You’re grateful for the extra time, but it’s a bit inconvenient — Max isn’t supposed to pick you up for another half hour. Standing outside the lecture hall, you scan the sea of students milling around, watching them scatter toward their cars or the nearby café.
You check your phone. No messages. It’s still too early for Max to be on his way, so you settle on waiting near the steps, trying to enjoy the sun and the slight breeze. You absentmindedly twist the engagement ring around your finger, the cool metal grounding you. The past few days have been a whirlwind, and every time you look at that ring, it still feels surreal. But it also feels like everything is finally falling into place. You belong with Max. You always have.
"Hey.”
The voice cuts through your thoughts. You glance up, blinking in surprise as you see a guy from your class approaching. You recognize him vaguely — one of those people who sits in the back, never really participating in the discussions. You’re pretty sure you’ve never spoken to him before, but now here he is, leaning against the wall near you with a smirk that makes your skin crawl.
“Hi,” you say politely, not wanting to be rude but also not particularly interested in starting a conversation.
He doesn’t take the hint. “I’ve seen you around,” he says, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “You don’t usually hang out here after class. Waiting for someone?”
Your instincts tell you to keep this short. “Yeah, my fiancé. He’s picking me up soon.”
The word fiancé doesn’t seem to deter him. In fact, it seems to spur him on. His eyes flick down to your hand, where the ring gleams in the sunlight, and then back up to your face with a cocky smirk.
“Fiancé, huh?” He steps a little closer, his voice lowering as if trying to be conspiratorial. “That sounds serious. But, I mean, you don’t really seem the settling down type. You sure you wanna tie yourself down so soon?”
You stiffen. “I’m sure,” you reply firmly, shifting your weight and turning your body slightly away from him, hoping he’ll get the message and leave you alone.
But he doesn’t. “Come on, we’ve never really talked, but I’ve seen you around. You’re smart, cool … definitely too interesting to be someone’s fiancée already.” He flashes you what he probably thinks is a charming smile. “What’s the rush?”
You swallow, trying to keep your cool. “There’s no rush. I’m happy. I’m with someone I love, and we’ve been together for a long time.” That’s not entirely true, but it’s not a lie either. It’s not something this guy needs to know, anyway.
Instead of backing off, he leans in closer, a predatory gleam in his eye. “Maybe you don’t know what you’re missing. Just saying, you and I could have some fun.”
You take a step back, feeling your pulse quicken. “I said, I’m in a relationship.”
He shrugs, as if your words are meaningless. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have a good time. What’s the harm in a little flirtation? It’s not like he’d know.”
Your patience snaps. “I’m not interested,” you say more forcefully, taking another step back. “Please leave me alone.”
The guy laughs softly, shaking his head. “Wow, playing hard to get, huh? I get it. You’re probably bored with this fiancé of yours, right? Guys like that, they don’t know how to keep things interesting.”
Before you can respond, you hear the familiar roar of an engine. Relief floods through you as you spot Max’s Valkyrie pulling up to the curb. The second the car comes to a stop, the door swings open, and Max steps out, his eyes immediately locking on you — and the guy standing too close for comfort.
Max takes in the scene in an instant. His entire demeanor changes in the blink of an eye, shifting from calm to deadly. His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he stalks toward the two of you with purpose.
The guy is oblivious at first, too caught up in his own attempt at charm to notice the approaching storm. “Come on, sweetheart,” he’s saying, his hand moving slightly toward your arm. “Just give me a chance.”
That’s when Max arrives.
Before the guy’s hand can even brush your sleeve, Max grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him backward with enough force to make him stumble. The guy lets out a startled yelp, spinning around to face Max, his expression morphing from confusion to fear the moment he realizes who he’s dealing with.
“Hey, man, I was just-” the guy starts, but Max cuts him off with a low, menacing growl.
“She’s not interested,” Max says, his voice deadly calm. His hand is still gripping the guy’s shoulder, but it looks like he could crush him with that one hand alone. “And you’re going to walk away. Now.”
The guy’s eyes dart between you and Max, clearly weighing his options. He starts to stammer, trying to salvage his bravado. “I-I didn’t mean anything by it, man. Just talking …”
Max’s grip tightens, his knuckles turning white. “You think you can talk to her like that? Disrespect her?” He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper that’s somehow even more terrifying. “You have no idea who you’re messing with.”
The guy’s bravado crumbles completely. His face pales, and he raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright! I’ll go. Jesus …”
Max releases him with a shove, sending the guy stumbling backward. He doesn’t wait around to see what happens next — he turns and practically sprints away, disappearing into the crowd of students.
For a moment, there’s silence. Max watches the guy retreat, his chest heaving with barely restrained fury. Then he turns to you, his expression softening immediately.
“You okay?” His voice is gentle now, a stark contrast to the cold fury he’d just displayed.
You nod, still a little shaken but grateful. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Max steps closer, cupping your face in his hands and scanning your expression for any sign of distress. “If he touched you — if he so much as breathed on you wrong-”
“He didn’t,” you assure him, placing your hands over his. “You got here just in time.”
Max’s eyes flicker with something dark, a protective fire that hasn’t fully extinguished. “Good,” he mutters, pulling you into his arms. He holds you tightly for a moment, as if he needs to reassure himself that you’re safe. “I don’t like anyone looking at you like that.”
You smile softly, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I don’t like it either. But it’s okay now. You’re here.”
Max pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I’m always here. And I’ll never let anything happen to you.”
You nod, leaning into his touch. “I know.”
He kisses you then, right there in front of the university, his lips capturing yours in a slow, possessive kiss that tells everyone watching exactly who you belong to. When he finally pulls away, he presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin.
“I’ll make sure no one ever bothers you again,” Max murmurs, his voice low but fierce.
You smile up at him, your heart swelling with affection. “I don’t doubt that for a second.”
With one last glance around to make sure the guy is well and truly gone, Max leads you to the car. He opens the door for you, and as you slide into the passenger seat, you can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of security. Max is always in control, always one step ahead. And you trust him completely.
As Max pulls away from the curb, his hand finds yours, resting between the two of you. You don’t need to say anything — the silence between you is comfortable, filled with the unspoken promise that no matter what happens, you’ll face it together.
***
After dinner, the soft clatter of cutlery fades into the background as you start clearing the plates. The dim light from the chandelier casts a golden glow over the dining room, making the atmosphere feel intimate, heavy with something unspoken. Max leans back in his chair, watching you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken.
You stack the plates, trying to focus on the mundane task, but you can feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement. Your breath hitches slightly as you turn toward him, plates in hand, and smile nervously.
"Do you want dessert?” You ask, your voice light, though your heartbeat pounds in your ears.
Max’s gaze darkens, his lips curling into a slow, wicked smile that sends shivers down your spine. “The only dessert I want,” he says, voice low and gravelly, “is right in front of me.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks as his meaning sinks in. You freeze, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is, the way his eyes travel down your body like he’s already undressing you in his mind. Your hands tremble as you put the plates back down on the table, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.
He doesn’t move from his seat, but there’s a tension in the air, pulling you toward him as if he’s some magnetic force you can’t resist. “Come here,” he says softly, but it’s not a request. It’s a command.
You hesitate for a second, unsure if you can even make your legs move, but then your feet carry you around the table, closer to him. By the time you’re standing in front of Max, your knees feel weak. His eyes stay locked on yours, full of heat and possession.
When you’re within reach, Max takes your hand, pulling you gently toward him. You end up standing between his legs, feeling the heat of his body seep through his clothes, and all at once, your breath catches. His hand slides up the back of your thigh, slow and deliberate, sending a thrill of anticipation shooting through you.
Max’s other hand rests on your waist, tugging you closer until you’re pressed against him. “You know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your stomach through your dress, “I’ve been patient with you. So, so patient.”
Your hands find his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt to steady yourself. “Max …”
He looks up at you, his eyes half-lidded but full of that same intensity. "Tell me something,” he says, his tone suddenly shifting, darker, more dangerous. “Has anyone else ever touched you?”
You blink, taken aback by the question. You feel your face heat up again, your pulse racing as his words sink in. “What?” You stammer, barely able to string two words together under the weight of his gaze.
Max’s hand tightens slightly on your thigh, his thumb tracing small circles that send jolts of electricity through you. “I asked,” he says softly but firmly, “if another man has ever touched you.”
The meaning of his question slams into you, and your throat goes dry. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of your chest. You try to find your voice, but it comes out barely above a whisper. “No … no one.”
A satisfied smile spreads across Max’s face as he tugs you even closer, his hands sliding up your waist. His voice is a low, rumbling growl. “Good. Because if they had, I would’ve tracked down every single one of them.” He pauses, eyes gleaming with dark intent. “And made sure they didn’t have hands to touch anyone with again.”
Your breath catches at the promise in his voice, a possessive edge that sends a delicious shiver down your spine. You know Max means every word. There’s no doubt in your mind that if anyone had dared to cross that line, he would’ve hunted them down, one by one. His protection is absolute, as is his desire.
You shake your head, barely able to focus on anything but the way his hands feel on your skin, the way his words wrap around you like a cocoon. “No one’s ever touched me like that,” you whisper again, more firmly this time. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Max’s eyes darken further, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulls you down until you’re sitting on his lap, straddling him, your dress bunching up around your thighs. His hands settle on your waist, holding you in place. “That’s right,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your neck. “Because you’re mine.”
The words send a thrill straight through you, and you can feel the heat pooling low in your belly. Your body reacts to his touch, to the way his hands move with deliberate slowness, like he’s savoring every second. His lips trail up your throat, pressing kisses that make your head spin.
You close your eyes, your breathing ragged as you let yourself sink into the moment, into him. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans softly in response, his grip on you tightening.
“Max …” you whisper, barely able to form coherent thoughts with the way he’s touching you, the way he’s making you feel.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing with desire and something deeper — something that makes your heart pound harder in your chest. “You’re mine,” he says again, his voice low and commanding. “And no one else will ever touch you. No one else will ever have you.”
You nod, breathless, and he smirks, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.
Before you can react, Max leans in and captures your mouth in a searing kiss, his hands roaming over your body as if he can’t get enough. The kiss is heated, intense, filled with all the pent-up emotion that’s been building between the two of you since that first moment you laid eyes on each other.
His hands slide down your back, pulling you impossibly closer as his mouth moves against yours with urgency. Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire, and you can’t help but respond to him, your hands gripping his shirt tightly as if you’re afraid to let go.
The world outside fades away. There’s only Max — his touch, his kiss, his possessiveness, and the way he makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe.
He pulls back, breathless but grinning like he’s won a prize, “No one will ever doubt that again.”
Max’s lips hover over yours, his breath warm and steady, igniting something deep within. He shifts you slightly in his lap, adjusting his hold, and then, with deliberate slowness, his mouth trails down, leaving a scorching path along your jawline and down your neck. His movements are unhurried, savoring every inch of skin like he has all the time in the world.
You can feel your pulse pounding under his lips as he kisses lower, the anticipation building with every second. Max pauses, his mouth just inches from the neckline of your dress, his hands firm on your waist. His eyes flick up to meet yours, a dark, hungry glint in them.
“Mine,” he murmurs softly, the single word vibrating against your skin. Then, without warning, his teeth graze lightly over the delicate fabric of your dress, right where your hardened nipple is pressing through. The sensation is startling, electric — enough to make you gasp and arch involuntarily.
A low, approving sound rumbles from Max’s chest as he lightly takes the hardened bud between his teeth, through the fabric, teasing and testing. His gaze stays locked on yours, watching every reaction, every twitch of your body. He’s not just touching you — he’s learning you, reading you, knowing exactly what makes you shiver and tremble beneath his hands.
You bite your lip, a soft moan slipping out despite your best efforts to hold it back. Your fingers clutch the back of his neck, tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. Max hums in satisfaction, his tongue flicking out briefly to wet the fabric, making it cling to your skin. The sensation is maddening, a mix of pain and pleasure that leaves you breathless.
“Tell me,” he murmurs against you, his voice rough and low, “how long have you wanted this?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, his mouth closing over your covered nipple once more, applying just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. “Tell me how long you’ve been dreaming of me doing this to you, touching you like this.”
You swallow hard, trying to think past the haze of desire clouding your thoughts. “Max, I-” Words are impossible when he’s touching you like this, when his lips are doing things to your body that make your thoughts scatter in every direction.
He growls softly, releasing your nipple with a final, gentle tug of his teeth that makes your whole body jolt. “Answer me,” he demands, his hands slipping under your dress, pushing it higher until the cool air of the room brushes against your bare thighs. “How long?”
The urgency in his voice, the possessiveness — it’s overwhelming. Your breathing comes in shallow pants as you try to form a coherent thought, try to answer him. “Since … since the first day we met,” you finally manage to whisper, your voice trembling with need.
Max’s hands pause on your thighs, his grip tightening. His eyes blaze with something fierce, something primal. “The first day?” He repeats, his voice a low, dangerous whisper, as if he’s savoring the admission. “You mean to tell me you’ve wanted me like this-” his hands slide up, pushing the hem of your dress higher, exposing more of your skin “-for years?”
You nod, helpless under his gaze, under his touch. “Yes … always …”
A dark, satisfied smile curls his lips. “And I’ve waited,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his fingers tracing the curve of your inner thigh, “all this time. Waiting for the right moment to make you mine. To claim you.” He leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “No more waiting.”
You shiver at the intensity of his words, the promise in them. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty — only the overwhelming certainty that he’s going to take you, claim you, in every way he’s ever dreamed.
Max’s hand slides higher, skimming the edge of your underwear. His touch is featherlight, teasing, and you can’t help the way your hips tilt toward him, seeking more. He lets out a low chuckle, his fingers dancing along the lace edge but never quite dipping beneath it.
“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “So perfect.” His thumb presses down lightly, just enough to make you gasp. “All mine.”
You bite your lip, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. “Max, please-”
He pulls back, just enough to look at you, his expression serious, almost reverent. “No one else gets to touch you like this,” he says, his voice firm and steady, as if making a vow. “No one else ever will.”
You nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps. “No one else, Max. Only you.”
His eyes darken further, and then he’s moving, shifting your position on his lap until you’re leaning back against the table, his body hovering over yours. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s fierce, almost punishing, as if he’s pouring all the years of pent-up desire and frustration into that one kiss.
His hands move with a single-minded determination, sliding your dress up and over your hips, exposing the thin scrap of lace beneath. Max pauses, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, laid out before him like some offering, and something feral flashes in his gaze.
“Beautiful,” he breathes, his hand sliding up your thigh, fingers brushing against the lace. “All mine.”
You whimper softly, your body arching toward his touch, and he growls softly in response, his fingers pressing more firmly against you.
“And no one else has ever touched here,” he says softly, almost like a question, his fingers teasing along the edge of your underwear.
You shake your head frantically, your eyes locked on his. “No, Max. Only you.”
The satisfaction in his expression is almost palpable, his chest heaving with barely restrained control. “Good,” he murmurs, his hand slipping under the lace, fingers finding your slick heat. He groans softly, his head dropping to your shoulder. “So wet for me. Just for me.”
You moan softly, your hands tangling in his hair as his fingers slide deeper, finding that sensitive spot that makes your whole body shudder. He watches you, his eyes never leaving your face, as if memorizing every reaction, every gasp, every moan.
Max stills, and he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. His chest heaves with every labored breath, and his pupils are blown wide with desire. But underneath all that raw hunger, there’s something deeper, something softer. A question. A pause.
“Are you sure?” He whispers, his voice rough and low, almost strained. His fingers brush lightly over your cheek, a gentle contrast to the way his body is pressed against yours. “Tell me now if you want me to stop.”
You meet his gaze, seeing the war within him — the need to take what’s his battling against the desire to protect you, to make sure this is what you want too. The vulnerability in his eyes, the way his thumb caresses your cheek, makes your heart ache in the best possible way.
“I want this,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the trembling of your body. “I want you.”
Something shifts in his gaze — any lingering uncertainty melts away, replaced by pure, unadulterated determination. He swallows hard, his jaw clenching. “I need you to understand,” he says softly, his voice almost guttural, “that once I have you — once I’m inside you — there’s no going back. You’re mine, and I’m never letting you go.”
Your breath catches, your heart beating wildly at the weight of his words. “I know,” you murmur, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath. “I want to be yours, Max. Forever.”
That’s all it takes.
Max’s mouth crashes against yours, the kiss bruising and desperate, as if he’s trying to pour every ounce of his need, his love, into it. His hands move quickly, tugging the lace of your underwear down your legs and tossing it aside. Then, he’s standing, pulling you up with him.
With a single motion, he sweeps the table clear, dishes and glasses clattering to the floor, forgotten. He lifts you effortlessly, setting you down on the table, your legs spread wide around him. The cool surface of the wood contrasts sharply with the heat of your skin, sending a shiver up your spine.
“Look at me,” Max commands, his voice low and husky. His hands cup your face, holding you still as his eyes bore into yours. “I need to see your eyes when I make you mine.”
Your breath hitches as he steps between your legs, his hand sliding down to grasp his length. He’s hard and heavy in his palm, the sight of him — so big, so ready — making your heart race even faster. He strokes himself slowly, his gaze never leaving yours, and your body clenches with anticipation.
“Max,” you breathe, your hands reaching out to clutch his shoulders. “Please …”
He lets out a low growl, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady. The broad head of his cock brushes against your entrance, and you can’t help the way your body arches toward him, seeking more.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice a strained whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
You shake your head, your nails digging into his skin. “You won’t. I want-”
The words die on your lips as he begins to push inside, the stretch of him almost unbearable. Your breath catches, and Max’s grip tightens, his jaw clenched so hard it looks like it might crack.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. He’s barely inside, just the tip, but it feels like too much and not enough all at once. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, liefje.”
You bite your lip, shaking your head. “No … no, it’s — it’s so good. Keep going, Max, please-”
He exhales sharply, his breath hot against your neck, and then he’s pushing in further, inch by inch, until he’s seated deep inside you. The fullness is overwhelming, the sensation of him stretching you, filling you, sending sparks of pleasure and pain shooting through your body.
You can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but cling to him as he stills, giving you time to adjust. His hands are trembling against your skin, and you realize with a start that he’s holding himself back, fighting to keep control.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers, his voice tight with strain. “So fucking perfect. And you’re mine, do you understand? No one else will ever have you like this.”
You nod frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Yes, Max. I’m yours — only yours.”
His eyes blaze with something dark and fierce, and then he’s moving, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again, burying himself deep inside you. The movement is slow, measured, but you can feel the barely restrained power behind it, the way his body is trembling with the effort to go slow.
“Fuck, schatje,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re so tight, squeezing me like that. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”
You gasp softly, your hands clutching at his shoulders, your body trembling with every thrust. “Max … please … I-”
He growls softly, his pace quickening, his grip on your hips tightening. “What do you need?” He murmurs, his voice a low, rough whisper. “Tell me what you need.”
“More,” you breathe, your body arching into his, seeking more of the pleasure only he can give you. “I need … more …”
Max’s breath catches, and then he’s moving faster, his hips driving into you with a force that sends shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body. The table creaks beneath you, but you barely register it, too lost in the feeling of him inside you, filling you completely.
“Is this what you wanted?” He growls, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. “To have me fuck you like this, to take you hard and deep?”
You can’t form words, can only moan and nod, your body trembling with every thrust. Max’s hands slide up your back, holding you closer, his pace relentless.
“God, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice thick with pleasure. “So fucking good. I want to keep you like this forever, keep you under me twenty-four-seven. Fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you go.”
His words send a fresh wave of pleasure crashing over you, your body tightening around him. “Max-”
He’s panting now, his movements becoming erratic, his control slipping. “I hope you know,” he murmurs, his voice rough and desperate, “that I’m never letting you go now. You’re mine — forever.”
You can’t do anything but cling to him as he takes you, his body driving into yours with a force that leaves you breathless. The pleasure builds and builds, coiling tighter and tighter until —
“Max!” You cry out, your body convulsing around him as the orgasm rips through you, shattering you into a thousand pieces.
Max groans, his hips slamming into yours one final time before he stills, his body shuddering with his release. His head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the harsh panting of your breaths, the steady thud of your racing hearts. Max’s hands are still trembling as they slide up to cup your face, his lips brushing softly against yours.
“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice rough and raw. “I love you so much, schatje.”
You smile softly, your hands tangling in his hair. “I love you too, Max. Forever.”
And as he kisses you, slow and tender, you know that forever with Max is exactly what you want.
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muntitled · 7 months ago
Text
Poor thing ♡
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Jake Sim x Fem!Reader
Summary: sleepy gf ♡ horny bf
♡ Warnings: Language, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Smut +18 (Minors DNI) dumbification dollification, Slight ddlg, Brief Daddy Kink, Somnophilia, which means dub/con, Breeding Kink, Domestic Kink, Corruption Kink, Unedited, Mentions of Bondage
This might be tmi but I got turned on writing this and that's probably because I didn't realise how much I love this man. It's so bad girl, pray for me
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You'd spoken about kink since the peroration of your relationship. It had been something you'd both decided was very important.
Although Jake admits he only thought kink was a few whips and rope, you assured him it was indeed a whole other world.
“What about somno?,” you'd asked him, while you both sat lazily on the comfort of your living room floor, soaking in the idle 808 beats of some Metro Boomin track while you both had a notebook out in front of you.
Although Jake craved for nothing more than to close the large distance between the two of you while you jotted down your sexual boundaries, even if it was just a hand placed on your thigh, he stopped himself.
He knew that distance was necessary when discussing sexual do’s and don'ts.
There couldn't be any sort of touching involved while you both fleshed out and divulged what would and would not be allowed within the sexual confines of your relationship.
All this talk about sex, however, had regressed his adult brain back into adolescence and he nursed an annoying boner the more you spoke.
“What's that?” He asked with his head tilted unconsciously. All you could do was chuckle softly as you eyed your boyfriend sitting on the floor adjacent to you. Your legs were splayed out and running parallel to his but still evaded the possibility of touch. You did not only find it adorable to witness just how much your boyfriend was trying to behave for you, you also found it so incredibly attractive.
“C'mon,” you had said as you shyly spun your finger on the rim of your glass containing a mild coke zero (no intoxication when discussing boundaries. Another infuriating rule, Jake found). “I do not have to explain to you what somno is,”
Jake only shrugged as he eyed you from across the small room. His back leaning against the couch was tense as he said, “afraid you do, babe,”
It was the way he was looking at you, with his eyes carelessly conveying just how turned on he'd managed to get during this short time of abstinence.
Your eyes never leave him when you talk. Hoping to convey your own need as you said “You can google it, Jake.”
“I can,” he nodded almost immediately, “Course I can, but I don't want to.”
What he didn't say is that he much rather preferred it when you used your words to divulge your knowledge on every filthy little detail about a particular kink. It turned him on to know what slept inside your mind and it made him uncharacteristically unhinged with lust when such dirty words left an unusually dignified mouth.
Corruption Kink. You had given him that diagnosis sometime throughout the evening.
“Jake,” you shake your head again, feeling the heat seep into the worn fabric of Jake's old Tupac shirt. It was probably unwise to be dressed in nothing but his oversized graphic tee and you're only made aware of this dire mistake right now. “You know.”
“No, actually, I don't.” He breaches the rules. Fuck the rules. And he lets his hand reach to tentatively rub at your cute little toe before returning his hand to his notebook.
“Tell me what somno is-”
“Sleep play.” You eventually shoved the words out of your mouth like unwanted visitors.
The second they registered in Jake's head he was sitting just a little straighter.
“Jesus…” Is all he said as he downed the rest of the 100% orange juice which he had really wished was 60% straight fucking vodka.
“Y-Yeah, but we don't really have to go into this one. I could just write it down in the ‘not interested’ list and we can just move on-” at the sight of you bending your head to furiously scribble inside the notebook containing the safety guidelines of your sex life, Jake reached out once again until his hand was perfectly encapsulating your entire foot.
“Nah, hold on.” He said, with a hint of a smile and nothing but sheer intrigue swimming in his eyes, “don't get rid of it yet.” He said. “Let's talk about it.” The devil shrugged. “Give it a fair chance.”
And although the evening had ended with Jake ravishing you on the living room floor -you were folded in half as he ate you out with the fervour of a starved man- Jake Sim did not incorporate any of the kink you two had just spoken about into the act.
In fact, all of your sexual escapades have been fairly vanilla with added hints of praise and degradation here and there before this very night.
Let it be clear that Jake Sim did not expect sex on this particular Thursday evening.
He had been having a particularly cursed day with nothing at all going right for him except the prospect of seeing you after dance practice. The possibility of you cradling him against the plushness of your breasts while you sang to him with your fingers running through his hair kept him afloat until he let himself into your apartment by the end of the day.
“Yo? ‘anyone home?”
Instead of finding you tapping away at your laptop or consuming a starkly provocative HBO original, Jake found you asleep, in your room. Fairy lights on while the sound of crashing waves bled through your phone speaker.
Before he got horny, let the record reflect that Jake was perfectly content with climbing into bed with you and dozing off himself. But he couldn't help how his body responded to the softness of your curves pressing into his side the moment he lowered himself onto your bed and into your warm pink quilts. He should be closing his eyes, dozing off alongside you but the longer he stares at the miniscule details of your face, the more his stomach tightens and warms.
Perhaps, venturing into more sinister territory, Jake's eyes skate down to your slightly open mouth and then- down to your frame nestled under his armpit, where you lay in a foetal position with your stuffed animal held in an almost primal grip.
It is then that the first beginning of guilt seeps into his lower stomach, feeling that he doesn't really wish to dissect, especially given your very persuasive reassurances that “kink should never feel icky if it's consensual.”
And you gave him your consent.
Jake still remembers your slightly laboured breathing when you admitted to being turned on by the idea of somnophilia.
The smile on Jake's face as he bends down to nestle his face in your headwrap is placid, like calm still waters on a Sunday afternoon. Doing a very good job at hiding the tempest within.
You stir in your sleep and Jake swallows thickly. With his lips still pressed against your head, he stares into space with a vague look of worry and discontent. He knows, logically, that he should not feel bad for what he's about to do. It was only human, after all, to feel sexual desire for your partner. What did not feel normal, however, is how he managed to grow impossibly hard in his sweatpants, and all you've done was sleep, you poor thing.
This time when you shift again, it's to hike your leg up further along his torso, and unbeknownst to you, a broken moan seeps out of Jake's mouth because your leg is now brushing right up against his tense and hardened cock. Jake attempts to regulate his breathing through his nose (in and out, in and out) but his brain loses sight of how unethical this all is under the realisation of just how warm you are underneath him. The arm he had wrapped around your frame flexes as he brings his hand up to the curve of your voluptuous hips. It's then when he thinks about them… you having his kids, and suddenly, he's manoeuvring you even closer into his arms.
“Jakey? Baby, you home?”
Home.
It felt so domestic and it didn't help the heat seeping out of Jake's tense body.
Your groans perpetuate through the confines of the bedroom. You're slowly waking from one of those ghastly kinds of naps. The kind of nap that existed outside space and time and everything else in the known universe. The kind of nap that had you groggily opening your eyes crowded with crust as you try to make sense of your surroundings.
His voice is raspy as he whispers back, “I’m home, Bunny,” Everything in the universe begins to right itself when Jake presses a warm, slightly sloppy kiss to the top of your head and you can feel yourself coming to grips with your surroundings. A warm sigh leaves your mouth and you melt into the sensuality of Jake's second kiss which he displays across the side of your face, moving lower and lower and hiking up your leg still splayed over his lap.
Jake's eyes are closed, brows furrowed and his kiss is lingering. His lips never stray from your skin and you can feel your limp, half asleep body being pressed in further against his warmth. You're suddenly becoming all too aware of your core pressed against Jake's hips at this angle; you and your boyfriend's limbs are practically intertwined.
His warmth is all encompassing.
“Ja-What…” a sleepy little yawn squeaks out of your throat and you unconsciously bring a limp hand up to wipe away all the sleep.
Jake watches you with grave, grave admiration. The kind of feeling that squeezes at his heart and, perhaps more shamefully, his cock. “What time is it?”
“Not important, Bunny,” he kisses you again. Heaven's he was brimming with kisses for you. They felt like a lullaby, coaxing you back to bed. “Just go back to bed,”
Those particular words have you blinking up at your boyfriend who begins to come into focus under the hazy orange glow of the fairy lights. Your body stretches ever so slightly as you crane your head up to meet his half lidded eyes.
“What time is it-” you begin to answer again, but Jake stops you once again.
“You don't need to worry your pretty brain about stuff like that,” he nudges his chin towards you as if beckoning to play along with this scene he's orchestrated for the two of you. Despite feeling your heart strings tugging at the idea of playing along, you're still very much plagued by rationality.
“Jake- Baby, you have practice tomorrow. I don't think you can sleep over-”
“But pretty girls don't think,” he nestles his head into the crook of your shoulders and he squeezes. Once again, begging you to play along, “You never have to think when you have me.”
You could feel the better part of you being dragged into the safe, plush wonderland of your subspace, just from his words alone. When Jake doesn't get a response he pulls back to make eye contact with you once more, Sickeningly satisfied to see the fog beginning to fill your pupils.
“But, Jakey-” he has you. He knows he has you.
“You still sound so sleepy, Baby,” he whispers, and you're quite shocked to find yourself being lifted off the bed, “You want Jakey to help take the sleepiness away, don't you?”
Another kink you two had discussed ad nauseum but had failed to ever orchestrate in real time. It happened flawlessly between you both. A torrid yet natural dance. Ddlg, you called it.
Jake is still lying supine on the bed as he manoeuvres you to straddle his legs. Your hands anchor yourself by the rough skin of his torso through his pitch black shirt while his hands find home on your thigh, “I need you to help me out and then you won't be sleepy anymore, yeah?” The smile he gives you is enough to get any person to bend to his every will and so you find yourself nodding dumbly, with your eyes still half lidded, and a part of your brain experiencing a sleeplike calmness. “Jakey needs you to be good for him, okay?” You swallow thickly and yelp when Jake lifts his hips, subsequently lifting you as if you weighed nothing at all. His eyes are pained when he uncovers his hard, leaking dick from his sweatpants. You're not sure if it's the sleepiness still raining heavily on you but you're suddenly plagued by the need to enclose his cock in your hand.
So that's what you do
With your limbs operating on autopilot, your hand falls lazily over his cock while you tiredly rub your left eye with your other hand.
“F-Fuck, Bunny- What're you doing?” Jake looks up at you with wild, pained eyes and you peer down at him with a tilted head. Ever so clueless. Ever so beautiful, “I wanna help,” You whisper and his cock immediately twitches in your hand, “I wanna help,” You mumble as you lower your front against his, nuzzling into his neck while you sleepily begin to pump his cock.
Your chin hangs over his shoulder as your eyes flutter shut, all the while, Jake bites his bottom lip until he's on the verge of breaking skin.
“You're trying to off me, you know that?” Jake whispers into your ear as the warmth of your palm struggles to keep him thinking rationally. Unable to stop himself from lifting his hips slightly to grind against your hand, Jake hopes for more friction, more fucking pressure, but it never comes. Not when you've basically passed out on top of him.
“F-Fuck me,” Jake whispers as he lift his hands to lightlyoaw at your hips. “You're making me fucking insane, you know that?” Jake's voice is coated with singsong need as he shuffles you lower on his torso until your hips meet his. “You said this is okay, didn't you baby?” The only answer he gets in return is a few lightly snores as he lifts you up, having you hover djrectly over his aching cock, twitching to be inside you.
For a while Jake is perfectly content with humping lazily against your pyjama pants as you shuffle intermittently.
His hands rub over your back, feeling your chest pressed against his before drifting his hand down to the curve of your ass and the thin pyjama shorts hugging your hips.
He immediately decides he can't do it.
“Daddy needs to be inside you, Bunny.” Your breasts push against him as he reaches down to swipe your pyjama pants and your oantjes to the side, “Your hands and mouth…They just won't do, baby. I need to fuck you, d'you understand?” he asks with so much concern and so much consideration it would have your heart clenching in its cage if you were conscious.
Jake's breath is caught in his throat as the head of his cock prods at your tight opening. As he tries to guide his cock in, you shift a little over him, causing him to pat lovingly at your back, coaxing you to sleep as he forced his cock into your cunt. Instead of swallowing him like you usually did, your cunt is vehemently trying to push out the intrusion, which only succeeds in turning him on more.
Jake buries his head into the crook of your neck, sniffing in your scent as he pushes himself in despite the tight fit.
“You're gonna make me cum so quick, Princess,” he whispers into your hair.
You barely made it 10 pumps before your shuffling above him with your cunt was split into two.
He wanted to use you, he needed to make you his dumb, unresponsive toy and Jake shivers as a bead of precum streams down the side of his cock.
“You're doing so good for me,” his hips lift as his hand on your ass presses down, forcing you to meet his steadily growing thrusts“You don't wanna disappoint me, do you?” he asks your cute, sleeping form. As if in response to his words, your body subconsciously reacts and your cunt tightens around his cock, immediately sending Jake into a bitter delirium.
Soon, his head is thrown back into the pillows and both his hands are firmly on your ass as he begins to fuck up into you with less care. “F-Fuck Princess, I think I could cum like this,”
You're shuffling again. Threatening to wake up. It only has Jake fucking you harder, bringing him closer to the edge.
“F-Fuck-this fucking pussy-” You were being split in two. You on top of him somehow felt like he was going deeper than how he usually went. “Oh God, you're so warm, Bunny,” He exclaims, looking up at the ceiling with his own pained expression, completely and utterly trapped in his dom space as he begins to move you up and down on his cock.
Your limp body followed, unable to conjure up the strength of your own movements. He had all the control over all your movements, kinda like-
“Y-You're my toy, aren't you, Bunny?” Jake is so completely fargone as he watches your ass bounce with each of his rabid thrusts, completely uncaring over whether you're awake or not. “Fuck, you’re my fucking toy,” Jake's a blubbering mess and it only makes you wetter as you slowly blink open your eyes, in the very middle of one of your most prized fantasy’s. Your cunt squeezes around his cock. Your heart hammering in your chest. Your orgasm crests along with his.
You had never thought you'd ever know what a sleepy orgasm would feel like but somehow you knew it would ram through you with way too much intensity.
“You like me deep inside, yeah? You like being split open while you sleep, Bunny? Hm? You're so fucking perfect you know that? So fucking pretty- J need you to have my babies, yeah?” The more he talks, the more it's difficult to pretend to stay asleep. A groggy and tired moan slips out of your mouth while your arousal slips out of your leaking cunt. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? Us having babies.”
Jake's hips stutter against yours. His jaw is locked tight as you clench around him, “F-Fuck you would like that-” It is then that you're starkly aware of the hidden narcissism that this kink bred. Here he was, using you to get off with only himself as the audience. Jake was guiding himself to orgasm with his own dirty words as if he were God and somehow that thought succeeds in bringing you to orgasm.
“Oh God, Jake-”
“You need me to get you pregnant, don't you?” Your head nods almost unconsciously, without the permission of your rational brain and Jake speeds up his fucking into you, as orchestrating a new form of movement. He was always leading you, even when it came to his pleasure.
“Just like that, Bunny,” he always praised you without a second thought…
Jake is working himself to orgasm with short, shallow breaths. His hips lift to thrust into your dripping cunt and in his mind he's about to come to the fact that you really are his toy.
“Fuck, you're gonna make me cum,” he whispers into the side of your head, “Your leaky fucking pussy's going to make me cum, Bunny-”
His orgasm triggers another one of your own and both your legs spasm, locking around him as Jake releases his cum deep inside you. His hand clenched down on your hips, forcing you to take in every single drop until it's forcing itself out of your dripping cunt, trailing down your thigh. After riding the high of his orgasm, Jake looks bright eyed again, like he's gotten rid of something very dark and very oppressive until the sunny Jake Sim was back.
“So good,” he smiles down at you, “You always do so well for me”
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